The Dells (4 page)

In fact, Shoe remembered, Hannah hadn't got along at all with her older brother. Eighteen years her senior, and her legal guardian since their parents had died in a road accident when she was twelve, Ron Mackie had been overprotective to the point of tyranny. Not that Shoe had blamed him. In his short time with the Toronto police he'd seen far too many young women dead of drug overdoses, beaten to death by their pimps or jealous boyfriends or drunken husbands, raped and murdered by friends and strangers alike, or simply discarded like yesterday's trash. In his ten years as a street cop, Ron Mackie had seen much more.

“How does he feel about you being a cop?” Shoe asked her.

“He pretends he's okay with it, but he doesn't really like the idea of his baby sister being a cop any more than he liked his wife being one.” A flush highlighted her sharp cheekbones. “Uh, sorry.”

“Don't worry about it,” Shoe said. “It was a long time ago.”

“Yeah.” There was a moment of awkward silence.

“What do you do in Vancouver?” Detective Constable Timmons said, cigarette smoke spilling from his mouth. “Not still on the job, are you?”

“No,” Shoe said. “I do some consulting, but mostly I'm semi-retired.”

“What sorta consulting? Security?” Timmons asked, dropping his cigarette butt onto the pavement, grinding it out under the sole of a steel-toed shoe.

“I investigate companies other companies are looking to acquire.”

“Interesting work?”

“Can be,” Shoe said. Timmons didn't look as though he thought so. He went round to the driver's side of the car and got behind the wheel.

“Well, thanks for your help,” Lewis said.

“You're welcome,” Shoe said.

She got into the car. Timmons started the engine.

“You were in the academy with Hank Trumbull, weren't you?” Lewis said.

“That's right,” Shoe said. He and Hank Trumbull had also served their probationary period in the same downtown Toronto division. Shoe hadn't seen him since he'd left the force and moved to the West Coast, but he'd called him in January to thank him for his putting in a good word for him during the investigation into Patrick O'Neill's murder. “Do you know Hank?”

“He was my boss,” she said through the open door.
“He put in his papers last month. He got tired of waiting for promotion. I don't blame him. He should've been deputy chief by now, or even chief, but — well, you know him,” she added with a shrug. “Anyway, his retirement bash was last week.”

“I'm sorry I missed it,” Shoe said. “I'll call him.”

“Better hurry,” Lewis said. “He's taking his wife on a three-month vacation in Europe. They're leaving tomorrow. Thanks again for your help. I'll see you around.”

She closed the door. Timmons put the Sebring in gear and pulled away from the curb without signalling. Shoe turned his back on the memories and went into his parents' house.

“You keep looking at your watch, Hal,” Jerold Renfrew said. “Is there someplace you have to be?”

“Uh, no,” Hal Schumacher replied.

“You sure? Because if there is, we can do this later.”

“No,” Hal said. “Let's get it over with.”

“Okay. Hal, you're fired!”

Don't I wish
, Hal thought sourly, smiling at Renfrew's favourite joke nevertheless. “The severance will come in handy,” he said, playing along, as was expected, even required. “I've had my eye on a nice little summer place in the Muskokas for a while now.”

Renfrew slapped the top of his desk in appreciation. “Good one, Hal. And who knows? Maybe you'll even be able to afford it after this year's bonus. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that your quarterly numbers are great, Hal. Simply great. Up over fifteen percent from last year. I'm really proud of you, Hal. You've built a great team of people. Simply great. Their performance is outstanding.”

Jerry Renfrew was president, CEO, and sole shareholder of Renfrew & Doherty Assurance, Inc. Although younger than Hal by nearly a decade, Renfrew affected a kindly, avuncular manner, which Hal found as annoying as it was fraudulent.

“Thanks, Jerry. I'll pass that along.”

“The next quarter is looking good too,” Renfrew said, as though he hadn't heard. “Could be our best ever, in no small part due to the efforts of you and your people. It's starting to look like a safe bet that you're going to be taking home the Oscar again this year, Hal.”

