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

by Anne Cleeland

  But on yet another hand, perhaps she was jumping the gun, thinking that the QC’s murder could be laid at Percy’s door. The girl had killed her old boss out of admiration and respect, and this murder—if indeed it was a spite murder—would not fit her m.o. With a twinge of guilt, Doyle tried to decide if she was leaping upon any excuse not to make a decision, but was thankfully interrupted when Munoz’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  “You’re quiet. Are you worried that Holmes is seeing someone like her, on the side?”

  “Holmes” was Acton’s nickname amongst the lesser detectives, and Doyle chose to be amused, rather than annoyed. “I think I can safely assume that Holmes is not seein’ anyone on the side.”

  “Don’t be so sure; you are pregnant.”

  “Give over, Munoz.” Interestingly enough, pregnancy did not seem to abate her husband’s ardent desire to jump her bones on a daily basis, but this was not a piece of information she wished to share with Munoz. “So, what’s next?”

  “I’ll write up a report, and tell Williams we don’t think the wife or girlfriend is a suspect. I’ll let him decide about allocating resources for a recent-records search; that’s above my pay grade.”

  Doyle looked out the window for a moment. “Should we take a gander at the QC’s caseload? He was criminal defense, so he may have been killed by a vengeful client, or somethin’.”

  Munoz quirked her mouth. “Maybe the Santero put a curse on him.”

  Doyle turned to her in surprise. “Why—that’s right; the QC was workin’ in the same chambers as the defense for the Santero case.”

  With a pitying look, the other girl forestalled any conclusions-leaping. “I was kidding, Doyle—there’s no connection. The QC wasn’t working on that case, and even if he were, the Santero’s not going to put a curse on a member of his own defense team.”

  But Doyle’s scalp was prickling like a live thing, and she was trying to understand why it would—there must be a connection, somewhere. “What if—what if the QC stumbled across somethin’ dicey about the Santero in the course of his own work, and the Santero decided he should be eliminated. I think we should try to rule it out, at least.”

  But Munoz was not having it, and shrugged an irritated shoulder. “Of all the stupid theories you’ve ever had, I think this one is the stupidest. How would we investigate around attorney-client privilege? There’s absolutely nothing to go on, and we haven’t enough resources, as it is.”

  Since Doyle couldn’t tell Munoz why she was so certain that there was indeed a connection, she was forced to fall back on persuasion, which was not exactly her strong suit. “Well, hear me out, Munoz; I was just tellin’ Williams that I think no one is willin’ to grass on the Santero because they’re all afraid, and the reason that they’re all afraid is because he’s havin’ people killed, pretending that it’s bein’ done by evil spirits under his command.” She paused, considering this. “It’s a crackin’ good plan, because whilst we might find a few brave souls who are willin’ to grass on a mere mortal, we’ll not find anyone who’s willin’ to grass on murderin’-evil-spirits. No one’s that brave.”

  Munoz rolled her eyes in the manner of someone who knows she is exhibiting stoic patience. “But there isn’t a connection, Doyle, and even if there were, I don’t know how we’d find it.”

  Stubbornly, Doyle insisted, “It’s a hunch, I guess. But we’ve no other suspects, so may as well rule it out.”

  Munoz was fast losing interest, as she turned into the parking structure. “It’s not a decent working theory, Doyle. Even if the QC stumbled across incriminating information, that wouldn’t be sufficient motivation for his murder. If that was the case, the Santero would have to kill everyone on his defense team for good measure.”

  Doyle frowned, finding it hard to argue with this logic, and casting about for a better working theory. “Mayhap he wanted to keep his own defense counsel in line—scare them, by killin’ the QC.”

  Munoz grimaced. “Well, that would definitely do the trick—I’d turn in my horsehair wig, and start studying up on archeology, or something a lot less dangerous.”

  As it seemed clear that Munoz was not taking her seriously, Doyle persisted, “We should try to come up with an investigative protocol, just to rule it out.”

