Читать книгу A Hard Winter Rain - Michael Blair - Страница 8

Shoe met the two uniformed cops in the outer office. One was a big, raw-boned redhead in his twenties whose nametag read “A. Callahan.” The other was a sturdy, olive-skinned female constable in her forties. Her nametag read “T. Minnelli.”

“Mr. William Hammond?” Constable Minnelli asked.

“No. My name is Schumacher. I work for Mr. Hammond. What can I do for you?”

“Is Mr. Hammond here?”

“Yes, but he’s indisposed at the moment,” Shoe said.

The redheaded cop smiled knowingly, misinterpreting the expression, but Minnelli was all business. “Do you know a Patrick O’Neill?” she asked.

A point of coldness formed in the middle of Shoe’s chest. “Yes,” he said.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” Minnelli said, her voice tonelessly professional, “but Mr. O’Neill was shot to death a few minutes before four this afternoon, in a restaurant near the Waterfront SkyTrain station.”

The point of coldness in Shoe’s chest expanded. Adrenaline rushed through him like an electrical current, making the surface of his skin tingle with hyper-sensitivity. “Shot?” he said disbelievingly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Has his wife been informed?”

“Yes,” Minnelli said.

Muriel came out of Hammond’s office. The cops looked at her, the redhead’s eyes widening slightly. Shoe’s voice was hollow as he said, “This is Miss Yee, Mr. Hammond’s assistant.”

The cops nodded.

“Joe?” Muriel said, stepping close to him. “What is it?” She placed her hand on his arm.

Shoe repeated what Minnelli had told him, almost word for word.

“Oh, god,” Muriel said, staggering as if she’d been struck. Shoe took her arm, afraid she might fall, but she was made of sterner stuff than that. She leaned against him for a second, though, while tears formed in her eyes.

“I think you should get him,” Shoe said to her, hand still on her arm.

She nodded, took a breath, and went into Hammond’s office.

“Did Mrs. O’Neill give you this address?” Shoe asked.

“No,” Minnelli replied. “Mr. O’Neill had an emergency contact card in his wallet with both his personal and business particulars.”

Hammond came out of his office, Muriel trailing after him. Her cheeks were wet with tears, makeup smeared. Hammond’s face was pale and skull-like, eyes deep in their bony sockets.

“William Hammond?” Minnelli asked.

“Yes,” Hammond replied. “What is this about Patrick O’Neill getting shot?” he demanded. His face grew paler as Minnelli repeated what she’d told Shoe. “You’re certain there hasn’t been some mistake?” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Minnelli replied.

“Is there anything more you can tell us?” Shoe asked. “Was it a robbery?”

“No,” she said. “It looks like he was the intended victim. Did Mr. O’Neill have any connections with organized crime? Drugs, for instance?”

“Of course not,” Hammond snapped. “That’s nonsense.”

“According to witnesses,” Minnelli said, “he appeared to be waiting for someone. Do you know who he was supposed to meet?”

“No,” Hammond said.

Minnelli looked at Shoe and Muriel in turn.

“No,” Shoe said. Muriel shook her head.

“The homicide detectives will be in touch to conduct more in-depth interviews with you and your staff,” Minnelli said. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she added, then she and her silent partner left.

“Oh, god,” Muriel said again. “Poor Victoria.”

Hammond said nothing. He went into his office. Shoe and Muriel followed. Muriel plucked a handful of tissues from a box on Hammond’s credenza, blotted her eyes, and wiped her nose. Hammond took his coat from the closet.

Shoe looked at him. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“To Victoria,” Hammond replied gruffly.

Shoe said, “I think we should wait,” although he, too, wanted to go to her.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think,” Hammond snapped.

Muriel looked up at Shoe, her eyes red and swollen. “Maybe someone should go,” she said.

“She’ll let us know if she needs us,” Shoe said.

“You two can stay here and dither all you like,” Hammond said. “She shouldn’t be alone.” He picked up the telephone. The dial tone hummed distantly.

“Bill,” Shoe said. He didn’t address Hammond by name very often and the word felt odd in his mouth.

Hand hovering above the keypad, Hammond looked at Shoe. “What?” he snapped.

There was no way to be diplomatic. “She won’t want you there,” he said.

“Eh? Why wouldn’t she?” Hammond demanded, glaring, his face coloured with anger, but Shoe could see in his eyes that he knew Shoe was right.

Muriel, voice soft and tentative, said, “Joe’s right. We should wait.”

“Another constituency heard from,” Hammond growled. He stabbed at the phone once, hesitated, then slammed the receiver down. “What’s the number of the damned limousine service?” he demanded.

There was a soft knock and the office door opened. Del Tilley stuck his head into the room.

“Sir,” he said. “My man on the lobby desk said the police were here? Is there a problem?”

