Читать книгу Joe Shoe 2-Book Bundle - Michael Blair - Страница 5

Tuesday, December 14

Shoe was awakened by the creak of floorboards in the hall outside his bedroom. The clock radio on the dresser read five-thirty. He started to get up to investigate, then remembered his houseguest. Rolling over, he went back to sleep. When he awakened again at seven-thirty, he got up, showered, and went downstairs. Jack had spread plastic drop cloths in the living room and was scouring loose paint from the window frames with a steel brush Shoe hadn’t known he’d owned.

“I was going to start in the kitchen,” Shoe said.

“That paint you bought,” Jack said, gesturing with the brush toward the pails of paint by the entrance to the living room. “It’s no good for kitchens. Ain’t very washable.”

“Where’d you get the brush?” Shoe asked.

“Borrowed it from your neighbour,” Jack replied. Shoe hadn’t really got to know any of his neighbours, with the exception of a curmudgeonly old fellow who lived across the street and who hadn’t given Shoe the time of day since he’d asked him to please scoop after his dog pooped in Shoe’s yard. “Old guy lives across the road,” Jack said.

“You seem to know what you’re doing.”

He shrugged. “Painted a few houses.”

“What if I paid you?”

“Got nothin’ to do till my houseboat dries out,” Jack said. “I’ll do it for a coupla weeks’ room and board. How’s that?”

Deal struck, Jack returned to scraping and Shoe went into the kitchen. After his breakfast, he called the number on the card the police had left, quoted the case number handwritten on the back, and was put through to a Sergeant Matthias of the Vancouver Homicide Squad.

“I’ll be at home all morning,” he told Matthias.

“The investigators will be there within the hour,” Matthias said.

Come to us, they beckoned to her from the grave.

No, she silently cried. I can’t.

We love you.

Then why did you leave me? What did I do?

You didn’t love us enough.

I did. I did love you. I loved you. I love you.

Not enough.

How much is enough?

Come to us. We’ll show you.

No! No! You are liars.

She didn’t remember waking up. Nor going to sleep. She lay, fully clothed but for shoes, under a light blanket that bore the scent of cedar. It was morning, but the curtains were drawn and the bedroom was dark. The only sounds in the room were the soft whisper of air circulation fans and the gentle hiss of rain on the slope of the tile roof outside the window. For a brief moment she was suspended in a void between sleep and wakefulness, her mind calm and free of thought or memory or fear. It was what she imagined death to be like, a comforting stillness where there was neither past nor future, just a formless present. She wanted to stay there forever, but she was caught by a bitter current and flung toward the howling light of awareness. She had to muster every ounce of will to keep from screaming.

Patrick, too, had finally abandoned her.

Victoria was fourteen when her mother took her own life with an overdose of sleeping pills and painkillers. She’d been suffering for a long time from a very painful form of inoperable cancer. Victoria’s father may have assisted, but the police hadn’t tried very hard to prove it.

After her mother’s death, Victoria made her father’s life a misery, seeking relief or oblivion or self-destruction in booze and drugs and promiscuity. When Frank McRae couldn’t take it any longer, he sent Victoria to a private girls’ school in Nanaimo. She hated the place and did everything she could to get thrown out. When she was caught giving oral sex to a boy in his car in the parking lot, the headmistress called her father and told him to come and get her. Frank McRae left Vancouver that same night, but as he drove onto the ferry at Horseshoe Bay, the boarding ramp somehow retracted too soon. His car plunged into the harbour and he drowned.

Victoria was sent to live with her aunt Jane, her mother’s older sister, and her husband. Childless academics, they hadn’t known much, if anything, about teenaged girls, outside of what they’d read in books. On her third day there, Victoria locked herself in the bathroom, filled the tub with water as hot as she could stand it, and got in with all her clothes on. She then slashed her wrists with a razor blade. She’d heard or read somewhere that hot water was supposed to dull the pain. It hadn’t. It had hurt like hell and she’d started yelling. Uncle Dick had broken the door down.

It was an effort to get out of bed. Her body felt leaden and sore. She dragged herself into the bathroom, turned on the light, and looked at herself in the mirror. Her skin was sallow and mottled and loose, and her eyes were underscored by dark smudges that looked like bruises. She could see every pore, every blemish, every wrinkle. Somehow, though, she found the energy to undress and get into the shower.

As she was dressing, there was a gentle knock on the bedroom door.

“Come in,” she called.

Kit opened the door. “I heard you moving about,” she said. She sounded like she had a sore throat. “Did you get some sleep?”

“Yes, thanks,” Victoria said.

“Do you want some breakfast?” Kit asked.

“God, no,” Victoria answered automatically, but then realized she was hungry. “Maybe some tea and an English muffin.”

“You got it,” Kit said.

She followed Kit downstairs to the kitchen. Kit filled the kettle, put it on the gas range, and turned on the jet. The flame hissed and fluttered.

“Did I hear the phone ring?” Victoria asked.

“Yeah,” Kit replied as she split an English muffin. “Joe Shoe called to see how you were doing.” She put the halves of the muffin in the toaster oven and turned it on.

“Does he want me to call him back?”

