Murder in Hindsight (23 page)

“What is it?” He watched her narrowly. In a way, he was almost as adept as Acton in reading her—she should work on being less transparent; mental note.

“What is what?” she replied in all innocence, imitating Acton at his most infuriating.

“Don’t hold out on me,” he warned. “You tend to get into trouble.”

This was true, and she was touched by his concern. “I have to follow up on somethin’; I’ll let you know as soon as I have a grip on it.” She pulled out her mobile, and began to trot up the stairs to the top while he watched her from the landing, unmoving. “Don’t forget to follow up on the other murders.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said heavily, as though she were his superior officer, and she laughed, the sound echoing down the stairwell.

C
HAPTER
43

D
OYLE SAT ON A PARK BENCH, WAITING, AND THINKING ABOUT
the vigilante killer and the hindsight murders—murders that didn’t seem like murders until the person killed again, and then the belated, horrified realization that a murderer had been set free to murder again. I’ve had my own fill of hindsight, she thought—what with the night visitor at Trestles. But apparently I’m tasked with the delivery of yet another warning, and this one just as important as the others.

It was a bit chilly, and she put her hands in her coat pockets, hoping she needn’t wait too long.

“Ho there, my lady.”

Kevin Maguire approached, looking less and less like a rumpled, out-of-shape newsman, and more like someone who was fighting a wasting disease. Unfortunately, Doyle was familiar with that look, having watched her mother waste away. “Mr. Maguire; thank you for comin’.”

Maguire sank onto the bench beside her, smiling ironically. “I suppose you already know that as we speak, there is a huge row going on in the editorial offices, and Cassie is about to get sacked in journalistic disgrace.”

While this was welcome news, she feigned puzzlement. “And why on earth would I be aware of such a thing?”

He smiled and shook his head, looking around him at the peaceful surroundings as he pulled out a cigarette. “I would never want to cross your husband.”

“I find him very amiable, myself.”

Maguire laughed aloud. “Someday you must tell me the story—I promise I won’t publish it.”

“You couldn’t,” she said frankly. “No one would believe it, and you’d wind up like Masterson.”

“I don’t know,” he ventured, still smiling as he drew on the cigarette. “I have learned—after many years in this business—that people will believe anything.”

She said a little sharply, “Particularly when a newspaper tells them to believe it.”

Sobering, he turned to regard her thoughtfully. “I take it we are not here to discuss Cassie, or your redoubtable husband.”

“You can’t just go about killin’ people, no matter how just the cause.”

There was a long pause, and then he drew on the cigarette and offered diffidently, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Doyle placed a gentle hand on his arm. “You’re comin’ to the end, as we all will. Now is not the time to be blottin’ your copybook.”

He gazed at her in amusement. “There is no God. There is no one keeping track in a big, golden account book.”

“I would hate to be in your shoes and find out otherwise.”

He stared at her for a moment, and she wasn’t sure what he was thinking. “Perhaps I am trying to redeem myself; to make up for past hubris.”

Doyle wasn’t sure what the word meant, but she understood the gist. “Leave retribution to God, Mr. Maguire.”

He took a drag and scoffed, “There is no God.”

“I can see,” she said thoughtfully, “that we are not makin’ any progress, here.”

He gazed over at the ordered flowerbeds and blew out a breath of smoke. “I love places like this—love them. The parks are a breath of calm in the midst of all the evil; all the insanity. When you’ve been covering major crimes as long as I have, your view of the city gets a little warped.”

“Yes; you led the campaign to convince the Council to start up the recreation program at the parks for at-risk youth. Only in hindsight, you realized—with proper horror—that you’d only helped to serve up innocent victims to a monster.”

Tilting his head back, he rested his gaze on the spreading branches above them. “I thought I knew him. I thought I knew
people.
I was so certain of their inherent goodness.”

“You were a bit naïve, perhaps.” Ironic, that everyone thought
her
naïve, when she knew humankind better than most.

“I tried to shape opinion to fit my own views. And good people died—or worse.”

She touched his arm in sympathy again, reacting to the underlying bitterness. “Surely these were the rare exceptions in your career.”

With a chuckle, he tossed the cigarette stub onto the pavement before them. “You’ll not give me comfort, although I appreciate the effort. It is such a seductive, heady feeling, you know. You are so sure of your own righteousness; your own power. If you are proved wrong, it only makes you all the more arrogant.”

“It is the ultimate sin,” she noted gently. “To believe that you are unanswerable.”

“Stop trying,” he said with a smile. “It’s not going to work.”

“I have no choice,” she offered in apology. “I have to keep tryin’; it’s a long journey through eternity—imagine bein’ relieved of this burden of guilt.”

“I am relieved of it,” he assured her as he gazed out over their surroundings again. “Almost.”

Her scalp prickled, and she ventured, “Is that so? How many more on the list?”

“Only one.”

Doyle leaned forward to beg with all sincerity, “Please, please, reconsider. I know a good man to talk to, who would keep whatever you tell him private.”

