Thin Ice. Nick Wilkshire

      McAdam shook his head. “Don’t know. You should ask Peter Dunne. He was rooming with him for part of camp, and probably knew him the best among the players.”

      “Can you arrange for us to talk with him?”

      “Of course. Let me know when you want to see him and it’s done. Just so you know, we go on the road next week, for pre-season.”

      “Yeah, we’ll want to talk with him before then.”

      Marshall closed his phone and glanced at Smith.

      “We’re going to have to cut this short, but thanks for your time. Can we get your contact info for follow-up?”

      McAdam fished out two cards and handed them across the desk.

      “Call anytime. My cell’s on there.”

      “Thanks.”

      “And detectives,” he called out, as they neared the door. “Good luck catching this guy.”

      Once outside, Marshall took the steps down two at a time.

      “What’s the rush, Marshy?”

      “That was the station. Turns out the Palestinian General Delegation is in the building at the end of Somerset Street.”

      “Someone saw the perp up close?”

      “Better. They’ve got a video camera outside.”

      CHAPTER 4

      “That’s it? That’s all we’ve got?” Smith protested as he and Marshall sat in the briefing room of the identification lab on the ground floor of the Elgin Street station. The identification officer fiddled with a laptop and restarted the fifteen seconds of video as Smith walked up to the large screen hanging from the ceiling in the corner of the room. The intersection of Somerset Street and the Driveway appeared on screen, followed by the grainy image of someone crossing the Driveway toward the Palestinian General Delegation. The time stamp, displayed in the bottom right hand corner of the frame, read 6:42 a.m., which was consistent with Jane Emond’s estimate of when she had noticed the ripple of water, and the man at the railing, from her condo balcony on the other side of Colonel By Drive.

      “It’s a fixed view,” the identification officer explained with an irritated sigh. “It only covers that one spot.”

      Smith pointed to the image onscreen. “Can’t you zoom in, or clear up the image?”

      “Zooming in will only make the image fuzzier, but I can try. It’s not the best quality to work with.”

      Marshall scoffed. “The amount of dough the city spends on surveillance, and this is the best we can come up with?”

      “It’s not even our camera, so I guess we’re lucky we got anything.”

      The initial excitement at hearing they had video of their suspect had largely evaporated by the time they had finished their first viewing. It was clear that the poor-quality image of a large man jogging across the street, with 90 percent of his head obscured by a hat and sunglasses, wasn’t going to do much to narrow their search.

      “Didn’t Emond say he was wearing a hoodie?” Smith said, noticing that the man in the image appeared to be wearing a long-sleeve shirt made of thinner-looking material than the heavy cotton of a hoodie, and, more importantly, with no hood. “I suppose it would be too much to hope that he tossed it in the woods on his way back up to the street.”

      “Is that it, around his waist?” Marshall pointed to a thickening around the man’s middle, which could easily have been the arms of a hoodie.

      “Shit, yeah. He must have taken it off before he got to the top of the stairs. Maybe it had blood on it.”

      “The size of that gash — it must have been covered.”

      “And no prints from the knife,” Smith continued. The crime scene analysis had revealed very little so far in the way of physical evidence. No fingerprints, or any other obvious identifying marks, had been left by the attacker on either the knife or Ritchie’s clothing. The concrete surface of the trail hadn’t helped either — other than a disturbance of leaves and dirt in the area of the attack, and some marks on the railing that may or may not have resulted from the attack, there was nothing to go on. Yet, a one-hundred-and-ninety-five-pound man had been savagely attacked and pitched over a four-foot-high railing in a matter of seconds. There had to be something they were missing.

      “There’s a Mr. Avery downstairs to see you.” They turned to see a young constable at the briefing room door.

      “Ritchie’s agent,” Smith said, noticing Marshall’s expression.

      “Right. Tell him we’ll be there in a sec.”

      The identification officer pointed to the screen. “I’ll see if I can clean this up a bit, but it’s not gonna get that much better.”

      Making their way down the hall toward the elevators, Smith stopped by a filing cabinet.

      “How high’s that rail down by the canal, Marshy?”

      “I don’t know. Maybe four feet.”

      “And Ritchie’s six two?”

      “If you say so.”

      “Just stand here for a sec.” Smith arranged his partner a few feet away from the cabinet, then took a few steps back down the hall. “Now pretend you’re Ritchie.”

      “I think I’d rather be the other guy.”

      “Seriously. You’re out for your morning run. You’re only a click from your fancy pad, where you’re gonna have a nice breakfast — probably ordered in from some fancy place — then hop in your fancy car and head out to the rink for the day, playing the game you love, that you happen to be fucking great at, and which is guaranteed to pay you millions for years to come.”

      “Can you throw in a couple of swimsuit models for that hot tub?”

      “That’s the spirit. You’re on top of the world, and you’re relaxed. You’re the man . You see some guy jogging along the path toward you, just like the other couple of people you’ve seen in the last hour or so,” Smith said, starting to trot toward him. “The guy gives you a nod, maybe. You do the same…. Then …” he lunged at Marshall, grabbing his shoulder with his right hand, the palm of his left hand striking him gently over the heart as he pushed him back against the filing cabinet, stopping as Marshall’s lower back made contact.

      “The fuck you doing ?” Marshall pushed him away, smoothing his shirt as Smith backed off.

      “It was all in the momentum, and the surprise. Ritchie’s tall and pretty heavy, so once he’s going in the right direction and he hits that rail, he’s going over. You know the saying — the bigger they are, the harder they fall?”

      “Look what you did to my shirt!” Marshall pointed to the loose button.

      “Sorry, but it makes sense, right?”

      “Showoff.” Marshall was still fussing over his shirt as they continued on toward the reception area. “Our guy’d have to be pretty powerful though, even with surprise on his side. Hockey players are strong in the legs, and not so easy to knock off balance.”

      “Maybe our perp’s a player himself?”

      Marshall considered that as they walked out into the waiting area and saw a man in his forties talking on a BlackBerry, his black hair slicked back. He saw them coming and signed off, sliding the phone into the pocket of his pinstripe suit.

      “Mr. Avery?”

      “Call me Dan,” he said, flashing a smile and shaking their hands with a confident grip.

      “David Marshall, and this is Jack Smith. Thanks for coming in.”

      “Normally,