Thin Ice (7 page)

“That'll be fine.” Howard gave her his card.

Smith pointed to the Mustang. “Is that your son's car?”

Mrs. Gravelle frowned. “Yes, it's his. Spends more time polishing that thing than doing anything useful around here, that's for sure.”

“Well he's doing a good job. It looks brand new.”

“It should. He's only had it a few months.”

“You don't say.” Smith glanced at Marshall as they turned to leave. “Thanks for your time, Mrs. Gravelle.”

“Thank you, officers. I'll make sure to tell Stevie to call you as soon as he gets back.”

Smith took note of the dealer sticker on the back of the car, and wrote it in his notebook. “Can we spin by Ridgeway's again on our way back?” he said, as they got in the car.

“Sure,” Howard said as he turned the car around.

Approaching Ridgeway's apartment a few minutes later, they could see the truck backing out of the driveway.

“Block him off, will you?”

“What are you up to, Smitty?” Marshall said, as Howard honked and pulled up behind Ridgeway's truck.

“You'll see.” Smith jumped out of the back seat and walked up to the driver's side of the truck, just as the smoked glass window came down to reveal Ridgeway's face, his irritation obvious.

“What'd you forget to ask me whether it takes regular or unleaded?”

Smith laughed and stepped up onto the running board and looked into the cab. Ridgeway leaned back, surprised by the gesture.

“Sorry, I just couldn't resist having a look inside. I've been thinking of getting one of these myself. How many horses she got?”

Enjoying the admiration for his vehicle, Ridgeway relaxed. “The base model's got two-fifty, but the Hemi's got almost three hundred,” he said, as Smith took in the instrument panel.

“And I guess towing's not a problem?”

“You kidding?”

“It really is quite a truck. I'm sorry to bother you, John. I'll let you get on your way now.”

“All right then,” Ridgeway said awkwardly as Smith jumped back down, glanced at the tailgate, and got back in the car.

“What the fuck was that all about?” Marshall said, as they pulled ahead and Ridgeway drove off.

“Maybe nothing. What do you say we grab a bite?”

“What do you think of our odds of getting a warrant for Ridgeway's finances?” Smith said as they all sat around the booth. Howard had recommended the little diner for lunch because of its food, and its proximity to the detachment office.

“He's the only person of interest we've got so far, in the biggest murder in Ottawa's history. Pretty good, I'd say.” Marshall plucked the laminated menus from the end of the table and passed them out. “What do you think you're gonna find?”

“Not sure, but did you notice the keychain by the door?”

“Not really. Why?”

“It's got one of those Easypass gizmos on it. For gas, you know?”

Marshall put the menu down. “You're thinking he might have lied about when he last gassed up?”

“If he was in Ottawa on the morning of Ritchie's murder, that truck is his most likely method of transport. And he doesn't strike me as the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“Even he wouldn't be dumb enough to gas up with a credit card — or whatever — near Ottawa, if he was our guy.”

“People can surprise you.”

“So, you were looking at his gas gauge?”

“Just under a quarter-tank. Here to Ottawa and back would be about three quarters of a tank, wouldn't it?”

“About that.” Marshall was grinning. “Not bad, Smitty. If he's lying about when he filled up last, you might be onto something. Call it in.”

As Smith stepped out to make the call to set the warrant in motion, Marshall chatted with Howard. They were soon back to the investigation.

“You think it might be Ridgeway?” The young constable's excitement was obvious.

“I don't think we're that lucky,” Marshall said. “But you never know. Guys tend to be protective of little sisters.”

“So, where to next ?” Howard said, as the waitress arrived to take their orders.

“Ridgeway's lawyer, Derek Bell. You know him?”

“Doesn't sound familiar, but I guess he's not a criminal lawyer.”

“Generalist, I think,” Marshall said, as Smith returned.

“What'd you get me?”

“Burger.”

“Cheese?”

“Of course, cheese. What's the word?”

“I talked to Beaudoin. He thinks it'll be a slam dunk.”

“Good.”