  “Sounds like waste of resources to me,” Munoz opined bluntly, as she turned off the car. “But you’re welcome to pitch it to Williams. I’ve got an assignment this afternoon, so thankfully I will be nowhere near, when you do.”

  Suddenly alert, Doyle asked in a casual tone, “Oh? What sort of assignment?”

  “I’m not allowed to say,” was the only response.

  10

  Carefully, he crept out of bed, so as not to awaken her. He’d work to do.

  “It’s not about love,” Harding was explaining to Doyle. “It never is. It’s about externalization. That, and impulse control disorders.”

  Struggling to focus as the wind swirled around them, Doyle scowled. “That’s a pint full o’ ridiculous, is what that is. I think that you can’t see beneath the surface, and can’t see the good that’s underneath it all. You’re one of those cyntics.”

  With all appearance of long-suffering patience, the ghost crossed his arms, and bent his head. “Cynics, I think you mean. Good God; to think I’ve got to try and thread this needle.”

  But Doyle was not going to stand by and be insulted by someone who should be begging her pardon, fasting. “I never asked for your help, you know—take your sorry self off, and be gone.”

  The psychiatrist was seen to sigh. “Let’s start again, shall we?”

  Reluctantly, Doyle calmed herself, and tried to remember what she was supposed to be remembering. “All right, all right—I’m workin’ on the Munoz angle, but I don’t know how I’m goin’ to find anythin’ out. There’s an NDA.”

  He looked upon her with mild incredulity. “Well then, find out without making her disclose anything. You’re a detective, aren’t you?”

  “Faith, I’m too busy worryin’ about the stupid shoes,” she groused.

  “I don’t have shoes,” he pointed out.

  She could see that this was true, and she stared at his stockinged feet for a moment.

  “You can’t trust him, you know. Not this time.”

  Raising her head, she stared at him. “Who? Acton? Williams?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  She subsided into silence for a moment. “There’s somethin’ I wanted to ask you—whether you know—”

  “Don’t ask me, ask him,” the ghost interrupted. “You’re both avoiding the subject.”

  But she slowly shook her head. “We’re not good at bein’ honest, Acton and me—we’ve already tried it.”

  “Ask him. Abreaction is often helpful, when it comes to pathological memories.”

  Doyle blew out a breath. “Haven’t a clue, what you just said.”

  He turned his palms up, and shrugged. “Sometimes it helps to talk it out.”

  Brightening, she nodded. “Oh? Well that’s not a hardship. Faith, I can gabble with the best of ’em.”

  “Indeed.”

  There was a small silence, and reluctantly she admitted, “I don’t know if I’m that brave. Everyone thinks I am, but it’s all puffery, and sleight-of-hand.”

  “Classic avoidant,” he agreed.

  Annoyed by his smug certainty, she retorted, “You don’t understand the people who live beneath your fancy labels. Percy killed her old boss out of love.”

  He shook his head, and repeated with weary patience, “It’s never about love. It’s about externalization.”

  She puzzled over this, as the wind blew, and the man before her stood, unmoving. “Are we talkin’ about why Acton murders people, or why Percy does?”

  “Both are dissociative.”

  Because she didn’t like Acton’s being lumped in with Percy, she made a childish attempt to take the psychiatrist down a peg. “You needn’t feel so superior, you know. W
e got your goat, between Williams and me.”

  His raised his brows in pleased surprise, as though a child had suddenly made a brilliant observation. “Exactly. Now, do it again.”

  She woke with a start, and tried to stay quiet, only to discover that Acton was not in bed with her. Brushing her hair back from her face, she could see a dim light from his desk, where he sat at his computer in the next room.

  As she gathered the comforter around her, she called out, “What’s the point of havin’ a husband, if there’s no one here to cosset me when I wake up in the middle of the night?”

  He looked up with a smile as she padded over to the desk, dragging the comforter behind her. “I beg your pardon. Are you in need of cosseting?”

  “I am indeed. What are you workin’ on, that’s more important?”

  “I am setting a trap,” he said easily, and it was the truth.

