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Authors: Eric Wight

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Disconcerted by his failure to make Mackenzie smile at the self parody he had been trying for, Gregson nodded slowly. “I know what you're thinking, Hal, and that is a reasonable assumption, an assumption anyone would make, must make, and it makes no difference if it is true or not. But no. My own interest, as I suggested, is entirely personal. Allied with Flora's, as I mentioned, but my own still. Lucas was, not a
friend
, but a crony. I liked him. We went to the track together once or twice. He had a box at Woodbine. And though I believe the details of his private life are irrelevant to your investigation, they might not seem so to your people and to a salacious public eager for libelous anecdotes. My visit here is to assist you in finding the culprit, while leaving undisturbed irrelevant facts about Lucas's private life, however interesting.”
Mackenzie, feeling patronized by Gregson's style, and no longer wary of Gregson himself, came alive. “For Christ's sake, Calvin, get
hold of yourself. Why are you talking like this? I mean, I know what you are talking
about
, but come out of the courtroom, will you? Or is this the way you talk in bed, too?”
“I was just relaxing in your company, Hal, forgetting myself.”
“Bullshit. You were trying to impress me. Let's take that for granted. I'm impressed by you. Have been for twenty years. And even more lately, ever since that stage carpenter who killed the actor got off with two years for manslaughter, thanks to you. You impress me, always have. No need to keep it up. Now, what are we here for? What's this new development?”
“Gavin Chapel, the tribune.”
“Thought you said he worked for the
The Dominion.
”
“I meant the tribune, the herald of the people, not the paper he works for.”
“Ah.” Mackenzie wrote it down on a pad. “My daughter gave me a big dictionary for Christmas, on a wooden stand. I'll look it up. So what's he up to?”
“First of all, he's after your ass.”
“Tell him to get in line,” Mackenzie said, while he considered whether he had allowed Gregson too much familiarity for all his million-dollar-a-year income. He didn't want to show any kind of concern, not to Gregson, and he mulled how to let the lawyer tell his story without appearing to be too interested. He had recently discovered the difference between “uninterested” and “disinterested,” and he tried now to speak out of a disinterested curiosity, the curiosity of a man whose ass was totally protected. “Going a goddamn strange way about it, isn't he? Does he think he can get Flora Lucas to help him raise a stink? That's not her way, you say.”
“You know her?”
“I've read about her. And seen her picture. About fifty? Tall, kind of plump, quite well-featured?”
“She's forty-eight … .
“Keeps herself in shape, too. How come she never married?”
“She was once. He died.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I've known her for many years. I went to Jarvis with one of her old boyfriends. Her last …” Gregson either searched for the
word or paused to let Mackenzie know it was coming. “ … lover was a doctor who worked for Doctors Without Borders. He worked with a group in Africa, trying to keep kids alive. He is or was Greek. He disappeared. Flora met him when she went to Bosnia in the early days to find out what had happened to the money she had raised to assist child refugees.”
“You've answered that one, then. Can we move on? This reporter?”
“I called Flora a couple of days ago. There haven't been too many sex murders lately, so he was casting around, looking for something to write about, and he stumbled over Lucas's case. One thing led to another, and he dug and came up with one or two things he thought she should know. Things no one else knew, except you, of course.”
“Like?”
“You know what I'm talking about?
“Not yet.”
Gregson sighed. “Okay, then. Chapel spoke of what you are keeping close to your chest. About Lucas's visitor that night.”
Mackenzie shrugged and waited.
“To start with the facts, then–you're going to make me spell it out, aren't you, you bastard?–okay, the night Jerry was stabbed, he had a visitor, a woman who looked to the neighbors like a hooker. Someone the police have so far not mentioned.”
“Not to you or to the media, no.”
“Point is, Flora is afraid of what Chapel will find out about this woman. She's concerned, though not in the way you think. She doesn't care about Jerry's sex life. They were so close she probably knew all about it.”
“Let's go back over it. She doesn't care, his sister, that maybe he was killed by a prostitute?”
