Murder in Thrall (6 page)

Doyle tried to sooth away the other girl’s resentment; Munoz was a good detective and ambitious—she didn’t like the thought that Doyle had an advantage. “We work well together, is all. We’ve cracked some thorny cases.”

“Habib won’t take me off misdemeanor thefts.” Munoz tossed back her long black hair in chagrin. “It’s not fair.”

“No,” Doyle agreed. “It’s not.”

Mollified, Munoz offered to buy Doyle a cup of coffee, but Doyle declined; she was certain that she would not be reduced to plain coffee ever again but decided this was a piece of information Munoz needn’t know.

C
HAPTER
7

 

Doyle was back at her cubicle researching Giselle’s ex-husband and how the call came in about her murder. The ex-husband ran a pawnshop in Southwark and had a record of misdemeanor pleas and convictions, which was rather a surprise, as the licensing authority looked with disfavor upon criminals who ran pawnshops—may as well issue an open invitation for trouble. She could find no order for support stemming from the divorce, so it would appear that money was not an issue of contention between them. The phone records showed they spoke occasionally, and Giselle had called him the day before she died; it may be helpful to discover what they spoke of.

Dispatch showed that the call reporting Giselle missing was from a man who did not leave his name but said he was worried about her. It was made at 0600 hours, which did seem an odd time to be making such a call. Upon discovery of the body, Acton’s office was contacted just before 0700 hours because the victim was already in the database as a witness for one of his cases. Acton arrived at the scene shortly thereafter, presumably after ascertaining that Doyle still walked the earth and coming by to leave his note with Habib. There was no indication the caller had ever come forward.

She rested her elbows on the desk and thought about it, staring at the screen. Acton arrived at work early; mental note. She may have to start coming in earlier in the event something came up first thing, like this one—all it needed was for Munoz to be Johnny-on-the-spot one day and take her place. Pigs would fly.

Other than that, there was something not right about the caller. It was too early for Giselle to have been missed by coworkers, and if the man had been a nonwork friend, he would have waited to see if she showed up at work before calling in. In addition, there was no record of a worried friend calling back to check on what had transpired.

Doyle’s scalp tingled. The caller was probably the killer—the forensic psychology people would say some killers enjoy standing among the spectators, seeing the results of their handiwork. Doyle may even have interviewed him, which was a chilling thought, but she did not recall speaking to anyone who was trying to suppress the exaltation the killer must have been feeling. She paused, struck. Again, it made no sense; if it was a professional killer—and by all accounts it was—why would he report the murder? A professional would not have hung around to watch them process the scene. On the other hand, the ex-husband may have killed her and been remorseful enough to want her found before she lay in a congealing pool of blood and brain matter for another day.

She was just starting on an email to Acton when her mobile buzzed—he always seemed to ring her when she was ready to report, which was useful, as it saved her from typing up an email.

“Sir, I was just goin’ to write you. The report was by an unidentified male caller at oh-six-hundred, which is mighty early to be reportin’ a murder. He has not come forward.”

“Do you think it was our suspect?”

“Perhaps. Or the husband, feelin’ sorry for his misdeed.”

“Let’s check the CCTV during the time when the scene was processed for faces in the crowd. And see if Dispatch remembers anything about the call.”

“I did, sir.” She was pleased to have anticipated him this time. “Nothin’ stands out on CCTV; we’ll have to do a face-recognition review. Dispatch remembers she had trouble hearin’ him. There was a lot of noise in the background, as though it was a public phone.”

There was a pause while he was thinking. “I’d like to eliminate the ex-husband; is he at hand?”

“Yes, sir. He runs a pawnshop at Fremont.”

“I’ll meet you at the parking garage, then.”

She rang off, and as she was gathering her things, her mobile buzzed; it was a text from Williams: “RU busy?”