  A bit taken aback, she rallied him, “Not for me, I hope?”

  “No point; I’ve already trapped you.”

  Fondly, she ran a hand along the top of his head. “I was a willin’ mark—I don’t think that counts as any sort of victory, husband.”

  “My finest hour,” he teased, and leaned his head back for her kiss. “How is Edward?”

  She placed a fond hand on her belly. “Edward is excellent—never finer. He’s goin’ to be hugely disappointed, though, if Savoie gets to have Trestles, and he’s left hangin’ on the gate, lookin’ in.”

  He took her hand, and playfully placed his fingertips against hers, spreading her hand. “I imagine you are well-aware that Savoie will inherit neither Trestles, nor the title.”

  “Yes, well—you definitely pushed the other side off their pins, at the hearin’.” She leaned against him thoughtfully, and wound her arms around his neck. “I think I’ve figured somethin’ out, though. Remember when we were at Trestles, and I told you that the ghost-knight was all afret about Savoie? I bet he doesn’t understand that it’s all a trick, and he thinks you’re truly goin’ to hand the place over to him. He’s that angry about it, on account of havin’ fought the French, and all.”

  Acton received this revelation with commendable calm. “I see. Do you think he is dangerous?”

  She considered this doubtfully. “I don’t think so, but everybody else is afraid of him. I don’t know if he can do anythin’ other than rant, but I’d rather not be the one testin’ him.” She thought about it, and sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to go to Trestles, and explain it all to him.”

  Acton tilted his head. “Now? It may not be the best time to make a visit.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “Whist, Michael; it would be a rare treat—we could show up, bold as brass, and serve up a screechin’ fistfight in the portrait gallery, just to confirm everyone’s bad opinion of me.” She paused. “But we should make the visit, I think. Best take no chances—there’s somethin’ brewin’, and it makes me uneasy. Wouldn’t want the knight to burn the place down, out of spite.”

  “All right,” he agreed, as though this were an ordinary topic of conversation. “I will make arrangements.”

  She brushed his hair the wrong way, so that it stood up on end. “And speakin’ of fistfights, when’s the next go-round with the committee? I’ll wager the chairman would like to do some cossetin’ of his own, if you catch my meanin’.”

  “The next hearing is early next week. Promise me you won’t elope with the chairman; at least wait until we obtain a ruling.”

  She laughed, and leaned her head down, so that she pressed her cheek against his. “I don’t know, Michael; if I practiced my wiles, it could tip the case in your favor.”

  He placed a fond hand on her arm. “Just the opposite; he’ll rule that we aren’t married, so as to have you to himself.”

  “A point in his favor, then. He’d definitely be a dotin’ suitor.”

  “More doting than me?” he teased.

  She laughed again, because Acton rarely referred to his neurosis and this seemed a good sign, what with the stupid psychiatrist lecturing her. “No—you take the palm, my friend. Although the chairman probably doesn’t have bloodthirsty ghosts tucked away in his keep, which is a point in his favor, all in all.”

  There was a slight pause, whilst her husband ran a gentle hand along her arm. “What’s bothering you, Kathleen?”

  She blew out a breath, and bent her head against his, for a moment. “You know that I hate it when we’re honest with each other—it gives me the willies. Some things are better left unsaid.”

  “I cannot disagree.” He was silent, waiting.

  “Only—well, if you want to tell me about this first-wife person—the girl your father killed—I’m willin’ to listen.”

  She sensed his surprise, and his withdrawal. “Why do you think my father killed her?”

  “I just do, Michael.”

  Absently, he ducked his chin, and caressed the arms around his neck. “It is an ugly story, Kathleen.”

  Shrugging a shoulder, she observed, “We’ve seen our share of ugly stories in this line of work, you and me.”

  She could sense he was taken aback, and that she’d get nowhere with this tonight—or perhaps any other night. He said only, “Thank you.”

  She straightened up. “Good; now that we’re done with our dose of honesty, I can garner your opinion, instead. I was goin’ to mention to Williams that I think there’s a connection betwixt my QC case and the Santero case, but Munoz thinks he’ll laugh in my face and throw me out of his office.”

