Thin Ice (28 page)

Lisa was frowning again. “But if Curtis knew, then it was fraud. And what about the mother — I mean, Ellen Ritchie?”

Smith shook his head. “Remember, Joan Ritchie died when Curtis was five, so if she did alter the birth records before then, Curtis would never have known. It would have been before he started school. Who's gonna question a five-year-old's age, anyway? Ellen Ritchie probably had no idea either — why would she? Bob died a couple of years after their marriage, then Tom Saunders shows up a few years later — he sure as hell wouldn't have known, if Ellen didn't.”

“So Ritchie himself never even knew,” Lisa said, more to herself.

“Who knows what Bob's long-term plan was, or whether he ever planned on telling Curtis.”

“And now both Bob and his wife are dead, so I guess we'll never find out.” Lisa shrugged.

“But what if Curtis found out,” Smith said. “Recently …”

“You mean after he signed on with the Raftsmen?” White looked excited. “Technically, he could set aside the contract. If I'm Melissa McAdam and it falls at my feet, I've got to be really worried. It's only the biggest deal in the Raftsmen's history, and she blows it, puts her dad's job on the line to boot.” She stopped and frowned. “But why would he want to void it? It was going to pay him millions, wasn't it?”

“Rookie contracts are capped, so the big money was still a few years away, but I agree he would have to have a good reason to want out from under it.”

They both sat in silence for a moment, as they considered the possibilities.

“My God,” Lisa finally said. “Do do you really think …”

“I don't know what to think, Lisa.”

“But you and Melissa … Christ, Jack.”

“We're over, believe me. But Beaudoin found out and put me on forced leave. That's why I'm here, instead of at the station with Marshall. If it turns out I've been sleeping with Curtis Ritchie's killer, I'm done. Beaudoin'll have my head. Saunders and Ellen Ritchie are already threatening a wrongful prosecution suit — can you imagine if they're right and they find out …” He shook his head. “But I don't give a shit about any of that.”

“But Jack, you've got to tell them what you know.”

Smith got up from the couch. “I gotta go.”

“Where are you going?”

He stopped and took hold of her upper arms. “Look, Lisa. If what I'm thinking is true, you may be in danger.”

“Me? Why?”

“I saw her tonight … Melissa. She mentioned your name…. I don't know. You said yourself she was a psycho.”

“Don't you think you're being a little melodramatic?”

“There were a couple of peace bonds taken out against her — I did check, and I spoke to one of the cops involved, who said she was pretty unstable. This could be for real, and if it is … is there somewhere you can go, just for a while?”

“What have you got me into?” Lisa shook her head. “I'll go stay at Val's.”

Smith nodded, but she saw the reluctance in his eyes.

“Don't worry, I'll make something up — say's it's man trouble. Shouldn't be hard.”

“All right. Go right away. And keep in touch.” He paused. “I'm sorry, Lisa.”

“What about you? What are you going to do?” she said, following him down the hall. He stopped in the doorway.

“I really don't know.”

“Be careful,” she said, as he set off down the front steps and into the night.

Smith took the stairs up to the second floor of the Elgin Street station and made his way quietly down the hall to the Major Crimes Unit. The lights were on, but as he peered through the glass, he didn't see anyone inside, so he opened the door and stepped in, listening for the rustling of paper or the click of a keyboard — anything that would alert him to the presence of a colleague who might ask him what he was doing there against Beaudoin's orders. But the area was deserted, so he closed the door behind him and went straight to the filing room, and the boxes of evidence compiled over the past couple of weeks. He sifted through the folders containing reports and interview transcripts, before focusing on a file on Ritchie's personal effects. He flipped through photos of his condo — shots of his bedroom, kitchen, and living room, and one from his enormous walk-in closet, showing the contents as of the day of his death. There was a picture of his shiny new Porsche, still sitting in the impound yard somewhere, and an attached piece of paper with some typed text. He scanned the text and saw it was a printout of the various places Ritchie had gone in the week before his death, as recorded by the factory-installed GPS. There were lots of trips to the rink, and one to Saunders' sister's house on the Wednesday night before he was killed, presumably to drop Saunders off after their dinner.

