Thin Ice (9 page)

“But Saunders
did
think he was acting for Ritchie?” Marshall asked, returning to the table.

“I have no idea what he thought he was doing — there was never any agreement between them — but the result sure wasn't of any benefit to Curtis. I spent weeks trying to smooth over Saunders' fuck-ups. He pissed off just about everyone who was interested in Curtis. I know what you're thinking — that I swooped in after he'd done all the work — but it wasn't like that at all.” Avery paused to catch his breath.

“Tell us how it was, then,” Marshall said, keen to have Avery continue his venting.

“He was like this toxic personality or something. He thought he knew what he was doing, going in tough and holding out. But you need a little honey to catch flies and he was all vinegar. He just irritated everyone, plus he had no idea what he was doing. He was generally a disaster. He pissed off this one hockey equipment maker — I'm talking the biggest one in North America, if not the whole world — so bad that it took me months just to get them back at the table. Curtis would have been signed to a huge endorsement deal by now if it wasn't for Tom Saunders.”

“So you acknowledge that Saunders was angry in March, when Curtis formally hired you as his agent and effectively cut him out of any fee he might have gotten from his signing?” Marshall asked.

“Sure. He called me and started mouthing off, saying he was going to sue me for all he was worth. It was all bullshit, and I knew it. I just let him say his piece.”

“Did he threaten you physically?”

“No, not really. I mean, the first time he called he was pretty steamed. He's a real hothead, too — another drawback for dealing in the big leagues. I wouldn't be surprised if he threatened to do all sorts of stuff, but I never took it seriously. I knew he was just blowing smoke.”

“Did you and Curtis discuss him at all, either before or after you two formally contracted with each other.”

“Sure. He told me Saunders just kind of imposed himself on his career ever since he hooked up with Ellen, which is exactly the impression I had. Curtis warned me Saunders'd be pissed off, but to ignore him. He said he'd get over it.”

“Did Curtis say whether Saunders was pissed off at him? Or mention any altercation between them, about him signing you up as his agent?”

Avery shook his head. “No. Like I said, he told me I could expect him to be pissed, but he didn't seem concerned himself about Saunders, or mention anything like that.”

Marshall looked down at his notes. “We're told Saunders showed up late one night at Curtis's hotel in Toronto and had a blowout — started screaming at Curtis outside his room. Curtis ever mention that?”

Avery shook his head. “No. That's news to me.” His expression changed subtly before he spoke again. “Are you guys thinking Saunders may have done this?”

Marshall sighed. “Why don't you let us worry about that, Dan. Right now, we're just looking for straight answers from you.”

“Of course.”

Smith glanced at the clock and stifled a yawn. They still had a lot of ground to cover, and he could sense his partner's irritation.

“What about Ritchie's contract?” he asked. “Why don't you take us through the details. ”

Smith sat at a table in the corner while Marshall stood at the bar waiting to order their beers. He had his notebook open, and was tracing over the line between the circle at the centre of the page and the name Ashcroft. Commercial crimes had already connected it to a Delaware LLP that owned a hundred percent of one of the numbered Ontario companies that had issued the cheque to John Ridgeway, and he had a feeling the connection to Gravelle's cheque was next. It had been almost 9:00 p.m. by the time they had established the link — too late for further inquiries today — but a call to Ashcroft's head office in DC was the first order of business for the morning.

Staff Sergeant Beaudoin had made the decision to hold off on re-interviewing Tom Saunders until they had done some more legwork. A couple of investigators had left for Toronto, around the time Smith and Marshall were returning from Peterborough, to interview hotel staff and anyone else who might have witnessed the late-night altercation in March between Saunders and Ritchie. Ritchie's autopsy was also scheduled for eleven the next morning, and it was thought wise to have the results in hand before they decided to take a hard look at Saunders.

Smith yawned and stretched his arms over his head. It had been a long day indeed, and he was eager for the first sip of cold lager. He looked toward the bar, unusually crowded for a Sunday night, and thought of his cancelled trip to Toronto, where his buddies were no doubt three sheets to the wind by now. As he continued his scan of the room, he noticed a trio of women at the far end of the bar. When the blonde turned, he felt the air leave his chest as he saw recognition in her eyes. He looked desperately for Marshall, still chatting with the bartender. Looking back at the blonde, she was talking to her friends, and then … heading his way.

“Hi, Jack. How are you?”

It always amazed him how at ease she seemed in his presence, when the sight of her sent him into such turmoil. He had first laid eyes on Lisa White in a courtroom in St. John's, where she was defending a client Smith had arrested for impaired driving. White was a keen young lawyer then, just a couple of years out of law school and looking to make her mark. And the vigour of her cross-examination made it very clear that no one was going to get in the way of that goal. She had spent thirty minutes excoriating him before finally letting Smith down from the stand. Despite the ferocity of her attack, though, he had harboured no ill will toward her. He liked to credit this benevolence to his good-natured spirit, but it likely had more to do with the fact that Lisa White was the most beautiful lawyer he had ever seen. And so, when they bumped into each other down in the coffee line of the nearby food court after the trial was over, he graciously accepted her offer to buy him a cup, just to show that what she had put him through upstairs wasn't personal.

