Well, thought Doyle; this is crackin’ awkward for poor Munoz, with both of them here at the same time. Hard on this thought, she happily prepared to settle in and enjoy the show.
“We were just finishing up with a witness, ma’am,” Munoz explained, no doubt wanting to make sure that the brass didn’t think they were dossing about in a coffee-shop when they were supposed to be on-duty.
Tasza said briskly, “Yes, Sergeant, we are aware. We have an operation underway, and unfortunately, your witness may be compromising it, so it’s a Code Five situation.”
Doyle blinked, because this was true, and Munoz replied immediately, “Yes, ma’am. We’ll stand down, then.”
But as Munoz stepped aside, they were all treated to the sight of an empty table, with the witness nowhere to be seen.
Chapter 30
Go, go, go.
With little surprise, Doyle duly noted that McShane-the-barista had also disappeared, and—in a marked change from her usual—decided to say nothing, and button her lip.
“The witness is gone,” Munoz announced in chagrin. “I’m sorry, ma’am—she must have got spooked. Shall I call for a canvass?”
“No need,” said the Commander, as she took a careful look around. “We’ll find her.”
That’s a little creepy, thought Doyle; the way she says it with such confidence.
After Tasza suggested they go outside to debrief, they all navigated their way through the tables and out the door, with Doyle casting a glance of extreme regret at the coffee counter; a shame she never got herself a quick cup, because she’d the feeling that she’d be called upon to do some clear-headed thinking, and to do it in a hurry.
The Commander indicated an outside table at the edge of the patio, and as they all sat down, she began, “What was the assignment, Sergeant?”
Munoz explained, “We truly didn’t know, ma’am, only that Dispatch wanted it checked out. It turned out the witness claimed to have knowledge of Sir Cavanaugh’s assistant, but we never heard what it was that she knew.”
Tasza considered this, and Doyle had the sense she was mightily relieved. “Is that all she spoke of?”
Munoz nodded, and Doyle stayed silent.
The Commander blew out an annoyed breath. “We think it likely she was trying to pass along a false lead, of some sort. Our covert operation is connected to the drug ring that the Met is unwinding at the race-course, and she may have been trying to concoct a story so as to throw dust in our eyes.”
This may have been true—or mostly true, leastways—but didn’t make a lot of sense to Doyle, who nevertheless wasn’t about to wonder aloud how the witness was hoping to manage such a feat by speaking to two lowly DS officers who weren’t even assigned to the race-course investigation in the first place. Faith, if a witness wanted to pass along a lead—false or otherwise—one would think they’d make certain it went to the right people.
Hard on this thought, Doyle’s scalp prickled, and with some surprise, she tried to decide why this would be. Could the witness have been targeting Doyle and Munoz specifically, for some reason? After all, they were the ones called out to make the acquaintance of McShane at the Clinic, so this seemed like yet another attempt to pass along information. Except—except it seemed obvious that the witness wanted only Doyle to hear her quick words, and not Munoz.
And there was no question that great pains had been taken to convey the message in a manner that couldn’t be overheard, which also indicated that the witness knew she was likely being surveilled by MI 5.
Doyle frowned, trying to sort it out. So; the witness—who was affiliated with McShane-of-the-Clinic—didn’t want the fair Tasza and her team to hear what she was telling Doyle—which did seem to point to a misdirection play, as Tasza surmised—but she a;so didn’t want Munoz to hear it, which made little sense, since Munoz was the lead officer. Not to mention that—for reasons which were unclear—Doyle was reluctant to relay what the witness had, in fact, said.
It’s truly a sad state of affairs, when I trust a random witness more than I trust an MI 5 Commander, she thought. I’d best lay the whole before Acton, and let him make any decisions that need to be made.
Doyle re-focused her attention on the others as Tasza explained to Munoz, “I will sort out the inter-jurisdictional issues, Sergeant. I’m sorry we didn’t catch you earlier, so as to save you the trip.”
“No matter, ma’am,” said Munoz. “It sounds as though it wasn’t a real lead in the first place.”
