He took a slow sip of his wine, watching her over the glass. “The secret is to work out beforehand what your opponent’s options are. Then devise a plan for every possibility. Be as creative as you like.”
“It’s that simple?”
“It may sound simple, but it involves a lot of sleepless nights whilst your brain sorts through the possibilities.”
“Are we at that stage yet?”
“We need a suspect first.”
Charlie had seen her question as a way of exploring the deeper workings of his mind, but was it possible to plan ahead to the extent he suggested? She also noticed they were near the end of the wine. However, they’d had a challenging week and if there was to be an occasion for letting go then perhaps this was it. She ordered a second bottle.
“I stopped off at Sharon’s again,” he explained. “She threw in the name Toombs; claimed Dan said I was to look for that person in the event of his untimely death.”
“Don’t suppose he said why.”
He shook his head. “Perhaps we should raise it with Whitland at Monday’s meeting.”
“What are our plans for next week?”
Royle was beginning to suspect the wine might be slowing his thinking, plus two large whiskies earlier at Sharon’s. “We’re off to California, then into Mexico. Mexico City to be precise, looking at a couple of places.”
She wrinkled her forehead. “Another tiring week, then.”
He leaned back, idly fiddling with his glass and, seeing how the conversation had slowed, Charlie decided to raise the other matter that had been occupying her mind all evening.
“Paula says you and Dan got medals for some rescue?” And she could see immediately that he was uncomfortable.
“Just occasionally Paula talks a bit too much. It was a routine mission, we just hit a problem.”
“That’s not how Paula tells it. She says you were badly wounded, plus some of your group were killed.”
He seemed temporarily lost in thought, and when he did respond it was not what she was expecting. “Jobs like that have little to do with bravery. Someone’s shooting at you and you have two options: sit there and die or get the hell out of it.”
She watched him, saying nothing, realising he was becoming talkative.
“They were bad times. Dan and I, we spent a lot of time clearing away the bodies of colleagues. But I never expected to see Dan all chewed about like that.”
Watching him she felt unexpectedly moved, so cursing herself for resurrecting some obviously dark moments she decided it was time to leave. Getting Roberto to call a cab, she gave the driver her own address.
“Change of plan. No Dan Morgan’s apartment for you tonight. You’re sleeping on my couch. In the morning I’ll do us a real American breakfast before we drive out to see your daughter. And maybe find out how good you are with that shotgun.”
Six
Royle awoke on Saturday morning in better shape than he perhaps deserved, surprised to discover he was alone in Charlie’s apartment. More importantly, he was not on the couch, he was in bed. Her bed. Added to which, he could smell her – the whole bed smelled of her. He knew little enough about perfume, though logic suggested hers was an expensive brand. Certainly not the splash-it-all-over kind favoured by Paula Howath.
His mind seemed temporarily unwilling to cooperate, though he did have vague recollections of kissing her in the back of the cab. And even vaguer recollections of clothes being urgently removed.
Wrapping himself in a towel and going to make coffee, he discovered a note on the fridge door. ‘Gone for a run. Don’t start breakfast without me’. He showered while the kettle boiled, the bathroom’s impressive array of mysterious creams and lotions emphasising how unaccustomed he had become to any female presence.
He decided he liked her apartment. The combined kitchen-cum-dining area had virginal-white walls and featured a polished redwood dining table, complete with jade-coloured Liberty lamp and potted orchid. Meanwhile a well-stocked china cabinet dominated one end wall, whilst opposite hung a Monet print. White also prevailed in the bedroom. White walls, white closet doors and white bed linen, all offset by beige carpeting and matching black art deco vases set into recesses either side of the bed.
Whilst it was an exaggeration to think Royle had remained celibate since his wife’s death, few of those relationships could be described as enduring – or involving any bonding of personalities – having as much to do with sex as any permanent desire for female company. Nevertheless, he was beginning to feel that here might be someone different. Though the immediate difficulty, he realised, were the restrictions imposed by their newly enforced working partnership. Plus, of course, his suspicions that someone in the Department was involved in whatever had led to Dan’s messy departure.
Royle was also aware of the opportunity he was being afforded here – with Charlie off on her run he had unlimited access. He could search where he wanted, look at whatever he wished. He was no stranger to searching people’s homes, it was part of his job. Admittedly, it was a serious intrusion into their lives; nevertheless, it was a proven means of obtaining information. What it did best, however, was provide a reliable insight into the workings of people’s minds.
This then was his opportunity to see whether Charlie had anything to do with bird smuggling. Or with Dan’s death. But even as such thoughts crossed his mind, he realised he was having trouble with the idea of delving into her life in this way. Experience told him that the top bedroom drawers held underwear, in her case undoubtedly expensive underwear. And that the closet floor housed pairs of shoes – probably many pairs. There were no prizes for knowing this stuff. She also probably had a diary in the bedside drawer, but did he really want to know what she thought of him? Probably not.
