Murder in Misdirection

by Anne Cleeland

  As a result of this lofty syntax, it occurred to Doyle that her husband was as annoyed with her as he allowed himself to be, and that she wasn’t exactly free of blame for this turn of events. Softening her attitude, she offered, “I should have told you, Michael, and I was regrettin’ it straightway. I’m truly sorry.”

  He paused, and kissed her forehead, to show that there were no hard feelings. “I’d rather you trusted me.”

  She tucked her hand into his arm and made a wry mouth, as they began moving forward again. “And I’d rather you weren’t discreetly flirting with the opposition—although I can see why you’re tempted by the challenge; she’s rather an ice-maiden.”

  “What was the report she spoke of?”

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  Trust Acton to have caught the reference, and Doyle sighed with resignation. “The autopsy report that shows the dead Filipino charwoman was actually Solonik’s sister, Mrs. Barayev.” There was a small pause. “The report will show no such

  thing, I’m afraid.”

  She glanced at him in surprise. “Not even the dental records?”

  “Nothing out-of-line.”

  She shook her head. “You’re a rare wonder, husband. My hat’s off to you.”

  “I could say the same of you. How did you guess?”

  But Doyle was not about to speak of ghostly priests, mainly because she wasn’t certain exactly what the aforementioned ghostly priest wanted her to do. “How I guessed isn’t important; you can’t go about killin’ people, Michael—I’ve told you a thousand times.”

  It was his turn to contemplate the sky for a moment. “I am hoping that very soon, there will no longer be a need.”

  “But there’s never a need—it’s a terrible sin, Michael. And I know you think you’re justified—that you’re givin’ the system a needed push—but we can’t just go about, suitin’ our own notions of how everythin’ should turn out. We have to think of the greater good.”

  “I am indeed thinking of the greater good,” he replied, and it was true.

  Exasperated, she insisted, “But your ‘greater good’ may be somethin’ different than another person’s, and who’s to say who’s right? That’s why we go to the trouble to hammer it all out, in the courts.” She paused, because they’d gone over this rough ground many a time, and she’d the sneaking suspicion that she hadn’t made much of a dent in his take-no-prisoners philosophy. “It may mean we miss the mark, sometimes—but

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  otherwise, no one respects the system, and only the strong will have a say in it.”

  With a soothing gesture, he pressed her hand with his other one. “I understand the theory, but it assumes a good faith effort on the part of those who wield power. We’ve recently weathered a scandal that flourished only because of corrupt judges, and corrupt law enforcement.”

  This was true, and with rare diplomacy, she refrained from pointing out that his own schemes weren’t much different from the schemes of those who’d been exposed as blacklegs. “I know, I know. But I still think the justice system is our best bet, despite its flaws. And remember that there’ll be an ultimate justice, Michael—that’s where it will all work out exactly as it should.”

  He cocked his head. “There may be an ultimate justice, but I believe the concept of societal vengeance is a valid one. The citizenry must be assured that the worst members of society will be publicly shamed, and publicly punished.”

  This, of course, was a valid point, and Doyle cast about for a counter-argument. “Then we shouldn’t appeal to that instinct— that desire for vengeance. We’d be pavin’ the way for even more spite murders, and there’s too many of them, already.” She winced, thinking of Munoz’s grisly case.

  He made no response—being diplomatic in his own turn, he was—and she was left to contemplate the rather ominous fact that her husband had mentioned that “very soon” there would no longer be a need for any more misdirection murders, which meant, in Acton-speak, that he was contemplating yet another murder, and very soon. But whose? All the players that could be a target for a hearty helping of Acton-style retribution were either dead, or tucked away in prison, where he couldn’t get to them. She frowned, having the feeling—yet again—that she was missing something obvious.

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  They turned onto the next street, and walked for a few minutes in silence. “How did you know about the charwoman, Kathleen? Can’t you tell me?”

  Doyle thought it over, knowing that he was worried about a potential breach in security, and so she decided to give him the basic truth. “It was the blood-money. The charwoman feels guilty about accepting it—she was worried that she’d pay a price, and not necessarily in this life. I suppose it circles back to that discussion we were just havin’.”

  “I don’t believe we have discussions,” he reminded her, gently teasing.

  “Faith, I’d forgotten. Well then, it circles back to the non-discussion we weren’t havin’.” She glanced up at him. “You’re a tough nut to crack, husband.”

  “Surely not,” he soothed. “I do understand all your points.” She sighed, because he was being diplomatic again, and she

  may as well be a bird, beating her wings against a windowpane. “Speakin’ of blood, I twigged on to the fact that the doctor is comin’ over to poke me with his vile needle—I can read Reynolds like the back o’ my hand.”

