Hammond lifted his glass, only to discover that it was empty—again. Pushing himself out of the creaky chair, he walked unsteadily to the mobile bar and fixed himself another Bloody Caesar. He could feel the alcohol fizzing through his blood, killing brain cells, corroding his liver. When had he started drinking so much? he wondered. Alcohol had killed Elizabeth, his first wife, as it had killed her mother. It ran in the family. Of course, living with that self-righteous, Bible-thumping bastard Raymond Lindell would have driven anyone to drink.
He remembered a time, not long ago, when he’d hardly taken alcohol at all. Why start now? The answer was simple. He drank because he no longer needed to be sober. Business required a clear head. What he did these days hardly qualified as business.
It had been different in the old days, he thought, slumped in his chair again and absently watching Abby glide through the water, doing the backstroke now. It had been fun then. He still remembered, like it was yesterday, the thrill of landing his first big shipping contract, the excitement of negotiating the purchase of his first company. There had been hard times, to be sure, but the hard times had just made the good times all that much better.
And Claire. He closed his eyes and tried to conjure up a picture of Claire Powkowski in his mind, but he couldn’t. She’d had pale blond hair, he remembered, coarse and brittle from being bleached too many times, washed-out blue eyes, and a crooked front tooth, but he couldn’t see her face. With a sudden rush, though, accompanied by a warm stirring in his loins, he remembered her breasts, white and pendulous, exquisitely soft and hot in his hands, and the hardness of her long, dark nipples, which she’d liked to have pinched and twisted harder than he’d at first been comfortable with.
Jesus, he swore under his breath as he realized with a shock that it had been fifty-five years since he’d lost his virginity with Claire Powkowski. He’d been twenty. She’d been what, thirty-two, thirty-three? He’d hired her to help him run a variation of the badger game on the petty officer in charge of the naval supply depot in the Port of Vancouver, where Hammond had been stationed as a clerk during the final years of the Second World War. She’d been one of the better-looking whores plying their trade in the port.
“Easiest money I’ve made in a long time,” she’d told him later. “I figure you got some change coming. I don’t live far from here. Why don’t you come home with me?”
“Not today,” he’d replied, annoyed by the slight quaver in his voice. Given the difference in their ages, though, he’d felt that it would have been too much like fucking his mother. “Did you get the address of the warehouse?”
She wrote it on a paper napkin and handed it to him. He folded it and put into his shirt pocket.
“This Petty Officer Millard,” she said. “He’s stealing from the Navy and selling it on the black market, isn’t he? You’re too young to be shore patrol, so I figure you’re cutting yourself in on his action. Am I right?”
He admitted she was.
“You got nerve for a kid,” she said. “Why don’t you come by the club tonight. I’ll fix you up with a girl more your age. She’ll do it for me as a favour.” She wet her lips and looked at him through lowered lashes, leaning forward and hunching her shoulders to give him a good look at the tops of her breasts. “She’s cute as a bug’s ear, but I know a trick or two she hasn’t even thought of yet.”
“I appreciate the offer,” he said. “But...” He shrugged.
“You’ve never been with a woman, is that it?” She smiled, because the answer was written all over his face. “Nothin’ to be ashamed of. Worst thing in the world, though, is two virgins doing it for the first time, all scared and nervous and not knowing what to do. The way they do it on those South Sea Islands, the older women teach the boys and the older men teach the girls.”
That wasn’t true and he’d known it, but in the end he had gone with her. And it hadn’t been at all like fucking his mother.
Damn, he thought. Not only was he drinking more these days, he was spending more time thinking about the past. That was a sure sign he was getting old. Hell, he wasn’t getting old; he was old. And there wasn’t a goddamned thing he could do about it.
