Hard Winter Rain

by Michael Blair

  She shook her head. “It’ll be worth a hell of a lot more after the merger,” she said. “If there is a merger,” she added.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you think the old man would do if it became public knowledge that you stole government property during the war and sold it on the black market? Or that you blackmailed politicians and public servants to get trucking contracts? Or, better yet, that you were shacked up with a whore for ten years? Would he still let you marry his precious daughter, do you think, or go through with the merger?”

  “What would queering the merger get you?” Hammond said. “Nothing.”

  “Maybe,” she replied. “But it would cost you plenty.”

  “All right,” he said with a defeated sigh. “I’ll meet your price, but it’ll take me a few hours to arrange for that much.”

  “I can wait a few more hours,” she said, gloating in triumph.

  “I’ll have a cashier’s cheque delivered to your home tonight. Now get the hell out of my office. I never want to see your face again.”

  “Aw, Billy. Don’t be like that. We can still be friends. How about a quick bee-jay to remember me by? I doubt your new wife will let you shoot your load in her mouth, no matter how drunk she gets.”

  He sputtered with rage. She left. Laughing.

  It took a long time and a shot of whisky to get his anger under control. When his hands had steadied, he opened his chequebook again and wrote out a cheque for half again the amount of his original offer. He then forged her signature on the back of the cheque and on a share transfer agreement. They were good forgeries, too, and would pass all but the closest examination. He put the cheque on his secretary’s desk with a note instructing her to deposit it into Claire’s account first thing in the morning. He left the signed agreement on his desk.

  Later that night he donned a coat and hat, even though the weather was mild, and took a cab to within five blocks of Claire’s apartment building. He walked the rest of the way. It was not quite ten o’clock when he knocked on her door.

  “I thought I’d bring this in person,” he said when she opened the door. He handed her an envelope.

  She opened it. Inside was what appeared to be a perfectly good cashier’s cheque in the amount she had named. She licked her lips. The look of greed in her eyes sickened him.

  “I’m sorry about this afternoon,” he said. He took a pint bottle of Canadian Club out of his coat pocket. “I thought we could have a drink to patch things over.”

  “Why not?” she said. “What’s with the hat and coat? You suddenly ashamed to be seen calling on an old whore?”

  “Not at all,” he replied. “I just thought I felt a cold coming on.”

  He took off his coat and hat and handed them to her. She hung them up in the hall closet while he fixed the drinks. He made hers strong. His was mostly ginger ale.

  “I’m sorry it has to be like this,” he said as she accepted the drink. “But I know you understand. It’s business.”

  “It wasn’t always business, though, was it, Billy? We had some good times, didn’t we?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I—I hope we can stay friends. You were right about Elizabeth. I don’t think she’s very interested in sex.”

  “Poor you,” Claire said without much sympathy.

  He shrugged. “I’ll survive.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  Her drink was almost finished.

  He downed his and stood. “Fix us a couple more. I need to use the bathroom.”

  “You know the way.”

  In the bathroom he urinated noisily and flushed the toilet. He then took the long belt from the terrycloth bathrobe hanging on the back of the bathroom door and stuffed it into his pants pocket. When he returned to the living room, Claire was sitting on the sofa, her back to him, a fresh drink beside her, the counterfeit cheque in her hands. She did not turn around as he entered the room.

  She was making it too easy, he thought as he took the belt out of his pocket. Wrapping it a couple of turns around each hand, he crossed his arms and quickly dropped the loop of the belt around her neck. Uncrossing his arms, he yanked the makeshift garrotte as tight as he could. She thrashed and tried to cry out, but all that escaped her throat was a strangled squawk. He dragged her over the back of the sofa and into the doorway to the kitchen. She thrashed and clawed at the cord around her neck.

  It took longer than he’d thought it would for her to stop kicking and heaving. When she finally did stop, his arms and shoulders burned with the strain. Nor had he anticipated that she would wet herself. Fortunately, she hadn’t done it on the sofa.