“You should have ‘sensed’ it was a set-up,” Gabriel teased Doyle, using air quotes with his hands. “You’re not holding up your end of the task-force, Sergeant.”
Doyle laughed. “I’m that useless,” she agreed, and wished that stupid Gabriel hadn’t brought up the stupid subject.
Tasza unbent enough to smile in a friendly manner. “Please don’t tease DS Doyle; I know the task-force is a chore, but I do appreciate her contributions.”
“Better you than me,” said Gabriel.
“Definitely,” the Commander said, including Doyle in a female-to-female aside.
Doyle laughed again, wondered why the woman was making such a determined effort to be friendly—perhaps she was hoping for an opportunity to cast her peepers upon Acton; she’d been to tea at the flat once, on a best-be-forgotten occasion, and mayhap she was hoping for another invite.
But it seemed that Munoz was not to be excluded from the Commander’s attempts at friendliness, because the woman addressed her, also. “Gabriel tells me you will have your first art showing this week-end, Officer Munoz. My congratulations.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Gabriel leaned to cover Munoz’s hand, where it rested on the table. “I hope you remember us little people, when you’re rich and famous.”
“Oh—no chance of that,” said Munoz with a small smile.
Gabriel raised his dark brows. “Which is it? No chance of being famous, or no chance of remembering us?”
They all laughed, and Munoz protested, “It’s just a hobby, really; I’m amazed that the gallery was interested.”
The Commander turned her determinedly-friendly gaze toward Doyle. “Will you attend, Sergeant Doyle?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Doyle declared, having forgotten all about it.
“Unfortunately, I will be out of town,” the woman apologized to Munoz. “I have to interview a prison-witness, and so I have little choice in the timing.”
To Doyle, the words seemed to hang in the air, and she had the sudden sense that Tasza was being very careful not to look at her.
“I’ll buy a painting or two, on your behalf,” Gabriel offered. “Just lend me your credit card.”
They all laughed again, and Doyle tried to decide why she was getting the feeling that the fair Tasza was holding a secret from her—it was hard to imagine that the stupid task-force had any connection to Munoz’s art showing, so mayhap whatever-it-was involved Acton, in some way. Hopefully, Acton wasn’t planning on eloping with the wretched woman over this next week-end—although that seemed an unlikely possibility; Acton would wash his hands of her the minute she refused to have sex in a stable, as well he should.
Feeling considerably better, Doyle nodded respectfully as the Commander drew the debriefing to a close.
Chapter 31
Clear. Whew—that was jolly close.
Doyle was returning to headquarters with Munoz, thinking over what had just transpired as she gazed out the window without really seeing the passing landscape. Munoz was quiet, too—although she was not one to gabble in the first place—and so Doyle decided she should break the silence. “I want to tell you somethin’ about the witness, but I want to say it off the record.”
“That’s against protocol.”
“Unreported snoggin’ session,” Doyle reminded her.
“All right; we’re even. What?”
“I don’t think she was Muslim.”
“I agree. She was wearing a wedding ring.”
“I figured she was trying to disguise her identity.”
“Yes—I’ll agree. Which brings me to my next point: The fellow behind the counter was our Mr. McShane, from the Clinic.”
Her brows raised, Munoz glanced over in surprise. “Really?”
“Really,” Doyle said, mimicking Munoz’s non-Irish accent.
The other girl returned her gaze to the road. “Could it be a coincidence? We’re not that far from the Clinic, so maybe he’s got two jobs.”
“He disappeared when she disappeared,” Doyle informed her.
Munoz frowned. “So—what does that mean? Was the Clinic interview just another misdirection play, like the Commander said this one was? Was it also connected to the MI 5 operation?”
Doyle considered it carefully, trying to decide how much to say and how much not to say, which seemed to be her natural state of affairs, lately. “I don’t know. What did we find out about the information McShane gave us from the Clinic?’
Munoz shrugged slightly. “Nothing as yet—or, at least nothing I know. Nazy came to fetch the envelope as soon as I got back to my desk.”
