Murder in Retribution (10 page)

D
OYLE AND
M
UNOZ PICKED UP
S
AMUELS AT HIS CUBICLE, AND
the three of them walked to the lobby to meet up with Williams, who now had a larger cubicle, courtesy of his recent promotion. Doyle noted that he seemed to be restored to health, and hoped he’d do as the doctor had cautioned and take better care of himself. He met her eyes briefly, and she received the unspoken message that she wasn’t to discuss his brief hospitalization. She gave him a reassuring smile and thought, ancient history, my friend; that story’s been well-trumped.

“Congratulations,” said Munoz, smiling sweetly. She hadn’t given up hope of securing Williams’s interest, it seemed—particularly now that the foreign beau was not cooperating. “Your promotion was well-deserved.”

“Who are you?” Williams teased as he held the door, “and what have you done with Munoz?”

They all laughed, including Munoz, and then walked outside to the local deli together. The weather was beginning to turn so that it was a bit brisk out, but the group decided it was not too cold to sit at the tables outside, and they settled into conversation between chips and sandwiches. Doyle breathed in the cool, fresh air and decided this was a good idea, to be outside; indeed, she seemed to be feeling better and better as the day went along.

“How is the rarefied air on the fifth floor?” Samuels asked Williams. Samuels was a fellow DC who worked on Drake’s team, and Munoz had originally thrown him in Doyle’s way as a potential beau. He was easygoing and unambitious—or at least compared to the rest of them, and Doyle privately thought he wouldn’t stay in law enforcement long; he didn’t have the thirst for it, and this was not an easy job, else.

Williams demurred with due modesty, “I’m finding my way; mainly I do whatever Acton tells me.”

“Me, too,” chirped Doyle, and they all laughed again. Grand, thought Doyle with relief; there appeared to be no constraint, and Williams was determined to behave as though the scene at the pub never happened. Acton was right; Williams would not embarrass her again.

As they ate, she and Williams entertained Samuels and Munoz with a description of their interview with Thackeray at the souvenir shop, which also evoked a great deal of laughter.

“The best part of the job,” Samuels pronounced. “The interactions with the assorted itizenry.”

“Some more assorted than others,” Munoz agreed, taking a chip from Williams’s plate.

Williams indicated Doyle with a nod of his head. “The witness wouldn’t even speak to Doyle; she had to go outside to sit on the stoop.”

Laughing, the others exclaimed at this gross injustice. “A misogynist?” asked Munoz.

Doyle smiled and shook her head. “No; the objection was to race, not gender.”

Munoz tossed her long black hair. “If it had been me, he probably would have pulled a weapon.”

Williams teased, “Sometimes I’m tempted to pull a weapon on you, myself.”

Delighted that Williams was teasing her with such familiarity, Munoz bestowed a brilliant smile on him and made a tart response. Privately, Doyle wondered if he was trying to compensate for their little contretemps by politely flirting with Munoz; he’d best have a care or she’d be on him like a barnacle.

Apparently, the attention had put Munoz in a benign mood, because she was willing to reveal, “On the other hand, we had a walk-in today who was so enamored of Doyle that he asked if she was married. It was a shame she was already spoken for—he was just her type.”

The men exclaimed and wanted to hear the story, and so Doyle recited it, admitting, “There are some men who like redheads—sometimes it’s a curse.”

“Followed her in from the racecourse like a puppy,” Munoz continued. “It was touching, really.”

“More like touched,” said Samuels. They all laughed, but Doyle realized that the whole encounter was very strange, now that she thought about it. Lestrade wasn’t touched—not really; and Doyle didn’t have the feeling he was attracted to her. More like he was wary, which could be a sign he was involved in the turf war and was trying to find out what the authorities knew. She’d best follow up on him when she returned after lunch; if her brain had been working, this would have already occurred to her.

They began to discuss other cases while Doyle ate a small portion of her turkey sandwich. She could feel Williams’s eyes upon her when she pushed the rest away, unable to eat any more. Oh, she thought suddenly; Williams.