  When he was as certain as he could be that she was dead, or at least unconscious, he removed the garrotte from around her neck. She didn’t appear to be breathing. His hands shook and the muscles of his arms quivered as he made a noose at one end of the belt, slipped it over her head, and drew it tight. Then, supporting her on his shoulder, wrinkling his nose at the stink of urine, he threw the free end of the belt over the kitchen transom, hauled her up in the doorway until her feet were six inches off the floor, then tied it off.

  He tried to arrange things to look as though she’d hanged herself. Avoiding the puddle of urine in the doorway, he wiped off the seat of a kitchen chair, pressed her bare feet against it, then lay it on its back a couple of feet from the doorway, as if she’d kicked it away. He washed and dried the drink glasses and put them away, but left the bottle of rye on the counter. His fingerprints would be on it, but he’d visited her home many times and his prints were everywhere. He found her shoes and placed them by the kitchen door. He then retrieved the envelope and the counterfeit cheque from the floor, got his coat and hat from the hall closet, and left.

  Her body wasn’t discovered for a week. When it was finally found, he had no trouble convincing Raymond to provide him with an alibi. He’d simply told the sanctimonious old hypocrite that when the police asked him his whereabouts that night, he didn’t want to have to tell them that he’d been with a prostitute, a woman named Patricia Johnson.

  “I told you I was ’scrutable,” Muriel said.

  She lay atop him, spent, breath hot against the side of his throat, the sweet scent of her hair tickling his nose, radiating heat at a wavelength he felt deep inside rather than on the surface of his skin. He was still inside her, but slowly softening. She seemed to weigh next to nothing at all.

  “So you did,” he said.

  She raised herself on her arms and kissed him on the mouth, tongue probing mischievously. “Mmm,” she hummed.

  Her breath caught as he slipped out of her, then she giggled. “You’re out, but our little latex buddy isn’t. Be right back.”

  She rolled out of the bed and ducked into the ensuite bath. He heard the water run and the toilet flush, then she was back, slipping under the covers and snuggling close, pressing the warm, salty-sweet length of herself against him. She had brought a warm dampened washcloth from the bathroom, with which she gently cleansed him. Throwing the washcloth in the general direction of the bathroom, she nestled against him, shoulder in his armpit, her small, flat breasts soft against his chest, sex moist and hot on his thigh.

  “I’ve become such a hussy,” she said. “A pushy hussy at that. Say that three times fast. Pushy hussy. Pussy hushy. Pissy hooshy.” She giggled.

  “I’m not exactly in a position to pass judgement,” he said.

  “But men are so easy,” she said. “It’s not your fault, though. You are genetically programmed to spread your seed as far and wide as possible. We women, on the other hand, we have to be more fussy. I may be a pushy hussy, but I’m a fussy pushy hussy.” She squirmed against his leg. “A fussy hussy with a pushy pussy.” She chuckled deep in her throat. “Listen to me, will you? Having an orgasm makes me silly.”

  “Those pesky endorphins,” he said.

  “I love it when men talk dirty.”

  She stroked him with gentle fingers, and when he was ready, she op
ened a condom packet with her teeth and rolled the lubricated sheath onto him. Then she raised her leg across his hips and said, “Turn a little toward me, Joe.” He did and she arranged her hips and guided herself onto him.

  “Now don’t move,” she said. “Just lie still.”

  “Easy for you to say,” he replied, but complied.

  After a moment of silence, he said, “How come you never married what’s-his-name?”

  “Which ‘what’s-his-name’ would that be?”

  “Peter? The engineer. He seemed like a nice guy.”

  “He was. A very nice guy. But I guess he just wasn’t the right nice guy.”

  “As you said, you’re a fussy hussy.”

  “That’s right.” She clenched her pelvic muscles.

  His breath caught in his throat. “I don’t think you should do that.”

  “Really?” she said, doing it again.

  “Really,” he said.

  “Oh, god,” she gasped.

  At a few minutes before four, William Hammond decided to pack it in for the day. He pressed the intercom button, but Muriel didn’t answer. He went into the outer office. She wasn’t at her desk and the potted bamboo and family photos she’d kept on the credenza were gone. Grumbling, he went back into his office. He had to look up Del Tilley’s extension in the company directory. Still grumbling, he punched in the number. A woman answered.