Ah, thought Doyle; Acton was taking no chances with whatever-it-was—the information in that envelope was that white-hot. And obviously not your ordinary documents that would support an illegal drugs charge, it seemed; first Geary had tried to secure the envelope, and then when Munoz had taken it back from him, Acton had swooped in to grab it himself. I wonder what’s in it, and why such measures were taken to hand it over in such a roundabout fashion?
With a mental sigh, she looked out the window again, and thought, this is a crackin’ rabbit-warren and I haven’t the first idea what it’s all about. Syringes, apparently. Syringes at the race-course—which is only to be expected, if there were a bunch of drug-users there. And letters, too—she mustn’t forget the letters. Now, who’d mentioned letters, recently?
Frowning with the effort, Doyle managed to dredge up the memory: The wretched Dowager. But that seemed a dead end; very unlikely that Acton’s mother was running drugs—although with that family, one should make no assumptions. And anyways, the Dowager was merely planning to write letters, so there were no letters as yet to read. At the time, Doyle had marveled at the fact that anyone wrote letters, anymore—
Holy Mother, she thought, suddenly sitting upright. Of course. “Munoz,” she asked in what she hoped was a level voice. “Didn’t you tell Acton that you’d thrown away the kook’s letters?”
“Not the dead kook,” Munoz corrected her. “The first kook was the one who wrote me the letters.”
He’s dead too, thought Doyle; only nobody realizes it yet. “He’s the one who said the inoculations were poisoned?”
“No—he’s the one who said he killed a copper. But let’s stay on topic, for a minute. Should we have a look at the CCTV feed, and confirm that it was McShane there today?”
Doyle paused, then said carefully, “Best not; Commander Tasza doesn’t want us to follow-up.”
There was another small silence, and Doyle was reminded that Munoz was nobody’s fool, no matter how polite-voiced she’d been to their superior officer.
In for a penny, in for a pound, Doyle thought, as she added, “And I don’t think Geary stumbled by accident; I think he wanted to warn the witness that Tasza was comin’.”
Munoz nodded, and Doyle had the impression that she’d already come to the same conclusion. “Why would he do that?”
Slowly, Doyle shook her head. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Maybe he is dirty.”
“Hard to imagine. Munoz.”
Munoz pressed her lips together. “That’s exactly why dirty coppers are hard to catch—no one wants to believe it.”
“You don’t believe it, though.”
“No,” the other girl admitted. “But then, why did he warn the witness?”
Doyle decided that she couldn’t very well mention that—since the Irishman was here at Acton’s bequest in the first place—it would not be unreasonable to assume that he was acting on Acton’s orders, which was an alarming assumption—that Acton was acting adversely to the interests of a Commander in MI 5. Although it wasn’t so very shocking, truly—Acton didn’t like Tasza.
Surprised at herself, Doyle examined this thought. It’s true, she decided; Acton doesn’t like Tasza—doesn’t like her at all. But she likes him, and he knows it. And—stranger still—he doesn’t exactly rebuff her. Therefore—since there was no one who could deliver a polite rebuff better than Acton could—he must have a reason for tolerating the woman and pretending to be semi-friendly. She was his superior officer, of course, and that would be reason enough for your ordinary copper, but Acton was not someone who toed the line when he didn’t feel like toeing the line—
Munoz’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Do we tell the Commander about McShane’s being there?”
“I vote no,” Doyle decided. “She wants us to step down, and so step down we shall.”
Munoz persisted, “It might be important, Doyle.”
Trust Munoz to focus on the case, rather than on petty snubs and jealousies. “All right—we’ll compromise, and I’ll ask Acton what we should do.” This was no hardship, as she planned to lay the whole before Acton anyway, and sooner rather than later.
“Right, then. I’ll wait for word,” said Munoz with some relief, and Doyle had the feeling that this had been her aim, all along.
She knows there’s something strange going on, Doyle thought; and I wouldn’t be surprised if Geary’s given her a hint, so that she doesn’t get tangled up in it, herself. He’s well-smitten, the poor man; he had to restrain himself when Gabriel had taken Munoz’s hand, back at the table.