“He said he’d call later,” Kit said. The kettle began to whistle. Kit turned off the flame. She dropped a tea bag into a mug and poured water over it. She placed the mug and a teaspoon in front of Victoria. “You and Shoe,” she said. “Were you lovers too, before you met Patrick?”

The question caught Victoria off guard. “God, no,” she said.

“Why do you say it like that?” Kit said. “He’s not exactly my type, but he’s not that bad, either, if you like them big and battered. What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing,” Victoria said. “Nothing’s wrong with him.” She scooped the tea bag out of the mug.

“But there’s something between you, isn’t there?”

Victoria looked at Kit and held her eyes for a moment. They were the same blue-green colour as the glacier lakes Victoria had seen when she and Patrick had flown over the Rockies on the way back from Montreal. Kit’s eyes weren’t cold, though, as Victoria imagined a glacier lake to be, and the longer she looked into them, the warmer they seemed to become. She looked away, breaking the connection, looking down at the mug of tea on the countertop.

“I told you how Shoe saved Bill Hammond’s life.”

“Yeah,” Kit said.

“Well, he may have saved my life, too.”

“What do you mean, ‘may have’?”

Victoria took an unsteady breath.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Kit said.

“I do want to tell you,” Victoria replied. “I’m just not sure you’re going to like what you hear.” Kit didn’t say anything. Victoria took another breath.

“I’d been sleeping with Bill for three or four months, almost from the day I started working for him. It wasn’t what you’d call a healthy relationship. He was, well, sexually repressed, I guess. I was pretty messed up too. I’d never really gotten over my parents’ deaths, despite years of having my head shrunk. Anyway, whenever Bill’s wife was away, which was quite often—she was in and out of rehab for almost their entire marriage—I would stay at his house. One night, when I just couldn’t take it any more, I took off.”

Not before stealing a half-dozen pieces of antique gold jewellery that belonged to Bill’s wife, she recalled, as well as $150 in cash Bill had left on the kitchen table for the housekeeper. But she didn’t tell Kit that.

“I didn’t know where I was going,” she said. “All I knew was that I couldn’t stay there any longer and I didn’t want to go back to the company condo I was staying in. I was pretty stoned, on vodka and some hash I’d scored, but somehow, I don’t remember how, or why, I ended up at the marina near Granville Island where Shoe lived on this ratty old boat. It was around two in the morning.”

“I don’t suppose he was pleased to see you,” Kit said.

“No, he wasn’t, especially when I puked all over the deck and passed out.”

She paused as she recalled coming to in a bathroom not much larger than a closet, slumped on a stainless steel toilet seat in her bra and panties, the stink of vomit clogging her sinuses. Shoe was adjusting the spray in the tiny shower stall.

“Where are my clothes?” she asked thickly.

“I threw them overboard,” Shoe said. He had, too, but he’d tied a line to them. “You were sick,” he said. “It’s in your hair.” He helped her to her feet and steered her toward the shower stall. “In you go.”

“Wait,” she said. She reached behind her back with both hands and unhooked her bra, letting it slip down her arms and fall to the floor. Holding his arm, she stepped out of her panties. If Shoe was discomfited by her nudity, he didn’t show it, which pissed her off for some reason. She got into the shower, gasped as the water hit her, and slumped to the floor of the stall. Shoe closed the clear plastic curtain, then collected her underwear and left her there, huddled in the warm spray.

How long she stayed that way she wasn’t sure. At some point, though, when the water started to cool off, she struggled to her feet, found a bar of soap and a cloth, and scrubbed herself from scalp to toes. There was a bottle of dandruff shampoo, and although she’d always hated the nasty stuff, she used it. As she was rinsing, Shoe knocked on the door.

“Everything all right?”

She didn’t answer.

The door opened. She stood, arms braced against the wall, head bowed in the spray, water coursing down the length of her body.

“Getting a good look?” she said, without opening her eyes.

The door closed...

“Vic?” Kit said.

“Sorry,” Victoria said, returning to the present. “Anyway, Shoe cleaned me up and gave me one of his sweatshirts to wear—it hung to my knees—and put me to bed to sleep it off. I didn’t sleep, though. I could hear him moving around in the deckhouse, making up his berth. Then the phone rang. ‘Yes, she’s here,’ I heard him say. A second or two later he said, ‘Pardon me for saying so, but you should have thought of that before you started sleeping with her.’”

She paused and drank some of her cooling tea. Despite the passage of time, her recollection of what happened next was mercilessly clear and it made her squirm with shame and embarrassment to recall it. She wasn’t sure she could get it out, but she owed it to Kit—and herself—to try.

“I went up to the deckhouse and asked him if it had been Bill on the phone. He said it was, that he’d called to make sure I was all right. ‘I bet,’ I said. Then I pointed to the berth he was making up and told him it looked awfully small, that he could sleep down below with me if he wanted. He said he’d be fine and I told him I wasn’t asking him to have sex with me. But I was, of course.

“‘I’ll sleep here,’ he said.

“‘Have it your way,’ I told him. ‘There won’t be another offer.’ I started to go below, then turned back to him and said, ‘What the fuck’s your problem anyway?’

“‘I’m not sure I understand the question,’ he said.

“‘I just offered you a free piece of ass,’ I said. ‘Maybe I’m not at my best right now, but men aren’t supposed to be that picky. I know you’re not queer, so what’s the problem?’

