“I’m having a showing,” the other girl admitted, carefully hiding her surge of extreme pleasure. “I just heard; my instructor has arranged for one in a small gallery in Soho. It’s nothing big, but it’s a start.”
All jealousies promptly forgotten, Doyle congratulated her warmly. “Oh—oh, Munoz, that’s wonderful; we’ll come, of course. Shall I post an announcement at St. Michael’s?”
“I suppose,” Munoz replied, trying to sound indifferent. “Not all of it is religious-themed, though—I’ve done some landscapes, too.”
Reminded, Doyle asked, “Is that what you wanted to ask Savoie? To come to your showin’?” Munoz’s former beau had appreciated the girl’s talent, in between those times when he was masterminding some illegal enterprise.
“No—not what I wanted to ask him,” Munoz said shortly, and then grimaced into her cup. “Ugh—this stuff is awful.”
Doyle took the opportunity to take a lingering sip from her own elaborate coffee-franchise latte.
Munoz eyed her sourly. “Those are full of calories, you know.”
“I do know,” Doyle admitted. “But I can’t give them up—not now, when I’m so low on sleep. And besides, Acton has it delivered every mornin’, so I don’t want him thinkin’ I don’t appreciate it.”
Lifting her brows in surprise, Munoz abandoned her coffee on Doyle’s desk. “He does? He doesn’t seem the type to make romantic gestures.”
His whole flippin’ life is a flippin’ romantic gesture, thought Doyle, but she said only, “Still waters run deep, Munoz,” and took another sip.
The other girl smiled slightly. “Not Gabriel’s waters; Gabriel’s never allowed a stray thought to remain unspoken.”
Doyle had to laugh, because it was true; part of Gabriel’s charm was his open nature. Or his perceived open nature, anyway—Gabriel was from counter-terrorism, after all, so he must be able to button his lip when the necessity arose. “What does he think about your showin’?”
“He’ll come, of course.”
Doyle was alive to the nuance in her voice, which only re-affirmed her earlier conclusion that Munoz wasn’t as committed to the relationship as Gabriel was. Which was a shame, all-in-all; life with Gabriel, one would think, would be one romantic gesture after another.
And hard on this thought, their supervisor, Inspector Habib, approached down the aisleway. A less romantic-seeming person could hardly be imagined, but Doyle knew that these particular still waters did indeed run deep; the Pakistani man had married Munoz’s sister under heroic circumstances, sweeping in to her rescue like the prince from a fairy tale even though he was slight of build and devoid of charisma.
“DS Munoz; DS Doyle,” he greeted them in his precise voice. “Good morning, and welcome back, DS Doyle.”
“Good morning, sir,” said Munoz—Habib was the type to follow all appropriate protocols, even with his sister-in-law. “I was just telling DS Doyle about my MAO.”
“I’m a bit jealous, sir,” Doyle teased. “I’d love an extra hand—we all would, I think.”
In response, Habib looked a bit self-conscious. “I’m afraid I have no influence, in such decisions.”
Since there seemed little doubt this particular decision had come straight from Acton—and for a good reason—Doyle hastened to make light of it, and said, “As long as the MAO’s not another kook; Munoz is well-sick of the kooks.”
Habib unbent enough to smile. “Yes, we cannot encourage them to create stories just to have an interview with you, DS Munoz. We do not have the resources.”
Since this was what passed for a joke with Habib, Doyle dutifully laughed, but was surprised when her scalp started prickling. What? she thought in confusion; there was nothing of interest in Habib’s little joke—the kooks were making-up stories; that much was obvious. And they wouldn’t be trying to see Munoz, because they wouldn’t know ahead of time that Munoz was assigned to listen to them in the first place—Acton had sorted this out when he’d questioned Munoz on that subject. So; what was it?
She paused, frowning, because there was indeed something here, but she hadn’t a clue what it was.
Her attention was draw back to the conversation by Habib, who informed her, “I would ask that you contact Commander Kozlowski at your earliest convenience, DS Doyle; she is putting together a multi-unit task-force. I am told that the purpose of the task force is to report on the strengths shown by female officers.”
