Thin Ice (3 page)

“Did he run alone?” Smith asked.

“He always did back in Peterborough, but I don't know about here.”

Marshall asked some routine questions about Curtis Ritchie's habits and his whereabouts in the past few weeks, before looking to Smith.

“Did your son have a girlfriend?” Smith asked, as Ritchie and Saunders turned to him.

“Not that I know of.” Ellen Ritchie shook her head. “I mean, there were girls — I'm sure there were lots of 'em — but nothing steady. Curtis always said he didn't want to get tied down. He didn't want to risk anything getting in the way of his goal.”

“I'm sure he was pretty popular,” Smith prompted. He had read about a woman in Peterborough who had claimed Ritchie had fathered her child, but as far as he knew it had never gone anywhere. He wondered whether Ritchie's prospects for a multi-million contract in the near future had spawned more, similar claims. “I mean, a good-looking kid like that, hockey star and the future he had …” He trailed off and sensed the unspoken dialogue going on between Ritchie and Saunders. It was Saunders who broke the silence.

“There was no shortage of gold diggers trying to get their hooks into him, if that's what you mean,” he sneered.

“Wasn't there a woman in Peterbor —” Smith began, before Ritchie interrupted.

“That little slut tried her best, but everyone knew Curtis had nothin' to do with her.”

“Who was this, and what did she try, Mrs. Ritchie?”

“Nancy Ridgeway, a waitress at a greasy spoon in Peterborough. She tried to get Curtis to pay her to shut her up, but he refused.” She shook her head. “He knew what she was up to, and he wasn't afraid to stand up to her. That was back in the spring. She hired a lawyer and threatened to sue, but it never went anywhere. Then she tried to get the cops involved — you can check it out for yourselves — but nothin' ever came of that, either. Everyone knew exactly what she was.”

Smith nodded, making a note to follow up with the OPP in Peterborough, before continuing. “I'm sure his career prospects attracted all sorts of attention, both good and bad. Did Curtis ever mention any threats, or enemies, or anything like that?”

She shook her head. “No. There was lots of media, and people hounding him all the time for autographs or pictures, but mostly they just wanted to be near him. He was such a good kid. Everybody loved him,” she added, snuffling into a tissue. “He was building me a new house in Peterborough, and next year he was going to build me a cottage. He already had the land scoped out, up on Belmont Lake, near Havelock …” She broke down and started sobbing, her shoulders jerking up and down as the tears ran down her cheeks. “We were as close as any mother and son could be.”

As Ritchie blew her nose, Smith exchanged a glance with Marshall and leaned forward in his chair.

“What do you mean, Mrs. Ritchie?”

She stopped crying for a moment and looked up at Marshall, then Smith. “I wasn't Curtis's biological mother. He was adopted.”

“We weren't aware of that,” Smith said, seeing her puzzlement.

“I figured everyone knew, ever since that article in
Sports Illustrated
.”

“When did you adopt him?” Marshall asked, as Smith scribbled notes.

“I didn't.” She sighed and dabbed at her eyes. “Bob — my first husband — adopted him when Curtis was two.”

“That would be Bob … Ritchie?”

“Yes, he was married at the time, and his first wife died of breast cancer when Curtis was young — six or seven. I met Bob a few years later. I guess you could say he and Curtis adopted me.”

Smith was scribbling furiously, trying to keep track of the Ritchies' complicated lineage. Marshall seemed just as perplexed.

“And Bob?” he said, not sure what to expect in the silence that followed.

“He died of a heart attack when Curtis was twelve. About six years ago. I thought I'd never get over it, until I met Tom.” She gave him a grim smile. “So you see, detectives, this family's had more than its share of tragedy. But this …” She trailed off, looking down and blowing her nose.

“I really am sorry, Mrs. Ritchie,” Marshall said, as he glanced toward Smith and saw a look that confirmed the interview was over for now.

“Do you guys know how this all works?” Saunders asked suddenly, as he handed Ritchie another tissue. “With the insurance and all?” He seemed to recognize the bewilderment his question had caused and continued with his thought. “I mean, how're we gonna finish the house now? It's half built.”

Smith glanced at Marshall before answering, the same surprise mirrored in his partner's normally inscrutable features. “Did Curtis have a lawyer, or a business manager?”

“He had an agent, in Toronto,” Ritchie said, perking up as Saunders frowned.

“You should probably take it up with him, then.”

“Well, those are all of our questions for now,” Marshall said, as they got up to leave. We can see ourselves out. We appreciate your time, and again, we're very sorry for your loss.”

Ritchie nodded and sniffled, and Saunders got up and followed them to the door to the suite.

“You guys are gonna catch this motherfucker, right?” he whispered as they stood in the doorway.

“We're going to give it everything we've got, Mr. Saunders,” Marshall assured him as Smith took a step back, not from the sour whiff of liquor on Saunders' breath, but the feral heat at the core of his red-tinged eyes that continued to burn after the door had closed.

