Murder in Hindsight (7 page)

C
HAPTER
11

D
OYLE WAS AWAKENED EARLY THE NEXT MORNING BY
A
CTON
, who pulled her against him and left no doubt as to his intention.

“I see how it is,” she teased sleepily. “Abusin’ my helpless self.”

“You fell asleep, last night,” he murmured into her mouth.

“And whose fault is that, if I may be askin’?”

“Hush,” he said, and she did.

Afterward, she lay with him and he seemed disinclined to rise, which was a wrinkle—usually he was up with the birds. He held her cradled against his chest, stroking her arms and hands while she closed her eyes, supremely content. “How is your mysterious case comin’ along?”

“Very slowly.” His hands paused. “I believe those who gave me the assignment may have not been forthcoming with me.”

“Oh. That
is
a handicap.”

“It is indeed,” he replied absently, and began his stroking circuit again.

“So they want your help, but they’re hopin’ you don’t find out the sordid details?”

“Something like that.”

“And you’re willin’ to be duped? That doesn’t sound very much in keepin’, Michael.”

He let out a breath that stirred the hair on the top of her head. “It keeps me interested.”

She giggled. “Like me.”

He ran a caressing hand down the front of her, north to south, lingering on the south. “Like you.”

She sighed. “It’s lucky we are—that we found each other.”

“It was I who found you,” he corrected, his hand gently emphasizing the point.

“Faith, I’m forgettin’. Then you put me in a headlock, and dragged me to the altar.”

“My finest hour.”

She giggled again, and wondered at his willingness to lounge this morning; he wasn’t a lounger, was Acton.

Absently, he lifted his hand to pull loose a tendril of hair from her temple. “Any progress on the working theory?”

“No one of interest was murdered yesterday—leastways, as far as I can tell. Williams and I brainstormed for ideas, and he came up with guilt, which is an interestin’ theory; someone feels responsible for some reason—a guilty vigilante, rather than a vengeful one.”

He thought about it. “Perhaps; but nevertheless there was a trigger. Something prompted him to go after them all at once, all these years later.”

This made sense, she supposed, and Acton was Acton, so attention should be paid. “What sort of trigger, d’ye think?”

He played with the tendril of hair. “Something cataclysmic, that sickened him. It was no small thing for this vigilante to purchase a variety of guns and then to kill so many. He couldn’t live with himself.”

“Or
she
couldn’t,” she reminded him.

“I would be surprised if it was a woman.”

“Habib said women don’t shoot at heads.”

“In general,” he agreed.

“Are we so predictable, then?”

“Not you.”

She lifted his hand to kiss it in appreciation, then let it go back to its stroking circuit. “Speakin’ of which, what would you like to do for Christmas?”

The question amused him. “I have no idea. What are my options?”

Turning over to prop herself up on her elbows, she stared at him through her tousled hair. “Michael; you don’t celebrate
Christmas
?”

He continued amused. “Now I do, apparently.”

Frowning at him, she said with all earnestness, “You were in sorry straits, my friend. I came along just in the nick of time, if I may be sayin’ so.”

“So it seems.” This with a gleam of amusement as he spread his fingers and pulled them through the fall of her hair.

“Are you teasin’ me?” she asked suspiciously.

“Never. I was indeed a sorry fellow until you wandered by.”

This was of interest, and she ran a fingertip along one of his dark brows. “Did I wander by? I don’t remember ever bein’ within three floors of you.”

“I saw you out my window.”

Inordinately pleased by this glimpse, she smiled—he was not one to wax sentimental, and he rarely made any reference to his condition. Nevertheless, she’d always wondered how this whole Section Seven thing had started. “Did you? And that was that?”

“Yes; that was that.”

Very pleased with him, she nestled up against his side, and dropped a kiss on his chest as his arms came around her. “Good one.”

He made no response, and they lay content for a few moments until she remembered the original topic of conversation. “We could have Timothy over—for Christmas, I mean—unless he goes somewhere else. And we could go to Midnight Mass, if you like.”

“Right then; I’ll ask him. Shall we include Nanda?”

“As long as they’re not goin’ to be havin’ sex everywhere.”

“No, that’s our prerogative.”

She laughed and raised herself up again. “Not on a High Holy Day, Michael; is Father John teachin’ you
nothin
’?”

“Haven’t touched on that one yet.”

“I’ll touch you one, I will.” She suited action to word, and naturally, this gesture initiated another heated session that left the bedcovers on the floor and two of London’s finest destined to be late for work. Doyle’s mobile pinged, and she stirred herself to check the screen. “Munoz wonders where I am.”

“Let her wonder. Shall we stay home this morning?”

