Murder in Just Cause

by Anne Cleeland

  And the army people—the army people were justifiably outraged that they were getting killed, trying to expose the dirty coppers. The two factions were dug in, and no one was budging an inch; they were all willing to destroy each other in a scorched-earth fireball of misery.

  Her scalp prickled, and she asked, “Reynolds, remember how we were speakin’ of that Antigone play? The one with the sister?”

  “I do, madam.”

  “How does it end?”

  The servant stooped to pick up Edward’s spoon, where the baby had taken the opportunity to grab it from Doyle’s distracted hand and throw it on the floor for the umpteenth time. “Unfortunately, everyone kills themselves, madam.”

  Incredulous, Doyle turned to stare at him. “And people pay money to see that?”

  “It is a tragedy,” he explained. “In three parts.”

  “So’s this, my friend,” said Doyle, much struck. “So’s this.”

  “I beg your pardon, madam?”

  But Doyle was suddenly scrolling up Munoz on her mobile, and then pulling the device out of the line of fire just before Edward flung cereal all over it, which he seemed to think was a cause for great hilarity.

  The other girl picked up. “What, Doyle?”

  “Do we have an assignment, yet?”

  “Not yet—I haven’t heard back from the Desk Sergeant.”

  Not a surprise, thought Doyle, thoughtfully glancing through the doorway at Acton, who was typing something at his desk. “Well, I was wonderin’ if we could request Sergeant Ruppe to act as the field officer when we get our next assignment. I wanted to ask her some questions, but I didn’t want to make it look as though I was bent on it, so as to scare her away.”

  “You know that you’ll get a chance tomorrow night, right? She and her brother are doing security detail at my showing.”

  Doyle raised her brows. “Are they? No, I didn’t know.”

  “Acton’s already made the arrangements. The gallery owner mentioned it, when we were doing a walk-through.”

  This was not alarming in and of itself—oftentimes police officers contracted to handle private events for a bit of side pay. However, the fact that Acton had arranged for these two particular officers to attend Munoz’s event filled Doyle heart with no small disquiet.

  Pulling in her alarmed thoughts, she said, “Right then; that’s even better—I can talk to her at the showin’.”

  “Don’t cause a scene,” Munoz warned.

  I’m not the one who’s the scene-causer, Doyle thought, but she said aloud, “Not to worry, Munoz. Instead I’ll speak loudly of how popular your work is amongst the nobs.”

  “I would appreciate it,”’ the girl replied in a dry tone.

  “Faith, here’s an even better idea; you should paint a re-enactment of the bridge-jumping incident, and we could auction it off to the highest bidder.”

  With no further ado, Munoz rang off.

  With renewed determination, Doyle returned to the thankless task of trying to teach Edward how to eat, and as she attempted to navigate the spoon between the grasping little hands, she allowed her thoughtful gaze to rest upon her husband for a long moment. However, before she could decide how best to approach him so as to tackle this latest disaster-in-the-making, she was tackled herself.

  “I could not help overhearing, madam,” Reynolds ventured, “that Sergeant Munoz is set to have an art showing, tomorrow.”

  Doyle paused a bit guiltily and was just about to assure him that he was invited, when two things happened at once; Edward triumphantly grabbed the spoon yet again, and she had a sudden burst of clarity.

  “It’s actually a police operation, Reynolds,” she explained in a low voice, as Edward banged on his tray with happy abandon. “Acton doesn’t want anyone to know—not even Munoz.”

  “I understand, madam,” Reynolds said immediately, and nodded his head in a precise gesture. “I shall say no more.”

  “Not that she doesn’t have a lot of talent,” Doyle continued grudgingly. “But Acton is the one who put this together—it’s some sort of trap-and-seizure.” Again, she glanced over toward her husband’s preoccupied figure and knew that this was true. The gallery owner had offered this showing out of the blue, immediately after that fateful assignment at the projects. She’d indeed been a dim-bulb not to see that Acton’s hand was behind it.

  “Does Ms. Munoz have a portfolio, perhaps?”

