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 face was rigid, but his voice was solicitous. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, sure,” Victoria replied. “I’m just peachy.”
“I came as soon as I heard,” Hammond said.
“How thoughtful of you,” Victoria said.
“Who the hell are these people?” Kit Parsons asked, voice rough and edgy.
“Patrick’s business associates,” Victoria replied. “Former business associates.” She looked at Shoe. A weak smile flickered briefly. “Hello, Joe.”
“Victoria,” Shoe said. “I’m so very sorry.”
Victoria nodded. “Now that that’s out of the way,” she said, “you can all go.” She turned to Hammond, expression hardening. “There’s no need to concern yourself.”
“This is a terrible time for you,” Hammond said. “Whatever I can do, you just have to ask.”
“All I want is for you to leave me alone.”
“My dear,” Hammond said. “It’s at a time like this that you need the support of those people closest to you.”
“And in your mind that includes you, does it?”
“I only want to help,” Hammond said.
“What is wrong with you?” Victoria said, voice cracking with tension. “Am I speaking a language you don’t understand? Or are you just so used to getting your own way you simply can’t imagine anyone refusing to do what you want? God, you’re an arrogant bastard. Will you please get the hell out of my house? I don’t want you here.” She looked at Shoe and Del Tilley. “Any of you.”
Shoe nodded. Del Tilley’s ears flamed and he looked at the floor.
“What gives you the right to speak to me like this?” Hammond demanded, cheeks mottled and voice quivering with rage. “After all I’ve done for you?”
“After all you’ve done for me?” Victoria repeated incredulously. “You’ve never done anything for anyone but yourself in your entire life.”
“I took you off the street,” Hammond shot back, anger barely in check. “I gave you a roof, a job. It’s thanks to me you have a two-million-dollar home, a fifty-thousand-dollar car, and a closet full of designer clothes. And what do I ask in return? Nothing—”
“You got what you wanted,” she snapped, cutting him off. “For god’s sake,” she pleaded. “Will you all just leave. Please.”
“You heard her,” Kit Parsons said in her ravaged voice. She reached out and snatched the cellphone from Tilley’s hand. Caught off guard, Tilley looked surprised, then took a step toward her. She backed out of range. “One more step, buster, and I’ll take those piss yellow eyes right out of your head.”
Shoe had to admire her spunk, if not her judgement.
“Kit, please,” Victoria said. She looked at Shoe, hazel eyes pleading.
Shoe had known Victoria O’Neill for a dozen years. She had changed in that time, evolving from an awkward, scraggly girl to a graceful, elegant woman. He was not sure how deep those changes went, though. She seemed to be coping well enough, showing
