“‘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.
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