Smith stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the locks below leading down to the Ottawa River. The view across to Gatineau, and the rolling hills of Chelsea beyond, was spectacular enough and would only improve as the leaves completed their transition through every shade of brown, red, and gold as fall gave way to winter. He looked back at the sound of Marshall's voice from the far end of the hall that led to the bedrooms. It echoed across the vast hardwood, furnished only with a leather sectional and a massive projection screen television, connected to what looked like a state of the art sound system and a sleek gaming console.

“You gotta see this.”

Marshall had appeared at the end of the hallway, beckoning him over.

“What?”

“Look at the size of the friggin' bed,” he said, as they arrived in the doorway of the master bedroom. “And that's a 3D flat screen. It's gotta be a sixty-inch.”

“Looks like a cellphone screen next to the one in the living room,” Smith remarked, noticing a different gaming system connected to the enormous television and a wireless controller sitting on the bedside table. He glanced at the open case sitting on the floor in front of the television. “Hey, that's the newest hockey game. I've seen the commercials for it. It looks awesome.”

“This is the life, all right,” Marshall said, looking out at the same view Smith had been admiring from the living room.

“You sure you wanna trade places with him, Marshy?” Smith said, stepping through a door and switching on a light, finding himself in the largest walk-in closet he had ever seen. He whistled and ran a gloved hand through a long rack of clothes. Apart from a few suits and dress shoes, it was mostly casual stuff, but it was all high-end, far beyond the means of the average investigator. The assortment of sport shoes alone, piled in a corner of the closet, was worth a fortune. Marshall seemed more interested in the oversized swimsuit calendar that hung next to a massive mirror at the far end of the dressing area.

“September was always my favourite month,” he said, walking through to the en suite, with its marble Jacuzzi tub, double sinks, and pewter hardware. “How many girls you figure he could fit in there at once?”

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Smith said, as a member of the identification team appeared at the door behind them.

“You might be interested in these.”

Marshall took the key ring she held out, as Smith looked on, recognizing the familiar Porsche logo.

“It just gets better and better.”

Smith picked at the last of his fries before giving up and sitting back in the booth as Marshall wrapped up his call. He had eaten too fast, and the greasy burger platter was already swinging its way through his stomach like a wrecking ball. It was only mid-afternoon, but he felt exhausted. They were only seven hours into the investigation, and there was no obvious resolution in sight. But an attack like the one that had killed Curtis Ritchie, especially in broad daylight, always left clues. Smith remained confident that they would have a meaningful lead before much longer.

“That was Sauvé,” Marshall said, tucking his phone into his pocket and nodding to the waitress for more coffee. “They just finished interviewing a jogger who was on the lower path around six fifteen. Says he passed someone in the area of the scene — a big guy in a hoodie wearing a hat and sunglasses. He says he remembers because it wasn't sunny.” Marshall paused to take a sip of coffee before continuing. “He also says he first noticed the big guy on the other side of the Somerset Bridge, where he was stretching. The guy crossed the footbridge and got on the lower path and started heading toward the witness.”

“But he didn't attack?”

“No, but he did say the other guy seemed to move toward the middle of the path as they got closer, not like he was going to block the way or anything, but it was noticeable. Then at the last minute, he backed off and they passed each other. Witness says he gave him a nod and got nothing back.”

“Anything else?”

“The guy's hands were in the pouch of his hoodie, in front there.” Marshall pointed to his belly.

“Concealing the knife.”

“Could be.”

“And how does this witness compare to Curtis Ritchie, in terms of height, build, hair colour, or whatever?”

“I don't know, but we're definitely going to want to re-interview him.”

Smith nodded, then plucked a fresh napkin from the holder and began sketching as Marshall looked on.

“So, the perp's waiting here,” he said, pointing to his rendition of the bridge, on the opposite side of the canal from the path where Ritchie was murdered. “He's pretending to stretch or whatever, but really he's watching the lower path on the other side. The path from the south is, what, half a click dead straight?”

“About that, yeah.”

“He sees the witness coming down the path. Let's assume he's close to Ritchie's height and weight, plus there aren't that many people around that early, so the killer figures it's him.”

Marshall was nodding and sipping his coffee.

“So he trots across the bridge, down the steps to the path, and then heads south. He's got his hands in the pouch, concealing the knife. He's getting ready to pounce, but then he realizes it's not Ritchie, so he just trots on by.”

“Then he turns around and goes back to the bridge to set up again.” Marshall pointed at his partner's sketch. “A few minutes later, another runner comes down the path, only this time it really is Ritchie, and when they meet up on the lower path, it's lights out.”

“Bottom line is, this wasn't some random attack. He was waiting for Ritchie.”

“It sure looks that way.” Marshall nodded. The two sat staring at the sketch for a while before Smith spoke.

“Guess you didn't read the
Sports Illustrated
article either, huh ?”

“I had no idea he was adopted,” Marshall said, shaking his head. “That's some family history. Talk about bad luck.”

“More like cursed. What did you make of Saunders?”

