Thin Ice (4 page)

“Do you know if Curtis had any enemies?”

“Enemies ?” Cormier paused again. “No. But I'm sure he had a lot of people jealous of him. He had a lot to be jealous of — youth, good looks, talent — not to mention his career prospects.”

“About his contract,” Smith said. “We understand it was just under a million. Is that right?” Everyone who hadn't spent the summer under a rock knew the amount, but the mechanics of the payments in the age of salary caps was a mystery to most, including Smith.

Cormier nodded. “Actually, it's a little over a million — we gave him the most we could for a rookie contract, but I as much as told him he could have the keys to the place three years from now if things went well.” He paused, seeing Smith's raised eyebrows. “That might not seem like a good strategy to you, Detective, but I don't believe in beating around the bush — not with the guy you plan on building your future with, and that's what I had in mind for Curtis. I wanted him to know it.”

“Was there any bonus, or any other type of payment, in addition to his base rate?” Smith asked. He had done a bit of research and discovered that whereas signing bonuses had been in and out of previous collective agreements, the most recent one had reinstated them, in limited circumstances.

Cormier nodded. “We had to go the league's exemptions committee and make a special case, but we managed to get him a two-million-dollar signing bonus.”

Smith scribbled the numbers in his notebook. “What about death benefits?”

“My understanding is that there's a one-time payment to his beneficiary of six months' salary, but I'd ask you to check with Quinn on the details. I confess I never paid much attention to those parts of the contract. In a million years, I never thought they would come into play, especially with an eighteen-year-old kid. It's just so … tragic.”

“We're probably going to want to get a copy of the contract. With your permission, of course,” Marshall added.

“Quinn'll probably want to run it by media relations, not to mention legal, but I'm sure we can get you a copy. He's on his way back from the Westin with Mrs. Ritchie. When we're done here, you can meet with him too, if you like.”

“So,” Smith continued, looking up from his notes. “Is the team on the hook for the five hundred thousand — roughly — or is there insurance for that?”

“It should be insurance, but that's one of the things we're still trying to figure out. Like I said, no one ever thought this type of thing would happen. I've been an owner for ten years and I've never had an active player die under contract. I mean, hockey's a dangerous game and all, and you certainly have to be concerned about injuries, but something like this?” Cormier shook his head.

“And I assume none of the trades the team made to get Curtis are impacted by his death?”

“You mean, can I get my top three back? Are you asking as a detective, or a fan?” Cormier gave a grim chuckle. “I think the short answer's no, but you can bet we'll be checking. Again, Quinn would know more about the technical details. You'll probably want to talk to his daughter Melissa as well — she's the legal beagle.”

Smith made a note. He didn't even know McAdam had a daughter, much less that she worked in the front office.

“So the team's not in great shape then?”

Marshall elicited another pained smile from Cormier.

“That's an understatement. We've got a gaping hole to fill, and less than two weeks before the season starts. Everyone's already made their big deals, so there's not a lot of movement out there. From the team's point of view, it's a disaster. And the vultures are already hovering, looking for Quinn's head.”

“What do you mean?”

“The press has been calling our PR shop all day, asking for statements. U.S. and Toronto-based reporters, mostly. At least the local guys have a bit of class,” Cormier added, with a sigh. “But these other guys, they start off with niceties, but it isn't long before they get to the point.
How do I feel about the Ritchie deal now? Do I think we should have traded our top three for him? Do I think it was wise to put all of our eggs in one basket?
That kind of shit.” He paused and let out a sigh. “I feel bad for Quinn too, because this is going to be especially hard on him. With all the scrutiny of the trades over the summer, can you imagine what they're going to be saying now? They're gonna crucify him. I've already had two people ask me why I haven't fired him yet.”

“I assume you don't intend to, then?”

“Hell, no. Quinn's a visionary, and as such he's always going to be on the hot seat. But I'm the owner, and none of the deals he brokered could have gone through without my approval, and I have no regrets. We'll pick up the pieces and move on.” He stopped and looked at his hands. “Listen to me, complaining about the press and the team, when we're talking about the murder of a young man in his prime. I assume you're treating this as a murder?”

“It's suspected foul play at this point,” Marshall said. “But I think that's kind of academic in this case.”

“Do you have any idea who could have done it?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“You think it could have been some crazed fan?”

“We really don't know. That's why we're trying to talk to as many people as we can, as soon as we can. We want to catch this guy as quickly as possible.”

Cormier nodded and looked down at his BlackBerry.

