Murder in Shadow (The Doyle and Acton Murder Series Book 6)

by Anne Cleeland

  Doyle looked up at him in surprise, and then scrutinized the corpse, wracking her brain and noting the tattoos on his arms. “Oh—oh, that’s right; the witness we spoke to about Giselle’s murder. Her ex-husband, right?”

  “William Blakney, I believe.”

  “I’ll cancel the cremation order,” said the coroner, who made a notation on his tablet.

  6

  It appeared that Blakney’s death was something he hadn’t foreseen.

  Doyle was at home with her feet up, researching the dead pawnbroker on her laptop and mostly coming up empty. She called out to Acton, “Blakney had a record—minor stuff, like possession of stolen goods. Nothin’ that stands out, but I suppose we can assume he’s consortin’ with criminal types, since that goes along with the pawnbroker-in-Fremont territory.”

  “Usually, that is the case,” Acton agreed.

  Doyle’s scalp prickled, and she tried to decide why this would be. In a casual tone, she asked, “D’you think it has anythin’ to do with the turf wars that we were investigatin’, back when we spoke with him? Mayhap someone had some unfinished business.”

  Acton was sitting at his desk, and raised his head to gaze out the windows for a long moment. “Perhaps. Or he may have tried to extort the wrong people. Or he may have known too much. There are too many unknowns, as yet, to attempt a working theory.”

  Mental note, Doyle thought; don’t ever be a pawnbroker, because there are too many reasons to be getting yourself murdered. “Why were the shoes missin’?”

  “I’m afraid I cannot wager a guess.”

  “Perhaps, madam, the killer wished to dispose of incriminating evidence.” Reynolds, their servant, was preparing dinner, and had been listening to the conversation.

  Doyle lifted her brows, and typed a note. “Good one, Reynolds. Mayhap there was somethin’ on the shoes that would have been helpful for forensics, and the killer didn’t want to give the game away.”

  “Both victims were murdered in place,” Acton pointed out. “And neither one in an unusual setting.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” For Reynolds’ edification, she explained, “The posh QC was fleein’ a robber, up an alley.”

  “Or perhaps he wasn’t,” Acton offered.

  At sea, Doyle lifted her head to look at him. “Perhaps he wasn’t? He was knockin’ over ashcans, in his haste to get away.”

  Acton looked out the window again for a long moment. “Where did the fatal blow land?”

  The penny dropped, and Doyle stared at him. “On his temple—bashed him hard enough that he’d have gone down like a plumb. So, he wasn’t fleein’—unless he was cornered, or somethin’. Saints, Michael—let me text Gabriel and Williams; the scene might have been staged.”

  “That is a possibility.” Acton walked over to open the oven door, and look within. “Ah, spinach casserole; one of my favorites.”

  “Is it?” she asked in surprise. “Didn’t know that. Faith, you marry someone, and you think you know ’im.”

  Acton straightened up. “Let’s have some, shall we?”

  Doyle gazed upon him incredulously. “Never say spinach casserole is what’s for dinner?”

  “I thought we’d have something light, tonight.”

  She watched with acute dismay as Reynolds carefully removed the casserole from the oven. “Are you certain we don’t have a spare pig’s knuckle, lyin’ about?” Doyle was not one for vegetables—except for mash, of course, and then only when it was accompanied by a fine pile of greasy bangers.

  “Hush,” Acton smiled, as he invited her to join him at the table. “You’ll hurt Reynolds’ feelings.”

  “Reynolds doesn’t have feelin’s, do you Reynolds?”

  “Certainly not, madam.”

  Acton decided to change the subject, as he signaled for the servant to serve up the casserole. “What else have you discovered, with respect to Blakney’s murder? Anything of interest?”

  Doyle contemplated the leafy mass of vegetation on her plate with deep suspicion. “Unidentified John Doe, found off Emert Street. Williams was the CSM, although there wasn’t much of a follow-up—he was probably too busy, poor man, and there was nothin’ to go on, anyway. The judge signed off on a cremation order with no further ado.”

