Thin Ice (14 page)

“You sure this is about more than you trying to get into Melissa McAdam's pants?” Marshall said, as he and Smith rode up the dedicated elevator that would deliver them to the owner's box on the top level of the Raftsmen's home rink.

Smith sighed. “You have such a low opinion of me, Marshy. I find it really hurtful.”

“It's just that I couldn't help noticing at the funeral, she really is quite a looker. I'd be careful if I were you, though. Quinn McAdam had a reputation for always playing with a bit of an edge in his day, and he could drop the gloves with the best of 'em. I'd hate to think what he might do if he thought someone was messing with his little girl.”

“Who's messin' with her? We're looking for information, and she's offering it.”

“As long as that's all she's offering.”

“Relax,” Smith said, as the elevator doors swung open. “I'm not her type. She spent the last few years on Bay Street, and now she's being groomed for the front office. Pretty sure dating a lowly cop isn't really part of her plan.”

They showed their ID for the fourth time since entering the building, and were allowed to pass only after their names were checked against a list in the enormous hand of a red-jacketed security guard, who led them to a large door with the Raftsmen's familiar logo. It opened to the sound of applause from nineteen thousand fans as the players hit the ice below.

“Glad you could make it.” Melissa appeared with a glass of wine in her hand. She had to shout over the sound of the blaring rock music mingled with the crowd noise as the players began their warm-up skate. They followed her to the front of the booth, where the Raftsmen's owner and general manager were sitting, with an assortment of people Smith didn't know, though some looked familiar.

“I think you've already met Jim,” Melissa said, as Cormier stood and shook their hands.

“Good to see you again, detectives,” he said, clapping Marshall on the shoulder, without introducing him to the other guests, who then resumed a conversation with Quinn McAdam. “Can we get you something to drink?”

“No, thanks,” Marshall said.

“We'll go to my office to talk, where it's a little less distracting,” Melissa said. “I just thought they should check out the view while they're here.”

“Of course. How's the investigation going?” Cormier said, as the music faded in the background.

“We're making progress, but there's a lot of ground to cover,” Marshall said. “There are a lot of people we need to talk to, including some of Curtis's teammates. That's one of the reasons we're here.”

“Melissa can set that up. We're on the road in a few days, just so you know,” Cormier added, as the lights in the arena dimmed and the announcer began a special tribute to Curtis Ritchie. “We're gonna want to take this in,” he said, as the giant screen above the scoreboard displayed a picture of a smiling Curtis Ritchie and a hush fell over the crowd. They watched as a collage of pictures and video of Ritchie's life flashed by on the giant screen; wobbling down the ice as a six-year-old, through his minor hockey years, and up to the press conference at the draft, grinning as he pulled on the Raftsmen jersey and hat. Smith noticed Melissa McAdam's discomfort at the video, and thought maybe he had misjudged her — she hadn't struck him as the type to coo over babies or cry at weddings, or be affected by occasions like this. When the video came to an end, the announcer called for a moment of silence and nineteen thousand fans stood in deafening quiet for what seemed an eternity. But when the time was up, the lights came back on and the starting lineup was announced: business as usual.

They watched the first ten minutes of the game from the comfort of the box, Smith and Marshall finally accepting a cola after the third offer from the circling waitress. After Ottawa scored its second goal, and seemed in a comfortable lead, Melissa turned to them and pointed toward the door.

“Do you want to go talk some business now?”

“Sure,” Smith said, as they said goodbye to the owner and McAdam Senior, then followed the GM's daughter to the back of the box and out into the hallway.

“My office is downstairs,” she said, as she led them back to the elevator, waving them through security.

“You must see a lot of games in the course of a season,” Smith said, as the elevator doors slid shut and they started their descent to the basement, where the suite of management offices was located.

“I catch parts of most of the home games. I don't often go on the road, though, unless I have business wherever they are,” she said, as they stepped out of the elevator. She led them through another secure door before they reached her office, “or I want to do some shopping. Come on in.”

