Thin Ice (8 page)

“And you did witness an altercation between Curtis Ritchie and John Ridgeway ?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you tell us about that?”

Gravelle fidgeted in his chair. “Look, is this to do with Curtis Ritchie's … murder?”

“Yes, as we said at the start, we're investigating his death.”

“Should I have a lawyer here, with me, I mean …”

“Steve, we might be getting a little ahead of ourselves here. You signed a statement regarding the incident at the Hard Luck. That's what we want to ask you about. You're not a suspect in his murder, and you don't need a lawyer, but if you want one, you're perfectly within your rights to call one right now if you'd like.”

Gravelle's shoulders dropped a couple of inches and the tension in his posture seemed to flow out of him.

“Would you like to get a lawyer, Steve?”

“No, that's fine.”

“Okay, why don't you just tell us what you saw?”

“Nancy and Curtis Ritchie came through the kitchen doors, yelling at each other. I guess it had started out front.”

“What were they yelling about?”

“She was crying,” Gravelle said, leaning back in his chair. “Saying why don't you love me anymore, that sort of thing. He was calling her names.”

“Like what?”

“He called her a slut, and a whore, I think. He said the baby wasn't his and she was just a gold digger. That's when Johnny came in.”

“Her brother, John Ridgeway?”

Gravelle nodded. “He must have been out front when they started arguing, and followed them in.”

“Go on,” Smith prompted.

“He and Ritchie had some words, and then Nancy was saying something and Ritchie shoved her and called her a whore again. That's when Johnny lost it.”

“How'd he lose it?”

“He took a swing at Ritchie, but he missed. I think he was kinda drunk. Ritchie just shoved him to the floor and pinned him down.”

“What was Nancy doing?”

“She was crying, telling him to leave her brother alone. That's when Johnny said he was gonna kill him.”

“Do you remember what he said, exactly ?”

“It's in my statement, but I think he said he was gonna cut his heart out, something like that.”

“You don't remember?”

Gravelle paused, looking first at Marshall then back to Smith. “Yeah, I remember. He said he was gonna cut his fucking heart out.”

“What did Ritchie do?”

“He just laughed. Nancy begged him to leave, and he did.”

“He didn't say anything else?”

“No … well, he called John a loser and then he got off him, then he left. That was pretty much it.”

Smith nodded. Given the fact that it was Ritchie pinning Ridgeway down when the threat was uttered, not to mention the obvious provocation, he could understand why no charges were laid. Gravelle's recollection was in line with his statement, as well. He decided to try a different tack.

“So you quit your job … when was that again?”

“Early May, I guess.”

“So, a few weeks after the incident at the Hard Luck?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“I couldn't help admiring your Mustang earlier today. Your mom said you got it this summer.”

“Um-hmm,” Gravelle muttered, shifting his weight on the chair and crossing his arms.

“Anyone else talk to you about the incident at the Hard Luck, besides the OPP?”

“No,” he replied quickly.

“You sure about that?”

Gravelle paused, looked down at the table, then up at Smith. “Well, there was one guy.”

“This guy, did he get in touch with you, or the other way around?”

“Naw, he called me…. Look … I can't … if I …” Gravelle stopped and squirmed some more. Smith let the silence linger for a few more seconds before continuing.

“I'm only going to say this once, Steve. A young man is dead, quite probably murdered. This is an official investigation and I expect answers to my questions. If you hold out on me, you're going to find yourself in a whole lot of trouble, real quick. Do we understand each other?”

Gravelle nodded, his eyes pleading.

“Did someone pay you to keep quiet about what you saw at the Hard Luck ?”

“If I tell, I'll have to give it back.” Gravelle was in obvious distress, blurting out the words.

“Someone paid you and told you that if you ever said who it was from, you'd have to pay it back?”

Gravelle nodded.

“Who was it that you talked to?”

“He said he represented Curtis.”

“Was he a lawyer?”

“I don't think so.”

“An agent?”

“Maybe. I think so…. I really don't know. I only ever talked to him on the phone. He told me I could never tell anyone, or I'd have to pay it back. What am I gonna do?”

“How much money did he pay you, this agent?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

Smith looked at Marshall.

“Do you know if this agent paid anything to John or Nancy Ridgeway?”