“No,” exclaimed Doyle in unfeigned horror, as she set down her latte.
Her supervisor said in mild reprimand, “It is a timely subject, and should be very interesting.”
“Diversity stuff,” Munoz concluded. “Better you than me.”
“If it’s diversity stuff it should rightfully be you, Munoz—not me.”
Deftly, Munoz lifted Doyle’s latte from her desk. “I may not be as pale as you, but I’m not the one with the commendations.”
“It’s a burden, is what it is,” groused Doyle.
“We must make every effort to cooperate in such activities,” Habib scolded mildly. “It is an honor to be included in the Commander’s request.”
But the two girls offered only skeptical silence, since task-forces were usually monumental wastes of time, done only to have something to report to the higher-ups on some subject that was near and dear to them. And this assignment was particularly annoying; not only did Doyle have a general reluctance to speak of her so-called heroics, she needed to do her nosing around before her poor husband fretted away to nothing.
“I hope I have time for a task-force, what with assistin’ Munoz on her assignments,” Doyle offered in a doubtful tone, and cast a glance of appeal at the other girl.
“Not a problem,” the other girl replied as she took a sip from Doyle’s latte. “Don’t forget, I have my MAO.”
Chapter 10
He carefully slid the list into a plain manila envelope. Poor souls had forgotten what’s what—had got distracted by promises, and bad habits. It happened, sometimes. He’d seen it before.
Although Doyle was supposed to check-in with Tasza Kozlowski on the stupid task-force, she decided instead to get started on her unofficial investigation, and for this reason went over to say hallo to Acton’s new assistant, who’d been hired as a result of their recent holiday in Dublin.
Nazy Chaudhry had been working as an intern at the local Garda police-station, and—as Acton had been impressed by her technology skills—he’d promptly hired her away, being needful of a new assistant at the time.
Doyle made her way across the elevated walkway into the executive building where the CID brass had their offices, and after coming off the lift she could see the Pakistani girl’s desk, stationed outside Acton’s office. Nazy seemed busy and was radiating pleased efficiency—an attitude wholly unknown to Doyle, who therefore approached circumspectly, afraid to interrupt all the efficient-ness. “Hallo, Nazy.”
“Officer Doyle.” The girl paused to smile with genuine pleasure. “It is so good to see you, how is the baby?”
Baby’s good, husband not so much, thought Doyle, but she said, “Edward is an excellent baby, Nazy. Never better.”
“DCI Acton is working from home, this morning,” Nazy explained apologetically. “And so, he is not here.”
“I know, Nazy—I came to say hallo to you, and ask about how you’re settlin’ in.”
The girl made a gesture that encompassed her busy desk. “I am settling in very well, Officer Doyle. And I have instituted a new filing system, which I believe will be much more practical.”
“My hat’s off to you, then.” It suddenly occurred to Doyle that one of the reasons Acton had chosen young Nazy for this particular role was because the girl was so focused on the little things that she was unlikely to leap to any conclusions about the big things; say, for example, how her boss’s enemies always seemed to be conveniently disappearing.
With this in mind, Doyle offered in a casual tone, “I’m that happy to be back in the fi
eld, myself; I went on my first assignment with DS Munoz yesterday—where the victim was the walk-in witness from the week before.”
“Oh, yes, so I heard,” said Nazy, and then looked self-conscious, because she’d clearly been cautioned not to speak of it—not a poker-player, was our Nazy.
Doyle felt a small pang, because she couldn’t very well countermand Acton’s orders, and besides, she shouldn’t put his new hire on the horns of such a dilemma—not her first week on the job, anyways. Therefore, she asked only, “Do we have the Coroner’s report, yet? I’m curious about what it will say.”
But Nazy knit her brows in puzzlement. “I believe DI Williams is the SIO, Officer Doyle. He should receive the Coroner’s report.”
“Oh—oh, that’s right, I’d forgotten; Acton was only an additional officer-on-site. So was I, for that matter.” She paused, and then added carelessly, “Faith it was quite a crowd there, with me, and Munoz, and Acton, and Williams. Sergeants Ruppe and Peterson were the patrol officers, I believe.”
