Murder in Misdirection

by Anne Cleeland

  ready to rise. “Let me speak with Acton, and see what he says—if it involves Drake, he may want to tread carefully.”

  “All right; let me know if you need my help, otherwise I’ll stand down.”

  But as she took his arm to gain her feet, her scalp prickled, and she paused. “Would it be worth lookin’ for a link to your cases? If this fellow was embezzlin’ from his clients, mayhap he was connected to that embezzlement scheme you’ve been workin’ on. It just seems so coincidental—that financial people are committin’ suicide willy-nilly, and meanwhile there’s a lot of money gone missin’ from the corruption rig.”

  But Williams shrugged, as he helped her down the steps. “You’d be surprised how much white collar embezzlement is going on, Kath—it’s practically an epidemic. And besides, the one I’m chasing is a cascade scheme, which is probably beyond this victim’s pay grade.”

  She squinted up at him. “Tell me what that means, Thomas, in plain language.”

  “It’s called ‘running a cascade’. There are multiple connected accounts set up, and as soon as law enforcement closes in on one, those players disappear and the money is funneled into another account—often carried over as cash, and by hand, so it’s difficult to trace—and other players pick up where the first ones left off. It can keep building up indefinitely.”

  She grimaced. “Faith, it sounds like blind man’s bluff, with the Met as the blind man.”

  He nodded in acknowledgement. “Similar. It’s frustrating; just when we think we’re getting close, the trail disappears, and

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  the money just keeps building up at another location. So, instead of the usual case—where we trace the missing money electronically—whenever we think there’s a cascade scheme, we try to find a player who is willing to grass, instead of wasting our time trying to trace the funds. We look for the money only after we’ve ID’d the suspects, and can apply some pressure on someone.”

  Gazing into the distance, she said slowly, “But you can’t even do that, if the people who would normally be the grassers keep turnin’ up dead-by-suicide.”

  They’d stopped before his car, parked on the street, and he thought this over for a moment. “I suppose it’s possible, but it seems unlikely, Kath. Embezzlers at this high level tend to be white-collar, savvy financial people, and—most importantly— they tend not to be killers. And besides, someone would have connected those dots before now—it would have been obvious.”

  “Not if these financial district suicides are really misdirection murders.”

  To his credit, Williams was willing to consider this possibility, as he helped her into the passenger seat. “All right. I’ll have someone see if there’s any kind of correlation. Munoz, maybe—she’s working on known associates, already.”

  But Doyle could not hide her sidelined dismay at this revelation, and stared at him in surprise. “What? Munoz is workin’ on financial crimes, now?”

  Williams shrugged a shoulder. “We’re short-handed, and she’s good with numbers.”

  “I’ve never met a number that didn’t hate me,” Doyle admitted in a glum tone.

  He closed the door, and came around to slide in the driver’s seat. “Cheer up; she’d change places with you in a heartbeat.”

  Somewhat comforted by this thought, Doyle asked, “Has she said anything about Savoie’s bein’ in prison?” Detective Sergeant

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  Munoz had been dating Savoie, before he’d landed himself in the nick. The relationship had necessarily been kept rather quiet, being as a DS at the CID probably shouldn’t be dating someone who figured so prominently on the Watch List.

  But Williams would not be drawn. “If you think I’m going to bring up that subject with her, you’ve got another think coming.” Doyle ventured, “Well, I think Officer Gabriel rather fancies

  her.”

  Amused, he met her gaze for a moment, as he pulled out of the space into the street. “I don’t think that means much, Kath— everyone fancies her.”

  “Except you.”

  “Except me,” he agreed, as he navigated into traffic. “And besides, Gabriel’s got a live-in girlfriend.”

  Doyle frowned for a moment. “That’s what everyone keeps sayin’, but have you ever met her?”

  He laughed, as he turned toward Kensington. “Do you think he’s making it up?”

  “I don’t know what I think,” Doyle admitted a bit crossly, and as usual, it was true.

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  Perhaps in a few days he’d suggest,

  very gently, that they retire to Trestles.

  D oyle was relieved to find that her husband had beaten her home for lunch, and that Reynolds had prepared some sort of quiche before making himself scarce, so

  that for a few blessed minutes it was just the two of them.

  “Like old times,” she teased, as he helped her sit. “Never to return.”

  He smiled slightly, as he seated himself across from her. “I am given to understand that those who’ve had children are the happier for it.”

  “I don’t doubt it, Michael, but you have to admit they expect you to take a giant leap of faith, in the meantime.”

  “They do,” he agreed, and lifted his fork.