Christ, but the man loves the sound of his own voice, Hal thought irritably, as Renfrew prattled on. He was careful to keep his impatience from showing, though. Under other circumstances, he would have been flattered by the effusive praise, even though he knew these sessions were just Renfrew's way of reminding everyone who was really in control. Truth be told, Hal was counting on the “Oscar,” as Renfrew called the big annual bonus that went to the head of the most productive department. Too bad he wouldn't get to enjoy any of it; it was already spent, and not on a cottage on Lake Muskoka.

Hal had always considered himself pretty sophisticated when it came to the market. He knew that when a stock looked too good to be true, it likely was, and he'd have scoffed at the suggestion that he could be taken in by a smooth sales pitch. Until recently, that is. Jesus, how could he have been so stupid? It only went to show that no matter how smart you thought you were, there was always some slick operator out there who was just that little bit smarter.

And, on top of that, he had Dougie Hallam on his back. Hal sighed. He'd screwed up, there was no denying that, but damn, a little good luck wasn't too much to ask, was it? It would make a nice change …

“Hal?”

“Uh, yes, Jerry.”

Renfrew frowned. “Is something bothering you, Hal?”

“What? No, Jerry, everything's fine. Why do you ask?”

“C'mon, man,” Renfrew said. “You sit there, inscrutable as a damn Sphinx, when I'm practically coming right out and telling you that if you keep this up you're a shoo-in for CFO when Phil Desmond retires next year.”

Hal's heart jumped, as if an electric current had passed through his chest. “I thought Ray Levesque was your choice for Phil's job,” he said, barely able to contain himself. So the rumours of Ray Levesque's fall from grace were true after all.

“Frankly,” Renfrew said, “I've been disappointed in Ray's performance lately.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Hal said, careful to keep the smugness from showing in his voice or on his face. Ray Levesque had been Jerry's fair-haired boy. Hal wondered what Ray had done — or not done — to fall out of Renfrew's favour. Whatever, maybe Hal's luck was taking a turn for the better.

“But we were talking about you, Hal,” Renfrew said. “You've been a bit distracted lately. Is everything all right at home? How's Maureen? I was saying to Alice just the other day, we've got to have Hal and Maureen over for dinner soon. Alice is dying to show off the new house.”

“Everything's fine, Jerry,” Hal said. “Maureen's fine. And we'd love to see the new house.”

“So what's the problem, Hal?”

“There's no problem, Jerry.”

“I wasn't born yesterday, Hal,” Renfrew said. “I can see plain as the nose on your face that something's going on with you. You can level with me, you know. If there's something bothering you, all you have to do is tell me. We'll make it go away. Trust me.”

Yeah, right.
“Jerry, honestly, it's nothing. I'm just tired, I guess. It's been a tough couple of months, and I worked a little later than usual last night.”

“So I understand. A little bird told me you were here till after midnight. That's not good. I'm a big believer in a proper balance of life and work, Hal, you know that.”

Yes I do, Jerry, and I'm sure you believe it, too, until the numbers start to fall, then it's a different tune you play for us to dance to.

“You sure everything's all right between you and Maureen? Working late is often the first sign of problems at home.”

“We're fine,” Hal said blandly. How easily the lie came. But was Jerry even listening?

“Because I don't need to remind you, Hal, Renfrew & Doherty is a very family values–conscious firm. We pride ourselves on that, as you well know. Nothing is more important than a solid, stable, and
healthy
family life. Frankly, I worry about you, Hal. You're not a churchgoer, I accept that, because you're a good man nevertheless, but we all need a reliable moral compass to steer by. Appearances are important in this business, Hal, I don't have to tell you that. We must be vigilant, on constant guard against any failure of personal integrity or deterioration of morality and family values.”

“You don't have anything to worry about,” Hal said.

“Renfrew & Doherty may not be the biggest insurer in this city,” Renfrew said, “but we've got a reputation for integrity that's second to none in the industry.”

“I know, Jerry.”

“There's a lot at stake here, Hal. I wouldn't want to see you throw away your future with the company because you can't keep your family together.”