Her shoulder bag was on the table where she had left it last night. However, he had learned the hard way that examining the contents of a woman’s bag could be the near equivalent to an intimate body search. Apart from more general items, e.g. lipstick, deodorant, keys, he could expect to find far more personal items. Or at least a spare pair of pants. He knew male officers who leapt at the opportunity for such a search – but he was not one of them.
It also occurred to him that he was dealing with an intelligent young woman. If there was anything incriminating in the apartment, she knew it, the same as she knew she had left him alone here. So, ignoring any thoughts of a search, he instead did an inspection of the kitchen, making an acceptable job of laying the table for breakfast.
Not too much was said as they ate, though Royle did acknowledge feelings of guilt on hearing how far she’d been on her run, whilst he still slept. But it soon became obvious she had no intention of mentioning last night, though having thought the matter through in her absence he saw no way they could ignore it.
“I guess I had too much wine,” he admitted, aware he was deep into hazardous territory.
“We both had too much, and now you’re wondering how you ended up in my bed?”
He smiled nervously. “It crossed my mind.”
“It was easier, letting you have my bed and me taking the couch.”
From Royle’s point of view this failed to assist; he was unclear still on the finer details. “It’s probably a silly question but what was I doing in your bedroom?”
He watched her face turning pink. “We kind of headed straight there from the cab.”
God, this is embarrassing, he thought, aware how much the idea of holding her naked body against his had occupied his mind over the past two weeks.
“Did we…?”
She gave him the faintest of smiles. “You fell asleep. That must have been some send-off you and Sharon gave Dan before we got to Roberto’s.”
“I undressed myself, then?”
Now her smile seemed aimed more at hiding her own embarrassment. “Not entirely, but I tried not to l
ook.”
He decided there seemed little point in persisting with this, concentrating instead on finishing his breakfast. He poured them both a second coffee, realising how quiet she had gone.
* * *
Charlie knew something else had happened last night, something she had not mentioned. Ordering the second bottle of wine at Roberto’s, she had been aware of the possibilities that this raised, given the amount of whisky he appeared to have consumed earlier at Sharon’s. But she had been interested in perhaps finding out what kind of person might be hidden behind that apparently calm exterior.
By the time they reached her bedroom they had already removed his shirt, though she knew this should not be happening. She was in the process of telling him as much when he collapsed onto the bed, clearly past the point of being dangerous. She really had tried not looking as she undressed him, but could not help noticing three round scars extending in a line across his back. Paula had not been exaggerating, he really had been badly wounded during that rescue mission all those years ago.
She wondered how it was possible to live with those kinds of memories. Whenever he undressed, there were the scars, constantly reminding him, impossible to forget. Admittedly, thousands of men probably had that same experience every day. However, she did not know these other men, but she did know Royle. And she was impressed by the way he appeared to not let it affect his life. Though last night at Roberto’s showed just how close to the surface the scars remained.
* * *
After breakfast Royle inspected the many family photographs on display, while Charlie went to ready herself for the day. Several of the pictures involved women in lace headscarves outside churches, giving the clear impression she came from a Catholic background. He also noted several of Charlie in her teens, some involving horses. Particularly grabbing his attention, though, was a photograph of her in a gym somewhere, in a white judo jacket held closed by a black belt. He also remembered her federal firearms training. It seemed that one way or another Miss Lacey was more than able to look after herself. It also gave serious weight to her claim that she had been about to tackle the man with the knife on their way back from the ranch!
He next turned his attention to the bookcase, aware that, whatever anyone might say about themselves, their preferred reading provided a far more reliable character reference. Charlie’s literary preferences ranged from some major classics, e.g. Jane Austen, and Tolstoy, to perhaps lesser contenders, such as Stephen King and Steinbeck.
Also present, however, were numerous classic medical references, including Clinical Psychiatry, Man’s Search for Meaning, A History of Psychiatry and A Critical Review of Contemporary Psychiatry, though perhaps of more relevance to their present situation, or so Royle thought, was Bancroft’s Human Sexuality and its Problems.
Royle suggested they take Charlie’s car out to the ranch, this being his first opportunity to see what she drove. And he was surprised by her choice – a red Ford Mustang convertible.
“I didn’t have you down as a Mustang woman, or not on a government salary.”
“Daddy spoils me. Girls like being spoiled.”
“He gives you whatever you ask?”
She laughed. “I wish. He lent me the money. Do you like her?”
“I’d be lying if I said no.”
It occurred to Royle that Daddy must love her a great deal, though he remained less than convinced on how she might afford it. Nevertheless, he made a conscious effort to push such thoughts to the back of his mind, at least for the moment.
“I’m guessing you went to a convent school?”
“What makes you ask?”
“Your photographs suggest it.”
“Mama’s family came from Puerto Rico. She and Papa met at university. Spanish is my second language.”
Royle processed this latest piece of information, especially in relation to their pending Mexican visit. It was always useful having someone along who spoke the language.
