CHAPTER 10
IT HAD GONE BETTER THAN HE COULD HAVE HOPED. HER NATURAL INCLINATION was to come to his aid and as an added incentive it appeared she was eager for him—surprisingly so, considering her shyness. There was another mole just above her medial clavicle.
That afternoon Doyle was ruthlessly concentrating on the background search for the slain Somers Town couple—mainly as a means to keep her from placing her forehead on the coolness of the desk and just leaving it there for the foreseeable future. Anything to keep from stepping off the ledge and into a future that hadn’t even been on her radar screen two short days ago.
She found plenty of useful information, which was to the good, as the surveillance tape showed nothing and the neighbors weren’t very helpful—although in that neighborhood, withholding help from the police was an honorable pastime. The couple had incited little interest and lived quietly, despite the fact they didn’t die quietly. Although no one had heard the shots—and with that size weapon, it must have been quite a crack; perhaps it was a commonplace in the building. There had been no unusual visitors over the past several days. A report had been called in when Helen did not appear for work at the local restaurant. They had no children.
At least at this scene there was forensic evidence in the form of bullets, although the gun was illegal and therefore unregistered. Even if there were ballistics, it may not prove much, as the mystery was not the weapon but who had fired it and then arranged the scene to appear as a murder-suicide. With a quick breath, Doyle blew a tendril that was tickling her forehead. The case appeared to be another long slog, requiring a lot of footwork by the fair Doyle, who was already being run ragged on the racecourse cases. Faith, she thought; what I wouldn’t give for some DNA or a fingerprint or something—the villains were not making this easy.
Which is why she was relieved to see the voluminous background information, as unexpected as it was appreciated—perhaps some leads would develop. The surfeit of information had the added benefit of taking her mind off the one subject that should not be dwelt upon lest she completely lose her grip on reality.
In the next cubicle, Munoz had been pointedly rustling around for twenty minutes. When Doyle didn’t rise to the bait, the other girl finally stood and peered over the partition, the fluorescent lights glinting off her raven hair. “Want to talk about it?”
“No,” replied Doyle, not looking up.
“Will you be sacked, you think?”
“Hope not.” Doyle wondered what Munoz’s reaction would be if Doyle were to tell her that she was thinking about quitting so as to pursue a new career as Lady Acton.
“What happened, exactly?”
Doyle paused and considered. “What is everyone sayin’?”
“You were sick at a homicide scene this morning.”
Doyle thought about this. “I think ‘disconcerted’ is more accurate; I needed a moment to recover.” And as an added bonus, disconcerted was a vocabulary word.
Munoz was agog, as Doyle’s imperturbability was legendary. “And Holmes was not happy,” she concluded with ill-concealed relish.
“No,” Doyle said truthfully. “Indeed he wasn’t, and he took me aside.”
Munoz crossed her arms on the top of the partition and made a small sound of intense admiration. “I wish he’d take me aside.”
“That’s not very professional, Munoz.”
“Oh, I’d be professional, all right—he’d not look elsewhere.”
Doyle decided the conversation was a little too ironic for her taste and turned the subject. “What are you workin’ on?”
Munoz smirked. “Taking over your cases, since Holmes seems to find you lacking.”
With an effort, Doyle held on to her temper. “It’s blown over and there is no reason to take me off the cases.”
“Tell Holmes I don’t faint at the sight of blood.”
Stung, Doyle insisted, “I wasn’t faint—I just needed a moment. The murders were with a large-caliber gun and it was a crackin’ mess.”
Munoz’s envy was palpable. “I hate you, Doyle. What I wouldn’t give for a homicide.”
Doyle felt badly; Munoz did have grounds for complaint as it turned out Doyle indeed had an unfair advantage. “Speak to Habib,” she suggested. “Tell him you’d like to be an extra hand when the next one is reported.”
Munoz sulked, her mouth drawn down. “He’ll just give it to Williams—it’s a boys’ club.” She paused. “Except for you. Would you put in a good word for me with Holmes?”
Doyle was exasperated. “If you are civil to me, perhaps.”
“Come on, Doyle; we girls have to look out for each other. When he throws you off the cases, mention to him that I’d do much better.”
Doyle controlled herself only with an effort. “Leave off, Munoz, someone’s coming.”
The visitor turned out to be Acton himself. Doyle reflected that lately he spent more time in the cubicled basement of this building than at his fancy office in the other—you’re quite the attraction, my girl, she thought, and hid a smile.
Munoz’s chirpy “Good morning, sir,” received a nod of acknowledgment before he halted in the entryway to Doyle’s cubicle. “Constable; would you come with me to the review room?”
She met his eyes in speculation, but he gave no outward indication that he was inclined to maul her about again; therefore, she picked up her laptop and followed him down the hall to the review room. After closing the door, he asked, “Who was that?”
“That was DC Munoz. You met her the other day in the canteen.” Poor Munoz, Doyle thought with no sympathy—serves her right for pushing herself forward. “She is castin’ a proprietary eye on my cases because my job is in jeopardy, accordin’ to the general consensus.”