  This was understandable, unfortunately; if there was no ID and no leads, the CID tended to put its resources to work elsewhere—particularly as the aforesaid resources were stretched thin, after the corruption scandal had laid waste to many of their ranks. “The m.o. looks similar to the QC’s murder—an ambush, then coshed and robbed. Shoes taken, as I mentioned.”

  Suddenly struck, she paused in taking up her fork. “Faith, Michael; it should have been an easy thing to ID Blakney, since his prints are on file for his pawnbroker’s license, and he had past criminal convictions. It’s a shame that no one ran his prints, but I suppose they were waitin’ for someone to report a missin’ man.”

  Tentatively, she took a bite of the casserole and then suggested to Reynolds, “I think a pat of butter wouldn’t go amiss.”

  “I believe,” said Acton firmly, “that we are out of butter.”

  This was not true, and Doyle fixed her scornful gaze upon her husband. “I’m not goin’ to sacrifice butter, too. I already gave up coffee, and a body can only bear so much.”

  “Very well, then,” Acton conceded, and signaled to the servant.

  As they ate the buttered spinach, Doyle eyed her husband covertly, having the feeling that he was secretly pleased about something. “What’s next?”

  “That,” he said thoughtfully, “is a good question.”

  She lifted a brow in amusement. “Never say you’re stymied—I’ll not believe it.”

  He tilted his head. “We need more information. Let’s wait until we have a preliminary on the QC, to see where we are, and what is needed.”

  “All right. I’ll alert Williams and Gabriel that these two murders may be related. Should I wait until we’ve somethin’ more concrete, or should I put that in the report now?”

  “Now, by all means,” he replied, and her scalp prickled, although she didn’t understand why it would.

  That night, Doyle had another one of her dreams. They happened occasionally—strange, vivid dreams, usually featuring someone who was no longer alive, trying to convey a message that never seemed to be very straightforward. Since she always had a hard time concentrating on these occasions, more often than not the dreams were a source of frustration and disquiet—although they’d saved her life, once, so there was that.

  This one was no different; Doyle dreamed she was standing in a darkened, outdoor area, and the wind was blowing even though she couldn’t feel it. Before her stood a familiar figure, impeccably dressed, and regarding her with an impassive expression.

  Doyle could scarce believe it, and had to force herself to be civil. “Dr. Harding; you’ve got some nerve. Best watch yourself, else I’ll give you another dose of excessive force.” The man was Acton’s former psychiatrist, and he’d been knee-deep in the recent plot to do away with the fair Doyle.

  “Little good it would do you,” the man replied. “I’m not alive, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “Oh—well, I suppose I’m sorry for it.” Best not inquire into the particulars of how that came about; Acton was not one to let the grass grow under his feet, when it came to acts of bloody vengeance.

  “You can’t just trust him.”

  With a mighty effort, she frowned, trying to focus. “Trust who? Acton?”

  “Not this time.”

  Although it hardly seemed necessary, she replied with some scorn, “You’re the last person that I’ll be takin’ advice from, thank you very much.”

  “And you’ve forgotten about Elena.”

  She stared at him in confusion. Elena was Detective Sergeant Munoz’s sister, and she’d recently been rescued after having been coerced into sex slavery. “I haven’t forgotten about Elena; she’s doin’ fine, now—well, all things conside
red. She’s married to Inspector Habib.”

  “You’ve forgotten the whole point,” he insisted. “Try to think.”

  “I can think as well as the next person,” she retorted, stung. “And I like Aiki much better than you. Where’s Aiki?”

  But there was no response, and she was staring at her bedroom wall, trying to still her fast-beating heart.

  “All right?” murmured Acton sleepily. He pulled her back against his chest, and as was his habit, absently began stroking her arms.

  “Just tryin’ to get comfortable, Michael; sorry I woke you.” Because the last needful thing was to let Acton know that his dead psychiatrist—the one who’d tried to kill her—was haunting her dreams, and telling her not to trust her husband.

  7

  He wasn’t certain whether he should just allow it to play out, so that a valuable lesson was learned.

