A sandwich.” He tasted his drink, then held it out to Shoe. “Put some damned vodka in this,” he said.
The telephone in the outer office began to ring. Muriel went out to answer it.
“Perhaps this isn’t the best time to bring this up,” Shoe said as he added a splash of vodka to Hammond’s drink, “but I’ve been thinking about retiring.”
“Eh?” Hammond said. “What’s that?”
“Not right away. Maybe not even soon.” Shoe passed Hammond his drink. “But it’s something I’ve been thinking about.”
“You’re what, fifty?” Hammond said. “No one retires at fifty, for crissake.”
“And maybe I won’t,” Shoe said. “I don’t want to work for Del Tilley, though.”
“Eh? What are you talking about? You don’t work for Del Tilley. You work for me.”
“Tilley thinks that despite my ‘grandiose title,’ as he put it, I should be working for the security department,” Shoe said.
“Your job is to investigate companies we’re thinking of buying. What’s that to do with security, for crissake? Forget Tilley.” Hammond’s eyes suddenly sharpened. “Unless you want his job. You’re as qualified as he is to run security around here, maybe more so.”
“I like the job I have,” Shoe said.
“So what’s all this blather about retirement then?”
“As I said, it’s just something I’ve been thinking about.”
Muriel came back into the office, expression troubled. “That was the security desk in the lobby,” she said to Hammond. “The police are downstairs.”
“Eh? What do they want?” he asked.
“They want to talk to you.” She gestured to the phone on his desk. “Shall I tell security to send them up?”
“I suppose so,” Hammond said. Muriel picked up the phone. “See what they want,” he said to Shoe.
chapter two
Shoe met the two uniformed cops in the outer office. One was a big, raw-boned redhead in his twenties whose nametag read “A. Callahan.” The other was a sturdy, olive-skinned female constable in her forties. Her nametag read “T. Minnelli.”
“Mr. William Hammond?” Constable Minnelli asked.
“No. My name is Schumacher. I work for Mr. Hammond. What can I do for you?”
“Is Mr. Hammond here?”
“Yes, but he’s indisposed at the moment,” Shoe said.
The redheaded cop smiled knowingly, misinterpreting the expression, but Minnelli was all business. “Do you know a Patrick O’Neill?” she asked.
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