Murder in Just Cause

by Anne Cleeland

  He knows about the Munoz’s dead kook, she thought—the one with the same tattoo as my ghost. He knows why the kook was murdered, and why Munoz is in danger, but he doesn’t want to tell me—faith, not only does he not want to tell me, he wants it all to go cold because whatever-it-is, he thinks it’s better kept quiet than pursued. It’s like he’s got his own Code Five going on, where he wants everyone else to stand down so as to not interfere with his own operation—with his own notions of justice, but—whether he likes it or not—that’s not happening; not on my watch.

  So—rather than let him know that a certain tattooed ghost was pushing at her to figure it all out—it was probably better to do some sleuthing on the sly, which was no easy feat, since Doyle’s wily husband always seemed to be ten steps ahead of her. Lucky, it was, that she’d assorted ghosts to help even the odds.

  And—thus reminded of her ghost-conversation with Dr. Harding—she offered, “I wanted to let you know how safe I’m bein’, Michael.”

  He glanced down at her in surprise. “Are you?”

  “I am,” she emphasized. “Safe as houses.”

  “I am happy to hear it.”

  He was amused, and feeling the color rise in her cheeks, she offered a bit lamely, “In case you were worried about my goin’ back to work.”

  “I appreciate it. Perhaps you will take no other actions that might result in a commendation.”

  He was teasing her, but she defended herself, “I truly can’t help it, Michael; what am I to do, I ask you?”

  “Grow kale,” he suggested.

  “I’m more useful at the Met,” she replied firmly. It was another continuing source of tension between them; Acton—being how he was—would rather have her wrapped in cotton-wool and living in a guarded tower, but she knew that her best and greatest use was to be working alongside him, so that they were rolling up the villains on a daily basis. Not that it was always easy for either of them, but it was the way of it, and best ask no questions; in all things, give thanks.

  “Yes,” he agreed, and she thought she caught a glimpse of something—something that made him rather grave. “You are indeed more useful at the Met.”

  A bit dismayed by his reaction, she repeated, “I am truly bein’ safe, Michael.”

  With a smile, he leaned to kiss her head. “I am teasing. But a bit more circumspection wouldn’t go amiss.”

  Relieved, she laughed. “Which is your way of sayin’, ‘behave yourself, or I’ll give ye the back o’ me hand’.”

  He tilted his head in disagreement. “I don’t think I could bring myself to give you the back of my hand.”

  “It’s deservin’, I am, sometimes,” she teased.

  “Unimaginable.”

  She leaned into him, happy that his grim mood had passed as quickly as it had come, and noting with some interest that he didn’t seem inclined to move from this peaceful spot, overlooking the gardens.

  After deciding that she may as well ask, she ventured, “Speakin’ of how safe I’m bein’—and I’m bein’ so safe that you wouldn’t even believe it, Michael—I suppose you’re not goin’ to tell me why Munoz was in danger of an ambush in the stairwell, but I was not in danger of an ambush in the self-same stairwell.”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “Unfortunately, I am not.”

  This was not a surprise, and so to turn the subject, she asked in a light tone, “Then can you at least tell me what it was that you were thinkin’ about, just now, so that I had to track you down like a bloodhound?”

  He glanced up at the velvet curtains that were arrayed over the window. “Actually, I was thinking that we should take the curtains down, so as to allow more sunlight into this room.”

  She laughed aloud, because it was as true as true could be, and just went to show that not everything her husband thought about featured murder and mayhem. “Have at it, then. This poor little room doesn’t get much use—we could make it into a playroom, mayhap.”

  “Perhaps,” he said without much conviction.

  She laughed again. “Aye then, it stays the way it is. And anyways, I suppose it’s better to have a playroom nearer to the nursery.”

  He smiled. “Hudson had already drawn up some plans.”

  “Faith, you’ve many devoted fans,” she said to Edward, who triumphantly grabbed her hair yet again.