“He said, ‘I make it a rule to never sleep with the boss’s girlfriends. Or take advantage of a lady when she’s had too much to drink.’

“‘I do some of my best work when I’ve had a few too many,’ I said to him and tried to undo the string of his sweatpants.

“He grabbed my wrists and told me to go below and sleep it off. I twisted away and swore at him and told him I’d cut his fucking balls off if he tried anything. Then I fell down the companionway steps.

“He came down and tried to help me, but I hit him and screamed at him not to touch me. I pulled off the sweatshirt he’d given me to wear and threw it at him. I remembered I’d had a backpack when I’d left Bill’s. ‘Where is my backpack?’ I shouted. ‘Where are my clothes? I’m getting out of here.’

“He told me I’d left it on deck. When he went up to get it, I went into the head and locked the door. I found a bottle of acetaminophen tablets in the medicine cabinet. The bottle had a childproof cap, and I when opened it, the top popped off and half the tablets fell onto the floor. I poured the rest into my mouth, washing them down with handfuls of water from the faucet, then got down on my hands and knees and began picking tablets off the floor and popping them into my mouth. Shoe knocked on the door and asked me if I was all right. I didn’t answer. I just kept popping tablets into my mouth and crunching them between my teeth. They tasted awful. He told me to unlock the door. I told him to fuck off, to leave me alone, so he broke it down.

“Christ, I must’ve been a sight, naked on my hands and knees gobbling pills off the bathroom floor. He picked me up and hauled me out into the cabin. I fought, clawing at him, raking his arms and face with my nails, gouging his flesh, but he held me in his arms, restraining me the way my father used to when I was a child and had thrown a tantrum. I screamed at him to leave me alone, that I wanted to die.

“‘No, you don’t,’ he said.

“‘Yes, I do,’ I said. ‘Yes, I do.’ But suddenly I was terrified. I realized I didn’t want to die and begged him to help me. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said, and held my head over the galley sink, pried my jaws open, and stuck his fingers down my throat.”

“Yuck,” Kit said. There were tears on her cheeks.

“I threw up most of the pills,” Victoria said. “Then he wrapped me in a blanket and took me to the Vancouver General ER.”

“If he didn’t save your life,” Kit said, “he probably saved you from serious liver damage.”

“Actually,” Victoria said, “I think it was later that he really saved my life. After I was released from the hospital, he helped me get my life on track, maybe for the first time since my mother died. He drove me to my appointments with the shrinks. He helped me find a place of my own to live. He even talked Bill into giving me my job back. He was there for me whenever I needed him, with no strings, no expectations. And I needed him a lot. At that point, I think if he’d asked, I’d have moved in with him, or maybe even married him. Thank god he didn’t ask.”

“There you go again,” Kit said. “I don’t understand. If I dug men, I might consider him a good catch. He obviously cares about you. And he seems nice enough. Nicer than Hammond, that’s for sure. Maybe even nicer than me. Which isn’t hard sometimes,” she added with a grin. “Not that I’m trying to talk you into anything, but what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know,” Victoria said. “Maybe it’s just that he knows me too well.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“You tell me.”

“I dunno,” Kit said with a shrug and a smile. “Maybe I just don’t know you well enough yet.”

Kit climbed off her stool by the counter. She removed the forgotten English muffin from the toaster oven and dropped it into the trash. Splitting another, she put it in the oven.

Victoria looked at her. “How do you do it?” she asked.

“Do what?” Kit replied, starting the toaster.

“Deal with it.”

Kit didn’t answer right away. Victoria waited for her to ask, “Deal with what?” But when she finally answered, she said, “Smoke and mirrors, kid. It’s all just smoke and mirrors.”

Precisely an hour after Shoe had spoken with Sergeant Matthias, the doorbell rang. A fraction of a second later, the telephone also rang. Jack put down his paintbrush and went to answer the door while Shoe went into the kitchen to answer the phone. It was Muriel.

“Are you coming into the office today?” she asked.

“I was fired, remember?”

Through the kitchen doorway, Shoe could see down the hall to the front door. A man and a woman stood silhouetted against the light. Jack stood aside to let them in, then closed the door behind them. Both looked to be in their late thirties or early forties, both wore long coats, open to reveal dark suits, and both wore ties, although the woman’s was a droopy bow. They looked no-nonsense and fit. They could have been Jehovah’s Witnesses or Mormons, but Shoe knew they were cops.

“I’m thinking of quitting myself,” Muriel said.

“The place would fall apart without you,” Shoe said.

“I don’t think I care any more,” Muriel replied. “I don’t like what’s happening around here. Have you noticed that no one seems to have fun any more? It’s like working in a mortuary. No one smiles. No one laughs. No one posts those stupid jokes on the bulletin board.”

The cops stared at Shoe with hard eyes, practised looks learned early and meant to intimidate.

“Some of them were pretty crude,” Shoe said.

“Yes, but at least they were signs of life.” She sighed, breath rattling in Shoe’s ear. “Maybe it’s me. I don’t know. I suppose I’m just a little under the weather. SAD. Seasonal Affective Disorder.”

“Muriel, the police have just arrived. I’ll come in after lunch to clean out my desk and we’ll talk then, all right?”

“Sure,” she said dully. “See you later.” She hung up.

