“He is a good man,” Doyle said aloud, trying to argue against her growing sense of horror.
“Yes.” Again, a tinge of delicate color rose in her companion’s cheeks.
28
He’d made some discreet inquiries, and it did seem that Harding had not been seen, lately. Surely, the ACC wasn’t so desperate? The case was rock-solid against them, even without Harding.
Doyle sat on the shaded bench, and found that she was having trouble putting two thoughts together. She was waiting for Williams near the fish and chips stand on the embankment, and idly watching the passersby—it must be nice, to go about one’s daily routine without having the feeling that one had better get to solving one’s problems or the world was going to come crashing down on one’s head. Harding is poking at me because the clock is ticking, she thought; I wish I knew whose clock, and what it was counting down.
She spotted Williams approaching from the pavement; he seemed a bit grave, with his hands thrust in his pockets, and his head bent. I’ll not believe it, she thought stoutly. Not for a minute—unless, of course, I’m forced to, which means I’ll have to figure out how to help him, somehow. She mustered up a smile. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.”
He sat next to her, and they were both silent for a few moments. Not good, she thought. He’s wary, and he doesn’t want to meet my eyes.
“What did you want to talk about, Kath?”
She considered, and then decided that she was never very good at roundaboutation, and besides, there was a clock ticking, somewhere. “I’m worried that you’re a David, Thomas.”
He dropped his head, and examined his hands, clasped between his knees. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that means.”
“King David arranged to have one of his generals killed because he coveted the man’s wife. Coveting is not good thing, Thomas—there are rules about it.” She paused, and then added, “There are rules about murder, too.”
He took a long breath. “I didn’t murder Blakney, Kath.”
This was true, and she stared at him with equal parts surprise and relief. “You didn’t? Then why haven’t you told Mary that he’s dead? Faith, Thomas, explain to me what’s goin’ on, here.”
He considered the pavement for a moment. “How much do you know?”
But she shook her head. “I’ll not play that game, my friend. Come clean.”
Slowly, he replied, “I don’t know if I can tell you, Kath. It’s complicated.”
“I know it is,” she agreed in all seriousness. There’s somethin’ going on that I can’t quite figure out, but I’ve got to hurry up and get the web unraveled, before we’re all caught up in it. It has to do with the shadow murders, and the ACC, and—and you, and Munoz.”
At this, he lifted his head and regarded her with a small frown. “Munoz? Is she on this case?”
“No, but she’s the only other person I worry about, aside from you.”
“Why are you worried about Munoz?”
But Doyle had caught herself—truly, she was as loose-lipped as they come—and so she replied in a tart tone, “It occurs to me that I shouldn’t be gabblin’ to you until I find out a bit more. For instance, if you didn’t kill Blakney, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Morgan Percy did. Or someone connected to Percy, since she was at the Santero’s shop, makin’ sure I found his shoes.”
There was a small silence, whilst he turned his gaze toward the river, watching it roll by. “You know, you’re a little spooky.”
Immediately, Doyle was on the defensive. “I’m not creepy, though, like the Santero. There’s a big difference, between spooky and creepy.”
“Absolutely,” he soothed, and she was annoyed to observe that this wasn’t exactly true.
She sank back into the bench to watch the river beside him, and then blew a tendril of hair off her forehead “I almost feel sorry for him, though—for the Santero, I mean. He’s bitter, because he knows he’s bein’ set up for the shadow murders.”
At this observation, Williams couldn’t resist a small smile. “Of course, he knows, Kath—you’re not much of a murderer if you can’t keep track of who you actually murdered, and who you didn’t.”
But Doyle frowned. “It doesn’t make much sense, though. If he knows he’s bein’ set up for some shadow murders, why wouldn’t he tell his defense, so that they can argue that he’s bein’ set up for all of his murders? You’d think it would raise a reasonable doubt.” Suddenly struck, she added, “Although his solicitor didn’t seem interested in doin’ a very good job, remember?”