  “At the very least,” Doyle assured him, having no idea what was meant. “She probably has two.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  Doyle blew a tendril of hair off her forehead as she wrestled the spoon from Edward’s cereal-encrusted hand, much to the baby’s extreme chagrin. “Tell me, Reynolds, what does one wear, to a showin’?”

  The servant paused to consider. “What is its location, madam?”

  She frowned, trying to remember. “Soho, I think.” Apologetically, she added, “When I know Acton’s goin’ to take me someplace, I don’t worry much about when-and-where.”

  The servant crossed his arms, and mused, “Not a traditional gallery, then. It would be important not to over-dress, and black is probably de rigueur.”

  “Of course, it is,” Doyle agreed. “There’s nothin’ like wearin’ rigorous black.”

  “Indeed, madam. One cannot go wrong.”

  Doyle brightened. “Acton likes me to wear black, whether it’s rigorous or not.”

  “But nothing too smart,” The servant warned. “It mustn’t appear as though one cares, overmuch.”

  “There’s not a soul alive who’s goin’ to think I’m too smart, my friend,” she teased.

  “I disagree, madam,” the servant offered loyally. “In your own, inimitable way, you are exceedingly smart.”

  “And there you go,” she agreed, and pushed back from the table. “Would you mind takin’ over, Reynolds? I can’t seem to out-smart Edward, and I’m goin’ to have to take another shower, if this keeps up.”

  “Certainly, madam,” said Reynolds, as he quickly reached for his apron.

  Chapter 36

  Doyle approached her husband at his desk, and wound her arms around his neck as she leaned to whisper in his ear. “Michael,” she said ominously. “Promise me—by all that you hold holy—that no one is gettin’ murdered at Munoz’s showin’.”

  “No one is getting murdered at Munoz’s showing,” he promptly replied, and closed his laptop. “You alarm me.”

  “You’re not allowed to say such a thing, when we both know who’s the alarmer and who’s the alarmee in this relationship, my friend. Not to mention that only the nobs use backwards-speak like ‘you alarm me’.”

  “We are the nobs,” he pointed out gently, and clasped her forearms in his hands.

  “Speak for yourself, my friend; I’m a toadstool in the garden, and I can’t imagine how I’m goin’ to survive the stupid investering. I may have to take up drinkin’.”

  “Investiture,” he corrected gently, and leaned his head back so that she’d kiss him.

  “Well, accordin’ to Reynolds I’m inimitable smart, and so I’ll not let you lead me off-topic—not this time. It has finally dawned on me that this Munoz art showin’ is all your doin’.”

  “I needed to get the players together without revealing my hand,” he admitted. “And it seemed a likely option, since it would provide a ready excuse to have the two officers attend.”

  In ominous tones she warned, “We’re not havin’ another bloodbath, like we did at your Confirmation, Michael.”

  He raised his dark brows in protest. “Surely, it wasn’t a bloodbath?”

  “It was the next thing to a bloodbath, husband, and I’m worried that you’re shirkin’ me on your answers, here.”

  “No shirking, whatsoever,” he soothed. “There will be no murders at the showing.” He paused, and looked out the window as though he was considering this aspect. “It would give Munoz some excellent publicity, however.”

  “Not funny a’t
all.”

  “Understood,” he said, and lifted her arm to kiss it.

  Inspired by his attentions, she gently bit his earlobe. “Who looks better in black, me or Tasza?”

  “You, although Tasza will not be attending.”

  This, of course, was what she’d been winkling to find out, and then remembered that the woman herself had said she couldn’t attend, back at the coffee-shop. In a sour tone, she asked, “How can we know? She tends to pop up like a jack-o’-the-clock when you least expect it.”

  “Because for my purposes, it is important that she not attend. Tomorrow she is scheduled to interview a witness in prison, and so it seemed a good opportunity to confront the Petersons without her knowledge.”

  She had to grudgingly approve of the wisdom of this plan. “Good one, Michael—divide and conquer. The Desk Sergeant’s been taken out of the arena, too, so we’ve only the foot-soldiers left. Is McShane coming?”

