things at Hammond Industries to remain quite what they’ve been for the last twenty-five years. Or the last ten, for that matter. Maybe it’s time for you to consider getting out too. While the getting is good, so to speak.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
“Yes.”
“Is your leaving going to be the cause of things not staying the same?”
“No, but my leaving isn’t going help. I’m getting out before things start falling seriously apart. And, believe me, they are going to start falling seriously apart pretty damned soon. Bill’s getting old. He’s not going to be able to hold it together much longer.”
“No offence, Patrick,” Shoe said, “but am I detecting a hint of sour grapes here? I know you and Bill didn’t see eye to eye on whether the company should go public, but that’s hardly evidence he’s losing control.”
“Maybe not,” Patrick had replied. “But going public is the only way the company is going to survive into the twenty-first century. That’s not the only reason I resigned, though. It’s time for me to move on.”
And now it was time, it seemed, for Shoe to move on too, whether he liked it or not.
When Shoe got home, Jack was sitting on the back steps, in the light of the porch lamp, smoking a cigarette and twirling the putter from the incomplete set of clubs Shoe had inherited with the house. There was a plastic beer cup full of old golf balls on the step beside him. Jack stood as Shoe climbed the back steps.
“Cops were here looking for you,” he said. “Homicide dicks. Two of ’em.” Shoe opened the door and Jack handed him a card. “Said to call that number first thing in the morning. You kill someone?”
“Not recently,” Shoe said. “Do you remember Patrick O’Neill? He used to keep a thirty-eight-foot Hunter at the marina where I moored the Pete.” Shoe had helped Patrick buy the Hunter ten years ago when Patrick had first started working at Hammond Industries.
“Sure,” Jack said. “Skinny guy. Looks like an accountant. Nice lookin’ wife.”
“He was shot to death this afternoon.” He told Jack what little he knew about Patrick’s murder.
“Sorry to hear that.”
“You coming in?” Shoe said.
“I’m goin’ t’ finish my smoke first.”
Upstairs, Shoe looked up Muriel Yee’s telephone number—she had recently moved into a new town-house in New Westminster and he hadn’t yet committed her telephone number to his or the phone’s memory—and dialled. She picked up on the second ring.
“Will Victoria be all right?” Muriel asked when Shoe had finished filling her in.
“I think so,” he said.
Muriel was silent for a moment, then said, “He wasn’t serious about firing you, was he?”
“Yes, I think this time he was.” Since Shoe had been working for him, Hammond had fired him at least half a dozen times. It had never stuck.
“I’m sorry,” Muriel said.
“I’m not,” Shoe replied. “I’ve been thinking about retiring anyway.”
“Retiring? What will you do?”
“I haven’t thought it that far through yet,” he said.
Del Tilley hummed tunelessly as he cat-footed through the quiet corridors, past the empty cubicles and darkened offices. The rubber-cushioned heels of his custom-made boots made no sound on the heavy-duty industrial carpeting. He was a happy man. He didn’t really believe in luck—you made your own opportunities—but things were working out better than he’d hoped. A spark of anger flared briefly at the memory of the disrespectful way in which Hammond had spoken to Victoria, but even that wasn’t enough to ruin his mood.
Out of sheer exuberance he gave a muted yell and performed a quick spin and kick, but he misjudged slightly and his boot heel clipped the edge of a workstation partition. The partition shuddered and something crashed to the floor on the other side. He went into the cubicle. It was just books and binders. He picked them up and dumped them haphazardly onto the desk. The cleaning staff would be blamed.
He resumed his tour, humming again.
As he approached the door to his office, Sandra St. Johns, Patrick O’Neill’s former assistant, came out of her office.
“Oh,” she said, a look of surprise on her face. “I didn’t know there was anyone else here. What was that noise?”
“Nothing to concern yourself about,” he said. She was wearing a white blouse that looked like a man’s shirt, half the buttons open, and no bra, just some kind of undershirt thing. She was so flat, though, it made no difference. “Some binders fell off a shelf.”
She shook her head. “It sounded more like a shout.”
Tilley could feel his ears grow warm. “I didn’t hear anything like that,” he said. He turned his back to her and thumbed a five-digit code, which he changed weekly, into the security lock on his office door. “Good evening,” he said over his shoulder, opening the door and slipping into his office.
Through the gap in the door, he watched her turn and go back into her own office. The rear view was definitely more interesting than the front, he thought. Her legs were her best feature, long and strong, runner’s legs. He grinned tightly, remembering the sight of her with those legs clamped around Patrick O’Neill’s hips as they did it on the sofa in O’Neill’s office, hair in her eyes, making a weird sound in her throat.
He closed the door.
As attractive as Sandra St. Johns was, Tilley thought, how O’Neill could have cheated on Victoria with the likes of her was completely beyond his comprehension. Of course, none of that mattered now. Patrick O’Neill was dead. Yes, Tilley thought. Things were working out just fine.
Barbara was cashing out at the end of her shift when the assistant manager told her they wouldn’t need her any more after tonight. “Business has been slow,” he said by way of explanation, but she knew the real reason was that she’d refused to work another shift in the strip club next door to the lounge. One would have been enough, but she’d endured three, half-naked in a skirt that barely reached her crotch and the see-through top they’d insisted she wear. Her figure wasn’t bad, despite her age, but thank god they’d let her wear a sports bra under the top. The other girls wore nothing but skin. She was also pretty sure they were supposed to give her two weeks’ notice, but she was too tired to argue.
It was after one in the morning when she got home. She trudged up the four narrow flights to her apartment, undressed and took a bath to save time in the morning, then collapsed into bed with a cup of camomile tea. Despite her exhaustion and the soothing warmth of the tea, she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Tiny rat’s teeth of anxiety gnawed at her insides. Not about losing her job; she’d been through that before, too many times. But she was sure that the big, beat-up looking man—she couldn’t remember his name—who’d spoken to her outside the dry cleaning store was a policeman. He’d said he wasn’t, but of course he would, wouldn’t he, if he were undercover?
