Читать книгу Joe Shoe 2-Book Bundle - Michael Blair - Страница 7

Thursday, December 16

Charles Merigold’s secretary’s name was Gillian Whistle. She regarded Shoe with cool grey eyes as he approached her desk. Her face, framed by wings of dark blond hair, was triangular, smooth brow a trifle too wide perhaps, chin a trifle too pointed, but the overall effect was pleasant. Shoe put her age at somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five.

“Is Mr. Merigold in?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” she replied. She blinked and Shoe imagined he could feel the breeze from her long dark lashes. She picked up her phone and pressed a button. “Mr. Schumacher would like to see you, sir.” She listened, said, “Yes, sir,” and hung up. “You can go right in,” she said, smiling at him with perfectly even and brilliantly white teeth.

“Thank you,” Shoe said. He went into Merigold’s office.

“You want to speak to me about Patrick O’Neill, I presume,” Charles Merigold said. He gestured toward a chair facing his desk.

“That’s right,” Shoe said as he sat down.

Charles Merigold’s desk was not as big as Bill Hammond’s, but it was big enough to put some distance between the two men. Shoe wasn’t quite sure what to make of Hammond Industry’s Managing Director. Merigold was pompous and vain, perhaps even a bit prissy, but he was competent and intelligent and had a reputation as a savage competitor on the squash court. While he was somewhat formal and standoffish, Shoe had always found him to be polite and respectful toward everyone in the office. Patrick hadn’t got along with him at all, though.

“Basically, Charles’s job is to piss on everyone’s shoes,” Patrick had said. “And he enjoys his job. Which is probably why no one likes him.”

“You worked regularly with Patrick,” Shoe said. Merigold nodded. “In the last few weeks, was there anything out of the ordinary about his behaviour or demeanour that you noticed?”

“No,” Merigold replied. “Nothing.”

“He didn’t seem worried, distracted, preoccupied?”

“No,” Merigold said again. “But he wasn’t the most demonstrative of men, was he? Kept himself to himself, as it were.”

“You and he had an argument last month. What was it about?”

“You must be aware that Patrick and I did not always see eye to eye on matters of business,” Merigold said. “As a result, our working relationship could get somewhat intense at times. We had occasionally heated discussions. They could be quite animated, but to call them arguments is to imply animosity. Perhaps Patrick did not like me—I’m told I’m not a likeable person—but I can assure you, neither he nor I allowed personal issues to interfere with our work. Patrick’s job was to grow the company’s assets. Mine is to protect those assets. We were both simply doing our jobs.”

“What was this particular heated discussion about?”

“I don’t recall the specifics,” Merigold said. “But from time to time we did not agree that a property he was considering for acquisition would make a worthwhile addition to Hammond Industries’ assets. Not to speak ill of the dead, but Patrick could be, shall we say, somewhat cavalier with the company’s money and often let his enthusiasm for a project get in the way of his good sense. I’m sure the exchange to which you are referring was no different.”

“Were there irregularities in any of his business transactions?”

“Certainly not,” Merigold said. “Patrick may have been adventurous, but he did not abuse his position for personal gain. I may not have approved of some of his acquisitions,” Merigold said, “but there was nothing irregular about any of them.” Merigold paused, then said, “I thought he was your friend.”

“He was,” Shoe said. “But the police are working on the hypothesis that he was killed by a professional. Revenge is a strong motive for murder. If someone felt cheated in a business deal, he might have hired a hit man to even the score.”

“That may be so,” Merigold said. “Patrick was a shrewd businessman, and some of the people with whom he came into contact may have undoubtedly felt that he’d got the better of them. But to the best of my knowledge there was nothing improper about any of his business dealings.”

“He recently shut down a gasket manufacturing plant in Surrey,” Shoe said. “Is it possible someone who worked there was upset about losing his job?”

“Possible,” Merigold conceded, “but unlikely. Patrick gave them all rather more generous severance packages than I would have. Or Sandra St. Johns, for that matter.”

