A Lesson in Love and Murder Read Free Page B

an upcoming strike. Skip was beating Ray at his own game. Usually Skip trailed Ray wherever he went and took excellent direction. But now?
    Ray shoved his way through the line of fire brigade officers, nearly stumbling over an injured young man. On the far side of the wreckage, a tall, broad-shouldered man assessed the damage.
    â€œJasper!” Ray called, jogging the last few steps between them, being careful to avoid the wiring, steel rods, and bricks.
    Jasper Forth ran his hand over his face. He looked tired. His usually pleasant and open countenance was shaded with fatigue and concern. He put a hand on Ray’s shoulder, slightly shoving him back. “I’d be careful. A few fires are still burning.” He looked around.
    Ray’s brow furrowed. “I feel like we’re reliving this accident. Osgoode Hall was what—three days ago?”
    â€œThe two most tragic accidents in our rail history,” Jasper said blandly.
    â€œFaulty wires?” It was more a question than a statement in Ray’s voice.
    â€œIndeed,” Jasper said uncertainly. He led Ray from the worst of the damage and toward bustling Bathurst Street. Even though the intersection was barricaded, people still bustled around, many leaning through the police lines to take a closer peek.
    It was a popular streetcar route, taken by hundreds of Torontonians daily. Ray knew as he looked at the shocked faces that thestrangers around him were wondering how it had happened—and how it might happen again.
    â€œJasper, you look like a hare at the end of a rifle point. Stop peering around so skittishly!”
    Jasper blinked tears from his eyes, and not for the first time. Just before Skip moved to the other side of the collision, he made a remark under his breath. Ray replied that it was probably just the film of smoke stinging the constable’s eyes. Despite his recent promotion to detective, Jasper never seemed to be able to keep his entire emotional range from his broad, bright face. Now, Ray saw, he was aching for the senseless loss of innocent life.
    A long silence stretched between them. Ray shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “It’s news at least.” Ray thought aloud before he registered how callous the statement sounded. “Last week all I had was the Mackay-Bennet boat finding more of those Titanic corpses and moving them to Halifax for burial.” Jasper said nothing, staring ahead. Ray continued, saying lightly, “And some delegate preferring turbot to trout at a dignitaries’ dinner at the King Edward.”
    Ray could almost taste the smell of smoke on his singed clothes as they moved even farther to the side of the street. He realized he hadn’t even gone home for a change of shirt the night before. No wonder the damp fabric stuck to him. The evening before, he was still up to his ears in facts and theories from the Osgoode Hall accident, putting together pieces of a puzzle. Death statements, witness accounts, historical statistics of the railcar’s history.
    Come to think of it, he had failed (again) to telephone Jem and tell her he’d be late. That is, he’d failed to send a message with Kat or Mouse, the urchins who sometimes worked with Jem and Merinda. The guilt gnawed at him—guilt for more than his silence. He hadn’t been able to pay the electrical bill, and their telephone had been cut off the week before.
    He straightened his face so Jasper wouldn’t be plagued with one more thing to worry about and turned his attention back to thematter at hand. Shaking his head, he observed, “So highly unlikely it was an accident.”
    â€œOur station could have used you years ago. You have a better pulse on criminal activity in Toronto than most.”
    Ray grimaced. “I can’t tell whether that’s a compliment or not.”
    â€œIt’s a compliment. From me. Not from Tipton. Reason I’m so on edge is because he forbade me to talk