The office was small, but well-appointed. McAdam eased into a high-backed leather chair as Smith and Marshall took their seats in front of the dark-wood desk. There were framed prints on the wall, as well as McAdam's undergraduate and law degrees. Smith noticed she had gone to Harvard, then Osgoode Hall. She followed Smith's gaze to the wall.

“Dad spent five years with Boston as a player, then went back after he hung up the skates and spent another three in the front office. I always wanted to go to Harvard for some reason.”

“I hear it's not a bad school,” Smith said with a grin.

“There's that, of course. But I've got a real soft spot for Cambridge. We lived not far from the campus. I was ten or eleven, and it was the happiest time in my life. Then my parents got divorced and Dad got traded, all at the same time.”

“Must have been tough, to be on the road like that, as a kid.”

“I shouldn't complain.” She smiled. “Anyway, how can I help you with your investigation? You want to interview some of the players?”

Smith nodded. “We thought we should have a word with Dennis Hearst.”

McAdam nodded and jotted down the captain's name. “He's a super guy, and a natural leader in the room. Anyone else?”

“Who did Curtis room with?”

“He was paired up with Peter Dunne for camp, I think.”

“I don't think I've heard of him,” Marshall said.

“Rookie. He's not in the lineup tonight, but he's here, if you want to talk to him.”

“That'd be great,” Smith said. “And Tanner O'Neill?”

McAdam looked up. “What do you want to talk to him for?”

“We thought we should get a cross-section of the team,” Smith lied, not wanting to make unnecessary waves.

She shrugged her shoulders and wrote down the name. “Anyone else ?”

“If we think of anyone else, we'll let you know.”

“Like I said, you can talk to Dunne tonight. Is tomorrow okay for the other two?”

Smith nodded. “So, what's the plan for the season, without Ritchie?”

“You mean can we get Cotterill, Lamer, and Wlodek back?” McAdam sighed. “Dad has never been afraid of risks, and he knew this trade would be scrutinized closely. But who could have predicted this? We'll just have to try to make the best of it. We could make a few moves, but we'll probably just draw on our existing talent pool, maybe bring up a few players earlier than we had originally planned. We'll be okay.”

Smith wasn't so sure. Those three players had put up an awful lot of points in the past few years. Cotterill was no spring chicken, and his numbers had declined a little the previous season, but Wlodek was in his prime, and Smith had a hard time understanding his trade for an eighteen-year-old rookie, no matter what the scouting report said.

“Wlodek, right?” McAdam said, a grin appearing at the edges of her pert mouth. “You're thinking we should never have traded him.”

Smith was impressed. “He did have pretty good numbers.”

“The score sheet isn't everything. There were issues, that's all I'm gonna say. You know hockey, Detective? Ever play?”

“I played a little in my younger days.”

“He's being modest,” Marshall chimed in. “He's the Blues' best player.”

“The Blues?”

“It's our tournament team,” Marshall explained. “Hey, maybe while we're here, we should ask if there's any chance we can get a friendly with the Raftsmen — for charity.”

“You guys any good?” McAdam looked at Smith.

“We're not big-league calibre, but we do okay.”

“Not a bad idea. It'd have to be in the off-season, but I'll run it by our community liaison folks,” McAdam said.

“You were talking about Wlodek,” Smith reminded her.

“Since you play the game,” she said, “you know about team chemistry. It's either there, or it isn't. And if it isn't, you're going to have problems.”

“What about Ritchie? How was he fitting into the team's chemistry?”

McAdam's eyes narrowed slightly. “Fine, although training camp is one thing, the regular season's another.”

“The other players liked him?”

“Sure, but the locker room isn't really my area of expertise, for obvious reasons.” She seemed amused by Smith's puzzled expression. “I'm a woman, and some of these guys are pretty backward, if you know what I mean. They see a woman and think of one, maybe two uses for me. Once they know they're out of the question, they lose interest, along with any desire to admit me into the group.”