  “What is the connection?” Acton turned in his chair to face her, and she had the immediate impression that he was suddenly wary, although his outward appearance didn’t reflect it.

  “The QC is from the same chambers—the one that’s representin’ the Santero,” she replied, and knew—in the way that she knew things—that Acton was already aware of this. “It could be just a coincidence, but I’ve a feelin’ that it’s important.” With a hint of reluctance, she added, “And there’s a Morgan Percy connection, too.”

  Acton’s gaze rested on hers. “How so?”

  “She’s a former girlfriend—or perhaps not so former—but in any event, the victim threw her over.”

  “He would not be the first,” Acton pointed out, and pulled her onto his lap.

  Willingly, Doyle nestled into his arms. “Truer words, never spoken. Faith, if that’s the motive then we’d have a pile of corpses, one would think. But even if Percy were a suspect, it wouldn’t be the same m.o. as her other murder—that one had an altrutistic motive.”

  “Altruistic,” he corrected gently. “Although I am not certain Percy ever serves anyone but herself.”

  “Yes—well, she’s got some sort of dissociative personality disorder, I think. It just—it just makes me uneasy, for some reason. Would you mind if I told Williams that you’d already given me the green light to look into possible connections? Although I’m not sure what it is I’m lookin’ for.”

  “Certainly,” Acton replied smoothly, but Doyle knew with complete certainty that he was not happy about this line of inquiry. He continued, “In fact, I would like to interview the Santero myself, with you to listen in. Williams should be present also, as he is the CSM.”

  Oh-oh, thought Doyle, with a blink; I believe Williams is in some sort of trouble with my husband.

  11

  There was no reason to believe she’d ever find out, so in the end, there was no harm done. It had to be carefully handled, of course; interesting—that he hadn’t just come to him, and confessed the whole.

  Doyle, Acton and Williams were conferring in the gallery before the interrogation of the Santero, who sat at the interview table on the other side of the one-way glass. Doyle wasn’t overly familiar with the case, but knew the suspect was a bad actor from the Lambeth borough, and used his position of power within the immigrant community to silence his critics and enrich his coffers. Lambeth was also where the QC had met his fate, and even though this might seem to be sign
ificant, in truth, it wasn’t much of a coincidence since the borough had the dubious distinction of having the Met’s highest murder rate.

  Thus far, they had the Santero on charges of practicing medicine without a license, along with benefit fraud and tax evasion, but they were hoping to nail him on several murders that could in all probability be laid at his loathsome door.

  A bigger creep never put his arm through a coat, thought Doyle, as she watched him through the glass; the Met had been after him for quite some time, and were hoping to put him away permanently—hence the frustration with the superstitious witnesses.

  As she listened to Acton confer with Williams, Doyle sized up the suspect, who was seated alongside his solicitor, waiting for the interrogation. He was a rather bony, older man—hard to gauge exactly how old—wearing tribal dress, and emanating a bitter anger, although he concealed it behind a fine show of disdain. He’s like a spider, she thought; all evil, and gangly.

  For a moment, the suspect’s gaze wandered over to the glass panel that hid the gallery, and Doyle was a bit surprised; he knows that we’re back here, watching, she thought, and it makes him uneasy, for some reason.

  Acton was saying to Williams, “We should scrutinize all other local murders that share the same m.o.; if we can find other victims to lay at his door, it may give us a means to work around the reluctant witnesses. It may also convince defense counsel to be a bit more cooperative in hammering out a concession.”

  Williams nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Acton’s level gaze rested on the younger detective. “Has his shop been searched?”

  Of course, it has, thought Doyle in surprise. We’re talking about Williams, here.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The suspect suddenly gestured toward the glass partition, and asked his solicitor in an agitated voice, “Who is there? Who is hiding there?”

  In alarm, the solicitor leaned forward and spoke to the suspect quietly, his hand gestures indicating that his client should calm down, and think before he speaks.