Murder in Just Cause

by Anne Cleeland

  “I’m hopin’ you’ll help me fill in a few blank spaces,” she admitted. “If you would.”

  But he continued wary, because he was stupid Williams, and brimful of stupid principles as well as stupid divided loyalties. “Like what?”

  “Is Geary here for some sort of integrity-check? And if so, who’s integrity is he checkin’?” It was the only way she could make sense of Munoz’s story about Geary’s running over to the race-course all suspicious-like; Acton must be manipulating something.

  Williams shook his head. “I can’t say.”

  As his non-answer served as an answer of sorts, she didn’t press, but instead ran a finger along the edge of his desk, frowning. “I know there’s something horrifyin’ goin’ on—Acton’s that grave about it—but he’s hangin’ back, I think. He’s steppin’ very carefully, and I don’t understand why.”

  “He won’t tell me what the end-game is, if that’s any consolation.”

  “But that’s just how he tends to handle things,” Doyle observed thoughtfully. “He gives everyone a task, but no one has a bird’s-eye view of whatever the operation is. No one except him.”

  Thinking this over, she asked again, “Would you mind pullin’ up the jacket on Peter Ruppe? I think it’s important.” Since Williams was a supervisory rank, he had access to personnel files.

  Williams thought about it for a moment, and then said, “All right.” As he turned to his keyboard, she walked around to stand behind him, and look over his shoulder. The personnel photo of Peter Ruppe appeared, and they skimmed the information together.

  Williams recited, “Married to Claudia Peterson—also an officer. Killed in the line of duty.”

  Doyle lifted her brows in surprise. “The husband was killed in the line of duty? But he’s not a star on the wall, I don’t think—I looked over the names listed, when I heard he was dead.”

  Williams scrolled to the next page. “No mention of how he died. She’s receiving widow’s benefits, though, so it must have been in the line of duty.”

  Doyle straightened up, thinking. “Somethin’s not makin’ sense, Thomas. “I’ll have to try to winkle it out of Acton, then, and please light a candle for my chances.”

  He gave her a mock salute. “If anyone can, it’s you.”

  She smiled. “I’m a first-class inveligor, I am.”

  “Inveigler,” he corrected.

  “Thank you; although I suppose if I truly were, I’d inveigle our Commander Tasza into leavin’ me off this stupid task-force. I’ve just come back to work, and I haven’t the time for it.”

  “I could attempt to inveigle her for you,” he offered, joking. “It would be a challenge.”

  Doyle grimaced slightly. “I don’t think even you’d succeed, my friend. She’s an ice-maiden, and not susceptible to that sort of thing.”

  “That’s the attraction, Kath. The only one she has, actually.”

  Doyle scolded, “Shame on you, Thomas Williams, for bein’ so cold and calculatin’ in your dealin’s with the fair sex. I’ll hear no more.”

  He shrugged philosophically as he bent to lift his rucksack. “Men are different than women, Kath.”

  She blew out an annoyed breath, and stood to take her leave. “Tell me about it—I’m on a stupid task-force where everyone is pretendin’ to be surprised by that basic truth.”

  He chuckled as he stood, also. “Welcome to the world we live in.”

  “All right; thank you much, and I’ll be off.”

  “Give my regards to Tasza.”

  “I don’t dare; she’s another efficient one, and she’d probably get all a’flutter, and start doodlin’ hearts with your name in them.”

  He laughed aloud as he closed the door behind them.

  Chapter 19

  Still waiting.

  Doyle hurried over to the conference room that had been reserved for the task-force meeting but discovered that she was first to be waylaid by Gabriel, who’d been lying in wait for her in the corridor.

  There’s nothing more annoying than a lovelorn man, she thought with some impatience, and then reconciled herself to listening to whatever it was he wanted to say; she couldn’t sidestep him forever and he was a friend, after all. A shame, it was, that love made itself so over-complicated. Unbidden, she had a sudden memory of the faint nuance she’d noticed between Geary and Munoz. No, she thought in disbelief—no; they’re as different as chalk and cheese, those two.