“How well do you know her?” Shoe asked.

“She seems competent.”

And damned with faint praise, thought Shoe. “Is there anything, do you think, to the rumour that she and Patrick were having an affair?” he asked.

“I couldn’t say.” Merigold looked at his wristwatch. It was gold and wafer thin, with an oxblood leather strap that fit his wrist more snugly than looked comfortable.

“Do you have any theories about why Patrick was killed?” Shoe asked.

“No, I don’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with Mr. Hammond in three minutes.” He stood up.

Shoe thanked him for his time. There were a few other people in the company with whom Patrick had worked. Although Shoe very much doubted any of them would be able to add anything useful, he spoke to them anyway. At ten o’clock, doubts confirmed, he returned to his office and looked over the list of former employees of the gasket manufacturing company that Sandra St. Johns had printed for him. It included home addresses and telephone numbers. He dialled the number for Ramona Ross, the office manager with whom Patrick had become friendly, but there was no answer, human or machine. He spent the next hour speaking to other people on the list, as well as the owner of the brewery in Port Moody. No one was able to shed any light on Patrick’s death. He tried Ramona Ross’s number again. Still no answer. According to the printout she lived in Ladner, in South Delta, about a thirty-minute drive from downtown. Perhaps tomorrow he’d take a drive out there. There was something else he had to do today.

Mr. Seropian had been acting strange all day, muttering to himself and staring at her through the rows of suits and coats and dresses hanging on the overhead conveyor. It was obvious he had something on his mind and Barbara was certain she knew what it was. He wasn’t satisfied with brushing against her breasts or her backside a couple of times a day, accidentally on purpose, as her mother used to say. He wanted more.

What was it, she wondered as she sorted through a bundle of shirts, that made almost every man she had ever worked for think she would be willing to have sex with him to keep her job? Did she give off some kind of scent, like those moths she’d read about? She’d heard about women who’d had their employers charged with sexual harassment, but as far as she was concerned, those stories were a cruel joke. Maybe women who worked in banks or for politicians could afford to complain that their bosses told dirty jokes or demanded sex in exchange for a promotion, but nobody gave a hoot if a grocery store manager played grab-ass with the checkout girls or if jerking off the supervisor was the only way you could get time off to attend your kids’ school recitals. In the real world, if you needed the job bad enough, you gritted your teeth and went along with it. And in the twenty years since her husband had died, leaving her with two kids to raise on her own, she’d needed a job bad enough more times than she cared to remember.

The familiar throb of pain reminded her that while she’d raised two children, she’d borne three. As she’d done every day for thirty-five years, Barbara wondered what had become of Annie. She’d be a grown woman now, married, perhaps with children of her own. But Barbara’s last memory of her was as an infant, sleeping sweetly as the woman from the adoption agency took her away.

Mr. Seropian came to the front of the store. His thinning grey hair stuck out in all directions, his cotton undershirt was stained, and he smelled of sweat and dry cleaning fluid. Barbara braced herself.

“I never done anything like this before,” he said. He swallowed nervously, his sharply protruding Adam’s apple bobbing and his droopy brown eyes uncertain.

Barbara waited. If it was this hard for him to ask, maybe it would be impossible for him to fire her if she said no. He swallowed again and looked at the floor as he spoke.

“I gotta let you go,” he said.

Barbara grunted as though she’d been struck in the stomach. She gripped the edge of the counter.

“It is for my nephew,” he said, still unable to look her in the eyes. “My wife, he is her sister’s boy. He is useless bag of shit his father says, but...” He shrugged. “I am sorry.”

“I understand,” Barbara said, fighting back tears, her throat tight. “He’s family.”

“My wife,” Mr. Seropian said, “she says to give you two weeks of pay and nothing more. I will give you two weeks of pay and two weeks more of pay in money so she will not know.” He meant cash.

“Thank you,” she said. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Please,” he said, finally looking at her. “You are a fine woman, a good woman. I think you are very, ah, fine. But my wife...” He shrugged with his hands, said, “I mean to you nothing disrespectful,” and returned to the back of the store.