From Wednesday on, the only place the car had been was back and forth between the rink and the condo, and he was about to abandon the sheet when he noticed the time of a Thursday morning visit to the arena — 2:00 a.m. He thought it odd that Ritchie would have gone out for a skate at that hour, but he supposed the Raftsmen players had any number of reasons to go to the rink, whether for a skate or to work out, or attend physio or other therapy sessions. But 2:00 a.m. still seemed strange. He noted an asterisk by the time, and a reference to a report number. Tossing the paper aside, he rifled through the rest of the folder until he found the report in question. There was a notation of Ritchie's travels during the week before his murder, and a remark by the investigator — Greg Wills — that the odd timing had prompted him to check with security at the rink for late Wednesday/ early Thursday. They had confirmed that Ritchie had spent just under an hour there. Of the other Raftsmen players or management, only Quinn McAdam was listed as being there at the same time.

Smith flipped through his notebook, to his record of their initial interview with McAdam, at which he had said the last contact he had with Ritchie had been on Tuesday. It was always possible the two hadn't encountered each other in the building at that hour, but it seemed unlikely. He froze as he heard the sound of a door opening out beyond the conference room, and flicked off the filing room light. He stayed where he was, listening as someone rummaged through a desk, made a phone call, and then seemingly left. After a few seconds of prolonged silence, Smith ventured out into the conference room and peeked into the main work area of the Major Crimes Unit. He had just opened the door to leave when he heard a voice behind him.

“Hey, Smitty.”

He turned to see one of the senior investigators looking at him from his cubicle at the rear of the unit.

“Oh, hi, Dan.
Didn't know anyone was here.”

“Just doing some paperwork. Thought you were on leave for awhile?” It was more query than challenge, but Smith couldn't be sure. “I am. I just dropped in to pick something up. I was just leaving.”

“Take it easy.”

Smith nodded and slipped out the door, wondering how quickly Beaudoin would find out about his late-night visit. By the time he reached the end of the hall, it didn't matter. He had dialed Melissa's number and was waiting for an answer. It had rung four times and he was about to give up when he heard her voice on the line.

“What do you want?”

“Melissa, we need to talk.”

“I don't think that's such a great idea …”

“We need to talk right away, and I think you know why.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Where are you?”

“I'm at the rink. What the hell's going on?”

“There's a sports bar called the Zone on Eagleson. I'll meet you there in twenty.”

“Whatever it is, you can tell me over the phone. Don't you think you've caused enough trouble …?”

“Just be there in twenty. It's about your dad.”

Smith's call went to Marshall's voicemail for the third time as he made out the exit for Eagleson Road through the wall of rain on his windscreen that overwhelmed the determined sweep of the wipers. He decided to leave a message as he exited the Queensway and pulled up to a red light, just as the downpour turned to hail.

“Hey, Marsh, it's me. Listen, I'm back from Toronto and I need to talk to you about the case,” he said, practically yelling over the staccato of hailstones pelting the roof of the car. “Something's come up and … just give me a call as soon as you get this. It's around nine-thirty.”

A few minutes later, he was pulling into the parking lot outside the sports bar when he spotted Melissa's midnight-blue Bimmer at the far end of the lot. She was sitting at a table near the door when he walked in, shaking off the wet. The expression on her face told him he would have to get to the point quick.

“Thanks for coming. It's really getting bad out …”

She remained stone-faced as he took a seat. “You said something about my dad?”

He glanced around the room. The place was three-quarters full and the competing noise of rock music and two different pre-season hockey games on an array of big-screen TVs meant that they were unlikely to be overheard.

“I need you to tell me the truth about Curtis.”

“What's my dad got to do with it ?”

They were interrupted by a passing waitress, who took their order. After she had gone, Smith leaned forward and looked Melissa in the eye. “What happened at that late-night meeting at the rink?”

Melissa kept staring straight at him, though he knew he had detected a minute flinch at the question.

“I need the truth, Melissa.”

“What meeting?”

“Your dad and Curtis met at two o'clock in the morning on the Thursday before he was killed. What were they meeting about?”

“I don't know about any meeting,” she said, her eyes darting down to her hands. When she looked back up at him, he knew she was lying.

“It's not too late to tell me, Melissa. I can understand you wanting to protect him, and all you're guilty of so far is willful blindness. But I'm asking you a direct question, and I know you understand the consequences of lying to me now.”

She looked away again for a moment, then fixed him with her steely blue eyes. “This sounds awfully official for someone who's off the Ritchie case.”

“How do you know if I'm on the case or not? Because your dad told you?”

She seemed to trip over the question, so he continued.

“I know he called Beaudoin, so let's stop bullshitting each other. I'm going to ask you one more time — what happened at that meeting?”