Gravelle shook his head. “I don't know. I haven't talked to Johnny since that night. I don't really like him.”

“What about Nancy?”

“She didn't say, and I lost touch with her after I quit.”

“How'd you get the money?”

“They couriered a cheque. It was here two days after I talked to the guy.”

“You still have the stub?”

“I doubt it … maybe. I don't know. Are you gonna charge me?”

Smith sighed and stood up, motioning for Marshall and Howard to join him. “Relax, Steve. You haven't done anything wrong, as far as I can tell. Just sit tight for a sec. I'll be right back.”

Marshall was first to speak when the door was closed behind them. “That fucking agent's got some explaining to do, that's for sure.”

Smith nodded. “And I want to talk to John Ridgeway again. I got a feeling he was paid off by the same person, which is why he lost interest in his sister's claim so easily.”

“So Ridgeway buys a truck and Gravelle a Mustang. Not exactly low-profile. Then again, like you told him,” Marshall gestured toward the door to the interview room. “There's nothing illegal about taking the money.”

“Yeah, I'm not sure any of this really helps us, but I'd love to know more about Ridgeway before we cross him off our list. I'm also curious to know whether the payments to Gravelle and Nancy Ridgeway came from the same source. I wonder where we are on the warrant.”

“What about him?” Marshall gestured toward Gravelle. “Poor kid's probably shitting himself in there.”

“I guess we cut him loose, but maybe we can find out who the payee on the cheque was first.”

“I can go back home with him, see if he's got the stub,” Howard offered.

Smith was about to respond when his phone rang. Marshall and Howard discussed how to deal with Gravelle as Smith wandered off, phone at his ear. He was back a few minutes later.

“What?” Marshall could tell from his partner's expression that there was news.

“That was Beaudoin. Turns out a teammate of Ritchie's from Peterborough came in to give a statement.”

“Sayin' what?”

“About a death threat he witnessed being uttered against Ritchie at a Toronto hotel back in March.”

“Who threatened him?”

“You're gonna love this,” Smith said, putting his phone back in his pocket. “Tom Saunders.”

“Wait'll I get my hands on Avery,” Marshall said, gripping the wheel as they sped along Highway 7, the early evening sunshine casting the scenic views in an auburn glow. They had filled in some of the details of the Peterborough teammate's testimony since hitting the road, most notably that the argument that led to the threat had to do with Ritchie cutting Saunders loose as his agent, a fact that came as a complete surprise to both investigators.

“Take it easy, will you,” Smith said as they came up fast behind a camper trailer with a pair of bicycles strapped to the back. “There'll be plenty of time for you to kick the shit out of Avery when we get back. Not that he's actually done anything.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, he left some stuff out, there's no question. But in fairness, we didn't ask him how long he'd been representing Ritchie, or who he might have stabbed in the back to get the gig.” Smith was sketching on his notebook, drawing lines jutting out from a central circle representing Curtis Ritchie, connecting to everyone that they had come into contact with in the past twenty-four hours. One of the lines led to a circle with a question mark at its centre, representing the man from the video — presumably the killer. He drew another line from the middle circle to a new one, in which he wrote Dan Avery's name.

“What about the payments to Gravelle and John Ridgeway?” Marshall rapped his knuckles on the steering wheel in frustration. “Kind of important information to leave out, no?”

Smith had a few questions of his own for Avery, and he was certain there was a sordid story lurking behind the agent, Gravelle, and especially John Ridgeway, but he wasn't at all sure it was going to lead them any closer to finding Curtis Ritchie's killer. The stepfather had potential though, Smith thought, as he recalled the instant impression the man had made when they first met him with Ellen Ritchie. All Smith could think of was that damning question near the end of the interview: How were they going to pay for the rest of the house? He looked up from his sketch.

“What did Avery say the mother was going to see from the contract? Five hundred grand plus whatever's left of the bonus money?”

“You're thinking it's enough for Saunders to kill him over?”

“Not a bad payday. But he doesn't strike me as being the brightest guy, for some reason. If he did do it, he'll have left clues.”

“Maybe.” Marshall swung the car over the centre line and pulled it back just as quickly as on oncoming semi rattled by.