At three o’clock Barbara went to Mr. Seropian’s office to collect her paycheque, to which he’d added two weeks’ severance. He also gave her an additional two weeks’ pay in cash from the metal cash box he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk.

She folded the cheque around the cash and zipped the thin packet into the pocket of her purse. “Do you want me to work till the end of the week?”

“I am sorry,” Mr. Seropian said, shaking his head. “I wish you good.”

When she left the store, she almost got on the wrong bus, the one that would have taken her east along Hastings to Burnaby. A hollow feeling of panic clawed at her. She’d been through this before, many times, but it had never frightened her quite so much as now. She had enough money to pay another month’s rent and that was it. She couldn’t afford to fall even one month behind. Maybe she wouldn’t be evicted right away, but it would be very hard to catch up. She could call Kenny or Ellie, she knew, but her son and daughter weren’t really any better off than she was. Kenny, thirty-two and manager of a Radio Shack store in Calgary, had two kids and a mortgage and he and his wife, Arlene, who worked part-time in a beauty salon, were barely getting by themselves. Ellen, thirty, was divorced with three young children and an ex-husband who didn’t make support payments. Barbara knew too well what raising a family on your own was like.

The man who’d claimed to have been a friend of her husband’s, he’d offered to help her find a job. She wasn’t sure why, but she was uneasy about accepting his help. There was something about him that made her nervous, uncomfortable. Not that he’d put any conditions on his help. At least, not yet, she told herself. There were always strings attached. Nothing came for nothing. Nothing good, anyway. In any case, she had thrown away the slip of paper on which he’d written his telephone number. Maybe, though, if the trash hadn’t been taken out, she could still find it.

There was someone else she could call, but she knew she could never bring herself to do it. He might have been willing to help her, for old time’s sake, but the price would be much too high.

“Bill, have you got a minute?”

“For you, Charlie, anytime. What is it?”

“There’s something I think you need to see.”

“Well, don’t just stand there with your mouth open. Show me.”

“Yes, sir. These are copies of requisitions submitted over the last five months by Del Tilley. This one’s for video surveillance cameras, monitors, cabling, as well as for installation of same. Here’s one for motion sensors and infrared detectors, another for personal mobile communications devices, one for a digital camera and additional memory cards, and one for four microcomputers, networking hardware, and various software. They all have your signature.”

“I see that.”

“These are the purchase orders issued by the purchasing department, and these are the shipping documents and invoices from the supplier, a company called Advanced Security Systems.”

“It’s a whack of money, I’ll grant you, but I approved Tilley’s proposal to upgrade security after that woman from accounting was assaulted in the garage and half a dozen cars were broken into and vandalized. Mine was one of them. So was yours, as I recall.”

“Yes, it was.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Well, as near as I can tell, very little, if any, of the equipment was actually delivered.”

“Go on.”

“I tried calling the supplier, but all I got was an automated call answering system that informed me all their representatives were busy and to either leave a message or wait on the line. It then put me on permanent hold.”

“You didn’t leave a message, did you?”

“No, of course not. I didn’t want to tip off whoever is behind this scheme that we’re on to him. And I think we both know who that is.”

“Humph.”

“Sir, I’m going to initiate an internal audit of the security department budget to see if there are any other discrepancies.”

“Fine.”

“I would also like to check out Advanced Security Systems, to see if it exists at all. I suspect, however, that it’s a fiction. And I think we should run a background check on Del Tilley.”

“All right, do it.”

“Perhaps Mr. Schumacher—”

“No. He’s busy. Go outside. And don’t go through purchasing. Do it on your own.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Christ, how long did he think he could get away with this? And for what? Not much more than he takes home in a year, for crissake. What a bloody moron.”

“Yes, sir.”

