A point of coldness formed in the middle of Shoe’s chest. “Yes,” he said.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” Minnelli said, her voice tonelessly professional, “but Mr. O’Neill was shot to death a few minutes before four this afternoon, in a restaurant near the Waterfront SkyTrain station.”
The point of coldness in Shoe’s chest expanded. Adrenaline rushed through him like an electrical current, making the surface of his skin tingle with hyper-sensitivity. “Shot?” he said disbelievingly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Has his wife been informed?”
“Yes,” Minnelli said.
Muriel came out of Hammond’s office. The cops looked at her, the redhead’s eyes widening slightly. Shoe’s voice was hollow as he said, “This is Miss Yee, Mr. Hammond’s assistant.”
The cops nodded.
“Joe?” Muriel said, stepping close to him. “What is it?” She placed her hand on his arm.
Shoe repeated what Minnelli had told him, almost word for word.
“Oh, god,” Muriel said, staggering as if she’d been struck. Shoe took her arm, afraid she might fall, but she was made of sterner stuff than that. She leaned against him for a second, though, while tears formed in her eyes.
“I think you should get him,” Shoe said to her, hand still on her arm.
She nodded, took a breath, and went into Hammond’s office.
“Did Mrs. O’Neill give you this address?” Shoe asked.
“No,” Minnelli replied. “Mr. O’Neill had an emergency contact card in his wallet with both his personal and business particulars.”
Hammond came out of his office, Muriel trailing after him. Her cheeks were wet with tears, makeup smeared. Hammond’s face was pale and skull-like, eyes deep in their bony sockets.
“William Hammond?” Minnelli asked.
“Yes,” Hammond replied. “What is this about Patrick O’Neill getting shot?” he demanded. His face grew paler as Minnelli repeated what she’d told Shoe. “You’re certain there hasn’t been some mistake?” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Minnelli replied.
“Is there anything more you can tell us?” Shoe asked. “Was it a robbery?”
“No,” she said. “It looks like he was the intended victim. Did Mr. O’Neill have any connections with organized crime? Drugs, for instance?”
“Of course not,” Hammond snapped. “That’s nonsense.”
“According to witnesses,” Minnelli said, “he appeared to be waiting for someone. Do you know who he was supposed to meet?”
“No,” Hammond said.
Minnelli looked at Shoe and Muriel in turn.
“No,” Shoe said. Muriel shook her head.
“The homicide detectives will be in touch to conduct more in-depth interviews with you and your staff,” Minnelli said. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she added, then she and her silent partner left.
“Oh, god,” Muriel said again. “Poor Victoria.”
Hammond said nothing. He went into his office. Shoe and Muriel followed. Muriel plucked a handful of tissues from a box on Hammond’s credenza, blotted her eyes, and wiped her nose. Hammond took his coat from the closet.
Shoe looked at him. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“To Victoria,” Hammond replied gruffly.
Shoe said, “I think we should wait,” although 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