Shoe joined Jack and the two cops in the front hall. The male cop was just a few inches shorter than Shoe and fair, with hair the colour of wet sand, pale blue eyes, a square jaw, and a generous mouth. The woman was almost as tall, rangy and ruddy-skinned, with a deep bosom, dark mahogany eyes, and thick black hair chopped off just below her earlobes.

“We’ll be more comfortable in the kitchen,” Shoe said, gesturing toward the empty living room. “At least we’ll have somewhere to sit.”

Shoe went back into the kitchen. The cops followed, Jack trailing after them. There was a half-full pot of coffee in the coffee maker, dark and bitter. It had been on the warming pad for too long, but he offered anyway. Both shook their heads. He sat down and the cops followed suit. Jack poured himself a cup, sweetened it, and sat on the tall stool by the counter.

“You’re Joseph Schumacher?” the male cop said.

“I am,” Shoe replied. “And you are...”

He took his wallet out and showed his badge. “Sergeant Matthias,” he said. “We spoke on the phone.”

Shoe held out his hand and Matthias placed his badge wallet in it. The name on his ID card was Gregory Matthias.

“This is Detective Constable Worth,” Matthias said as Shoe handed back the wallet. “Do you want to see her ID too?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Shoe said.

Matthias took out a notepad and flipped it open. He looked up at Jack perched on the stool. “Did you know Mr. O’Neill?”

“Met him coupla times,” Jack replied laconically.

Matthias nodded to Worth, who stood and said to Jack, “Come with me, please.” Her voice was a rich, warm contralto, belying her stern countenance. Jack climbed down from the stool and, taking his coffee, went with her into the living room.

“Let’s get the obvious question out of the way first,” Matthias said to Shoe. “Where were you between three and four p.m. yesterday?”

“I was on Cordova,” Shoe said. “Outside Seropian’s Dry Cleaning.” He told Matthias the address. The detective wrote it in his notebook.

“What were you doing there?” Matthias asked. “Can anyone confirm your whereabouts?”

“I was waiting to speak to a woman named Barbara Reese. She works in the store.” He waited while Matthias wrote in his notebook, then continued when the detective raised his head. “I spoke to her for a few minutes at about 3:45, then came home. I stopped at a men’s shop on 4th on the way. I got here about five-thirty. Mr. Pine was sitting on my front porch.”

“When did you last see or speak to Mr. O’Neill?” Matthias asked.

“Friday evening,” Shoe replied. “We had dinner.”

“What was his mood, his state of mind at the time?” Matthias asked.

“He was fine,” Shoe answered. “A little keyed up perhaps. He’d just tendered his resignation.”

“Why?”

“A difference of opinion with the company owner. Patrick wanted the company to go public. Mr. Hammond did not.”

“What did O’Neill do at Hammond Industries?” Sergeant Matthias asked.

“He was Vice-President of Corporate Development,” Shoe said.

“What does that mean?” Matthias asked.

“Hammond Industries is basically a holding company,” Shoe explained. “It owns other companies.” Matthias nodded. “Patrick’s job was to identify and evaluate possible candidates for acquisition. He negotiated the purchases and often got involved in the restructuring as well.” It was an oversimplification, but it would suffice.

“And how did Mr. Hammond react to O’Neill’s resignation?”

“He was upset,” Shoe said. “Maybe even a little angry. Patrick was his protegé. Mr. Hammond was grooming him to take over the company.”

“Was he angry enough to have O’Neill killed?”

Shoe said, “I don’t really know how angry a person would have to be to have someone killed. But if you’re asking me, do I think William Hammond had Patrick killed, the answer is no, I don’t think he did.”

“How long have you known O’Neill?”

“Ten years.”

“How would you characterize your relationship with him.”

“We were friends,” Shoe said. “Good friends.”

“And his wife? Are you friends with her too?”

“Yes,” Shoe said.

“How long have you known her?”

“A little more than twelve years.”

“Does she gamble or have a substance abuse problem?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Matthias nodded again and scribbled in his notebook. “Was their marriage okay?”

“To the best of my knowledge,” Shoe replied.

“Do you know of anyone who would want to harm O’Neill? Someone to whom he owed money or a business associate who felt cheated?”

“No one that I’m aware of.”

“Did he gamble?”

“No.”

“Drink? Take drugs?”

“He drank in moderation. He didn’t use recreational drugs.”

“How did he get along with the people he worked with?”

“Everyone at the office liked and respected him,” Shoe said.

Detective Constable Worth came back into the kitchen and climbed onto the stool Jack had vacated. She had a big, lethal-looking automatic pistol on her hip. Shoe didn’t know what kind it was. His knowledge of police side arms was thirty years out of date. He had qualified with a Smith & Wesson .38 Police Special revolver. He hadn’t handled a gun since.

“How well do you know Hammond?” Matthias asked.

“Fairly well,” Shoe said. “But, to use your words, I wouldn’t know how to characterize our relationship. I’ve worked for him for twenty-five years—” Shoe realized he’d used the wrong verb tense. “Until yesterday I would have said our relationship was somewhat more than employer-employee, but somewhat less than friends.”

“And as of yesterday?” Matthias asked, scratching in his notebook.

“I ceased to be employed by Hammond Industries.”

“You quit or you were fired?”

