would have said our relationship was somewhat more than employer-employee, but somewhat less than friends.”
“And as of yesterday?” Matthias asked, scratching in his notebook.
“I ceased to be employed by Hammond Industries.”
“You quit or you were fired?”
“A little of both, I’d say.”
“Did it have anything to do with O’Neill’s death?”
“Indirectly.”
“Could you explain?”
“I violated protocol,” Shoe said. Matthias raised a sandy eyebrow. “I stepped too far across that indistinct line between employee and friend and stuck my nose into something Mr. Hammond believed was none of my business.”
“What did you do at Hammond Industries?” Constable Worth asked in her sweet contralto voice.
“My title is—was—Senior Analyst, Corporate Development.” He’d always felt self-conscious telling people his title.
“Corporate Development,” Matthias repeated. “O’Neill was your boss?”
“Technically,” Shoe replied. “However, I reported directly to Mr. Hammond.”
“How did your responsibilities differ from O’Neill’s?” Matthias asked.
“Patrick handled the financial aspects of acquisitions. He’d look at a company’s books, financial statements, that sort of thing. My job was to try to find out if a company’s claims on paper were a true reflection of how well or poorly the company was doing. I suppose you could say I was a sort of industrial private investigator.”
“Sounds like an interesting job.”
“It got me out of the office,” Shoe said.
“You used to be Mr. Hammond’s chauffeur, though?”
“That’s right.”
Matthias flipped back the pages of his notebook, consulting an earlier entry. “Tell me about Randy Jenks.”
The question didn’t take Shoe by surprise. It had nothing to do with Patrick’s death, but it had everything to do with Matthias’ assessment of Shoe as a possible suspect. Shoe said, “There’s not a lot to tell. Twenty years ago Randy Jenks attacked Bill Hammond with a crowbar on the sidewalk in front of the office. I stopped him. He died when he fell under the wheels of a truck.”
“Had you ever seen him before that day?”
“No.”
“Why do you think he attacked Hammond?”
“I can only go by what was reported in the newspapers,” Shoe replied, “that he was a disgruntled former employee who’d been fired for drinking on the job.”
“He hadn’t worked for the company for almost ten years,” Matthias said. “What took him so long?”
“I’ve often wondered about that myself,” Shoe said. “Following Raymond Lindell’s death, though, the company was growing and had been in the news quite a lot. I suppose seeing Hammond’s name in the papers opened up old wounds.”
Matthias said, “Mm,” as he consulted his notebook, then said, “That should do it. Is there anything you’d like to add?”
“No, I can’t think of anything right now.”
Matthias stood and Worth stood with him.
“Did you used to be a cop?” Worth asked.
“Thirty years ago,” Shoe said, “I was a member of the Metro Toronto police for two and a half years.”
“Why did you leave?” Matthias asked.
“I was discharged for striking a superior officer,” he said.
“Mm,” Matthias said again.
Shoe walked them to the door.
“If there are any more questions,” Matthias said, “someone will be in touch. In the meantime, if you think of anything, you can reach me at that number you called this morning. If you can’t get me or Constable Worth, quote the case number and leave your name. Someone will get back to you. Thank you for your co-operation.”
Shoe shook hands with them, and when they had gone he went back to painting the living room trim. He and Jack broke for lunch at twelve-thirty, cleaned up, ate, and at a few minutes past one Shoe headed downtown, on the way dropping Jack off at the entrance to Granville Island to check on his houseboat.
Shoe’s office was down the hall from Hammond’s, next to the photocopy room. About ten feet square, it had a single narrow window through which on a good day he could see a thin slice of Stanley Park and Coal Harbour. Today wasn’t one of those days. The office was equipped with a desk, usually bare, a filing cabinet, mostly empty, an outdated personal computer, never on, and a set of bookshelves, overcrowded and sagging. He spent as little time there as possible—if anyone needed him, Muriel usually knew where to find him—but he had nevertheless accumulated a remarkable amount of what could only be described as stuff, most of which went straight into the recycling bin. The rest was mainly books, cassettes and CDs, and a few photographs.
Muriel hadn’t been at her desk when he’d arrived, but as he was packing books into a cardboard file box, she came into the office. With a sigh, she dropped into the creaky and unstable swivel chair behind the desk. She wore a dark green blouse that looked lighter than air and a knee-length black skirt, modestly slit only halfway up her thigh. Shoe could smell her perfume, light and musky-sweet. The hinges of his jaw tingled.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Just tired,” she said. “I didn’t sleep very well last night.” It didn’t show. Her hair shone and her eyes were clear and steady. “Have you talked to him?” she asked.
“No,” Shoe said. “Is he in?”
“No,” she answered. “I thought, just maybe...” She left the thought unfinished and shrugged. “I’m worried about him. God knows why. Lately, all he does is bark at me.”
She watched as Shoe taped the file box closed. When he’d placed it on the floor by the door, he sat down in the straight-backed chair beside the desk.
“Are you still thinking about quitting?” he asked.
“I guess not. Not seriously, anyway. Still, it’s not going to be the same around here without you. Have you thought about what you’re going to do?”
“Not really. Maybe I’ll sell my house, buy a sailboat, and sail the South Seas.”
“Hmm,” she said. “Sounds good. Can I come along?”
“Certainly. Can you sail?”
“No,” she said. “But I have other talents.” She grinned lasciviously.
“So much for the fabled Asian inscrutability,” he said.
“Asian inscrutability is a barbarian myth,” she replied. “Personally, I’m very ’scrutable. You just haven’t tried hard enough.” Her smile faded suddenly.
“What is it?” he asked.
She shook her head. “It’s nothing, really. I just feel a little guilty about bantering with you like this so soon after Patrick’s death. But his death doesn’t seem real somehow, until I think about it, then there’s this awful empty feeling, like there’s something missing. God, I can’t imagine how Victoria is coping.”
“She seemed to be handling it quite well last night.”
“No thanks to him,” Muriel said, thrusting her chin in the general direction of Hammond’s office. She stood up suddenly, smoothing her skirt over her thighs. Shoe stood with her.