Murder in Misdirection

by Anne Cleeland

  Munoz paused on the threshold and lifted her face in appreciation. “Tapas Española,” she pronounced, throwing down her rucksack. “I haven’t had any in forever.”

  “It will be ready shortly, Miss Munoz,” Reynolds advised in a deferential manner.

  He’s never so willing to cook me up even a small blood pudding, thought Doyle with deep disgust; love is a shameful, shameful thing.

  From his position at the stove, Emile turned his head to smile at the newcomer. “Hallo, Isabel.”

  Munoz walked over to stand behind the boy, and watch him as he carefully stirred the concoction in the pan. “Hallo Emile. I bet it was nice surprise to see your Papa.”

  “I’m going for a visit, tomorrow.” Emile announced importantly.

  Doyle offered in a sour tone, “Are you? Faith, the poor guards must need to even the numbers, for their next football match.”

  Reminded, Emile declared, “I’ll make another picture for the wall.”

  “You could draw a switchblade, Doyle suggested darkly. “I’ve half a mind to draw one, myself.”

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  “You’re in a mood,” Munoz noted, reaching to assist the boy as he stranded a potato slice on the pan’s rim. “Maybe you should go back to bed.”

  Doyle collapsed into a kitchen chair. “Sorry. It comes from feelin’ like a walrus in a fish tank.”

  “Cheer up; after lunch, we’ll go for a walk around the block. Some fresh air will do you good.”

  This was of interest, as it indicated that Munoz wanted to speak in private. Come to think of it, the girl was in a remarkably cheerful mood—cheerful for Munoz, that was—and immediately Doyle was suspicious of her motives; a cheerful Munoz didn’t necessarily bode well for the fair Doyle. “When’s Drake’s funeral? Have you heard?”

  “No, I haven’t. They may want to keep it private.”

  Doyle considered this. “They’ll have to hold a memorial service at headquarters, at the very least. Can’t just have a DCI die, without a peep.”

  Munoz cast Doyle a significant look, as Reynolds saw her seated at the table. “Maybe they’re afraid too many grieving girlfriends will show up.”

  Doyle laughed. “Now, there’s a sleeping dog who should be allowed to lie, in every sense of the word.”

  “Ladies,” Reynolds interrupted. “Who would care for lemonade?” He then cast an admonitory eye in the direction of the children, and Doyle duly changed the subject to a less salacious one. “Who’s taking over Drake’s caseload?”

  “I am. They’re promoting me to DCI.”

  Reynolds turned to smile at Munoz, even though he surely must know that such news would not be at all welcome to the lady of the house. “How wonderful, Miss Munoz; my deepest congratulations.”

  Doyle quirked her mouth. “She’s jokin’, Reynolds. There’s no way on God’s green earth that she’d leap-frog Williams.”

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  “All too true,” Munoz admitted without rancor, and accepted her plate from Reynolds. “I think they’re dividing up the caseload amongst the other DCIs, as a temporary measure. I shouldn’t be surprised if they transfer someone in—we’re in need of an extra hand, at the top.”

  “I’d feel sorry for the poor transfer,” Doyle noted. “I’d hate to be pitch-forked from some peaceful place into this unholy mess.”

  But Munoz only shrugged, and lifted her glass. “I imagine there are more than a few who are dying to come to the Met; we’ve a lot more murders out this way, and so there’s a better chance to make your bones.”

  “I suppose that’s a mark in our favor,” Doyle agreed. “City-folk are a murderous bunch.”

  “Ladies,” Reynolds interrupted again.

  Suitably chastened, the two girls turned the topic, and after they’d eaten, Reynolds enlisted the children to help him do the wash-up whilst Doyle and Munoz made their way downstairs.

  It was a lovely, warm day, and Doyle took as deep a breath as she was able, lifting her face to the sunshine. She’d passed another indifferent night, tossing and turning, and had decided— for reasons she couldn’t truly name—that she was not going to ask her husband about Drake’s murder of the suicide-embezzler. Not just yet, anyways—there was something there—something alarming—and it was hovering just outside the edges of her poor pregnant-brain.

  Munoz was quiet, and Doyle could sense that the other girl was trying to decide how best to broach whatever subject it was that she was wanting to broach, and so Doyle prompted, “If you’ve truly been promoted, Munoz, I don’t want to hear it.”

  “No—no promotion. Gabriel wants to marry me.”

  Doyle stopped short, and stared at her in open astonishment. “Gabriel does?”

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  Munoz laughed, very pleased with Doyle’s reaction. “I know—it’s completely crazy. He showed me a four-carat diamond, and told me he’d marry me tomorrow, if I liked.”

  Shaking her head in wonderment, Doyle could only admire the man’s ability to understand what would be most pleasing to her companion. “Well, I’d say somethin’ about marryin’ in haste, but it would be a case of the pot and the kettle, so I won’t.”