“Sounds like you're in a tough profession.”

“There aren't a lot of women in the front office, other than token ones,” she said, the grin returning. “And I realize the fact that I'm the GM's daughter doesn't necessarily improve my credibility. But they're not all cavemen, by any means. Hearst, for example, is an intelligent guy.”

“What about Ritchie? What was he like ?”

“He was young and cocky, but you'd have to expect all that hype was going to create some attitude.”

“Did you get a chance to know him at all?”

“I met him a few times. I went to a dinner with him and my dad out at Jim's place, after we signed him.”

“Was he one of the cavemen?”

“He was an eighteen-year-old with a history of puck bunnies throwing themselves at him. What do you think?”

“Puck bunnies.” Marshall grinned. “I like that.”

“We understand Curtis had some issues with some of the women he interacted with,” Smith tried again.

“You mean the one in Peterborough? Yeah, I heard about the paternity claim.”

“I have a feeling she's the tip of the iceberg.” Smith noticed her expression change a little. “Have you heard of Ashcroft?”

“The PR firm? Sure.”

“Did you know Curtis was a client?”

“No, but it doesn't surprise me.”

“So Curtis's … how should I put it … sexual exploits … weren't an issue for you, then?” He noticed her eyebrows creep up slightly and quickly added: “I mean, from the team's perspective.”

“We were aware of the Peterborough incident, and we discussed it with Curtis and his agent during the contract negotiations, as well as our expectations for conduct in general — being a part of the community here, public appearances and charity work — all that. But again, you have to remember, we're talking about an eighteen-year-old kid with a pile of money and an assortment of groupies waiting to jump into his bed at every stop. He was an adult and to a certain extent, his personal life was just that — none of our concern, unless it became detrimental to the team as a whole.”

“So Curtis wasn't a liability in that regard, as far as you were aware?”

“No more than any other rookie. Part of the learning curve is how to handle yourself off the ice, and it's something the older players have a lot of influence over, especially on the road. A guy like Hearst would have been a great influence on Curtis.” She picked up her buzzing BlackBerry and read the incoming message. “That's Peter Dunne. You want me to bring him here or would you rather meet him by the dressing room, after we're done here?”

“Did you have anything else for now?” Smith looked to Marshall, as Quinn McAdam appeared at the door behind them.

“No, I think we're good.”

“Not interrupting, am I ?” McAdam said, entering and sitting on the edge of his daughter's desk.

“They were going to talk to Peter Dunne.”

“We understand he was rooming with Curtis Ritchie,” Marshall said.

McAdam nodded. “Yeah, for part of camp. There's a boardroom next door, if you want to meet with him there.”

“So, I'll set up the other interviews for tomorrow and get back to you with times?” Melissa McAdam was thumbing on her BlackBerry as a ringtone sounded — the refrain from a popular song that had been played constantly on the radio over the past few weeks.

“Do you think we could do the player interviews out here?” Quinn McAdam asked as they paused by the door. “I just think it would be better than having them at the police station, what with the media buzzing about the murder already. I've got a road trip coming up that I have to think about. The last thing I need is half the team with their head somewhere else, you understand?”

“I don't see any reason we can't do the interviews out here,” Marshall said. “But you'll understand that we have a murder investigation to run.”

“I didn't mean to suggest that wasn't the priority,” McAdam said, with a deferential wave of the hand. “Melissa'll have Peter come down,” he added, as he led them out into the hall.

“I'll be in touch,” McAdam called out from behind her desk, her BlackBerry still at her ear as she gave Smith a smile.

“Thanks for your time,” Smith replied, as he and Marshall followed her father a few doors down into a spacious boardroom, where he turned on the lights and they all took a seat.

“Before Peter gets here,” McAdam began, twisting an oversize ring on the third finger of his left hand — Smith hadn't noticed it before, but assumed it was a Cup ring. “There's something I thought I should tell you.”