“I don't have to be here, remember? So don't think you can interrogate me, or I'll walk out that door, and you know it.”

“Bullshit. You want answers as bad as I do. I can see it in your eyes, Melissa.”

There was an awkward pause as their drinks arrived.

“Let's try another question,” he said, when they were alone again. “When did you find out Curtis was underage?”

Melissa seemed stung by the question, her glass still at her lips, her slightly widened eyes locked on his. She put the glass down deliberately as Smith continued.

“I know you were doing research on capacity and enforceability of contracts, so I know you found out. And I know you must have felt bad, since you would have been responsible for due diligence on Curtis's contract.”

“How do you know —”

“What happened at that meeting?”

She was staring at her hands now.

“If you won't tell me, I'll have to fill in the blanks myself,” Smith said, leaning across the table. “I'd say it went something like this: Curtis told your father he was underage, and could void the contract with the Raftsmen whenever he wanted. What the hell else was your dad gonna do, Melissa? He'd staked the team's entire future on Ritchie, not to mention his own career.”

“No.” She was shaking her head.

“No? Your father was already under scrutiny for the deals he made to get Curtis here. I can only imagine the shit that would hit the fan if it turned out that Curtis wasn't eligible, that he could walk away from the Raftsmen. It wouldn't just be his job in Ottawa on the line either; he'd be ruined. Everything he ever worked for, gone. You wouldn't come out looking too good, either.”

“That's not true. We were going to petition the league to have our draft picks restored, get our players back. Everything would have been fine.”

“Is that what he told you? And you believe that?” Smith shook his head, then looked out the window at the sheet of rain sliding down the windows. “All right, then. Suppose it was something else.” He waited for her to look at him before he continued. “Like maybe he found out about you and Curt —”

“It had nothing to do with that,” she said, but her eyes betrayed her.

“Your dad wouldn't have been too pleased to find out that Ritchie had treated his only daughter like one of his puck bunnies.”

“Stop it! I told you, it wasn't that.”

“Wake up, Melissa. He found out, and we both know he had to do something …”

“Don't even say it …”

“What, that he murdered Curtis?” he said, in a raw whisper. “You know it's true. He had no choice, for both of your sakes.'”

“That's not true !” she said, tears welling in her eyes as the people at a nearby table glanced over, only to meet Smith's glare and suddenly lose interest.

“Then tell me how it really was,” he said, reaching across the table and touching her forearm. “What happened at that goddamned meeting?”

She was shaking her head, her eyes downcast.

“What did Curtis say to your father? Was it about the two of you? Was that the final straw?”

She looked away, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Curtis said he was going to Toronto. He was going to tell the media about his real age, walk away from his contract with the Raftsmen, and sign with Toronto when he became eligible in the spring.”

Smith's head swam at the reaction Quinn McAdam must have had to hearing that the superstar he had dealt the future of his team to get was going to not only walk away, but go to their divisional archrivals down the 401. It was the ultimate slap in the face, and a death sentence for McAdam's career … or maybe for Ritchie himself, as it turned out.

“Jesus.”

“Dad wouldn't hurt anyone. Not like that. It can't have been him.”

“Where's your dad now?” Smith stood up and pulled out his phone.

“What? At home, I guess.”

“Stay here. I've got to make a call.”

Smith stepped out into the foyer and dialed Marshall's number again, getting voicemail. He hung up and tried his home number, hearing his wife's voice after a few rings.

“Connie, it's Jack.
Sorry to bother you, but I'm trying to get a hold of Dave and he's not answering. You know where he is?”

“He's working.”

“I thought he was taking a couple of days off?” Smith's senses instantly went on high alert.

“He said he had a loose end to tie up. He'd only be a couple of hours. What's going on, Jack?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to talk to him.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line and Smith wondered whether Marshall had told her about his forced leave.

“Did he say where he was going?”

“He said he had to make a quick run out to Manotick.”

Smith's heart skipped a beat. He knew Quinn McAdam's place was south of the city, on the Ottawa River. “When did you last talk to him?”

“About an hour ago. What's going on, Jack? You're starting to scare me.”

“It's nothing, Connie. Don't worry. I'm sorry to bother you at home. I've gotta go.”

He ended the call and went back into the bar. He was barely through the door when he noticed the table was empty. For a split second he thought Melissa had gone to the ladies' room, but his instinct sent him back outside and around to the side of the parking lot where he had seen her car when he came in. He had to shield his eyes from the driving rain, but he could see the spot was empty.