Smith yawned and looked at his watch. “So we've got the lawyer at one-thirty, and then it's just the dishwasher. He should be back to us by the end of that meeting.”

“If it's okay with you,” Howard said, “I'll drop you back at the station after lunch. I've got to be in the other end of town for a two o'clock. The lawyer's office is across the street.”

“Perfect. Thanks for taking us around this morning.”

“No worries. So what do you guys think? If it's not Ridgeway, do you think it could be some crazy fan?”

“Anything's possible right now,” Marshall said. “I meant to ask you, since Ritchie played his junior hockey here, did you ever see him in action?”

Howard nodded. “Sure. He was amazing. I've never seen anyone with a nose for the net like that. He wasn't a big hitter, or much of a backchecker. But he was fast, and man, did he ever know how to put the puck in the net. He woulda broken some records, that's for sure.”

“I guess we'll never know.”

Smith and Marshall sat at a round table in a little library off the main reception area at Derek Bell and Associates. According to the directory by the front door, the converted two-storey housed a handful of lawyers, practising everything from property law, wills, and estates to family and criminal law. Bell himself was listed as a property expert, Smith noticed, looking at a certificate on the wall. He glanced at the adjacent print, depicting a man in Victorian clothes standing before a mirror with a legal text in one hand, the other raised dramatically. The caption below read: The lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client.

“Hey, Marsh, check it out,” Smith said, pointing to the print as Bell, who had already greeted them and ushered them into the library himself — the office being closed for the holiday — came through the door with a file in his hand. He was wearing jeans and a polo shirt, but didn't seem too put out by their arrival, given he was already working anyway. The rest of the building seemed empty.

“That one's my favourite,” he said, following Smith's gaze.

“It's a great line,” Smith agreed as Bell sat and opened the file folder.

“So, what can I help you with, detectives?” They had kept the explanation for their visit vague on the phone, but Bell had obviously come to his own conclusions about the purpose.

“We're investigating Curtis Ritchie's murder, and our inquiries led us to Nancy Ridgeway. We understand you represented her.”

Bell nodded. “Yes, I did. But surely you don't think she's a suspect. She wouldn't harm a fly.”

“No, she's not a suspect at this time, but we are interested in her paternity claim.”

Bell crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “It's a bit of a sad story, really. She's basically a good kid who got mixed up with the wrong guy.”

“You mean Curtis Ritchie?”

Bell nodded.

“So you think he's the father of Nancy Ridgeway's child ?”

“I have no doubt.”

“Then why didn't she pursue the claim?”

“You'd have to ask her that, but I suspect it had a lot to do with family pressure, and appearances.”

Smith looked up from his notes. “We met her parents this morning, and I can see what you mean about their not wanting the claim going through the courts. Who could blame them?”

“Yeah. I've known John Senior for twenty years. He's a good man, and I know he's crushed by this whole thing. Since Nancy's still a minor, he had the final say on the litigation.”

“What about John Junior?” Marshall asked.

Bell's face hardened at the sound of the name. “What about him?”

“Do you know him well?”

“Not really.”

“Was he involved in the claim?”

“Most of the meetings were at the family home, and he was there, though I think he's moved out since.”

Smith nodded. “Yeah, we've been to his place. He should probably have toughed it out at home for a few more years.”

Bell grinned. “To be honest with you, I always felt that it was John Junior who convinced Nancy's folks to file the claim in the first place. I took instructions from the father, as Nancy's legal guardian, but I think his son was egging them on.”

“Nancy mentioned it settled for fifty thousand. That doesn't sound like a lot of money.”

“It's not. I advised them against accepting it, but by then I think John Senior had stopped listening to his son, and Nancy had lost heart. It had already started to become unpleasant.”

“How so?”

“Ritchie's lawyers wanted Nancy examined by an independent gynecologist, and they sent out a letter threatening all sorts of things, including a counterclaim for defamation, recovery of astronomical medical costs, that sort of thing. It was all smoke and mirrors, but it was clear they were going to fight the thing to the end.” Bell unfolded his arms and leaned over the table. “Like I said, I advised him against settling for that amount, as I think it was my duty to do. But deep down I was glad he didn't listen. It would have torn them apart.”