  “Who the hell’s this?” he demanded.

  “Phyllis, Mr. Tilley’s secretary. Who’s—oh, Mr. Hammond. Yes, sir. How can I help you, sir?”

  Since when did Del Tilley have a secretary? Hammond wondered sourly. “Where is he?” he growled.

  “I’m not sure, sir.”

  “Well, find him. Tell him I want to see him. Now!” He banged down the phone.

  A few minutes later there was a soft knock on his door.

  “Come in,” Hammond barked.

  Del Tilley came into the office, followed by the massive black man who’d driven Hammond to Patrick’s funeral.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” Tilley said.

  “You can take me home,” Hammond growled as he stood up from behind his desk. He gestured toward the coat closet by the door.

  “Yes, sir,” Tilley said. He got Hammond’s coat and hat from the closet. “Sir,” Tilley said as he held Hammond’s coat, “if you don’t mind, Mr. Davage here will take you home.”

  “I do mind, goddamnit,” Hammond snapped. “If I’d wanted Mr. Davage here to take me home, I’d have asked Mr. Davage here to take me home. Christ on a crutch, can’t anyone do what they’re told anymore? Tell you what, Mr. Tilley. Why don’t you join the rest of the rats deserting the ship? Personnel can make out your pink slip first thing in the morning. Consider yourself lucky I haven’t called the police and had you arrested.” He turned to the other man. “Mr. Davage, what’s two plus two?”

  “Uh, four, sir,” Davage stammered in reply, looking as though he very much wished he were elsewhere.

  “Congratulations,” Hammond said. “You’re the new head of security around here. Now, Mr. Tilley, until your pink slip is cut, you’re still on the payroll, so let’s go.” Without waiting for a reply, he stalked toward the door.

  Tilley hurried after him. Ed Davage stood rooted to the spot, blinking and trying to work out what had just happened.

  It was after four when Shoe finally left Muriel’s town-house. With the scent of her lingering in his nostrils and the taste of her still on his lips, he drove along Kingsway toward home. Before going home, however, he stopped at the marina, where he found Barbara Reese in the office with Jimmy Young. They were standing shoulder to shoulder behind the counter looking at the magnetic whiteboard, upon which a map of the marina had been laid out in black electrical tape. Each boat in the marina was represented by a magnetic strip bearing the number of the berth and the name or registration of the boat.

  “How’s your first day going?” he asked her.

  She beamed at him. “Wonderfully,” she said. “At least I think so,” she added, glancing at Jimmy Young.

  “She catches on quick,” Jimmy said.

  “Jimmy,” Shoe said, “do you mind if I speak to Barbara for a minute?”

  “Not a problem,” Jimmy said. “I gotta go to the bank. Keep an eye on the place,” he said to her.

  “I can’t thank you enough for finding me this job,” Barbara told Shoe after Jimmy had left.

  “Barbara,” Shoe said. “About last night. I’m sorry if I—”

  “No, no,” she said, interrupting. “It’s me who should apologize.” She was blushing furiously, almost wringing her hands. “I feel like such a complete fool. I had way too much to drink. I should’ve realized, a man like you, even if you weren’t married, you probably had a girlfriend.”

  A man like me, Shoe thought.

  “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” she said.

  “You didn’t,” he said.

  “You’re such a liar,” she said with smile, hand on his arm. “But you’re sweet. Your girlfriend is a lucky woman. I hope I can meet her sometime.” Her smile faded. “Something strange happened after you left last night,” she said.

  “What do you mean, ‘strange’?” he asked.

  “Someone rang my downstairs bell,” she said. “I thought it was you coming back, so I buzzed him in. Thank god I left the chain lock on.”

  “Who was it?” Shoe asked.

  “He said he was a friend of yours. He told me his name, but I don’t remember it. I’m terrible with names. He had funny-coloured eyes, though, and ears that stuck out from the side of his head.”

  “Del Tilley?”

