Thin Ice (18 page)

Smith sat at the table in the little boardroom, poring over the mountain of documents the organized crime task force had compiled on Dmitri Kurtisov in the past two years, since he had come to their attention as a person of interest in the murder of an importer. He had been given the material after a thorough briefing from Dean McGregor — Beaudoin's contact, and one of the investigators on the OC task force — a briefing that had left his head spinning. If even half of what Kurtisov was suspected of being involved in were ever proven, he would be facing the rest of his life behind bars; and that only covered his activities in Canada over the past two years. Smith could only imagine what he was up to in Russia. He had come across one report from Interpol in the file already, and there were bound to be more. Since returning from a quick lunch with McGregor, he had spent over two hours combing through the documents, and was still only halfway through. He heard footsteps out in the hall and then the door opened to reveal McGregor's stocky frame.

“He's here.”

Smith tucked his notebook into his jacket pocket and got up from the table. Kurtisov had agreed to the interview on condition that his lawyer came along, despite the fact that McGregor had been explicit about it being an informal chat. Then again, Smith thought, as he followed McGregor down the hall, he could see why Kurtisov might be wary of contact with the police, given what he knew about the Russian's activities so far.

“Interesting reading, huh?”

“I don't understand why we keep letting him in the country,” Smith remarked, though he knew the answer — Kurtisov hadn't been convicted of anything, yet.

“That makes two of us, but we're making progress. It's just a matter of time. My biggest fear is that he'll slip back to Russia before we can prosecute him here. And that'll be that.”

Smith nodded, guessing the chance of successful extradition from Russia wasn't good.

“I assume you'll want to ask the questions,” McGregor said, as they rounded a corner and walked toward an open interview room, where Smith could see two men in suits standing by a table.

“You bet, but feel free to jump in.”

McGregor led the way into the room and introduced himself, though in his case it was unnecessary. He had met both Kurtisov and his lawyer on several occasions. “And this is Jack Smith, an investigator with the Ottawa Police.”

Though he had heard of the name in the past, Smith had never seen Kurtisov's picture, but the man who offered his hand was exactly what he expected. His Slavic eyes and cheekbones, framed by dark hair, tinged with grey and combed back immaculately, gave him the hardened look of someone familiar with the sharp end of business, despite a bespoke pinstripe suit and a broad smile.

“A pleasure to meet you, Detective Smith,” he said, his thick accent underlying every word. “I hope you won't mind my bringing my lawyer along.”

The other man seemed to share Kurtisov's ethnic background, though not his smile. He was younger, and his tie brighter, and when he spoke, Smith detected no hint of an accent.

“Perhaps you might enlighten us as to why we're here,” he said, as he released Smith's hand and slipped him a card.

“We'll get to that, Mister …”

“Bilak.”

“Right. Have a seat, gentlemen.”

The lawyer's features darkened, but a nod toward the chairs from Kurtisov was enough to get him in his seat.

“Yes, while I am always happy to co-operate with the authorities,” Kurtisov said, settling in his chair, “I must say I'm on a tight schedule today.”

“Well, we appreciate you coming in, and I promise we won't keep you for long.” Smith paused and glanced at Bilak, who was eyeing him suspiciously. “Let me cut to the chase. I wanted to ask you about Curtis Ritchie.”

“I heard about that,” Kurtisov said, shaking his head. “What a tragedy, a young man of his age, with the future that lay ahead for him.”

“What, specifically, are you asking?”

Smith ignored the lawyer and directed the question at his client. “I understand you had some discussions with Ritchie about the possibility of him spending a year in Russia with your team.”

“I did,” Kurtisov said, putting a thick hand on his lawyer's forearm. “Though they were confidential discussions … not that anyone respects confidentiality these days, right, Mr. Smith?”

“Well, given that the other party to the discussions is dead, and the subject of a murder investigation, I think confidentiality is the least of our concerns.”

“My client has the right —”

“Relax, Alex.” Kurtisov let out a sigh. “I have nothing to hide. Yes, we had some informal discussions, but they never came to fruition.”

“Did you offer him a one-year contract?”

Kurtisov laughed. “If I were going to sign him, it would have been for more than one year. Of that, I can assure you. But I think you have been misinformed.”

“Really, how?”

“There was never any offer of any kind. The discussions were extremely … preliminary. It was clear to me that Curtis's dreams lay here.”

“So there was never any written offer from you, or anyone in your … organization?” Smith said, glancing at Bilak as he emphasized the last word.

Kurtisov looked at him for a moment, perhaps to see if he was bluffing, then gave a little grin. “No, there was not.”

“When did these preliminary discussions take place?”

Kurtisov stroked his upper lip with a finger. “February, possibly early March.”

“So, what happened?”

“Nothing happened, Detective,” he said with a smile, as his lawyer fidgeted in his chair. “That was the problem. We discussed the possibility and he clearly wasn't interested, so … end of discussion.”

“But you met with Ritchie on several occasions — you or one of your representatives.” Smith made a show of flipping through his notes and stopping at one page in particular as Kurtisov looked on.

“I met him once, in Toronto. There was some follow-up with my associates over the next few weeks.”

“Which associates would they be?”

“I don't recall.”

“It would good to know,” Smith said, looking at Kurtisov, then his lawyer.

“We can provide you with that information,” Bilak said, making a note on his yellow pad with an ornate fountain pen.

“I'm curious, Mr. Kurtisov,” Smith continued. “If Ritchie was uninterested in your offer, why the multiple meetings ?”