Williams didn’t speak for a moment, his gaze on the river. “I can’t say that I care much, either way. The Santero is a bad actor, Kath.”
Squinting against the sunlight, she lifted her face to his. “There’re a lot of bad actors in this little kettle of snakes, and don’t think you’ve successfully changed the subject. Tell me about bad-actor Morgan Percy.”
“I don’t know if I can,” he admitted frankly. “I—I didn’t want you to find out.” His gaze still fixed on the river, he pressed his lips into a thin line. “I didn’t want you to find out about any of this.”
She touched his sleeve. “Well, I have, and you are a gobbin’ fool, Thomas Williams, if you think I’d ever let you twist in the wind. For starters, you can tell me about Mary.”
As he bowed his head to contemplate the pavement, she caught a flash of profound misery. “I can’t really explain it. I just—I just want to help her, I guess.” He paused. “She reminds me of you, I think.”
As this was delving into matters best not delved into, she cautioned with mock-severity, “Don’t you dare poach Edward’s nanny from me.”
At this sally, he turned his head to smile at her—but it took a mighty effort. “Right, then.”
“Why won’t you tell her Blakney’s dead?”
“Because it’s my fault he’s dead.” He lifted his head again, to contemplate the river. “Because it’s my fault.”
She took his arm, and shook it slightly. “Tell me plainly, please.”
He took a breath, but she could see that some of the abject misery was dissipating, slightly. “I told Morgan about Mary.”
Doyle stared at him in astonishment. “You told Morgan Percy? Faith, Thomas; you’re lucky she didn’t hale off and kill poor Mary, straightaway. Percy’s not the type to suffer a rival.”
“It was during a weak moment. We were talking about—about people who we wished weren’t off-limits.”
Oh-oh, she thought; time to skirt this particular subject, yet again. Adopting a light tone, she curled her hand in the crook of his elbow, and scolded, “This is exactly why you shouldn’t be havin’ sex with anyone who’s willin’, Thomas. You can’t be givin’ away state secrets, durin’ pillow talk.”
Logically, he countered, “Well, it’s against the law to have sex with anyone who’s not willing.”
“I suppose that’s a fair point.”
All teasing aside, he turned his head to meet her eyes. “But it was a stupid move on my part—we’re on different sides of the same case. I can be brought up before Professional Standards.”
“Saints, best avoid such a thing at all costs—we know that they’re all a bunch of chousers, over there.” With absent fingers, Doyle pleated her scarf, and thought about it. “So, Percy—who doesn’t mind killin’ people, if the occasion warrants—kills Blakney as a favor to you, and knows you can’t grass on her, because you could lose your badge. Not to mention poor Mary would be horrified by such wicked goin’s-on, and would never speak to you again. Is that it?”
He nodded. “Something like that.”
But Doyle frowned, and shook her head. “That doesn’t seem in keepin’, my friend. Percy may be willin’ to kill people to suit herself, but she’s not the doin’-favors type. Mayhap instead, she’s a Judith.”
He hunched a shoulder. “Does Judith know David?”
“Oh—oh, you’re such a heathen, Thomas. Judith was a seductres
s—a honeypot, who was sent to seduce the enemy general.” Her scalp prickled, and she knew that she was on the right track, but she couldn’t very well tell Williams this, because men didn’t appreciate being told that they were idiots when it came to women. “Do me a favor, and try to avoid her until I do a bit more diggin’. But don’t let her know that I’m suspicionin’ her motives, or that you’re wary. I think there’s a trap about to be sprung, and since I’m the one who’s got the upper hand for some reason, I’m the one who’s got to stop it.”
Frowning, he met her gaze. “What sort of trap?”
But she could only raise her palms in bewilderment. “If only I knew, my friend. But it’s important that I figure it out, and I think I’m one step closer, now.” She paused. “What does ‘hubris’ mean?”
His brows drew together. “Hubris? I think you may have the wrong word, Kath. Hubris is from Greek mythology.”