  Doyle was seated at the deli which was located a few blocks from headquarters, and waiting for DI Williams to come meet her. She’d asked if they could meet off-campus, which was what she tended to do when she needed his advice on non-official matters. She’d been puzzling over Harding’s middle-of-the-night message, and had finally realized what he’d meant. As much as it pained her to admit it, the dead man was right—she’d missed something important.

  Williams came through the door, dressed in his shirt-sleeves since it was a fine day outside. He was tall and blond—and nearly as clever as Acton, which was truly saying something. He could probably be counted as Doyle’s best friend, even though they’d had some uncomfortable moments because he carried a torch for her fair self. Nonetheless, he’d been in her corner, time and again, and the unfortunate fact that he acted as Acton’s henchman in carrying out her husband’s dark deeds did not change the fact that she trusted him. He was the only person, aside from Acton, who knew about her perceptive abilities, which was a measure of just how much she did trust him.

  After spotting her, he came over to pull up a chair, and she noted with a twinge of sympathy that he didn’t seem his usual self—looked a bit pulled about, he did—but this was only to be expected; they were all being run ragged until more foot soldiers could be enlisted to fight the good fight.

  He smiled, and reached for the coffee she’d bought him. “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself. I’m that grateful that you’re willin’ to consort with a bigamist.”

  He set the cup down, and contemplated it. “I think, technically, you’re not the one who’s the bigamist.”

  “Why, that’s an excellent point, DI Williams, and I do feel much better.” She hadn’t been certain that he knew about the succession hearing, but it seemed clear he was up-to-speed on the latest doings in the wretched House of Acton.

  His next words only verified this. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to draw me into this, Kath.”

  She made a face, and took a sip of his coffee—technically, she’d given it up, but sneaked a half-cup, here and there, just so as to stay sharp. Pregnancy had a way of making one un-sharp, and she needed her wits about her, what with Acton pulling strings in the background and Williams being all guarded about something, although he was doing his best to hide it.

  As she gave him back his cup, she said lightly, “Not to worry, I don’t want to spend another minute thinkin’ about the stupid succession—and Acton has another title to spare, anyways, so it all seems a bit greedy, to us lowly peasants.”

  Williams raised his sharp gaze to hers. “Acton has another title?”

  Belatedly, she remembered that this may not be a piece of information that was intended for public consumption and so she hastily disclaimed, “It’s complicated, but that’s not what I was wantin’ to talk to you about. Remember Dr. Harding?”

  He accepted this rather disjointed change of topic with an ironic nod. “I do.”

  Of course, he did. Williams had punched the good doctor out, and then—for good measure—had framed him for assault. “Yes; well, did we ever figure out what Harding’s motive was, when he tried to shoot me? It’s not as though he acted alone, but Acton has never mentioned him again.”

  Immediately, her companion was wary—probably because he knew very well why Acton did not speak of Harding. “Why are you wondering about him? Has something come up?”

  Glossing over the fact that something had indeed come up in the form of an unwelcome spectre, she replied, “I just wish I knew what Harding’s motivation was. Was he tryin’ to bump Edward out of the succession, or was he tryin’ to bump Acton off the corruption case?”

  But Williams was too wily to be caught giving out state secrets. “I don’t think it matters, Kath, and I wouldn’t ask too many questions.”

  She blew out a frustrated breath. “No. And it would be little use, anyway; Acton is the grand master of not answerin’ questions that he’d rather not.”

  “Tell me about Acton’s other title.”

  She looked up at him, a bit irritated because he’d been no help with her Harding questions. “Why on earth do you care? It’s such a passel of nonsense, and Acton won’t tell me whatever it is that he’s cookin’ up.”

  “I think,” Williams said slowly, “that the succession necessarily impacts your safety—yours and Edward’s—so Acton is making sure no one is motivated to attack you again.”

  With a mighty effort, she shook herself out of her sulks, and acknowledged that this was a fair point. Williams always made good points, but in doing so didn’t make her feel like she was a dunce, which was greatly appreciated. “I know—I know that’s at the root of it all. I’m just out of sorts, I suppose. It comes from havin’ been cut out of the loop, bein’ as I’m the weak link.”