But from that initial encounter, things had quickly become personal, indeed. For Smith, and he was sure she felt the same, those first two years were the happiest of his life. They were well on their way to marriage, kids, a dog, and a picket fence when she suddenly decided that St. John's was too small for her. Although he didn't really understand what it was she was after, it was clear to Smith that she couldn't be happy until she at least tried to find it. So, when a job at a law firm in Ottawa came up, Smith had left his home, family, and friends and a job that he truly loved so that she could follow her dream. The possibility that he might not be a part of it had never even occurred to him.

“Lisa. I haven't seen you in … it's been a while. How you doing?”

“Great. I took the summer off. I was travelling for a while, spent a couple of weeks in St. John's.”

“Guess that explains why I haven't seen you around,” he said, although they didn't exactly travel in the same social circles. “How'd you manage to take the whole summer off? I thought you lawyers were all obsessed with billing time.”

She grinned. “I wasn't off the whole time, just working remotely.”

“I'll have to try that sometime.”

“So, I guess you're working this Ritchie thing?”

He nodded. “Everyone's working it. I was supposed to be in Toronto this weekend.”

“Getting shitfaced with the old gang?”

“Something like that, yeah. Instead, I have to drink with this guy,” he said, as Marshall returned with a couple of beers.

“Hi, Lisa.”

“Hi, Dave.
Listen, I've gotta get going, so I'll leave you two to your beers. I'm sure you've earned them.”

“I need a new deodorant or something?” Marshall asked, once she had left.

“Well, I wasn't gonna say anything, Marsh, but …”

“Very funny. What'd she want?”

“Just saying hello. Cheers,” Smith said, taking a long sip of the cold beer. They chatted for a while, about things unrelated to the investigation, before they got to the Raftsmen's prospects for the new season. Eventually, they were back to the case, where they both knew they'd end up.

“Still doodling, huh?” Marshall pointed at the diagram on Smith's notebook, sitting open on the table. Apart from a bunch of circles with lines connecting them, the average person would have a hard time making any sense of the chicken scratches.

“We're forty hours in, Marsh, and what have we got?”

“I don't know. I kinda like Saunders for it, don't you?”

“He's a selfish arsehole, but not necessarily a killer.”

“Don't you have to be one to be the other?” Marshall chuckled, then grimaced as he leaned back on the seat. “Jeez, my back is killin' me. All that driving.”

“You want a hot water bottle, gramps?”

“Don't get smart, or I'll put in a disability claim. You'd probably like that, wouldn't you. You'd try and get partnered up with Giroux,” he added, referring to the newest investigator in the major crimes unit, who had just arrived from Montreal. She was young and attractive and, by all accounts, unmarried. “How's your
français
?”

“Fuck you.” Smith sipped his beer. He had gone on language training several times in the last few years, and as Marshall well knew, he just didn't seem to have the aptitude for languages. Marshall had been around long enough that the bilingual requirement wasn't formally part of his job description, but, even so, he understood and spoke the language better than his younger colleague.

“So what's on the agenda tomorrow, besides the autopsy?”

“Follow up on Ashcroft, and John Ridgeway's alibi, and flesh out Tom Saunders. That reminds me. I want to talk to Ritchie's junior teammate, Jordan Connolly — find out more about this argument.”

“Well, that sounds like a full day right there,” Marshall said, draining his beer. “I'm gonna head home and get some shut-eye. You want a ride?”

“Naw, I'm gonna stick around here for a bit and think.”

Marshall laughed. “Hell of a place to think, but to each his own. I'll swing by around eight?”

Smith nodded. “Thanks for the beer.”

“I just started a tab,” Marshall said, as he got up to leave and patted him on the shoulder.

Smith awoke to the sound of a door slamming shut and turned toward his bedside clock radio, squinting as he tried to make out the time. He hadn't heard the alarm, and was trying to remember if he had even set it, when the fog around his brain began to lift and he turned to see the outline of a human form under the comforter next to him. He gently pulled back the covers to reveal a tangle of blonde hair and bare shoulders.

His surprised pleasure was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hallway and the jangling of keys.

“Jack? You in there?”

Panic seized him as the familiar voice from the hallway registered and images from the previous evening flooded his mind: the encounter with Lisa … sitting at her table … leaving the bar with her just after midnight.