  They ate for a while in companionable silence—it was one of the things she missed about their former life; she and he were not the sort of people who needed to fill the silences. Thinking along these lines, she glanced up at him. “Do you play chess?”

  Surprised, he met her gaze. “Not as of late. Why?” “Edward’s goin’ to want to play chess with you,” she

  pronounced. “So, best be ready.”

  He raised his brows, and re-addressed his meal. “I will have to brush-up.”

  “Not right away, of course,” she cautioned. “He has to learn to talk and such, first.”

  “Understood.”

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  Doyle bent to her own meal again, satisfied. Whilst she was not the social type, Acton was an out-and-out recluse—faith, he was still adjusting to her presence, in his life. She’d hit upon the chess-playing idea as a means to rope him in to spending quality time with his son, just in case he wasn’t naturally inclined to do so. Besides, chess seemed like something the aristocrats liked to do, if the shows on the telly were any indication. She could watch, and keep score.

  Pausing, she glanced up at him again. “I think Williams is worried that he’s still in your black book.”

  Her husband reached for his glass. “No; Williams is not in my black book.” It was true, and he knew that she would know it was true, and it was overall a huge relief—although why it would be a huge relief remained unclear; it had something to do with her conviction that her husband was up to something.

  Watching him for a moment, she asked, “Is Drake in your black book? He’s been layin’ low, lately.”

  Acton cut another piece—he was the sort of person who would use a knife on quiche—and offered, “Drake is lucky he is not in prison.”

  She ventured, “Thanks to you, I think.”

  He paused in lifting his glass, and glanced out the window for a moment. “There were extenuating circumstances.”

  This was true, and Doyle bent to push her quiche around with her fork. “Well, I hope he’s learned his lesson, and will stray no more. The last thing we need is another brass officer in the nick—can’t imagine he’d start evangelizin,’ like the DCS.”

  “Unlikely,” Acton agreed with a smile. “Although the DCS was an unlikely candidate, himself.”

  “A gallows conversion,” she agreed with a touch of derision, and then hastily decided that perhaps she shouldn’t raise the subject of insincere religious conversions—after all, the jury was still out when it came to her better half, here. Therefore, there

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  was no time like
the present to bring up the primary topic to be addressed. “Whilst I was at the church, Father John wanted me to meet with a bereaved couple who were worried that their son’s suicide was actually a homicide.”

  She had the immediate sense that he was not pleased, and so she hastened to assure him, “I’m not workin’ the case, I promise. It’s more that they’re lookin’ for the bishop to grant absolution, so that their son can have a funeral mass.”

  “What is the name?”

  She told him, and he pulled his mobile to make a note of it. “I will look into it.”

  Tentatively, she suggested, “Father John hinted that if a murder case was opened, it may be enough for the bishop to allow absolution straightaway.”

  Lifting a brow, he glanced up at her. “Do we want to put a thumb on the scales?”

  “No,” she admitted. “If it’s truly a suicide, then the bishop’s hand shouldn’t be forced—he answers to a higher authority. But I felt sorry for them—the parents, I mean; I think they knew he was guilty of his crimes, and couldn’t decide which was more shameful, that he was murdered for his sins, or that he was unshriven.”

  “I will do a review, and see whether a follow-up is necessary,” he assured her, and sheathed his mobile.

  That’s odd, she thought; he didn’t ask who’d handled it, and since it was Drake, it meant he’d be meddling in another DCI’s file. Not that the protocols mattered much to Acton in the first place, of course.

  Before she could fill him in, however, he’d moved on to the next topic, and leaned back to regard her thoughtfully. “I am wondering if we should arrange for Gemma to attend the same school as Emile, when the fall session begins. St. Margaret’s has a

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  pre-school program, and Gemma would benefit from socialization with other children, I think.”

  Rather surprised that he’d even considered it, Doyle considered it in turn. “All right, Michael, I’ll mention it to Mary.” She made a wry mouth. “It goes without sayin’ that she’ll be all afret about your payin’ for it.”

  “Then she must be convinced it would be no burden, but instead a benefit to us. Mary would be free to concentrate on Edward, and Gemma can be amongst other children her own age. It would be for a few hours, only.”

  “Gemma’s very shy,” Doyle agreed. “I hope it won’t traumatize the poor thing, to be pitchforked amongst the toffs.” Doyle could relate, having been pitchforked amongst the toffs, herself.

  Acton contemplated this aspect for a moment, but concluded, “If she is unhappy, then we will reconsider. But we will be sponsoring her, and so surely the staff will smooth her way.”

  Doyle couldn’t help but smile, as she reached for his hand. “So; we find out that you are as kind as you are generous.”

