Dream Chasers (19 page)

“Can I help you?”

“Mrs. O'Shaughnessy?” Irritation replaced the apprehension, and she made to shut the door. He stuck his foot in the crack. She kicked it with surprising strength. “Go away! Come back at eleven, my husband will be back from church.”

Hastily he produced his badge and introduced himself through the crack in the door. The scowl vanished, and her eyes widened in dismay.

“Oh my! I'm so sorry!” She flung back the door. “I thought you were another of those reporters, or someone else come to gawk. It's been getting worse and worse. Come through, please. I'm sorry about the mess, and the smoke.” She waved her arms as if to dispel it. “I forgot the meat pies I was making for lunch. Clean forgot. Fell asleep...” She turned to him, reddening. “Well, that's no excuse, and anyway, that's not why you're here, I'm sure. My brother-in-law Darren rang us yesterday and said you wanted a word with Riley. But he said you'd see him when he gets back to Ottawa.”

“I'm renting a cottage on Lower Rideau Lake and felt like a Sunday drive. I've never been to Gananoque.”

She led him into a small living room overstuffed with furniture and knickknacks, everything from family photos to hockey trophies to stuffed fish. It was a friendly room and, like the message on the door, welcoming. He had the impression the O'Shaughnessys had lived there a long time, possibly generations, and had never thrown anything out.

“Oh no? Well, you must take one of the boat tours of the islands, see where all the millionaires live. But I'm afraid you may have a wait right now, because Riley's not here.”

Green groaned inwardly. Talk about the runaround. “Is he at church too?”

“No.” She paused, and a faint distaste curled her lip. “His agent called. Said he had something to show him. Picked him up about an hour ago.”

Green was intrigued by the hint of distaste. Was it just because Vic McIntyre was an asshole, he wondered, or was it something more specific? “Did Mr. McIntyre take him back to Ottawa with him?”

“I haven't the least idea. He didn't tell him to pack his things or anything, so I don't think so. But you never know with that man.”

“Are they very close?”

“Too close, if you ask me. But then, no one ever does. Don't spoil the boys' dreams, everyone says. But this is the first weekend we've had Riley home since last fall, and I've got up a big family dinner with all the cousins, to wish him luck. By next weekend he'll be on the road to Ohio. And now look, I've even burnt the meat pies.”

“That's too bad,” Green murmured. “I imagine there's a lot of pressure on him right now. A lot of people wanting a piece of him, like the media, hockey fans.”

Her skin had a pale, almost translucent quality, and it mottled pink and blue as she flushed. “That's why I was so rude to you, I confess. His agent keeps setting up these interviews. Yesterday it was the
Kingston Whig-Standard
came around, and Riley almost bit their head off. He's always been really good with pressure, but when he hid in his room and told his father to get rid of them, I knew it was getting too much. His father says he doesn't know what Riley's worried about, he's going to the
NHL
for certain, but having the whole town hanging their hopes on you...”

Belatedly, a thought struck her, for she sucked in her breath. “Has something happened? Riley hasn't been himself this weekend—even the visit here was unexpected, his dad decided he needed a break. But why do the police want to speak with him?”

Green had already decided on the version of the truth he was going to offer. Innocuous but credible. “A girl at his school died this past week, and we're interviewing all her friends to find out what happened. Riley was in one of her classes, and we understand they were friends.”

Mrs. O'Shaughnessy looked dismayed. “How awful. How did she die?”

“We're not sure. Her body was pulled from the river near the waterfall where she disappeared.” He provided just enough detail to nudge her toward the conclusions he wanted.

“We have the same problem here. Every year kids do reckless things and drown in the St. Lawrence River.” She frowned. “I wonder if that's why Riley has been so upset this weekend.”

“Upset in what way?”

“He didn't say. Riley works everything out on his bike. Or on the ice. He just goes really quiet, takes out his bike, and disappears for hours. Racing along the river parkway, sometimes all the way to Brockville. If he hadn't gone into hockey, he could have been a competitive bike racer.”

“Did he say anything at all?”

She shook her head, looking distressed, as if she'd somehow failed to help him.