  “I’ve already canceled Dr. Easton, Kathleen; I am sorry you were upset.”

  But this was annoying, in its own way. “Reynolds shouldn’t be grassin’ on me, and lettin’ you know that I’m a big baby.”

  “I’m glad he did; I wish it hadn’t ruined your morning.” With a sidelong glance, she reminded him, “Recall that I had

  Tasza and Munoz over; my mornin’ was already well-and-thoroughly ruined.”

  They’d arrived at their lunch-spot, and he held the door for her. “Surely it wasn’t so very terrible?”

  “You’ve no idea, my friend. I just kept my head down, and tried to avoid the cross-fire.”

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  He chuckled, and then placed a hand on her back, as they headed toward a table. “The doctor wanted to take a sample of your blood to make certain they have the correct blood-type available, in the event a transfusion is necessary.”

  But she scorned such a suggestion. “Not at all necessary, Michael. I’m Irish, remember? I can have a baby anywhere, at any time. It’s built into the genetics.”

  Amused, he smiled. “Nevertheless, it is considered a necessary precaution.”

  He’d been gently persistent, which meant she’d probably have to give in. “I’ll need to be bribed, then.”

  “Name your price.”

  “Tell me why you are so wary about Tasza.”

  There was a pause, as he saw her seated, and then came around to seat himself. “I’m afraid the less you know, Kathleen, the better—particularly at this point in time. I would ask that you trust me.”

  The remark only confirmed her feeling that something was coming to a culmination, and—judging from Acton’s general mood, these past few days—Katy bar the door against whatever it was. Perhaps it was just as well that she stay in the dark; she was about to have a baby—lest she forget—and hopefully, this happy event would take Acton’s mind off murder and mayhem for a few moments, amen.

  “All right,” she said, because she knew that was what he wanted to hear. “But please keep to mind what I’ve said, Michael, and take no chances; I’m in no shape to mastermind a prison-break.”

  “Nonsense,” he teased. “I have every confidence.”

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  He was reluctant to bring up the subject. She didn’t enjoy staying at Trestles.

  After Acton had returned to work, Doyle’s day continued eventful, because Williams dropped by, on his way home from work. “Where’s Reynolds?
I was hoping for another

  meal.”

  “Reynolds is not here. Emile’s gone to visit Savoie, and so the poor man’s got a few hours of blessed silence to do whatever it is he does in his spare time. You are welcome to forage for yourself, if you’d like.”

  Williams swung down his rucksack, and removed his jacket to throw it over the back of the sofa. “I might scramble-up some eggs, then. Want any?”

  “No—I’ll watch. I’ve lost my appetite, lately.”

  He looked through the cupboards until he came across a pan, and then removed the eggs—along with a bottle of beer— from the refrigerator.

  “Thanks for comin’ by,” she said, watching him roll up his sleeves. “It’s that rough, when you can’t wander about at will. I’ve half a mind to take up croquetin’.”

  He smiled, as he lit the stove burner. “I think you mean crocheting.”

  “Both,” she declared flatly. “And whittlin’, besides. Faith, I hate all this doin’ nothin’; I’ll never make a decent aristocrat.”

  Cracking the eggs with a spoon, he broke them directly into the pan. “Not much longer, Kath. And you could always take up cooking.”

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  Resting her chin on her hands, she watched him over the back of the sofa. “There’d be little point in learnin’ to cook; in a very strange twist of fate, there’s people who cook for me, now— although the new cook at Trestles hasn’t had much of a chance.”

  “She’s good,” he confirmed, as he added a splash of milk to the eggs. “She served me up a very nice brisket on a moment’s notice, when I was over there with Layton.”

  Doyle smiled. “D’you see what I mean? Who has brisket for lunch, I ask you?”

  “Well worth the trip,” he confirmed, as he turned up the heat. “Although Acton missed it; he was overseeing something on the grounds, with Hudson.”

  Doyle stilled for a moment, because this was a surprise— Acton had been there at Trestles, too? Surely, he hadn’t mentioned it—had he? With a knit brow, she lowered her gaze and thought about it. No—she was certain he hadn’t mentioned it. That was the day he came home tired, and needed his back rubbed.

  Her scalp prickling, she lifted her face. “Was Tasza there, by any chance?”

  He looked up in amusement as he stirred the eggs. “No. Why on earth would Tasza be at Trestles?”

  “I don’t know—just a thought. She came by to visit here, earlier today, even though she’s not the pop-in-for-a-visit type.”

  With a small smile, Williams turned his attention back to the eggs. “Acton is not having an affair with Tasza, Kath.”

