Thin Ice (10 page)

Lake turned to a side table, from which he selected a little handsaw. “And now,” he said, looking at Marshall as he hit the power switch and the blade whirred into action. “Let's find out if his lungs are dry.”

Smith sat at his desk, poring over the autopsy report, jotting notes of Ritchie's height, weight, and eye colour as well as scribbling a little diagram of the chest wound. As he read the words, the high-pitched whirr of the bone saw and the sickening sound and smell it made as it cut through Curtis Ritchie's chest returned in vivid detail. He had been to dozens of autopsies, and he had grown somewhat used to the sight of watching a human body being torn apart like some laboratory frog, but that sound never failed to unsettle him. He knew he would never get used to it, and maybe that wasn't a bad thing.

“Hungry?”

Smith looked up at Marshall. He seemed serious.

“How can you even think of eating?”

“Ah, come on. We got a full afternoon, you know. Can't work on an empty stomach.”

“You go ahead. I'll grab something later — much later.”

“Suit yourself. I just bumped into Schneider. He says his American contact told him we can execute a warrant in DC same day, no problem.”

“I didn't think you could do anything cross-border on the same day.”

“Yeah, who would of thought, huh? Anyway, we should get the warrant later this afternoon. We could take the early flight tomorrow and be back in time for dinner.”

“Is that all you ever think about, food?”

“I'll bring you back a sandwich. You know you're gonna be starving later. What time's the interview with Connolly?”

Smith looked at his watch. “Half an hour.”

“I'll hurry back.”

Smith picked up his cellphone and read the text for the tenth time. It was from Lisa, and he'd received it just after Marshall had gone for lunch. He was running out of time if he wanted to get back to her before the interview. The message was on the wordy side — always a bad sign with her — but the gist was clear. Last night was a mistake and should not be misinterpreted as a possible reconciliation. He had known it himself, of course, but the familiar warmth at the memory of her lying in his bed this morning, in the apartment they had shared until a couple of years ago, was hard to resist. So was the illusion that they could just pick up where they had left off. Was he so easy to read that she felt the need to nip the idea in the bud? He had long ago given up on trying to stick to any strategy with her — he knew it was hopeless. He punched her number in and was about to hit the dial button, but he hesitated. What was he supposed to say? Let's give it another shot?

The night before, after he had manoeuvred himself into her path at the bar, she had revealed that her on-again, off-again relationship was off again. That was all it had taken to keep him at the bar instead of home catching some much-needed sleep, or repairing the faltering relationship with Alison that was now over for good. But there was no comparison, as evidenced by the ease with which he and Lisa had laughed about old times together — the transition to his bed being seamless. But they were each retreating to established patterns for very different reasons. He knew she was using him to get over someone else, and he had even told himself that he couldn't expect more, but it didn't matter. He redialed her number just as Marshall appeared over his shoulder.

“He's here.”

“Who?” Smith hit the button to abort the call.

“Who do you think? Jordan Connolly. I bumped into him downstairs.”

“I'm coming.” Smith reached for his notebook and realized he hadn't finished preparing his questions. He was annoyed at himself as they arrived at the interview room. He had neither the time nor the energy to devote to a romantic reunion he knew was hopeless. He would send Lisa a reply later.

Don't worry, it meant nothing to me either
….

Smith was surprised to see two people waiting in the room. Next to a shaggy-haired kid, who looked like he should be out delivering papers, sat a man in his late fifties. Then he remembered Connolly was still a minor.

“You're Jordan's father?” Marshall asked as the two Connollys stood.

“Keith Connolly,” he said, offering a hand across the table. “Jordan's my boy.” Marshall shook hands and introduced Smith, and they all took a seat.

“Thanks for coming in,” Smith began. “They explained on the phone why we wanted to talk to your son, Mr. Connolly?”

“Call me Keith. Yes, I spoke to another detective, and he said you had some more questions for Jordan, about Curtis.”

“That's right,” Smith said. “And just so you know, we're going to be recording this statement — standard procedure.”

Connolly Senior looked at his son and nodded. “That's fine.”

Smith smiled at Jordan Connolly. “So, I understand that you witnessed an incident between Curtis and his stepfather, is that right, Jordan?”

“Well, my dad called it in, actually, after I mentioned it to him. We were talking about what happened to Curtis and everything, and well, it made me think of that night.”

“Okay, we'll get to that night, but why don't we start with the basics. How did you know Curtis Ritchie?”

Jordan Connolly looked to his father and waited for his nod before he started to speak. “We were teammates in Peterborough — linemates, actually — and we roomed together on the road last year.”

Smith nodded. “So you knew him pretty well, then?”

“Yeah, I guess so. It was his last year and my first, so it was just the one season, but I'd say we got to know each other pretty good.”

“What did you think of him?”

“He was a good guy. I mean, he was an amazing hockey player, obviously, but he was nice too, you know?”

“All those goals, and all those scouts drooling over him, didn't go to his head, just a little?” Smith smiled.