“Your timing is impeccable, Mr. Tilley,” Hammond said. “I need my car.”

“Yes, sir,” Tilley said. He stepped into the office and let the door close behind him. Without asking for an explanation, he took a tiny cellular telephone out of his pocket, flipped it open, and pressed a short sequence of keys with his thumb. He waited, face hard, then barked, “Get Mr. Hammond’s car ready, A-SAP.” He flipped the phone closed. “Your car will be ready by the time you get downstairs, sir.”

“Good,” Hammond said. “Let’s go. You’ll drive.”

“Yes, sir,” Tilley said.

“At least wait till we know more,” Shoe said as Tilley helped Hammond on with his coat.

“Patrick’s dead and Victoria is alone,” Hammond replied. “That’s all I need to know.” He went out into the outer office, Del Tilley on his heels.

“Stop them,” Muriel said.

“What do you want me to do?” Shoe said. “Sit on him?”

Shoe and Muriel followed Hammond and Tilley into the outer office. Tilley held the door for Hammond, then followed him into the elevator lobby. Tilley stabbed the call button. A door immediately opened. Hammond and Tilley boarded the elevator and the door closed.

“At least go with them,” she said, pressing Shoe’s coat and hat into his hands. “He’ll bully her.”

Shoe pressed the call button. “Aren’t you coming?”

She shook her head. “It’s a mob scene already. Go, please.” An elevator door opened. She almost pushed him into the car. “Call me later.”

Shoe got down to the parking level as Hammond’s Town Car disappeared up the exit ramp. By the time he retrieved his own car, Hammond and Tilley had a ten-minute lead. Twenty-five minutes later, when Shoe parked behind the Town Car on the street in front of Patrick and Victoria’s house in the British Properties, Hammond and Tilley were already inside. A grey Honda Civic hatchback was parked in the wide, steeply sloped drive next to Victoria’s red BMW 325 convertible. There was no sign of the police.

When Shoe rang the doorbell, a sequence of chimes played a melody whose name he should have remembered but could not. Del Tilley opened the door.

“You aren’t needed here,” he said.

“I’m not the only one,” Shoe said as he pushed by the smaller man.

In the high-ceilinged foyer, at the foot of the wide, curving staircase, Hammond stood toe to toe with a compact, muscular woman in her late thirties or early forties. Her face was flushed and she breathed hard through dilated nostrils. Her eyes were an icy blue-green, the colour of a glacial lake. At the moment, though, they were hot with anger. Her name, Shoe knew from Patrick, was Kit Parsons.

“Oh, Christ, another one,” Kit Parsons said when she saw Shoe. Her voice reminded Shoe of an old phonograph record, scratchy and worn. She drew herself up to her full five feet, two inches and said formally, “Mrs. O’Neill does not wish to be disturbed.”

“I won’t go until I see her,” Hammond said. He thrust his face toward Kit Parsons. “Understand.”

“I understand just fine,” Kit said. “But evidently you don’t. All of you. Get out. Before I call the cops.”

“Goddamnit,” Hammond said loudly, face red with anger. “Where is she?”

“Bill,” Shoe said. “This isn’t the way to do this.”

“You stay the hell out of this,” Hammond snapped.

“No,” Shoe said. “Victoria doesn’t want us here. She doesn’t need us. We should go.”

“Damn straight,” Kit Parsons agreed.

“I’m not leaving before I’m certain Victoria is all right,” Hammond said. “And if you stick your fucking nose in again, I’ll fire you, goddamnit. Don’t think I won’t.”

“Fine,” Shoe responded. “I can get started on my retirement.” He took the edge off his voice, trying a more conciliatory approach. “I know you’re concerned about her, but this isn’t doing anyone any good.” Shoe put his hand on the old man’s arm.

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Hammond growled, jerking his arm away.

Kit Parsons took a cellphone out of the back pocket of her jeans. It beeped as she pressed the keys. Her hands were small, but her fingers were long and narrow. “I’m calling the police,” she said in her rusty voice.

With snakelike speed, but so smooth and effortless that it seemed almost leisurely, Del Tilley reached out and plucked the cellphone from her fingers.

“Hey! Give that back.”

Shoe was sure she was about to take a swing at Tilley, but at that moment Victoria appeared at the top of the curved staircase.

“It’s all right, Kit,” she said.

All eyes turned toward her as Victoria started down the stairs, stepping slowly, carefully, right hand sliding on the banister, as if she were afraid of falling. Her pale hair was pulled back and the skin of her face was stretched tight across the sharpness of her cheekbones. Her eyes were cavernous. As she got to the bottom of the stairs, Hammond stepped toward her, but she recoiled, as if from a venomous snake.