“A little of both, I’d say.”

“Did it have anything to do with O’Neill’s death?”

“Indirectly.”

“Could you explain?”

“I violated protocol,” Shoe said. Matthias raised a sandy eyebrow. “I stepped too far across that indistinct line between employee and friend and stuck my nose into something Mr. Hammond believed was none of my business.”

“What did you do at Hammond Industries?” Constable Worth asked in her sweet contralto voice.

“My title is—was—Senior Analyst, Corporate Development.” He’d always felt self-conscious telling people his title.

“Corporate Development,” Matthias repeated. “O’Neill was your boss?”

“Technically,” Shoe replied. “However, I reported directly to Mr. Hammond.”

“How did your responsibilities differ from O’Neill’s?” Matthias asked.

“Patrick handled the financial aspects of acquisitions. He’d look at a company’s books, financial statements, that sort of thing. My job was to try to find out if a company’s claims on paper were a true reflection of how well or poorly the company was doing. I suppose you could say I was a sort of industrial private investigator.”

“Sounds like an interesting job.”

“It got me out of the office,” Shoe said.

“You used to be Mr. Hammond’s chauffeur, though?”

“That’s right.”

Matthias flipped back the pages of his notebook, consulting an earlier entry. “Tell me about Randy Jenks.”

The question didn’t take Shoe by surprise. It had nothing to do with Patrick’s death, but it had everything to do with Matthias’ assessment of Shoe as a possible suspect. Shoe said, “There’s not a lot to tell. Twenty years ago Randy Jenks attacked Bill Hammond with a crowbar on the sidewalk in front of the office. I stopped him. He died when he fell under the wheels of a truck.”

“Had you ever seen him before that day?”

“No.”

“Why do you think he attacked Hammond?”

“I can only go by what was reported in the newspapers,” Shoe replied, “that he was a disgruntled former employee who’d been fired for drinking on the job.”

“He hadn’t worked for the company for almost ten years,” Matthias said. “What took him so long?”

“I’ve often wondered about that myself,” Shoe said. “Following Raymond Lindell’s death, though, the company was growing and had been in the news quite a lot. I suppose seeing Hammond’s name in the papers opened up old wounds.”

Matthias said, “Mm,” as he consulted his notebook, then said, “That should do it. Is there anything you’d like to add?”

“No, I can’t think of anything right now.”

Matthias stood and Worth stood with him.

“Did you used to be a cop?” Worth asked.

“Thirty years ago,” Shoe said, “I was a member of the Metro Toronto police for two and a half years.”

“Why did you leave?” Matthias asked.

“I was discharged for striking a superior officer,” he said.

“Mm,” Matthias said again.

Shoe walked them to the door.

“If there are any more questions,” Matthias said, “someone will be in touch. In the meantime, if you think of anything, you can reach me at that number you called this morning. If you can’t get me or Constable Worth, quote the case number and leave your name. Someone will get back to you. Thank you for your co-operation.”

Shoe shook hands with them, and when they had gone he went back to painting the living room trim. He and Jack broke for lunch at twelve-thirty, cleaned up, ate, and at a few minutes past one Shoe headed downtown, on the way dropping Jack off at the entrance to Granville Island to check on his houseboat.

Shoe’s office was down the hall from Hammond’s, next to the photocopy room. About ten feet square, it had a single narrow window through which on a good day he could see a thin slice of Stanley Park and Coal Harbour. Today wasn’t one of those days. The office was equipped with a desk, usually bare, a filing cabinet, mostly empty, an outdated personal computer, never on, and a set of bookshelves, overcrowded and sagging. He spent as little time there as possible—if anyone needed him, Muriel usually knew where to find him—but he had nevertheless accumulated a remarkable amount of what could only be described as stuff, most of which went straight into the recycling bin. The rest was mainly books, cassettes and CDs, and a few photographs.

Muriel hadn’t been at her desk when he’d arrived, but as he was packing books into a cardboard file box, she came into the office. With a sigh, she dropped into the creaky and unstable swivel chair behind the desk. She wore a dark green blouse that looked lighter than air and a knee-length black skirt, modestly slit only halfway up her thigh. Shoe could smell her perfume, light and musky-sweet. The hinges of his jaw tingled.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Just tired,” she said. “I didn’t sleep very well last night.” It didn’t show. Her hair shone and her eyes were clear and steady. “Have you talked to him?” she asked.

“No,” Shoe said. “Is he in?”

“No,” she answered. “I thought, just maybe...” She left the thought unfinished and shrugged. “I’m worried about him. God knows why. Lately, all he does is bark at me.”

She watched as Shoe taped the file box closed. When he’d placed it on the floor by the door, he sat down in the straight-backed chair beside the desk.

“Are you still thinking about quitting?” he asked.

“I guess not. Not seriously, anyway. Still, it’s not going to be the same around here without you. Have you thought about what you’re going to do?”

“Not really. Maybe I’ll sell my house, buy a sailboat, and sail the South Seas.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Sounds good. Can I come along?”

“Certainly. Can you sail?”

“No,” she said. “But I have other talents.” She grinned lasciviously.

“So much for the fabled Asian inscrutability,” he said.

“Asian inscrutability is a barbarian myth,” she replied. “Personally, I’m very ’scrutable. You just haven’t tried hard enough.” Her smile faded suddenly.