“That's Quinn. He's back with Mrs. Ritchie. If there's nothing else, you can go over to his office.”

“That would be great, thanks.”

“If there's anything I can do to assist in the investigation — and I mean anything — I want you to let me know. Here's my card.” He handed them each a business card. “You can call me anytime, day or night. I'll tell media relations to give you direct access, given the circumstances.”

“We appreciate that,” Marshall said as an assistant appeared at the door to escort them to the GM's office, just down the hall.

They rounded a corner and spotted McAdam standing at the door of his office, talking to a young woman seated at a desk outside. As they approached, he extended a massive hand toward Marshall.

“You're with the Ottawa Police?”

“David Marshall and Jack Smith,” Marshall said, and they all shook hands. Smith noticed McAdam's grip was strong and cool.

“Come on in, have a seat.”

McAdam arranged his large frame into a chair as the two investigators sat opposite. They had both seen plenty of him in the papers since he had come up from Florida last spring, but he was much more impressive in person. He had been a defenceman back in his playing days, with a reputation for hard hitting and the ability to drop the gloves with the best of them. Looking at him across the desk, Smith could imagine him being an imposing figure at the blue line. He noticed the scarring around the right eye and remembered hearing that McAdam's career had been cut short by an injury in his early thirties, but not before he had won a Stanley Cup with Boston.

“Thanks for seeing us. I know this has got to be a tough day,” Marshall opened with his now-familiar refrain.

“I wish we were meeting under different circumstances, gentlemen.” McAdam sighed and leaned forward in his chair. “Before we get started, can I ask if you have any leads?”

“We're still in the information gathering stage, but there are a few things that we need to follow up on, and I'm sure there will be more.”

“You probably can't discuss it anyway. Ongoing investigation, that sort of thing. It's gotta be a murder investigation though, right? I just met with Mrs. Ritchie and she saw the body. I mean, Jesus….”

“We were at the scene when he was pulled from the canal,” Marshall said.

McAdam shook his head. “It's just such a … shock, and such a goddamn waste.”

“Maybe if we can ask you some questions about Curtis and his relationship with the team we can get to work, and let you get on with yours,” Smith offered.

McAdam nodded. “Of course.”

“How well did you know Curtis?”

“I can't say I knew him all that well, personally. In my position, you have to look at the player first, and the person second. Personality's important, don't get me wrong, but you can be the nicest guy in the world, and that's not gonna get you noticed in this league.”

“So when did you become familiar with Curtis, the player?”

McAdam paused. “I started hearing about him a couple of years back, when he first broke into the OHL. I was down in Florida at the time, but all the teams have their scouts out there. It was well-known that he was someone to watch for — someone special.”

“And you were instrumental in bringing him here?”

The GM gave him a bleak grin. “I can't really blame you for wanting my head on a platter, as a fan.”

“I guess his death leaves you with a bit of a gap to fill.”

“That's the understatement of the year. And that's what's so damn ironic,” he continued. “A kid like that, you can see him going to L.A. or the Big Apple and getting himself into trouble, in over his head with a lot of money and the wrong people around him. Maybe he gets into drugs, or even it's just random crime — that's the reality of big city life in the States. But here? I would have thought Ottawa was the safest place he could possibly be. And then this happens. I still find it unbelievable.”

“You mentioned the money,” Smith interjected. “What happens now, with his death? I assume the team doesn't have to pay out the full contract.”

“No, there's a one-time benefit of … I assume we're talking confidentially here, right? I can't have any of this getting into the press. Mrs. Ritchie's got enough on her mind.”

“The press isn't going to hear it from us.”

McAdam leaned forward in his chair. “Curtis named his mother as the beneficiary, so she's entitled to a half a year's salary. You may want to talk to Curtis's agent as well. He was working on some endorsement deals. I don't know if they had gotten to terms yet.”

“We're due to speak to him later this afternoon.”

“And the salary payout,” Smith asked. “Does that come from the team, or an insurer?”

“That's a good question. In twenty years of hockey operations, I've never been in a situation like this. We're kind of in uncharted waters.”

“I guess that's why you've got lawyers.”

“We've got the best,” McAdam said, with a genuine smile. “My daughter, Melissa, did a lot of the legal work on Curtis's contract. She'll be following up on the payouts.”

“We'll probably want to talk to her as well,” Marshall said.

“Sure. I can arrange that.”

Marshall glanced at a picture on the wall behind McAdam, and realized the team in it was arranged around the Stanley Cup.

McAdam followed his gaze and turned to take in the picture. “What a battle that was, and what a great bunch of guys. It was a real team effort — something I'll never forget.”

