Thin Ice (27 page)

Smith knew from the familiar rap on the door who it was before he opened up.

“Not disturbing anything, am I?”

“You like to save that for early mornings,” Smith said, stepping aside to let Marshall in. They both headed to the living area and sat on opposite ends of the couch.

“I guess you heard?”

Marshall nodded. “It's just leave, right?”

“For now, yeah.”

“Listen, I didn't …”

“You don't have to say a thing, Marsh.” Smith held up his hand. “I fucked up, pure and simple. I should have known better.”

“Maybe so, but I didn't rat you out, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn't,” Smith said, feeling a wave of relief.

“Word is, Beaudoin got an anonymous tip about you and Melissa. He came to see me, and … well, I guess my poker face needs some work.”

Smith shook his head. “I'm the one should be apologizing. I just hope I haven't dragged you into the shit with me.”

“Beaudoin'll get over it. Just stay out of his face for a while. He's just a bit rattled over Ellen Ritchie's threats.”

“You mean suing for wrongful prosecution?” Smith shrugged his shoulders. “Like nobody's ever threatened us with that before.”

“I don't know why, but Beaudoin's taking it seriously this time. Maybe he thinks the case is weak.”

They sat in silence for a long time before Smith spoke. “What do you think?”

“The lawsuit? It's bullshit.”

“No, I meant the case.”

Marshall looked at him, trying to read his thoughts. “Why, are you having doubts now, too?”

Smith smiled, then shook his head. “No. Besides, it wouldn't matter if I was, right? I'm the last person in the world Beaudoin's gonna listen to at this point.”

“So what are you gonna do?”

“I'm going to Toronto for a few days. Take that trip I was planning before all this shit happened.”

Marshall nodded. “Let off a bit of steam. That's good. I wish I was going with you, but it turns out I'm taking a few days' leave to paint the rec room.”

“Again?”

“Again. Apparently, it's too dark,” Marshall said with a sigh, as he stood. “Well, I'll leave you to it.”

“Thanks for dropping by. I appreciate it,” Smith added, patting him on the shoulder as they reached the door.

“Enjoy some time off, and let this blow over. This time next week, everything'll be back to normal, you'll see.”

Smith smiled as the door closed. Somehow, he didn't share his partner's optimism, though.

Smith rolled down the window to clear out the funky mix of coffee and bad breath that had accumulated over the past four hours. He had gotten up relatively early, showered, and swung by a drive-through before hitting the road. It was cloudy when he started south, but by the time he hit Kingston, the sun had broken through and stayed with him as he made his way west along the 401. It was mid-afternoon as he drove past the entrance to York University — its concrete clusters visible beyond the treed expanse of green at its perimeter. He followed the map he had printed off this morning, and five minutes later he was at Jane and Finch — an area he wouldn't want to venture into after dark. Even in the brilliant fall sunshine, there was something sinister about the succession of grubby high-rises — an overwhelming desperation that the odd chain-link-ringed playground did little to counter. He looked for numbers on the buildings, and pulled into a parking lot as he spotted the one he was looking for. A group of teenage boys, clad in baggy jeans and hoodies, eyed him as he got out of the car and locked the door. Ignoring their taunts, he headed over to the entrance to one of the high-rises and wasn't surprised to see the front door lock disabled, allowing him to enter the lobby without having to call ahead. By the state of the battered directory, the call button probably didn't work anyway. Thankfully, he was only going up five floors and didn't encounter anyone in his brief ascent, coming out of the stairwell on the fifth, and entering a hallway that stank of a mixture of sweat and urine. He stopped in front of apartment 502 and rapped lightly. He heard some rustling and footsteps on the other side of the door, and then it opened a crack and part of a woman's face appeared behind the security chain.

“Micheline Riggs ?”

The eyes narrowed, then blinked. “Who are you?”

“I just wanted to talk…. Are you Ms. Riggs?”

“She's not here.” The door began to shut.

“Wait,” he put his hand on the door. “I'm with the Ottawa Police.” He took out his identification and held it up to the crack in the doorway. The woman looked at it, then back at Smith.

“I told you, she's not here.”

“Do you know where I can find her?”

The door slammed shut, and for a moment he thought she had just closed it to remove the chain, but then he heard footsteps walking away.

“You looking for Micheline?”

Smith turned to see a woman in her forties standing in a doorway across the hall.

“Yes, do you know where she is?”

“She's dead.”

Smith sat on the cracked vinyl-covered chair in the eating area while Angie Dupree poured coffee in the cramped galley kitchen. Apart from the dinette set for two, the apartment featured a tattered couch and chair, an old TV on an overturned milk carton, and not much else. She brought two cups and set one in front of him and sat at the little table.

