Bob?” he said, not sure what to expect in the silence that followed.
“He died of a heart attack when Curtis was twelve. About six years ago. I thought I’d never get over it, until I met Tom.” She gave him a grim smile. “So you see, detectives, this family’s had more than its share of tragedy. But this …” She trailed off, looking down and blowing her nose.
“I really am sorry, Mrs. Ritchie,” Marshall said, as he glanced toward Smith and saw a look that confirmed the interview was over for now.
“Do you guys know how this all works?” Saunders asked suddenly, as he handed Ritchie another tissue. “With the insurance and all?” He seemed to recognize the bewilderment his question had caused and continued with his thought. “I mean, how’re we gonna finish the house now? It’s half built.”
Smith glanced at Marshall before answering, the same surprise mirrored in his partner’s normally inscrutable features. “Did Curtis have a lawyer, or a business manager?”
“He had an agent, in Toronto,” Ritchie said, perking up as Saunders frowned.
“You should probably take it up with him, then.”
“Well, those are all of our questions for now,” Marshall said, as they got up to leave. We can see ourselves out. We appreciate your time, and again, we’re very sorry for your loss.”
Ritchie nodded and sniffled, and Saunders got up and followed them to the door to the suite.
“You guys are gonna catch this motherfucker, right?” he whispered as they stood in the doorway.
“We’re going to give it everything we’ve got, Mr. Saunders,” Marshall assured him as Smith took a step back, not from the sour whiff of liquor on Saunders’ breath, but the feral heat at the core of his red-tinged eyes that continued to burn after the door had closed.
CHAPTER 3
Smith stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the locks below leading down to the Ottawa River. The view across to Gatineau, and the rolling hills of Chelsea beyond, was spectacular enough and would only improve as the leaves completed their transition through every shade of brown, red, and gold as fall gave way to winter. He looked back at the sound of Marshall’s voice from the far end of the hall that led to the bedrooms. It echoed across the vast hardwood, furnished only with a leather sectional and a massive projection screen television, connected to what looked like a state of the art sound system and a sleek gaming console.
“You gotta see this.”
Marshall had appeared at the end of the hallway, beckoning him over.
“What?”
“Look at the size of the friggin’ bed,” he said, as they arrived in the doorway of the master bedroom. “And that’s a 3D flat screen. It’s gotta be a sixty-inch.”
“Looks like a cellphone screen next to the one in the living room,” Smith remarked, noticing a different gaming system connected to the enormous television and a wireless controller sitting on the bedside table. He glanced at the open case sitting on the floor in front of the television. “Hey, that’s the newest hockey game. I’ve seen the commercials for it. It looks awesome.”
“This is the life, all right,” Marshall said, looking out at the same view Smith had been admiring from the living room.
“You sure you wanna trade places with him, Marshy?” Smith said, stepping through a door and switching on a light, finding himself in the largest walk-in closet he had ever seen. He whistled and ran a gloved hand through a long rack of clothes. Apart from a few suits and dress shoes, it was mostly casual stuff, but it was all high-end, far beyond the means of the average investigator. The assortment of sport shoes alone, piled in a corner of the closet, was worth a fortune. Marshall seemed more interested in the oversized swimsuit calendar that hung next to a massive mirror at the far end of the dressing area.
“September was always my favourite month,” he said, walking through to the en suite, with its marble Jacuzzi tub, double sinks, and pewter hardware. “How many girls you figure he could fit in there at once?”
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Smith said, as a member of the identification team appeared at the door behind them.
“You might be interested in these.”
Marshall took the key ring she held out, as Smith looked on, recognizing the familiar Porsche logo.
“It just gets better and better.”
Smith picked at the last of his fries before giving up and sitting back in the booth as Marshall wrapped up his call. He had eaten too fast, and the greasy burger platter was already swinging its way through his stomach like a wrecking ball. It was only mid-afternoon, but he felt exhausted. They were only seven hours into the investigation, and there was no obvious resolution in sight. But an attack like the one that had killed Curtis Ritchie, especially in broad daylight, always left clues. Smith remained confident that they would have a meaningful lead before much longer.
“That was Sauvé,” Marshall said, tucking his phone into his pocket and nodding to the waitress for more coffee. “They just finished interviewing a jogger who was on the lower path around six fifteen. Says he passed someone in the area of the scene — a big guy in a hoodie wearing a hat and sunglasses. He says he remembers because it wasn’t sunny.” Marshall paused to take a sip of coffee before continuing. “He also says he first noticed the big guy on the other side of the Somerset Bridge, where he was stretching. The guy crossed the footbridge and got on the lower path and started heading toward the witness.”
“But he didn’t attack?”
“No, but he did say the other guy seemed to move toward the middle of the path as they got closer, not like he was going to block the way or anything, but it was noticeable. Then at the last minute, he backed off and they passed each other. Witness says he gave him a nod and got nothing back.”
“Anything else?”
“The guy’s hands were in the pouch of his hoodie, in front there.” Marshall pointed to his belly.
“Concealing the knife.”
“Could be.”
“And how does this witness compare to Curtis Ritchie, in terms of height, build, hair colour, or whatever?”
“I don’t know, but we’re definitely going to want to re-interview him.”
Smith nodded, then plucked a fresh napkin from the holder and began sketching as Marshall looked on.
“So, the perp’s waiting here,” he said, pointing to his rendition of the bridge, on the opposite side of the canal from the path where Ritchie was murdered. “He’s pretending to stretch or whatever, but really he’s watching the lower path on the other side. The path from the south is, what, half a click dead straight?”
“About that, yeah.”
“He sees the witness coming down the path. Let’s assume he’s close to Ritchie’s height and weight, plus there aren’t