“Pretty clear what his main concern is,” Marshall said with a frown. “Who's gonna finish
his
house.”

“So I wasn't the only one with that impression then.”

“Pretty rich for him to talk about gold diggers. I mean, come on.”

Smith nodded. “But Ritchie must have been worth more to him alive than dead.”

“I guess we'll find out when we talk to the agent. He's on a four o'clock flight from Toronto, so he should be downtown at five thirty or six.” Marshall checked his watch. They were due out at the Raftsmen's home rink in thirty-five minutes.

“Can you imagine what's going through their heads in the front office right now?”

Smith sat back and glanced out the window. The clouds had dispersed and it looked like the height of summer again, making the prospect of a drawn-out investigation even less appealing.

“Well,” he said, returning his focus to Marshall. “On the bright side, they won't have to worry about coughing up a huge salary a couple of years from now.”

“Yeah, but look at who they traded to get him. Lamer, Cotterill, and Wlodek,” Marshall said, reciting the names responsible for 75 percent of the Raftsmen's offence in the past three years.

“Don't forget that young goalie, what's his name?” Smith snapped his fingers in frustration.

“Lepage. He's going to be great in a few years. Somewhere else, of course.”

“McAdam's not looking like such a genius all of a sudden,” Smith said, thinking of all the headlines since the brash GM had arrived in Ottawa, just after the Raftsmen had missed the playoffs for the first time in five years. If the team's owner had been looking for a shake-up, he had picked the right guy. But no one could have predicted the events of the past eighteen months. Quinn McAdam had brought a broom into town with him and, within weeks, the entire coaching staff was gone. It had taken him a year to turn his attention to the roster, but when he did, he had been no less ruthless. The first victims were the free agents, who'd been shopped without a second thought, their bloated salaries spent on younger, developing players. The general consensus was that those moves were long overdue, but a yard sale like that was based on the assumption that the core of the team would remain intact. No one had expected that two of the team's top three point-getters, and their highly coveted rushing defenceman, would be dealt for an eighteen-year-old — first overall pick or not.

Then again, there was no shortage of buzz about Curtis Ritchie, even before anyone ever mentioned his name in the same sentence with Ottawa. He had ripped through major junior like a tornado, racking up goals, points, and records along the way. A natural goal-scorer with a head for the game, Ritchie was being heralded as the best prospect the League had seen in a decade. Added to his youthful good looks, his unruly blond curls, and an impish grin, he was quite a package. Now no one would ever know if he would have delivered on the promise, and Ottawa's roster had a gaping hole in it. The fact that an eighteen-year-old life had been snuffed out seemed almost an afterthought.

“Come on, let's see how McAdam's doing in person,” Marshall said, as they got up to leave. “And don't look so glum, Smitty. It's not every day you get to meet a League GM and former playing great in the flesh.”

Smith and Marshall stood in the reception area looking at the wall of posters, photos, and other Raftsmen memorabilia. Marshall, a diehard fan since the team's arrival in the nineties, was particularly interested in the photos and framed newspaper headlines from the early days, especially the signing of the team's longtime captain, Dennis Hearst, twelve years earlier. As for Smith, the Raftsmen had grown on him the longer he stayed in Ottawa, but he had grown up a Montreal fan, so he always found his allegiances strained whenever the two teams went head to head. He glanced at a series of newspaper headlines at the near end of the long wall, announcing the blockbuster Ritchie deal. One was a cover from the
Hockey News
that Smith remembered from the summer. The caption, “Ottawa's Saviour,” topped a picture of Curtis Ritchie in a Raftsmen jersey and cap, flanked by McAdam on one side and the team's owner, James Cormier, on the other. All three wore broad smiles, Smith noticed.

Marshall wandered over to join him. Both men heard a sound behind them and turned to see Cormier standing there. “I'm sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, extending his hand. “Jim Cormier.”

Smith thought he looked shorter in person, but no less impressive. In fact, he seemed to radiate a general aura of confidence as he chit-chatted about the photo they had been looking at. He was dressed casually in khakis and a polo shirt, but despite the relaxed attire and easy smile, the distress of the morning's events was evident in his tanned features.

“I still can't believe it,” he said, staring at the photo. “It's such a waste. Come on, let's go back to my office.”

They followed him into a large office with more memorabilia on the walls and took a seat as Cormier retreated behind an oversized desk.

“Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee or a soda?”

“No, thanks,” Marshall said, as he noticed a picture hanging on the wall of Cormier and the current prime minister, who was sporting a Raftsmen jersey. “We appreciate you making time for us. This can't be an easy day for you.”

“I'm meeting with Curtis's mom in an hour. My problems are nothing compared to hers.”

Marshall nodded. “We spoke to her earlier. Did you know Curtis well?”

“I wouldn't say well, but I met with him over the summer a few times. We had him and his family over for dinner a couple of times, and I talked to him about his future.” Cormier paused and glanced out the window. “I like to think I'm a pretty good judge of people, and Curtis was a winner. That much was clear.”