Free The Last Hand by Eric Wight Page B

here.”
    â€œLet me guess: a visible minority?” Salter imagined a small Pakistani or Chinese, recruited in spite of the height requirements to quiet the demands for more ethnic representation on Toronto’s traditionally white, Anglo-Saxon force. The West Indies had a presence on the force, but India, China and Sri Lanka were still underrepresented.
    Marinelli laughed. “An audible minority, more like.” He stepped to the door of the outer office. “Terry,” he called across the room. “Come over for a minute.”
    A man in his mid-thirties, dark-skinned with acne-scarred cheeks,
looked up from a computer, nodded, then stood up and crossed the room.
    â€œThis is Staff Inspector Salter,” Marinelli said. “On assignment from the deputy’s office to look after the Lucas case. I’m putting you with him. Charlie–Constable Terry Smith.”
    Salter put out his hand. Looking surprised, Smith responded and they shook hands.
    Salter said, “Are you familiar with the case? I’ll need to be filled in.”
    Smith said, “I’ll need to fill myself in first, sir. I just arrived yesterday. I don’t even know where the coffee machine is yet.”
    Salter said, “You’re Scottish?” It seemed polite to acknowledge that he could identify the sounds he was hearing.
    Smith said, “I am,” and Marinelli, grinning, said, “See? An audible minority,” and closed his door, leaving them to each other.
    Salter said, “You just off the boat, you say?”
    Smith shook his head. “I just came over to Homicide. I’ve been on the force for a year. I trained in Glasgow. I made detective and then decided to emigrate.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œMy wife didn’t like Glasgow. She’s from Inverness. So we came over and I joined the Winnipeg police. Three years ago. Then we came to Toronto and I joined this lot. This is my first assignment in Homicide.”
    â€œWhy did you leave Winnipeg?”
    â€œMy wife didn’t like it.”
    â€œDid you?”
    â€œI liked it fine. I liked Glasgow, too. Shall we get on?”
    After a second to register that Smith was telling him to butt out, Salter said, “Let’s go over the ground. I didn’t ask for help, but your boss insisted. Okay? You say you don’t know anything about the case, and I sure as hell don’t. So let’s make a start.” He looked at his watch. “It’s ten-thirty. Go back to your computer and read the file. I’ll get rid of the paper on my desk and we can meet here at one-thirty, then you can tell me all about the Lucas case.”
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    Smith was ready when they met again.
    â€œThe man’s name was Lucas, Jeremy Baker Lucas. Fifty-five; a bachelor; lawyer; small, two-man practice, mainly in estate and mortgages; generally, looking after people with money, not problems. He was what I would call rich–belonged to three clubs, cottage in a place called Muskoka–you’ll know where that is, sir? where he spent a lot of time in the summer; house in Costa Rica, where he spent much of the winter. You need a few shekels for that sort of thing, d’ye not? Actually, his law practice was more of a hobby. Hardly anyone came in off the street, and those that did usually ended up with his partner, but few as they were, Lucas’s clients were well-heeled and the practice paid his rent, no doubt about that.
    â€œIn Toronto he rented an apartment, the place where he was killed. Not a luxury block, but what they call in Glasgow a ‘guid address’”-Smith spoke the two words in dialect, and smiled to indicate that Salter should understand that Smith was aware of the quaint phrase-“near the intersection of Bedford Road and Prince Arthur.” He looked up. “That’s not far from Bloor Street. Bedford runs down to Bloor opposite the football stadium.”
    â€œYou know the