Murder in Retribution (19 page)

D
OYLE MADE HER APPEARANCE AT WORK JUST AFTER LUNCH
, having endured a thoroughly miserable morning. Forensics had duly dusted the cab, inside and out, but Doyle didn’t need to see the glances the team exchanged between them to know it was hopeless; even if they could isolate a suspect’s DNA, any solicitor worth his salt would argue there was nothing to prove that the suspect was a killer as opposed to a mere passenger. The coroner’s people reported that the stab wound was a slim blade, and Doyle immediately thought of the blade that had attacked Solonik, but discarded the thought just as quickly. There could not be a link; she just had stabbings on the brain.

She then took on the grim task of informing Aiki’s family. After contacting the cab company to verify that the dead man had a wife and child, she explained the situation and was given the address. The cab company spokesman wondered how soon they could have the cab returned from forensics, and Doyle didn’t trust herself to speak for a moment.

Aiki’s little flat was located in a crowded housing project, and Doyle gently informed the stricken woman that she was now a widow. Wiping away tears, she recited her profound sorrow and described how kind Aiki had been to her. The widow listened and nodded but did not weep, her eyes dry and wide. The weeping comes later, thought Doyle; I remember it all too well. She contacted their parish priest, and waited with the woman until his arrival.

Acton texted to ask if she was available for lunch, and she felt an almost overwhelming desire to be next to him; such a sad day, truly. “Please,” she texted. She met him in the lobby at headquarters and kissed him, not caring who saw. “I love you,” she said. “I love, love, love you and I don’t tell you near enough. Don’t die.”

“You are beginning to sound like me,” he replied, and took her arm in a comforting gesture. They walked to a local restaurant and went in; it was too cold to sit outside. She told him of the stabbing, and of her actions afterward while he listened sympathetically. “I was that angry, Michael; it seemed so unfair. He was such a nice man.”

He warned her, “It is unlikely something like this will ever be solved.”

“I know, I know, believe me. And the robber was a crackin’ idiot; why rob a cab driver in the mornin’ when he hasn’t made any money yet?”

“Perhaps money was not the motive. That is not an area where random crime usually occurs.”

“Then what would it be?” asked Doyle, who’d traced this logic herself. “Did he overhear one of his fares say somethin’, or did he witness somethin’? Even if that was the case, we’ll never find out.”

“I am sorry, Kathleen, I know you will miss him.”

“Yes.” She rested her head in her hands for a moment. “I’m overreactin’, I know—we see this kind of thing every day. But I felt like we were kindred spirits, or somethin’.” She lifted her head and confessed, “I’m afraid I got carried away, and mentioned to his widow that there was a pension payout comin’.”

“Ah,” said Acton.

Contrite, she reached to take his hand. “I know I should have asked you first, but they were
so
poor, Michael. I thought perhaps some of the fungible assets could be used; we don’t need them now.”

“We soon may.”

She couldn’t suppress a pleased smile—they hadn’t discussed having another baby, being as he didn’t like discussions, but now that she’d suffered the loss she felt an unexpected yearning, burgeoning within her breast. “Yes, I suppose we can’t let your vile cousin be inheritin’ your estate.”

“Perish the thought.” He said it mildly, but she caught a flash of extreme dislike, and wondered if she would ever hear the backstor y to yet another Acton family rift. He continued, “A pension would be too difficult to put into place with the cab company; instead the widow will be informed there was a third party administrator, and I will arrange for a trust that can come through Layton.”

“Thank you, Michael.” She squeezed his hand in gratitude, thinking that now Aiki’s wife and child would at least have a chance to break away from their scratching existence—some good would come from his death. “The widow said she trained as a nurse assistant, but she’s had trouble landin’ a job. Timothy’s charity clinic is near there; perhaps he can hire her.” Doyle had a burning need to help, to erase the powerlessness she had felt all morning.

They telephoned Timothy, and found that he was taking his own lunch at home with Caroline. Acton explained the situation, and gave Timothy the widow’s address. “I will stand the salary, as a donation,” he added. There was a pause while Acton listened, and he then said, “No, I’m afraid we can’t make plans; Kathleen and I are going to Brighton this weekend.” His eyes rested on her, and Doyle mustered up a grateful smile. Cheering her up, he was. It would be too cold for swimming; so presumably he planned on strictly indoor activities. The thought of a holiday was immensely appealing; there had been a lot of trouble lately, both in their personal lives and at work, but now that the turf war was winding up and she was back on her feet, they could take a break for a few days. She would wear her dress and surprise him—although it was unlikely she would be wearing it for very long. When the mood hit him, it was every lass for herself.