She texted him on her mobile under the table, “Must speak 2 U.”

His mobile buzzed and he read the message but did not look at her; she hoped he didn’t think she was going to revisit that-which-should-not-be-spoken-of.

Samuels was entertaining them with the story of an arrest gone very awry when Munoz suddenly lit up like a candle. “Sergey!”

A man who had been heading toward headquarters turned toward her voice and came to greet her, hands outstretched. Doyle looked on with interest, as this was clearly the Belarus person; he was indeed handsome in an Eastern European sort of way, his dark hair slicked back into a small ponytail. He was dressed in the kind of suit that Acton would wear, which Doyle now knew meant it was ridiculously expensive.

“Isabel, I have come to ask you to lunch with me.”

But Munoz was well-schooled in the art of romance, and shrugged with a casual smile, her glance indicating her male companions. “I have other plans, I’m afraid.”

“Forgive me,” he said, with an abundance of rueful charm. “I lost my cellular telephone and did not know how to contact you—I was going to ask at the desk.”

This was deemed to be a plausible excuse by Munoz, who clearly forgave him. Doyle, who knew he was lying, was not so easily swayed. She did give him credit for easy charm, however—he could have been an Irishman, born and bred.

Munoz introduced him to the men; clearly enjoying what she hoped was their chagrin. “And this is Kathleen Acton.”

Williams interrupted to explain to Munoz what Doyle had already attempted to explain several times; “Munoz, its either ‘Kathleen Sinclair’ or ‘Lady Acton’; you don’t mix them.” Doyle, however, wasn’t paying attention to them anymore; Sergey hid it almost immediately, but there was no mistaking that he was alarmed—alarmed and wary. Of her fair self.

The reaction was similar to that of Lestrade, only more pronounced ; it was all very strange. The penny dropped, and she suddenly realized there was a likely explanation; Acton was miles more likely to strike fear into the breasts of others as opposed to her young and girlish self, therefore this must be all about her connection to him. Indeed, the Belarus banker may be a former suspect, and terrified that Munoz would discover this unfortunate fact. Doyle resolved to mention the encounter to Acton; it wouldn’t be fair to stand by and allow Munoz to be duped by a charming rogue, however tempting the idea might be. As a consolation, perhaps she could be the one to break the sad news to her.

The aforesaid banker persuaded Munoz to accompany him elsewhere, and she agreed, her spirits buoyant again. Sergey assured the rest of them he was happy to make their acquaintance, but he didn’t meet Doyle’s eyes, and he could not leave fast enough. A blackleg, Doyle concluded, and wondered what his secret was.

Samuels rose to make a visit to the nearby bookshop, and Doyle and Williams were left together at the table. Neither made a move to get up, and he waited, saying nothing. She found she could not meet his eyes, and recited in a low voice, “I wanted to tell you that I had a miscarriage.” She paused for a moment, controlling herself. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to anyone.”

This announcement was met with a silence that lasted so long that she glanced up to see if he had been listening. He was staring at her, white-faced. “Because of me.”

“What?” she asked, completely at sea.

He ducked his head down, and she could see that his fingers were pressed hard against the surface of the table. “I behaved so badly; you were knackered and I didn’t care—and then I was stupid and put myself in a coma.”

She stared at him incredulously. “Williams, you tiresome knocker, I have no idea what you are talkin’ about; I miscarried the next day and it had nothin’ to do with you.” Hopefully, this was the case; she hadn’t thought about it before.

He bent his head back for a moment in acute remorse. “Acton thought I was an idiot; he blistered me for putting you through it.”

She blinked. “Acton blistered you while you were in the hospital?”

He brought his head down and met her gaze. “I’m afraid so.” He heard the hint of humor in her question, and a smile tugged at his mouth.

“Quite the bedside manner, in fact.”

He smiled and she smiled—it truly was funny. Poor Williams; he could have been on his deathbed and Acton would have chided him for making her wait in the drafty hallway. Acton was a sad, sad case.