  “I suppose you’ll just have to trust him, Kath.”

  Reminded of Harding’s words on this subject, she retorted a bit too forcefully, “Of course I trust him, Thomas, it’s just—” She frowned, trying to put her instinct into words. “He’s bein’ all Holmes-y, and holdin’ his cards very close to the vest, but he seems—I don’t know, he seems—troubled, I guess is the word. He’s a bit troubled, but he doesn’t want me to see that he’s troubled.” She paused, debating whether to say more, since she shouldn’t be speaking about her marriage with anyone else—faith, she didn’t even speak about it with herself. “Acton figured out that the QC’s murder was staged, but I got the impression that he wasn’t sure that he wanted to let anyone else know that it had been staged.”

  Williams frowned in turn, and fiddled with the sugar packets. “Perhaps he wasn’t certain it was staged, and that’s why he hesitated to mention it. The victim may have turned to make a stand and then been struck, which would explain the location of the wound.”

  Doyle nodded without comment. This would have been a decent argument, had it not been clear that the body was positioned in such a way so as to make it appear he was in the act of flight. And as Williams—of all people—should know this, Doyle diplomatically changed the subject. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about somethin’ else.”

  He glanced up. “Oh? What’s up?”

  “We’ve forgotten somethin’ important, in all the fuss. Elena Munoz was forced into the sex ring—but why Elena?”

  This was indeed a good question. In the course of investigating the corruption rig, they’d discovered that the villains were blackmailing others into compliance by threatening to coerce their female relatives into sex slavery. One such victim was Detective Sergeant Munoz’s sister Elena, but it had not occurred to anyone to wonder why Elena had been seized.

  Williams’s expression grew grave, and he nodded. “Good catch. It must have to do with Munoz—right? She’s in the CID, and it can’t be a coincidence. They must have been trying to control Munoz, in some way.”

  Doyle leaned forward, and lowered her voice. “But d’you see the problem? If the villains tried to contact Munoz after Elena was grabbed, she’s never mentioned it.” Reluctantly, she added, “And recall that Munoz was recruited to work for the Anti-Corruption Comman
d.” The very same ACC that was orchestrating the take-down of the corruption ring—and who Acton thought were involved up to their necks.

  He thought about this, a slight frown between his brows. “And?”

  Doyle tried to remember what she was supposed to know and not supposed to know, and then gave it up. “Acton thinks that the ACC is bent, too, even though they’re supposedly the ones doin’ the investigatin’.”

  Unsurprisingly, Williams lowered his head in alarm, and glanced around. “You can’t just say things like that, Kath.”

  She eyed him. “What do you think?”

  He pressed his lips together. “I’m not going to tell you what I think.”

  She crossed her arms, and leaned back to sulk. “I don’t think it’s fair that I have to be the weak link, all the time. It’s someone else’s turn.”

  He crossed his arms in turn. “I don’t think it is possible to say the right thing, so I will make no response.”

  With a sigh, she conceded this point, and leaned forward again. “All right—then just listen to me, and I’ll try to come up with a workin’ theory. Let’s assume the ACC is bent, even though it dare-not-be-spoken-aloud.” She paused, contemplating the linoleum table top. “So—mayhap someone from the ACC wanted Munoz to infiltrate the corruption investigation, and find out what was goin’ on. They’d got wind that the jig was up, and were wantin’ to find out how much was known so they could decide whether to flee the scene.”

  But Williams pointed out the obvious. “Why wouldn’t they know already? It was the ACC’s investigation, after all, and therefore they’d be infiltrating themselves. That doesn’t make much sense, Kath.”

  This was irrefutable, and she raised her head to gaze out the windows, thinking. “No, it doesn’t. But I think it’s important that we find out why Elena was seized.” She met his eyes with some reluctance. “Should we assume Munoz has been compromised?”

  He let out a long breath. “Perhaps you should discuss this with Acton.”