Murder in Just Cause

by Anne Cleeland

  Firmly, she turned her attention toward getting ready for another tedious day with Munoz—who should be along at any minute—and reluctantly rose from the table. “Thank you, Reynolds; you’re an amazing help, as always—especially with the Greeks, and such.”

  “It is my pleasure, madam.”

  With a casual air, she asked, “So—what do you think of Lizzie Mathis, Reynolds? She seems nice.”

  The servant paused, understandably surprised. “Ms. Mathis, madam?”

  “Yes—remember? She used to take Emile to the prison to visit his father. She’s a very clever person, just like you.” Best not mention that her cleverness had no doubt resulted in a few murders—too much information, and she was trying to put a best foot forward, here. “She’d make someone a good wife, I think.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t much time for a social life, madam,” Reynolds offered diplomatically.

  Doyle had to laugh at his well-bred dismay, and said, “No—forget I said anythin’ Reynolds; I shouldn’t impose on you.” As the servant held her coat for her, she pushed her arms through and mused aloud, “I don’t think Williams would have her, though, and I’ve got to marry her off to someone.”

  With a hint of disapproval, the servant noted, “They tried to marry-off Antigone, madam, and it did not turn out well at all.”

  “A word to the wise,” Doyle agreed, and then wandered off to say goodbye to Edward and Acton.

  Chapter 28

  Ready.

  Munoz, as it turned out, was brimful of news, and could barely wait until they’d pulled away from the curb to relate it. Lowering her voice, she asked, “Do you know anything about the race-course operation they’re rolling up, today?”

  “I do not,” Doyle replied, looking over with interest. “I know everything there is to know about baby cereal, though. Unsnabble, Munoz, what’s afoot?”

  But the beauty hesitated. “I don’t know if I should say, if Acton hasn’t told you.”

  “Truly, that’s not much of a surprise, Munoz; Acton’s the next thing to the sphinx, when there’s anythin’ of interest goin’ down. Can you at least give me a clue?”

  Munoz glanced over, her dark eyes alight with excitement. “They’re rolling up some drug dealers at the race-course, and the rumor is the ACC is involved because it implicates dirty coppers.”

  Thoroughly shocked, Doyle stared at her, and then had a sudden memory of Acton, silently glued to his computer this morning. “Mother a’ mercy, Munoz. Who—do we know?”

  “Gabriel’s trying to find out, but they’re keeping a tight lid on it.”

  “As well they should,” Doyle mused, turning to stare out the windscreen in abject dismay. “The papers will go flippin’ wild.”

  “It’s not like it’s never happened before,” Munoz pointed out. “Even though it shouldn’t.”

  This was unfortunately true; despite the prevalent use of integrity checks—and warnings of dire consequences—police personnel managed to get themselves involved in the illicit drug trade on a recurring basis. Most often, it was a personal weakness soon caught out, due to the random drug testing they were all required to undergo. But—every once in a while—an officer was caught up as a player in the drug trade itself. It was a mighty temptation, to be on an LEO’s salary and to see firsthand the kind of money the villains were making, and—every once in a while—there was someone who couldn’t resist.

  Suddenly, Doyle remembered Munoz’s suspicions about Inspector Geary, and asked rather anxiously, “Where’s your MAO, Munoz?”

  To her surprise, she caught a wave of emotion emanating from the other girl, even though it wasn’t reflected on her face. In a steady voice she replied, “I imagine he’s following us in another car.”

  This seemed a bit strange, and so Doyle ventured, “Why’s that? Are you worried he’s part of it?” Doyle didn’t think so, but Doyle had been wrong about such things before, with a certain detective-trainee serving as an excellent case-in-point.

  “No,” Munoz replied, and offered nothing more.

  But Doyle was fast putting two and two together, and turned to the other girl in her excitement. “No—Geary must have been a lure, instead. The brass must have had some suspicions, and so Acton pulled Geary in as a lure for this trap-and-seizure—havin’ him pose as a copper, lookin’ for drugs. That would explain his trip to the race-course, after speakin’ with a snitch. And he’s the perfect lure, since he’s a copper, but no one in London would know him.”

