Thin Ice. Nick Wilkshire

      “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 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?”

      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?”