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