Surprised, he met her eyes, and she explained, “They think you were chewin’ me out yesterday. Although to be fair, indeed you were—after a fashion. But I’d rather not explain to all and sundry exactly what’s going on until I’ve had a chance to find my feet, so to speak—” With a mental yank on her wayward mind, she concluded, “I know I’m gabblin’ and I beg your pardon. I’m nervous.”
“Don’t be.” He touched her hand with his. “We’ll take things slowly.”
She eyed him in disbelief at this unmitigated falsehood but didn’t call him out; best to think of how to proceed from here. “I know there’s not to be any discussion, and I’ll bear that in mind, but there are two things I would like to tell you and two things I would like to ask you.” Good one, Doyle, she thought. When she had rehearsed this, she had not been sure she would have the courage to say it.
There was a silence. “If you don’t mind,” she added, her resolve collapsing under his unreadable gaze. Small wonder everyone confesses to him, she thought; I’d be terrified of him myself if it weren’t for the fact he was kissin’ on me something fierce just recently. She blushed.
“If you wish.” He was wary; he didn’t like the thought of having to answer questions. Small blame to him, what with the whole Section Seven thing going on.
“Surely there are some things you’d like to ask me,” she countered.
“No,” he replied with a small smile. “There are not.”
Saints and angels, she thought, unable to resist smiling in return. The wretched man’s completely nicked, to take the likes of me at face value.
“What have you discovered about the murders?”
Back to business, then; apparently there was to be no unbridled lovemaking in the review room—which is as it should be, she told herself firmly. They sat and she queued her laptop to bring up the criminal records of the slain couple and turned it so that he could view the screen alongside her.
“Not your ordinary mister and missus. His prints come up as Grady O’Brien, although there are several aka’s—all Irish, I’m ashamed to say. He did time for drug traffickin’ and money launderin’. He’s been out for over five years—no recent record. She was known as Helen O’Brien but no evidence they had married. She did cons and skirted hard time with community service.”
She paused and looked up, as he did not seem to be listening. He read the screen, frowning, then pulled the laptop closer and re-read the information. Recognizing that he was deep in thought, Doyle waited. After a few long moments of profound silence, she ventured, “No immediate leads on who would want them dead, but their records mean there’s a wealth of possibilities—a blackmail victim or a fallin’ out among thieves.”
He lowered his eyes to the table, thinking, and she had a brief and startled impression that he was profoundly distracted. Puzzled, she was going to ask for his thoughts when he re-focused with an effort. “But whoever it was wanted to cover his tracks.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “It was disguised as a murder-suicide—a closed case.”
“So not someone who wanted to send a message.” He said it slowly, as if he was testing it out.
She was getting mixed signals from him and was confused. “No, it doesn’t appear that a message was sent, so not a turf war. Not revenge.” She paused for a moment. “Helen was shot in the face, like Giselle. Perhaps another crime of rage?” Doyle thought this was doubtful. After all, the woman was over forty and didn’t look to be one to inspire passion.
At her words, Acton looked up at her, and she had the impression he was struck by something she had said. “Perhaps,” he said in a neutral tone, the words at odds with the signals she was receiving. “However, you needn’t worry about it. You have too much on your plate already. I’ll see to it that the case is reassigned elsewhere.”
She blinked in surprise. “Yes, sir.” Her caseload was heavy at present, and if this one was reassigned, it would help relieve the grumblings about favoritism. Unfortunately, Munoz and the others would think he had taken her off the case in disgust after her behavior at the crime scene. It doesn’t matter, she told herself firmly. I know better. She glanced at him sidelong as he almost absently closed her laptop, still deep in thought. Hard to believe he had been so enthralled by her fair self that he had lost all control; she had a faint bruise near the base of her throat to show for it. She hoped he would touch her hand again.
Rather abruptly, he stood to leave. “Send all the information you’ve gathered to me, if you please.” He paused at the door, and her pulse quickened, despite herself.
But he was not to broach matters personal. “PC Owens has asked to be transferred in as a TDC, a trainee.”
She was not surprised. “It is a good opportunity for him to put in for it, havin’ met you and done well. He can’t be blamed for puttin’ it to the touch.” She paused, stricken with embarrassment by her choice of words, but he only smiled in acknowledgment. She realized that she had seen him smile more in the past two days than the entire three months she had worked with him.
“I’d be interested in what you think of him,” he continued, as though there hadn’t been an awkward pause. “See if you can draw him out.”
“All right.” Here was a wrinkle; Acton must be keen on him, then.
“Shall we have our discussion over dinner?”
“Oh—yes, of course; if you would like,” she stammered, unnerved by the switch in topic.
He regarded her with no little tenderness. “Kathleen, there is no shame in our having dinner together.”
With a massive effort she calmed down. “I know, sir; I’m afraid it’s goin’ to take some gettin’ used to is all.”
He teased her, “You needn’t call me ‘sir’ when we are alone, you know.”
“Yes—I do know—” She bit back another sir just in time and then shared another smile with him over it.
“China Flower?” he asked.
“Done.” She was very fond of Chinese food.