  But to her surprise, Gabriel didn’t wish to speak of Munoz, and instead took her by the elbow so as to lead her over to a quiet corner. Leaning his head close to hers, he offered, “Sorry to pull you aside, but I wanted to warn you—I feel badly.”

  Doyle blinked. “Warn me of what?”

  He took a quick glance around, and then lowered his voice. “This task force—I think it’s my fault. I mentioned to Tasza that you’d warned me about the trap they’d set for me at the race-course, back when we were all at war with the ACC.”

  Oh-oh, thought Doyle in acute dismay. Oh-oh.

  Steady, said her instinct. Steady.

  With a mighty effort, she pulled herself together and offered a show of amused exasperation. “Faith, Gabriel, it wasn’t anythin’ to speak of; the ACC was tryin’ to pull the same trick with Munoz, and I realized what their gambit was—that’s all.”

  Glancing down the hallway again, he shrugged slightly. “I feel as though I’ve betrayed you. Tasza is way too interested in the subject.”

  Quirking her mouth, Doyle revealed, “That’s because she’s way too interested in Acton.”

  He stared in surprise. “No—really?”

  But Doyle regretted the disclosure, and cautioned, “Forget I said it. I shouldn’t be tellin’ tales, Gabriel.”

  “Neither should I. I feel badly.”

  “Not to worry; it’s a big thimbleful of nothin’, as our Tasza will soon see. I’m a good guesser, sometimes, and then sometimes I’m not.” This, of course, was nothing more than the truth, as had been proved many a time.

  He nodded. “Right, then. I just felt as though I should give you the heads-up.”

  “Thank you, and please don’t worry, Gabriel—I’m not a witch, my hand on my heart. If I was, I wouldn’t be stuck on a stupid task-force, I promise you.”

  He let her go, and as she duly signed-in at the conference room entry table she tried to fight a feeling of panic. There was nothing for it; Acton would have to be told so as to try to fix this potential disaster and her husband would be that unhappy with her; faith, he was unhappy that she’d told even Williams, and now she’d have to confess that Gabriel had put two and two together, and then had spilled to the mighty Tasza.

  Acton would know—just as she did—that it never would have got this far unless Gabriel was certain there was something there—something worth mocking up a fake task-force, so as to test it out.

  Taking a deep breath, she made her way to her assigned seat and made a conscious effort to calm herself down. After all, she’d a good track record of protecting herself from herself—largely by relying upon those selfsame abilities to steer her foolish self away from trouble.

  Stay sharp, her instinct warned her; and don’t let on that you are uneasy.

  Therefore, she offered up a bright smile as sat down amongst the nineteen other CID personnel—half men, and half women.

  A sweater-clad facilitator introduced himself and explained that he was from the forensic psychology department, here to conduct a series of exercises to see if female officers came to different conclusions than their male counterparts, when confronted with the same criteria.

  “You’re looking to get yourself fired,” one of the men offered, and everyone laughed.

  The facilitator chuckled, and explained, “There are no right or wrong responses. The results will be kept confidential and will have no effect whatsoever on your continued employment. We are only exploring potential tools for use in law enforcement work.” He paused. “It is an oft-repeated meme that
women tend to be more intuitive than men, and that is one of the parameters we’ll be exploring.”

  “As long as we’ll get lunch,” another man offered, and everyone laughed again.

  Doyle listened carefully, but didn’t have the sense that the facilitator was focused in any way upon her fair self, which meant that he was not aware that she was, in fact, the test-subject. Good; the fewer who’d heard Gabriel’s Doyle-is-a-witch theory the better, and at least she’d have something positive to report to Acton. Hopefully, he’d somehow get her out of this fix—but only after giving his wife a well-deserved browbeating.

  She had to smile at the thought, because Acton was incapable of giving her a browbeating—not that she didn’t deserve it, sometimes. Faith, it was more likely he’d turn the CID into a smoldering pile of rubble so as to keep her secrets—all the more reason that she should do her utmost to make sure that this task-force accomplished nothing; when Acton went into Doyle-protector-mode, Katy bar the door.

