Thin Ice (16 page)

“One more thing,” Smith said, as Marshall went to the door. “Beaudoin wants a status report after we're done here.”

“Great,” he said, opening the door and leaning out into the hallway. “Come on in.”

Dennis Hearst was wearing warm-up pants and a form-fitting shirt that revealed an upper body chiselled by years of workouts. The longest-serving member of the Raftsmen took a seat and pointed to the door.

“What'd you guys say to TK? I haven't seen him like that since he lost a bout with Gruber,” he said, referring to O'Neill's nemesis in Toronto. The light note didn't conceal the tension in Hearst's body language, even though his face was a mask of calm.

Marshall smiled. “I think I saw that one, and it was definitely worse than our interview. Thanks for giving us some of your time. I guess you're on the ice this morning.”

“In forty-five. But we've got all the time you need.”

They spent a few minutes on chit-chat, then Marshall began to take him through the same line of questioning as with O'Neill. Marshall got up for a stretch when they got to the subject of Ritchie's integration with the Raftsmen.

“You'll have to excuse me. My back won't let me stay seated for too long.”

“I should hook you up with one of our physio guys downstairs. They can work wonders.”

Marshall smiled. “I just might take you up on that. Now, I know you didn't know Ritchie that well, other than a few meetings, and you mentioned a dinner out at James Cormier's house over the summer.”

Hearst nodded.

“But I assume part of your role as captain is to make sure the new players fit in with the rest of the team.”

“For sure. We're all about teamwork here. On and off the ice.”

“I'm gonna be frank, Dennis,” Marshall said, taking his seat again. “We've heard that Ritchie might have had a bit of an attitude. And maybe his integration wasn't as smooth as it could have been. Would you say that's a fair comment?”

Hearst sighed. “He was only with us for a matter of weeks. Start of training camp was the first time most of the guys had ever met him. I've been through a lot of camps over the years, and I've seen a lot of guys come and go. Some ease right in from the start, others take a little longer, but I don't think we can really judge anything based on a couple of weeks. I've seen guys walk through the door with all kinds of baggage — big ego, big salary, maybe traded because they couldn't get along with their old coach, or were disrupting the room, whatever. Couple of months into the season, they're the most popular guy on the roster. Sure, it can go the other way, but it's the exception, not the rule. And I didn't see anything like that with Curtis.” He paused, as Smith and Marshall looked on. “Sure, the kid had some pluck, but you want that, especially in a guy who's gonna be the future of the franchise. I'd be more concerned if he was a wallflower, you know ?”

“What if we told you we'd heard Ritchie had taken some liberties with some of the other players' girlfriends, or wives?”

Hearst's shoulders sagged slightly as his eyes darted back and forth between the two cops. “There was one incident, with Tanner's girlfriend. I guess he told you?” Realizing he wasn't going to get any confirmation, he continued. “It was a party, just after camp started up — kind of an ice breaker for the new guys. Tammy — Tanner's girlfriend — had a little too much to drink, and she was making a bit of a scene, with Curtis.”

“So you two had words?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Did he know she was with O'Neill?”

“I honestly don't know, but that was what I wanted to make clear. The last thing you want is friction over women — it's ruined team chemistry often enough that it's something you watch for if you're in my position.”

“So how did Curtis react?”

“He was fine. We worked it out.”

“We heard you two had to be broken up.”

“That's overblown.” Hearst gave a dismissive wave. “We had some words, sure, maybe it was a bit heated, but it was no big deal. It's not like he left in a huff or anything. He stayed the rest of the evening. We talked when he left, and it was all smoothed out.”

“You said you didn't want the team chemistry messed up. We just spoke with O'Neill, and he's an imposing guy. Not someone I would want pissed off at me, personally,” Marshall said. “Were you concerned at all about what he might do if he showed up and saw his girlfriend sitting on Ritchie's lap?”

“Well, that's what I'm talking about — hard to have chemistry when that's in the way.”

“So you don't think O'Neill would have been mad?”

Heart frowned. “I didn't say that. Of course he'd have been mad.”

“I've seen him in action on the ice, and we've probably all heard he has a bit of a temper,” Smith said, recalling an incident he had heard about a couple of years ago, when a booze-fuelled O'Neill had reportedly taken a hotel room apart after a big loss on the road. He had been fined and benched for a couple of games, and the press had made a big deal of it for a few weeks.