  “I know, I know—please don’t think I’m havin’ pregnant-lady paranoia, Thomas. Tell me, what do you think of Tasza?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She made a face. “I don’t mean in that way—men; honestly. I meant what do you think about her in general—I got the impression when she was here that she was rootin’ around for information, of some sort.”

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  He shrugged as he stirred the eggs. “I can’t help you; I really haven’t interacted with her much at all.”

  Doyle frowned, and watched the stove-top flames. “It just makes me uneasy; it’s never a good idea to cross swords with Acton.”

  He raised his brows in surprise. “Tasza is crossing swords with Acton?”

  Doyle decided that she should snabble it, as it seemed clear that DI Williams was yet again being kept out of the loop—and there was no shame in it, as the fair Doyle was also a left-out-of-the-looper. Instead, she offered vaguely, “I don’t know what I think, just now, but I’ve got one of those feelin’s I get when I think there’s a common thread, runnin’ through all these different things, but I can’t quite pluck at it.”

  With an amused expression, he glanced over at her. “Welcome to my world, DS Doyle. Although I finally have a promising lead on the cascade case.”

  This seemed of interest, and she was more than willing to divert her thoughts to another topic. “You do? What’s happened?”

  He cast her a meaningful glance. “For a short time, all the money was parked in the prison ministry account at Wexton Prison.”

  She met his gaze in surprise, and then decided that she truly wasn’t much surprised, after all. “The DCS was in on the cascade scheme? What—was he launderin’ the corruption rig money?”

  “Something like that. The money’s gone, now, but at least I’ve picked up the trail again. I should be able to trace what happened to it—it’s a huge sum of money, so it’s not easy to hide.”

  Doyle made a sound of derision. “Trust the DCS to be up to his eyeballs in it—and that would explain his sudden conversion, too. The evangelicals are famous for raisin’ bushels of money at

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  the drop of a hat, so it’s the perfect cover for movin’ large sums around.” She paused, thinking about the DCS, who’d also crossed swords with Acton, and had come up well short. “Will they prosecute him?”

  “It depends on what we find. I’ll keep you posted, but in the meantime, keep it under your hat.”

  “Right. Well, that’s good gossip, DI Williams, and I’m much obliged.”

  He turned off the stove, and scraped the eggs onto his plate. “I’ve another one I’ve got to keep as quiet as I can. A spite murder—man was groin-shot.”

  “Wife,” Doyle guessed immediately. A groin-shot was usually administered by someone who was familiar with that area.

  “No; he’s never married. But here’s the fun part—he was a Health Professions Council member.” He shot her yet another significant glance.

  “Oh-ho,” she said, raising her brows. “The plot thickens, it does.” The council members had been involved in the corruption rig, but there hadn’t been enough evidence to go after any of them. That, and there was the obvious problem in going after such worthy public servants; any case would have to be airtight.

  Their discussion was interrupted when the concierge buzzed to say that Mathis and Emile had returned from Wexton Prison, and were looking to come up.

  “Brilliant,” said Williams, sitting down with his eggs.

  “Be nice,” Doyle warned. “She’s doin’ the work of the angels, takin’ Emile to see his Papa.”

  “Savoie is not his Papa,” Williams advised, in between bites. “That whole situation seems a little smoky, to me.”

  Doyle had to concede that this was a fair point—that Solonik’s son had been taken in by an underworld rival in the first place, not to mention that the boy was currently living the

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  high life, here at castle Acton. “I know. But Savoie does love him, Thomas—I am certain of it.”

  He glanced up at her. “Just be careful, Kath.”

  “‘Careful’ is my middle name,” she teased, as she walked over to get the door. “You—of all people—must know that.”

  He gave her a look, as Lizzie and Emile made their entrance—Emile immediately running over to greet Williams and inquire if there were any more eggs.

  “I’ll make more,” he agreed with good grace, pushing his chair out. “How hungry are you?”

  “I’ll do it,” Lizzie offered, taking off her coat. “And I’ll see if there’s bacon, or sausage.”

  “You shouldn’t wait on us,” Williams protested. “It’s not PC.” “I like to cook—I do it all the time, at Trestles,” she countered. “I don’t care if it’s not PC. How about you, Lady

  Acton?”

  “I’ll pass, Lizzie. What did Savoie have to say for himself?” “My Papa says we will go home soon,” Emile disclosed

  excitedly. “I have to be patient.”

  “That’s you,” Doyle agreed. “‘Patient’ is your middle name.” “I don’t speak much with Mr. Savoie; instead, I sit in the

  waiting area during their visit,” Mathis explained. “Althou
gh I complained about one of the guards, who was a little too friendly.”

  Because Williams looked as though he was winding up to make a smart remark, Doyle hastily observed, “The guards there are awful. Cheeky, and full of themselves.”