  The facilitator continued, “Today we will conduct some preliminary tests so as to establish a baseline, and then we will follow-up with secondary testing in subsequent meetings. As has been explained, it shouldn’t take more than a few hours a month, and you will be compensated with paid time-off.”

  “I’m in,” joked the fellow next to Doyle. “Is there any way to throw the test?”

  They all laughed yet again and small blame to them; this particular task-force seemed an easy one—not to mention it made them all feel important. Except me, Doyle thought; I feel like I’m the rabbit, sniffing at the snare.

  Several interns then set up a variety of test stations for the participants to rotate through, and at the first one, Doyle was asked to try to describe what was happening in the next room.

  Doyle raised her brows. “How am I supposed to even guess? Can you give me a hint?”

  The intern rather apologetically said that Doyle was required to guess something.

  “Like elephants?” Doyle teased.

  “Anything at all,” the intern replied with a smile.

  “Elephants playin’ cards,” Doyle guessed. “What do I win?”

  The next station was a bit more problematic, because she was asked to guess which one of four symbols was portrayed on the back of a card that was held before her. As the intern raised the first card, Doyle’s instinct told her it was a star.

  “A square,” Doyle guessed.

  The intern held up another.

  It’s a triangle, said her instinct.

  “A circle,” she guessed, after closing her eyes as if to concentrate. She was then careful to get at least one right, so that she didn’t raise any suspicions with too many wrong answers. Wily, I am, she thought; Acton had better look to his laurels.

  The third test involved an intern who would attempt to send an image to Doyle telepathically. For this, Doyle was asked to lie down after donning white-noise headphones and covering her eyes with a sleep mask.

  “Careful,” Doyle joked. “I’m like to fall asleep on the table—I’m a new mother.”

  “I’m afraid I must ask that you concentrate as best you can for one full minute,” the intern replied in a disapproving tone.

  “I’m not much of a concentrator,” Doyle confessed. “I was the bane of the nuns at St. Brigid’s.”

  Cloaking her extreme disapproval at such a reference, the young woman only offered a thin, insincere smile, and indicated that Doyle should slip on her mask.

  This will serve you right, thought Doyle, and then duly guessed that the intern’s image was that of The Blessed Mother, weeping as the godless descended into hell.

  At the conclusion of the session, Doyle left, feeling that she’d credibly diverted all suspicion, which left only the one remaining hurdle—having to lay the whole before her poor husband, and the sooner, the better.

  Chapter 20

  He was listed as out-of-town and unavailable this weekend. It was a blow, and completely unexpected.

  It was the week-end, and Doyle and Acton were driving out to Trestles, Acton’s ancestral estate, which was located a few hours outside London. Doyle was not necessarily fond of the place—being as it was chock full of ghosts and viperous relatives—but she always enjoyed the drive out; there was something deeply pleasing about spending time alone with her husband, with nothing to do except look at the countryside as they passed through. On this occasion, of course, they had Edward in his car-seat but—because a car-ride was a mighty sleep-inducer—he’d promptly conked out.

  She’d decided to put off telling Acton about the task force until this drive, because they’d have some uninterrupted time to discuss it. That, and he’d have to concentrate on the road and hopefully be less inclined to give her the back of his hand.

  “I have to tell you somethin’, Michael, and I’m that worried you’ll be unhappy.”

  “You are pregnant,” he guessed. “And I am not unhappy.”

  “That’s very sweet, Michael, but that’s not it.”

  There was a pause. “Shall I keep guessing?” he asked.

  “No—I’m workin’ up my nerve. It’s about my task-force—I had the first meetin’ yesterday.” She took a breath. “I think—I think they’re lookin’ to—lookin’ to catch me at my—my whatever-it-is.” She gritted her teeth, because it was always very difficult for her to speak of her perceptive abilities aloud—she wasn’t supposed to, which only went to show you that she should follow directions.

  No, she contradicted herself immediately; a lot of good’s been done because I told Acton about it. I’ve got to remember that, and remember that there’s a reason I trusted him with it in the first place.

