Thin Ice (15 page)

“About Dunne?”

“What? God, no. Dunne's pure as the driven snow. It's just that I know you're interested in anyone who might have had an axe to grind with Curtis.” He paused.

“Yes?”

“Have you heard of Dmitri Kurtisov?”

Smith looked to Marshall and they both shook their heads.

“He's the owner of the Sochi Dynamo, an RHL team.”

“Is that the one Doucette and Larmer played for?” Smith said, remembering the name of the team that had lured a pair of one-time greats to play in the upstart Russian league a couple of seasons before. From what he recalled, neither had stayed for long, but he remembered their salaries sounding astronomical for a couple of guys with their best years behind them.

McAdam nodded. “Those guys put the RHL on the map.”

“Didn't they get, like, ten million each or something crazy like that, for one season?”

“It was all publicity, and they didn't see a fraction of that money — that's why they were back within a few months. But Kurtisov got what he wanted: a shitload of press.”

“So, what's Kurtisov got to do with Curtis Ritchie?” Smith asked.

“He was talking to Curtis last winter — his reps were, anyway. They wanted him to go over to Russia for his first year. He was trying to sell it as a good transitional year for Curtis, plus I'm sure he offered a lot of money.”

“Was Curtis interested ?”

“No.” McAdam shook his head. “He was never serious, but I think he might have strung them along a bit, maybe the agent told him to do it, to bump up our offering price, who knows, but I'm sure Curtis never had any intention of going to Russia.”

“So why do you mention it?”

McAdam paused and rubbed a finger over his top lip. “Let's just say Kurtisov isn't a guy you want to cross, you know what I mean? He's supposedly connected to some pretty scary dudes. One of the reasons they're having a hard time with recruitment in that league is some of the shit that's gone on over the years.”

Smith had heard the rumours. “You mean threatening Russian players and their families if they leave to play in North America?”

McAdam nodded. “There was enough of a chill to make players think twice about getting involved. Anyway, I got a call from someone on behalf of Kurtisov just after we started talking to Curtis. They told me to back off, that Kurtisov had a right of first refusal over Curtis. It sounded like bullshit, and when I checked with Dan Avery he confirmed there were no such rights in place. He wasn't aware that there were any discussions at all with Kurtisov, or the RHL, so I just ignored it.”

Smith was scribbling in his notebook as McAdam paused and began fiddling with his ring again.

“The next day, someone slashed my tires.”

“You think it was Kurtisov's people?”

“I know I've made some unpopular decisions in my time in management, but that's never happened before. I can't think of any other explanation. And there's more,” McAdam continued. “I mentioned the tire incident to Ritchie, after we had signed him, and asked him if anything weird had ever happened to him.”

“And had it?”

“He said he had a meeting with Kurtisov's people in Toronto and told them — nicely, as he put it — that he didn't think playing a season in Russia was in his best interest, thanked them for the offer, and brought their discussions to an end. A couple of nights later, someone broke into his hotel room and left a little surprise.”

“What was it?”

“A coffin — a miniature.”

“A coffin?” Marshall looked at Smith, then back at McAdam. “Did he report it?”

“Are you kidding? Would you? If you weren't cops, I mean.”

“So he was scared, then?”

“I'd say so, yeah.”

“And this was when, exactly?” Smith held his pen at the ready.

“March, I guess.”

“When he told you about it, did he mention anything else? Any other visits or nasty surprises ?”

“No.”

McAdam looked up in response to a light rap on the door.

“That'll be Dunne. I'll leave you guys to it,” he said, heading to the door. “Look, there's probably nothing to the Kurtisov thing, but I thought I should mention it for what it's worth.”

“Thanks. We'll certainly look into it,” Marshall said, as he and Smith exchanged glances. McAdam opened the door and invited Peter Dunne inside. He was over six feet tall and dressed in his best suit, but he still looked like he should be delivering pizzas.

“Peter, this is Detective Marshall and Detective Smith, with the Ottawa Police. They'd like to ask you some questions,” McAdam said, retreating to the hallway. “If there's anything else you need, let me or Melissa know, okay?”