“It wouldn't bother her. He just got unlucky, or made a bad choice, that's all. But she doesn't want it turned into a sex scandal saga, which Chapel will do. Two or three weeks of newspaper speculation, which will eventually involve her and–this is for your ears only, Hal–the discovery that her last boyfriend was a Greek doctor who disappeared in the Sahara. The connection is not public. It's nobody's business but her own, but she is a politician, and therefore
who she's slept with lately is interesting, and it's a rotten prospect for her.”
“And?”
“And?”
“And now she wants to lean on us a little, which she's not supposed to do, so she's asked you to bring the message. As you say, it wouldn't do her any good in the Ottawa Valley to have her connected with the Greek doctor.”
“But, Hal, would you believe that her real motive is to protect her privacy? The assumption these days about a woman in her position is that she's a lesbian; the assumption in sophisticated circles, that is, not in the Ottawa Valley. Would you believe that she would rather they think whatever they like than that they should actually know about her private life, which is much less interesting? We're talking about a …
lady
here, Hal, not some MPP trying to keep her nose clean while she angles for a cabinet job.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“I'd like to be able to tell Flora that you've moved the investigation onto the front burner to try to get it solved. You know, put your best men on it, as they say.”
“You can tell her that. I can speak to Marinelli. I can't shut this reporter up.”
“I'll try to speak to someone on the masthead. Get them to lay off for a couple of weeks.”
“That how long it will take us?” Again, Mackenzie's tone gave the remark several possible interpretations. “I guess I could talk to someone on the–what did you call it?–the masthead, too, but that would use up all my influence for about a year. Can't her connections handle it?”
They considered each other for a few seconds. Mackenzie continued. “The editors or the publishers or owners–they're all in your club, aren't they?”
Gregson laughed. “That's not exactly how it works, Hal. Okay, I'll think of something.”
“Have a word with the premier. He must know someone who can help.” Mackenzie leaned away from his desk, openly jeering, adopting the voice of the man on the street who believes all the people
at the top are hand in glove with each other, protecting each other's interests. Not that this discounted what had already been understood between them. Mackenzie simply wanted to put a limit on their collaboration, so he leaned back.
Gregson picked up his raincoat, grabbing it in the middle as if he intended to dump it in a garbage can on his way out. “Find her, please, and get her out of sight.”
Like a goddamn actor, Mackenzie said later, to Salter.
 
 
“You know him?” Mackenzie asked, when the door had closed on Gregson, and Salter had reappeared. “You collared that stagehand who killed that actor, didn't you? Gregson got him off easy.”
“Two years. Apart from that, I've never come up against him, but I know about him, sure. He gets himself in the papers and on TV giving his opinion on capital punishment, stuff like that. He likes the spotlight.”
“Dresses like it, that's for sure. Real prince.”
“What did he want?”
Mackenzie considered the question for several seconds. “I'm not sure. Says he's looking out for Flora Lucas. You know? The politico? But he's not the family lawyer. I've already heard from that one. Gregson implied they are afraid that if the investigation goes on too long it will damage her chances in the election. She's tipped for A-G, did you know that? Gregson made goddamn sure that I knew it. But that's not the point. Point is, I don't think Gregson was being totally up front. I think there's something else.” Mackenzie laced his fingers together and hunched over the desk, thinking. “Something, maybe, about Lucas that all the guys in Gregson's club know, but are keeping quiet about to protect his reputation. Maybe hers, too. Funny. As a lawyer, getting a client off, he's worth a million a year, but offstage, like, he's a lousy liar. I must tell Marinelli.”
 
 
I could leave a letter on Mackenzie's desk tonight, Salter thought, telling him that “compelling personal circumstances” had made it necessary for him to leave a few months early. They would go for that.
He could drive down to the Island and surprise Annie.
It was ten years since he had taken that drive. Get up at five and get the hairy part, the 401 through Montreal, out of the way by lunchtime. Then south through Quebec for a couple of hours, enjoying the Frenchness of the villages, the first surge of pleasure because you were on a trip to foreign parts. Then over the border into Maine–or was it Vermont?–the tiny thrill of being abroad confirmed by the American practice of decorating their houses with flags. This, the flags said, is the U.S. of A., the land where peameal bacon is called “Canadian;” where you can get Michelob on tap, and where the diners in the villages open at six in the morning, unlike Canadian diners, whose owners consider eight o'clock an enterprising hour to begin selling coffee.