Nazy nodded. “Yes. Officer Williams has already asked for their personnel files.”
“Oh—oh, has he? Well, that is good-thinkin’, I suppose.” She didn’t venture to explain to Nazy why it would be good-thinking, but instead hurried on, “Could you forward them to me, too?”
But Nazy leaned in and lowered her voice. “He asked that it not be done electronically, and so I have prepared paper documents.” She indicated a set of folders on her desk.
“More good-thinkin’,” Doyle improvised, her eager gaze resting on the folders. “Any chance I could manage a quick copy?”
“I don’t think there is enough time,” Nazy cautioned; “Officer Williams will be here to take them soon.” The girl then brightened, as she looked down the hallway behind Doyle. “Here he is, now.”
Doyle turned and tried not to look as though she’d been caught trying to steal a penny off the offering plate. “Why, hallo, Williams.”
Williams gave her a look, but said only, “Good morning, DS Doyle; Ms. Chaudhry.”
“We were just talkin’ about the kook-murder,” Doyle offered with a negligent air. “A strange case, that one.”
Nazy added, “Indeed; Officer Doyle was hoping to obtain a copy of the personnel files, Inspector Williams.”
Williams regarded Doyle with an impassive expression. “Was she? I’ll take them, then.”
“Here you are, sir,” Nazy chirped happily, as she handed the folders over. “Please let me know if you require any further assistance.”
After bidding Nazy goodbye, Doyle turned to walk with Williams back toward the lift. In a deceptively even tone, he said, “I don’t think you’ve been assigned to this case, Kath.”
After doing some quick calculating, Doyle decided she may as well come clean—she was never any good at subterfuge, anyway, and it was Williams, after all—Williams would never grass on her. “Acton’s not assigned either, but he’s takin’ a crackin’ close look at this one for some reason, Thomas, and I have a strong feelin’ I should be takin’ my own look, over his shoulder.”
As he pressed the lift’s button, he asked in the same level tone, “Are you second-guessing him?”
But at the implied rebuke, Doyle only quirked her mouth, unshaken. “Faith, Thomas, have you forgotten who it is you’re speakin’ to? Of course, I’m second-guessin’ him—that’s my job in this mortal life.”
At this, he had to smile, but he cautioned as they waited for the lift, “I don’t want to be caught in the middle, Kath.”
“I understand, believe me. You’ve only to rap me on the nose when you think I’m out-of-line, and there’ll be no hard feelin’s.”
He nodded, thinking. “Why do you want to see the personnel files?”
In a low voice, Doyle replied, “For the same reasons Acton does, I imagine. Those two officers know somethin’ about all this, and I shouldn’t be surprised if they’re the ones who staged the scene; it was staged by people who had only a passin’ knowledge about how forensics is handled on-site.” She paused. “And it looks like we came too soon; someone called Dispatch about this before the body thawed out. If we’d waited another day—or so Acton said—it wouldn’t have looked anywhere near as suspicious.”
Williams thought about this, contemplating the lift’s doors before them. “Why can’t you ask Acton?”
“I did. He’s tryin’ to decide how much to tell me about his workin’ theory, which is what sounded the alarm for me. There’s somethin’ here—somethin’ very grave, and he’s squashin’ it down.” She paused, struck with a new thought. “It’s almost as though he wants to put a lid on it, for some reason—I think he wants to slow-down this investigation, without makin’ it look like that’s what he’s doin’.”
He glanced her way. “Maybe there’s another operation on-going, and he knows this one would interfere with it.”
“Mayhap,” she agreed, and did not voice her own opinion, which was that her poor husband did not seem capable of being enmeshed in multiple covert operations, just now. The man was paralyzed, for some reason—although “paralyzed” may not have been the right word; it was more like he’d gone dormant, like a bear in winter, waiting for spring. I hope spring shows up soon, she thought; the bear’s wife can’t take much more of this.
“Then we should probably let him decide, Kath, and stay out of the way.”