“So what do you make of the Kurtisov angle?” Marshall asked, as they headed back to the car after an uneventful interview with Peter Dunne.

“It's like everything with this case — a teaser.”

“You mean the timing?”

Smith nodded. “If it had happened last week, we'd maybe have something, but we're talking about March. Same with Saunders. There's gotta be something we're missing. Something more recent.”

“Well, let's start with what we've got so far. A grainy video of a large male who we think is the perp, wearing a hoodie, hat, and sunglasses on an overcast morning. We've got a cocky eighteen-year-old millionaire who liked to put his dick in everything that moved, and a banker's box full of bad news at a PR firm to prove it. We've got Nancy Ridgeway's brother, who's got a motive, fits the general physical description, and has a less than watertight alibi.”

“Are we still looking at Ridgeway? I thought we had pretty much ruled him out. If nothing else, he's too fat. I don't care how big a hoodie he was wearing, or how bad the video is, I don't see him passing as a jogger.”

“Which leaves Tom Saunders.”

“I kinda like Saunders for it,” Smith said, as Marshall scanned the lot.

“Where'd we park again?”

“Think about it, Marsh. Saunders is the type of guy I can see bottling up a lifetime of rage. Starts out in construction — that's got to be tough sledding. Then he goes into the paralegal business, where he gets to spend his time hanging out with lawyers all day — enough said. Then his big chance comes along to ditch it all. Saunders is so close to a tidy commission, not to mention the big one in a couple of years that'll set him up for life, and the ungrateful little bastard cuts him loose. It's a pretty powerful motive.”

“I'm not sayin' he's not worth a hard look,” Marshall said, spotting the car. “I just don't see him as our guy.”

“Well, so far we've got fuck-all else to go on.”

Marshall shrugged. “That's true. Who knows, maybe O'Neill caught his girlfriend doing a little extracurricular pole dancing at Ritchie's fancy condo. I wouldn't want to be the other guy in that love triangle. I can't wait to interview him tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I'll let you ask him the questions about his girlfriend,” Smith said, as they reached the car and he pulled out his phone to check his messages. There was an assortment of work emails, including one from Melissa McAdam.

“She's set us up for ten tomorrow with O'Neill, then it's Hearst, right after.”

“Already? What'd she ask them between periods?”

“The girl's got pull.”

“That's not all she's got,” Marshall added, with a whistle. “And don't start thinking about interfering with a possible witness, either.”

Smith ignored him, as he noticed a pair of text messages. The first was from Lisa. He felt his cheeks flush as he read it, either out of anger or embarrassment, or perhaps a combination of the two: “Jack, I know you're pissed at me, but don't take it out on Valerie. She doesn't deserve to get screwed over.”

“Everything okay?”

“What?” Smith looked across the roof of the car at Marshall and realized his expression, even in the dim lighting of the parking lot, must have betrayed him. “Women,” he said, as they got in the car.

“That's not the coffee-chucker, is it? I'd stay away from her if I were you, unless you're taking her for ice cream.”

“That's good, Marsh,” Smith said with an elaborate sigh. “You're definitely improving.”

“I don't know how you do it,” he said, starting up the car. “Trying to manage that revolving door at your apartment, with the job we've got.”

“Last time I looked, my door was the same as yours.”

“Whatever happened with you and … what was her name?”

“Andrea?”

“Yeah, Andrea.”

Smith looked out the window as Marshall pulled out of the lot. He wasn't sure himself, really. They had dated for about six months and had a lot of fun. He still had fond memories of the ski trip they had taken to Mont Tremblant between Christmas and New Year's. She had started to leave more and more stuff at his apartment, and he was fine with the gradually increasing permanence of their relationship, and came to see it as comforting, somehow. But then they had gotten into a fight over something stupid — he could barely remember what now, but it had been the beginning of the end. The trip they had been considering taking south in the spring had fizzled, and then that was it. He had seen her a few times over the summer and it had occurred to him that he should try to resurrect their relationship. Then he ran into her one August night in the Byward Market and discovered that she had met a Mountie and was moving to the West Coast with him on a three-year posting.

