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 that many people around that early, so the killer figures it’s him.”

      Marshall was nodding and sipping his coffee.

      “So 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