“I brought coffee, two creams, one sugar — just the way you like it. I figured you're …”

The voice trailed off as its speaker arrived at the bedroom door and took in the sight of Smith sitting up in bed, shirtless, next to the slowly rousing figure next to him, then the rumpled clothing and discarded lingerie on a bedside chair.

“What the
fuck
?”

White stirred, opening her eyes just in time to see the launch of the coffee cup, and to duck back under the covers before it exploded on the headboard, sending scalding coffee splattering everywhere.

“Jesus!” Smith yelped, clutching at his neck.

“You piece of shit!” The voice breaking as the woman turned from the bedroom door.

“Alison, wait!” Smith bolted out of bed, grabbing a T-shirt to cover himself as he raced down the hallway, just in time to see the front door slam. He jerked it open and saw her at the end of the hall. “Alison! I can explain. I just …” He set off after her as she disappeared into the stairwell, and was gaining on her by the time they reached the ground floor.

“Just let me talk to you.”

“Stay away from me, you bastard,” she yelled over her shoulder, as she swung the front door open and fled into the cool morning air. Smith stopped on the top step, seeing no point in pursuing her further. What was there to say, really? Besides, he was suddenly aware of the seasonal shift to autumn as he clutched the T-shirt closer to his privates and turned to go back inside, just as he caught sight of Marshall's car pulling into the parking lot, and his partner's wide-eyed expression.

Returning to his apartment, Smith checked the damage in the mirror by the front door. There was an angry red blotch on the right side of his neck, where the coffee had splattered, and the initial sting was morphing into a raw ache. He shook his head as he padded back down the hall. When he reached the bedroom, Lisa was sitting on the edge of the bed, buttoning her blouse.

“Guess that was Alison?”

“Yeah, she's … anyway, she's gone.”

“I can see that,” White said, getting up to slip on her jeans. “You all right?” She was looking at his neck, and the growing patch of red.

“I'll survive. Listen, you don't have to rush off. We could get some breakfast….”

She waved a hand. “Listen, Jack. Last night was fun, but I really think I should go now.”

“Come on, don't be like that,” he said, as he held her in his arms. She looked up at him, kissed him on the cheek, and then gently pushed him away.

“I'll see you around, Jack.”

“Well, let's at least have lunch or a drink or something soon,” he called after her as he threw on a pair of shorts.

“I'm kinda busy the next couple of days,” she replied, reaching the door to the apartment and finding her shoes. “You know, back to work and all that. But sure, let's talk later in the week.”

She blew him a kiss and opened the door to reveal Marshall standing there with a tray of coffees and an even more surprised look on his face than the one he had sported in the parking lot.

“Hi, David.” She glanced at the coffee. “You're not gonna toss those at him, are you?”

“What?”

“See you, guys.”

Smith could only smile as he watched her leave. “You don't want to know, believe me,” he said, stepping aside to let his partner in.

Marshall handed him one of the coffee cups and headed toward the sofa, where he settled in, took a sip of his own coffee, and smiled. “Oh, yes I do.”

Smith sat at his desk, tapping his fingers in frustration as he waited with the phone at his ear. He had been on the line with Ashcroft for at least fifteen minutes and gotten precisely nowhere, despite progressing through an automated telephone tree and two actual people. He was running out of patience as a third voice came on the line.

“Yes?”

“Look, I'm calling from the Ottawa Police, and I'm getting …”

“Where?”

“The Ott — Who am I speaking with, please?”

“Customer service.” Smith detected a slight drawl in the woman's voice.

“Where did you say you were calling from?”

“Canada,” Smith said, casting a broader geographic reference and hoping she had heard of the country immediately to her north.

“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

“I'd like to speak to someone regarding one of your firm's clients.”

“I'm sorry, sir, we don't disclose any information about our clients.”

“This is a homicide investigation, ma'am. I'm sure you don't want to be obstructing —”

“I'll refer you to legal.”

“Wait —” The muzak returned and Smith banged his forehead on his arm as Marshall came over.

“What's goin' on? You've been on the phone forever.”

“These people are unbelievable. Talking to someone in authority is like getting an audience with the Pope.”

“I'm gonna grab a coffee. You want me to throw one your way?”

Smith looked up to see his partner's smile.

“That's good, Marshy. You been working on that one all morning?”

“Just think how lucky you are that you take two creams, otherwise you might be spending the morning at the burn unit.”

“You're a fucking riot … hello? Yes, this is Detective Jack Smith, Ottawa Police. Is this the legal department? I'm an investigator in Ottawa, Canada. I'm trying to get in touch with someone in your firm who can answer some questions relating to one of your clients. These questions are part of an active homicide investigation and I've been getting nothing but —”

“Detective, I'm sure your questions are important, but we have very strict disclosure rules,” a cool voice at the other end replied.

“Are you refusing to co-operate ?”