With a hand, she smoothed her damp hair away from her face. “Can’t; it’s meetin’ Williams for lunch behind your back, I am.”

“How is that going?”

This was an interesting little wrinkle; Acton, by all accounts, should not be happy that Williams was so fond of her, but he seemed unalarmed. Of course, as he’d pointed out, it meant that Williams would never put his own interests above hers. “Well enough—he’s behavin’ himself.” Best not mention he’d kissed her; that was a one-off because she’d nearly drowned, and it seemed appropriate to throw caution to the wind at the time.

Acton sat up, reached for his mobile, and began to listen to the messages left for him as she slid out of bed and went to shower, feeling his gaze follow her—a shame he was willing to lounge about the one day she had multiple assignations lined up. And Munoz wanted something, too—she wouldn’t be contacting Doyle, else.

As she showered, she realized that her husband had not mentioned the visit to Trestles again—perhaps she’d spooked him, with her talk of ancestral boneyards. That, or he was planning to go without telling her. Frowning, she spread her fingers and let the warm water flow between them—this was an odd thought to pop into her mind; Acton didn’t like to go any distance away from her. But perhaps he planned to confront his horrid mother about something, and didn’t want her as a witness—he may be planning a day trip with Doyle none the wiser, and was hoping she’d forgotten the conversation. She should let him know she truly didn’t mind; they should have no secrets from each other, it wasn’t healthy. Feeling a twinge of guilt about the Williams kiss, she amended—or at least no secrets that mattered.

C
HAPTER
12

M
UNOZ WAS LYING IN WAIT AT
D
OYLE’S CUBICLE, HOVERING
with an aura of impatience mixed with unhappiness.

Just grand, thought Doyle with foreboding. Now what?

“Why are you so late?”

Doyle set down her rucksack. “Acton wanted to inspect my notes.”

The other girl made a sound of derision. “You need to think of a better euphemism; that one’s stupid.”

“I’m sorry; I don’t have your experience,” Doyle shot back, blushing. “What is it you’re wantin’?”

Munoz took a look ’round and lowered her voice. “Can you go for coffee?”

“For the love o’ Mike, Munoz; I just got here and I’m late already.”

“I need to speak with you.”

Doyle paused, because whatever it was, it was worrying the usually unflappable Munoz and she had a quick flash of deep uneasiness from the girl; best she discover what was frettin’ her. “All right, then. Canteen?”

Munoz made a face, and Doyle couldn’t blame her; they avoided going to the building’s canteen together because everyone in the room would think they were
precious,
and begin whispering about them. “Conference room?”

“I don’t want to be overheard.” It was a poorly-kept secret that the conference rooms were subject to monitoring.

Doyle blew out a breath. “I’m runnin’ out of options, Munoz—want to walk outside? I have to head over to the deli to meet Williams soon, anyway.”

“Why are you meeting Williams?” Munoz was immediately suspicious.

“Because he’s my secret boyfriend.”

The other girl grimaced in distaste. “It’s tacky to have sex with two different men on the same day.”

“Wise words, and I will keep them to mind. Give me a mo’ to warm up my latte.” Doyle’s daily latte had grown cold, sitting on her desk, so she warmed it up in the kitchen microwave as she shrugged back into her coat. “How is the new beau?”

“Nice.”

Doomed, thought Doyle; but at least it gives her something to do until a better option presents itself.

They walked outside in silence, and Doyle realized, after a moment, that Munoz was embarrassed, so she softened her tone and asked, “What’s botherin’ you, Izzy? I promise I won’t bite.”

Munoz looked up ahead and stuck her hands in her pockets. “I was contacted by a tabloid to give an interview about the rescue.”

Doyle smiled in amusement at the picture thus presented. “Faith, Munoz; did you strangle ’em on the spot?”

“They were going to pay me five hundred pounds, and they told me it would not say the information came from me.”

Doyle blinked. It was a princely sum; she could see why Munoz was tempted, although it seemed strange the reporter didn’t want to reveal that the source of the story was the damsel in distress. “What did you say?” Obviously there was a problem of some sort, as the other girl was uneasy—perhaps she’d told them Doyle was drunk at the time, or something.

Munoz studied the pavement. “That’s just it; the reporter asked a couple of questions about the rescue, but seemed much more interested in anything I could say about you and Holmes.”

The light dawned. “Ah—was the reporter a man named Maguire?” A few months ago, Doyle had a small kerfuffle with Maguire, who had wanted to run a page-seven story about Doyle’s unexpected marriage to Acton. Perhaps he was still intent on following through, despite his earlier decision to show her some mercy.

“No,” said Munoz. “It was a woman; I have her card.” She fished it out of her coat pocket, and handed it to Doyle. It displayed the logo of a popular tabloid that featured sensational, anonymous stories about celebrities, and was imprinted with the name “Jennifer Smith.”