“I am so sorry,” he said, and meant it.

She sighed. “As am I. Let’s go back, then.” They walked together in companionable silence, on a good footing once again, although it was different than their former good footing—better, as though they’d survived a battle together. Acton was right; Williams was not the sort to make things uncomfortable for her. It didn’t change the fact, however, that she could still feel his longing and she wished she couldn’t. Need to find him a nice girl, thought Doyle. An anti-Munoz.

R
EYNOLDS WAS TO STAY
; D
OYLE AND
A
CTON HAD DISCUSSED IT
and agreed that no further probation was needed. He had proved his mettle in the emergency and had just the right combination of aloofness, kindness and respect that was most pleasing. He had also realized that the most direct route to Acton’s approval was to treat Doyle like a rare and precious treasure, which proved to Doyle that he was very shrewd indeed.

That evening they’d decided to tempt her appetite with Chinese food; Doyle had not eaten any recently because she realized Acton didn’t care for it, although he would never admit to it, the knocker. So it was a measure of his concern that Acton had ordered in her favorite dishes, and they were now awaiting the order whilst Reynolds was preparing to leave. They had agreed the servant would come in three days per week, unless circumstances warranted. Doyle knew Reynolds was pleased with the terms, and she suspected Acton was overpaying him so that he wouldn’t mind the part-time schedule. Doyle was content; although she couldn’t feel comfortable with any sort of servant, she felt she owed Reynolds a debt she could never repay for his discreet support on that most miserable of days which must not be dwelt upon.

The intercom rang, and the concierge reported that their food order had arrived. Acton explained to Reynolds that the concierge service would then deliver the food; the security in the building did not allow a delivery person to come upstairs.

Reynolds seemed struck by this, and paused in putting on his coat. “I had a rather strange experience today, then—although I had not realized it was strange until now.” He then explained that he had heard a key being inserted in the slot for the flat, but the door did not open and when the attempt was made again, the servant—thinking it was Doyle with her hands full—had opened the door.

“A woman stood on the threshold, very surprised to see me, if I may say so. She immediately turned and left; I assumed she was trying the wrong door.”

Doyle and Acton looked at each other and came to the same conclusion. “Marta,” said Doyle. “She didn’t know you’ve changed the lock so that her key card no longer worked. They must have let her in at the desk; I wonder what she wanted—perhaps she left somethin’ here.”

“Then why not contact me?” Acton’s brows drew together. “I don’t like it; I will mention to the desk that she has been fired, and is not to be allowed through.”

“Perhaps she is spyin’ for your mother,” suggested Doyle, who belatedly realized that this may not have been the most politic thing to say in front of Reynolds, who had assumed all the characteristics of a wooden post.

Nodding his dismissal of Reynolds, Acton then called to inform the concierge that neither Marta nor the dowager Lady Acton was to be allowed entrance, and that he was to be contacted immediately in the event of such an attempted visit. Excellent, thought Doyle as she listened; problem solved—although she imagined Reynolds would be more than a match for either of them.

She settled in beside her husband to watch the sunset and make an attempt at dinner, although she wasn’t very enthusiastic and mainly entertained herself by using the chopsticks to pinch at Acton’s fingers. In response, he used his chopsticks to feed her, as though he was coaxing a child, and she did manage to consume a small amount in this way—mainly because she liked the way his eyes watched her mouth. Her head still ached—although it had receded to a dull throb—and she still had the unholy aching in her joints. She didn’t mention it to Acton, though; he would only overreact, and the very last thing she wanted was Dr. Easton pokin’ about again.

Teasing, she used the chopsticks to pull at the dark hair on the back of his hand, and with a deft move, he turned his hand and caught the sticks to thwart her, setting them aside. “Until you’ve had a chance to recover, let’s not set any new visits with Timothy and Caroline.”

Doyle thought this a little strange coming from Acton, who presumably would like to have the good doctor checking in on her. “I truly don’t mind, Michael; Caroline was much better behaved, last time.”