  She expected a teasing response, but instead he held the hand in his, and met her eyes with all seriousness. “I suppose her situation reminds me of your situation, when you were growing up in Dublin, with your mother.”

  Touched, she pulled his hand toward her to kiss its back. “My ‘situation’ turned out very well, I’m thinkin’.”

  But she caught a glimpse of deep unhappiness, as he continued, “You suffered so many hardships. I wish I’d been able to smooth your way.”

  Gently, she reminded him, “My mother never made it seem so, Michael. We always had each other, and it always seemed enough. And besides, you’ve forgotten your scripture about

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  purifyin’ the gold—you’re supposed to look at hardships as part of the grand plan.”

  “No more hardships,” he pronounced with certainty. “I will see to it.”

  “If you say so, Michael,” she returned diplomatically, and wondered why her scalp was prickling; it was not as though he could wave a magic wand, and make it so. “And I will agree with you in that it seems no one’s paid much attention to poor little Gemma—save Mary, of course.”

  Acton nodded. “And even Mary’s not been long in her life.” “I suppose not, if Gemma only went to live with Blakney and

  Mary after Giselle was murdered.” She glanced up at him. “Although you’re not sure Giselle was her mother in the first place, I think.”

  “No, I’m not,” he agreed, and contemplated the glass in his hand. “Although I’m not certain it’s worth untangling.”

  Doyle teased, “It’s that wretched ‘army-man’, again, isn’t it? He’s thrown you off, but I’ll bet a penny to a pound that he and Blakney were just mates, and Blakney called him ‘sir’ as a laugh.” “I might agree with you,” Acton replied, “except for the

  interesting fact that Gemma attended their meetings.”

  Doyle blinked, as this did seem strange—and again, trust Acton to have noticed it. “Then mayhap the ‘army-man’ was her true father, who wasn’t able to raise her, for some reason. He was married, or stationed overseas, or somethin’.”

  “Perhaps,” Acton agreed.

  His mobile pinged, and all further discussion was put paid by the arrival of Lizzie Mathis and Emile, who did not seem at all fazed by the fact that his father was incarcerated in a Category B prison, and instead described the visit with a great deal of enthusiasm. “The guard pinned my drawing up on the wall, so that everyone could see it. He wore a gun, but he wouldn’t let me hold it.”

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  “No?” said Acton. “You astonish me.”

  “They played football with me in the hallway—I scored the most points.”

  “Faith, Emile; you’re supposed to be visitin’ your poor Papa,” Doyle reminded him.

  But Emile only laughed. “Papa played, too. He was on my team.”

  “Ah,” said Doyle.

  “He said I was to be nice to you, because you were being so nice to me.” He paused, and then added, “He told me I wasn’t going back to St. Petersburg—that was all a mistake.”

  “I am that happy to hear it,” Doyle replied gamefully. “We’d surely miss you.”

  “I’ll be going, then,” Mathis advised, as she headed for the door.

  With some alarm, Doyle watched Mathis ditch them, and asked Acton, “When’s Reynolds due back?”

  “I will call him,” Acton offered, and walked into the bedroom, toward the sanctuary of his desk.

  “Watch this, watch this,” Emile called out excitedly, and then proceeded to do a dramatic re-enactment of one of his prison-hallway goals, using an imaginary ball.

  Doyle sank into the sofa to watch him for a moment, and then offered in a loud voice, “D’you know what, Emile? I know someone who wants to take you to the zoo.”

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  He was quite looking forward to his confirmation.

  T hat night, Doyle had one of her dreams.

  She had them, occasionally—only they weren’t truly very dream-like; instead they usually featured some person—oftentimes a dead person—who was trying to convey some sort of message. The message never seemed to be straightforward, and the dreams were—truth to tell—a bit frustrating, because the message invariably concerned some dire event that was unfolding or about to unfold, and Doyle always felt as though she wasn’t quite up to the task of deciphering whatever it was that she was supposed to be deciphering. Nonetheless, she was never anxious or frightened by these dreams; mainly, she was resigned to paying attention, even

  though it was never very easy.

  This time, the person who confronted her was entirely unexpected; the small, slight figure of a priest smiled at her benignly. His hands were clasped before him, and he appeared to be of an Asian race—Pacific Islander, perhaps.

  Since he made no attempt to speak, Doyle ventured, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Oh, no,” the priest shook his head, slightly. “No.”

  He smiled his serene smile, and didn’t seem motivated to continue the conversation.

  “What’s happened to you?” This
seemed the appropriate gambit to get the dire-warnings conversation started; she had some sleep to catch, in miserable snatches, and this fellow was breaking up her fitful rhythm.