Hard Winter Rain

by Michael Blair

  “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 to
ward 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 ename
lled 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?”