“She moved away. Shipped out with a Horseman from Vancouver, or somewhere out there.”

“Too bad. I liked her.”

“What are you gonna do?” Smith returned his focus to the glowing text message and re-read it. Why was it that Lisa assumed everything revolved around her? Was it so unthinkable that he might be interested in Valerie for some other reason than to get back at her? It pissed him off that she felt she had such a hold over him. He clicked on the second text, read it, and smiled. It was from Valerie, and it had only come in fifteen minutes ago: “Hoping we can connect tonight — your place or mine?”

“I'm done for today, I think. Wanna swing by around nine tomorrow, we'll grab a bite on the way out here?”

“Yeah, sure. You wanna grab a beer?” Marshall started the car.

“Naw, I'm beat,” he said, thumbing a response to Valerie: “Mine in 30.”

Smith lay in bed watching Valerie sleep. He had another fifteen minutes before he had to get up, but something had woken him early. As he lay there, the remnants of a dream returned and he closed his eyes, welcoming it back. He was running down the canal path, toward the copper spires of the Château Laurier in the distance. But then he was in the water, and for all his thrashing, he couldn't stay afloat. He slipped under the surface, the murky, cold liquid closing around him. As he went deeper and deeper, and his lungs felt ready to burst, he noticed an approaching form. Barely discernible at first, he made out the shape of a human figure lolling in the murk. He steeled himself for Ritchie's bloated features and lifeless, wide eyes, but not what he saw when a ray of sunlight from beyond the surface illuminated the face before him….

He bolted upright out of his half-sleep, startling Valerie awake.

“What's the matter?”

“Jesus, I … nothing. Go back to sleep,” he muttered, getting up and sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Are you okay?”

“It was just a dream. I'm fine.” He ran a hand through his hair.

She pulled herself up onto one elbow and rubbed her eyes, looking at the clock. “I should get going. I'm gonna be late for work.”

“Can I get you some breakfast, or maybe you want to grab a shower here?”

“No, I'll swing by my place,” she said, slipping into her clothes and searching the floor for something.

“Your shoes are out front,” he said, as he stood up and pulled on his boxers.

“Right.”

“Don't forget your keys.” He pointed to the side table.

“When will I see you again?” she asked, fixing her hair in the mirror.

“I don't know. I wish I could say, but with this case …”

“I understand,” she said, as they made their way to the front door.

“You sure I can't make you some coffee or something?”

“I'll get one on the way home.” She stopped at the door to give him a kiss. “But thanks for the offer, and for last night. I had fun.”

“Likewise,” he said, as she slid out the door.

He made his way to the bathroom and turned on the shower. He stepped under the warm water and closed his eyes, the face from his dream returning in all its horror — Lisa White's face.

When Marshall and Smith arrived at the rink, Tanner O'Neill was waiting in the same room where they had interviewed Peter Dunne the night before. Smith was expecting him to be taller, but he was no less imposing as he stood to shake their hands, his massive, scarred mitt enveloping Smith's not insubstantial hand in a firm grip.

“Jack Smith, and this is David Marshall, with the Ottawa Police.”

“Morning.”

“That was a good game last night,” Marshall said, as they sat around the table. He had caught the third period at home, and watched as the home team fought off a final rally in the dying minutes.

“Yeah, we really wanted to stay away from OT,” O'Neill said. “I thought we put in a good effort.”

“You go on the road later today?”

“Toronto, Chicago, and Montreal,” he said with a grin. “Tough teams, but they'll be good games.”

“Be good for team morale to get out of town for a few days, I guess,” Marshall said. “What with all that's happened in the past week.”