Once he had gotten as far as Bangor in one day, six hundred-odd miles, but now four hundred was his maximum, so the trip took three days, which, on reflection, was a bit long.
Maybe a fishing trip, then? But Seth was too busy, and he knew of no one else free to go fishing on a day's notice.
So perhaps he would stick around.
From the first overheard mention of the hooker he had had a hunch, an insight into her significance, an insight without which neither Marinelli nor anyone else would get very far. And so, very soon-he had seen it all before–Marinelli's squad would focus too early on an obvious suspect as they put together a case that would collapse in court (or worse, convict an innocent woman). Then, the whole case in shambles, the witnesses scattered, the crime scene polluted, someone would have to start from scratch to find the real culprit–a task made infinitely harder by having the job already botched. Salter felt as if he were at the races, certain of the winner of the next race, but without the money to play his hunch. An idea formed. First he would have to get up to speed on the investigation Marinelli's detectives had started. At one time he might have had to mount a small, classic espionage operation on the files and desk drawers of the Homicide Division, probably after the detectives had gone home, but nowadays all the information he needed was on the computer. All he would have to do would be to bring it up and print it. And instead of following the investigation into the victim's background, he could
just spend an hour with
Who's Who
and get all he wanted.
Next he had to talk to some of the people the homicide detectives had interviewed, for which he would need an excuse-a different excuse for each one would be best. And as he began to try to think of ways of doing this without it coming to the ears of Marinelli and Mackenzie, Salter realized that there would come a point at which someone, Mackenzie probably, would hear about what he was doing and ask him what the hell he thought he was playing at, and that would be that.
He saw that he had been creating a little fantasy, that the idea of conducting his own investigation was out of the question, and so sank back into frustrated glumness and returned to thinking about driving to the Island.
But unknown to Salter, without any help from him, the world was already rearranging itself to his benefit.
F
ormer Staff Superintendent Orliff, Salter's old boss, was a small, neat man who had laid aside the blue suit of his police days for a leather jacket, a denim shirt and chinos, but he kept the black shoes, the tidy haircut and the well-pressed look.
He had been retired for six years, but had not disappeared. He supplemented a handsome pension by advising American movie companies making films set in Toronto, especially crime stories. His job was to keep the gaffes out of the script, to make sure Hollywood's Toronto police did not call each other “Captain” or “Lootenant,” and to explain Canadian criminal law as it affected police procedures.
In practice Orliff found himself going beyond his police expertise into the larger culture, eliminating references to the election of senators, for example, and pointing out that there was no such thing as “Canadian” food if you left out butter tarts and back bacon; the term as it is used in restaurants in Windsor just means “not Chinese.”
He had cards printed after it was clear that there was an ongoing demand for his services. “Advisor on Police Protocol” was how he described himself. He was frequently asked why he didn't call himself “consultant,” and his reply was that a consultant claimed to know how things ought to be, whereas an advisor just knew how they were.
Orliff and the lawyer Calvin Gregson met over coffee in the food court of the College Park shopping center, chosen by Gregson because he had occasionally seen Orliff drinking coffee there, and the traffic back and forth to the law courts on the second floor would
make their meeting unremarkable to anyone who saw them together. It was better to be seen bumping into each other in public than to be noticed dining together in a quiet restaurant.
For Orliff's part, it was his favorite daytime spot for drinking coffee, on the pedestrian route between the courthouse and Police Headquarters, the place where he was most likely to bump into old colleagues and keep up with the gossip, even if he was no longer active.
Orliff arrived first. He watched Gregson approach, and leaned back, his hands behind his head, staying seated as if they met each other every day.
“So what's up, Calvin? I can call you Calvin, can't I? I will, anyway. It's nice being retired, you don't have to worry about upsetting anyone with things like that. Hey, you going away for the weekend? You look dressy.”
Gregson looked blank and shrugged, the gesture of someone who pretends not to understand the question, and who finds it faintly offensive anyway.