Marshall nodded. “How about Curtis? How did he fit in with the guys here? Did the other players get along with him, and vice versa?”

“Yeah, sure. Like any rookie, it takes a while to integrate yourself into a team, and it's even harder when you come with the kind of hype he generated. But Curtis was doing a great job. He's a … he was a likeable young man.”

“The other players didn't resent his instant star status, or the trades it took to get him here?”

“There's always a period of adjustment. Some of the guys I traded were here for a long time. You have to understand, these guys go to war out there every night, and going through something like that forms bonds that go deep — they don't end just because players move on. But everyone understands hockey's a business as well as a game. Don't forget, Curtis had only been through half a training camp, he was still finding his place.”

“What about off the ice? Did Curtis ever mention any trouble he was having, with other players, or fans, or in general?”

“Not to me. But our relationship really boiled down to a business one. I didn't have enough time to get to know him that well. That would have come, in time.”

They were interrupted by Marshall's phone. “Excuse me.”

“Do you know if Curtis had a girlfriend?” Smith asked as Marshall took the call.

McAdam shook his head. “Don't know. You should ask Peter Dunne. He was rooming with him for part of camp, and probably knew him the best among the players.”

“Can you arrange for us to talk with him?”

“Of course. Let me know when you want to see him and it's done. Just so you know, we go on the road next week, for pre-season.”

“Yeah, we'll want to talk with him before then.”

Marshall closed his phone and glanced at Smith.

“We're going to have to cut this short, but thanks for your time. Can we get your contact info for follow-up?”

McAdam fished out two cards and handed them across the desk.

“Call anytime. My cell's on there.”

“Thanks.”

“And detectives,” he called out, as they neared the door. “Good luck catching this guy.”

Once outside, Marshall took the steps down two at a time.

“What's the rush, Marshy?”

“That was the station. Turns out the Palestinian General Delegation is in the building at the end of Somerset Street.”

“Someone saw the perp up close?”

“Better. They've got a video camera outside.”

“That's it? That's all we've got?” Smith protested as he and Marshall sat in the briefing room of the identification lab on the ground floor of the Elgin Street station. The identification officer fiddled with a laptop and restarted the fifteen seconds of video as Smith walked up to the large screen hanging from the ceiling in the corner of the room. The intersection of Somerset Street and the Driveway appeared on screen, followed by the grainy image of someone crossing the Driveway toward the Palestinian General Delegation. The time stamp, displayed in the bottom right hand corner of the frame, read 6:42 a.m., which was consistent with Jane Emond's estimate of when she had noticed the ripple of water, and the man at the railing, from her condo balcony on the other side of Colonel By Drive.

“It's a fixed view,” the identification officer explained with an irritated sigh. “It only covers that one spot.”

Smith pointed to the image onscreen. “Can't you zoom in, or clear up the image?”

“Zooming in will only make the image fuzzier, but I can try. It's not the best quality to work with.”

Marshall scoffed. “The amount of dough the city spends on surveillance, and this is the best we can come up with?”

“It's not even our camera, so I guess we're lucky we got anything.”

The initial excitement at hearing they had video of their suspect had largely evaporated by the time they had finished their first viewing. It was clear that the poor-quality image of a large man jogging across the street, with 90 percent of his head obscured by a hat and sunglasses, wasn't going to do much to narrow their search.

“Didn't Emond say he was wearing a hoodie?” Smith said, noticing that the man in the image appeared to be wearing a long-sleeve shirt made of thinner-looking material than the heavy cotton of a hoodie, and, more importantly, with no hood. “I suppose it would be too much to hope that he tossed it in the woods on his way back up to the street.”

“Is that it, around his waist?” Marshall pointed to a thickening around the man's middle, which could easily have been the arms of a hoodie.

“Shit, yeah. He must have taken it off before he got to the top of the stairs. Maybe it had blood on it.”

“The size of that gash — it must have been covered.”

“And no prints from the knife,” Smith continued. The crime scene analysis had revealed very little so far in the way of physical evidence. No fingerprints, or any other obvious identifying marks, had been left by the attacker on either the knife or Ritchie's clothing. The concrete surface of the trail hadn't helped either — other than a disturbance of leaves and dirt in the area of the attack, and some marks on the railing that may or may not have resulted from the attack, there was nothing to go on. Yet, a one-hundred-and-ninety-five-pound man had been savagely attacked and pitched over a four-foot-high railing in a matter of seconds. There had to be something they were missing.