After he rang off, she said, “That sounds grand, Michael.”

They smiled at each other for a moment. Faith, thought Doyle—maybe we truly are an ordinary mister and missus; next we’ll be wearing matching shirts and taking photos together on the boardwalk.

“Good news; Timothy says your liver scan shows no damage.”

This was indeed good news. “I feel like my old self, I do.”

He reached to touch her cheek with a finger. “Your face is beginning to fill in a bit.”

“It should be; I’ve been eatin’ like a horse.”

“I love you,” he said softly. “I don’t say it near enough, either.”

Doyle returned to work in a far better frame of mind. She went to look up Habib, and as she approached down the hall, she could hear him arguing with Munoz—not really arguing, she amended; just being firm with her for a change.

“It’s not fair,” Munoz complained, and Doyle would not have been surprised if the girl had stamped her foot; she was in a temper.

“What’s not fair?” asked Doyle.

Munoz whirled on her, and accused, “You went on the Solonik interview because you’re married to Acton. I am passed over,
every
time.”

Habib offered fairly, “Doyle has very good interrogation skills.”

He’s probably making the sign against the evil eye as we speak, thought Doyle, remembering what Williams had said. “It was no big deal, Munoz, and I was handy.” Not to mention that Acton would not have allowed anyone else to hear the verbal knife fight between the two men—he was regretting he’d allowed Doyle to hear it.

But Munoz would not be mollified and turned back to Habib. “Doyle has an unfair advantage; I should file a complaint.”

As Habib was caught between his two loves—his job and the fair Munoz—Doyle stepped in to give an assist. “The interview wasn’t helpful; Solonik claimed he knew nothin’ about the attack and Acton did all the talkin’, believe me.” She wondered if Solonik would have told Munoz her hair was beautiful in his insinuating way; it was probably his usual procedure. To divert Munoz’s rage, she added, “And I wanted to ask the both of you for ideas; Solonik’s attacker was an Irishman posin’ as a Russian.” She carefully didn’t look at Munoz—no point in letting Habib know about her foolishness. “He was actually one of the Sinn-split people—a pub owner named Rourke—but Solonik is protectin’ him and let him get away. Why would that be?”

This puzzle did work to divert Munoz, who had firsthand knowledge of the hoax, and the three of them thought about it for a moment. “Solonik’s motivation may not be to protect Rourke,” offered Habib in his precise voice. “Solonik may be unwilling to identify him because it is in Solonik’s best interests.”

“I don’t understand why Rourke tried to kill him in the first place,” added Munoz.

Doyle looked at her, not following, and Munoz impatiently explained, “Solonik will be going to a maximum-security prison for years—he’ll be out of the picture. Why take such a chance to try to kill him? There’s really no point.”

“Was it just a wild attempt at revenge, then?” Doyle glanced at Habib, thinking of their earlier conversation about tribal warfare. “Rourke not carin’ about anythin’ other than gettin’ retribution for his brother’s murder?”

“If it was just that—an attempt at retribution—Solonik would not hesitate to identify him,” Habib pointed out logically. “Something else is at stake. Perhaps it was a business decision, not to identify Rourke. Solonik is acting as a businessman in this instance, not a member of a rival tribe.”

Doyle paused, her instinct telling her that this was important, and tested this idea aloud, saying slowly, “For some reason, Solonik cannot afford to grass on Rourke—it would hurt him more than the satisfaction he would get in turnin’ him in to the police.”

“Yes,” agreed Habib with a quick nod. “But as Munoz pointed out, why is this? There is nothing left for Solonik but prison, and indeed, any information he could offer against Rourke may help him in a plea deal.”

It was a puzzle, and they traded ideas for the next few minutes, but could not come up with a plausible theory. Nevertheless, Doyle went back to her desk feeling they were on to something. She wrote Acton an e-mail, suggesting that they consider this angle; if it wasn’t a revenge attack, why would Rourke want Solonik dead, rather than locked away in prison? And how were Solonik’s interests served by protecting Rourke, who had tried to kill him? She looked over the message, and then sent it. Acton may have some good insight; in truth, sometimes she had the uneasy feeling that his thought processes aligned with the perpetrators’.