“What did you tell her?” Doyle asked with some misgiving—although Munoz wouldn’t know much, if the subject was Doyle’s marriage to Acton. Doyle didn’t know that much, herself.

“Nothing,” Munoz admitted. “I didn’t like where it was going.”

“Good one, Munoz.” Doyle touched the other girl’s elbow with relief. “Acton would not have been happy.”

“I know—I didn’t want to get the sack over something stupid like this. But the reporter was not happy with me, and ended up not paying me anything.”

“But you did the right thing, Izzy, and I appreciate it—truly I do.”

“I thought you should know.” The other girl paused, frowning. “She also asked me some questions about TDC Owens.”

Doyle stared in surprise, a sinking feeling in her midsection. “Owens?” Owens was the trainee that Doyle had killed, and why anyone would be asking about his disappearance was a mystery—and not one of those nice mysteries with cats; more like a dark and ominous mystery.

Munoz exclaimed in annoyance, “Why is everyone so interested in Owens? Remember—Rourke was asking about him, too.”

Rourke was an Irish villain in the turf wars who’d met a bad end; he’d been posing as a banker to date Munoz, apparently with the sole aim of winkling information from her. Doyle paused with that thought—was it only a coincidence that two different and apparently unrelated persons were laying siege to Munoz for information about Owens? Acton famously said that he didn’t believe in coincidences, and so Doyle’s uneasiness grew. “Did this reporter mention Rourke, too?”

“No—thank God for small favors.” The story was not a pretty tale; Munoz had not shown to advantage, having been hoodwinked by the charming Mr. Rourke.

Knitting her brow, Doyle digested these rather alarming revelations. “I’ll tell Acton—maybe he can bring some pressure to bear on the paper.”

“Don’t,” urged Munoz, her gaze meeting Doyle’s in alarm. “He’ll think I’m an idiot.”

This was a fair point, and besides, Doyle should not discourage Munoz from making any future confessions she may need to make. “I won’t, then—I’ll just tell him I discovered this reporter was sniffin’ about, lookin’ for a story.”

“Don’t tell Williams, either.” Munoz was interested in Williams, as was nearly every female on staff at the Met. Except for Doyle, ironically.

“I won’t—I won’t say anythin’ about it, I promise.”

They parted, Munoz heading back into headquarters while Doyle made for the deli, texting Williams that she was en route. It was starting to drizzle and she’d forgotten her umbrella, but there was a table available inside, as it was too early for the lunch crowd. She settled in to wait, thinking about what Munoz had revealed. She’d little doubt that the reporter was looking to put up a story about her marriage to Acton, in the same way that Maguire had tried—it was an intriguing story, and even more so now, after the bridge-jumping incident. Acton was a well-known figure—the titled, brilliant-but-reclusive detective who solved high-profile murders, and the fact that he’d married a first-year DC out of the blue only added to his mystique. But why would anyone couple their story with TDC Owens’s mysterious disappearance? No matter what angle she studied this from, the answer made her very uneasy, as it appeared that someone was aware that the trainee’s disappearance was somehow connected to the House of Acton. Owens had been a detective trainee, but in truth he’d been infiltrating the racecourse—another foot soldier working for one of the underworld players who were trying to muscle in on the racecourse smuggling ring. He’d gotten sidetracked from his dark doings by his attraction to Acton, and his unfortunate fantasy had led him to believe that he only had to murder Doyle to have Acton for himself.

Plenty of villains had died in the ensuing turf war, so it would be logical for his employers to simply presume that Owens was just another casualty; it was strange that the man’s disappearance was being traced to Acton and her fair self.

“Hey.” Williams pulled up a chair.

She shook herself out of her abstraction. “Hey, yourself.”

“Anything new to report?”

Being as she didn’t want to confess that she was too busy having sex to work on the case since last they spoke, she shook her head. “I like the guilt angle, though; I was gettin’ nowhere with a straight vigilante, there were too many variables. This may start a new string.”

“Do you need help? My caseload is not very heavy, just now.”

“I do,” she admitted, grateful for the offer. “Most of the information on the cold cases is in hard copy, and it’s time-consumin’. I have a feelin’ I’m just on the brink, and it’s frustratin’ as all get out.”

“Happy to help.” He paused for a moment, studying his hands on the table. “I wanted to tell you something.”

Of course he does, thought Doyle, resigned. He’s flippin’ Williams.

He met her eyes with a small smile. “We’re friends, right?”

“Right,” she agreed easily, having a very good guess where this was going.

He chose his words carefully. “I hope you will not hesitate to let me help you, if you should ever need help—no questions asked, and no matter who is involved.”