  “He is.”

  “Watch yourself, husband,” she warned. “He knows how to take care of himself, and he was carryin’ when we met him at the clinic.”

  “I will be careful.”

  Doyle nuzzled his neck—faith, the man smelt heavenly—and started feeling more optimistic about Acton’s plans for the showing. It was a useful police tactic—to go after the smaller fish without having them feel constrained by the presence of the bigger fish—and hopefully in this instance, pressure could be applied because the Petersons would hate to be the ones to spoil their brother’s legacy—mayhap there was something to be said for Acton’s nuanced approach, after all. The two police officers would be present under plausible circumstances, and Tasza would be stuck elsewhere, because prisons allowed witness interviews only under strict conditions, and on their own timetables.

  Doyle teased, “Tasza will be that annoyed to miss a chance to pretend to be all nice to me whilst she’s watchin’ you, sly-like, all the while.”

  He tilted his head and ran his fingers down her forearms. “I am left with the impression you are not an admirer.”

  “I could say the same, husband.”

  She could see that he debated what to say, and then he offered, “She is excellent at her job, and it is not an easy one.”

  “All right, I’ll give you that, I suppose—although I don’t know if I’m generous enough for faint praise, even.”

  “Nonsense; you are the most generous person I know.” To emphasize this, he leaned back to gently kiss her neck.

  Fondly, she squeezed her arms around him. “That’s only because you don’t know anybody else. You’re the next thing to a hermit, livin’ on a hillside—or I suppose you’re livin’ in a castle, instead. A hermit-castle.”

  He admitted, “I hadn’t thought of myself in quite that way, before.”

  She let her fingertips wander inside his shirt, between the buttons. “It’s lucky, you are, that me and Edward have horned our way into your well-ordered life.”

  “No one knows this better than I.”

  “Just think; without us, you’d have to do your mastermindin’ with no one to scold you, or to try to winkle out a thimbleful of information so as to save you from yourself.”

  “A very bleak existence,” he murmured into her neck.

  After a pause, she ventured, “I’ll admit, Michael, that I’m not clear on how it all came about, though—how on earth could the Petersons sign on to this? And why wouldn’t they pull out, when they could see that the Desk Sergeant was sendin’ his retired soldiers to put a stop to it?

  She could feel his chest rise and fall, as he tried to decide what to tell her. “I suppose it all comes down to what constitutes a ‘just cause’ murder, and what does not.”

  She lifted her head in surprise. “It does?”

  “It does.”

  He offered nothing further, and so she leaned down again to put her cheek against his. “All right, then; I’ve interrogated you as much as I am able, and now let’s turn the subject over to how we’re going to scoot Reynolds out of the flat for twenty minutes without makin’ him think we’re nothin’ but a pair of sex-hounds.”

  “On the contrary; the Range Rover sits at the ready.”

  “Done,” she said promptly. “Like old times, Michael; just let me wash the cereal off, first.”

  Chapter 37

  That night, Doyle had her ghost-visitor again. She realized—now that she knew the man was affiliated with McShane—that they both shared the same demeanor, even though they were of different nationalities; it was as though they were politely but guardedly watching you, and waiting for you to make a false move.

  The encounter opened much like the last one. “You’ve forgot about me, mate.”

  “No,” Doyle protested. “I know that you were the first—” she barely stopped herself from calling him a kook. “You were the first one who spoke to Munoz—you tried to warn her about whatever-this-is.”

  He nodded. “She gave me the flick, though.”

  “Yes—I’m truly sorry; she’d didn’t realize. And then you were killed, for your pains.”

  “I had to kill him,” he shrugged. “It was him or me.”

  There was a slight pause. “I think you are mixed-up,” Doyle offered, almost kindly. “You’re the one who was killed.”

  “I had to kill him,” he explained again. “He was going off.”

  Doyle stared in surprise. “Killed who?”

  The man shrugged. “No drama, mate—I understood why they’d cover it up. But then it kept on going, and the Sarge said we’d no choice; the enemy was inside the wire.”

