Thin Ice (24 page)

“You think she wants it to be Saunders? Look, she needed to hear it officially, and now she has. Maybe it'll make her think twice, shake something loose. You know better than I do how these things can go.”

“I gotta take a wicked leak,” Marshall said. “Then we'll wrap it up and let her go home.”

Smith waited until he had left before going back into the interview room.

“My partner will be right back. Before we wrap this up, I was wondering if I could run a name by you.”

Ritchie shrugged her shoulders.

“Michelle Riggs. Do you know who that is?”

“Never heard of her.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes, why?”

“Just a name that came up, that's all,” Smith said as Marshall returned.

After a few final questions, they were ready to let Ritchie go.

“Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Ritchie,” Smith said. “We hope you know our only objective is to find Curtis's killer.”

Ritchie waited until she was at the door before responding, glaring first at Smith, then at Marshall. “Well, you'd better keep looking.”

Smith and Marshall sat in front of Staff Sergeant Beaudoin's desk as the burly head of the Major Crimes Unit clasped his thick fingers together behind his head and leaned back in his chair. Marshall had laid out the case against Saunders, from his drunken altercation with Ritchie back in March — along with Jordan Connolly's statement that he had heard Saunders threaten Ritchie's life — to Ritchie's cancellation of the Coolite photo shoot the day before the murder. He ran through the statements of the two witnesses, the photographer and the security guard at Ritchie's building, who each described Saunders' state as angry and agitated on the eve of Ritchie's murder. There was the grainy video image from the camera at the corner of Somerset and the Driveway, which depicted a man of Saunders' general physical characteristics leaving the scene around the estimated time of death. Then there were the financial consequences of Ritchie's death, including a payout of five hundred thousand dollars to Ellen Ritchie from the Raftsmen's insurance company, in addition to what was left of Ritchie's signing bonus, and there was the fact that Ellen Ritchie and Tom Saunders had a joint account.

Beaudoin let out a sigh and rubbed his eyes. “It's all circumstantial. Don't we have anything from the crime scene?”

Marshall shook his head. “Not much. We think the perp was wearing gloves, and the surface of the path is concrete, dry at the time, so no luck with a footprint either. Ident pulled a couple of hair samples from Ritchie's clothing, but that's it.”

“And from what I saw of the video, it's not worth shit. It could be my mother-in-law in the frame, for Christ's sake.” Beaudoin shifted forward in his chair and ran a finger over his lips. “What about the other leads — this Russian hockey guy, in particular?”

“He's pretty shady,” Smith jumped in. “And Ritchie appears to have made an enemy of him last winter, so we can't rule him out. The guy suspected of doing his wet work could have been in the Ottawa area at the right time, but that's really all we've got. I was hoping to catch a break on a cigarette butt we found at the scene — a Marlboro, which is what this Kurtz guy smokes — but we got nothing. Forensics thinks it had been at the scene for a week or more before the murder, and they couldn't get anything usable from it, due to exposure to rain.”

“Plus,” Marshall said, “it doesn't really fit with the theory that the killer was posing as a jogger while he waited for Ritchie.”

Beaudoin grunted. “Not too many runners puffin' on a butt while they're stretching, I guess.”

“We also looked into some altercations with teammates over wives and girlfriends,” Marshall said. “Ritchie was a bit of a player, and maybe a little indiscriminate as to
whom
he was screwing around
with
….”

“Like Tanner O'Neill's girlfriend.” Beaudoin leaned his elbows on the desktop.

“Right, but he might have made some moves on Mandy Hearst, as well.”

Beaudoin shook his head. “Jesus.”

“There was an on-ice incident with O'Neill at training camp, and Hearst had some words with him at a team party, but we don't really like either of them for the murder.”

“Why not? I would have thought Ritchie's life took a dramatic drop in value the minute he crossed O'Neill.”

“O'Neill's got no history of violence — off the ice, I mean,” Smith said, “though both men could have known Ritchie's running route and schedule.”

“Alibis?”

“Yeah, but as leaky as everyone else's — that's the problem with a crime at 6:30 a.m — everyone's asleep, so it's hard to confirm with any certainty.” Marshall shrugged his shoulders.

Beaudoin let out an irritated sigh. “And what about the guy in Peterborough? The brother?”

“John Ridgeway.” Marshall shook his head. “We don't think he's our guy. Apart from anything else, he's a little on the bulky side to fit the image on video.”

“I don't like that we've got nothing in the way of physical evidence,” Beaudoin said, leaning back and crossing his arms across his chest. “Then again, there's an awful lot pointing to Saunders. Let's bring him in. Maybe we can shake something loose.”

Marshall and Smith nodded and got up to leave.

“But for God's sake, try and do it quietly.”

Saunders answered the door at his sister's house, and Smith could hear the sounds of a meal being prepared in the background.