Then Orliff got it–Gregson's new look registered. It was the suit, a beautiful silvery grey tweed, narrow in the waist. It didn't look to Orliff like a lawyer's suit, not a Toronto lawyer, at any rate. What was Gregson up to?
Gregson said, “Calvin will do. Not Cal, if you don't mind. That sounds like the driver of a chuck wagon. And what do I call you?
“Use my old nickname. Nobody has since I was a PC.”
“What's that?”
“Figaro.”
“As in Barber of?”
“That's
right
! I got called that when I was horsing around one day. Five different sergeants were shouting at me at the same time to do this, do that, so I started to sing.”Figaro here, Figaro there, Figaro high, Figaro low, Feeeegaro!”
“And the name stuck.”
“Until I made sergeant. Then it just got said behind my back. But lately I've been having lunch with my old buddies, those who knew me as Figaro, and they still use it. For a joke. I don't mind. It was my joke first.”
“Figaro.” Gregson waited, but there was no more to come. “You don't mind if someone overhears me calling you Figaro?”
“It would just mean we go back a long way. A little farther than we do. So. Why are we accidentally meeting like this?”
“I need your advice.”
“Wow! Or maybe, even, Gee! I thought you were just being sociable for old times' sake. But you need something! Not about the law, I hope? You making a movie? What else do I know that you don't? I know. ‘Who do you go to these days to get a traffic ticket fixed?' Right, Calvin?”
“The Lucas murder. You know about it?”
Orliff brought down the front legs of his chair and took a sip of his coffee. “These days you could run the same newspaper by me twice a week and I wouldn't know the difference except for the births and deaths column. There were two in the
Globe
last week I knew. Deaths, not births. Remind me who Lucas was.”
“A lawyer found stabbed in his apartment in the Annex. Presumably by someone on a casual break-and-enter.”
“A couple of weeks ago? I remember something. What's happened?”
“Nothing. They've made no headway at all, as far as I can tell. I talked to your Deputy Chief Mackenzie, and he just says the unit is overworked.”
“It always is. But let's get to the point. What's so special about this case? To you?”
“Lucas was a crony of mine.”
“A crony. What's that mean? A buddy?”
“Not a close friend, no. We used to go to the track together. I
am
a friend of his sister, Flora.” Gregson waited for the name to register. “Flora Lucas,” he amplified.
“I was nearly there. The MPP. How do you know her? I've never heard of her in connection with us.”
“You wouldn't. She's absolutely solid. There's nothing self serving about her. A wonderful woman, real old-fashioned public servant.”
“They're nearly extinct. She's loaded, too, though, right? That helps. If you're going in for good works, I mean.”
“Old family money.”
“Old enough to be dry-cleaned by now, however they made it, you mean. Never mind the sister, how far back do you really go with Lucas, Calvin? Law school? Upper Canada College? Or did you work your way through law school?”
But Gregson was up to this kind of taunting. “My father was head of the law school. Didn't you know that? I didn't even have to apply. Before that he was solicitor general of this province. 'Course, he'd already made a potful in private practice. How about you? Raggedy-ass newsboy were you? Scraping together the pennies to get through college?”
“We were all right. My dad was a cop, see. It's our strongest tradition, getting your kid on the force. Started in the Depression, when we didn't hire anyone who wasn't connected. Like your club, I would think. Things have changed lately; some of our guys took a look at your fees and encouraged their kids to go to law school. Kind of like construction workers not wanting their own kids to mix concrete.
Gregson leaned back, making clear he was going to wait until Orliff was through. Then he said, “If I take the silver spoon out of my mouth and stick it up my ass, can we go on?”
Orliff laughed. “Don't mind me. I'm just enjoying retirement. So what's the agitation about Lucas's death? They'll find the killer on the streets one of these days.”
“There's a reporter around stirring things up.”
“That's good, isn't it? That'll get Mackenzie going.”
Gregson leaned over the table, trying to close the gap between them. “Let me tell you what a reporter might be interested in. The night Lucas was killed there was a woman around his apartment block.”
“Who? Do they know who?”
“They can't track her down. Point is she was pretty obviously a hooker. The police know about her, though they haven't found her, but hardly anyone else knows yet.”