  Doyle blinked. “The Desk Sergeant—is that who you mean?”

  “He’s a good digger. A Pom, but still a good digger.”

  Doyle replied, “So are you, my friend.”

  Her visitor shook his head, slightly. “No—I was a bludger. It was tough, being a civvie again; the Sarge was trying to help, but it was hard on Lily, watching me try to get clean—try to fit in.”

  “She’s grievin’ for you,” Doyle observed a bit sadly.

  “She’ll be right, mate. Davie will marry her,” he replied. “It’s the way we do things—if one falls, the others step up.”

  Doyle considered this. “That’s very Old Testament, actually.”

  For the first time, he smiled slightly. “This is all very Old Testament, mate.”

  A bit annoyed, Doyle returned, “Well I’m very New Testament, and I don’t believe there’s such a thing as a ‘just cause’ murder.”

  “Suit yourself,” he shrugged, not caring either way.

  “It matters,” she insisted. “No one should get a free pass when it comes to takin’ a life.”

  Immediately, he became serious again. “No one is getting a free pass, mate.”

  She subsided, contemplating the ghost who stood before her, and the current scorched-earth wreckage that Acton was carefully attempting to sort out. “I’ll give you that, I suppose. But at the very least there should be no more deaths—no more excuses for murder.”

  “No one’s looking for an excuse for murder. Sometimes, there’s nothing else that can answer—been that way since Job was a pup.”

  A bit crossly, Doyle replied, “Since Antigone, I suppose.”

  He shrugged again. “Don’t know what that means, red.”

  “I didn’t either,” Doyle confessed. “But it’s some old story about a sister who wanted to honor her brother, and then was willin’ to die for it—everyone winds up dead, which is stupid.”

  But he seemed unconvinced. “If you don’t have loyalty to your mates, you got nothing.”

  But Doyle could only shake her head in bewilderment. “But at what cost?”

  “At every cost,” he replied steadily. “As you can see.”

  There was a small pause, and then Doyle ventured, “You should have your own star on a wall, somewhere.”

  He shrugged yet again. “Don’t need one, mate.” And just as suddenly as he’d appeared, he was gone.

 
Doyle woke suddenly—as she always did after these dreams—her eyes wide and her heart hammering. “Mícheál,” she gasped, “dúisigh—”

  “It’s all right, Kathleen,” Acton replied, sleepily startled as he reached to pull her close.

  But Doyle sat up, and stared straight ahead, the words jumbling out. “Cé—cé—”

  “English, please,” he soothed, a comforting hand on her back. “Did you have a dream?”

  “Aye,” she replied, and then took a long breath to calm herself. “Who did the first kook kill?”

  His hand paused, and he was silent for a moment.

  A bit impatiently, she continued, “Munoz said the first kook is the one who confessed to killin’ a copper with his bare hands. But there were no deaths of that sort on record, and so Munoz thought he was just your typical kook bein’ kooky.”

  She turned her head to face her husband in the dimness, as he propped an arm behind his head to watch her. “But he was tellin’ the truth, wasn’t he?” She took another breath, trying to slow down her racing thoughts. “And it was all covered-up, because the officer he killed was Brody Peterson, and Brody Peterson was a dirty copper.”

  There is was—the ‘just cause’ murder that had started all the others, in an unending attempt to cover-up for a Scotland Yard legacy.

  Thinking this over for a moment, she couldn’t help but realize there was a flaw in her reasoning. “But how could the first kook have killed Brody Peterson? Brody Peterson was killed in action, saving his unit.”

  “It was staged,” Acton replied quietly. “He was already dead, and the event was staged, using his body.”

  She stared at him in horrified silence. “Holy Mother, Michael; that took some doin’.”

  “Indeed.”

  Doyle turned her head to gaze out into the darkness, trying to sort out her thoughts as her husband stroked her back, waiting for her questions. “Why did the kook kill him? Was Brody involved in the race-course rig—the drug-smugglin’?”

  “I am afraid it is worse than that.”

  She turned her head to him again, perplexed. “How can it be worse? Was he a hit man, or somethin’?”