Hammond’s face was rigid, but his voice was solicitous. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, sure,” Victoria replied. “I’m just peachy.”

“I came as soon as I heard,” Hammond said.

“How thoughtful of you,” Victoria said.

“Who the hell are these people?” Kit Parsons asked, voice rough and edgy.

“Patrick’s business associates,” Victoria replied. “Former business associates.” She looked at Shoe. A weak smile flickered briefly. “Hello, Joe.”

“Victoria,” Shoe said. “I’m so very sorry.”

Victoria nodded. “Now that that’s out of the way,” she said, “you can all go.” She turned to Hammond, expression hardening. “There’s no need to concern yourself.”

“This is a terrible time for you,” Hammond said. “Whatever I can do, you just have to ask.”

“All I want is for you to leave me alone.”

“My dear,” Hammond said. “It’s at a time like this that you need the support of those people closest to you.”

“And in your mind that includes you, does it?”

“I only want to help,” Hammond said.

“What is wrong with you?” Victoria said, voice cracking with tension. “Am I speaking a language you don’t understand? Or are you just so used to getting your own way you simply can’t imagine anyone refusing to do what you want? God, you’re an arrogant bastard. Will you please get the hell out of my house? I don’t want you here.” She looked at Shoe and Del Tilley. “Any of you.”

Shoe nodded. Del Tilley’s ears flamed and he looked at the floor.

“What gives you the right to speak to me like this?” Hammond demanded, cheeks mottled and voice quivering with rage. “After all I’ve done for you?”

“After all you’ve done for me?” Victoria repeated incredulously. “You’ve never done anything for anyone but yourself in your entire life.”

“I took you off the street,” Hammond shot back, anger barely in check. “I gave you a roof, a job. It’s thanks to me you have a two-million-dollar home, a fifty-thousand-dollar car, and a closet full of designer clothes. And what do I ask in return? Nothing—”

“You got what you wanted,” she snapped, cutting him off. “For god’s sake,” she pleaded. “Will you all just leave. Please.”

“You heard her,” Kit Parsons said in her ravaged voice. She reached out and snatched the cellphone from Tilley’s hand. Caught off guard, Tilley looked surprised, then took a step toward her. She backed out of range. “One more step, buster, and I’ll take those piss yellow eyes right out of your head.”

Shoe had to admire her spunk, if not her judgement.

“Kit, please,” Victoria said. She looked at Shoe, hazel eyes pleading.

Shoe had known Victoria O’Neill for a dozen years. She had changed in that time, evolving from an awkward, scraggly girl to a graceful, elegant woman. He was not sure how deep those changes went, though. She seemed to be coping well enough, showing a lot more strength than he would have expected from her under the circumstances. But he was afraid that beneath the veneer of strength she was still the same fragile and vulnerable girl he’d first seen panhandling for spare change on the lawn of the Vancouver Art Gallery, twenty-two but looking eighteen with her long pale hair and Black Sabbath T-shirt.

Shoe took Hammond by the arm. The old man felt as frail as a bird in his hand. “This isn’t doing anyone any good,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Hammond bristled. “Take your goddamned hand off my arm,” he said. He struggled weakly in Shoe’s massive grasp. “Let go of me.”

“Schumacher,” Tilley said, tension emanating from him like the electrical field around a high-tension line. “Let him go.”

Shoe ignored him.

Hammond’s face reddened. “Goddamnit,” he growled. “Don’t make me fire you. I’ll do it, believe me.”

“You’ll leave?” Shoe said.

Hammond tried to wrest his arm from Shoe’s grip, but to no avail. “I’ll leave,” he said. “But as of now, you son of a bitch, you no longer work for me.”

“As long as you agree to leave,” Shoe said. “Otherwise,” he added, “since I no longer work for you, I’ll have to drag you out of here.”

Hammond went limp in Shoe’s grasp. “Let me go,” he said quietly.

Shoe released him.

Hammond rubbed his arm and turned to Victoria. “My sincerest condolences,” he said stiffly, bowing slightly. “If there’s anything I can do, call me. Naturally, the company will cover all funeral costs.” He turned and stalked toward the front door.

“Sorry for your loss,” Tilley mumbled and followed him.

“Call me if you need anything,” Shoe said. “Thank you,” Victoria said.

He nodded to Kit Parsons, who nodded back, and left the house.

Victoria and Kit sat facing each other across the round table in the breakfast alcove. The curtains of the bow window were drawn against the night. Kit was speaking, but Victoria couldn’t seem to make out what she was saying. It was as if she were speaking gibberish, or in tongues, like someone in the throes of religious hysteria.

“I’m sorry,” Victoria said. “What did you say?”

“I said, did the police say anything about a suspect or a motive?”

Only by focusing her concentration on each word as it emerged from Kit’s mouth was Victoria able to comprehend her reply.