  Chapter 26

  So; he’d asked if he could come over again, to play the Bösendorfer. It was extraordinary, really, and she wasn’t certain what to make of it. This was the fifth time, and she was almost certain that no one else knew of it, not even his wife.

  It had started some months ago; she’d held a classified briefing for the usual law-enforcement committee, and then, during the general conversation that followed, she’d mentioned—she was not even certain how the subject had arisen—that she had a Bösendorfer; that she’d inherited it from her father. After they’d all adjourned, he’d approached to ask permission to play it, sometime—very surprising, since he rather famously kept to himself. And now—now he’d been coming over to her house for some months, rather regularly.

  Since these visits had started before his baby was born, she’d wondered—a bit uneasily—if perhaps he was looking for sex, since his wife was pregnant, and he knew she’d be discreet. Her uneasiness stemmed from the knowledge that she wasn’t certain how she would respond to such an overture if it were made; she knew how she should respond, but she wasn’t certain what she’d actually do, when faced with the reality.

  But in the end, there’d been no dilemma; he’d made no overtures at all—indeed, had hardly even spoken to her—but had only sat at the piano and played Tchaikovsky brilliantly, and with hardly a misstep that she could notice.

  It wasn’t wise, to allow him to come over like this—although she did love the music, and the unspoken acknowledgement that they had this in common. She rationalized it away by thinking that it gave her a back-door access into the Met’s higher echelons, if she ever needed it. It was her job to gather together as much information as she was able, after all.

  From what she could discover—and she could discover quite a bit, of course—he’d been completely faithful to his wife. It was just as well; the work she did at Thames House was too important, and she couldn’t allow herself to be distracted—especially by a subordinate-rank officer; she was above that sort of thing. It was enough that he took such pleasure in her piano, and she could be content with that.

  He’d come to the final chord, and as the reverberations echoed into silence, he suddenly spoke aloud. “I understand my wife has been included in a task-force.” He then lifted his gaze to meet hers, a slight rebuke contained therein.

  She’d known that he’d find out sooner or later, of course, and so she calmly replied, “Yes. As you know, she seems a likely candidate.”

  With a gesture of impatience, he ran his fingers over the keys, making a discordant sound. “I thought we’d already put paid to such nonsense, Commander. My wife is not ‘magic’.”

  “No one is saying she is magic, Chief Inspector. But the forensic psychologists are always seeking out individuals who may have a useful talent.”

  “Despite my objections?”

  The question was rather pointed and seemed to refer to the unspoken relationship between them, and so she rather quickly reminded him, “I do not need your permission.”

  He nodded, and then lowered his gaze to the keys. “Of course. But just the same.”

  She felt a bit sorry for rebuking him, and so continued in a more conciliatory tone, “I think you know that we will find something—otherwise you’d not be so adamant. Can you tell me what you know of it?”

  There was a small pause, whilst he fingered the middle C key. “I will not discuss my wife with you.”

  But she could sense his uncertainty, and pressed her advantage. “You and I both have seen such manifestations, in the course of our work—guesswork that is spot-on, with no evidence to back it up. And there are those people wit
h an extraordinary ability to find missing persons that can’t be explained.”

  “My wife is not one of them.”

  Leaning toward him, she rested her hands on the piano, and said earnestly, “In one of our exercises, she knew there was a card game going on in the next room with absolutely no indication of such.”

  At this, he raised his head and stared at her for a moment.

  “It would be discreetly done, of course—I know as well as you that such a thing can’t be bandied about. I’d like to move her into psy-ops, on the excuse that she’s an Irish national—she’d be well-compensated, of course. There are certain government officials we are watching over in Dublin, and I would give my eye-teeth to know something for certain. It’s a national security issue, for the good of the country.”

  He bent his head to consider the keys for a long moment, but she could sense his capitulation—he knew as well as she did that he really hadn’t much choice.

  “It would be her decision,” he said.