“We'd be more than happy to co-operate, sir,” the woman replied, her voice taking on a superior tone, indicative of someone used to slamming the door shut on inquiries. “But only with a subpoena. You'll understand, our discretion regarding client data is the cornerstone of our business.”

“You want me to get a warrant?”

“As I said, we'd be happy to comply with a subpoena.”

Smith stared at the clock. It was almost nine. He had wasted forty minutes just to be politely told to go screw himself. “Fine, I'll get a warrant. Before you go, can you at least confirm Curtis Ritchie is one of your clients?”

“Like I said, Detective, I can't disclose any —”

“Are you guys like the CIA or something?”

“Have a great day, Detective.”

Smith slammed down the phone in frustration.

“Take it easy on the office equipment, Smith.” He looked up to see Staff Sergeant Al Beaudoin's enormous frame looming over him. His top button, as usual, was undone and his tie askew.

“That was Ritchie's PR firm, who won't tell me a friggin' thing without a warrant.”

“So get one.”

“They're in Washington. Isn't that going to be complicated?”

“We do it all the time. Talk to … who did that, not long ago?” Beaudoin asked, his brow creasing in thought. “Schneider,” he said, snapping his fingers. “You're talking about the outfit commercial crimes linked to the cheques paid to the Peterborough witnesses?”

Smith nodded.

“Get on it, then. Go to DC yourself if you have to. I want everything they've got on Ritchie. I have a feeling it's lots.”

Smith stood in the viewing gallery, feeling his stomach churn as the pathologist began his examination of Curtis Ritchie's lifeless body. The skin had a greyish tint, flawless in the fluorescent light but for the scar that crossed the left side of his chest. It had looked a vibrant pink when they had dragged Ritchie from the canal on the morning of his death, blood still oozing out around the knife. Now the murder weapon was safely bagged and sitting in the evidence room, and the scar itself looked less dramatic, edged in bluish-grey. Ritchie's face had a restful expression, again in stark contrast to the wide-eyed stare that had greeted them when they had pulled back the waterlogged mess of hair covering it that morning. The tabloids had dissed Ritchie's unruly mop, calling it a prime example of helmet-hair gone wild. For some reason, as he stood there staring at Ritchie's corpse, Smith recalled a particular headline: “Can't Ritchie Rich Afford a Barber?”

“Eighteen-year-old male, Caucasian,” Dr. Greg Lake began, snapping on rubber gloves and approaching the table. He seemed to pause as the age was uttered aloud, the same thought likely running through everyone's mind:
What a waste
. Lake proceeded with the examination of Ritchie's hands and feet, noting the lack of any obvious defensive wounds.

“There's nothing visible under the fingernails, and we've already swabbed and found no foreign skin or hair. That's not to say it wasn't washed off by his time in the canal. Apparently, the water in there's got some fairly astringent properties. Not a bad place to dump a body if you want to wash off physical evidence, according to the identification officers,” he said, looking up to viewing gallery. “But I digress.”

Lake turned his attention to Ritchie's head and neck area, feeling his scalp and looking in his ears, nose, and throat with a flashlight. “No bruising or other signs of trauma,” he said, as he completed the examination of the head and moved to the wound on Ritchie's chest. “Wound of approximately six inches in length, starting laterally at the third intercostal space and traversing medially — that's right to left,” he said, looking up at his audience before continuing. “Transecting all great vessels and myocardium and lung parenchyma in its lethal course. The location of the wound, its angle and depth — indicative of extreme force — all suggest a left-handed attacker. The wound ends where steel met bone and the knife became permanently lodged on the left side of the sternum, where it remained until the body was removed from the water.”

Lake paused and looked up at his audience.

“Said weapon being a filleting knife — extremely sharp, and with a blade of approximately six inches. It was lodged in the soft tissue above the ventricular cavity. We'll be able to be a little more precise as to the internal damage caused in a few moments.”

Smith had heard enough about the knife already — that it was sharp, that it lacked any fingerprints or other identifying marks, and that it had been mass-produced before being discontinued and removed from most retail shelves at least three years before. To the best of the knowledge of the ident officer who'd done the legwork, there was no way to narrow the list of possible owners in any meaningful way. In short, the knife was a dead end.

“I'm assuming that's the cause of death, is it, Doc ?” Marshall piped up.

Lake frowned. “We should never assume, though you're probably half right.”

Marshall looked puzzled.

“I suspect cause of death was actually drowning. Do we know if he could swim?”

Marshall looked at Smith, who shrugged his shoulders.

“Sorry to interrupt, Doc,” Marshall said, as Lake began prodding at the wound with an assortment of tools.

“My, my,” the pathologist muttered as he craned to look into the opening. “Whoever did this was capable of extreme force. The blade seems to have been embedded into the sternum. I'm guessing his aorta was severed as the blade made its way across, but either way, the tract slashed by the passage of the knife, and the resulting massive blood loss would have been instantly lethal.”