“Just you and Lucas's sister and a few cronies? I'm getting the point. So far you've been able to keep this woman out of the headlines, but now this reporter might find out about her.”
“He has already.
That's
the point. Now he has a story. Why have the police gotten nowhere, with such an obvious suspect to look for? Is there a reason why the police can't find her, he's wondering. What's going on, he's wondering.”
“So what
is
going on, Calvin?”
“Huh?”
“I mean now, between you and me. What do you want from me?”
“How do I get Mackenzie to get moving? Find the killer before everyone starts speculating about Lucas's kinks?”
Orliff laughed. “And if it turns out that he
was
a little kinky? Not that paying for sex qualifies under that heading anymore, I wouldn't think.”
“Then so be it. But it won't. He wasn't.”
“You only went to the track with him, though, didn't you? How can you be so certain?”
“Okay. I'm not. Let's say I'm ninety percent sure.”
“And the other ten?”
“He was always a very private person. Even Flora says so. Although I'm sure there's nothing in it, there was room there for a–well–a secret life.”
“As opposed to just a private one?”
“Yes, and that's the point. This hooker may be a sign of it. Certainly she's right out of character for the ninety percent that I knew. Now, if there
was
something there, it is probably none of your business, either.”
“Me? I'm retired.”
“You know what I mean. Your people.”
“So what do you want Mackenzie to do? Specifically.”
“Catch Jerry's killer and leave his life alone.”
“And me?”
Gregson took a breath, and for the first time checked the adjoining tables to make sure they were not being overheard. “You have Mackenzie's ear these days? You always used to.”
“I've been retired six years. I don't have anybody's ear except my grandson's.”
Gregson looked over at the elevators, now disgorging a clutch of
policemen and lawyers from the courts upstairs. “You just hang around here like an old firehorse, listening for the bell?” Gregson made a chuckling noise.
“Look, Mr. Gregson …”
“Calvin.”
“Sorry. It's an instinct I have, to keep my distance when I feel a hand on my leg. Let me tell you what I'm really doing here.” Briefly he explained his role as an advisor to the film industry. “Right now there are fifty-three film companies with permits to shoot scenes in Toronto, so I'm onto a good thing. At the moment I'm waiting for Sergeant Kuntz, who deals with issuing permits to film companies who need to park equipment trailers while they are shooting a scene. Sergeant Kuntz is in court right now, as a witness on some other case, and I'll catch him when he comes down. I'm not sitting here hoping to arrest someone. I'm retired. I never did much of that, anyway. Now as to Deputy Chief Mackenzie, I do bump into him from time to time and we do have a chat about the things we still have in common, yes. But I don't have any influence.”
“Just tell me how to do it. I want the case handled carefully,” Gregson said urgently, his detachment gone.
“Why?”
“I don't want innocent bystanders hurt.”
“It's a good thing I'm retired, Calvin, or I'd find your assumption that without your personal intervention innocent bystanders always get hurt in a homicide case offensive, and tell you to go fuck yourself.” Orliff grinned. “But I don't have to take it personally anymore. By innocent bystanders, you mean Flora Lucas.”
“And some of Lucas's friends.”
“Ah,.”
“Don't say ‘Ah' like that. I'm not after a cover-up. I don't want anyone turning a blind eye to anything illegal. I just want the case wrapped up as quickly as possible before the press starts playing detective.”
“What about this reporter? He's already got a juicy little story, you say. He could go to press tomorrow.”
Gregson sucked in his breath, nodding. “I think we bought a little time. The owner of Chapel's paper is sympathetic, and he's already
told the staff that nothing must be printed until he says so, until he is sure.”
“Chapel, like in ‘church'?”
“Gavin Chapel.”
“New to me. You mean he's got to find the killer before he can write up the investigation? That's a new one.”
“Not exactly. No speculating, no fishing, that's what the owner's ordered. But sooner or later if the police don't release the story that the reporter already knows, about this hooker, word will get out, and the other papers will come sniffing around …”
“So you want someone to take charge who understands the need for what, discretion?”
“Someone who isn't out for brownie points.”
“I never understood why that was such a no-no. Everybody's out for brownie points, except us retired guys, surely? But how long can this reporter be kept chained up?”

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