Victoria shook her head. “No. All they said was that it appeared to be a contract killing. From the description witnesses gave, the killer was dressed like a street person, but the police are certain it was a disguise. They asked me if I could think of a business associate who would benefit from Patrick’s death or if he was involved with drugs. I told them it must be a mistake.” Victoria took a deep breath and let it out slowly, unevenly. Kit took her hands. Tears welled in her cool blue-green eyes. She held Victoria’s hands for a moment, then let go. Victoria said, “The police told me that because Patrick was murdered, it might be a few days before they can release the body.”

“An autopsy is mandatory in murder cases,” Kit said. She smiled weakly. “I dated a cop for a while.”

“The detectives said they would contact the Montreal police to inform Patrick’s mother,” Victoria said. “But I should call her. What time is it in Montreal?” she asked.

Kit looked at her watch. “About eleven-twenty,” she said.

“Is it too late?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Under the circumstances.”

“God, what will I say?”

Kit didn’t answer. Victoria made no move toward the phone. She had met Patrick’s mother (Patrick’s father had died when Patrick was eighteen) all of three times: first when Patrick had taken her to Montreal to introduce her to his family, at their wedding in Vancouver, and most recently four years ago when Patrick had paid his moth-er’s way out to Vancouver again to celebrate Christmas. Patrick had two older brothers as well, Kevin and Brian, both of whom still lived within blocks of the tenement in the working-class district of Montreal where they had grown up, and both of whom had seemed to resent Patrick for escaping and making something of himself.

After a minute or two had passed in silence, Victoria stood suddenly, almost knocking her chair over. “I’m going to make some tea.”

Kit started to get up. “I’ll make it.”

“No,” Victoria said, putting her hand on Kit’s shoulder, pressing her back down onto her chair. “I’ll do it. I can’t just sit here, I’ve got to do something.”

Kit sat down. Victoria filled an enamelled kettle at the sink and put it on the gas range.

The telephone rang, making them both jump.

Victoria lifted the cordless handset from the base station on the kitchen wall, squinted at the call display. She didn’t recognize the number, but it had a 514 area code. Montreal. “Oh, Christ,” she said. “It’s Patrick’s mother.” The phone continued to ring in her hand.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Kit asked.

“Do I have to? I barely know the woman.”

“I think you do,” Kit said.

“Yes, of course,” Victoria said, but as she reached to press the answer button, the phone stopped ringing. Praying for a busy signal, she pressed the button that dialled the most recent incoming call. No such luck; the call was answered on the first ring.

“Hello?” Eileen O’Neill said tentatively, as if unsure the call was for her.

“Mrs. O’Neill,” Victoria said. “It’s Victoria.” She almost added, “Patrick’s wife.”

“Oh,” Mrs. O’Neill said. “I just tried to call you.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Is it true? My Patrick’s dead? Murdered?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. I’m very sorry.”

“Who would do such a thing?”

“I don’t know.”

“No. No, of course you don’t.”

“Mrs. O’Neill. Eileen. You’re not alone, are you? Is there someone with you? A friend, a neighbour, one of Patrick’s brothers?”

“What? No, there’s no one here.”

“Perhaps you could call someone?”

The kettle began to sing. Kit got up, turned off the gas, and resumed her seat. Victoria smiled wanly at her and she smiled back.

“I’m all right, dear,” Mrs. O’Neill said. “Don’t you worry about me. What about yourself? Are you alone?”

“No,” Victoria said, looking at Kit. “I’m not alone. I have a friend with me.”

“That’s good.” She paused, then said, “The police here couldn’t tell me what happened, except that Patrick was shot in a restaurant.”

“I don’t really know much more than that myself,” Victoria said. She told Patrick’s mother what little she did know, and when she was finished she said, “Tomorrow I’ll call the airline and book you a flight, then call you with the details. Is that all right?”

“Yes, that will be fine. Thank you.”

They said goodbye and hung up.

Victoria placed the telephone in the base station. “God, I need a drink,” she said to Kit. “Or six. Do you want anything?”

Kit said, “No, thanks.”

Victoria took an open bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and with a flick of her wrist twisted out the cork. She could feel Kit’s eyes on her as she reached a wineglass down from a rack over the kitchen island. Filling it, she returned to the table, leaving the bottle on the counter.

“I appreciate your being here with me, you know,” she said, looking into Kit’s blue-green eyes. “I don’t think I would’ve been able to cope earlier without you. But I’m fine now. You don’t have to stay if there’s someplace else you need to be.”

“No,” Kit said with a quick shake of her head. “I can stay as long as you like. Hugh can look after things at the studio tomorrow if necessary.” Kit reached out and touched Victoria’s hand. “I only wish there was more I could do.”

