Thin Ice. Nick Wilkshire

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 ?”

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

      Smith СКАЧАТЬ