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Authors: Eric Wight

BOOK: The Last Hand
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“Two weeks.”
Orliff considered. He had no reason to like Gregson, who had caused him and his colleagues a lot of trouble in the past, but it was a delicious situation. Orliff's major talent had always been internal politics, ever since he had been made a sergeant thirty years before, and Gregson's dilemma seemed eminently manageable. The solution had been forming in his head since the beginning of their conversation. Having Gregson in his debt would be nice. He'd be able to call the lawyer up anytime.
“You don't figure to talk to Mackenzie yourself?”
“I already sort of have. I get the feeling if I went back he'd tell me to fuck off.”
“So would I if I were him. Still. Okay. But what I need from you is some kind of guarantee that this is on the up and up. If there's a skeleton in Lucas's closet you know about, that I
ought
to know about, and I stub my toe on it, I'll get in touch with that reporter, tell him about this conversation. So is it on the up and up? I don't conspire to break laws, as they say.”
“Of course it is. What do you
think
I would be asking you …”
“Okay, okay. Just tell me you want this killer caught, no matter who it is.”
“That's what I want.”
“I'll talk to Mackenzie, then. When I've figured out what to say.”
“When will you call me?”
“You want me to report back? To you? You aren't paying me. This is pro bono publico stuff you want from me, like you're doing. Do I have the words right? No. You'll hear soon enough.”
“Sorry. Of course. And thanks.”
“Don't mention it. Ever. You and me, I mean. Not to your cronies, and most of all, not to your local MPP. Take the credit yourself. Just owe me.”
Gregson looked startled and opened his mouth, but Orliff was rising, waving to someone a few yards away as he nodded to dismiss Gregson. Then he stopped, looking down. “What's with the boots, Calvin? Sorry, I'm being rude, right? Offensive. Sorry. But I haven't seen anyone in dress boots since my son left college. You developed weak ankles?”
“As a matter of fact, they aren't dress boots, Figaro. They are riding shoes.” He pulled up his pant cuff to show Orliff that the boots stopped at the ankle. “The point is, you should never ride in shoes with laces. They might catch in the stirrup if you get thrown.”
“That right?” Orliff scratched his head to find something to say that wasn't raucous and offensive. “That would be a real problem, I guess. Depends how you get to work. Comfortable, are they? Around town?”
“Of course. That's why I wear them.”
B
efore Gregson left the food court, Orliff had considered his approach and worked out something that would do. He called Police Headquarters and established that Salter had left for the day. Then he rode the escalator up to the street, crossed College Street and just happened to find himself ten minutes later with a few minutes to spare and a chance to drop in on his old boss, Deputy Chief Harold Mackenzie, to say hello.
“Got a moment?” Orliff stood in the doorway.
Mackenzie waved him in, and Orliff took the chair by his desk. “I'll be quick, Hal. This film guy I'm advising now, he made a movie here about eight years ago, he says. He wondered what happened to the guy who was advising him then. Said it was Salter, Charlie Salter. I said I'd pass on his compliments, but Salter never worked with a film company, did he?”
“Sure he did. That time the scriptwriter was knifed by the girl from Czechoslovakia, as it was called then. Remember?”
Orliff, who remembered every detail, said, “Yeah. Vaguely. Where is Charlie, by the way? Not in your office anymore?”
“Still works here. Left for home already.”
“What have you got him doing these days? He's just about retired, surely?”
“Just about. Nothing much. Helps me out with this and that.”
“How about you, Hal? Ready to hang up your skates yet?”
“Another ten years, I hope.”
“That long? Will you keep busy? I hear the homicide rate is down. Marinelli's boys are looking up old cases.”
“You don't want to believe the papers. We're busy.”
“Nothing you can't handle, though.”
“Biggest problem is bank robberies. We're getting there.”
“No interesting homicides?” And then, to establish a connection in Mackenzie's head, he continued. “I just bumped into Calvin Gregson in the food court across the street. You noticed the way he's dressing these days?”
“Top of the line, you mean? Always was a snappy dresser. He can afford it.”
“This is something different. He seems to be dressing
up,
not just looking sharp.” Orliff mentioned the suit and the riding shoes. “Why would he worry about getting his feet caught in the stirrups when he's in court?”
“Maybe he goes for a gallop before he comes to work.” Mackenzie giggled. “Anyway, you didn't drop by to talk about Gregson's boots. Know him well?”
“Everybody knows Gregson.”
“He know
you
?
”
“He remembered me. Why? A problem?”
“He's trying to put a little pressure on me about the Lucas case. Some lawyer got stabbed by a hooker.”
“That right? What's Gregson's interest? Is he representing the hooker?” Orliff smiled. “Where's the money in that?”
“It's not her. Gregson came to warn me about some reporter who's sniffing around. But there's more than that. Says we don't seem to be taking the case very seriously.”