I bet you do, Victoria thought as she lifted her wine-glass as a pretext to breaking contact with Kit. She was immediately ashamed. On the tabletop, Kit’s long fingers intertwined and writhed like snakes. Victoria put her glass down and took Kit’s hand. It was small and warm and strong. She squeezed gently and Kit responded in kind.

“I’m sorry,” Victoria said.

“For what?” Kit asked in a hoarse whisper.

“For being not as good a friend to you as you are to me.”

“Let me decide how good a friend you are, all right?” Her right knee bounced up and down as her foot jiggled nervously.

Victoria released Kit’s hand. “Anyway,” she said, “thanks for staying with me.”

“Any time,” Kit said with a twitchy smile.

“Then, for god’s sake, have a cigarette before you jump out of your skin.”

“I’m all right,” Kit said. “But let me do something, okay? I bet you haven’t eaten.”

“I’m not really very hungry,” Victoria said, adding in response to Kit’s frown, “but I don’t suppose you’ll let that stop you, will you?” Kit grinned and shook her head. “Consuela left something in the fridge,” Victoria said. “It just needs to be heated in the microwave.”

“Lucky for you,” Kit said. Victoria smiled. Kit was a terrible cook. “I was going to order a pizza.” Kit opened the refrigerator.

“The blue casserole,” Victoria said. Kit took the covered casserole dish out of the refrigerator and peeked under the lid. “It’s some kind of lobster thing,” Victoria said. “Five or six minutes in the microwave should do it.” She had to show Kit how to set the microwave timer.

While the microwave hummed, Kit got out napkins, plates, and cutlery and set the table. Standing on a step stool, she took another wineglass down from the overhead rack. Victoria opened another bottle of wine. She almost dropped it as a sudden wave of anguish crashed over her, twisting in her chest like a knife. She slumped into a chair at the table and put her face in her hands.

“What’s wrong?” Kit asked. “Are you okay?” She looked stricken. “Oh, Christ,” she said, face crimson. “What a goddamned stupid question. Jesus, I’m sorry.”

Victoria raised her head. Her eyes burned. “It’s all right,” she said. She took a deep, unsteady breath, let it out through her nose. “For a second it felt like Patrick was still here and we were getting ready to have dinner together. Then it hit me that we would never get dinner ready together again.”

Kit moved a chair close to Victoria’s and sat down, putting her arm over Victoria’s shoulders. “That probably won’t be the last time that happens,” she said.

Victoria leaned into Kit’s embrace. “That’s reassuring,” she said grimly. The microwave beeped for attention. Kit started to get up. Victoria held her for a moment, kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Thanks,” she said, then let her go.

Victoria ate more than she thought she could, but between the two of them they didn’t make much of a dent in Consuela’s casserole. They did polish off the bottle of wine, however, although Victoria drank more of it than Kit did. Kit rarely drank more than a glass or two, and seldom finished the second.

“You’d get along with Joe Shoe,” Victoria told her. “He drinks even less than you.”

“Joe who?”

“Joe Shoe. The big guy who was here earlier.”

“What kind of name is Joe Shoe? He an Indian or something?”

“As a matter of fact,” Victoria said, “he is one-eighth Native Canadian or First Nations or whatever they’re calling themselves these days. On his mother’s side. His great-grandmother was a Blackfoot who married a Scottish railway surveyor and moved east. He’s also one-eighth Jewish, he told me, on his father’s side, but he doesn’t make a big deal out of either. His real name is Schumacher.”

“And who is he when he’s at home?”

“A friend of the family,” Victoria said. “More Patrick’s friend than mine, although I’ve known him a little longer.”

“The old guy—Hammond?—he was Patrick’s boss,” Kit said as Victoria raised her glass and drank. She responded with a nod. Kit said, “This Joe Shoe, he works for Hammond too, right? Worked, anyway.”

“Yes,” Victoria said. “I feel bad that I was the cause of him getting fired.”

“He didn’t seem too worried about it,” Kit said. “What did Hammond mean when he said he took you off the street? By the way,” she added, “feel free to tell me to mind my own business.”

Victoria smiled briefly. “He was exaggerating a little, but I guess I was something of a street person when I first met him. He saw me hanging around outside the Vancouver Art Gallery. Evidently I reminded him of someone he used to know. That’s when I met Shoe, too. He was still Bill’s chauffeur then.” She thought about it for a second, then decided that Kit had a right to know, and said, “Bill and I were lovers for a short time. A very short time, a long time ago. Before I met Patrick.”

“Yeah,” Kit said gruffly. “I got that.” She took cigarettes and a disposable lighter out of her purse. “Do you mind?”

“No, go ahead.”

Kit stood by the stove, smoking her cigarette, with the range vent fan on high and the patio door open a crack. “And the guy with the ears?” she asked. “Who was he?”