  “Yes, that’s it. I saw him the other day, on the sidewalk outside the dry cleaning store. And I think he may have followed me here, too.”

  “Last night,” Shoe said. “What did he want?”

  “He wanted to know about Annie,” she said. “How old she was the last time I saw her. How old she’d be now. He told me that maybe he’d be able to help me find her. I told him to go away or I’d call the police. He laughed and said he knew I didn’t have a telephone. But he left when I showed him my little cellphone. How did he know about Annie? Did you tell him?”

  “No,” Shoe said.

  “Who is he?” Her eyes narrowed. “He isn’t a friend of yours, is he?”

  “No,” Shoe said. “He works for Bill Hammond.”

  “Could Bill have told him about Annie?”

  “Perhaps,” Shoe said.

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know,” Shoe replied. “I intend to ask him, though.”

  Shoe called the office and was informed that Mr. Hammond had left for the day. He drove to Hammond’s house. The sun had set and the lights illuminating the grounds were on, glowing through the fog gathering in the trees. Hammond’s Town Car was parked on the wide, curving driveway, parallel to the front of the house, behind Abby’s little Audi. Shoe drove past the Audi and parked by the garage. He got out of the car, went up the stone steps to the front door, and rang the bell. He smelled smoke, faint but unmistakable, too harsh and acrid to be from the hearth. He waited what he thought was a reasonable time, rang again, and waited some more. He rang again, but still no one came. He tried the door. It was unlocked.

  He went into the house. The smell of smoke was stronger inside, hung in the air like a thin, bitter fog.

  “Hello,” he called. There was no response. The back of his neck prickled and the muscles of his arms and legs quivered as adrenaline triggered his fight or flight response.

  He went down the hall, tread silent on the thick carpet. The door to Hammond’s study was open. At first glance everything looked normal, big oak desk and leather swivel chair, long sofa on which Hammond had perhaps made love with Barbara Reese. Then Shoe noticed the tipped-over club chair, a tall floor lamp lying on its side, an upended side table. And a single shoeless foot protruding from behind the edge of the desk pedestal.

  Bill Hammond lay on the floor
behind the desk, on his stomach, left leg outstretched, shoe missing, sock half off, right leg drawn up in a semi-fetal position, as though he were sleeping. He wasn’t sleeping, though; no one’s neck was meant to rotate that far. Nevertheless, Shoe checked for a pulse, pressing his fingers to the twisted throat. Nothing. Hammond’s flesh was warm to the touch, though. Shoe recalled from his police training that a dead body cooled to ambient temperature at about one degree Celsius per hour. A coldness invaded him. Hammond had not been dead long.

  There was a far-off thud, muffled but powerful, as though someone had swung a bag of sand against the side of the house. It came again, then again, three or four seconds later. Returning to the front hall, he stood still and listened. He heard it again. It was coming from the back of the house.

  He started down the hall toward the kitchen, then heard the sound of a car engine starting. Rushing to the front door, he opened it in time to see the taillights of Hammond’s Town Car disappear down the driveway toward the street. He couldn’t see who was driving, but it was sure to be whoever had killed Hammond. As he was trying to decide whether to give chase, he heard the thud again.

  He closed the door and went down the hall into the kitchen. The smoke was thicker there, catching in his throat and burning his eyes, but it did not quite mask the cloying, coppery smell of blood. Mrs. Rodriguez, the Hammond’s housekeeper, lay on the tile floor. The distinctive handle of a Henkel kitchen knife protruded from her throat. Shoe did not have to touch her to know that she was dead.

  He heard the thud again, stronger now, and felt a slight vibration through the soles of his shoes. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the solarium. He stepped past Mrs. Rodriguez’s body and went down the short hallway that connected the kitchen to the solarium and the indoor pool.

  The solarium was deserted, silent, the water in the pool quiet and smooth as aquamarine glass under a choking pall of smoke that was gently whipped by the slow rotation of the overhead fans. The smoke was coming from under a door at the far end of the solarium. The door led, Shoe recalled, to the dressing rooms, shower, and sauna.