O'Neill nodded. “Yeah. It's a real shame.” He looked at Marshall, then at Smith as he said it, as though sizing up an enemy before deciding whether to drop the gloves. Up close like this, Smith could see the scars that criss-crossed his face. There was an especially big one on the bottom right of his chin that dissected the dark stubble sprouting around it. There was a coldness in O'Neill's dark eyes — like those of a prowling great white shark — that was unnerving in a meeting room. He could only imagine the effect out on the ice.

“Did you know Curtis well?” he asked, as O'Neill looked away.

“No, not really. Camp was the first time I saw him. I mean, I heard about him and all, but I didn't know him. That's why I was kinda surprised you guys wanted to talk to me.”

“Well, we're talking to lots of people,” Marshall interjected. “Teammates included, as you can understand.”

“Right.”

Smith gave him a reassuring smile before continuing. “Are you saying you didn't have much to do with him — on the ice, I mean ?”

O'Neill chuckled. “I wasn't gonna play on his line, that's for sure. I couldn't keep up. The kid was
fast
.” He shook his head. “But seriously, we all have different roles on the team. His and mine were ‘bout as different as you can get. He was there to score goals. I'm there to protect guys like him.”

“In case anyone on the other team thinks about giving him a shot.”

“Yeah. Obviously, he's worth a lot of money, but there's also team pride on the line.”

“Must be kind of strange, when an eighteen-year-old comes in with all this fanfare, and talk about the big contract he's gonna land in a couple of years, what with the salary cap and all.”

O'Neill shrugged his shoulders. “It's the game. Do I think I should be getting the same money?” He paused for a little laugh. “That's not the way it works, but I'm not complaining.”

“Was there any resentment among the rest of the team?”

“Nah. We're all pros at the end of the day. The kid had some attitude, but you gotta have it to make it this far.”

“How about off the ice?”

There was a distinctive flash in O'Neill's dark eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Did he get along with everyone? There must be team social events, aren't there?” Smith prompted. “You guys have team dinners, barbeques, that kind of thing?”

O'Neill scratched an ear and adjusted his weight in the chair. “Sure, we do some bonding stuff during camp. If you're asking if we were best buds, the answer's no, but like I said, we're different. Plus, the kid's eighteen. He can't even have a friggin' beer yet. I got a nephew almost that old.”

“What about spouses?” Smith continued, casually. “Would they normally attend these bonding events?”

“Sometimes, I guess.”

Smith could sense the heightened tension in the silence following O'Neill's response. He was surveying them again with those eyes, narrowed slightly, and dark as coal.

“We've heard Ritchie was quite a player. I just wonder if he was mature enough to know where the boundaries lie.”

“What are you sayin' ?”

“Look, Tanner,” Marshall intervened. “We understand there was some friction between Ritchie and some of the Raftsmen, maybe an altercation or two, possibly related to Ritchie getting a little too cozy with some of his teammates' wives, or girlfriends.”

“You gonna say somethin' about my old lady now?” A vein had begun to throb above O'Neill's left eye, and his shoulders were hunched. Smith had visions of him leaping across the table and beating Marshall to a pulp.

“We weren't referring to you, or your … girlfriend. We heard Hearst was the one who confronted him, maybe at a party? You know anything about that?”

O'Neill seemed to relax a little, his shoulders dropping slightly as he shook his head. “Nope.”

“I know you and Hearst have been teammates for a long time, and you probably respect him.”

“Fuckin' right.”

“Right, so we understand you want to protect him, off the ice and on. But this is a murder investigation. Ritchie might have been a nice kid, or a cocky little bastard, but the point is someone killed him, and we've got to find out who.”

O'Neill sat motionless in the chair.

“We know you're tight with your team, but whatever notion you've got — a code or whatever else — you've got to remember what's at stake here, and we're not just talking about your relationship with your teammates. If you're withholding evidence in a murder investigation, that's a very serious matter,” Smith added, as Marshall leaned forward over the table.

“Let's try this again. Did you witness an altercation between Curtis Ritchie and Dennis Hearst, or any of the other Raftsmen players?”

“Fuckin' skank,” he said, after an awkward silence. “I told her to stay the fuck away from him.”

“Who?”