“What is it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “It’s nothing, really. I just feel a little guilty about bantering with you like this so soon after Patrick’s death. But his death doesn’t seem real somehow, until I think about it, then there’s this awful empty feeling, like there’s something missing. God, I can’t imagine how Victoria is coping.”

“She seemed to be handling it quite well last night.”

“No thanks to him,” Muriel said, thrusting her chin in the general direction of Hammond’s office. She stood up suddenly, smoothing her skirt over her thighs. Shoe stood with her. “I’d better get back to work,” she said. She popped up onto her toes and kissed him quickly on the edge of the mouth, then was gone. He continued with his packing.

Half an hour later, as he was taping the last file box closed, she knocked on the edge of the doorframe.

“He wants to see you,” she said.

“He’s here?”

She shook her head. “At home. I reminded him that he’d fired you, but he told me that unless I wanted to join you in the unemployment line to mind my own goddamned business. I dared him to fire me,” she added. “He just grumbled and told me to give you the message.”

“Did he say what he wants?”

“No. Maybe he’s changed his mind about firing you.”

“I’m not sure I’m likely to change my mind about being fired,” Shoe replied.

William Hammond sat in a cushioned wicker armchair beside the pool in the solarium of his Shaughnessy Heights house. The air was heavy with the odour of chlorine from the pool, the mustiness of damp earth and humus, and the cloying reek of tropical plants and flowers. Overhead fans rotated slowly and silently, keeping the inner surface of the glass walls free of condensation. The only illumination came from the underwater pool lights. Over the hiss of the rain on the glass, he could hear the soft splash of water as Abby swam lengths, switching every second length between the crawl, the breaststroke, and the backstroke.

Hammond lifted his glass, only to discover that it was empty—again. Pushing himself out of the creaky chair, he walked unsteadily to the mobile bar and fixed himself another Bloody Caesar. He could feel the alcohol fizzing through his blood, killing brain cells, corroding his liver. When had he started drinking so much? he wondered. Alcohol had killed Elizabeth, his first wife, as it had killed her mother. It ran in the family. Of course, living with that self-righteous, Bible-thumping bastard Raymond Lindell would have driven anyone to drink.

He remembered a time, not long ago, when he’d hardly taken alcohol at all. Why start now? The answer was simple. He drank because he no longer needed to be sober. Business required a clear head. What he did these days hardly qualified as business.

It had been different in the old days, he thought, slumped in his chair again and absently watching Abby glide through the water, doing the backstroke now. It had been fun then. He still remembered, like it was yesterday, the thrill of landing his first big shipping contract, the excitement of negotiating the purchase of his first company. There had been hard times, to be sure, but the hard times had just made the good times all that much better.

And Claire. He closed his eyes and tried to conjure up a picture of Claire Powkowski in his mind, but he couldn’t. She’d had pale blond hair, he remembered, coarse and brittle from being bleached too many times, washed-out blue eyes, and a crooked front tooth, but he couldn’t see her face. With a sudden rush, though, accompanied by a warm stirring in his loins, he remembered her breasts, white and pendulous, exquisitely soft and hot in his hands, and the hardness of her long, dark nipples, which she’d liked to have pinched and twisted harder than he’d at first been comfortable with.

Jesus, he swore under his breath as he realized with a shock that it had been fifty-five years since he’d lost his virginity with Claire Powkowski. He’d been twenty. She’d been what, thirty-two, thirty-three? He’d hired her to help him run a variation of the badger game on the petty officer in charge of the naval supply depot in the Port of Vancouver, where Hammond had been stationed as a clerk during the final years of the Second World War. She’d been one of the better-looking whores plying their trade in the port.

“Easiest money I’ve made in a long time,” she’d told him later. “I figure you got some change coming. I don’t live far from here. Why don’t you come home with me?”

“Not today,” he’d replied, annoyed by the slight quaver in his voice. Given the difference in their ages, though, he’d felt that it would have been too much like fucking his mother. “Did you get the address of the warehouse?”

She wrote it on a paper napkin and handed it to him. He folded it and put into his shirt pocket.

“This Petty Officer Millard,” she said. “He’s stealing from the Navy and selling it on the black market, isn’t he? You’re too young to be shore patrol, so I figure you’re cutting yourself in on his action. Am I right?”

He admitted she was.

“You got nerve for a kid,” she said. “Why don’t you come by the club tonight. I’ll fix you up with a girl more your age. She’ll do it for me as a favour.” She wet her lips and looked at him through lowered lashes, leaning forward and hunching her shoulders to give him a good look at the tops of her breasts. “She’s cute as a bug’s ear, but I know a trick or two she hasn’t even thought of yet.”

“I appreciate the offer,” he said. “But...” He shrugged.

“You’ve never been with a woman, is that it?” She smiled, because the answer was written all over his face. “Nothin’ to be ashamed of. Worst thing in the world, though, is two virgins doing it for the first time, all scared and nervous and not knowing what to do. The way they do it on those South Sea Islands, the older women teach the boys and the older men teach the girls.”

That wasn’t true and he’d known it, but in the end he had gone with her. And it hadn’t been at all like fucking his mother.

