a churchgoer, I accept that, because you’re a good man nevertheless, but we all need a reliable moral compass to steer by. Appearances are important in this business, Hal, I don’t have to tell you that. We must be vigilant, on constant guard against any failure of personal integrity or deterioration of morality and family values.”
“You don’t have anything to worry about,” Hal said.
“Renfrew & Doherty may not be the biggest insurer in this city,” Renfrew said, “but we’ve got a reputation for integrity that’s second to none in the industry.”
“I know, Jerry.”
“There’s a lot at stake here, Hal. I wouldn’t want to see you throw away your future with the company because you can’t keep your family together.”
You bloody hypocrite, Hal thought, keeping his expression carefully neutral as he endured yet another lecture on morality from the man who’d driven poor old George Doherty to an early grave with totally trumped up allegations of mismanagement and malfeasance. Family values, my hairy ass. All you care about is the damned bottom line. Profit, that’s your moral compass, you sanctimonious bastard, not God or the church. Those are for appearances’ sake, nothing else.
Hal almost laughed out loud at his own hypocrisy. Appearances were important to him, too, he knew, maybe more than he’d ever realized, otherwise he wouldn’t be in the mess he was in. Just thinking about it made his legs twitch and his guts churn. Maybe Jerry was right, he thought, that everyone needs a reliable moral compass. Unfortunately, Hal’s seemed to be broken of late.
It was Renfrew’s turn to look at his watch, a wafer-thin gold Patek Philippe timepiece that probably cost more than the average Canadian’s annual after-tax income. “I hope you find these sessions helpful, Hal. I know I do. Remember, if there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate. My door is always open.” He stood, elegantly trim in his perfectly tailored two-thousand-dollar suit.
Hal stood too, grunting with the effort and sucking in his gut in a useless attempt to look a little less like a rumpled blimp. “I appreciate that, Jerry.”
“You really should join a gym, Hal,” Renfrew said.
“I know, Jerry,” Hal said. “I wish I had time.”
Renfrew came out from behind his desk. He placed a hand on Hal’s shoulder as he guided him toward the door. “Physical health is equally as important as spiritual health, Hal.”
“There are only so many hours in a day, Jerry,” Hal said.
“Hmm,” Renfrew said. He opened the door, paused, then suddenly released it, letting it swing shut. His brow furrowed dramatically.
“Something wrong, Jerry?” Hal asked warily. Renfrew liked to spring things on people at the last minute, operating on the principle that their immediate reactions revealed more than any interview. Hal had a feeling he knew what was coming and began thinking of ways he might squeeze even more hours out of a day.
“I wasn’t going to bring this up today,” Renfrew said. He hesitated, furrows deepening, feigning indecision.
“What is it, Jerry?” he said, unable to prevent impatience from sharpening his voice.
Renfrew affected not to notice. “I’m sensitive to the fact that Gord Peters is your friend,” he said. “So I’ll understand if you decide to recuse yourself and bring in an outside firm. But I’m afraid I’ve got to ask you to initiate an internal audit of his department. I don’t like what I’ve been seeing in his numbers lately. Something doesn’t add up.”
Shit, Hal thought. Not what he’d expected, but no great surprise, either. Say what you will about Jerry Renfrew, he wasn’t stupid. It had been only a matter of time before he caught on to Gord’s shenanigans. But the timing could not have been worse.
Renfrew pulled the door open again. “Sorry to drop this in your lap on such short notice,” he said, ushering Hal into the outer office. “Think about it, will you? Get back to me next week about how you want to handle it. Have a nice holiday weekend,” he said and shut the door.
chapter four
Shoe was in his parents’ kitchen, getting a beer out of the fridge, when his brother’s wife came up the stairs from the back door.
“How are you doing, Shoe?” she said, reaching past him to take a bottle of white wine from the top shelf.
“I’m doing just fine,” he said.
Maureen Ryan Schumacher was a strapping redhead, full-figured and sumptuously curved, but without a gram of apparent extra fat. Her shoulder-length titian hair was tied back in a flamboyant ponytail, emphasizing her strong, even features. She wore a green cotton T-shirt that set off her hair nicely. It had a half-dozen small buttons at the neck, all undone, revealing a couple of inches of abundant cleavage.
She handed him the wine bottle. “Here, you do the honours while I check the veggies.”
Shoe took the bottle and Maureen bent to peer into the oven, where red, green, and yellow peppers roasted with garlic, onions, and sweet potato. The position seemed intended to offer him a view of her firm denimclad rump. He wondered what she did to stay in shape.
She straightened and he handed her the opened wine bottle. “That man’s murder put a damper on your homecoming, didn’t it?” she said.
“It did,” he agreed. She took a tumbler from the cupboard by the sink and held it out to him. He shook his head as he twisted the cap off the beer bottle. “The bottle’s fine.” She smiled and poured wine into the glass until it was half full.
Hal and Maureen had been married for twenty-five years. Shoe had attended their wedding, but had otherwise spent little time with them in the intervening years and had not come to know Maureen very well. He liked her. She had a cheerful disposition, a mischievous sense of humour — one that wasn’t always appreciated, particularly by her husband — and an earthy quality that Shoe found quite appealing. It didn’t hurt that she was a knockout. His brother was a fortunate man.
“Maureen,” he said.
“Mm?” She looked at him expectantly, leaning against the kitchen counter, folding one arm across her ribcage, resting her other elbow on her forearm.
“What’s eating Hal?”
She sighed, obviously disappointed with the choice of topic. “Damned if I know. He hardly talks to me anymore. He’s been in an absolutely shitty mood for weeks and it’s getting tiresome. If he’s having a belated mid-life crisis, I wish he’d get it the fuck — pardon me — over with. Buy a Porsche or have an affair with his secretary. As long as his life insurance is paid up,” she added with a grin. “I don’t think his heart could stand either experience.” She drank some wine. “I’m joking, of course. About the Porsche, anyway. Too expensive. His secretary’s not. Expensive, that is.”
Earlier, while Hal had been preparing the gas barbecue, Shoe had asked him why he hadn’t been at the airport, was everything all right. Hal had shrugged and said, “Something came up at work. My boss’s quarterly rah-rah session. He likes to spring them on us. Sorry about that.”
Hal was four years