On the way home from his errand in Burnaby, Shoe stopped by the False Creek Harbour Authority marina where he’d moored the Princess Pete. He’d stayed friends with Jimmy Young, the marina manager, who always seemed to be on the lookout for help. Shoe had spoken to Ms. Oswald in Hammond Industries’ personnel department, but the only jobs open required computer skills or accounting experience.

Shoe and Jimmy jawed for a bit. Jimmy was enthusiastic when Shoe told him he’d decided to retire come the New Year. “I’ve been looking for a fishing buddy who doesn’t talk too much,” he said.

“I don’t fish,” Shoe said.

“Learning to fish is easier than learning to keep your mouth shut,” Jimmy said.

“The reason I came by was to speak to you about a job.”

“You seem to be a little unclear on the concept of retirement, my son.”

“For a friend,” Shoe explained. “You’re always complaining about not being able to find office help. Are you still looking?”

“Patsy seems to be working out okay,” Jimmy said, speaking up slightly for the benefit of the young woman sitting in front of an ancient IBM PC. The monitor bezel was patched with duct tape. “I could use some help in the store, though. Send your friend around.”

“I’ll do that,” Shoe said. “Her name is Barbara Reese.” Jimmy gave Shoe a card and they shook hands.

Shoe was five steps outside the door of the marina office when he turned around and went back inside. Jimmy’s eyebrows shot up.

“You remember Patrick O’Neill?” Shoe said.

“Sure. I remember him. Nice guy. Not much of a sailor, though. If you look hard you can still see where he rammed his Hunter into the dock. Haven’t seen him in, I dunno—” He frowned, scratching at his greying chin whiskers. “—two years about. Not since I helped him sell the Hunter.”

“He was murdered on Monday.”

“Damn.”

Patsy looked up from the keyboard of her computer.

“As I recall,” Shoe said, “the fellow who bought Patrick’s boat tried to renege on the sale, didn’t he?”

“That’s right,” Jimmy said. “He claimed Patrick mis-represented the condition of the boat. He didn’t, though. He provided an inspection report and a complete maintenance history, including the repairs from the argument with the dock. The guy was just tryin’ to weasel out of the deal because his wife was divorcing him and he needed the cash. Patrick was willing to give him his money back and pay my commission out of his pocket, but I told him, don’t be an idiot. The guy ended up havin’ to sell her at a loss—the Hunter, not his wife—and split the proceeds with his ex. It wasn’t him that killed Patrick, was it?”

“No, I’m sure it wasn’t,” Shoe said. He was snatching at straws.

Jack wasn’t in when Shoe got home. It appeared that he’d finished painting the living room, though. The paint-spattered plastic drop cloths were neatly folded by the back door and the empty paint cans were stacked nearby. The brushes and rollers were drying on newspaper on the kitchen counter. There was a scrawled sticky-note on the kitchen table: “Out of paint.”

Shoe made a ham and cheese sandwich, opened a bottle of mineral water, and ate at the kitchen table. After he cleaned up, he went upstairs, took a shower, shaved so he wouldn’t have to do it in the morning (his much-diluted Native ancestry had blessed him with a slow-growing beard), put Henryk Gorecki’s Symphony No. 3 on the stereo, and tried to read. He couldn’t concentrate. His attention kept sliding away from the words on the page. Putting the book aside, he closed his eyes and let himself be drawn into Dawn Upshaw’s haunting vocals. He woke up at nine-thirty to the sound of the front door closing, without any memory of having fallen asleep. A few seconds later January Jack Pine loomed in the doorway of his room and tapped on the doorframe.

“You get my note?”

“Yes,” Shoe said. “I’ll arrange a line of credit at the hardware store so you can pick up more paint, but I won’t be able to help much with the actual painting.”

“’S’all right,” Jack said. “You change your mind about takin’ retirement?”

“Not exactly. I’m just tying up some loose ends until the new year.”

“Better ’n trippin’ over ’em. See you in the morning.”

“Good night,” Shoe said as Jack went off down the hall.

Shoe managed to read a few more paragraphs, then turned out the light and lay in the dark for a long time without sleeping.