  “Yes—that’s what happened,” said Munoz with some constraint in her voice. “He already told me.”

  Doyle regarded her in surprise. “He’s not a very good lure if he’s blabbin’ to the likes of you, Munoz—you might have been involved, for all he knew.”

  “No—no, that’s not how it went.” The other girl paused. “He only told me because I’d accused him of dealing in drugs, and he wanted to defend himself. We had a huge blow-out.”

  Doyle continued to stare, since it was difficult to imagine the staid Inspector Geary engaging in the aforesaid huge blow-out; particularly one with a subordinate-officer. “Mother a’ mercy, Munoz. And that’s why he’s been thrown out of the vehicle?”

  Her eyes on the road, Munoz continued, “Then he kissed me.”

  “No,” Doyle breathed in abject astonishment. “I’m goin’ to fall out of the car, Izzy.”

  The other girl lifted a corner of her mouth. “Don’t. Acton doesn’t want me performing assignments without you.”

  There was a small silence, whilst Doyle stared in wonder at her companion. “Holy Mother; what are you goin’ to do?”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing to do, Doyle. I’ve already got a boyfriend, and Geary’s going back to Ireland.”

  “Of course,” Doyle agreed, and kept her thoughts to herself. “D’you think you have to report him?” There were strict rules about harassment, especially when it came to actions by officers of superior rank.

  “No—no; please don’t say anything, Doyle, I instigated the fight in the first place. And I know he won’t do it again.”

  Doyle nodded her agreement, but processed the interesting fact that this last statement was not exactly true. “Are you goin’ to ask that he be transferred?”

  “No,” the other girl said, a bit too quickly. “They’d want to know why, and I don’t want to get him in trouble.”

  “Not to mention a hulkin’ boyo like him makes a good watchdog.”

  Munoz smiled. “True.”

  Lightly, Doyle teased, “Well, my only advice is that you’ve got to try to stop breakin’ hearts as you walk down the street, Munoz; it’s a hazard, you are.”

  “Watch and learn, Doyle,” the other girl replied, but she said it only as a matter of form, because she was all on-end, and small blame to her; she was miles more shook-up about this turn of events than she was letting on.

  So as to change the subject, Doyle decided she should probably show some interest in their assignment. “So, where is it we’re goin’?”

  “You should read your assignments.”

  “I should,” Doyle agreed. “It would be very helpful.”

  Munoz blew out a breath of frustration. “I think half the reason Acton assigned you as my assist is because he knows I won’t write you up.”

  “Whist, Munoz; you’re lucky I don’t write you up right back,” Doyle countered. “At least when I snog on superior-officers, I’m married to them.”

  The other girl chuckled—as Doyle had intended—but she then cautioned, “Don’t say anything.”

  “I won’t.”

  But something had caught Doyle’s attention, and she gazed out her window, thinking. “Are you sure it was Acton’s idea, to pair me up with you?”

  “Of course—he signed the order. You should read your orders, too.”

  Wait, thought Doyle; wait a blessed minute—that can’t be true. Acton would never assign me as an assist with Munoz—not in a million years—because he is the only person
who knows we’re half-likely to strangle each other; he’d put me with Williams, instead. Not to mention he would never allow me to do an assignment in the projects, even if I went in with an army.

  The more she thought about this, the more she was convinced there was something odd about it—if for no other reason than as soon as Acton realized where she’d been sent that first morning, he’d dropped Edward like a hot brick and had run over. So—why was his signature on her assignment order? There was something here—something she should pay attention to—

  “We’re here,” Munoz announced, as she pulled into a parking space. “Try not to embarrass me.”

  “We’ve a witness?” Doyle guessed. They were in front of one of the ubiquitous coffee franchises that dotted London, and Doyle’s spirits perked up considerably, as it had been at least a half-hour since she’d had some coffee.

  “Yes—a woman. She didn’t want to be seen talking to police, so try to keep a low-profile.”

  “That’s a shame; and here I was goin’ to clear a fine path with my baton as I barged in.”