Damn, he thought. Not only was he drinking more these days, he was spending more time thinking about the past. That was a sure sign he was getting old. Hell, he wasn’t getting old; he was old. And there wasn’t a goddamned thing he could do about it.

Eschewing the ladder, Abigail Whittaker Hammond lifted herself effortlessly out of the pool, sleek as a seal, streaming water onto the tiled deck. She stood at the edge of the pool, breasts rising and falling with the slow, deep rhythm of her breathing. Peeling off her bathing cap, she fluffed her short, rust-coloured hair. A vein in her neck throbbed and Hammond imagined he could almost hear the powerful beat of her heart. At forty-eight, Abby was well muscled but not overdeveloped, with just enough body fat to keep her from looking stringy. Her bathing costume was three tiny patches of fabric, barely containing her high, round breasts and the mound of her sex.

“You might as well swim naked, for crissake,” he grumbled.

“I usually do,” she said. She picked up a bright beach towel and wrapped it around herself, tucking a corner between her breasts. Reaching under the towel, she removed the bits of her bathing suit, gathering them into her fist. The muscles of her forearm corded as she squeezed the water out.

Abby was okay, but Hammond wasn’t sure why he’d married her after Elizabeth had died. The company, maybe. Certainly not the sex. He tried to remember how long it had been since they’d had sex. Three months, at least, maybe four. It hadn’t been a particularly satisfying experience for either of them, he recalled. Although she had managed to get him erect by hand, as soon as she’d straddled him and tried to put him inside her, he’d wilted. He might have considered giving Viagra a try, if he really gave a damn.

“I’m going to get dressed now,” Abby said. “Are you sure you won’t change your mind?”

“I’m sure,” he answered curtly, annoyed that she’d asked. She knew he wouldn’t change his mind. She didn’t really want him to go with her anyway; it would spoil her evening. Not that he gave a damn about spoiling her evening, but opera made his teeth ache. Only thing worse was ballet, muscular homely women and queers in padded jockstraps. The symphony he could take or leave. He fell asleep most of the time anyway.

“Can I get you anything before I go?”

“No.”

She so surprised him when she leaned over and kissed him on the forehead that he almost flinched. She seldom showed him much affection these days. “I’ll say good night then. Don’t wait up.”

When she’d gone to dress, he got up and made himself another drink.

Was Abby really going to the opera? he wondered as he returned to his chair. Or was she shacking up somewhere with whomever she was screwing these days? He was sure she was screwing someone, but he was only mildly curious about whom. He chuckled to himself, recalling the way Abby had looked at Joe Shoe last summer when he’d been roped into coming to one her charity functions. But even if Shoe were aware of Abby’s interest, which he probably wasn’t, there was no goddamned way in the world he’d be screwing the boss’s wife.

The house was a monstrous grey pile that had been imported stone by stone from England in the early 1900s by an expatriate American railway magnate with more money than good sense. The only one of its kind in Shaughnessy, it sat in the middle of an acre of manicured lawn, surrounded by gloomy pines, high hedges, and grotesque topiary. Shoe parked in the wide, curving driveway in front of the coach house–like detached garage over which he’d lived for a few months after being released from the hospital following Randy Jenks’ death. As he climbed the wide flagstone steps to the front door, the wet wind plucked at his hat. He rang the doorbell. A minute later Mrs. Rodriguez, the Hammonds’ tubby little housekeeper, answered the door. She took his coat and hat, then escorted him through the kitchen to the solarium at the back of the house.

The solarium was too warm and Shoe started to perspire almost immediately. Bill Hammond slouched in one of a set of four upholstered wicker chairs a few feet from the edge of the pool. Mrs. Rodriguez retreated and Hammond gestured to one of the other chairs. Shoe sat down, the wicker creaking alarmingly under his weight.

“You took your goddamned time getting here,” Hammond grumbled.

“I had some errands to run,” Shoe said. “In any event, I don’t work for you any more, do I?”

“Humph,” Hammond responded. “Can you think of any reason why I should change my mind about firing you?” he asked.

“Not a one,” Shoe answered.

“Me either.”

“Good,” Shoe said, standing up with a groan of wicker. “Now that that’s settled, I can get on with my retirement.”

“Oh, for crissake, sit down,” Hammond said. Shoe stared down at him. “Please,” Hammond added sourly. Shoe sat again. “I suppose you think I should apologize,” Hammond said.

“Not to me,” Shoe said. “But you owe Victoria an apology.”

“Why the hell should I apologize to her? If anyone should apologize, it’s her. I’ve never treated her with anything but respect. Christ, where would she be if it hadn’t been for me? I’ll tell you. She’d be living in a god-damned cardboard box, or selling herself on the street, if she wasn’t dead of AIDS. Is it expecting too much to ask for a little respect in return?”

“Are you sure it’s her respect you want?” Shoe asked.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted from her,” Hammond said.

Changing the subject, Shoe asked him, “Have the police talked to you?”

“Yes,” Hammond said. “A sergeant named Matthias and a woman who dressed like a man. Have they talked to you?”

Shoe nodded. “Same two,” he said.

“I got the feeling they considered me a suspect.”

“We’re all suspects,” Shoe said.

Hammond grunted and fell silent.

They sat in the noisy wicker chairs, not talking, watching the shimmering green-blue water of the pool. Shoe was about to ask why he’d been summoned when Hammond spoke.