  Munoz laughed again. “Not really; I’m not going to jump, of course. But it’s an interesting development, considering he’s already got a girlfriend, and we haven’t even gone out on a date.” Doyle commenced walking again. “I think—I think his

  relationship with Tasza is more plasonic, Munoz.”

  “Platonic, you mean. Yes—he said something about how she’ll be moving out, soon. But mainly I wanted to ask what you thought of him.” She paused, and then admitted almost grudgingly, “You’ve got a good sense, when it comes to people.”

  Doyle frowned, because this was rather a sticky wicket; she wasn’t sure what she thought about Gabriel. “I like him,” she offered. “And I think he’s very sharp.”

  “Yes,” the girl agreed, her beautiful brows knit, as she gazed out over the flower beds. “I don’t know if that’s a point in his favor.”

  “You want someone you can respect, Izzy.”

  “I suppose,” the girl agreed a bit doubtfully. “I don’t think he’s RC.”

  “I don’t think so, either,” Doyle conceded. “But he’s not said, either way. On the other hand, Tasza’s an evangelical, so it’s not like he has any objection to religious beliefs.”

  Now it was Munoz’s turn to stare in surprise. “Tasza is? I never would have guessed it.”

  With a small shrug, Doyle agreed. “Me, neither. It’s true, though—she told me so herself. Apparently, she’s a big fan of the DCS, and follows his prison ministry broadcasts.”

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  Munoz made a derisive sound in her throat. “Just when I think people can’t possibly be that gullible, I’m proved wrong.”

  “It’s a low bar,” Doyle agreed. “On the other hand, gullible people send a lot of business the Met’s way.”

  But Munoz only shook her head. “I can’t believe anyone thinks he’s sincere.”

  “But they do. And it’s such a common tale—a prisoner touts a religious conversion in order to get a bit more freedom, and good behavior credit.”

  Gazing at the sky overhead for a moment, Munoz considered this. “I don’t know; in his case, I think it’s all about getting attention. It must kill him, not to be running things anymore.”

  Doyle could only agree—having spent a memorable evening with the man when he’d tried to frame Acton, on that dark and stormy night. “Yes, he’s someone who likes the attention. But I suppose—at the heart—you’re more of a politician than a copper, anyway, if you wind up bein’ the DCS at Scotland Yard.”

  “And now he’s found his next rig.”

  “You have to hand it to him,” Doyle agreed ironically. Munoz glanced over at her. “It’s strange, though, to think

  that someone like Ta
sza is a true believer.”

  Suddenly struck, Doyle frowned. “She’s LEO, though; so mayhap she’s investigatin’ him. Mayhap she’s investigatin’ the DCS.”

  Once again, Munoz stared in surprise. “Tasza’s LEO?”

  Doyle nodded. “Yes, although no one seems to know it— Gabriel’s been keepin’ her under wraps. She’s in forensics.”

  Munoz gave Doyle a look. “If she’s forensics, then she’s not investigating the DCS, Doyle—she wouldn’t be doing field work, especially undercover field work. Besides, there’d be little point to it; he’s already in prison for a long time.”

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  This seemed self-evident, and Doyle felt a bit foolish. “No— you’re right, of course. Faith, I hate bein’ stuck at home; my brain’s gettin’ rusty.”

  They’d come to the end of the block, and now turned around to head back—apparently, Munoz wasn’t willing to commit to an entire block-circling excursion. “Well, you should count your blessings. Acton’s put an ugly homicide on my plate— a middle-aged male with his genitals cut off, so they think it’s a spite murder.”

  Doyle grimaced in sympathy; spite murders tended to be brutal, messy affairs because the murderer hated the victim, and wanted everyone to know this. These were the murders that were done with dozens of stab wounds, or where the corpse had been tortured, or mutilated. “Any suspects?”

  “Not yet, I’m still doing a prelim.” With a philosophical shrug, the other girl added, “On the other hand, it shouldn’t take much legwork.”

  This was something they taught you at the Crime Academy; a spite murder almost never went cold, because the killer was so incensed that he—or she—usually left a ton of evidence that pointed a big, shiny arrow directly at themselves.

  This seemed an opportune time to ask what she needed to ask, and so Doyle adopted a casual air. “Speakin’ of legwork, Munoz, I hope you don’t mind if I ask another small favor—it’s about that inheritance, again, remember? They need to see the dental autopsy—to verify that the dead woman was indeed the charwoman—before they divvy up the money.”

  But Munoz, true to form, was not going to buy whatever Doyle was selling without some serious pushback. “That makes no sense, Doyle. Wouldn’t the death certificate be all that’s needed? It would identify the victim, for legal purposes.”

  Fortunately, Doyle had anticipated just such an objection, and so she lowered her voice. “It’s rather a messy situation,

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  though. Because there’s money to be had, some shirt-tail relatives are claiming that it’s all a hoax, and that the death certificate was forged. I’m hopin’ to save everyone a lot of fussin’ and legal fees, and produce the dental report so as to lay all challenges to rest.”