“His name is Del Tilley.”

“He’s wired a bit tight.”

“He is a little intense, isn’t he? I think women make him nervous. A year or so ago, when I went to the office to meet Patrick for lunch, I collided with him in the hall. I’d have fallen if he hadn’t caught me, but his hand touched my breast. Actually, he copped a pretty good feel. I thought he was going to faint when I smiled at him and told him not to worry about it. He’s Bill’s head of security.”

“You’re kidding?” Kit said, eyes wide with surprise. “I’d’ve said security was more Joe Shoe’s line of work.”

Victoria said, “Well, you wouldn’t be too far wrong. Twenty years ago, when he was Bill’s chauffeur, he saved Bill’s life when a man attacked him with a crowbar outside the office.”

Kit arched her eyebrows, which were the same shade of dark iron grey as her short-cropped hair.

“The man broke Shoe’s arm and fractured his cheekbone, but he was still able to throw the guy over the hood of Bill’s car. He was crushed to death under the wheels of a truck.”

“Ouch.” Kit shuddered. “Remind me never to get him pissed at me.”

Victoria shook her head. “In the years I’ve known him,” she said, “I’ve pissed him off plenty of times. He hasn’t thrown me under the wheels of a truck yet.”

The skies opened up soon after Shoe left Victoria’s house, the rain all but overwhelming the Mercedes’ single centre-mounted wiper. Traffic on the approach to the Lions Gate Bridge was light, but at times it was like driving underwater. Headlights were almost useless. Only the very brave or the very stupid drove at more than twenty or thirty kilometres per hour. Then, about halfway across the bridge, the traffic slowed to a complete halt. Shoe put the car in gear and, as the rain drummed on the roof and the reek of ozone filled the car’s interior, he tried to wrap his mind around the fact that his best friend was dead. He couldn’t. It just didn’t fit.

He thought back to his last conversation with Patrick. On Friday evening, after Patrick had broken the news about his resignation, he’d asked, “What are your plans for the future?”

“Vague,” Shoe had replied.

Patrick sipped his drink. “You’ll be what, fifty on your next birthday? When you were twenty-five, what did you think you’d be doing when you were fifty?”

“Selling used cars.”

“Really?”

“No, of course not.”

“When I was twenty-five,” Patrick said, “I thought that by the time I was forty I’d be rich.”

“You’ve done pretty well for yourself,” Shoe said.

“Maybe,” Patrick said. “For a kid from the Point.” The Point, Shoe knew, was Pointe St. Charles, the Irish working-class district of Montreal, where Patrick had grown up and where his family still lived. “But I’m not rich,” Patrick said. “Bill is rich. When I was twenty-five, that’s how rich I thought I’d be by the time I was forty. You remember my cousin Sean, don’t you? Sean Rémillard?”

Shoe nodded. He did, vaguely. He’d met him at Patrick’s wedding, eight years ago.

“When Sean was twenty-five—he’s a month younger me—he was going to be a member of parliament with a portfolio of some kind by the time he was forty, and prime minister by the time he was fifty.”

“How’s he doing?” Shoe asked.

“He’s after the nomination as the Liberal candidate in a federal by-election in Richmond. Or is it Burnaby-Douglas? Whatever, it’s pretty much a one-horse race, according to Sean. Maybe it is, too. He’s got the backing of Allan Privett.”

Patrick spoke the name as though he thought Shoe should recognize it. He didn’t and he said as much.

“No?” Patrick seemed surprised. “He’s one of the most powerful men in the party. Certainly the most powerful man in the B.C. wing. He’s an old family friend of sorts, had a big house across the lake from my uncle Albert’s cottage in Saint-Adophe-d’Howard, north of Montreal, where Sean and I—and our cousin Mary—used to spend our summers. He left Quebec shortly after the separatists came to power in ’76 to take over his wife’s family’s insurance business in Victoria. He lives in Lions Bay now. So does Sean.”

Patrick fell silent then, and his boyish face took on a faraway expression, eyes focused on some distant point, some distant time. Shoe waited patiently, sipping his club soda, almost certain that Patrick was thinking about his cousin Mary. He had told Shoe about her. Mary was his mother’s eldest brother Albert’s only child. She had drowned in a sailing accident when Patrick was seventeen. She’d been nineteen. This past summer, when Patrick had been moving his uncle Albert, who was suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, into a nursing home, he’d come across all of Mary’s things, neatly packed away in boxes in the basement of Albert’s house in Montreal. It had brought back a lot of painful memories, he’d said.