“We'd like you to come with us, Mr. Saunders, to give us a formal statement, in connection with the investigation into the murder of Curtis Ritchie.”

The blood drained from Saunders' face as he braced himself against the doorframe.

“Do you…? Can I get my…? I have to talk to Ellen.”

“We're not here to arrest you, Tom, but if you don't come, we will get a warrant. Right now, we just want to talk, and we don't want to make a big scene on your sister's front porch.”

“What's going on?” Ellen Ritchie appeared behind him at the door, took one look at Saunders, and seemed to know exactly what was going on. “It's all right, Tom. You go ahead. I'll call the lawyer and we'll meet you at the station. By the time he's done with these two, they'll be sweeping cells.” She patted him on the shoulder as Smith took him by the arm and led him down the steps.

“Whaddya mean he won't talk ?” Beaudoin said in a hoarse whisper, as he stood next to Marshall and Smith outside the interview room. Saunders was sitting at the interview table, arms folded across his chest, staring at the wall.

“Fucking lawyer was waiting for him when we brought him in,” Marshall said. “I guess he told him he's got more to gain from keeping his yap shut than trying to co-operate.”

“Fuck,” Beaudoin growled.

“We'll keep him for twenty-four hours. Maybe he'll change his mind after a night in the cells.”

Beaudoin shook his head. “Get a DNA sample, then cut him loose.”

“But Sarge, we could …”

“I said cut him loose, and not out the front either. Did you see the fucking press vultures gathered out there? I don't know how they found out, but they seem to know we're holding Saunders. I swear this place is leakier than a Russian trawler, and if I ever find out who's responsible, I'll have their nuts in a vice.” Beaudoin took a deep breath before continuing, registering the surprised look on the faces of his detectives. “Talk to the Crown first thing tomorrow, and see if there's enough to arrest him. I want a full debrief.”

“Sure,” Marshall said, as Beaudoin stormed off.

“He really is worried about a wrongful prosecution beef,” Smith said.

Marshall shook his head. “I don't know, but someone sure got to him.”

Smith was walking through the door of his apartment when his phone rang.

“Jack? You not answering your texts these days?”

He kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the couch. “It's been one of those days. I haven't checked messages in a while.” He was curious as to why Lisa White was getting in touch with him for the second time in as many days.

“How are you doing?”

“I'm kind of beat, actually. What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to talk … I guess I'm kind of worried about you.”

Smith sighed, apparently loud enough for her to hear on the other end of the line.

“There's no need to get huffy.”

“I really don't get you, Lisa. First we end up in bed —”

“That was a mistake,” she interrupted.

“As you pointed out. Then you fuck up whatever I had going with Valerie.”

She laughed. “We both know that wasn't going anywhere. Come on, Jack.”

“You can't have it both ways, Lisa,” he said, his irritation growing. “You decided we're not good together, and you know what? I'm fine with that. But you need to let go.” He enjoyed saying the words, knowing the sting they would deliver. Lisa was nothing if not proud, and was likely fighting her urge to hang up and never speak to him again.

“Melissa McAdam is bad news, Jack. I'm telling you that as a friend.”

“I'm sure you are,” he replied, the sarcasm dripping from his voice. “You don't even know her. How could you possibly —”

“I know
of
her, from a colleague who worked with her in Toronto. You don't even want to know —”

“I'm not listening to this crap. First you smear me to Valerie, now you're trying to do the same thing to Melissa. It's pathetic, and I'm done with it.”

“She's a psycho, Jack. Her last boyfriend had to get a restraining order against her. If you don't believe me, check it out for your —”

“Goodbye.”

He hung up and stared at the phone, the blood pounding in his ears. He hated how easily she got to him. He was about to toss the phone onto the couch when he noticed the string of text messages, all from Melissa, the first from thirty minutes ago. The most recent was only five minutes old: “I'm in a cab. You'd better be there.”

He was still reading her message when he the doorbell rang. He walked to the door and opened it, standing back as it swung open to reveal Melissa McAdam standing there in a long trench coat. Her hair looked different, as though she had come from a wind tunnel, or off the stage of a heavy metal concert. Her eyes were darkened with eyeliner, and her lips adorned in a vibrant red lipstick that was in stark contrast to her fair skin. He stood speechless as she locked eyes with him, then slowly undid the belt of the coat and let it fall open, confirming a suspicion that had formed as soon as he noticed the coat — that it was her only clothing, other than the three-inch heels that put her at eye level.

“You gonna ask me in, or what? It's cold out here.”

He reached for her and pushed the door shut as she shed the coat, threw one arm around his neck, and wrapped her legs around his hips, clawing at his pants with her free hand as he carried her toward the bedroom.

Smith rolled off her and fell back onto a pillow, his heart beating through his chest and his entire body glistening with sweat. He gulped in the musty scent of sex as he tried to catch his breath.