Thin Ice. Nick Wilkshire

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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?”

      CHAPTER 7

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