Thin Ice (6 page)

Smith saw the desperation in her eyes as they welled up with tears.

“You're not going to have to pay anything back, Nancy,” Marshall said. “But we're going to have to talk to your brother.”

Smith and Marshall were waiting in a conference room at the Peterborough OPP detachment when a burly constable in his late twenties entered carrying a thin file folder.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said as they shook hands. “Constable Mike Howard.”

“David Marshall and Jack Smith, Ottawa Police.”

“You're investigating the Ritchie murder? That's a tough break at this time of year. I'm a Leafs fan myself, but still.”

“We'll try not to hold that against you,” Marshall said, and they all shared a chuckle.

“Seriously, though. Have you got any leads?”

“Not much so far. But we were told you have a file on Ritchie?”

They had dropped in to the detachment more as a courtesy than anything else, and had been surprised to hear on arriving that there was such a file, and were eager to see just what it contained.

“It's not
on
him, exactly,” Howard said, flipping through the file. “Ritchie laid a complaint for uttering threats.”

“Against who?” Smith and Marshall asked in unison, both knowing the answer.

“John Ridgeway Junior. I interviewed them both myself. There was nothing to it in the end. Ridgeway's sister —”

“We just came from her place. That's why we're here.”

“So you know she was claiming she was pregnant with Ritchie's baby?”

“Yeah, she mentioned her brother was pretty angry with Ritchie, and that they got in a fight — at a diner.”

“The Hard Luck Cafe, yeah. It's a student place, near the Trent campus.”

“So what have you got in there?” Smith pointed to Howard's file.

“Statements from both of them, the sister too, and one of the kitchen staff who saw most of it.” He slid the folder toward Smith, who turned it around and started reading it as Howard continued the summary. “Ritchie admitted he was bad-mouthing the girl, and didn't know the brother was there. John heard it, and he'd had a few beers, so you can imagine he wasn't too happy. There was some yelling and shoving, and a couple of the staff broke them up, and that was it, really.”

“But Ritchie wanted to press charges? You'd think he'd want to keep it as quiet as he could,” Marshall pondered aloud.

“I guess it was too late for that,” Howard said. “The lawyers had already started trading letters by then.”

“Listen to this,” Smith said, reading from one of the statements. “According to the dishwasher, Ridgeway said, and I quote, ‘I'll cut your fucking heart out, you piece of shit. Just see if I don't.'”

“Lemme see that.” Marshall reached for the statement.

“What's the cause of death?” Howard asked. “They didn't say in the papers.”

“It's not official — the autopsy's tomorrow — but he was found with a hunting knife sticking out of the left side of his chest.”

There was silence as the three cops considered the possibilities.

“Okay,” Smith said, collecting his thoughts. “This was months ago, but we're still going to want to talk to the brother, and the witness, too — Stephen Gravelle. Do you know where this is ?” He pointed to John Ridgeway's address.

“Sure, I can bring you if you like,” Howard said. “Gravelle's place isn't far from Ridgeway's.”

“Let's go then, and see what they have to say for themselves.”

John Ridgeway's place was an upstairs apartment located over a Chinese restaurant in a part of town that Howard described as “sketchy.” It was around noon when they climbed the rickety steps to the outside entrance. The only window was covered by a blanket, and after several knocks they saw or heard no sign of movement from inside.

“Maybe he's out,” Howard suggested, as Marshall rapped for the third time. He seemed ready to turn around when they heard the faint sound of footsteps. A few seconds later the door opened with a squeak and a bleary-eyed man in his early twenties with tousled hair emerged from the darkness, clad in a T-shirt and torn sweat pants.

“Yeah?”

“That's him,” Howard said, as Marshall and Smith took out their identification.

“We're with the Ottawa Police,” Marshall said. “I believe you know Constable Howard?”

Ridgeway squinted at the IDs and then at Howard.

“Yeah? So what do you want with me?”

“We'd like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Ridgeway.”

Ridgeway grunted. “What … now?”

“We can do it here,” Marshall said. “Or you can come down to the OPP detachment if you'd prefer.”

Ridgeway sighed, slumping a bit before stepping back to let them in.

“Thank you,” Marshall said, as they entered the cramped apartment, consisting of one living area with a small galley kitchen off to one side and the door to what they presumed was the bedroom on the other. It reeked of stale beer and cigarettes, and looked like it had been the scene of a frat house party during frosh week.

“Have a seat,” Ridgeway said, motioning to a stained and dilapidated couch as he slumped into a battered brown recliner and lit a cigarette. “Ottawa, huh? I think I can guess why you're here.”

“Why's that, Mr. Ridgeway?”

“Gotta be Curtis Ritchie. I know he was killed yesterday. I figured it was only a matter of time before someone came knocking.”

“How did you know he was killed?”

“Are you kidding? It's all over town.”

“Before we get started,” Smith said, launching into a standard caution to advise him of his rights. Ridgeway looked perplexed.

“Do I need a lawyer or something?” he asked, when Smith had finished.

“You can call one if you want. And, like my partner said, we're more than happy to do this down at the detach —”

“Naw,” Ridgeway said, with a wave of his hand. “I got nothin' to hide.”

“All right then,” Smith said. “Did you know Curtis Ritchie well?”

“Let's cut the shit, okay ?” Ridgeway said. “I know you know I got in a bit of a scrap with him a few months back. I'm sure he told you all about it,” he said, gesturing to Howard. “You've seen the statements and you must know about Nancy and the baby and all, so why don't you just ask me?”

“What is it you think we want to ask you, Mr. Ridgeway?”