“There's a Mr. Avery downstairs to see you.” They turned to see a young constable at the briefing room door.

“Ritchie's agent,” Smith said, noticing Marshall's expression.

“Right. Tell him we'll be there in a sec.”

The identification officer pointed to the screen. “I'll see if I can clean this up a bit, but it's not gonna get that much better.”

Making their way down the hall toward the elevators, Smith stopped by a filing cabinet.

“How high's that rail down by the canal, Marshy?”

“I don't know. Maybe four feet.”

“And Ritchie's six two?”

“If you say so.”

“Just stand here for a sec.” Smith arranged his partner a few feet away from the cabinet, then took a few steps back down the hall. “Now pretend you're Ritchie.”

“I think I'd rather be the other guy.”

“Seriously. You're out for your morning run. You're only a click from your fancy pad, where you're gonna have a nice breakfast — probably ordered in from some fancy place — then hop in your fancy car and head out to the rink for the day, playing the game you love, that you happen to be fucking great at, and which is guaranteed to pay you millions for years to come.”

“Can you throw in a couple of swimsuit models for that hot tub?”

“That's the spirit. You're on top of the world, and you're relaxed. You're the
man
. You see some guy jogging along the path toward you, just like the other couple of people you've seen in the last hour or so,” Smith said, starting to trot toward him. “The guy gives you a nod, maybe. You do the same…. Then …” he lunged at Marshall, grabbing his shoulder with his right hand, the palm of his left hand striking him gently over the heart as he pushed him back against the filing cabinet, stopping as Marshall's lower back made contact.

“The fuck you doing ?” Marshall pushed him away, smoothing his shirt as Smith backed off.

“It was all in the momentum, and the surprise. Ritchie's tall and pretty heavy, so once he's going in the right direction and he hits that rail, he's going over. You know the saying — the bigger they are, the harder they fall?”

“Look what you did to my shirt!” Marshall pointed to the loose button.

“Sorry, but it makes sense, right?”

“Showoff.” Marshall was still fussing over his shirt as they continued on toward the reception area. “Our guy'd have to be pretty powerful though, even with surprise on his side. Hockey players are strong in the legs, and not so easy to knock off balance.”

“Maybe our perp's a player himself?”

Marshall considered that as they walked out into the waiting area and saw a man in his forties talking on a BlackBerry, his black hair slicked back. He saw them coming and signed off, sliding the phone into the pocket of his pinstripe suit.

“Mr. Avery?”

“Call me Dan,” he said, flashing a smile and shaking their hands with a confident grip.

“David Marshall, and this is Jack Smith. Thanks for coming in.”

“Normally, I'd say it's my pleasure, but … well … I guess everyone's still trying to take all of this in.”

Marshall led the way back through the secured entrance to a small meeting room. “We'll try not to keep you too long. We know you must have a lot on your plate.”

“I appreciate that.”

They settled in around a rectangular table as Avery tinkered with the settings on his phone, then looked across the table. “Just putting it on vibrate.”

Marshall smiled. “So, how did you find out about Curtis?”

“I got a call from Ellen this morning. She was hysterical. Poor woman.”

“I can only imagine what she's going through,” Marshall said, before continuing. “Part of what we're trying to establish today, through various discussions, are the financial ramifications of Curtis's death. We've talked to the team's owner and GM, and we have the broad strokes of the contract, but we'd like to ask you for some details.”

“Sure. I mean, I'll answer whatever I can.”

“We understand that Curtis's beneficiary gets a one-time payment in the event of his death. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that's right. The beneficiary is entitled to half of one year's worth of salary.”

“And is that in addition to whatever Curtis already received under the contract?”

“Yeah. He's already been paid a signing bonus of …” Avery paused and smiled awkwardly. “Technically, the details of the contract are confidential, between the parties and their advisers. That's the team and Curtis — his estate, now, I guess. I'm assuming the team's okay with me disclosing all of this to you?”

“The team is shipping us a copy of the contract later today, and I'd remind you that we have considerable leeway in a murder investigation. We can get a warrant if necessary, but we'd prefer your co-operation.”

Avery waved his hands. “I'm happy to co-operate, believe me. I just don't want to get slapped with a lawsuit the minute I walk out of here, but it sounds like that's not going to be an issue, so I'll tell you he got a two-million-dollar signing bonus. On my reading of the contract, he's … his estate's entitled to another five hundred K.”

“Is that standard ?”