Doyle replied with all sincerity, “I appreciate the offer. Thank you.” She decided she wasn’t going to argue again with his premise, that Acton could ill-treat her. He’d seen Acton in one of his black moods, and it was indeed a fearsome sight. Everyone wants to rescue me, she thought; it’s ironic, is what it is—
I’m
the one who’s the rescuer. With a suddenness that almost made her jump with surprise, her scalp started prickling, as it did when she was making an intuitive connection. What? She thought, perplexed; what is it about Williams’s offer—

He continued carefully, “There is sometimes a—an unwillingness to face a difficult fact—”

“What happened, Thomas?” She asked him softly, every nerve attuned. “Did someone else have bruises, once?”

The blue eyes met hers in surprise, and there was a frozen moment whilst she could tell he was trying to decide whether to go forward or to withdraw. Her intuition prompted her to ask gently, “Can’t you tell me?”

Slowly, he replied, “My cousin. I had a cousin who was about ten years younger.” He bent his head for a moment. “She’d have fingerprint bruises—where she shouldn’t have. She died when she was twelve; a drowning accident.” He raised his head. “A couple of years later, when I was doing my externship at the coroner’s office, I saw a girl with the same sort of bruises and learned what it meant—she’d been molested. I also learned about cerebral ischemia and what a broken hyoid meant.” He raised a finger to his throat, and Doyle nodded; a broken hyoid usually indicated death by strangulation.

“My cousin—my cousin had the same indicators; I just didn’t recognize it for what it was at the time.”

Doyle nodded sadly. “Yes—you realized that her death was a murder, in hindsight. Who did it? D’you know?”

“Her father—my uncle. I had nothing concrete, but I just
knew
. I think she’d gotten old enough to threaten him with exposure, so he killed her.”

“Yes; I imagine so.” This was, unfortunately, not an unusual sequence of events, as they had discovered in this business. “Faith, Thomas; I am so sorry.” And at that moment, the world lost a very fine doctor but gained a very fine detective, instead. “You canno’ be so hard on yourself, Thomas Williams; you canno’ rescue everyone.”

The steady gaze met hers. “I can try.”

But her own gaze did not waiver. “Not this time—I swear to you on my mother’s soul that it wasn’t Acton; my bruises were hard-earned, they were, and my attacker paid a very steep price for them.”

He searched her eyes, then nodded. “Right then; I’ll say no more.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. “How on earth do you face him—your uncle, I mean?”

Her companion examined his hands again. “No longer necessary; he died last year—fell and drowned while crossing a stream on his property.”

This was not true, but she observed in a mild tone, “Now, there’s justice and irony shakin’ hands.”

“Sometimes it all works out.”

Another lie; but she already knew this—already knew why her scalp had been prickling and her intuition was practically beating her over the head to pay attention. Williams’s situation was similar to their working theory on the vigilante murders; there had been a trigger, just as Acton had speculated. A trigger made Williams recognize a murder in hindsight, and then he became a vigilante in his own way—probably with Acton’s help; two men who felt the justice system needed an occasional helping hand. She wondered whether Acton had experienced a similar trigger, one that had started him down his own path.

Suddenly certain, she told him, “I think we’re lookin’ for a vigilante who’s consumed with guilt instead of vengeance, just as you suggested. Might well be a case-worker, or someone on the defense team—someone who helped the murderers get off and then realized, somehow, that he’d truly mucked it up.”

He nodded. “All right; where do you want me to start?”

“Let me think about how to divide up the task; in the meantime, I need a favor.”

“You need only ask.”

She glanced at the time on her mobile. “I’m goin’ to meet a reluctant witness in the bookstore shortly, and I’d like you to cover the flank.”

This did not set well, and he was suddenly on high alert. “Is he dangerous? I’ll come in with you.”

“No—if you’re there he won’t speak, but I’d like an excuse to leave if it’s goin’ nowhere. Could you ping my mobile about twenty minutes after I go in? If I don’t answer, come and extricate me with some excuse.” She paused. “And please do not mention this to Acton.”

This remark caused no end of alarm, and he raised his brows. “Kath—”

She raised her own brows in response. “Oh—is this a problem? And here I thought you sincerely meant your fine speech of five minutes ago.” It was masterful, truly; she had him caught by his own promise.

“What is this about?” he asked heavily.

“Not sayin’. Are you in?”

“Of course.” He wasn’t happy about it, though.

She wasn’t afraid of her rescuer; she truly didn’t think he was a danger to her. But one never knew, and she couldn’t quite like the way he’d followed her around, yesterday. “That’s grand of you, Williams, and much appreciated,” she said cheerfully, and gathered up her things to go.