“A priest.” This pronounced with mild contempt.

“A good man,” she reiterated. “He will not judge, but he may help to take the guilt away.”

“On the contrary, I’m putting the guilt to good use.”

She sat still for a moment and contemplated him, feeling that she was at an impasse. Impossible to try to make an arrest—she’d no evidence, as well he knew. “I’ll figure out who the remainin’ victim is, you know.”

He smiled. “Not this one, you won’t.”

Something in the way he said it gave her pause. “Is it Acton?” she asked, almost before she recognized the thought.

“No,” he replied, and was telling the truth. “I wouldn’t put you through it, even if he was on the list. You are one of my favorite people, did you know?”

She leaned forward again. “Then
please
let me convince you to change your mind. I am goin’ to find out about the last victim and put a stop to it; you don’t want to end your career as the subject of such a story.”

“No,” he agreed with bitter irony. “I am more suited to incite from the sidelines, and then run from the responsibility of what I have done.”

Doyle decided she’d done as much as she could, and it only remained to lay the whole before Acton and let him decide what to do. Gently, she asked, “Do you have someone who is takin’ care of you at home?”

He took a deep breath. “Yes. Better than I deserve. It’s a hard thing, dying.”

“Aye, that,” she agreed somberly, remembering her mother’s ordeal—incomprehensible to imagine having to face it without faith. Rising to leave, she gathered her coat around her. “I’ll remember you in my prayers, if you have no objection.”

“Not at all,” he smiled. “If anyone can convince God that he exists, it is you.”

C
HAPTER
44

D
OYLE WAS THOUGHTFUL AS SHE WALKED TOWARD THE
M
ET; IT
had occurred to her that all her crises seemed to be resolving themselves in a very satisfactory manner, and all at once. Williams was not a turncoat; Savoie did not seem inclined to serve as Solonik’s henchman; Masterson could no longer serve that role even if she wanted to; and the vigilante killer was Maguire—something she probably should have figured out long ago. All in all, there seemed to be unmitigated good news, particularly if she was pregnant again. Now, her only task was to find out who the last victim was, and she had a sneaking suspicion—from the way Maguire’d raised it—that it was someone she knew. So—if one followed the thinking, someone she knew had gotten away with murder. Who?

She absently responded to the desk sergeant’s respectful greeting as she came through the lobby doors. The last murderer on the list could easily be Williams—Williams had dispatched his uncle the evil-doer; presumably with Acton’s help. But it was hard to imagine how Maguire would have discovered such a thing. No—more likely it was a crime the CID had investigated, so that it had come to Maguire’s attention in the first place. And besides, Maguire would have approved of Williams’s actions anyway—after all, Williams was a vigilante, himself. Maguire was more credulous—and soft-hearted— but in the end, he’d also turned to vigilantism. When he realized he’d been using his influence to champion cold-blooded killers, the remorse and guilt must have been overwhelming. The fuse had then been lit by the terrible realization that he’d aided and abetted a pedophile, and in an attempt to atone for all past sins, he’d tried to mete out a rough justice, however belated.

When she came to the lifts in the lobby, a PC held the door for her and she stepped in, smiling her thanks. The difference between me and them—Acton, Williams, and Maguire, Doyle realized, is that I believe in an ultimate justice, and so I am not so enraged or frustrated when earthly justice falls short. I have neither the desire nor the expertise to take the place of God.

“Have a nice day, Officer Doyle,” offered the PC when she stepped out at her floor.

“Thank you.” No doubt he’d tell his mates tonight at the pub that he’d shared a lift with her, but it didn’t rankle as much as it had in the past. We all need the assurance that right makes might, she thought; it’s a long wait ’til heaven.

With this improved attitude, Doyle voluntarily ducked her head into Munoz’s cubicle on the way to her own. “How was your weekend, Munoz?”

“Miserable. I’m to take the veil.”

Doyle considered this pronouncement. “You’d be quite the nun, Munoz. They’d have to dedicate a twenty-four-hour confessional booth to you alone.”

With a twist of her swivel chair, Munoz turned to face Doyle. “Help me, then; Acton must know some eligible men. And you know what I mean by eligible.”

Rich, thought Doyle correctly. “I will ask him, Munoz. I will, I promise.” She thought about it. “What if it’s a choice between someone unexciting but with lots of money who would adore you, versus excitement and less of the other two?”

“I will make those types of assessments,” Munoz replied. “Just get me some names.”

“Will do,” Doyle agreed, and briefly toyed with the idea of Sir Stephen, but then decided Munoz shouldn’t be hooked up with a pretender to the throne, so to speak; Acton had enough troubles. And even Munoz didn’t deserve the likes of Sir Stephen.

To be courteous, Munoz asked Doyle about her weekend.

“Fraught with peril,” Doyle replied. “We visited Acton’s mother.”

The other girl arched an amused brow. “Did you? What’s she like?”