“Simple courtesy, Detective. Besides, you never know. Just because a player is uninterested now does not mean he will always feel that way. I always take the time to lay out the details, so people can make an informed decision, whether it's now or later.”

Smith watched Kurtisov as he delivered his answer with the smoothness of silk, and knew he was lying. The only question was whether he was lying to conceal his involvement in Ritchie's murder, or some other illicit activity. Having spent the day acquainting himself with Kurtisov's less-than-savoury activities, the range of possible crimes to conceal was broad, indeed.

Smith came up out of the subway station and was instantly lured off course by the aroma of ground coffee. Spotting the source of the glorious smell, his stomach rumbled and he realized that he hadn't eaten anything in hours. With no set time for his meeting with Matt Jones, he decided he had time for a detour. Entering the coffee shop, he noticed the clientele and realized a muffin and a coffee in this place was probably going to cost triple what he was used to, but he didn't care. He was in line to place his order when his phone went off.

“Jack, it's Dean McGregor.” Smith's first thought was that he had left something behind at the task force office and instinctively checked his jacket pocket for his wallet.

“Hi, Dean. What's up?”

“I just got a little intel I thought you might be interested in.”

“Shoot,” he said, putting his hand over the tiny mouthpiece as he ordered a coffee and pointed to a sticky bun in the glass case in front of him.

“You remember that associate we were talking about?”

“Yeah?” Smith felt a rush of adrenalin, knowing he was referring to Anton Kurtz, a man linked to Kurtisov's various businesses, and the person they suspected of doing the dirtiest work, including the two murders they suspected Kurtisov had ordered. After the interview, McGregor had mentioned that they had been successful in obtaining a wiretap on Kurtz's phone, and would look into whether they could place him in the Ottawa area on the morning of Curtis Ritchie's death.

“Well, we know he was in Montreal on Saturday night, and that he drove back to Toronto on Sunday.”

Smith processed the timeline as he handed over a ten-dollar bill. Ottawa was less than a two-hour drive on the way back from Montreal. Kurtz could easily have left Montreal, stopped off to kill Ritchie, and been back in Toronto by early afternoon, after another four hours on the road. “Nothing in between Montreal and Toronto though?” he asked, hopefully.

“He didn't use the phone, so no. We might get lucky some other way, but not if he was trying to conceal his itinerary.”

“You mean a visa receipt or something?” Smith said, instantly realizing how unlikely such a break would be, given the fact that people like Kurtz usually dealt exclusively in cash.

“Yeah, but like I said, chances aren't great.”

“No, but it's good to know.”

“We can flesh it out tomorrow, but I thought I'd let you know now.”

“Yeah, I appreciate it,” Smith said, taking the couple of coins of change from his ten and putting them in his pocket. “You sure I'm not wrecking your Sunday morning?”

“It's already shot. My kid's got a 6:00 a.m. practice.

“Smith laughed. “In that case I don't feel so bad about our nine-thirty meeting. I'll see you then.”

Smith took his overpriced purchase over to a seat by the window and took a bite of the bun, thinking about the news as looked out the window toward the massive concrete structure of Toronto's home rink, adorned in the blue and white of Ottawa's archrival. There was something about Kurtisov, for sure, but he didn't seem patient enough to wait six months to unleash Kurtz if he wanted Ritchie dead. Smith picked up his phone and dialed Marshall's number. His partner answered on the fourth ring, and sounded as though he was still chewing.

“Interrupt your burger?” Smith imagined him sitting at his desk, leaning over a ketchup-splattered square of wax paper that had once surrounded a double bacon burger.

“Celery sticks, if you can believe it. Connie's idea.”

“I figured it wasn't yours. How's it going?”

“I was just gonna check in, actually. I've had an interesting day.”

“Me too,” Smith said, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip of his coffee. “You go first.”

“I talked to Peter Dunne.”

“And ?”

“Seems he left out a few things when we talked to him out at the arena the other night.”

“Like what?” Smith's curiosity was instantly piqued.

“Like Ritchie kept hinting about something big that was going to happen. When Dunne asked what he was talking about, Ritchie would clam up, only to drop another hint later.”

“What kind of hints?”

“Nothing concrete, but Dunne had the impression that whatever it was, it was big. He assumed it had something to do with Curtis's contract, or his role on the team.”

“Nothing more specific than that?” Smith was intrigued and disappointed, all at once. As he drank his coffee, he noticed an attractive woman at a nearby table peering over her laptop in his direction and smiling. He smiled back.

“But that's not all,” Marshall continued, still munching on celery. “He also said he was at Hearst's party, and he overheard the run-in between Ritchie and Hearst. According to Dunne, Hearst was pissed off because Ritchie was making moves on
his
wife, not O'Neill's girlfriend.”

“Is he sure? Could he have confused the two?”

“He said he overheard Hearst telling him to ‘stay the fuck away from Mandy' — that's his wife's name. I checked.”

“Don't tell me you've been using Google again, Marsh. You're getting all high-tech on me. But why didn't he tell us any of this the other night?”

“He was afraid of breaking the code.”

“I forgot — the hockey mafia.”

“What goes on the road stays on the road. I guess it applies at home as well. He's a rookie fighting for a spot on the team. The last thing he needs is to make enemies, especially if it's the captain.”

Smith nodded, remembering that Dunne hadn't even made the road trip, which meant his position was even more precarious — just a phone call away from scrapping it out on the farm team.

“I guess he figured it was safer to talk to you after the team hit the road. What about the interview with O'Neill's girlfriend?”