  In truth, this was a common occurrence in dealing with nervous witnesses; they didn’t want to be seen speaking to police officers at work or where the neighbors could see, so oftentimes a café or coffee-spot was chosen as a rendezvous spot. The police, on the other hand, didn’t necessarily appreciate having to conduct an interview in a public place, but oftentimes had little choice.

  “What’s the case?”

  Munoz gave Doyle a significant glance, as she lifted her rucksack from behind the seat. “Sir Cavanaugh.”

  Doyle raised her brows. “Well, there’s a decent assignment, Munoz, and I’m much impressed. But shouldn’t Williams be doin’ the interviewin’, then?”

  Munoz carefully checked her lipstick in the rear-view mirror. “Dispatch is not sure she’s legit. They asked her to walk-in, but she refused.”

  “Ah.” This was a variation on kook-detail, only in these situations, the kook was too lazy to bother going into headquarters and was instead content to put on a show in a less-prestigious location. Generally, Dispatch was wise to these types, and would encourage them to do a phone interview so as to gauge the value of a follow-up interview in person—an officer’s time was valuable, in these crime-ridden days. But apparently, Dispatch was not sure about this one, and so here they were—Williams would be notified if it seemed a worthy lead, but meanwhile the two more junior detectives would make a quick assessment.

  “What’s she goin’ to say, do we know?”

  “We don’t, so it may be short and sweet. Woman in her thirties—Middle Eastern, they think. Wouldn’t give a name. Dispatch said she’d be at a table near the back.”

  As they exited the unmarked vehicle, Doyle suggested hopefully, “We should pick up some coffee, first. It might help to make the witness feel more comfortable.”

  “Not if she’s Middle Eastern,” Munoz replied without mercy.

  Doyle groused, “Saints, it’s a hard taskmaster you are, Munoz.”

  “Quiet,” the other girl replied in a hushed voice. “Here’s Geary.”

  Chapter 29

  Go.

  Inspector Geary approached to join the two girls as they began walking toward the coffee establishment, and the man did not betray by the flicker of an eyelash that anything was amiss betwixt his fine self and the fair Munoz. Nevertheless, Doyle could sense a resonance between them as though a bow had been plucked—not that it necessarily meant anything, of course; Doyle had seen many a similar resonance come and go, in the course of her adventures with the Spanish girl.

  Munoz cautioned Geary, “Dispatch thinks she may be ME, so it would probably be best if you wait outside, so that only Doyle and I approach her. I’ll give you the high sign if we want an excuse to wrap it up—come in to say we have another call.”

  “Aye, then,” said Geary.

  “And try not to look like a policeman,” Doyle suggested, only half-joking. “The witness is skittish.”

  “I’ll do my best,” the man agreed gravely.

  The two girls entered the shop—crowded, at this morning hour—and scanned the tables until they saw a woman wearing a hijab lift her face for a moment, and then duck it again.

  She’s nervous, all right, thought Doyle; and found it very interesting that a woman wearing a hijab would choose a crowded coffee place to meet with police—mayhap she was trying to avoid anyone she knew. This actually helped make the case that the witness was indeed a legitimate one, and Doyle’s hopes were raised; it would be a fine feather in their caps, if she and Munoz helped land an important witness on the Sir Cavanaugh case.

  As Munoz made the introductions and they seated themselves, Doyle decided that the woman was clearly not savvy when it came to these types of establishments, since she’d managed to sit right alongside the noisy blending machines. And, as Doyle assessed the witness, suddenly all thoughts of bringing glory to their team were dashed, because—although the woman did wear a proper hijab—Doyle had the immediate impression that she shouldn’t be.

  A kook, then, if she was wearing the head-scarf just for show—or thinking it a disguise. Hopefully she’d start speaking of chemtrails or some other nonsense so that they could signal to Geary and wrap it up with no further ado.

  “I understand you have some information that you’d like to share,” Munoz started out.

  “Yes,” the woman nodded. “I was friends with Sir Cavanaugh’s assistant.”