“Oh—yes, that’s it, I’m sure. It has to do with some goddess who lurks about—although I’d no idea that goddesses could be so crackin’ nasty.”
“Hubris isn’t a goddess—hubris is when the hero thinks he’s invincible, so the gods have to teach him a lesson, and show him that he’s not.”
She regarded him in surprise. “Oh—is that all? Well, that’s nothin’ new; ‘pride goeth before a fall’, after all.”
“There you go—same idea.” He contemplated his hands, for a moment. “Do you think Acton is the one setting a trap?”
“Oh, indeed he is, but it’s not for you—I’ve already asked him. The trap I’m worried about is not an Acton-trap.” She frowned, thinking about it. “There are competing traps, I suppose; it’s all a bit bewilderin’, truly, and I wish—just once—that someone would give me a simple list of the things I’m supposed to be findin’ out.”
He bumped her shoulder with his own. “You’re a good detective, Kath. You just go about it differently than most.”
“I will count that as a compliment, and much appreciated. On the other hand, you’re an excellent detective, which means you must be aware that Acton already knows about Blakney—knows about this whole mess.”
“Yes,” her companion replied in a bleak tone, dropping his head down again. “I’m sure he knows.”
“And yet he hasn’t said anythin’ about it?”
“No.” The single syllable hung between them.
She tugged at his arm. “Well—shouldn’t you speak with him, and make a clean breast?”
“I’d—I’d rather not.”
“It’s embarrassin’, this mess,” she agreed. “But it would be a million times more embarrassin’ to be beholden to the likes of Morgan Percy.”
“I won’t let that happen,” he replied in a firm tone, and this appeared to be the truth.
She cautioned, “Well, don’t you dare do anythin’ that would make them yank your badge, Thomas; they’ll promote Munoz to take your place, and I’ll never hear the end of it.”
He sighed, and bent his head to run his hands through his hair. “Acton must think I’m an idiot.”
Doyle noted with some satisfaction that his abject misery had nearly disappeared, and sympathetically, she laid a hand on his arm. “No; Acton is very fond of you. I think you remind him of him, in a way—if things hadn’t gone a bit awry, earlier in his life.”
“So, what’s next?”
She knew that he was asking what she’d say to Acton, which—come to think of it—was an excellent question. “Let me think on it—I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, I’m supposed to set up a psychological manipulation through covert intimidation, but I’ve no idea who the target is.”
Incredulous, he stared at her. “Psyops? You?”
“Oh, I can bad-cop with the best of them, my friend.”
At this, he chuckled aloud, and she was very much relieved to hear the sound.
29
In the end, it didn’t really matter whether Harding lived. It would soon be resolved, just as he’d planned.
I’m that tired of being paranoid, Doyle thought with extreme vexation, as she hurried back to headquarters. Especially since it always seems to be with just cause.
The stray thought that she’d entertained whilst sitting next to Williams suddenly seemed hugely significant, and therefore it was with enormous relief that she spied Munoz, working away in the confines of her cubicle.
“Munoz.” Doyle was slightly out of breath, and crossed her arms across the top of the cubicle’s wall, so as to address the other girl. “Let’s have lunch.”
“Too late—I already had lunch,” said Munoz, without looking up.
“Well, I haven’t, and I need some company. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes—let’s go off-campus, to the deli.”
“Can’t. Busy.”
Doyle leaned over, and relayed in a stage whisper, “I have good gossip.”
Without moving her head, Munoz slid her dark eyes up toward Doyle. “You don’t gossip.”
“I do so,” Doyle retorted, stung. “It’s just that no one ever tells me anythin’.”
“Wonder why?” Munoz’s gaze dropped back to her work.
“It’s about promotions.”
This was a sure sign of Doyle’s desperation, and Munoz recognized it as such. “Acton doesn’t tell you about promotions.”
Doyle resorted to pleading. “Please, Munoz—it’s a lovely day, and I need to take a walk-about.”