Eschewing the ladder, Abigail Whittaker Hammond lifted herself effortlessly out of the pool, sleek as a seal, streaming water onto the tiled deck. She stood at the edge of the pool, breasts rising and falling with the slow, deep rhythm of her breathing. Peeling off her bathing cap, she fluffed her short, rust-coloured hair. A vein in her neck throbbed and Hammond imagined he could almost hear the powerful beat of her heart. At forty-eight, Abby was well muscled but not overdeveloped, with just enough body fat to keep her from looking stringy. Her bathing costume was three tiny patches of fabric, barely containing her high, round breasts and the mound of her sex.
“You might as well swim naked, for crissake,” he grumbled.
“I usually do,” she said. She picked up a bright beach towel and wrapped it around herself, tucking a corner between her breasts. Reaching under the towel, she removed the bits of her bathing suit, gathering them into her fist. The muscles of her forearm corded as she squeezed the water out.
Abby was okay, but Hammond wasn’t sure why he’d married her after Elizabeth had died. The company, maybe. Certainly not the sex. He tried to remember how long it had been since they’d had sex. Three months, at least, maybe four. It hadn’t been a particularly satisfying experience for either of them, he recalled. Although she had managed to get him erect by hand, as soon as she’d straddled him and tried to put him inside her, he’d wilted. He might have considered giving Viagra a try, if he really gave a damn.
“I’m going to get dressed now,” Abby said. “Are you sure you won’t change your mind?”
“I’m sure,” he answered curtly, annoyed that she’d asked. She knew he wouldn’t change his mind. She didn’t really want him to go with her anyway; it would spoil her evening. Not that he gave a damn about spoiling her evening, but opera made his teeth ache. Only thing worse was ballet, muscular homely women and queers in padded jockstraps. The symphony he could take or leave. He fell asleep most of the time anyway.
“Can I get you anything before I go?”
“No.”
She so surprised him when she leaned over and kissed him on the forehead that he almost flinched. She seldom showed him much affection these days. “I’ll say good night then. Don’t wait up.”
When she’d gone to dress, he got up and made himself another drink.
Was Abby really going to the opera? he wondered as he returned to his chair. Or was she shacking up somewhere with whomever she was screwing these days? He was sure she was screwing someone, but he was only mildly curious about whom. He chuckled to himself, recalling the way Abby had looked at Joe Shoe last summer when he’d been roped into coming to one her charity functions. But even if Shoe were aware of Abby’s interest, which he probably wasn’t, there was no goddamned way in the world he’d be screwing the boss’s wife.
The house was a monstrous grey pile that had been imported stone by stone from England in the early 1900s by an expatriate American railway magnate with more money than good sense. The only one of its kind in Shaughnessy, it sat in the middle of an acre of manicured lawn, surrounded by gloomy pines, high hedges, and grotesque topiary. Shoe parked in the wide, curving driveway in front of the coach house–like detached garage over which he’d lived for a few months after being released from the hospital following Randy Jenks’ death. As he climbed the wide flagstone steps to the front door, the wet wind plucked at his hat. He rang the doorbell. A minute later Mrs. Rodriguez, the Hammonds’ tubby little housekeeper, answered the door. She took his coat and hat, then escorted him through the kitchen to the solarium at the back of the house.
The solarium was too warm and Shoe started to perspire almost immediately. Bill Hammond slouched in one of a set of four upholstered wicker chairs a few feet from the edge of the pool. Mrs. Rodriguez retreated and Hammond gestured to one of the other chair
s. Shoe sat down, the wicker creaking alarmingly under his weight.
“You took your goddamned time getting here,” Hammond grumbled.
“I had some errands to run,” Shoe said. “In any event, I don’t work for you any more, do I?”
“Humph,” Hammond responded. “Can you think of any reason why I should change my mind about firing you?” he asked.
“Not a one,” Shoe answered.
“Me either.”
“Good,” Shoe said, standing up with a groan of wicker. “Now that that’s settled, I can get on with my retirement.”
“Oh, for crissake, sit down,” Hammond said. Shoe stared down at him. “Please,” Hammond added sourly. Shoe sat again. “I suppose you think I should apologize,” Hammond said.
“Not to me,” Shoe said. “But you owe Victoria an apology.”