“He's two different people. There's the guy on the ice, who'll take down anyone who threatens one of his teammates, and yeah, I wouldn't recommend crossing him in that mode. But his off-ice personality couldn't be more different. He's the first one with a joke, or to prank a rookie. He's not the animal people think he is, really. Now, I'm not saying he and Ritchie couldn't have traded some punches in the situation we're talking about, but that's it.”

Smith looked at him and scribbled something in his notebook.

“You don't really think he had something to do with Curtis's death, do you?” Hearst said, looking at Smith, then Marshall.

“What about the incident at practice — the next day, was it?”

“You guys are well-informed.” Hearst shook his head, and Smith hoped he wouldn't make the connection to Steve Hunter. “That's what I'm saying, though. A guy like Tanner has a problem with someone on the team, that's where he's going to work it out — on the ice. He's not going to wait a few days and then stick a knife in him when he's out for his morning run.”

Smith looked up from his notes.

“Did Curtis always run in the morning?”

Hearst nodded. “Yeah, we talked about his conditioning. He was in good shape, but there was room for improvement, so he mentioned he was going to increase his cardiovascular work, starting with a run every day, bright and early.”

“Did he mention where he was running?”

“He said he liked running along the canal. Not a lot of traffic before sev —” he stopped, his eyes meeting Smith's.

“What's the matter?”

“The way you're looking at me, I'm starting to wonder if you suspect
me
.”

“Why would we suspect you?”

“Look.” Hearst gave a nervous laugh. “Should I have my lawyer here?”

“Do you have a criminal lawyer on retainer?” Smith said.

“No, no. I mean —”

“Relax, we're not going to lock you up, we're just asking questions. Who else knew about Curtis's running route?”

“I don't know. He might have told one of the conditioning coaches, but I can't think who else.”

“Did he have a girlfriend that you knew of, or anyone else who spent time at his place — slept over, I mean?”

“Not that I know of, but I don't think I'm the best one to ask about that.”

“Do you know if he ever ran with someone else, like a training partner?”

“I don't think so.”

Marshall nodded to Smith, who glanced at his notes, before shaking his head.

“Well, we'll let you get out on the ice now,” he said. “We do appreciate your time.”

“No problem. If there's anything else, don't hesitate. I hope you catch this guy soon.”

“Thanks.” Marshall stood to shake his hand and pulled a folded program from the previous night's game out of his jacket pocket. “I feel kind of stupid asking this, but I've got a twelve-year-old who idolizes you. If he finds out I met you and didn't at least ask …”

“It'd be my pleasure,” Hearst said, with his first genuine smile, as Marshall handed him a pen. “What's your son's name?”

“Bobby.”

Hearst scribbled something below a full picture of him at the back of the program, followed by his autograph, and handed it back. “There you go.”

They watched him go and shut the door.

“You notice what I did?” Smith asked.

“I may be old, but I'm not stupid,” Marshall retorted. “He signed with his left hand.”

Smith nodded. “Another southpaw. This just gets more and more interesting.”

Smith was going over his notes when his cellphone rang. Expecting a call back from the Peterborough OPP, and preoccupied with what they were going to tell Beaudoin in a few minutes, he answered it without checking the caller ID. He was surprised by the voice.

“Oh, you're actually answering your phone.”

He stopped reading. “Lisa?”

“We need to talk, Jack.”

“What's up?”

“Can I buy you lunch?”

“I'm kinda busy right now.”

“When, then?”

“Look, Lisa, I really am tied up. Why don't I —”

“Don't give me that, Jack. Don't think I don't know what you're doing. I know how your mind works.”

“Really?” Smith could feel the colour rising in his cheeks.

“Valerie thinks you're for real, and I haven't told her otherwise, yet.”

“What business is it of yours, anyway?”

“I know you're just using her.”

“Ever occur to you that I might like her?” he said, lowering his voice and looking around.

“She's not your type, Jack, and she's going to be heartbroken, and she doesn't deserve that. She just came out of a really bad relat —”

“Why are you doing this? Why do you always assume everything revolves around you?”

“Valerie's a friend, Jack. A good one. And I don't want to see her hurt. I'm asking you, also as a friend —”

“So we're friends now? A couple of days ago you didn't think coffee was a good idea, now you want lunch, and you want to tell me who I can and can't date? Where do you get off?” He saw Marshall headed his way with a folder under his arm. “Anyway, I gotta go. Why don't you worry about your own love life.”

“Jack, listen to —”

He ended the call just as Marshall arrived at his desk.