Ridgeway chuckled and took a long drag on the cigarette before exhaling a blue cloud that lingered over them, highlighting the dust particles hovering in the stale air. “I didn't kill him, but I'm not gonna pretend I'm all broke up ‘cause someone else did.”

“So you don't dispute that you didn't like him.”

“Why should I? He knocks up my little sister and then won't step up and do the right thing. What kinda pussy does that? Not like cash was tight or anything. Fucking cheapskate.”

“We have a statement that you threatened to kill him, to cut his heart out, I think it was,” Smith said, watching Ridgeway as he leaned forward to flick his ash in the general direction of an empty beer can.

“That was all bullshit. I'd had a few beers and was just pissed off. Besides, you should have heard the shit he was saying about Nancy.” He shook his head. “It ain't right that the rules don't apply to him just ‘cause he's some fucking hockey god.”

“Where were you on Saturday morning, Mr. Ridgeway?”

“What's going on?”

They all turned to see a girl in a cotton bathrobe in the bedroom doorway. She looked a few years younger than Ridgeway, and badly hung over.

“I was in there,” Ridgeway said pointing to the bedroom. “Ain't that right, Penny?”

The three cops got up and introduced themselves as she sat on the arm of Ridgeway's chair.

“Yeah,” she said, her eyes dropping to her hands. “He was here, with me, yesterday morning.”

“Were you doing a little celebrating last night?” Smith asked, looking around the room and taking in the empty beer cans and pizza boxes.

“You could say that, yeah,” Ridgeway said, leering at the girl and crushing his cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray.

“Everyone likes to cut loose on the weekend, right?” Smith said, playing along and looking to the girl with a disarming smile. “What about Friday night?”

“Yeah, we were here, not before we closed the Sundance down first, though,” she added with a grin.

“That's a bar downtown,” Howard explained. “Closes around two.”

“Late night, then?”

She nodded, then glanced toward Ridgeway, whose eyes had narrowed slightly as he looked at Smith. “We told you, we were both here,” he said.

“Do you own a vehicle, Mr. Ridgeway ?”

Ridgeway snorted at the question. “It's the Hemi out front.”

“The what?” Marshall began to say, before he saw Smith's expression.

“It's a truck,” Smith said.

“It's not just a truck.” Ridgeway seemed genuinely offended. “It's the most powerful full-size pickup on the market.”

“How long have you had it?” Smith asked.

“Couple of months.”

“Must be a killer on gas, huh?”

“It's not so bad. A hundred bucks'll fill 'er up.”

“When's the last time you filled up?”

Ridgeway paused at the question. “Why're you guys so interested in my truck?”

Smith gave him a disarming smile. “Just routine questions, John.”

“It's John now, is it? Maybe I shouldn't say anything else without a lawyer.”

“Sure, if you want to make this official, we can head down to the detachment. Just say the word.”

Ridgeway's shifty eyes panned across the three cops before settling on the cigarette pack in front of him. He took another one out and lit it. “I gassed up a week ago, give or take, not that it matters.”

Marshall waited to see if Smith had any further questions before resuming his own for a few more minutes.

“We'll probably want to take a formal statement,” he added, flipping his notepad shut.

Ridgeway rolled his eyes. “Fuckin' A.”

“And we'll need a number where we can reach you,” Smith said. “In case we have any other questions. You have a work number?”

Ridgeway shook his head. “Between jobs right now, but you can always get me on my cell.” He gave them the number as they got up to leave.

“Thanks, John,” Smith said on the way out. “We'll be in touch.”

As they walked back down the rickety stairs, they all paused to take in the shiny black pickup parked beside the building. Its windows were darkened with tinting and the massive alloy wheels and tires were definitely aftermarket upgrades.

“That's fifty grand worth of truck,” Howard said with a whistle.

“Standard fare for the unemployed,” Marshall said.

“Maybe he should think about living in it,” Smith added, gesturing up to the apartment. “It looks a lot cleaner than that shithole.”

“Something sure doesn't add up,” Marshall agreed as they got in Howard's car.

“The dishwasher lives a few blocks that way,” Howard said, pulling away from the curb. “So, what did you guys think?”

“I must say, I'm curious where he got the dough for that truck,” Marshall said. “But I'm not sure he's our guy. He seemed too lazy to drive all the way over to Ottawa and back just to stick a knife in Curtis Ritchie. Besides, I can't picture that slob passing as a runner to anyone.”

Smith hadn't thought of that, although the poor quality of the video would make it difficult to rule him in or out. Ridgeway was a tall enough guy, and the resolution and angle of the image of the killer would make an assessment of his body weight difficult. Ridgeway was overweight, but it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. It was certainly clear that he didn't much like Curtis Ritchie.

“There wasn't enough to charge him with uttering threats,” Howard said. “What with provocation, and alcohol to factor in, it didn't seem worth worrying about.”

“I'm sure it wasn't,” Marshall said. “But we'll check him out, anyway.”

Howard stopped the car in front of a bungalow on a quiet street in a much nicer residential area, despite being only a five-minute drive from Ridgeway's hovel.

“Don't tell me that's his,” Smith said, looking at the shining Mustang parked in the driveway. “‘Cause now I'm getting really curious.”

They got out and walked up the front path and knocked on the door. A woman in her sixties answered the door, looking wide-eyed at the three men on her doorstep.

“We're looking for Stephen Gravelle,” Howard said. He showed her his identification, although his uniform left no room for doubt as to who was calling.

“Stevie? He's not here. I … I'm his mother. He stayed over at a friend's last night. Is he in trouble?”

“No ma'am, we just want to ask him a few questions about a witness statement he gave a few months ago. Stephen lives here, at home, then?”

“Yes. Should I tell him to call you as soon as he gets in ?”