“Mind?” she said, putting a cigarette between her lips.

“Go ahead.”

“So how did you know Micheline again?” she said, after she had lit up and taken her first greedy drag of nicotine.

“I didn't,” he said, sipping his coffee. He didn't want to mention the murder investigation, partly because he didn't want to scare her off, and partly because he knew he shouldn't be here at all, and if Beaudoin found out…. He tried a different approach. “Did Micheline tell you she had a son?”

Dupree blew out a stream of smoke and nodded her head. “Do you know him ?”

Smith saw the hope in her eyes and decided to skirt the truth. “That's how I got Micheline's name. I know they met a month or so ago.”

Dupree smiled through a cloud of smoke. “She was so excited. I never knew she had a son — she gave him up for adoption, like, twenty years ago. Somehow, she found out where he was and contacted him.”

“Did she tell you his name, or anything else?” Smith said, as Dupree took another drag of her cigarette.

“She said his name was Curtis. I talked to her the day before they met, and she was going on about how her life was gonna change. She was gonna straighten herself out, for him. Make up for all the lost time, you know?”

Smith nodded, and let her carry on. She tapped her cigarette in the ashtray before continuing. “I bumped into her in the hall the day after they met and she was out of it. She was using again — I could tell. Said her heart was broken.”

“Micheline had a drug problem?”

Dupree nodded. “She was always trying to kick something. Heroin, crack, pills — you name it. She was a good person but she was always losing the battle, you know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

“When she was clean, she was the nicest person you could ever meet. So thoughtful and caring, but then her demons would drag her down, and she'd turn into … someone else.”

“How did she die?”

“She overdosed a week or so after she met with … Curtis.”

“Around mid-August, then?”

“Yes, about then, I guess.”

They both paused at the sound of a high-pitched scream out in the hall, followed by the sound of breaking glass and someone running down the hall shouting obscenities.

“That'd be the couple that took over Micheline's apartment. Not a day goes by they don't get in a fight over something.” Dupree shook her head. “I sure miss her.”

“You said she was using again the day after she met Curtis. Had she been clean for a while?”

“Not really. She'd usually stay clean for a few days, then fall off the wagon, and start the cycle all over.”

“How did she pay for the drugs?”

“She had her monthly cheque, but I really don't know what she did to feed her habit. We never talked about it, but I know she was friendly with a lot of the dealers and she was a good-looking woman, you know?” Dupree glanced down and tapped her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. “She sure seemed to have a steady supply the last couple of weeks, though. I hardly saw her leave the apartment, and didn't notice anyone else coming or going.”

“Who found her?”

“Super. He came to get the rent or something. Poor woman was lying dead on the floor of her living room.”

“When did you last see her?”

“A couple of days before she died. I dropped by to see if she wanted anything at the grocery store. She looked awful, and I knew she wasn't eating properly. She seemed like she was in a trance. I asked her what had happened with her son, and at first she wouldn't say. But we chatted for a while and she eventually said he didn't believe her. Said she was just out to hustle him, like everyone else.”

“Did she say he gave her some money?”

“No, she didn't mention it. All she said was he told her he never wanted to see her again, and he called her some names — hurtful names, you know?” Dupree stood and walked over to one of the kitchen cabinets and pulled out a shoebox. She retrieved something from it and returned to the table, holding out what looked like a plastic bracelet.

“She said she tried to give this to Curtis, but he wouldn't take it, and he got really angry with her. She told me to hold onto it for her, and to make sure he got it if anything ever happened to her.”

Smith took the bracelet, bearing the name of a Toronto hospital, and that of a baby boy named Curtis Riggs.

“Can you make sure he gets it?”

Smith barely heard her as he reread the date of birth.

“Can you?”

He registered her question and her pleading eyes, before looking away. “I'll do what I can, Ms. Dupree.”

Smith was walking out of a gas station in Napanee when his phone went off and he recognized Don Brooks's number.

“Jack Smith.”

“It's Don Brooks, returning your call.”

“Thanks for getting back to me. I wanted to ask you a question about Bob Ritchie.”

“I heard you guys arrested the stepdad.”

“Yeah, this is just a loose end I'm tying up. It's actually Bob's wife I wanted to ask you about. Did you know her?”

“Joan? Yeah, sure, I knew her.”

“How did she and Bob get together?”

“We were all at the same high school, but they never really hit it off until a couple of years later. She was a hockey fanatic, just like Bob. She watched all his games.”

“What did she do?”

“You mean apart from follow Bob around from rink to rink?” Brooks chuckled. “She worked for the provincial government, I think.”