“Ready ?”

Beaudoin was on the phone when they rapped on the door and he waved them in. As he concluded his call, they took their seats.

“That was the Chief's office. I've got a briefing in an hour. You guys better have something good.”

Marshall shook his head. “I don't want to disappoint, but there's still no obvious suspect.”

Beaudoin frowned and moved his considerable bulk back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. “That's not a good start. Tell me what we do have.”

Marshall took him through the evidence collected so far, and the list of people who were at least worth a second look, topped by Tom Saunders. Beaudoin frowned when Marshall recounted Jordan Connolly's statement about the late-night encounter at the Toronto hotel between Saunders and Ritchie.

“How's his alibi for Saturday morning?”

“It's loose,” Marshall said, looking down at his notes. “He was in town, staying at his sister's place on Gladstone. The sister and the husband confirmed he was there when they went to bed Friday night and when they got up the next morning, but they didn't get up until nine or nine-thirty. Ritchie was killed about six-thirty, so Saunders would have had plenty of time to sneak back while they were sleeping.”

“What's he got to say for himself?”

“Says the Toronto thing was just the booze talking — the threat, that is. He says he got over it and moved on. He was working with Curtis on some promotional stuff for his new business. A line of sports gear or something.”

Beaudoin rubbed a finger over his top lip. “So Ritchie screws him out of a sizeable agent's commission at the last minute and he ‘gets over it and moves on,' and it's all sweetness and light? Sounds pretty thin to me. I'd be pretty pissed off in his shoes.”

“We thought the same thing, but the timing's throwing us off. This happened in March. Why wait until September?”

“Mmm,” Beaudoin growled. “And this business of his, it checks out?”

Smith nodded. He had looked up the company online himself, though he noticed no mention anywhere of Curtis Ritchie's name. “I talked to someone at the photography studio Saunders referred us to and they confirmed a photo shoot was booked for Curtis this week. Who knows if Saunders would have turned a profit, but it definitely seems as if they were working together. Ellen Ritchie said the same thing.”

“Then there's the house in Peterborough,” Marshall said.

“What house?” Beaudoin was rubbing his eyes.

“Ritchie was building his mother and Saunders a house in Peterborough worth a couple of mil. Includes a special workshop for Saunders that he had custom spec'ed.”

“You mean Ritchie was making amends? Maybe Saunders realized he didn't have it so bad after all?”

Smith nodded. “You can say that again. Turns out it wasn't a construction mortgage, where the bank advances as the house goes up. They just advanced the money to Ritchie and he paid the builder up front. They must have been counting on doing a lot of business with him in future.”

Beaudoin looked puzzled.

“It means the bank, or more likely the insurer, is on the hook for the full amount, and Ellen Ritchie will take possession of a two-million-dollar house when it's finished in November.”

Beaudoin nodded. “Have we canvassed the sister's neighbourhood to confirm Saunders' whereabouts Saturday morning?”

“Yeah, but it's kind of a shitty neighbourhood. There's a couple of rooming houses nearby — not a whole lot of people up and about at six or seven on Saturday morning, you know?”

Beaudoin frowned and adjusted himself in his chair. “What about this RHL owner?”

“Kurtisov. McAdam mentioned him, said he had been talking to Curtis around the end of last season about spending a year playing in Russia. He said Curtis was threatened after he broke off talks. We haven't really had a chance to take a good look at him yet.”

“You should,” Beaudoin said. “I talked to a friend on Toronto's organized crime task force. They've been trying to put something together on him for a couple of years.”

“Yeah, we heard he might be connected to organized crime in Toronto.”

“I'll give you the name of my contact and he can tell you himself. I guess we have the same timing issue with Kurtisov though, huh ?”

Smith nodded. “They fell out about the same time Curtis ditched Saunders as his agent. I guess you never know. People can hold grudges for a long time.”

“But you don't think it fits either one of them?”

“I'd prefer a more recently triggered motive,” Smith said, as Beaudoin rubbed his temples. “But we'll give them both a full look.”

“Anyone
with
a more recently triggered motive I should know about before I meet with the Chief?”

Smith hesitated. “Apparently, there was an incident at a Raftsmen's practice between Ritchie and O'Neill.”

“
Tanner
O'Neill? You serious?”

Marshall nodded.

“When?”

“During training camp. It was the day after a team party at Dennis Hearst's place, where O'Neill's girlfriend was getting a little too friendly with the new kid in town.”

“Was she screwing him?”