“Why the hell should I apologize to her? If anyone should apologize, it’s her. I’ve never treated her with anything but respect. Christ, where would she be if it hadn’t been for me? I’ll tell you. She’d be living in a god-damned cardboard box, or selling herself on the street, if she wasn’t dead of AIDS. Is it expecting too much to ask for a little respect in return?”
“Are you sure it’s her respect you want?” Shoe asked.
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted from her,” Hammond said.
Changing the subject, Shoe asked him, “Have the police talked to you?”
“Yes,” Hammond said. “A sergeant named Matthias and a woman who dressed like a man. Have they talked to you?”
Shoe nodded. “Same two,” he said.
“I got the feeling they considered me a suspect.”
“We’re all suspects,” Shoe said.
Hammond grunted and fell silent.
They sat in the noisy wicker chairs, not talking, watching the shimmering green-blue water of the pool. Shoe was about to ask why he’d been summoned when Hammond spoke.
“I used to swim almost every day,” he said. “Still do from time to time, but lately I just don’t seem to have the energy. Besides, Abby likes the water too goddamned warm. It’s like swimming in piss.”
After another minute or two of silence, during which Shoe entertained himself with the absurd fantasy of sailing around the world in the company of Muriel Yee, Bill Hammond said, “Do you want your job back or don’t you?”
“No,” Shoe said. “I don’t think I do.”
“It’s customary to give notice when you resign.”
“I didn’t resign,” Shoe pointed out.
Hammond waved the distinction aside.
“What are you getting at?” Shoe asked.
“I want you to find out what Patrick was up to that got him killed.”
“What makes you so sure he was ‘up to’ anything?” Shoe said.
“I’m not sure,” Hammond replied. “But if he was, I want to know what it was.”
“Leave it to the police,” Shoe said.
“You obviously have more faith in their abilities or motivation than I do. Look, I’ll make it worth your while. How’s a year’s salary sound? I’m sure Charlie can set it up so you don’t have to pay tax.”
“It’s a very generous offer.”
“But you’re not interested, is that what you’re saying?”
“The police don’t appreciate civilians treading on their turf,” Shoe said.
“So what? In any case, you’re not a civilian. You’re an employee of Hammond Industries. We’re simply conducting our own internal investigation.”
“Nevertheless,” Shoe said, “I’m not really comfortable with the idea.”
“Why not? Don’t you want to know who was responsible for Patrick’s death?”
“Of course I do.”
“So what’s the problem?” When Shoe didn’t answer, Hammond said, “You don’t think I had anything to do with it, do you?”
“You and Victoria were lovers before she and Patrick were married,” Shoe said. “That makes you a prime suspect.”
Hammond harrumphed, dismissing the issue with a wave of his hand. He struggled out of the chair, glaring at Shoe when he seemed about to lend an assist. He made himself a drink at the portable bar and returned to his chair, the wicker complaining as he sat down.
“Will you do it or not?”
“I’ll do it,” Shoe said. “But you’d better be sure you’re willing to see it through.”
“I wouldn’t have asked you if I weren’t.”
“I won’t hold out on the police, either,” Shoe added. “If I come up with anything I think will help them identify the person responsible for Patrick’s murder, I’ll give it to them. No matter what it is. Just so you understand.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Hammond said.
Shoe found his own way back to the front door. As he waited for Mrs. Rodriguez to retrieve his coat and hat, Abby Hammond came down the stairs. She was wearing a simple black dress with a short skirt that clung to her thighs as she walked. She was carrying a fur coat and holding a clutch purse.
“Hello, Joe,” she said. “How are you?”
“Fine, Abby. Thanks.”
“It’s so awful about Patrick,” she said. “How is Victoria doing?”
“As well as can be expected,” Shoe said.
“I should call her.”
“She’d appreciate it,” he said.
Abby nodded absently, then said, “I’m worried about Bill. He’s taking it very hard. I haven’t seen him this upset since, well, since Elizabeth died.”