Smith scribbled a note, then reviewed his sketched timeline. “And she would have died when Curtis was about five?”

“I'm not sure, but that sounds about right. Breast cancer. Bob was a mess at the funeral. He really loved her. They were like two peas in a pod. After he hung up the skates himself, they still went to all the Peterborough home games together.”

“And they never had kids of their own?”

“They couldn't. That's why they adopted.”

“Right,” Smith said, pulling the baby bracelet from his pocket and looking at it again. “You're a reporter, Don. How would I find out which department Joan Ritchie worked for?”

There was a pause at the other end of the line. “Well, you could go down to Queen's Park, I suppose, but if that's all you want to know, I can find out for you.”

“How's that?”

“One of Joan's best friends works at the paper. I'm sure she'd remember. I could give her a call if you like?”

“If you wouldn't mind, that would be great.”

“I'll call you right back.”

Smith ended the call and checked his watch. He still had a couple of hours on the road back to Ottawa, but he'd have daylight, or at least dusk, for most of it. He decided to get himself another coffee. As he was adding cream, Brooks's number appeared and his phone went off.

“That was quick.”

“Yeah, I caught her at home. She said Joan worked at the land registry in Peterborough.”

“Oh,” Smith said, disappointed.

“She transferred there when she moved up from Toronto. She was with Vital Statistics there.”

Smith stopped stirring his coffee.

“Does that tie up your loose end ?”

“What?” he said, remembering Brooks. “Yes, yes, it does. That's really helpful. I want to thank you for your time.”

“Pleasure. And congratulations on getting your guy. I hope he gets what he deserves.”

“Thanks,” Smith said, hanging up. “Me too,” he muttered, as he put the lid on his coffee and hurried out to his car.

Smith was mentally exhausted by the time he parked in front of his apartment building. He had debated what to do during the last two hours of the drive home, as he fitted the pieces of the puzzle together in his mind, still stumbling over one missing piece. He could feel the fatigue from the long drive in his legs as he walked up the two flights to his floor. He was reaching in his pocket for his keys when his senses went on high alert. The hallway beyond his door was dark — the bulb having burned out several days before — but he knew she was there somewhere, by the familiar smell of her perfume. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he watched as a form emerged from the shadows and his body tensed, unsure what to expect.

“Melissa?”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, coming toward him, an anguished look on her face.

“What are you doing here?”

“I want to know why.”

His feet seemed glued to the floor as she approached him, one hand in the pocket of her raincoat. He tensed as he watched her pull out her hand, but saw that it was empty, as she ran it through her hair. “What have I done to deserve this?” she said.

“Look, do we have to go through this again? You know …”

“I don't know shit,” she hissed, her voice wavering. He noticed her eyes were red-rimmed.

“Calm down, okay?”

“You're ditching me because you found out I slept with Ritchie, and you're surprised that I didn't tell you. Don't you see a contradiction there?”

“I didn't ditch you. I just said we should hold off for a while. And as for Ritchie, you should have told me. I was investigating his murder, for Christ's sake.”

“What's my ill-advised fling got to do with that? It's not like I kill …” She stopped, and her eyes widened noticeably, as the rest of features seemed to freeze. “So,” she said, seeming to have difficulty getting the words out. “Now you think I
killed
Ritchie. Are you fucking kidding me ?”

“I'm saying I think we both know it's not appropriate for us to be involved right now. I wish you could understand that.”

She shook her head. “I can't believe this. I can't believe you would …” Her face hardened as she held her head upright and started buttoning up her coat. “At least have the balls to say what you think, and don't use the investigation to hide what's really going on.”

Smith stepped back as she walked past him toward the stairs, keeping a close eye on her hands. “What are you talking about?”

“That bitch you're screwing on the side — the one we bumped into at the bar the other night. Don't look so shocked. I know all about her, and your history. And she's not the only one who can dig up dirt, believe me.”

He stood speechless as she disappeared through the door to the stairwell and he heard the echo of her heels as she descended. It wasn't until he heard the door slam at the bottom that he exhaled and hurriedly unlocked the door to his apartment. He pulled out his phone and dialed Lisa's cell, getting voicemail.

“Fuck,” he muttered, fumbling through a drawer for her card and office number. He tried her there, then sent her both text and email messages telling her to contact him urgently. He looked at his watch — it was almost 8:00 p.m. and she could be anywhere. He looked out the living room window over the parking lot. Nothing. He ran to the kitchen and looked out the patio door, just in time to a see a sleek, dark sedan pull away from a side street and tear off toward Rideau Street. He felt his chest tighten as his phone went off in his hand and he recognized Lisa's number.

