Thin Ice. Nick Wilkshire

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СКАЧАТЬ he trots across the bridge, down the steps to the path, and then heads south. He’s got his hands in the pouch, concealing the knife. He’s getting ready to pounce, but then he realizes it’s not Ritchie, so he just trots on by.”

      “Then he turns around and goes back to the bridge to set up again.” Marshall pointed at his partner’s sketch. “A few minutes later, another runner comes down the path, only this time it really is Ritchie, and when they meet up on the lower path, it’s lights out.”

      “Bottom line is, this wasn’t some random attack. He was waiting for Ritchie.”

      “It sure looks that way.” Marshall nodded. The two sat staring at the sketch for a while before Smith spoke.

      “Guess you didn’t read the Sports Illustrated article either, huh ?”

      “I had no idea he was adopted,” Marshall said, shaking his head. “That’s some family history. Talk about bad luck.”

      “More like cursed. What did you make of Saunders?”

      “Pretty clear what his main concern is,” Marshall said with a frown. “Who’s gonna finish his house.”

      “So I wasn’t the only one with that impression then.”

      “Pretty rich for him to talk about gold diggers. I mean, come on.”

      Smith nodded. “But Ritchie must have been worth more to him alive than dead.”

      “I guess we’ll find out when we talk to the agent. He’s on a four o’clock flight from Toronto, so he should be downtown at five thirty or six.” Marshall checked his watch. They were due out at the Raftsmen’s home rink in thirty-five minutes.

      “Can you imagine what’s going through their heads in the front office right now?”

      Smith sat back and glanced out the window. The clouds had dispersed and it looked like the height of summer again, making the prospect of a drawn-out investigation even less appealing.

      “Well,” he said, returning his focus to Marshall. “On the bright side, they won’t have to worry about coughing up a huge salary a couple of years from now.”

      “Yeah, but look at who they traded to get him. Lamer, Cotterill, and Wlodek,” Marshall said, reciting the names responsible for 75 percent of the Raftsmen’s offence in the past three years.

      “Don’t forget that young goalie, what’s his name?” Smith snapped his fingers in frustration.

      “Lepage. He’s going to be great in a few years. Somewhere else, of course.”

      “McAdam’s not looking like such a genius all of a sudden,” Smith said, thinking of all the headlines since the brash GM had arrived in Ottawa, just after the Raftsmen had missed the playoffs for the first time in five years. If the team’s owner had been looking for a shake-up, he had picked the right guy. But no one could have predicted the events of the past eighteen months. Quinn McAdam had brought a broom into town with him and, within weeks, the entire coaching staff was gone. It had taken him a year to turn his attention to the roster, but when he did, he had been no less ruthless. The first victims were the free agents, who’d been shopped without a second thought, their bloated salaries spent on younger, developing players. The general consensus was that those moves were long overdue, but a yard sale like that was based on the assumption that the core of the team would remain intact. No one had expected that two of the team’s top three point-getters, and their highly coveted rushing defenceman, would be dealt for an eighteen-year-old — first overall pick or not.

      Then again, there was no shortage of buzz about Curtis Ritchie, even before anyone ever mentioned his name in the same sentence with Ottawa. He had ripped through major junior like a tornado, racking up goals, points, and records along the way. A natural goal-scorer with a head for the game, Ritchie was being heralded as the best prospect the League had seen in a decade. Added to his youthful good looks, his unruly blond curls, and an impish grin, he was quite a package. Now no one would ever know if he would have delivered on the promise, and Ottawa’s roster had a gaping hole in it. The fact that an eighteen-year-old life had been snuffed out seemed almost an afterthought.

      “Come on, let’s see how McAdam’s doing in person,” Marshall said, as they got up to leave. “And don’t look so glum, Smitty. It’s not every day you get to meet a League GM and former playing great in the flesh.”

      Smith and Marshall stood in the reception area looking at the wall of posters, photos, and other Raftsmen memorabilia. Marshall, a diehard fan since the team’s arrival in the nineties, was particularly interested in the photos and framed newspaper headlines from the early days, especially the signing of the team’s longtime captain, Dennis Hearst, twelve years earlier. As for Smith, the Raftsmen had grown on him the longer he stayed in Ottawa, but he had grown up a Montreal fan, so he always found his allegiances strained whenever the two teams went head to head. He glanced at a series of newspaper headlines at the near end of the long wall, announcing the blockbuster Ritchie deal. One was a cover from the Hockey News that Smith remembered from the summer. The caption, “Ottawa’s Saviour,” topped a picture of Curtis Ritchie in a Raftsmen jersey and cap, flanked by McAdam on one side and the team’s owner, James Cormier, on the other. All three wore broad smiles, Smith noticed.

      Marshall wandered over to join him. Both men heard a sound behind them and turned to see Cormier standing there. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, extending his hand. “Jim Cormier.”

      Smith thought he looked shorter in person, but no less impressive. In fact, he seemed to radiate a general aura of confidence as he chit-chatted about the photo they had been looking at. He was dressed casually in khakis and a polo shirt, but despite the relaxed attire and easy smile, the distress of the morning’s events was evident in his tanned features.

      “I still can’t believe it,” he said, staring at the photo. “It’s such a waste. Come on, let’s go back to my office.”

      They followed him into a large office with more memorabilia on the walls and took a seat as Cormier retreated behind an oversized desk.

      “Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee or a soda?”

      “No, thanks,” Marshall said, as he noticed a picture hanging on the wall of Cormier and the current prime minister, who was sporting a Raftsmen jersey. “We appreciate you making time for us. This can’t be an easy day for you.”

      “I’m meeting with Curtis’s mom in an hour. My problems are nothing compared to hers.”

      Marshall nodded. “We spoke to her earlier. Did you know Curtis well?”

      “I wouldn’t say well, but I met with him over the summer a few times. We had him and his family over for dinner a couple of times, and I talked to him about his future.” Cormier paused and glanced out the window. “I like to think I’m a pretty good judge of people, and Curtis was a winner. That much was clear.”

      “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.”

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