Smith and Marshall stood in the reception area looking at the wall of posters, photos, and other Raftsmen memorabilia. Marshall, a diehard fan since the team’s arrival in the nineties, was particularly interested in the photos and framed newspaper headlines from the early days, especially the signing of the team’s longtime captain, Dennis Hearst, twelve years earlier. As for Smith, the Raftsmen had grown on him the longer he stayed in Ottawa, but he had grown up a Montreal fan, so he always found his allegiances strained whenever the two teams went head to head. He glanced at a series of newspaper headlines at the near end of the long wall, announcing the blockbuster Ritchie deal. One was a cover from the Hockey News that Smith remembered from the summer. The caption, “Ottawa’s Saviour,” topped a picture of Curtis Ritchie in a Raftsmen jersey and cap, flanked by McAdam on one side and the team’s owner, James Cormier, on the other. All three wore broad smiles, Smith noticed.

      Marshall wandered over to join him. Both men heard a sound behind them and turned to see Cormier standing there. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, extending his hand. “Jim Cormier.”

      Smith thought he looked shorter in person, but no less impressive. In fact, he seemed to radiate a general aura of confidence as he chit-chatted about the photo they had been looking at. He was dressed casually in khakis and a polo shirt, but despite the relaxed attire and easy smile, the distress of the morning’s events was evident in his tanned features.

      “I still can’t believe it,” he said, staring at the photo. “It’s such a waste. Come on, let’s go back to my office.”

      They followed him into a large office with more memorabilia on the walls and took a seat as Cormier retreated behind an oversized desk.

      “Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee or a soda?”

      “No, thanks,” Marshall said, as he noticed a picture hanging on the wall of Cormier and the current prime minister, who was sporting a Raftsmen jersey. “We appreciate you making time for us. This can’t be an easy day for you.”

      “I’m meeting with Curtis’s mom in an hour. My problems are nothing compared to hers.”

      Marshall nodded. “We spoke to her earlier. Did you know Curtis well?”

      “I wouldn’t say well, but I met with him over the summer a few times. We had him and his family over for dinner a couple of times, and I talked to him about his future.” Cormier paused and glanced out the window. “I like to think I’m a pretty good judge of people, and Curtis was a winner. That much was clear.”

      “Do you know if Curtis had any enemies?”

      “Enemies ?” Cormier paused again. “No. But I’m sure he had a lot of people jealous of him. He had a lot to be jealous of — youth, good looks, talent — not to mention his career prospects.”

      “About his contract,” Smith said. “We understand it was just under a million. Is that right?” Everyone who hadn’t spent the summer under a rock knew the amount, but the mechanics of the payments in the age of salary caps was a mystery to most, including Smith.

      Cormier 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