“Tammy. My girlfriend. She was all over him at a party at Hearst's house, at the start of camp. She can be a real cock tease when she's drunk. I was late getting there, so I didn't see it — she's not that stupid. Anyway, Hearst stepped in and told Ritchie to smarten up. I shoulda straightened him out myself when I got there and found out.”

“So you weren't there when Hearst confronted him?”

“No, some of the guys told me.”

“Who told you? Who witnessed it?”

“Aw fuck. Now you're gonna make a rat out of me.”

“We'll keep what you tell us as confidential as we can.”

O'Neill didn't look convinced, and Smith had to admit he had a point.

“Jonesy told me. He saw Tammy sittin' on Ritchie's lap, and he was there when Hearst gave him a blast of shit.”

“Matt Jones?” Smith asked, referring to the up-and-coming tough guy on the Raftsmen's roster. He imagined Jones looked up to O'Neill as a mentor.

“Yeah,” O'Neill sighed.

“Did Ritchie back off?”

“Yeah, he sure stayed clear of me the rest of the night.”

“And the next day in practice?”

“I let him know what I was thinking.” O'Neill looked up with a wide grin that revealed chipped teeth. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

“And what were you thinking ?”

“That he should stay the fuck away from my girl.”

“Did you threaten him?” Smith realized the question was ridiculous under the circumstances, addressed as it was to one the NHL's most feared enforcers. But he had to ask it anyway.

“You're goddamned right I did.”

Given the direction the interview was taking, Smith decided to give O'Neill a caution, just in case. After he had read out the standard text, O'Neill sat in silence.

“Do you understand, Tanner?”

“What? Yeah, I understand. I got nothin' to hide.”

“Where were you on Saturday morning?”

O'Neill looked puzzled. “I was at home, why?”

“Where's home?”

“Kanata Lakes. Why you askin' me that?” He paused, the dark eyes going from Marshall to Smith and back. “You guys aren't thinking —”

“What should we be thinking, Tanner?”

“Look, maybe I had a mind to give him a shit-kickin', but that don't mean I'm gonna go and kill him.” He shook his head. “This is nuts.”

“You said you were at home on Saturday morning. Until when?”

“What?” O'Neill seemed to be reassessing his situation.

“What time did you first leave the house on Saturday ?” Smith tried again.

“I don't know. Ten? Had a late night Friday.”

“Anyone home with you?”

“Yeah, Tammy was there.”

“She's your girlfriend, you said. Does she live with you?”

O'Neill nodded. “Look, fellas, maybe I should talk to a lawyer after all —”

“One more question,” Marshall interrupted. “What way do you shoot?”

O'Neill looked puzzled.

“It's a simple question, Tanner, and then we're done.”

“Left. I shoot left.”

“All right, that's it for now, though we might have some follow-up questions. And we're going to want to talk to Tammy.”

“Whatever.”

Marshall was taking down O'Neill's address and cell number when Smith's phone went off. He had it at his ear as the burly enforcer left the room.

“Yeah, I'm listening,” he said, as Marshall closed the door and stretched. “Really? Anything like uttering threats, intimid — You don't say?” Marshall was looking on with interest as Smith's conversation went on.

As Smith ended the call, he noticed there was a new text from Lisa. He ignored it.

“What was all that about?” Marshall asked.

“It seems Dmitri Kurtisov has been living up to his gangster reputation. The Toronto guys have a file on him the size of a phone book.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Everything from fraud, to extortion, to uttering threats and assault. They've never had enough to charge him with, of course, but they're also looking at taking a run at him under the anti-gang legislation.”

“Sounds like a guy you don't want to cross.”

“Looks that way, yeah.”

“What did you make of him?” Marshall pointed toward the door.

“Another guy I wouldn't want to cross, but more in an ass-kickin' kind of way.”

“You mean you don't see him sticking a knife in Ritchie.”

“Do you?”

“Not really.” Marshall shook his head. “We'll run it down, talk to the girlfriend and Matt Jones. We ready for Hearst? He's out in the hall.”