Connolly shuffled in his chair. “Well, he was very … confident. I know some people said he was kind of, like, arrogant. He sure was always in the spotlight, wherever we played, but like I said, he was always pretty good with me.”

“How did he feel about being in the spotlight, as you put it?”

“I think he found it tiring sometimes, having everyone crowding around after every game, asking about every play he made, about his future, whatever.”

“Did Curtis talk to you about his future at all?”

“Not really. I mean, we all knew he was gonna go number one, but it was just a question of where. Everyone knew Florida had the first pick, but that they were probably going to trade it — they're rebuilding and need a whole new roster, not just one player.”

“Did Curtis ever mention Ottawa to you as a possible destination?”

“No.” Connolly laughed. “I don't think anyone would have predicted he'd end up here.”

Smith remembered the rumours around the time of the draft, when most of the pundits were picking either New York or Chicago to make a play for Ritchie. There was even a theory that Toronto might go after him, but no one thought Ottawa was in the mix.

“Let's talk about that night in Toronto. Do you recall what the date was?”

“Yeah, I looked it up on a calendar before I came in today — the fifteenth of March. We were in Toronto for a Saturday night game and we were going on to Ottawa on Sunday, so we stayed the night in a hotel instead of bussing out right after the game. I think it was kinda like a reward for playing well. We won the game four-three in overtime. Curtis scored the game winner. I got one in the third, too, so I remember it well.”

“So, did you have a bit of a celebration afterward?”

“Yeah, a bunch of us went out, had a bit of fun.” Connolly looked down at his hands, glancing quickly to his side.

Smith smiled. “Listen, Jordan. We know you're underage, but we're not looking to get you or anyone else in any trouble if you had a beer or two. Your dad's probably not gonna be too shocked either,” he added, with a wink at Keith Connolly, who patted his son on the shoulder.

“Boys will be boys.”

“So you hit a few bars before heading back to the hotel?” Smith prompted.

“Yeah, we hit a few places, had a couple of beers. It was probably after one by the time we got back.”

“What happened then?”

“Well, Curtis and me were heading down the hall toward our room, when someone called out from behind us. Turned out to be his stepdad, or whatever — his mom's boyfriend.”

“Tom Saunders?”

“Yeah.”

“Had you ever met him before? Did you recognize him?”

“Yeah, I'd seen him at games, and practices. But not like this. He was coming down the hall, yelling at Curtis and looking … kinda drunk, I guess. He wasn't walking straight, and he was slurring some of his words.”

“What was he yelling about?”

“He was mad, I guess. He was calling Curtis names.”

“What kind of names ?”

“He called him an ungrateful bastard.” Connolly paused, looking at his father.

“It's okay,” Keith Connolly assured him. “Tell them what you heard.”

“He called him a slimy little fucker, and he said if he thought he was going to get away with it, he had another thing coming.”

“What was Curtis's reaction?”

“Scared, I think. I know I was, kind of. He's a pretty big guy, and he didn't look too happy. We kind of ran to the door but Curtis couldn't get the key to work — the light kept coming up red every time he swiped the card.”

“What happened then?”

“When Saunders got to us, he grabbed Curtis by the shirt and pushed him up against the wall and just kept yelling.”

“What did Curtis do?”

“He just threw up his hands, to protect himself, you know. I was trying to pull the guy off, but it wasn't working. He shoved me and I fell, then he turned to Curtis and I thought he was gonna hit him, but he didn't.”

“What'd he do?”

“He let him go, and he started shaking. He was still talking but he was, like crying, almost, or something.”

“What was he saying?”

“Just stuff like I can't believe you did this, and how could you.” Connolly shrugged. “While he was doing that, I picked up the card off the floor and got the room door open. Curtis saw me and managed to slip away from Saunders, and we slammed the door shut and bolted it.”

“What did Saunders do?”

“He pounded on the door, started swearing again, then stopped. I was watching through the peephole as he stood there. He wasn't crying anymore. He was mad again. He yelled out he was gonna kill him and then he left.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“He said ‘I'll fucking kill you for this, Curtis, I swear to God.'”

Smith looked up from his notes. “And then he left?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you call for help or anything?”

“No. We figured he wasn't coming back. I don't know why. We probably should have called someone, but we didn't.”

“Was there anyone else around, in other rooms, when this was going on?”

“There was a guy down the hall, poked his head out when Saunders had Curtis pinned against the wall, but Saunders told him to get lost … or whatever, and he went back inside.”

“What about your other teammates? Any of them witness this?”

“No.” Connolly shook his head. “We were the only ones in that section of the hotel. Everyone else was in a different wing.”

“Do you know what they were arguing about? Why Saunders was so upset?”

“After Saunders left, Curtis told me it had to do with him hiring Avery as his agent. Curtis said it was all bullshit, that it would blow over and that he wasn't worried.”

Smith paused to write some notes, then looked up at Connolly. “What about you, Jordan. Were you worried?”

“I wouldn't have been, if I hadn't seen his eyes.”

“What did you see in Saunders' eyes?”