“Not sure, but Hearst had to tell Ritchie to stay away from her, so as not to ruin team chemistry — that's how he put it.”

“You mean, so O'Neill wouldn't rip his head off.” Beaudoin gave a throaty chuckle. “You talk to O'Neill?”

“Yeah. He says he straightened him out on the ice, and that was the end of it, in his mind.”

“You believe him ?”

“We kind of got the impression he knew his girl was a bit of a flirt. It seemed like he was more pissed off at her than Ritchie, but who knows? We've got to talk to the girlfriend, and one of the other players — Matt Jones. He witnessed Hearst and Ritchie's ‘chat.' He had to break them up.”

“What, Hearst and Ritchie?”

“Yeah.”

“Boy, the kid was really making a name for himself, wasn't he? Your first pro camp and you try to fuck the goon's girl and get in a scrap with the captain.” Beaudoin crossed his massive forearms across his chest. “I'm trying to picture O'Neill…. Is he a leftie?”

“Shoots left, so I doubt it. We'll confirm though.”

“And what about the Ashcroft files? I understand Ritchie was a busy little boy over the summer.”

“You could say that. He paid them a pile of dough to keep his indiscretions discreet, and it looks like they were earning it.”

“Shit, maybe
they
had him clipped — too much trouble.”

They shared a laugh as Marshall laid out the next steps.

“We'll keep running down all of the leads from Ashcroft, but no obvious suspects yet. If that changes, we'll let you know. In the meantime, we plan to focus on Saunders, Kurtisov, and O'Neill, in that order.”

Beaudoin scribbled on a Post-it Note and handed it to Marshall. “That's my contact on Toronto's OC task force.”

“We'll get in touch right away,” Marshall said, taking the note.

“I don't have to tell you guys that time's a wastin',” Beaudoin said, leaning forward and placing his massive forearms on the desk. “We're a week in now, and from the sounds of it, we're not quite there. You've read the papers, right? It's only gonna get worse.”

“We're doing everything we can,” Marshall said.

“I know you are. Keep me posted.”

“Will do,” Marshall said, as they took their leave and Beaudoin picked up his phone.

“He didn't seem as pissed as I thought he'd be,” Smith said, as they made their way back to their desks.

“That's what I'm worried about. I think we better catch a break soon.”

“Or what?” Smith said, as his phone rang and he saw Valerie's number on the display. He considered letting it go to voicemail but he knew she had already sent several texts. “Just a sec,” he said, detouring toward the hallway and taking the call.

“Jack, how come you're not answering my texts?”

“I've been in a meeting.”

“All morning? You're gonna give me the wrong idea here.” She softened the line with a little laugh, but Smith could sense an underlying tension.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don't want you think I'm just some booty call.”

“Valerie, I'm in the middle of a murder investigation. I told you, it gets kind of crazy.”

“I know, but how long does it take to respond to a text?

“Look, I don't have time for this now.”

“Well, excuse me.” The laughter was gone. “You know, I was warned about you.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“That you're only really interested in one thing.”

“I really don't know what this is all about. I'm not in some nine-to-five where we can schedule in lunch dates, I told you that. And what are you talking about, you were warned?”

“Never mind. Maybe this wasn't a good idea.”

He knew she was talking about Lisa. They had probably met for coffee, and spent half an hour skewering him over lattes. He considered a counter-argument, but was quickly losing interest, and he didn't have the time anyway. “Maybe you're right,” he said, ending the call and returning to his desk, where a black cloud settled over his head.

“What's up?” Marshall said, watching his partner sit heavily in his chair.

“Nothing. So, how do you want to take it from here?”

“I'm thinking we divide the labour. If you want to call Beaudoin's guy in Toronto, I'll follow up with O'Neill's girlfriend and try to talk to Matt Jones. I got a message from Peter Dunne. Said he wanted to add something to what he told us the other night.

“The rookie?”

“Yeah. He said he'd prefer to speak in person.”

“That sounds promising,” Smith said, with a nod. “I've got the name of a Peterborough sportswriter who covered Curtis's junior team for years. I'll touch base and see if he knows anything about Saunders. I was thinking of talking to someone in the front office there, as well.” He looked at his watch. “If you're gonna talk to Dunne, you'd better hurry. Aren't they going on the road this afternoon?”

Marshall shook his head. “He's not making the trip.”

“Sucks to be a rookie, I guess. All right, let's make some calls and catch up in a couple of hours.”