Ritchie nodded, as Marshall returned his focus to Ellen Ritchie.
“Did Curtis buy a house here in Ottawa?”
She plucked a tissue from the box and blew her nose. “No. He wanted to build, and he wanted to take his time picking out the perfect location. He was renting a condo over by the big hotel.”
“The Château Laurier?”
Ritchie nodded, dabbing at her eyes. The adjacent condo building was the most exclusive in town, with the smallest units going for a million or more. “One of the reasons he liked it so much was running along the canal. He just loved it.”
“He ran a lot, I guess?”
“Oh yes, and more than ever this summer. He wanted to be in top shape for camp. I think he was running every day.”
“Do you know if he always ran the same route?”
“I don’t really know, but he always liked to go early, at first light, usually.”
“Did he run alone?” Smith asked.
“He always did back in Peterborough, but I don’t know about here.”
Marshall asked some routine questions about Curtis Ritchie’s habits and his whereabouts in the past few weeks, before looking to Smith.
“Did your son have a girlfriend?” Smith asked, as Ritchie and Saunders turned to him.
“Not that I know of.” Ellen Ritchie shook her head. “I mean, there were girls — I’m sure there were lots of ’em — but nothing steady. Curtis always said he didn’t want to get tied down. He didn’t want to risk anything getting in the way of his goal.”
“I’m sure he was pretty popular,” Smith prompted. He had read about a woman in Peterborough who had claimed Ritchie had fathered her child, but as far as he knew it had never gone anywhere. He wondered whether Ritchie’s prospects for a multi-million contract in the near future had spawned more, similar claims. “I mean, a good-looking kid like that, hockey star and the future he had …” He trailed off and sensed the unspoken dialogue going on between Ritchie and Saunders. It was Saunders who broke the silence.
“There was no shortage of gold diggers trying to get their hooks into him, if that’s what you mean,” he sneered.
“Wasn’t there a woman in Peterbor —” Smith began, before Ritchie interrupted.
“That little slut tried her best, but everyone knew Curtis had nothin’ to do with her.”
“Who was this, and what did she try, Mrs. Ritchie?”
“Nancy Ridgeway, a waitress at a greasy spoon in Peterborough. She tried to get Curtis to pay her to shut her up, but he refused.” She shook her head. “He knew what she was up to, and he wasn’t afraid to stand up to her. That was back in the spring. She hired a lawyer and threatened to sue, but it never went anywhere. Then she tried to get the cops involved — you can check it out for yourselves — but nothin’ ever came of that, either. Everyone knew exactly what she was.”
Smith nodded, making a note to follow up with the OPP in Peterborough, before continuing. “I’m sure his career prospects attracted all sorts of attention, both good and bad. Did Curtis ever mention any threats, or enemies, or anything like that?”
She shook her head. “No. There was lots of media, and people hounding him all the time for autographs or pictures, but mostly they just wanted to be near him. He was such a good kid. Everybody loved him,” she added, snuffling into a tissue. “He was building me a new house in Peterborough, and next year he was going to build me a cottage. He already had the land scoped out, up on Belmont Lake, near Havelock …” She broke down and started sobbing, her shoulders jerking up and down as the tears ran down her cheeks. “We were as close as any mother and son could be.”
As Ritchie blew her nose, Smith exchanged a glance with Marshall and leaned forward in his chair.
“What do you mean, Mrs. Ritchie?”
She stopped crying for a moment and looked up at Marshall, then Smith. “I wasn’t Curtis’s biological mother. He was adopted.”
“We weren’t aware of that,” Smith said, seeing her puzzlement.
“I figured everyone knew, ever since that article in Sports Illustrated .”
“When did you adopt him?” Marshall asked, as Smith scribbled notes.
“I didn’t.” She sighed and dabbed at her eyes. “Bob — my first husband — adopted him when Curtis was two.”
“That would be Bob … Ritchie?”
“Yes, he was married at the time, and his first wife died of breast cancer when Curtis was young — six or seven. I met Bob a few years later. I guess you could say he and Curtis adopted me.”
Smith was scribbling furiously, trying to keep track of the Ritchies’ complicated lineage. Marshall seemed just as perplexed.
“And 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’