She texted back: “Yes; sorry,” then headed toward the lift. Williams was another DC who worked on Acton’s cases, although he didn’t interact with the chief inspector to the same extent that she did. He had been first in their class at the Crime Academy and was the current favorite of the powers-that-be, including Habib. Williams was reserved to the point where many thought him arrogant, but Doyle knew better; he had offered to help her pass ballistics when she had despaired of it, and she considered him a good friend. Munoz saw him as her chief competition for advancement in the ranks but couldn’t despise him because he was tall and athletically handsome and therefore her natural prey. Doyle didn’t have time to wonder what he wanted; she was at the parking garage and Acton was waiting by the unmarked to open the door for her.

She smiled and slid in, reading out the address. He would listen to her report on the way over, and she would then take notes on his thoughts or suggestions. We are like an old married couple, she thought; we know our routine. “He is William Blakney and presently on parole. His last run-in was larceny by trick; cheating pensioners—charmin’ fellow. There was a call to him from Giselle the afternoon before her death.”

Acton thought about this. “How often did she call him?”

“Not very often.” She watched him for a moment as he drove and ventured, “If he’s the killer, then it does not appear that the two murders are connected. It seems unlikely that a professional would have called it in to Dispatch and then hung ’round to watch the show.”

“You are forgetting the scene was cleaned.”

She leaned her head back against the seat in frustration; stymied again, and just when she had hold of a semi-coherent working theory. Giselle’s murderer knew his forensics; he was a professional. A professional who had called it in, apparently. “Why would he call it in, then?”

“He wanted the murder discovered, and sooner rather than later.”

This seemed obvious, but sometimes the obvious was overlooked and needed to be said. She knit her brow. “I wonder why?”

Acton, apparently, had already puzzled it out. “The murder must have been a message, or a warning of some kind. The killer wanted another player to know of it.”

“So it is probably not the end,” Doyle concluded soberly.

“No,” he agreed. “The timing is of interest. There is a reason he wanted her discovered that morning rather than a day or two later. I will check to see if anything of interest was going forward on that particular day.”

Doyle debated but decided she was not going to ask how Acton would find out when underworld doings were scheduled. “It is a rare shame that DCI Drake managed to avoid these two cases; they should be his by all rights.”

“It evens out,” Acton replied philosophically as they waited at a light. “What was Giselle’s relationship with the dead trainer, if any?”

“Oh.” Here was a wrinkle; perhaps there was indeed a love triangle going on, and the jilted lover was coincidentally a professional killer. “I’ll check on it.”

They were almost to Fremont and he glanced at her. “Blakney may be dangerous; have a care.”

Still smarting from his refusal to let her interview the medical personnel at the racecourse, she retorted, “Perhaps I should just stay in the car, then.” The moment the words came out of her mouth, she was horrified and desperately tried to backtrack. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded—I’m that sorry, sir.” Her wretched, wretched tongue.

With a quick movement, he pulled over and parked the car, then shifted in his seat to face her. Holy Mother of God, she thought; I am getting the sack.

He ducked his head, gathering his thoughts, and then met her eyes. “You are very competent, but you have not the seasoning you need to help you judge when a situation is dangerous. Sometimes you are impetuous.”

She listened and repented. “Yes, sir.”

“The tack room.”

She nodded. Excellent case in point.

“You learn in this business that anyone is capable of anything. I don’t want you to be hurt.”

This last was true, and she nodded again, ashamed of herself.

He watched her for a moment. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. I am so sorry.”

He turned to restart the car, irritated. “I wish you would stop apologizing to me.”

“Well then; I won’t anymore.” Apparently, her wayward tendencies had not been curbed by the lecture.

A smile tugged at his mouth and the tension was broken. Almost a chuckle, she thought, relieved. But I am still too flippant by half.

The pawnshop was typical of its genre—a small and overcrowded establishment with iron bars protecting the windows. A variety of items were displayed on shelves with the more expensive items, such as jewelry, in locked glass cases. The proprietor watched them come in with a sullen expression, drawing on a cigarette. Another smoker, thought Doyle with an inward sigh; I’m to wash my sweater yet again.

“William Blakney?” asked Acton, showing his warrant card.

The man nodded. “This about Giselle?”

Acton leaned against the counter, glancing over the merchandise. “Can you tell us when you last spoke?”

