Thin Ice. Nick Wilkshire

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      “So what have we got?” Smith said, sliding into the passenger seat as David Marshall pulled the car away from the curb. Although the two had only been partners for a few years, they enjoyed a familiarity that suggested a much longer connection. As the most senior investigator in the Major Crimes Unit, Marshall had seen more than his fair share of murder and mayhem in his years with both the Toronto and Ottawa police forces. Jaded by office politics and plagued by a long-standing back injury, he had been considering early retirement around the time Smith arrived in Ottawa, just over three years ago. He had watched the troubled integration of the Unit’s newest arrival with interest, as Smith had fought for acceptance among his peers — a process made more difficult by the quirky Irish brogue that had followed him all the way from Torbay, Newfoundland. He had been impressed by Smith’s abilities as an investigator, but mostly with his pluck; especially when the outsider had put a decisive end to a series of Newfie jokes in a brawl that had netted his tormentor a busted lip and a bloody nose. Smith may have made an enemy or two that day, but the jokes had stopped, and everybody stuck to “Smitty” within his earshot, which seemed to suit him just fine. Whether it was because he felt a duty to mentor the new kid, or just because of the vicarious energy Marshall seemed to derive from the arrangement, he hadn’t resisted being partnered with Smith and had decided to stick around. Most days, he seemed glad he had.

      “I was in Mechanicsville when I heard the traffic and called in myself. I figured maybe we can rule ourselves out early if it’s some boozer who took his last dip.”

      “And save my trip — good thinking.” Smith offered a package of gum. “What were you doing down there, anyway?”

      “Hockey, what else?” Marshall snapped out a piece and popped it in his mouth. “Bobby’s got sort-outs all weekend at Tom Brown Arena.”

      “I guess it’s that time of year.” It seemed odd to Smith to be playing hockey when the mercury was still hitting the thirties.

      They made their way quickly through the light weekend traffic to the west side of the Rideau Canal and parked at the end of Somerset, where the path was cordoned off and a uniform stood guard.

      “What have we got?”

      “Just pulling him out now,” the young constable replied, escorting them through a thin crowd clad mostly in running gear. “A jogger noticed a body floating upside down, twenty feet from shore, and called it in.”

      “He’s here?” Marshall asked, as they made their way down to the lower path, to where the divers were pulling the body toward the iron railing that lined the canal.

      “Waiting for you up there, when you’re done.”

      “There goes my homeless theory,” Smith said, as they approached the railing and the victim’s lower half came into view.

      “What do you mean?”

      “Look at those shoes. They’re the new Nikes. They’re, like, two hundred bucks.”

      “Could still be an accident,” Marshall said. “Maybe he was stretching by the rail and …”

      “Holy Shit,” the uniform blurted, as the divers turned the body over to pull it up over the rail, and the knife handle came into view, buried to the hilt in the victim’s chest, above a large stain in the light grey T-shirt.

      “You might want to rethink your trip to T.O., Smitty,” Marshall said, as Smith moved closer, staring open-mouthed as the diver pulled back sodden strands of hair from the victim’s face.

      Marshall was intrigued by his partner’s reaction, given that they had both seen enough bodies over the years to have developed a healthy detachment.

      “What’s the matter?”

      “Mother of Christ,” Smith gasped, as he looked from the victim’s face to the official training camp T-shirt, half of the logo stained in blood. “It’s him.”

      “Who?”

      “It’s Ritchie Ri —” he stammered. “It’s Curtis Ritchie.”

      CHAPTER 2

      “Let’s get him covered up,” Marshall said, as they all stood around, staring in disbelief at the NHL’s poster boy, a bone-handled knife sticking out of his chest.

      “We need the crime scene guys out here, right away.” Smith gestured to the uniform, adding, as the young man started toward the bridge: “And make sure no civilians get down here.” He turned to Marshall, who was still staring at Ritchie’s body, as one of the divers covered his head and torso with a plastic tarp.

      “Wait a sec.” Marshall knelt by the body and took a closer look at the protruding knife. The sodden cotton of the T-shirt was pulled back and the entry point was clearly visible, at least four inches below the blade. “That’s a hell of a gash, if that blade’s as long as I think it is.” He straightened up and motioned to the diver to replace the tarp. “I think we can rule out an accident.”

      “Eighteen years old, and the world by the balls.” Smith was shaking his head. “What a fucking waste.”

      “Amen to that,” Marshall said, as his phone went off. As he took the call, Smith looked down the path to the south. For half a kilometre, it ran in a straightaway, parallel to the Rideau Canal until it curved to the right near Waverly Street. Even in full morning sunlight, the thick foliage from the overhanging trees cast the path in shade, obscuring it completely from the road and the residential areas beyond, and from the other trail twenty feet above at the top of the bank. He had to admit, this was a pretty good location to take someone out discreetly. They would have to wait for the time of death, but Smith was assuming it had happened early this morning. He glanced back down the trail, imagining it in the morning mist as a shiver ran down his spine.

      Looking across the canal, and beyond the rolling slope up to Colonel By Drive, Smith’s gaze settled on a trendy-looking condo building and noticed some of the units had balconies. He turned to look for one of the uniforms just as Marshall ended his call.

      “We should get someone over to canvass those condos.”

      Marshall nodded. “That was Beaudoin.” He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

      “I know, Marshy.”

      “You can go to Toronto and get shit-faced anytime, right?”