She saw she had a message from Williams, asking if she could meet for coffee. She didn’t respond; there would be more apologies and stifled feelings, and she just didn’t feel up to it. It was too soon to face him again after her tantrum, and she had certainly put paid to any chivalric feelings he may have entertained toward her. She couldn’t avoid him forever, though; if he was Acton’s man and she was Acton’s wife they’d be thrown together regularly and she must not make her husband’s work more difficult. There were difficulties enough; hopefully he’d not be sharing a cell with Solonik anytime in the near future—that would be the wrong kind of matching shirts.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, D
OYLE AWOKE TO
A
CTON’S MOUTH, IN-
sistent upon hers. “Reynolds,” she murmured to remind him.

“He will have to wait his turn.”

She smiled while he kissed her throat, moving southward. “Michael,” she said, looking at the clock. “He’ll be here any minute.”

“This won’t take long,” he said, and it didn’t.

When Reynolds arrived, Doyle was in her robe and heaping strawberry jam on toast, her face as rosy as the jam. She found she couldn’t bring herself to eat frosty flakes anymore, which was a crackin’ shame, but there it was.

Reynolds brushed off his coat, as it was raining. “You will need a coat and umbrella, madam; the weather has turned with a vengeance.”

Doyle gazed out the window at the rain, her bare feet curled under her on the chair. When it rained in Ireland, the shades of green simply became less vibrant. In London, the gray only became grayer. And, she added mentally, it was always raining in this wretched country; any fieldwork needing to be done today would be a miserable slog because of it. Mentally, she shook herself; it was unlike her to be melancholy, especially after the wake-up she’d received.

Acton crossed through the kitchen and dropped a kiss on her head on his way to pack up his electronics, and she asked, “Have we heard whether forensics can put Rourke at the scene of the Solonik attack?”

“Nothing yet—I may have to bring Rourke in for questioning with only Solonik’s ID as a basis, such as it is; if I can’t shake him, I will have to let him go.”

Doyle considered the stormy sky out the window. “Why do you suppose Solonik is protectin’ him? We tried to puzzle it out yesterday, with little luck.”

Acton put his arms through the coat that Reynolds held for him, and replied almost matter-of-factly, “There is a secret. Rourke would only attempt such a risky attack if he was very much afraid of Solonik, and as Solonik is no longer a threat to Rourke or his organization, he was afraid of what Solonik might reveal.”

Doyle knit her brow, following this logic, which seemed sound. “But then, why doesn’t Solonik reveal whatever it is?”

Acton took his umbrella. “Because Solonik cannot afford to reveal it, either. It is a mutual secret.” He paused before heading to the door. “Have you heard anything useful about Aiki?”

“No,” she replied sadly, and explained to Reynolds, “My cab driver was killed yesterday.”

The servant considered this in silence. “Another poisoned plant, madam?”

“No; I’m afraid he was simply stabbed. Right outside the building, no less.”

“That is indeed a shame,” said Reynolds in extreme disapproval. “Not what one would expect at this address, if I may say so.” It was clear he was offended by such bad taste.

“This place is worse than the Sailortown Docks,” Doyle agreed. “Let’s hope bad luck doesn’t come in threes, as my mother used to say. If only Aiki could have given me somethin’ to go on before he died—a random crime like this is a bear to solve.” Clasping her knees to her chest, she sighed. “Aiki mumbled a few words, but no one there spoke French.”

“You were
there
, madam?” Reynolds was very much shocked.

“I wish I had been, Reynolds; but I came down after he was wounded, and it was too late.” She frowned, trying to remember. “I thought he said, ‘Notify Amy,’ and that perhaps he wanted me to notify his wife, but her name is not Amy.”

The front door shut abruptly, and she looked up in surprise; Acton had left. How odd that he didn’t say good-bye.

She prepared for work, and at the door Reynolds held her black coat for her, having notified the driving service that she would need a ride to the Met. I’m to be chauffeured in cashmere, she thought, and wondered what her mother would say about such a thing—she’d have laughed, probably, and called Doyle a mushroom. Times had certainly changed; when she’d first met Acton, she was living a very simple and solitary existence, trying to scrape together a down payment for a small condo and barely keeping her head above water. No question that everything was a million times better now, but she was still trying to adjust to the whirlwind change and her new status in life.