  “Of course. But you have influence.”

  She watched as his long fingers wandered over the keys without pressing them, and she’d the sense he was debating whether to tell her something. She asked in a level tone, “What is it? If you have a concern, we’d best face it early.”

  After a palpable hesitation, he revealed, “She may be reluctant to turn coat, so to speak. Her family—her family was connected to the Sinn Féin. Indeed, her great-uncle is currently held prisoner at Maghaberry.”

  Astonished, she stared at him. “I was not aware she had living relatives.” She immediately regretted the comment, as it indicated she’d been a bit too interested in a subordinate-officer’s wife.

  He didn’t seem to notice the lapse, however, and continued, “I feel I have no choice but to warn you about it—no doubt it would come to light, were she to be placed as an Irish covert.”

  Still processing this extraordinary news, she asked, “How on earth did she pass vetting?”

  “I buried the record,” he admitted.

  There was a sudden silence, whist she contemplated this rather shocking admission. “I will have to assess the situation, then.”

  “Promise me you will be discreet.” He raised his gaze to hers again.

  Gently, she replied, “I can make no promises, Chief Inspector.”

  “Of course,” he conceded, and lowered his gaze again.

  But she could see why he’d be worried; his career would be finished, if it were revealed that he’d married a woman connected to the Sinn Féin, and then had covered it up.

  In truth, she’d have to handle this very carefully, herself. The wife was an asset and could be very useful, but if she tried to cover up the wife’s past as a favor to him—and it was discovered that she’d done so—she’d be in just as much hot water as he. Not to mention that these musical trysts would be at an end—but that should definitely not be her priority; definitely not.

  On the other hand, any such information would give her leverage over the wife—over both of them, actually, and leverage was her stock-in-trade. It was a delicate situation and would require delicate handling—she would have to think it through.

  Almost to her surprise, he launched into another concerto as though they hadn’t spoken at all.

  Chapter 27

  The next drop was a go.

  Doyle was finishing-up her breakfast at the flat, gazing out the picture windows and trying to decide which of her many puzzles should be picked up first—faith, it was a sad state of affairs that she’d a hard time keeping them all straight. But—since Acton was seated at his desk in the bedroom and deeply immersed in something—it seemed as good a time as any to pick up the first puzzle that presented itself.

  “Reynolds,” she asked. “There’s a name I can’t quite remember, and it’s an old story, and it starts with ‘Auntie’ somethin’.”

  Reynolds paused in his washing-up. “Perhaps Auntie Mame, madam?”

  With a knit brow, Doyle shook her head. “No—that’s not it.”

  “Auntie Em? Wolfe’s Aunt Agatha?”

  With some impatience, Doyle replied, “No—it’s not about a wolf, Reynolds; for heaven’s sake, pay attention. The person who said it is someone who talks about ancient Greek things a lot—he’s the one who spoke about Nemesis and that other god whoever-it-was, remember? I had to ask you about that, too.”

  “I see; Greek.” The butler thought about it, and then suggested, “Antigone, perhaps?”

  Doyle turned to him in excitement. “Good one, Reynolds, that’s it. Who was Antigone?”

  “A classic Greek tragedy, madam. Antigone wanted to honor her brother in death.”

  Doyle stared at him in surprise. “Antigone was a woman? Are you sure, Reynolds?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Oh.” She frowned, as this seemed a bit strange—the first ghost was definitely a man. But Harding had said it was a tale of Antigone, and he’d been right before—when he’d gone all ancient-Greek to describe a situation—and so she should give him the benefit of the doubt. “Tell me the story, if you would.”

  Reynolds paused to gather his thoughts, and then recited, “The king would not allow Antigone’s brother a proper burial, and so she defied the king, so as to honor her brother.” He paused, apparently weighing whether to say more, in light of his audience. “It’s rather a complicated story—the third of the Oedipus trilogy.”

  “Oh,” said Doyle, who hadn’t a clue.