Elizabeth, Bill Hammond’s first wife, had died five years ago of liver cancer, the result of years of alcohol abuse. He’d married Abby four years ago, but she’d been his mistress for four years before that. They’d met when he’d briefly considered selling the house. She was the broker he’d contacted, mainly, he’d said, because he’d seen her photograph on signs in the neighbourhood and had thought she was attractive. “I don’t know who seduced who,” he’d told Shoe, “but getting her into bed wasn’t hard. She’d’ve fucked a leper for an exclusive listing.”
Mrs. Rodriguez brought Shoe’s coat and hat, but she was too short to help him on with his coat, so he took it from her. Then he helped Abby on with hers.
“Can I give you a ride somewhere?” he asked.
“Thanks,” she said. “But I’ve called a cab.”
“Have a nice evening, then,” he said and went out to his car.
Hammond had had two other mistresses that Shoe knew about, and probably others that he didn’t. When he’d first started working for Hammond, he’d driven him to more or less regular assignations with a woman Hammond referred to only as “Miss Rose.” Shoe had never met Miss Rose, had seen her only once, in fact, watching him from an upstairs window of Hammond’s house. But he’d had the impression Hammond had known her for a long time.
He’d stopped seeing Miss Rose, though, shortly after Randy Jenks’ death and had started frequenting prostitutes instead. When Shoe had asked him why, he’d replied, “Whores are a lot less trouble than mistresses. Or wives, for that matter. With whores, you always know where you stand. It’s strictly business. Mistresses and wives, they expect too much.”
“When I was a cop,” Shoe had said, “I knew a few street whores. Most of them were greedy, stupid, and lazy. I expect the whores you pay are just as greedy, stupid, and lazy, but dress better.”
Hammond had chuckled dryly. “Greed and stupidity are probably good traits to look for in a whore. Greed motivates them. And if they were smart, they’d be lawyers. I wouldn’t call Mrs. Faber’s girls lazy, though. Some of them work very hard for their money.”
The only other of Hammond’s mistresses Shoe had known was Victoria, although he wasn’t sure their relationship had lasted long enough for Victoria to qualify as a mistress. But lovers wasn’t an appropriate description of their relationship, either. No, lovers was definitely not the right word.
chapter four
Wednesday, December 15
�
��Aren’t you supposed to be out shopping for a sailboat?” Muriel said when Shoe walked into the offices the next morning.
“Slight change of plans,” he said. He tilted his head toward the door to Hammond’s office. As usual, it was closed. He couldn’t remember ever seeing it standing open. He explained what Hammond had asked him to do.
“You’re joking?” Muriel said.
“I need the money,” Shoe replied.
“Right,” Muriel said skeptically. Over the years, Shoe had used information obtained as a result of his investigations into the companies Hammond Industries had targeted for acquisition to make his own investments. Nothing too large, nothing that would attract too much attention, but it had allowed him to pay cash for his house, as well as accumulate a tidy nest egg for his retirement. Patrick may have been suspicious, and Hammond likely took such activity for granted, but Muriel was the only person Shoe had actually told. In fact, she had made a few investments of her own, which was how she had been able to buy the townhouse in New Westminster.
“Sailboats aren’t cheap,” Shoe said.
“Ah.” She smiled.
Del Tilley came into the reception area.
“Schumacher, what are you doing here?” he demanded. His yellow eyes glinted like chips of polished amber.
“Rejoice with me, Mr. Tilley,” Shoe said. “I’ve been reinstated.”
Tilley’s face tightened, as if someone were over-winding a clockwork spring in his head. “I haven’t been informed of your reinstatement,” he said. “I’ll have to speak to Mr. Hammond.”
“By all means,” Shoe replied. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate your diligence.”
Tilley, expression rigid, used his cellphone to call Hammond at home. “Pardon me for bothering you, sir,” he said when he got Hammond on the line. “I’m calling about Mr. Schumacher. He claims he’s—” He broke off suddenly. Ears slowly turning red, he listened for a moment, then said, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He disconnected, glared at Shoe for a moment, then began to walk away.
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