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 toward 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