With a small smile, she remembered their quick session that morning, and consoled herself with the fact she had definitely adjusted to marriage—they were finding their way as a couple, and he was letting her see an occasional glimpse of himself, even though he was still very careful around her. No point in quizzing him; he’d only reveal what he wished, but he was trusting her more and more—she could feel it—and because of this, perhaps his symptoms would ease. She still could not be easy about Acton’s going to a therapist.

When Doyle arrived at her desk, Munoz was already hard at work next door, so Doyle didn’t disturb her—it sounded as though the keys were being pounded in annoyance, so best to stay well away. Williams had sent another message, but she didn’t open it—she’d give it another day before they made their peace.

Reviewing the other messages, she saw that Habib had given her an assignment stemming from a lead she’d uncovered whilst she was researching Acton’s cold cases. It appeared that several murders over the few months, in hindsight, could be considered the work of a single perpetrator. Due to the nature of the crimes, they could very well be the work of someone in law enforcement, and so the assignment was to be kept as quiet as possible.

Because a serial killer was always cause for concern, Doyle decided she would check the boxes in the Evidence Locker straightaway; she had solved the aqueduct murder by taking a look at the hard evidence, and sometimes her instinct worked best when she handled the various items.

As she rose to leave, Doyle was confronted by Munoz, who had appeared at the entrance to her cubicle. “Hallo, Munoz,” said Doyle with false heartiness; Munoz, she could see, was still in a temper, and Doyle yet again marveled that the male of the species seemed to find such a trait so attractive.

“There’s no point in even making a complaint,” complained Munoz. “Acton is too powerful.”

“Whist, Munoz,” Doyle retorted, very much annoyed. “You will draw the wrong sort of attention if you make such a complaint. Think on it; the PR people are not goin’ to take on someone who’s not a team player.”

“I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble,” the other replied grudgingly, although this was not exactly true.

Doyle, as it turned out, had her own sulking to do. “You have nothin’ to fear from the likes of me, I promise you. I’ll not be in the field much, anymore.”

Munoz was instantly suspicious of what should have been good news. “Why?”

Doyle replied honestly, “Our job is dangerous, and Acton would prefer it.”

Naturally, Munoz had to find fault with this plan. “You are quitting fieldwork because your
husband
told you to?”

“Of course not.” Doyle was annoyed yet again, and threw out her own little dart. “Marriage is about compromise, Munoz—not that you’d know.”

“So what is
his
compromise, then?”

Doyle was not about to discuss such matters with anyone, let alone Munoz, and particularly when she had no ready answer. Instead, she retorted in exasperation, “Faith, there’s
no
pleasin’ you; I thought you’d be happy with less competition.”

Munoz, true to form, was going to be contrary, and tossed her hair. “It is ridiculous to take you out of the field—that’s the only thing you can do well.”

Nettled, Doyle retorted, “That is not fair—I can do a lot of things well.”

“I meant
outside
of the bedroom.”

Barely hanging on to her temper, Doyle flashed at her, “Now there’s a foine case o’ the pot an’ th’ kettle.”

Before blows could be exchanged, Habib stepped between them, looking from one to the other in well-bred dismay. Doyle, her blood still boiling, excused herself in muffled tones and stalked down the hallway to take the lift to the Evidence Locker, all the while thinking very uncharitable thoughts. After a few minutes of silent reflection, however, she felt a little ashamed. First Williams, and now Munoz; she was losing her temper more easily than she was used. She would hate to believe it was the result of feeling she was untouchable, like Caesar’s wife.

I am behaving badly, she conceded; I must beg everyone’s pardon and try not to be so touchy. Father John would say we are always being led, and I must try not to resent being led into people who always seem to bring out the worst in me—it can’t be in the grand plan to be constantly spoiling for a donnybrook, and it does not reflect well on Acton, either. It would only confirm everyone’s assumptions if his new Irish bride was always brawling like a fishwife—although it would be so nice, just
once
, to take a swing at Munoz. I could take her, she thought with some optimism—although maybe not until I’ve gained a bit more weight back.