With a tilt of his head, he reluctantly confessed, “Caroline has been talking to my mother. She claims she was trying to bring her to terms, but I have asked that she desist.”

Ouch, thought Doyle—that’s the second time in as many weeks that Acton has reprimanded Caroline, and she can’t be likin’ that. Placing a gentle hand on his arm, she pointed out, “We can’t just drop them, Michael; they’re your friends. Recall we were goin’ to be patient, so that Caroline can grow accustomed to my alien self. Perhaps we can have a standin’ date once a month, instead.”

“Perhaps,” said Acton with no real conviction. “Tell me about your day—you had a walk-in, I understand.”

He’d know, of course—he kept a close eye on her, even from afar. “Yes; I had two encounters that seemed a little strange, and I wanted to tell you about them, in case you’re at the root of them. The walk-in seemed to be nothing more than an attention-seeker—he had nothin’ to offer, and spoke vaguely of evil Russians. He said he saw me with Williams at the racecourse, but he didn’t; not truly.”

Acton nodded, well-aware of her truth-detecting abilities. He rarely alluded to it directly, and in turn she rarely alluded to his obsessive condition—a mutual stand-off, so to speak.

“I got the impression he was wary, and I wondered if perhaps he’d had a run-in with you—he saw my last name on the badge and asked if I was married. No priors, though; I couldn’t find anythin’ amiss. He said he was a racecourse driver, which was true, but mainly he wanted to know what we knew.”

“Can you send me a still taken from the CCTV? I’d like to have a look.”

“Will do. And the other one was when we were havin’ lunch today at the deli; are you familiar with a man named Sergey, a banker from Belarus?”

“No,” he said immediately. He had very good recall.

“Well, he came by; he is datin’ Munoz, but I got the distinct impression he was alarmed to have met me, but only after he heard my name.”

Acton regarded her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “What does he look like?”

“Tall, dark, and handsome; a very fine suit. Lied to Munoz about losin’ her number.”

“Could be one of a hundred.”

She laughed. “Good one; you have to love Munoz.”

“How does she know him?”

“She met him comin’ in at the entry desk—he was in the wrong building, and she offered directions.”

“That is of interest.” He rose and began packing up the leftovers, motioning for her to stay seated.

Willing to rest for a bit, she watched him for a moment, moving around the kitchen. “I’ve been stewin’ like a barleycorn, tryin’ to find a motive for this turf war—how the Russians fit in.”

Acton’s voice echoed from within the open fridge. “Perhaps the Russians hoped to simply preside over the rackets from the top, and leave the infrastructure intact.”

This was a decent point; as was the case in many organized crime organizations, the fight for control was often at the very top while the foot soldiers that actually ran the rackets were left undisturbed—the only change being who would be given the take. She shook her head. “I don’t see it—it’s not just about who can wrestle control away; there are some racial overtones.” She thought of Thackeray, who didn’t even want her under his roof. “Some prejudices are very deep-seated.”

Acton paused to rest his gaze upon her. “And how will motive be helpful?” Acton had long-ago taught her that motive was not as important as action and reaction; if no working theory could be put forth, it was best to process the evidence without the distraction of a theory.

She thought about it, tracing a finger on the table. “Just because it doesn’t add up, I suppose. And if we could figure out what both sides are up to; we could be one step ahead—maybe stop the next retribution murder.”

“Very sound,” he agreed, but he was humoring her and she hated it when he humored her. It seemed clear that Acton was not going to tell her about his own theory on the cases or what he knew, and she found that she was not inclined to press him on it. She did not want to analyze why she wasn’t inclined to press him, even though it was not in her nature to let it go. She also abandoned any thought of complaining about the missing insect report, courtesy of the stupid SOCO photographer. Now that her brain was functioning again, it was entertaining a niggling worry, and she didn’t want to think about it just now—she was still recovering from the last crisis. With this in mind, she changed the subject, and spoke of other things.