With a resigned snap, Munoz closed her laptop. “Fine. But I want a Santero assignment—remember, you promised me.”
“Done,” Doyle agreed. Williams owed her a favor, surely.
The two girls made their way to the lobby, and out the front doors in silence. As they reached the pavement, Munoz prompted, “So? What has you all worked up?”
Doyle cast a carefree glance at the shop windows, but replied in a low voice, “Wait—I want to make sure we’re away from the surveillance cameras on the roof.”
To her credit, Munoz took this rather grim revelation in stride, and casually pulled out her compact, pretending to check her make-up as she glanced behind them in the mirror. “Are you worried that we’re being followed?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Doyle had been furiously trying to figure out what she was going to say to the other girl, because she definitely couldn’t tell her the truth. Earlier, when she’d mentioned to Williams that he and Munoz were the only people she worried about, suddenly it struck her; not-so-coincidentally, Harding was prodding her to find out what was going on with Munoz and Williams. Between those two, the common denominator would appear to be the fair Doyle.
The corruption rig had blackmailed its victims by threatening their female relatives with sex slavery. Doyle had no sisters—faith, she’d no relatives a’tall—but everyone knew that she was thick with Williams, and everyone thought she and Munoz were devoted friends, due to the stupid bridge-jumping incident. So—perhaps someone was trying to find a means to manipulate her—or more correctly, a means to manipulate Acton, since she was an insignificant player, save for the fact that she was married to the man. It all made sense; Harding was Acton’s psychiatrist, and he must have told the evildoers that she was the potential chink in Acton’s mighty armor.
Munoz’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Do we need to find a POA?”
A position of advantage was a place where an officer had a better chance of defending against an attacker. Doyle noted that Munoz was only half-joking, and tried to reassure her, “I know I’m soundin’ paranoid, but I’ve heard somethin’ and I can’t say where I heard it, but I’m worried you’re gettin’ set up for a crime.” This was an educated guess; Williams had been set up for a crime, and it would explain why Munoz was positioned at the racecourse, where crimes ran rampant.
Munoz thought about this as they walked along. “Is it Gabriel, who’s setting me up?”
Startled, Doyle glanced at her. “No—not Gabriel. Or, at least I don’t think so. Why?”
The beauty shrugge
d. “He was chatting me up this morning, but I think he was really trying to find out about my ACC assignment.”
This was of interest, and Doyle seized upon this opportunity to be diverted. “Chatting you up? Really? He’s rather handsome, I think.”
“Not as handsome as Savoie.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Munoz—Savoie isn’t exactly magazine-handsome.”
“Sexy,” Munoz corrected. “Gabriel’s not as sexy as Savoie.”
Doyle considered this, and decided it was probably a fair point—leave it to a sinister Frenchman, to carry off the sexy-flag. “What do we know about Gabriel? Mayhap his family is rich, and even if he’s not as rich as Savoie, the odds are good that he’s not a criminal kingpin, which would weigh in his favor.”
Munoz’s sharp gaze reviewed the pedestrians passing around them, but she disclosed a bit bleakly, “Savoie said he may have to go back to the continent and lay low for a while, but he wouldn’t tell me why.”
Doyle recalled that the third succession hearing was the day after tomorrow, and tried to decide if this bit of news was ominous or encouraging. Then, with some regret, she decided that she could no longer avoid the topic at hand, and reiterated, “I’m worried that you’re bein’ set up.” She knit her brow. “I don’t think its Gabriel, who’s doin’ the settin’ up, though. I think—I think it may be someone at the ACC.”
Mentally, she cringed, waiting for Munoz to castigate her about spouting such nonsense, but instead the girl nodded, thoughtfully. “Do you mind if we keep walking? There’s a juice shop, over two blocks.”
“What kind of juice?” Doyle asked suspiciously. “Does it involve kale?”
“The healthy kind of juice, idiot. Try to think about the baby, and how he’d like something not greasy, just once.”
Murder in Shadow (The Doyle and Acton Murder Series Book 6) Page 16