“What about John Junior? How did he feel about the settlement?”

“He wasn't really in the mix by the time it got to settlement. He wasn't at the last meeting we had to discuss it.”

“Were you surprised?”

“A little, I guess. He certainly seemed to be pushing it in the beginning.”

“So when, exactly, did you settle ?”

Bell reached for the file folder, opened it, and flipped to a lawyer's letter with a cheque stub on top. Even looking at it upside down, Smith could see the amount of fifty thousand dollars, and the name of the payee: Derek Bell and Associates.

“Who's the cheque from?” he asked.

Bell looked at the stub, and his eyebrows rose just a little. “I was assuming it was the other lawyer's trust account — my paralegal processes all of the cheques — but it's actually from a numbered company.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Not really, though it's usually either from the opposing firm or directly from an insurance company.”

“And this isn't?”

“I don't think so, but to be honest, I never checked. Like I said, I don't really get involved in processing the cheques. Besides, the funds cleared and everyone was happy. Well, sort of.”

“Can we get the number?”

“I don't see why not. It's 819640 Ontario Ltd.”

“Thanks.” Smith scribbled the name in his notebook. “I see the cheque was made out to your firm. Is that normal?”

“Yes. Our fees and disbursements are deducted, and the balance is paid to the plaintiff. In this case, it was to John Senior, because of Nancy's age. I can give you the exact amount, if you think it might be relevant. I only charged them ten percent.”

“If you wouldn't mind.”

“It was forty-three thousand, even.”

Smith pictured the Ridgeways around the kitchen table looking at the cheque, which seemed like a paltry sum for all their troubles.

“Any idea what they planned to do with the money?”

“None of my business, but if I know John Senior, it will be put away for the benefit of his daughter and her baby.”

“And John Junior wouldn't have any right to any of it?”

“Not unless they had some kind of agreement within the family, but I doubt it.”

Marshall resumed with a few more questions before they thanked Bell and headed out into the warm afternoon sunshine.

“So?” Marshall said, as Smith fumbled with his notebook, feeling a sudden and powerful urge to smoke. He tried to focus on the case instead.

“I'm gonna give commercial crimes this company and see what comes back. If it's not an insurer, who would be paying Ritchie's debts ?”

“Lifestyles of the rich and famous…. Maybe some slush fund in the Caymans.”

“But this was before he was drafted, remember?”

“True.”

Smith placed the call as they began strolling back toward the OPP detachment. Smith had just finished his call when his phone rang again. He said a few words, looked at his watch, then hung up.

“What's up?”

“That was Howard. Gravelle — the dishwasher — called. He's on his way to the station. Howard's going to meet us there,” he added.

They were less than a hundred feet from the detachment, almost at the crosswalk, when the air filled with the throaty roar of a sports car's engine.

“There he is now,” Smith said, turning to see the shiny new Mustang pull up at the light.

“Thanks for coming in,” Smith said as he took a seat between Marshall and Howard. Stephen Gravelle sat opposite, looking decidedly hung over, and nervous.

“Do you prefer Steve or Stephen?”

“Steve's fine.”

Smith pointed to the little black ball affixed to the wall by the door. “Just so you know, that's recording video and audio.”

Gravelle shrugged. “Uh, okay.”

“I understand you work at the Hard Luck Cafe, is that right, Steve?”

“Used to, yeah.” Gravelle was dressed in shorts and a checkered shirt, and Smith's well-trained nose picked up the smell of stale smoke from the cotton.

“You don't work there anymore?”

“No, I quit. I'm going to Trent now.”

“When did you quit?”

“I don't know. Around the beginning of May, I guess.”

“Summer off, huh? Nice. What are you studying at Trent?”

“Psychology.”

Good luck finding a job with that one
, Smith thought, as he made a note. “But you did work at the Hard Luck, back in the spring of this year?”

“Yeah.”