This was only to be expected, as Williams was in alignment with Acton’s feelings about keeping secrets, if secrets were necessary. She met his eyes with all sincerity, and disclosed, “It’s one of those feelin’s, Thomas. I truly can’t ignore it.”
There was a small silence, since Williams knew better than most that Doyle’s feelings shouldn’t be ignored. The lift doors opened, and so further discussion had to be curtailed because the lifts had surveillance systems, and the surveillance people were notoriously loose-lipped. When they stepped out, Williams suggested, “Let’s have a quick coffee, off-campus.”
This seemed promising, but Doyle had a long list of first-week-back things to accomplish, and so she cut to the nub, as they walked through the lobby. “Do I get a peek at the reports or not?”
“I’ll take a peek, instead, and if I see anything, I’ll let you know.”
As usual, the Desk Sergeant—who was one of Doyle’s biggest fans, after the bridge-jumping incident—leapt up to hold the door as they passed through the glass double-doors, and she smiled her thanks. To her great dismay, the rank-and-file at the Met had put her on a pedestal of sorts, thinking that she was some sort of hero and being all respectful-like when she was in their midst. It was a miserable burden to bear, and more than once she wished she’d left stupid Munoz in the stupid river.
Once outside, Williams added, “And you shouldn’t try to inveigle Acton’s new assistant.”
She laughed. “If I’d any idea what ‘inveigle’ meant, I would probably agree.”
But he wasn’t in a mood to tease, as they started down the pavement outside. “It means to lead her astray. She should stay loyal to Acton.”
“Divided loyalties are a crackin’ pain,” Doyle agreed, with a sidelong glance at the prime example of divided loyalties. “Everythin’ gets over-complicated.”
He didn’t rise to the bait, and instead turned the subject. “I will say that I’m surprised he hired someone so young and inexperienced.”
Since Doyle had her own theories about why Nazy was hired, she said only, “Be ye kind, Thomas—she’s smitten, I think.”
He made an annoyed sound. “Spare me, Kath.”
Teasing, Doyle observed, “It’s always the efficient-types who faint at your feet, Thomas; it’s truly an amazement.”
“And yet, you didn’t succumb.”
She had to laugh aloud, because—to her shame—she was probably the least-efficient person in the building. “I do love you, Thomas; never doubt it.”
Williams had carried a torch for her before Acton had swooped in and carried her off—talk about rom
antic gestures, there was the topper—and truth to tell, the young man still had a soft spot for the fair Doyle. He’d reconciled himself to the “best friend” role, though, which was very much appreciated; Doyle loved Acton a thousand times more, but she would hate to have to push Williams away—she’d few friends in her life, which was a direct consequence of knowing the things that she knew.
Doyle crossed her arms against the cold breeze—since she didn’t have a coat—and glanced up at him. “Am I allowed to tell you that you’ll find someone, Thomas; you just haven’t met her yet. Unless it is Nazy or Lizzie Mathis, and then you have, but you seem to be taking a very roundabout route.”
“Allow me to handle my own affairs, Kath,” he replied without rancor.
“Done,” she promptly agreed. “Say no more.”
Chapter 11
Now that he’d bit, he’d pass along the intel and wait for word. He hoped it would be soon—he was tired of losing men.
Doyle and Williams walked to the Deli that was over on the next block—a convenient meeting-place, when Scotland Yard personnel wanted to take a break away from headquarters. Doyle found a table inside whilst Williams went to fetch the coffee, and as he did so, Doyle took the opportunity to text Acton: “How’s E?”
“Good.”
“How’s M?”
“Also good.”
“Nap at lunch?”
“Please.”
Poor man, she thought, as she pocketed her mobile. And poor me—I’ll be hard-pressed not to fall asleep along with everyone else, after the ragged night we just passed. There’s nothin’ for it; I need advice from the only person who can give it to me, and I’ve got to quit trying to put it off—faith, I’m a bigger baby than Edward is.
Williams set down the coffee cups, and then took out his own mobile to text. “I’ll tell them I’m running a bit late, and we’ll push-back the meeting half-hour.”
Murder in Just Cause Page 6