  “The plays were tragedies,” the servant explained further. “Perhaps not to your taste, madam.”

  Doyle frowned out the window, thinking this over. “Was Antigone married?”

  “No—instead, she was engaged to the king’s son, as a matter of fact, which only further complicated matters.”

  “Those Greeks were always overly-complicated,” she observed with some distaste. “It’s so much easier to keep things simple and straightforward.”

  “Indeed, madam.”

  With a knit brow, Doyle attempted to puzzle it out, as she watched the passersby stroll in the park below. The first ghost—the young man—was connected to the dead kook in some way, since they both shared the same home-made tattoo. And McShane at the Clinic had one too; the Holy Trinity Clinic, with its shady past, and which was ground zero for the inoculations tragedy not-so-coincidentally mentioned by the aforementioned dead kook, when he’d come in to speak with Munoz. And—lest we forget—the tragedy that was also mentioned by the man who’s-name-was-probably-not-McShane, over at the Clinic. Faith, these tattooed-people may as well be hitting them over the head with a brick-bat, to get their point across.

  She then frowned slightly, because—despite the prodigal use of brick-bats—it didn’t seem to be working very well. Acton was taking a passive role, and seemed to want it all to go cold, for some reason—some reason that was more important to him than dirty coppers operating drug rigs, and setting up ambushes.

  Shaking her head slightly, she wondered what it could possibly be—it was almost too hard to believe, that he’d want a Code Five; this was deadly-serious stuff. On the other hand, her husband took a different view than most, as she’d seen many a time, and so he must have his reasons. Good luck to the man; the brick-bat people seemed a determined bunch.

  Idly, she tapped a finger on the table, and tried to figure out why Harding had mentioned an ancient Greek bride—she’d learned long ago that when she had these dreams, whatever the ghosts told her was always important, for some reason. The rather obvious conclusion would be to think that Sergeant Ruppe was Antigone; she was the only female in this tale, and she’d featured in Doyle’s interactions with both the dead kook and our Mr. not-McShane. Could that be it? Was it Sergeant Ruppe, who was the tale of Antigone?

  Doyle thought this over, and said slowly, “That doesn’t make a lot of sense, though; her dead brother was honored—he was buried with full honors as a matter of fact, and he’s a star on the wall.”

  Reynolds was under
standably at sea. “Perhaps some context, madam.”

  But Doyle was still thinking aloud, as she gazed out the window. “I’ve got to find out what happened to her husband—there’s some reason it’s all been buried, if he was truly killed in action.”

  “Don’t you mean her brother, madam?”

  “No,” she replied absently. “I already know what happened to the brother.” Her scalp prickled, and she wondered why—Brody Peterson had died a hero’s death, no mystery there.

  Her mobile pinged, and she saw that it was Munoz, coming to pick her up. For a moment, she considered having the other girl come up for breakfast so that she wouldn’t have to get ready—and so as to brighten Reynolds’ day—but then decided that Acton was busy with whatever he was busy with, and he wouldn’t appreciate having extra personnel on-site.

  Glancing in that direction, she saw that her husband was still engrossed in his laptop, and hoped that this whole-hearted return to work was yet another sign that his recovery was proceeding apace. When they’d arrived home from Trestles yesterday, he’d almost immediately left the bosom of his fond family to go into work for a few hours, something he hadn’t done on a week-end in a long while.

  And there’d been no nightmares last night, which made two blessedly quiet nights in a row—thank all available saints and angels, and thank Dr. Harding, too; mayhap it had helped to tell Acton how very safe she was being.

  Knock wood, he’ll continue to get better, she thought with some optimism; the poor man just needed to adjust to livin’ cheek-by-jowl with a baby, and when you’ve always been the next thing to a hermit, small wonder that a period of adjustment was needful. Not that he doesn’t love us—me and Edward; sometimes I think he loves us overmuch. Her scalp prickled.