After a few seconds of silence, Patrick refocused and said, “Sean’s married to Allan Privett’s daughter Charlotte.” He smiled ruefully. “I had a major hard-on for her when I was seventeen, but she had this huge crush on Sean. She was only fifteen, though, and he thought she was a pest. Besides, Sean and Mary, well, let’s just say that they were somewhat closer than first cousins are supposed to be, if you get my meaning.” His voice trailed off and the faraway look returned momentarily. Then he said, “So, who knows? Unless—well, with Allan Privett’s backing, maybe Sean will be prime minister by the time he’s fifty. He asked me to work for him, you know.”

“Patrick,” Shoe had said, with mock horror. “Please don’t tell me you quit your job to go into politics.”

“Good lord, no,” Patrick had said, placing his hand over his heart, feigning pain. “I’m hurt you would even entertain such a thought.”

“Sorry,” Shoe had said. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ve got a couple of irons in the fire,” Patrick had replied evasively, “which I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss right now.”

The traffic on the bridge started moving again. Shoe exited the bridge and descended into the wet green gloom of Stanley Park. Primordial rain forest loomed on either side as he turned off the wider Causeway onto Scenic Drive, a slower but more direct route to the Burrard Street Bridge across False Creek to Kitsilano. The rain stopped.

Patrick had suggested they get something to eat. “Victoria is out tonight,” he’d said. “With Kit Parsons.”

“Kit as in Christopher?” Shoe said, thinking of Kit Carson, the American frontiersman and “Indian fighter.”

“As in Katherine,” Patrick said. “Victoria met her when she took an interior design course. Kit was the instructor. Wait till you meet her. She’s only about five feet tall, but tough as nails. Very butch. I’m sure she’s a lesbian.”

They’d driven in Shoe’s car to the Kettle O’ Fish on Pacific, parking on Beach almost directly under the approach to the Burrard Street Bridge. After they’d ordered, barbecued tuna for Shoe, surf-and-turf and a half-bottle of California Chardonnay for Patrick, Patrick had asked, “How do you see yourself living after you retire?”

“Pretty much the way I’m living now,” Shoe replied. “I expect I’ll have more time to read and sail. I might not have anyone to sail with, though. You’re going to be too busy getting rich.”

Patrick smiled wryly.

“What’s with all these questions about my future?” Shoe asked.

“I guess what I’m trying to tell you,” Patrick said, “in a roundabout way, is not to expect things at Hammond Industries to remain quite what they’ve been for the last twenty-five years. Or the last ten, for that matter. Maybe it’s time for you to consider getting out too. While the getting is good, so to speak.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“Yes.”

“Is your leaving going to be the cause of things not staying the same?”

“No, but my leaving isn’t going help. I’m getting out before things start falling seriously apart. And, believe me, they are going to start falling seriously apart pretty damned soon. Bill’s getting old. He’s not going to be able to hold it together much longer.”

“No offence, Patrick,” Shoe said, “but am I detecting a hint of sour grapes here? I know you and Bill didn’t see eye to eye on whether the company should go public, but that’s hardly evidence he’s losing control.”

“Maybe not,” Patrick had replied. “But going public is the only way the company is going to survive into the twenty-first century. That’s not the only reason I resigned, though. It’s time for me to move on.”

And now it was time, it seemed, for Shoe to move on too, whether he liked it or not.

When Shoe got home, Jack was sitting on the back steps, in the light of the porch lamp, smoking a cigarette and twirling the putter from the incomplete set of clubs Shoe had inherited with the house. There was a plastic beer cup full of old golf balls on the step beside him. Jack stood as Shoe climbed the back steps.

“Cops were here looking for you,” he said. “Homicide dicks. Two of ’em.” Shoe opened the door and Jack handed him a card. “Said to call that number first thing in the morning. You kill someone?”

“Not recently,” Shoe said. “Do you remember Patrick O’Neill? He used to keep a thirty-eight-foot Hunter at the marina where I moored the Pete.” Shoe had helped Patrick buy the Hunter ten years ago when Patrick had first started working at Hammond Industries.

“Sure,” Jack said. “Skinny guy. Looks like an accountant. Nice lookin’ wife.”

“He was shot to death this afternoon.” He told Jack what little he knew about Patrick’s murder.

“Sorry to hear that.”

“You coming in?” Shoe said.

“I’m goin’ t’ finish my smoke first.”

Upstairs, Shoe looked up Muriel Yee’s telephone number—she had recently moved into a new town-house in New Westminster and he hadn’t yet committed her telephone number to his or the phone’s memory—and dialled. She picked up on the second ring.

“Will Victoria be all right?” Muriel asked when Shoe had finished filling her in.

“I think so,” he said.

Muriel was silent for a moment, then said, “He wasn’t serious about firing you, was he?”

“Yes, I think this time he was.” Since Shoe had been working for him, Hammond had fired him at least half a dozen times. It had never stuck.

“I’m sorry,” Muriel said.