“What's the matter?”

“I need to talk to you, right away. Can we meet somewhere?”

“Well, I was just … I guess you could drop by here if you want. What's going on?”

“I'll be there in five.”

She was at the door before he could knock, and for a moment it occurred to him that she might not be alone. But the sweatshirt and yoga pants told him he was probably only interrupting a good book or a movie. Her glasses, which she rarely wore in public, were the clincher. He hadn't seen her like this himself in years — in her natural state.

“Sorry to drop in on you like this.”

“What the hell's going on? You've got me all freaked out.”

“I need your help, Lisa. I think you may have been right about Melissa, more than you know.”

“What do you mean?” She stood aside. “You might as well come in.”

He took a deep breath before stepping through the doorway. He knew the address, and had even driven by a few times, but he had never set foot inside. Doing so now felt odd somehow. “Nice place by the way,” he said, taking in the high ceilings, the gleaming hardwood, and the overstuffed couches accented by a carefully arranged colour scheme picked up in the cushions, the rug, and even the paintings on the wall. It was the place she had always said she wanted when they had lived together.

“Thanks. Now what's going on?”

He sat on the sofa next to her and took a deep breath.

“I have a question for you, on contract law. I think I know the answer but I have to hear it from a lawyer.'

“Okay, what is it?”

“The age of majority in Ontario is eighteen, so someone under eighteen can't be bound by a contract, right?”

Lisa frowned. “Generally, no. Is this to do with that case we were talking about — Speelay ?”

“Yeah. But let's imagine, for a second, that we're talking about a professional services contract — like for a hockey player.”

“Would you just cut the shit and tell me what's going on?”

“I'm talking about Curtis Ritchie. What happens to his contract with the Raftsmen if he was underage when he signed it?”

Lisa looked puzzled for a moment, then seemed to focus on the question. “Well, it's unenforceable, for starters.”

“And what does that mean, for the Raftsmen?”

“It means there is no contract.”

“So, they don't have to pay him?”

“No.”

“And on the flipside?”

“He doesn't have to … play for them.” She stopped after speaking the words, and looked at Smith. “Is this for real?”

“What happens to all the trades the Raftsmen made to get Ritchie?”

“If you mean trades between teams with the rights to draft Ritchie, they're perfectly enforceable.”

“In other words, they couldn't ask for the players back?”

“Look, I'm not a sports lawyer, Jack, but I can't see how. I mean, they would be valid contracts with third parties — namely, the other teams or players. Are you saying Curtis Ritchie was underage when the Raftsmen signed him?”

Smith got up and started pacing the floor in front of the couch. “I think he's underage now, and will be until he turns eighteen in April.”

“But surely the Raftsmen must have checked all this out before they signed him, as part of their due diligence.”

“By doing what? Asking for a birth certificate ?”

She nodded.

“And what if it had been doctored?”

“You can't just add a year to your age without someone noticing.”

“What if it was done a long time ago? Look, Curtis was five when his adoptive mother died of breast cancer. His adoptive father remarried Ellen Ritchie a couple of years later, so she wouldn't have known if —.”

“I'm not sure I follow, Jack.”

“Bob Ritchie was the ultimate extreme hockey parent. He coached Curtis until the league kicked him out for screaming at the kids and the refs. He was obsessed with Curtis making it to the pros, something he never did himself, despite years in the minors, on the verge of being called up.” He paused, noticing Lisa's confused expression. “I'm saying he would have done anything to get Curtis an edge, so why not an extra year?”

“You mean being a year younger than anyone else he's playing against? How would that help?”

“That's a huge advantage for a developing player. Curtis was a pretty big kid, so there would have been no real physical disadvantage,” Smith said, leaning forward on the sofa. “And it would have been outweighed by having access to higher level players and coaches a year early. If he's got some natural talent to start with, his development would be all the more accelerated. Pretty soon he's making the select teams every year — the ones with the best coaches, and who play against higher-calibre opponents — he's getting invited to the select summer camps, and so on.”

Lisa was shaking her head. “I hate to sound negative, Jack, but this all sounds pretty theoretical.”

He held up his hand. “I'm getting to that. What if I told you Joan Ritchie, Curtis's adoptive mother — also a hockey nut — worked in the vital statistics office in Toronto, before she moved to Peterborough, and that I found her name, alongside a reference to that Speelay case, on a sheet of paper on Melissa McAdam's desk?”

Smith sat back on the sofa as Lisa processed the information. “Melissa would have been responsible for due diligence, I guess, so if something was missed in the contract, it would probably fall at her feet.”