You bloody hypocrite
, Hal thought, keeping his expression carefully neutral as he endured yet another
lecture on morality from the man who'd driven poor old George Doherty to an early grave with totally trumped up allegations of mismanagement and malfeasance.
Family values, my hairy ass. All you care about is the damned bottom line. Profit, that's your moral compass, you sanctimonious bastard, not God or the church. Those are for appearances' sake, nothing else.

Hal almost laughed out loud at his own hypocrisy. Appearances were important to him, too, he knew, maybe more than he'd ever realized, otherwise he wouldn't be in the mess he was in. Just thinking about it made his legs twitch and his guts churn. Maybe Jerry was right, he thought, that everyone needs a reliable moral compass. Unfortunately, Hal's seemed to be broken of late.

It was Renfrew's turn to look at his watch, a wafer-thin gold Patek Philippe timepiece that probably cost more than the average Canadian's annual after-tax income. “I hope you find these sessions helpful, Hal. I know I do. Remember, if there's anything you need, don't hesitate. My door is always open.” He stood, elegantly trim in his perfectly tailored two-thousand-dollar suit.

Hal stood too, grunting with the effort and sucking in his gut in a useless attempt to look a little less like a rumpled blimp. “I appreciate that, Jerry.”

“You really should join a gym, Hal,” Renfrew said.

“I know, Jerry,” Hal said. “I wish I had time.”

Renfrew came out from behind his desk. He placed a hand on Hal's shoulder as he guided him toward the door. “Physical health is equally as important as spiritual health, Hal.”

“There are only so many hours in a day, Jerry,” Hal said.

“Hmm,” Renfrew said. He opened the door, paused, then suddenly released it, letting it swing shut. His brow furrowed dramatically.

“Something wrong, Jerry?” Hal asked warily.
Renfrew liked to spring things on people at the last minute, operating on the principle that their immediate reactions revealed more than any interview. Hal had a feeling he knew what was coming and began thinking of ways he might squeeze even more hours out of a day.

“I wasn't going to bring this up today,” Renfrew said. He hesitated, furrows deepening, feigning indecision.

“What is it, Jerry?” he said, unable to prevent impatience from sharpening his voice.

Renfrew affected not to notice. “I'm sensitive to the fact that Gord Peters is your friend,” he said. “So I'll understand if you decide to recuse yourself and bring in an outside firm. But I'm afraid I've got to ask you to initiate an internal audit of his department. I don't like what I've been seeing in his numbers lately. Something doesn't add up.”

Shit, Hal thought. Not what he'd expected, but no great surprise, either. Say what you will about Jerry Renfrew, he wasn't stupid. It had been only a matter of time before he caught on to Gord's shenanigans. But the timing could not have been worse.

Renfrew pulled the door open again. “Sorry to drop this in your lap on such short notice,” he said, ushering Hal into the outer office. “Think about it, will you? Get back to me next week about how you want to handle it. Have a nice holiday weekend,” he said and shut the door.

Shoe was in his parents' kitchen, getting a beer out of the fridge, when his brother's wife came up the stairs from the back door.

“How are you doing, Shoe?” she said, reaching past him to take a bottle of white wine from the top shelf.

“I'm doing just fine,” he said.

Maureen Ryan Schumacher was a strapping redhead, full-figured and sumptuously curved, but without a gram of apparent extra fat. Her shoulder-length titian hair was tied back in a flamboyant ponytail, emphasizing her strong, even features. She wore a green cotton T-shirt that set off her hair nicely. It had a half-dozen small buttons at the neck, all undone, revealing a couple of inches of abundant cleavage.

She handed him the wine bottle. “Here, you do the honours while I check the veggies.”

Shoe took the bottle and Maureen bent to peer into the oven, where red, green, and yellow peppers roasted with garlic, onions, and sweet potato. The position
seemed intended to offer him a view of her firm denimclad rump. He wondered what she did to stay in shape.

She straightened and he handed her the opened wine bottle. “That man's murder put a damper on your homecoming, didn't it?” she said.

“It did,” he agreed. She took a tumbler from the cupboard by the sink and held it out to him. He shook his head as he twisted the cap off the beer bottle. “The bottle's fine.” She smiled and poured wine into the glass until it was half full.