“Besides,” Smith put the notebook down in his lap, “what if money wasn't the motive, or at least not the main motive?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, imagine you're the stepdad. Maybe Ritchie wasn't the easiest kid in the world to handle, right? Add to that the fact that both adoptive parents are dead and you're adoptive mom number two's new boyfriend. Probably led to some complications.”

“I agree his family history's a fucking mess. Then again, that seems to be the norm these days.”

“Fair enough,” Smith said. “But then imagine things take a turn for the better. The kid's suddenly on the fast track to the pros, as a number one pick, no less. And who's there to look after his interests? Good ole Stepdad. He's a couple of months from Ritchie getting snapped up in the first round — the beginning of a pretty short road, at the end of which is a contract for millions, and the commission that goes with it — and he gets cut loose. How pissed would
you
be ?”

Marshall pulled out to pass the camper as they reached a stretch of double-lane highway. “Pretty pissed. But why'd he wait five months? Besides, as long as Saunders stayed with the mom, he was gonna do okay. Shit, that reminds me; we never got a chance to check out the house they were building.”

“I got a feeling we'll be back before long,” Smith said as the shrill ring of his phone pierced the quiet of the car's interior.

“Yeah, Smith here.” He scrambled for his pen and started scribbling in his notebook. “No shit? What for?” He scratched a few more notes, then looked over at Marshall. “When on Friday?” There was another pause, followed by more scribbling. “Okay, let me know if you find out anything about the Delaware company.”

Marshall stifled a yawn with the back of his hand as Smith ended the call.

“I'm gonna have to stop in Perth for a coffee or I'm gonna drive off the road. What was all that about?”

“John Ridgeway lied to us, for starters. His Easypass account shows he gassed up on Friday evening, around six — almost seventy bucks worth. He told us it had been a week.”

“And you said there was only a quarter tank left on the fuel gauge? That means he burned three-quarters of a tank in less than forty-eight hours. That's about what we'll have used by the time we get back to Ottawa.”

Smith nodded. “They also accessed his bank account and found a deposit of fifty grand, around the same time Gravelle got his money. Same payee — the Ontario numbered company. They're still checking it out, but one of the shareholders is another numbered company, to which Curtis Ritchie has been making some pretty hefty payments since he signed on with Ottawa.”

“This is getting interesting.” Marshall glanced at his watch. “When do we interview Avery again?”

“He'll be at the station at seven thirty. We should be there by then. You've even got time for your coffee,” Smith added, as they passed a giant Tim Horton's billboard, indicating that salvation lay ten kilometres ahead.

“So, Dan,” Marshall said, as they sat around the table in the same meeting room where they had first interviewed Avery the day before. “We just got back from Peterborough, and we learned all kinds of interesting things.”

“Oh yeah?” The interview was only seconds old and the confident façade was already starting to erode. Avery was wearing the same suit as the day before, with a different shirt unbuttoned at the crisp collar.

“You said Nancy Ridgeway's claim was bullshit, and that she dropped it when she realized Ritchie was going to fight it.”

“Yeah.”

“That's still your understanding of what happened?”

“Look fellas, I don't know what you're getting at. I told you the truth.”

“Well, we spoke to Nancy's lawyer, Derek Bell, and he told us the case was settled — for fifty thousand dollars.”

“What?”

Marshall nodded. “Do you know Stephen Gravelle?”

Avery was still stung by the figure. It took him a few seconds to shake his head. “I don't think so.”

“What about John Ridgeway, Nancy's brother? You ever talk to him ?”

“No, Curtis told me about a scuffle he got into with Nancy's brother, but I don't think I've ever heard his first name, to be honest.”

“Since we're being honest, I'll tell you who Stephen Gravelle is. He's the dishwasher at the Hard Luck Cafe who witnessed the scuffle between Curtis and John Ridgeway. Turns out he got paid fifty grand, too. So did John.”

Avery was looking like the last kid standing at a game of musical chairs as Marshall continued.

“It was hush money, Dan,” Marshall said, putting his elbows on the table and leaning toward Avery. “And Gravelle told us the offer was made by Curtis Ritchie's agent. Care to comment?”

Avery was ashen-faced. “I really don't understand. I have never spoken with … never even heard of this Gravelle person. And I certainly didn't offer to pay him anything.”

“Have you ever heard of 819640 Ontario Inc.?” Smith asked.

Avery frowned. “No.”

“You said you were Curtis Ritchie's business manager as well as his agent. Is that right?”