“To his father, maybe?”

“That's unlikely. His father is not much of a talker either. Oh, he would do anything for Riley. He's our only son, and Ted used to do everything with him. All those endless hockey practices—I was busy with the girls—and the private skating lessons and the hockey camps.”

Green nodded, grateful that all Sullivan's whining over the years was coming in handy. “Yes, I have a friend who's a really dedicated hockey dad. Even on a good salary, it's hard to keep up.”

“Ted works hard and makes a decent living for us, but not for all the equipment and the camps Riley needed to keep up with the other kids. And the girls need things too, and it's not really fair...” She checked herself. “That's why Ted was so keen when Vic came along. Someone who knew the business and could look after Riley's interests in all this. He handles all the sponsors and endorsements too. Riley's an extraordinary hockey player, but he's still just a boy.”

Through the living room window, Green saw a battered white pick-up truck slow and turn into the drive. A man climbed out, paused to eye Green's Subaru at the curb, and headed up the walk. He had a leathery, sunburned face, a long, reedy body and a full head of curly salt-and-pepper curls, yet Green recognized the resemblance to Darren O'Shaughnessy immediately. This must be Riley's father.

His wife's smile turned to dismay as he walked in the door without a word of greeting. “Where are the girls?” she asked.

He didn't look at her but instead rivetted his tense gaze on Green. “They wanted to play at Brandy's new house. Who's this?”

“This is a detective from Ottawa, waiting to see Riley.”

“Mike Green. And you're Ted O'Shaughnessy?” Ted took a step back like a wary fighter.

“What's this about?” “He wants to talk to Riley about the girl who died. I told him maybe that's the reason Riley's upset.”

“He's not upset. He's got a big day coming up. What kid wouldn't be on edge?”

“So you haven't noticed anything?” Green asked. Ted shrugged as he took off his suit jacket. “Nothing that a bit of peace and quiet won't fix.”

“I think Mr. McIntyre's riding him too hard,” the mother said. Ted headed into the kitchen, returning with a can of Coke. “I keep telling you, Noreen. He needs that. He's a big boy, and it's a tough world he's getting into.”

“How did he meet Mr. McIntyre?” Green asked casually.

Ted cracked open the Coke and dropped into a chair by the window. “Vic used to be a scout, and before that a minor league trainer and coach in Toronto. He knows his stuff. He saw Riley when he was playing for the Midget team here in Gananoque. He was only fourteen and sprouting up like a beanpole, but even back then he was already being talked about and winning scoring trophies. He was fast, and he could handle the puck.”

“That was Ted's doing,” Noreen said. “Ted got him in just about every skating class he could find between Brockville and Kingston, and every winter he flooded our backyard...”

“Noreen, I don't think the detective wants a blow-by-blow.” She twisted in her chair with an effort and gestured to the big empty backyard, most of which now lay in weeds. “Ted never let me plant a thing. He made the biggest rink he could, and he and Riley would practice, practice, practice. Ted was a pretty fair goaltender in his day, and he'd challenge Riley to rush him. To this day, Ted insists that's why Riley's so good at scoring.” Her eyes glowed with pride, as if she could talk for hours about her son. Privately, Green was ticking off all the people who had a major stake in Riley's success. His parents, his agent, even Uncle Darren, for whom Riley was an inspiration to his own son.

Ted, however, fiddled with his Coke irritably and glanced outside. “I don't think Riley's coming back any time soon. I don't want to waste your time, detective.”

Green shrugged. “A few more minutes is no problem. Did you ever get up to Ottawa to see his games?” “Oh yes,” Noreen said. “Ted hated to miss a game when it was in this area—Belleville, Kingston, Ottawa.” She laughed.

“We've seen every cheap Super 8 hotel in a five hundred kilometre radius. At least Ted has. It was harder for me, with the girls at home and...” She paused, and a look of sorrow stole over her face. “I tried to get to some of the games.”

“You don't mind the driving, Ted?”

“It's not that far. But I'm self-employed, and every hour missed is a dollar lost, so it can be tough.”