  He reached to take her hand. “Why do you think this?”

  She pressed her lips together because there was nothin’ for it. “Mainly because Gabriel gave me the head’s-up. He’s feelin’ guilty, because he’s the one who suspicioned about it to the fair Tasza, and now the cat’s out of the bag, so to speak.”

  There was a small silence. “Perhaps you should start at the beginning.”

  Why, he already knows about this, she thought in astonishment—I am telling the man nothing he doesn’t already know. This shouldn’t be a surprise, of course—Acton’s being Acton—but he hadn’t been his finger-in-every-pie self lately, and so she could be forgiven for thinking that this one had slipped by him. Let this be a lesson—nothing slips by the illustrious Chief Inspector.

  Feeling cautiously optimistic, she offered, “I didn’t say anythin’ about it to Gabriel, Michael—I promise. I warned him about an ambush, once, and—well, I guess he got the idea all on his own.”

  “Please don’t worry, Kathleen. Tell me what you know, if you please.”

  But Doyle knew her husband only too well, and stubbornly continued, “I tried to explain it away—with Gabriel, I mean—and I truly think he bought it. So now he’s that sorry he started the whole mare’s nest.” Unspoken was the sure knowledge that Gabriel would disappear without a trace, if Acton thought the man posed any kind of threat to the fair Doyle.

  He squeezed her hand in gentle reassurance. “You needn’t be concerned, Kathleen; I would not be surprised if Gabriel had little choice in the matter, and I am certain he regrets whatever role he played.”

  She noted that this assurance was rather equivocal, but she decided that couldn’t very well ask Acton outright if he’d promise not to kill Gabriel, and so instead she asked, “He’d little choice? What d’you mean?”

  But her husband tilted his head in apology. “I am afraid I am not at liberty to say more.”

  Taking a cast, she ventured, “Munoz says he’s got a drawback.”

  “He is compromised,” her husband agreed. “Which makes him a weak link.”

  This was of interest, and made her wonder what sort of weakness Gabriel would be operating under so that he’d turn coat on his friends. Of course, he may not think of it as turning coat—he may consider it more along the lines of a “greater good” thin
g, which would be just like someone from MI 5; it was rumored that they played a bit fast and loose with the rules.

  Acton interrupted her thoughts to prompt, “What happened at the meeting?”

  “I was careful, Michael,” she assured him a bit anxiously. “I had to guess symbols on cards, and nonsense like that. I was careful to get it wrong, though, and I pretended that it was just a lark, like everyone else was.”

  “Good,” he said, and squeezed her hand again. “I will see to it that it goes no further.”

  “Can you?” she ventured doubtfully. “We don’t want someone like Tasza annoyed with you, after all.” The last needful thing was to have the counter-terrorism people nosing around in the doings of the House of Acton.

  “I’ll be discreet,” he promised.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to mention Gabriel again, but she desisted—Acton would already be aware that she’d hate for the man to suffer for his foolishness, and hopefully that was enough. And besides, she didn’t have the sense that Acton was operating in vengeance-mode, even though she now knew that he’d been already aware of the task force’s aim.

  Interesting—again, it seemed that he’d decided to take a passive role and allow it to play out, much like the dirty-coppers situation. He may be concerned that by stepping in, he’d only make things worse, but—again—it made her uneasy that he’d allowed it to go this far; it didn’t much seem like the mastermind she knew.

  I’ll get some advice, she assured herself. I have the week-end to decide how best to approach the problem, and surely I’ll come up with something.

  The next problem in line then presented itself, as Acton asked, “Would you like to avoid my mother, this visit?”

  “We can’t, Michael,” she replied firmly.

  “Certainly, we can.”

  With a sigh, she turned to regard him. “Don’t tempt me; she’s Edward’s gran, after all. Mayhap he’ll soften her up.”

  “Either luncheon or dinner, then; not both.”

  “Luncheon,” she decided. “We should try to get to bed early, tonight—although you’ve been sleepin’ a bit better, I think.”