“That's a good question. I remember the clause and thinking at the time it was something the lawyers dreamed up to justify their fees. I mean, this is an eighteen-year-old we're talking about. Yet, here we are.” Avery sat back in his chair. “Bottom line is the family gets five hundred thousand, plus whatever's left from the bonus.”

“Do you know if the team pays the five hundred thousand, or would it be the insurer?”

“You'd have to ask the team, but I would think they're going to want the insurance company to pick up the tab.”

“Did Curtis have a business manager?”

“I looked after his affairs. I think he was pretty happy in that department.”

“I'm sure he was.” Marshall smiled. “Not too many eighteen-year-olds with a couple of mil sitting in their bank account.”

“It's peanuts compared to what he would have got in a couple of years, once we were out from under the rookie cap.”

“Do you mind telling us what your cut was?”

“Five percent, but I assume you'll keep that confidential.”

Marshall smiled. “Of course. So, as his business manager, you would be aware of his financial affairs, other sources of income, etcetera?”

“Sure.”

“So, what was the state of his affairs?”

“You mean did he blow it all on dope and hookers?” Avery gave a brief chuckle as he adjusted himself in the chair. “Not a chance. I've never seen a more level-headed eighteen-year-old. God knows there are some guys out there, a lot longer in the tooth, who would see that kind of cash and just lose it. Not Curtis. He was really grounded for a young man.”

“So he didn't run out and buy a Lamborghini?”

Avery smiled and fiddled with a cufflink. “A Porsche — leased, I think — but that was really it in terms of making a splash. He didn't want to rush into buying a house or a condo, so he was renting. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm sure he was paying a bomb in rent, but it wasn't out of whack with his sudden wealth. His biggest investment was in his mom's house up around Peterborough. That says a lot about him.”

“Did he have any other significant income, from endorsements or stuff like that?” Smith asked.

Avery sighed. “You can't begin to imagine what a tragedy this is, in every sense. We were this close …” he squeezed his thumb and index finger together in front of his face. “… to one of the biggest, if not
the
biggest, endorsement deals in Canadian history. I swear to God, we were less than a week away from signing. Now …”

Smith scribbled some notes, trying to determine whether Avery's anguish was more over the loss of his commission than his young client, as Marshall asked the next question.

“You knew him pretty well, then?”

Avery nodded. “He was a great kid. Like I said, very grounded. Wise beyond his years, but he still had that youthful innocence, you know? That's where I came in …”

“Do you know if he had a girlfriend?”

“Nothing serious, I don't think. You can imagine he had girls throwing themselves at him, literally. But he was even level-headed in that department. I'm not saying he was a monk or anything — let's face it, most eighteen-year-olds are walking bags of hormones. But he was very careful.”

“His mom mentioned a waitress in Peterborough….”

“That was such bullshit,” Avery scoffed. “Some local yokel got knocked up and tried to pin it on Curtis. She hired a lawyer but, like I said, it was BS and it never went anywhere.”

“Did she actually file a lawsuit?”

“No, it never got that far. She realized Curtis wasn't just going to fold his tent, so she gave up.”

“What was her name?”

“Ridgeway. Mandy Ridge — No, Nancy Ridgeway.”

Smith scribbled the name in his notebook. “What about her lawyer?”

“Some small-town hack. I can't remember his name, but I've got his letters if you want copies.”

“Copies would be great, thanks.”

“Apart from Ms. Ridgeway, did Curtis have any enemies?”

“I'm sure he had lots: goalies with blown goals-against averages, defencemen with minus ratings. Curtis had a tendency to wreak havoc with opposing teams.”

“I was thinking more of the off-the-ice variety,” Marshall said.

Avery shook his head. “No, he really was a pretty likeable kid.”

Smith noticed Avery had begun to fidget a bit. “What about on the ice, did he have any major run-ins?”

“Naw, nothing serious. Curtis wasn't a scrapper, and anyway, he had plenty of protection on the ice. Anyone who tried to start something with him would find themselves squaring off with the team goon. You know what I'm saying?”

Marshall continued with some more questions before wrapping up the interview, but not before Avery had asked the question of the day.

“You guys have any idea who could have done this?”

“Not yet, but we'll find him, don't you worry.”

“I guess you'll be under pressure from the moment the papers come out tomorrow. I don't envy you. The media'll have a field day with this. My phone's been ringing off the hook all afternoon.”

“Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Avery.”

“You bet. I'll get you those lawyer's letters you mentioned ASAP. If there's anything else, feel free to give me a buzz,” he said.

As he watched Avery strut out of the interview room, Smith thought he looked pretty chipper for a guy who had just lost his meal ticket.