“At least in Ottawa, Ted has his brother to stay with,” his wife countered. “A good excuse for the brothers to get together.” Again a faint distaste twisted her smile. So the brother-in-law, like the agent, is not on her list of favourite people, Green thought.

“You don't stay with Riley's agent?”

Ted looked surprised. “Oh, no, McIntyre keeps our relationship strictly professional, pretty much between Riley and himself.”

“So you don't discuss Riley's affairs with him at all?”

“Not since he turned eighteen. Like I said, he's a big boy.” Green allowed a little incredulity into his voice. “Maybe, but you don't grow up overnight, no matter what the law says.”

Ted's jaw tightened, but he didn't reply. Noreen flushed at the implied rebuke. “That's the way Mr. McIntyre wants it. Besides, Riley's always known exactly what he wants. Some of the media and the other parents used to accuse us of pushing too hard, but it was always Riley doing the pushing. He was always so focussed and organized, no theatrics or hidden agendas. Strong-willed, yes—but that's a good thing in a man. No matter what you asked of him, he could do it and more.”

“Still, it's a big complicated world he's stepping into. Full of people who might try to take advantage.”

Both of them sat very still for a moment, then Noreen gave him a long, searching look. “Do you have something else on your mind, Inspector? Besides the classmate who died? Is there something we should know?”

“About what?”

“You've asked questions about Mr. McIntyre, and now you're talking about people taking advantage.” Of all the topics he had casually covered, Green found it interesting that she had connected those two. He decided to push it. “I do have concerns, yes, about the possibility of exploitation or manipulation when I hear that McIntyre is working directly with Riley.”

She got to her feet, and for the first time he noticed the effort it took. The woman is not well, he realized. She walked to the window and leaned against the frame, peering out into the street as if hoping her son would appear safe and sound.

“It's simple business sense,” Ted snapped. “Look at all the endorsements McIntyre's lined up already. He stands to make a whole lot more money if Riley does well, so he's not going to do anything to harm him.”

“I know you say that, honey, and it makes sense, but...”

“But money isn't everything, is it,” Green added softly. “There's his health and his happiness.”

Ted crushed the empty Coke can in his fist. “You know this is what Riley wants, Noreen. Ever since he first stepped on an ice rink. He lives and breathes hockey!”

“But that's the point. He's never known anything but hockey. What other career does he have to compare it to?” she said, gesturing to their dilapidated backyard cluttered with rusty chunks of engines and tools. “There's the folks around here, scraping to make ends meet, and then there's the folks on Millionaires' Row on the St. Lawrence. Waterfront estates so extravagant it would take most of the budget of Gananoque to keep them running. That's what money buys.”

As if by uncanny coincidence, a low rumble sounded in the street, and Green glanced through the window to see a flash of red pull into the drive. Noreen gasped and hurried to fling wide the front door. Green followed in her footsteps just in time to see two men climb out of a shiny red Ford Mustang. One he recognized as Riley O'Shaughnessy, his cheeks ruddy and his dark curls whipped by the wind. The other was a stubby, middle-aged man stuffed into an unflattering green golf shirt and black stovepipe jeans. He had a pugnacious jaw and small, pig-like eyes that sized up the O'Shaughnessys shrewdly.

“Mom! Dad!” Riley shouted. “My graduation present!”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Ted muttered, yanking his tie loose as if it were strangling him. Then he turned his back and disappeared up the stairs.

Anger rather than delight flitted across his mother's face. “But Riley, you can't afford that!”

The stubby man held up his hand. “It's only leased, Mrs. Noreen. We traded in his old Jeep and got a good deal. Plus it's a business expense. It's just a little fun leading up to draft day.” He reached up and ruffled the boy's hair. “Handsome devil, isn't he? He'll be fighting off the girls. But the camera will eat it all up too, and that won't hurt his image one bit. When the big endorsements roll in, he'll be able to buy each one of you the car of your dreams. That old pick-up of Ted's? History.”

Then the man, whom Green took to be Vic McIntyre, caught sight of him standing in the open doorway, and his slick grin vanished. Does the guy know I'm a cop, Green wondered, despite the cottage jeans and
T
-shirt?