* * *
Out at the ranch Charlie decided on a walk around the nearby lake, leaving Sam time alone with her father. On the return route she came across Billy tending what was clearly a family grave.
“I was just tidying her up.”
It was obvious who he must be referring to. “This is Sukie’s grave, then?”
“Royle should be here soon; he always brings her flowers.”
“What was Sukie like?” Charlie wondered, and was surprised by his response.
“She had your same calm approach to life; she made every day worthwhile.”
Charlie struggled for a response, realising that somewhere in there she was being complimented. Leaving Billy to finish what he was doing she headed in the direction of the house, turning the Sukie situation over in her mind. She recalled what her friend had said back in the bar at the Mexican conference, as they discussed Royle over a drink. ‘I heard he had a bad experience and went off women.’ There seemed no doubting that Sukie’s death had been that bad experience. But that was years ago, and he was surely too intelligent to go wasting his life in this way.
Back at the house she went in search of Sam and could see that the girl had been crying.
“Your dad told you about Dan?”
Sam switched her attention from what she was doing. “It must have been awful.”
Charlie was cautious with her response, unsure how much detail Royle had given his daughter. “It’s not something I want to repeat,” she admitted, before changing the subject. “I found your mother’s grave while I was walking.”
“Were there fresh flowers?”
Charlie shook her head.
“Then that’s probably what he’s doing now; he always takes her flowers.”
There was not a lot to say regarding the outcome of the shotgun competition. Royle believed he was the victim of some sort of feminine alliance, consequently he was not ready for several of the targets as Sam released them. Whereas Charlie merely pointed to the final score; though he did not deny it when she suggested he deliberately missed two crucial shots.
* * *
Monday morning back in the office for a case update meeting, Whitland commenced by casting a shadow over the occasion.
“The situation’s changed. The lab says Dan was shot before the tiger got its claws into him – hollow-nosed thirty-eight through the back of the head.”
There was silence while the pair took this on board, and Royle was the first to speak.
“On that basis, then, we can’t be sure he was killed on the ranch.”
“I already considered that, Phillip. In fact, the whole nature of this inquiry has changed; it’s now a high-risk operation. Paula has new untraceable phones for both of you.”
“And there’s something else, something I already touched on,” Royle interrupted, “that I need to raise again, now that things have taken this new direction.”
Whitland made a beckoning motion.
“We may not like it, but it needs saying. The mystery airport photographer can only mean someone within the Department is involved.”
“I know where he’s going with this,” his partner interrupted.
“Sure you do. We’ve got two Licensing staff in our office, so who do they report to?”
“I can answer that,” Whitland responded. “They’re from our upstairs Licensing office run by Licensing Head Gus Winnings, up in Tallahassee.”
Royle was quiet for a moment. “We were at Roberto’s Friday evening. While Charlie was powdering her nose, he told me that Sharon and her man Greg Saunders eat there and that Winnings is sometimes with them. I’ve never trusted the man.”
Then, mainly for Whitland’s sake, Royle briefly outlined how he had stopped off again at Sharon Morgan’s apartment Friday evening, and how Dan had allegedly warned her about someone called Toombs.
“I’ve something on
that,” Charlie interrupted, “assuming I have the right Greg Saunders. He has convictions for drug dealing, plus he did three months for beating up his former wife.”
The room went silent for a moment.
“What we seem to have, then,” Whitland suggested, “is someone with a history of drugs and violence living with Dan’s former wife. Plus, Dan had premonitions of his own death. Personally, I find that interesting.”
“Greg Saunders could possibly be our murder suspect,” Royle agreed. “But if there is a connection between Dan’s death and the parrot smuggling he’s been investigating, then we could blow the whole inquiry unless we’re careful.”
Judging by Whitland’s facial reaction Royle’s boss was with him on this point. “Agreed,” he said. “And if I was trying to hide Dan’s murder by feeding him to the tigers then I’d remove his phone and his gun, and more importantly his badge.”
Then, taking advantage of a pause in the discussion, Charlie raised the name Mark van Wynn on the card Royle found by Dan’s desk.
“I got nowhere looking for him in America, but eventually tracked him down via one of Phil’s UK police contacts. Mark van Wynn’s just a fancy name he uses; his real name’s Mick White, from a place in England called Essex. Has convictions for the illegal transport of both birds and eggs.”
* * *
Charlie grasped Royle’s elbow as they exited Whitland’s office, demanding to know what it was about Gus Winnings that worried him so. He steered her towards the lift before escorting her out into the ground floor parking lot, aware that, although she might not accept what he was about to say, it was nevertheless for her ears alone.
“You have to understand I don’t trust Winnings farther than I could throw him.”
She grinned. “I already got that bit.”
“When I first came here Whitland was running the Department, until some months later when he got moved on and Winnings took over.”
“Things changed?”
“Winnings had no idea about even the basics of criminal work, as a direct consequence of which the US Attorney threw out several of our cases. People who were undeniably guilty walked free, including a friend of Winnings’.”
The Consequences of Finding Daniel Morgan Page 7