“What does he mean by that?”
“I think he means that Lucas isn't like some kid killed in a fight on a subway platform. He was eminent, distinguished, all that shit. Him and his sister were pals of Gregson's.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I could stick a firecracker up Marinelli's ass, I guess, but I think he's at a dead end. Next step will be to assign it to one detective so he can pick away at it, see if he can find another thread. Like Merton did, remember?”
Orliff remembered, mainly because Mackenzie was so fond of telling the story of the unsolved case of the woman murdered in her apartment. He would recount how Detective Merton
in his spare time
(Mackenzie always put the phrase in italics) knocked on every door in the neighborhood for three months until he found someone—an insomniac old lady who was sipping tea and looking out of her window when she saw a man come out of the fire-exit door of the apartment block next door. A rather dapper-looking man, she said, with blond hair like Alan Ladd, her favorite actor. She hadn't said anything before because she didn't take a newspaper and didn't know they were looking for anyone. No one had asked her. Mackenzie quoted the case whenever someone like Marinelli questioned the usefulness of going over old “open” files.
“That won't keep Gregson happy. But never mind Gregson. Be nice to see him unhappy. What did he say about Flora Lucas? That the MPP?”
“That's her.”
“They're going to win next time, Hal. You know what she'll be doing?”
“Attorney general, according to Gregson.”
“That's what I would guess. She could give you a bad time.”
“Gregson said she's the rare case who wouldn't use her position to dump on me in a personal matter.”
“Hal, Hal. Don't be naive. Anyway, she could be a saint but the press will make a story of it. ‘Attorney general's brother: Still no clues to his killer.' That kind of thing. She won't want that. And who is this reporter you mentioned?”
“Guy named Chapel, works for this new paper.”
“Him! Christ Almighty. You giving Marinelli any backup?”
“Where would I get ‘backup'? You think I've got reserves?”
Orliff looked around the room. Following his glance Mackenzie said, “Yeah, I wish I had someone like Salter to give him.”
It took Orliff a few seconds to realize that Mackenzie meant exactly what he said. He no longer considered Salter to be on active service, but he still wanted the idea of Salter, as it were. This was too easy. Orliff affected puzzlement. “So give him Salter. He's just counting paper clips until it's time to go, isn't he?”
Mackenzie shook his head. “Can't do that. They resent Salter over there, especially Marinelli's number two, Stevenson.” He leaned forward, his stance confidential. “They don't like the idea of some kind of legend, you know, Salter of the Yard, that bullshit. And I don't want to give Salter a lousy time. He's practically got his slippers on. He doesn't need to slog around after a case like this until he retires.”
“You don't think they'll ever find the hooker?”
“No. Nor does Marinelli. She'll turn up, in jail, probably, charged with possession. But not tomorrow. Maybe next year.”
“Does Marinelli agree?”
“He doesn't have any other ideas.”
“So tell him about Gregson and Flora Lucas and this reporter, and give him Salter.”
But this was too quick for Mackenzie. “I've just finished telling you that Salter is the one guy Marinelli doesn't want around.”
“Sure. But you've also been telling me that they'll never find the hooker, which is going to be a problem with a hotshot lawyer, a politician sister and an ace reporter all putting pressure on the unit. So tell them you've appointed a special investigator, special because of his high rank, and assign the case to Salter. Marinelli can explain to his boys that Salter's there to take the heat, not to solve the case.”
Once again Orliff had gone too fast. “What heat is that?”
“The pressure from Gregson and Flora Lucas and the reporter, Hal.”
Mackenzie gave it some thought, then nodded six or seven times. “Yeah. They'll see that, won't they? They've got to be glad to have someone take any heat, haven't they? I'll do it. Shit.” Now he looked gleeful. “You always were a cunning bastard, Orliff. I'll clear it with Marinelli first thing. Hang on. What'll I tell Salter? I've just finished explaining to him why he should take it easy.”
“Tell him the whole thing, exactly what his real assignment is, taking the heat off Marinelli–he'll know that, anyway. He'll be happy to have something to do. It's not as if he could screw up his career at this point, is it?”
“That's it. He's the only one around here with nothing to lose. Shall I tell him that?”
“I think he probably knows it. Don't make a big deal of it.” Orliff stood up. “Gregson's going to a lot of trouble over Flora Lucas, isn't he? You ever notice that when you have a politician who is completely honest and public-spirited, the way they are
supposed
to be, everyone talks about their honesty and unselfishness, like it's a miracle. Now you can hear people's voices getting hushed when they mention Flora Lucas. Maybe that's what gets Gregson. Maybe she's his good deed. His real pro bono.”
 