“I used to swim almost every day,” he said. “Still do from time to time, but lately I just don’t seem to have the energy. Besides, Abby likes the water too goddamned warm. It’s like swimming in piss.”

After another minute or two of silence, during which Shoe entertained himself with the absurd fantasy of sailing around the world in the company of Muriel Yee, Bill Hammond said, “Do you want your job back or don’t you?”

“No,” Shoe said. “I don’t think I do.”

“It’s customary to give notice when you resign.”

“I didn’t resign,” Shoe pointed out.

Hammond waved the distinction aside.

“What are you getting at?” Shoe asked.

“I want you to find out what Patrick was up to that got him killed.”

“What makes you so sure he was ‘up to’ anything?” Shoe said.

“I’m not sure,” Hammond replied. “But if he was, I want to know what it was.”

“Leave it to the police,” Shoe said.

“You obviously have more faith in their abilities or motivation than I do. Look, I’ll make it worth your while. How’s a year’s salary sound? I’m sure Charlie can set it up so you don’t have to pay tax.”

“It’s a very generous offer.”

“But you’re not interested, is that what you’re saying?”

“The police don’t appreciate civilians treading on their turf,” Shoe said.

“So what? In any case, you’re not a civilian. You’re an employee of Hammond Industries. We’re simply conducting our own internal investigation.”

“Nevertheless,” Shoe said, “I’m not really comfortable with the idea.”

“Why not? Don’t you want to know who was responsible for Patrick’s death?”

“Of course I do.”

“So what’s the problem?” When Shoe didn’t answer, Hammond said, “You don’t think I had anything to do with it, do you?”

“You and Victoria were lovers before she and Patrick were married,” Shoe said. “That makes you a prime suspect.”

Hammond harrumphed, dismissing the issue with a wave of his hand. He struggled out of the chair, glaring at Shoe when he seemed about to lend an assist. He made himself a drink at the portable bar and returned to his chair, the wicker complaining as he sat down.

“Will you do it or not?”

“I’ll do it,” Shoe said. “But you’d better be sure you’re willing to see it through.”

“I wouldn’t have asked you if I weren’t.”

“I won’t hold out on the police, either,” Shoe added. “If I come up with anything I think will help them identify the person responsible for Patrick’s murder, I’ll give it to them. No matter what it is. Just so you understand.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Hammond said.

Shoe found his own way back to the front door. As he waited for Mrs. Rodriguez to retrieve his coat and hat, Abby Hammond came down the stairs. She was wearing a simple black dress with a short skirt that clung to her thighs as she walked. She was carrying a fur coat and holding a clutch purse.

“Hello, Joe,” she said. “How are you?”

“Fine, Abby. Thanks.”

“It’s so awful about Patrick,” she said. “How is Victoria doing?”

“As well as can be expected,” Shoe said.

“I should call her.”

“She’d appreciate it,” he said.

Abby nodded absently, then said, “I’m worried about Bill. He’s taking it very hard. I haven’t seen him this upset since, well, since Elizabeth died.”

Elizabeth, Bill Hammond’s first wife, had died five years ago of liver cancer, the result of years of alcohol abuse. He’d married Abby four years ago, but she’d been his mistress for four years before that. They’d met when he’d briefly considered selling the house. She was the broker he’d contacted, mainly, he’d said, because he’d seen her photograph on signs in the neighbourhood and had thought she was attractive. “I don’t know who seduced who,” he’d told Shoe, “but getting her into bed wasn’t hard. She’d’ve fucked a leper for an exclusive listing.”

Mrs. Rodriguez brought Shoe’s coat and hat, but she was too short to help him on with his coat, so he took it from her. Then he helped Abby on with hers.

“Can I give you a ride somewhere?” he asked.

“Thanks,” she said. “But I’ve called a cab.”

“Have a nice evening, then,” he said and went out to his car.

Hammond had had two other mistresses that Shoe knew about, and probably others that he didn’t. When he’d first started working for Hammond, he’d driven him to more or less regular assignations with a woman Hammond referred to only as “Miss Rose.” Shoe had never met Miss Rose, had seen her only once, in fact, watching him from an upstairs window of Hammond’s house. But he’d had the impression Hammond had known her for a long time.

He’d stopped seeing Miss Rose, though, shortly after Randy Jenks’ death and had started frequenting prostitutes instead. When Shoe had asked him why, he’d replied, “Whores are a lot less trouble than mistresses. Or wives, for that matter. With whores, you always know where you stand. It’s strictly business. Mistresses and wives, they expect too much.”

“When I was a cop,” Shoe had said, “I knew a few street whores. Most of them were greedy, stupid, and lazy. I expect the whores you pay are just as greedy, stupid, and lazy, but dress better.”

Hammond had chuckled dryly. “Greed and stupidity are probably good traits to look for in a whore. Greed motivates them. And if they were smart, they’d be lawyers. I wouldn’t call Mrs. Faber’s girls lazy, though. Some of them work very hard for their money.”

The only other of Hammond’s mistresses Shoe had known was Victoria, although he wasn’t sure their relationship had lasted long enough for Victoria to qualify as a mistress. But lovers wasn’t an appropriate description of their relationship, either. No, lovers was definitely not the right word.