  Worse and worse, thought Doyle; it wasn’t true, but—as was often the case—she couldn’t very well signal to Munoz that this was a dead end, and so she resigned herself to ten more minutes of nonsense. At least it smelled heavenly, in here, and mayhap she could steal a moment to check in on Edward.

  “Can you give me her name?”

  “Martina Betancourt.” The woman answered promptly, and it was true.

  Munoz duly entered the name in her tablet. “Do you know if she’s already been interviewed?” She was only being polite, though; of course the CID had already interviewed the murdered man’s assistant, if for no other reason than to set up a timeline based on his calendar.

  “I don’t think so—she’s disappeared,” the witness said, and Doyle lifted her head, because this was true.

  Doyle could sense Munoz’s surprise as they both stared for a moment, and then Munoz asked, “Do you have information as to where she’s gone, then?”

  “She spoke of having relatives in Belarus. It may be that she’s gone there, and I felt I should tell the police.”

  Unfortunately, the witness was veering back into making-things-up territory, and Doyle could barely hide her exasperation as a promising lead disappeared up in smoke. She interrupted Munoz’s questioning to ask, “If you don’t mind me askin’, ma’am, why wouldn’t you just come in and tell us this?”

  The witness lowered her voice. “I was not sure whether I should—she may have left because she was afraid, and I didn’t want to put her in any more danger.”

  Munoz nodded, writing down the made-up information, and whilst the other detective was thus occupied, the witness suddenly met Doyle’s eyes for an intense moment, and then shifted her gaze over toward the counter beside them.

  Puzzled, Doyle glanced in that direction and found—to her extreme surprise—that the coffee-maker behind the counter was Davie McShane, late of Holy Trinity Clinic’s file room. Not only that, but the man also met her eyes for a significant moment.

  He wants me to know he’s here, Doyle thought, and then wondered what was expected of her—it seemed clear the two were working in coordination but that they didn’t want Munoz to know this.

  She was to have her answer almost immediately; McShane fired up the blender noisily, and the witness leaned in, her mouth close to Doyle’s ear. “The syringes at the race-course,” she said quickly. “Read the letters.”

  After conveying her hurried message, the witness then leaned back and lowered her gaze to the table, whilst Doyle tried to hid
e her extreme bewilderment. The words made little sense, but she was fast coming to the conclusion that the woman was no kook, and that it would behoove the fair Doyle to figure out what was going on, here. She didn’t have the sense it was a trap, but there was no such thing as being too careful—in light of recent events—and so as the blender stopped, she said into the relative quiet, “Look, you’ve got important information, so if you’re reluctant to go to the Yard, mayhap we could just go to the local station-house to record your statement.”

  “No,” the woman said simply. “I can’t.”

  Thinking that perhaps she was refusing due to religious principles, Munoz asked, “Could we ask your husband to come with you?”

  “No,” the young woman repeated, but the words were accompanied by an aura of grief that Doyle recognized from when her mother died. On impulse, she touched the young woman’s hand. “It will get better,” she said softly. “It just takes time.”

  The witness woman raised her gaze to Doyle’s with some surprise, but all further conversation was curtailed when—with a loud commotion—they turned to see that Geary had stumbled on a chair as he was making his way toward them, his large body crashing into an adjacent table and causing the patron to quickly whisk his coffee-cup out of harm’s way.

  Doyle and Munoz hurriedly rose to assist the Irishman as—red-faced—he apologized and regained his feet. “Sorry; it’s a bull in a china shop, I am.”

  Whilst Munoz was assuring herself that Geary was uninjured, Doyle beheld Officer Gabriel approaching, and behind him, Commander Tasza Kozlowski.

  Ah, thought Doyle; now, here’s a wrinkle—this can’t be a coincidence. “Hallo, ma’am; Officer Gabriel,” she said a bit loudly, so as to give Munoz the head’s up. “You’re catchin’ us at sixes and sevens, here.”

  “Not to worry—that’s my usual state of affairs,” said Gabriel easily. “Are you all right, Inspector?”

  “Embarrassed, mainly,” Geary offered with a small smile, and brushed himself off.