Thinking on these strange and varied events, Doyle offered, “Well, here’s some follow-up that we can do, since it doesn’t involve Tasza’s Code Five operation. We can try to identify the dead kook’s tattoo, since McShane had the same one.”
But Munoz only shook her head slightly. “I already did, Doyle. It turns out it was nothing—it wasn’t prison or gang-related, at all. It was a Special Forces thing, from the army.”
Doyle turned to stare at her, her scalp prickling like a live thing. “What d’you mean?
“Army,” Munoz repeated. “You’ve heard of the British army?”
But Doyle could not hide her extreme surprise at this development. “Never say our dead kook was Special Forces? I think you have to qualify to get in, and it’s not an easy thing a’tall. Doesn’t that seem a bit strange, that he’d wind up as a burn-out?”
The other girl shrugged. “It happens. Some have a harder time adjusting to civilian life than others.”
But Munoz didn’t have the benefit of Doyle’s visit from a certain ghost who bore the same tattoo—a ghost who was undoubtedly the first kook, the one who’d tried to get Munoz to read his letters and then had been killed for his pains.
Aloud, she said, “I don’t know, Munoz—I’m wonderin’ if there’s a connection, somehow, between the two kooks. Was Claudia Ruppe in Special Forces?”
“Women aren’t allowed in Special Forces, Doyle.”
“Oh.” Doyle turned to watch out the windscreen but knew—in the way that she knew things—that this was the lynchpin that held it all together; this was the key. Three men had sported the Special Forces tattoo, and two had posed as kooks only to be murdered, whilst the third was going to great lengths to turn over seemingly unconnected evidence. Except it all must be connected—she’d bet her teeth.
Still casting about for a clue, she asked Munoz, “Was Gabriel in Special Forces?”
“No,” said Munoz with a trace of amusement. “I doubt he’d last a day.”
Doyle conceded, “And he wouldn’t be caught dead inking his own tattoo.”
“No. And anyway, it’s not everyone in Special Forces who has it—just a certain unit that served in Afghani
stan.”
This was of interest, and Doyle mused, “Lots of drugs, in Afghanistan.”
“Lots of drugs everywhere, Doyle.”
“Aye, that.” Doyle fingered her mobile, ready to go home for lunch so as winkle out some home truths from Acton—not to mention to see baby Edward, as an added bonus. But at the last minute she remembered that Acton didn’t want her to phone him with the Yard-issued phone, and pulled her personal mobile instead.
As she was about to ring him up, she stilled for a moment. Could Tasza be monitoring Acton—would she dare? Is that why he’d given his better half strict instructions to stay away from normal channels?
I’m getting paranoid, she thought, with a mental shake; faith, I’m something of a kook, myself.
Chapter 32
He’d no choice but to wait and see.
The two girls were walking in from the parking structure, and Munoz was in a foul mood—although small blame to her, as there were dark doings afoot, and it seemed for reasons as yet unclear that she was at the center of them. Not to mention that she’d lost control of her love life, which was new and unfamiliar territory for the likes of Munoz.
They approached the garage lift, and Munoz broke the silence. “Since that one turned out to be no-report, I’ll check-in for another assignment.”
“Check-in after lunch,” Doyle suggested, thinking that the sooner she headed for home, the better.
The other girl replied a bit crossly, “I’d rather opt for an assignment. Gabriel wants to meet me for lunch.”
“Ah. Nothin’ says true love like avoidin’ your sweetheart.”
But this was the wrong thing to say, and Munoz retorted with full scorn, “Not everyone gets to have everything handed to them, Doyle.”
Although her first inclination was to return fire, Doyle stifled this impulse; it must seem to everyone that she’d won the lottery on Christmas day when Acton had bundled her off to the altar, and—come to think of it—indeed she had. Occasionally, of course, there were troublesome blood-feuds and massive skullduggery, but all-in-all, she wouldn’t trade the man for a crocker’s barrel of Gabriels, Gearys, or anything in-between.
Murder in Just Cause Page 16