“I’m not,” Shoe replied. “I’ve been thinking about retiring anyway.”

“Retiring? What will you do?”

“I haven’t thought it that far through yet,” he said.

Del Tilley hummed tunelessly as he cat-footed through the quiet corridors, past the empty cubicles and darkened offices. The rubber-cushioned heels of his custom-made boots made no sound on the heavy-duty industrial carpeting. He was a happy man. He didn’t really believe in luck—you made your own opportunities—but things were working out better than he’d hoped. A spark of anger flared briefly at the memory of the disrespectful way in which Hammond had spoken to Victoria, but even that wasn’t enough to ruin his mood.

Out of sheer exuberance he gave a muted yell and performed a quick spin and kick, but he misjudged slightly and his boot heel clipped the edge of a workstation partition. The partition shuddered and something crashed to the floor on the other side. He went into the cubicle. It was just books and binders. He picked them up and dumped them haphazardly onto the desk. The cleaning staff would be blamed.

He resumed his tour, humming again.

As he approached the door to his office, Sandra St. Johns, Patrick O’Neill’s former assistant, came out of her office.

“Oh,” she said, a look of surprise on her face. “I didn’t know there was anyone else here. What was that noise?”

“Nothing to concern yourself about,” he said. She was wearing a white blouse that looked like a man’s shirt, half the buttons open, and no bra, just some kind of undershirt thing. She was so flat, though, it made no difference. “Some binders fell off a shelf.”

She shook her head. “It sounded more like a shout.”

Tilley could feel his ears grow warm. “I didn’t hear anything like that,” he said. He turned his back to her and thumbed a five-digit code, which he changed weekly, into the security lock on his office door. “Good evening,” he said over his shoulder, opening the door and slipping into his office.

Through the gap in the door, he watched her turn and go back into her own office. The rear view was definitely more interesting than the front, he thought. Her legs were her best feature, long and strong, runner’s legs. He grinned tightly, remembering the sight of her with those legs clamped around Patrick O’Neill’s hips as they did it on the sofa in O’Neill’s office, hair in her eyes, making a weird sound in her throat.

He closed the door.

As attractive as Sandra St. Johns was, Tilley thought, how O’Neill could have cheated on Victoria with the likes of her was completely beyond his comprehension. Of course, none of that mattered now. Patrick O’Neill was dead. Yes, Tilley thought. Things were working out just fine.

Barbara was cashing out at the end of her shift when the assistant manager told her they wouldn’t need her any more after tonight. “Business has been slow,” he said by way of explanation, but she knew the real reason was that she’d refused to work another shift in the strip club next door to the lounge. One would have been enough, but she’d endured three, half-naked in a skirt that barely reached her crotch and the see-through top they’d insisted she wear. Her figure wasn’t bad, despite her age, but thank god they’d let her wear a sports bra under the top. The other girls wore nothing but skin. She was also pretty sure they were supposed to give her two weeks’ notice, but she was too tired to argue.

It was after one in the morning when she got home. She trudged up the four narrow flights to her apartment, undressed and took a bath to save time in the morning, then collapsed into bed with a cup of camomile tea. Despite her exhaustion and the soothing warmth of the tea, she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Tiny rat’s teeth of anxiety gnawed at her insides. Not about losing her job; she’d been through that before, too many times. But she was sure that the big, beat-up looking man—she couldn’t remember his name—who’d spoken to her outside the dry cleaning store was a policeman. He’d said he wasn’t, but of course he would, wouldn’t he, if he were undercover?

There was only one reason she could think of that the police would be interested in her. Three weeks ago one of her regular customers at the dry cleaning store had asked her to do him a favour, to hold a package till a friend came to pick it up. “Don’t worry,” he’d said. “It’s not drugs, and it’ll just be for a couple of hours. And my friend will give you something for your trouble.” He’d seemed nice, well dressed and polite, and he’d always had time to chat, so she’d agreed.

God, how could she have been so stupid? Of course it had been drugs. Or maybe child pornography. The man who’d come to pick it up later in the day, who had given her fifty dollars, had been sneaky-looking and very nervous. She hadn’t seen her customer since.

On the other hand, she thought hopefully, maybe the big man was exactly what he’d claimed to be, an old friend of her late husband’s. There had been something familiar about him, like she’d seen him somewhere before, but she wasn’t sure where or when. He wasn’t bad looking, either, and while he’d been dressed casually, his clothing had been good quality. Maybe too good for a policeman.

Tea finished, she closed her eyes and fantasized briefly about being whisked away on some fabulous adventure by a tall, dark stranger. She knew in her heart, though, that if he wasn’t a cop, he was probably just like most of the other men she’d known, after only one thing. And, sadly, she knew that if he asked nicely enough she’d give it to him.