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.
“One moment, please, Mr. Tilley,” Shoe said.
Tilley turned. “What is it?”
“Did Mr. Hammond tell you he asked me to look into Patrick’s death?”
“No, he didn’t,” Tilley replied as though his mouth hurt. “However, any investigation into O’Neill’s murder should be the responsibility of my department.”
“You can take that up with Mr. Hammond,” Shoe said. “In the meantime, I’d like to ask you some questions.”
The planes and angles of Tilley’s face hardened.
“Where were you between three and four on Monday afternoon?”
“As I told the police, I was in my office.”
“When Hammond Industries took over the building maintenance and security company you worked for,” Shoe said, “Patrick didn’t want to keep you on, did he?”
“That’s right,” Tilley replied. “He didn’t. But,” he added with a tight smile, “I harboured no ill will toward him. Besides, I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“You are indeed,” Shoe said. “Thank you.”
Tilley turned on his heel and stalked out of the reception area, back stiff and fists clenched at his sides. Shoe watched him until he disappeared down the hall toward his office, then turned to Muriel.
“Do you have any plans for lunch?” he asked her.
“No,” she said.
“Have lunch with me? My treat.”
“In that case, of course.”
“Good,” Shoe said. “It’s a date, then.”
“Ooh, I haven’t had one of those in a while,” she said.
Patrick’s office was down the same hall as Del Tilley’s. Shoe found Patrick’s former assistant, Sandra St. Johns, sitting at Patrick’s desk, tapping at the keys of a laptop computer, her large round glasses perched on the end of her nose.
“Can I help you?” she said, slipping her glasses off and placing them on the desk, which was littered with open file folders and documents.
Sandra was twenty-seven, slim, and coltish, with long sandy hair, brown eyes, and slightly boyish features. Shoe hadn’t exchanged more than a couple dozen words with her at any given time in the year and a half she had been Patrick’s assistant. Patrick had praised her competency more than once. Naturally, because she and Patrick had spent a lot of time together, there had been rumours of an affair. An equal number of rumours, however, likely initiated by men who’d crashed and burned after hitting on her, had her pegged as a lesbian. Shoe was inclined to discount both.
“Have you taken over Patrick’s office?” he asked.
“Uh, no,” she said. “I’m just trying to bring myself up to speed on some of the things he was working on.” She stood. “If I keep busy...” she said, but her voice trailed off and she left the thought uncompleted. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Was there something you wanted? I’ll get out of your way if you like.” She leaned over the desk and started to close and stack file folders.
“No, please,” Shoe said. “You don’t have to leave. I’m just looking for Patrick’s appointment book. Is it somewhere in that pile, or did he take it with him when he left?”
“Patrick kept his appointments in his Palm,” she said.
“Pardon me?”
“This is a Palm,” she said, picking up a brushed metal device about the size of a personal cassette player, but slimmer. It had a small screen with a row of tiny buttons below it. “A palmtop computer,” she explained. “I suppose he had it with him when he—when he left.”
“He didn’t have a real appointment book,” Shoe said.
“This