 
The next morning, Marinelli listened carefully to Mackenzie's suggestion. “I thought we'd just agreed to leave Salter out in the pasture.”
“It's different now with this reporter sniffing around.”
“You think this sister will be the next attorney general?”
“Everybody does. And things might get warm around here just with this goddamn reporter.”
“Will you make an announcement?”
“What about? No, shit, no. I'll just put the word out. I won't even mention Salter by name. A senior investigator, I'll call him. What'll you tell Stevenson?”
“I don't have to explain myself to Stevenson. It looks kind of sudden, though. I'll tell them he's the window-dressing to satisfy some politician.” Marinelli smiled. “I could kill two birds here. I've got a new man I haven't teamed up with anyone yet. He needs a wise old mentor to break him in.”
“That doesn't sound like Salter.”
“He
is
old, by our standards, and he's nobody's fool, is he?”
“Still, ‘Wise old mentor'? Salter? Don't tell him
that.
”
 
 
Orliff's ideas were always clear as he explained them, but the deputy chief often found that in going over Orliff. suggestions later, he could not think through the possible ramifications. He kept losing track. In this case he felt uneasy about telling Salter the whole truth about Gregson's intercession, because Salter might ask if Marinelli knew it, and he wasn't sure what he would say. And should he tell Marinelli that Salter had been told? Mackenzie was no Machiavelli, nor was he
meant to be. Just give Salter the direct assignment, he decided.
“Now, Salter,” he said when he found him. “Don't go behind my orders, all right? I'm assigning you to Marinelli to help out with the Lucas case. All right? Don't get into it with Marinelli.”
“What are you talking about, sir?” Salter asked, genuinely mystified.
“Never mind. Just report to Marinelli. Take it from there.”
He's up to something, Salter thought, but what do I care? I've got the job. He said, “I could start this afternoon.”
“Do that.” Mackenzie nodded. “Give me anything else you're working on.”
“He doesn't mind?”
“Marinelli? He looked happy to me.”
“He's probably happy to have someone take the shit. This might be politically sensitive.”
“That's the thing, Charlie,” agreed the deputy chief, relieved to be on easier, more truthful ground. “If it was easy, Marinelli would have done it. It may not be doable.”
“Then I can't lose, can I?”
“That's the way to look at it. Marinelli's waiting for you in his office.” Mackenzie considered briefly telling Salter about the reporter, then decided that the reporter, like Gregson, was irrelevant. Might even inhibit Salter.
 
 
Salter's scheme for conducting his own investigation had not gotten off the ground. He had thought about it until his brain hurt without seeing how he could get to first base with no one aware of his actions. Now he had been handed a walk. So, more or less to propitiate the gods, he felt he ought to acknowledge his good fortune by telling someone he was grateful. He closed the door and called Orliff.
Orliff said, “Are you pleased? I thought you were twiddling your thumbs.”
“Yeah, I was. As a matter of fact, I
am
pleased. I've got a little notion about this case, something about it that struck me at the beginning.”
“That right? Did you tell Mackenzie, or Marinelli?”
“I tried to a couple of times, but I got the feeling I was butting in.
“So now's your chance.”
“I didn't tell you my idea, did I?”
“No, you wrote it on a piece of cigarette paper, and I swallowed it so it would stay imprinted on my brain. What idea?”
“Sorry, sorry. I was thinking aloud. So you think I should accept this assignment?”
“Do I think
what?
You're a staff inspector, Charlie, not a special agent. You do what you're told.”

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