“She called me the night before. Do you know who did it?”

“What did you speak of?” Acton never let the witness run the interrogation.

Blakney crossed his arms on the counter, a movement that displayed his impressive tattoos to advantage. “She was shook up about the murder at the track—they were all of them shook up, I guess. She wanted to know if I heard any rumors.”

“Who is ‘all of them’?”

He was wary, suddenly. “Her friends. The ones at the Laughing Cat.”

Doyle saw Acton glance at her to check for veracity, but this was true.

“What sort of rumors?”

Blakney was weighing what to say. “Whether I’d heard about who did it, and why.”

“Why would they think you would know?”

He shrugged. “I hear things, sometimes, in this business.”

Doyle thought this an interesting piece of information; one would think a pawnbroker may know of thievery, but little else. Perhaps this man, like Acton, had his finger on the pulse of underworld doings. As Acton had said, anyone was capable of anything.

“And had you heard anything?”

“No.”

Acton watched him for a moment. “Do you know any Russian nationals?”

Doyle blinked, as this seemed off-topic.

Blakney didn’t like this question and shrugged in a deprecatory fashion. “You meet a lot of people in this business.”

The two men looked at each other. Doyle had the impression Acton had more to say but was constrained by her presence. “Did you and Giselle quarrel?”

“Not lately. We used to.”

“Why did you break up?”

“She liked men.”

Yes, thought Doyle. That was evident; but some man didn’t like her.

“Did you kill her?”

“No; if I was going to kill her, I would have done it a long time ago.”

Acton was asking the questions out of routine; he didn’t think Blakney killed Giselle and neither did Doyle.

“What do you know about Capper?”

He spread his hands. “The latest boyfriend.”

“Were they quarreling?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Have you seen him in the past few days?”

He was surprised at the question. “No. I never met him.”

Acton glanced at Doyle to verify, but thus far the man had not equivocated in the least. An honest pawnbroker, she thought; give the man a prize.

“Did she have a relationship with the trainer?”

He looked at them, amused. “I doubt it. He wasn’t exactly heterosexual.”

Oh, thought Doyle; there goes the love triangle angle.

“Were they friends?”

Blakney considered. “She would mention him; I think they were friendly. She wasn’t happy he was killed.”

Doyle took down Blakney’s information and he agreed to call if he heard anything further. The man watched Acton warily as they left, not having moved from his stance at the counter. It was the comment about the Russians, thought Doyle—I wonder what that was all about.

Acton was quiet in the car, and Doyle respected his mood as long as she was able. “Do we have a workin’ theory, sir?”

He stared straight ahead and said absently, “Not as yet. I would very much like to speak to Capper, with you to listen in.”

“Any leads on him?”

“There are too many—that’s the problem. He could have gone to ground any number of places. ”

She ventured, “The case is a ball of snakes, it seems—impenetrable.” She glanced at him sidelong. Now there was a ten-pound word.

He pulled himself from his abstraction and glanced her way. “I hope my lecture on the way over didn’t terrify you. You were cowed, I think.”

“Never,” she replied with spirit. “I am uncowable.”

“What did you think of him?”

She ventured carefully, “I didn’t think he was hidin’ anything and he didn’t seem very concerned. That is, until you scared him, speakin’ of Russians.”

Acton glanced at her. “He is running illegal weapons. It’s common in a shop like that.”

She was left to assume it was Russians who were doing the aforesaid gunrunning. “Oh. Will you report him?”

This question threw him for a moment. Interestingly enough, he had to think about how to answer. “It depends.”

Doyle’s scalp tingled. She bent to fish around in her rucksack, sheathing her occurrence book as she added casually, “I imagine runnin’ guns must be lucrative, to take such a risk.”

There was another pause. “I imagine so.”

Mother a’ mercy, she thought. Mother a’ mother a’ mercy.

He changed the subject. “Let me buy you dinner.”

With a mighty effort, she pulled herself together and smiled at him. “Are we to arm wrestle about this again? I may be poor but I am prideful.”