  Munoz sighed, very much put-upon. “All right; as long as it doesn’t involve a big time commitment. And I appreciate it, that you didn’t pull the rescue card.”

  This, in reference to the fact that Doyle had fished the fair Munoz out of the river, once upon a time. “Faith, Munoz; I hate the rescue card as much as you do.”

  Munoz smiled slightly, and glanced at Doyle. “Gabriel doesn’t really look at it as a rescue; he said he couldn’t believe that I was strong enough to hang on until you came—that I was one out of a million.”

  Again, Doyle could only admire Gabriel’s courtship-cunning. “I suppose that’s true, Munoz; when you think about it, you really rescued yourself.”

  The other girl made a wry mouth. “Nice try, Doyle. I’m not the one who was given a commendation for bravery.”

  Doyle made her own wry mouth. “And from the DCS, no less.”

  “Life is very unpredictable,” the other girl observed, and Doyle could see that she was very pleased with the Gabriel-development. So was Doyle, for that matter, as she’d been hoping that the latest Savoie-development wouldn’t result in an epic rage-fit; Munoz was a fiery one, and Doyle didn’t tolerate fiery ones very well.

  As they turned to head back to the flat, Doyle teased. “You may not owe me anythin’ for the stupid rescue, Munoz, but please don’t marry Gabriel, because the next thing I know, you’ll be hirin’ Reynolds away.”

  “I’ll make no promises,” the girl replied, and it was true.

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  Chapter 25

  “Those who carried burdens took their load with one hand doing the work, and the other holding a weapon.”

  Acton had texted to say he’d be home a bit late, and not to hold dinner. This was just as well, because Williams had dropped off a copy of the missing persons list, and whilst Gemma was being ferried home by the others, Doyle had a chance to pull it out of the envelope and look it over, to see if

  anything leapt out.

  As always, it was a bit discouraging to see how many women had gone missing in a two-month period, but when Doyle concentrated on the names, running a finger down them, she didn’t catch a sense that any one of them was of interest.

  It was rather sad, to review the stark list on the government print-out paper, but Doyle comforted herself with the knowledge that someone, somewhere, must be missing them; there wouldn’t have been a report filed, else.

  As she slid the document back into the envelope, however, she also acknowledged that there were undoubtedly other women who’d dropped out of sight with no one to care, one way or another. Her scalp prickled, and she paused. So—someone was missing, and there was no one to care? The charwoman, who was pretending to be dead? No—her brother cared very much, and was prodding the fair Doyle to ease the woman’s mind, somehow. Who, then?

  For reasons that she could not explain, she immediately thought of Gemma, and how she’d said the Russian word—but that made no sense; this misdirection murder was a grown

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  woman, and besides, no one was searching for Gemma. And even if they were, it was not as though the little girl would be difficult to trace.

  Looking out the window, she frowned, because she felt the answer was tantalizingly close; a woman was missing, it was someone who shouldn’t be a surprise, and if Doyle didn’t have overly-pregnant brain, she’d probably figure it out in an instant.

  Her mobile pinged, and she looked to see that it was Reynolds, returning with Emile from their car-ride. She fingered the phone, and wished it was Acton, instead. He knows who’s missing-and-unmourned, she thought, because the wretched man is paying blood-money to keep it quiet. I’ve got to go to the source, then, and figure out some way to winkle the information out of him, even though my winkling attempts never seem to work out because Acton is a wily one, and he can run rings around me in terms of wiliness.

  As she stuffed the list into the empty sugar canister, she braced herself for Emile’s re-entry and decided that she’d just go forward without any particular winkling-out plan, since having no plan always seemed to work out best, anyways. Mustering up a smile, she greeted Emile—who literally began leaping across the room—and listened to Reynolds’ recommendations for the dinner menu.

  Acton returned just after dinner, and she knew immediately that he was tired—a rarity for him, since he never seemed to exert himself, overmuch; he was too well-bred to exert himself. The only time she’d seen him tired was when he was having a pretend-affair, which was definitely not the case at present, because he was too busy cooking-up some plot that involved misdirection murders and long-delayed vengeance.

  Reynolds respectfully took Acton’s valise. “I have kept your plate warm in the oven, sir.”

  “A moment, Reynolds, I’ll shower, first.”

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  He bent to kiss Doyle, who observed, “A shower? Never say you’ve had to scale a wall—that’s what first-years are for. Did the perp get away?”

  With a smile, he continued on his way into the bedroom. “I’d almost rather scale a wall; I am trying to tie up all loose ends before Edward is born,
and I’m afraid it is heavy work.”

  This was true, and it made sense; Doyle knew that he was planning to take a few weeks off from work when the baby was born—a shrine-worthy miracle in itself—and he was no doubt trying to get ahead on his caseload, so that he could hand off the leg-work to lesser personnel, and monitor their progress. It went without saying that Acton wouldn’t actually be out-of-the-loop for any appreciable time; the CID was woefully understaffed.