“A harridan. Hates me from my Irish insides out.”

Munoz laughed in appreciation. “She’s one to talk; there was that scandal about Acton’s father, after all.”

Doyle’s antennae quivered and she pretended that she knew. “His disappearance, you mean?”

“DCI Drake said it was generally thought she did away with him; the insurance wouldn’t pay.”

Saints, thought Doyle in abject dismay. Was it
true,
then?

“Ask Acton if he knows any eligible men whose mothers are dead already,” Munoz said thoughtfully. “That would be ideal.”

“Amen to that,” said Doyle fervently, and turned back toward her cubicle. She’d just settled in to look through the updates on her files when Williams rang in. Lifting her mobile, she answered, “Are you callin’ in with a report, like a good underling?”

But as it turned out, indeed he was. “I thought I’d swing by the
London World News
to review the archives—the old coverage of the mother’s murder.”

“And check in on Masterson in the meantime,” she added in admiration. “You are a
trump
, Thomas.”

He lowered his voice. “Apparently, earlier today there were shouting matches in her office and the owners of the paper are meeting with the publisher. I’ll see what else I can find out.”

“Excellent sleuthin’, if I may say so.” No need to tell him that this was no longer breaking news; he had gone to all the effort, after all.

“I don’t think she’s here; after I do the research, I may try to track her down to see if she’s drowning her sorrows and would like a sympathetic ear.”

“Remember that you are no longer to be sacrificin’ your virtue on that particular altar, me boyo.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He rang off.

So—this corroborated what Maguire had reported; Masterson was in disgrace and getting the sack, thanks be to God. It had occurred to her, after Acton’s phone call to Previ, that even if Masterson had the goods on Acton, the powers-that-be might not allow the story to run. Doyle knew such things happened—even the mighty press could be stifled. Still, it was hard to stare disaster in the face, and it was an enormous relief to know that Acton’s plan seemed to be working. She then realized that Williams was on a sleeveless errand, and rang him up again.

“Hey.”

“Hey, yourself. What’s up?”

“Thomas, about the research . . .” She belatedly realized she wasn’t certain what she wanted to tell him.

“What is it? Do you have a lead?”

She offered hesitantly, “More than that; I think I’ve solved it—but it’s tricky and I need some advice from Acton.”

There was a small silence and she grimaced—didn’t handle that very well; it was Williams who had been helping her out like he was a first-year peeler, every step of the way.

“He’s tied up on the Wexton Prison case, can I substitute?”

She tried to make amends. “Your advice is excellent, Thomas. It’s the identity of the suspect that creates the problem.”

“Oh, I see; a political issue?”

“Sort of,” she hedged. Williams’s feelings wouldn’t be hurt with that excuse, and it really was political, in a way.

“Are you there?”

“Sorry,” she said. “I wish I knew what to do.”

“To recap, you think you know who the killer is, but you can’t move on it for some reason.”

“Yes. And meanwhile I’m worried he’s going to murder one more former killer before he’s done.”

There was a pause. “That’s some detective work, DS Doyle.”

“Thank you, DI Williams. I’m not sure it will amount to anythin’; I’m sorry I’m bein’ so mysterious.”

“So everything’s on hold?”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “Let me see what Acton wants to do.”

Doyle rang off, and then decided to call Acton on his private line, even though she knew he was interviewing suspects in the prison corruption investigation; apparently at least one judge was involved, and so Acton had been called in to handle yet another politically delicate case. He answered immediately, as he always did when she used the private line. “Kathleen.”

“Are you hip-deep in anythin’?”

“I’m interviewing personnel.”

A code of silence had been erected around the rumors of judicial graft, and she hoped he could unearth something helpful. “I won’t keep you then. I’ll be needin’ your advice on the vigilante case.”

There was a small pause. “You’ve solved the case?”

She smiled in surprise. “Faith, am I that transparent?”

“To me, you are. If you need me now, I can spare an hour.”

“No, it can wait.”

“Right, then; I’ll leave for home soon.”

She hesitated. “I may be a bit late—I have some shoppin’ to do.” This, in the event he checked her GPS and wondered what she was doing at the bookstore; she was not one for books.

“Don’t be too late; you need your rest.”

She smiled into the mobile and rang off. Hopefully Acton would know what to do with Maguire; there was precious little evidence to support a prosecution there, also.

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully as Doyle tried to come up with the parameters for a search with respect to the other crimes Maguire had covered; she had a half-formed idea in the back of her mind that if she could identify Maguire’s next victim, she could dissuade him from the last murder on the list. It would probably be another sensational case with a sympathetic killer—a domestic abuse victim? Or perhaps another hero of the community? She tapped the eraser end of a pencil on the desk as she thought about it, and checked the time. In another twenty minutes or so, she’d pack up and wander over to the bookstore. With any luck, she’d dissuade Savoie from carrying out Solonik’s evil plan, and send him home none the wiser that she’d shot his brother dead. All in all, it would be the capper to a good day’s work.