“Yeah, that's right.”

“So you would know about any significant payments he was making, on a regular basis, wouldn't you?”

“I guess so, but it's not like I was his banker or anything.” Avery squirmed in his chair. “I didn't supervise his account. I mean, it was his money, after all.”

“What about 169421 Ontario Inc. Ever hear of it?”

Avery looked as puzzled to hear of the second numbered company as the first. “No. Listen, guys …”

“Curtis Ritchie made a series of payments to that company totalling more than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars between May and July of this year. Are you telling us that as his business manager you had no idea about those payments?”

Avery had a blank expression on his face. “I … I guess so. I really don't know anything about those payments, and I've never heard of those two companies.”

Smith looked at Marshall and nodded toward the door.

“We're gonna take a minute, Dan. You sit tight.”

They left the room, stepping into the hallway and closing the door to the interview room.

“He's either a very good liar,” Smith said, “or he really doesn't know about the hush money, or the large chunks of dough coming out of Ritchie's account.”

Marshall nodded. “Something's weird. It's not the reaction I was looking for.”

“You don't suppose Ritchie had another agent?”

“Why would he have two? Why would he want to
pay
for two, apart from anything else ?”

“I don't know. It doesn't add up. I was wondering if it was just me.” Smith checked his phone for messages and seeing nothing from commercial crimes, he patted Marshall on the shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt. You gonna ask him about the stepfather next?”

“Yeah,” Marshall said, opening the door. Avery looked up expectantly as they re-entered the room and took their seats.

“I really don't know why you're asking all these questions about numbered companies, but I'm telling you the truth. I'm starting to wonder if I should have a lawyer here, though.”

Marshall smiled. “You're not under arrest, Dan, and this is a voluntary statement.”

“But you said it's being recorded,” Avery said, his Adam's apple bobbing.

“Standard procedure. This is a homicide investigation.”

“So I don't need a lawyer?”

Marshall shrugged his shoulders. “You can call a lawyer anytime you want, but like I said, this is just a statement.”

Avery seemed to consider his position for a moment, then nodded. “All right.”

“We're just trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together, Dan,” Marshall continued. “We hear that Ritchie's agent contacted two people who witnessed a scuffle and paid them significant sums of money for their silence. We're not suggesting that you're lying, but you can understand why we're a little confused right now. Same goes for the payments from Ritchie's account.”

Marshall paused, as Avery's brow furrowed in thought.

“I don't suppose it was someone from Ashcroft?” he said, after a long pause.

“Who's Ashcroft?”

“It's a PR firm. A lot of the pros use them.”

“You mean to cover stuff up, like that golfer?” Smith had scribbled the name in his book and circled it.

Avery shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know if they represent him — they're pretty secretive — but yeah, that sort of thing would be up their alley.”

“Would paying people off to be quiet about events that might damage a professional athlete's reputation be up their alley, too?” Marshall continued.

“You'd have to ask them that.”

“Where can we find out more about Ashcroft?”

“I think they're based in DC, but like I said, they're fairly secretive.”

“They don't advertise their services?”

“They don't need to. Ask any big-time pro athlete who does their PR, and chances are it's Ashcroft.”

“All right,” Marshall said, standing to stretch. The five hours he had spent at the wheel were having their effect on his lower back. “What do you know about Tom Saunders?”

Avery gave a grim chuckle. “He's Ellen Ritchie's boyfriend.”

“We're told he was representing Curtis, up until around this past March, anyway.”

“If he told you that, I wouldn't be surprised, but I don't think
Curtis
ever thought he was representing him.”

“How about you, Dan? When did you become Curtis's agent?”

“I've been in touch with him for the past eighteen months or so. We met at an OHL awards banquet.”

“When did you sign him up as a client? Officially, I mean.”

“Last March.”

“That's pretty good timing,” Smith commented. “You come on board just in time for him to go number one. You pick up the commission for his rookie contract, and put yourself in position for the big payday in a couple of years, not to mention the commissions on all the endorsement deals. Saunders can't have been too happy.”

“Saunders is a moron,” Avery sneered. “He's a retired paralegal who thinks he's an agent. As if challenging parking tickets in small claims court somehow qualified him to negotiate complicated multi-million-dollar pro sports contracts.”