“I was fired, remember?”
Through the kitchen doorway, Shoe could see down the hall to the front door. A man and a woman stood silhouetted against the light. Jack stood aside to let them in, then closed the door behind them. Both looked to be in their late thirties or early forties, both wore long coats, open to reveal dark suits, and both wore ties, although the woman’s was a droopy bow. They looked no-nonsense and fit. They could have been Jehovah’s Witnesses or Mormons, but Shoe knew they were cops.
“I’m thinking of quitting myself,” Muriel said.
“The place would fall apart without you,” Shoe said.
“I don’t think I care any more,” Muriel replied. “I don’t like what’s happening around here. Have you noticed that no one seems to have fun any more? It’s like working in a mortuary. No one smiles. No one laughs. No one posts those stupid jokes on the bulletin board.”
The cops stared at Shoe with hard eyes, practised looks learned early and meant to intimidate.
“Some of them were pretty crude,” Shoe said.
“Yes, but at least they were signs of life.” She sighed, breath rattling in Shoe’s ear. “Maybe it’s me. I don’t know. I suppose I’m just a little under the weather. SAD. Seasonal Affective Disorder.”
“Muriel, the police have just arrived. I’ll come in after lunch to clean out my desk and we’ll talk then, all right?”
“Sure,” she said dully. “See you later.” She hung up.
Shoe joined Jack and the two cops in the front hall. The male cop was just a few inches shorter than Shoe and fair, with hair the colour of wet sand, pale blue eyes, a square jaw, and a generous mouth. The woman was almost as tall, rangy and ruddy-skinned, with a deep bosom, dark mahogany eyes, and thick black hair chopped off just below her earlobes.
“We’ll be more comfortable in the kitchen,” Shoe said, gesturing toward the empty living room. “At least we’ll have somewhere to sit.”
Shoe went back into the kitchen. The cops followed, Jack trailing after them. There was a half-full pot of coffee in the coffee maker, dark and bitter. It had been on the warming pad for too long, but he offered anyway. Both shook their heads. He sat down and the cops followed suit. Jack poured himself a cup, sweetened it, and sat on the tall stool by the counter.
“You’re Joseph Schumacher?” the male cop said.
“I am,” Shoe replied. “And you are...”
He took his wallet out and showed his badge. “Sergeant Matthias,” he said. “We spoke on the phone.”
Shoe held out his hand and Matthias placed his badge wallet in it. The name on his ID card was Gregory Matthias.
“This is Detective Constable Worth,” Matthias said as Shoe handed back the wallet. “Do you want to see her ID too?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Shoe said.
Matthias took out a notepad and flipped it open. He looked up at Jack perched on the stool. “Did you know Mr. O’Neill?”
“Met him coupla times,” Jack replied laconically.
Matthias nodded to Worth, who stood and said to Jack, “Come with me, please.” Her voice was a rich, warm contralto, belying her stern countenance. Jack climbed down from the stool and, taking his coffee, went with her into the living room.
“Let’s get the obvious question out of the way first,” Matthias said to Shoe. “Where were you between three and four p.m. yesterday?”
“I was on Cordova,” Shoe said. “Outside Seropian’s Dry Cleaning.” He told Matthias the address. The detective wrote it in his notebook.
“What were you doing there?” Matthias asked. “Can anyone confirm your whereabouts?”
“I was waiting to speak to a woman named Barbara Reese. She works in the store.” He waited while Matthias wrote in his notebook, then continued when the detective raised his head. “I spoke to her for a few minutes at about 3:45, then came home. I stopped at a men’s shop on 4th on the way. I got here about five-thirty. Mr. Pine was sitting on my front porch.”
“When did you last see or speak to Mr. O’Neill?” Matthias asked.
“Friday evening,” Shoe replied. “We had dinner.”
“What was his mood, his state of mind at the time?” Matthias asked.
“He was fine,” Shoe answered. “A little keyed up perhaps. He’d just tendered his resignation.”
“Why?”
“A difference of opinion with the company owner. Patrick wanted the company to go public. Mr. Hammond did not.”
“What did O’Neill do at Hammond Industries?” Sergeant Matthias asked.
“He was Vice-President of Corporate Development,” Shoe said.
“What does that mean?” Matthias asked.
“Hammond Industries is basically a holding company,” Shoe explained. “It owns other companies.” Matthias nodded. “Patrick’s job was to identify and evaluate possible candidates for acquisition. He negotiated the purchases and often got involved in the restructuring as well.” It was an oversimplification, but it would suffice.
“And how did Mr. Hammond react to O’Neill’s resignation?”
“He was upset,” Shoe said. “Maybe even a little angry. Patrick was his protegé. Mr. Hammond was grooming him to take over the company.”
“Was he angry enough to have O’Neill killed?”
Shoe said, “I don’t really know how angry a person would have to be to have someone killed. But if you’re asking me, do I think William Hammond had Patrick killed, the answer is no, I don’t think he did.”
“How long have you known O’Neill?”
“Ten years.”
“How would you characterize your relationship with him.”
“We were friends,” Shoe said. “Good friends.”
“And his wife? Are you friends with her too?”
“Yes,” Shoe said.
“How long have you known her?”
“A little more than twelve years.”
“Does she gamble or have a substance abuse problem?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Matthias nodded again and scribbled in his notebook. “Was their marriage okay?”
“To the best of my knowledge,” Shoe replied.
“Do you know of anyone who would want to harm O’Neill? Someone to whom he owed money or a business associate who felt cheated?”
“No one that I’m aware of.”
“Did he gamble?”
“No.”
“Drink? Take drugs?”
“He drank in moderation. He didn’t use recreational drugs.”
“How did he get along with the people he worked with?”
“Everyone at the office liked and respected him,” Shoe said.
Detective Constable Worth came back into the kitchen and climbed onto the stool Jack had vacated. She had a big, lethal-looking automatic pistol on her hip. Shoe didn’t know what kind it was. His knowledge of police side arms was thirty years out of date. He had qualified with a Smith & Wesson .38 Police Special revolver. He hadn’t handled