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

by Anne Cleeland

  “Hey yourself. Are you free for lunch? I’m in need of a chaperone.”

  “You need a gooseberry?” She smiled into the mobile. “I must say that I’m amazed you let your handsome self get into these sorts of situations, to begin with.”

  “It’s a bit more complicated; I’m meeting Morgan Percy at the deli.”

  “Ah,” she said, suddenly sober. “Say no more.”

  “I’d rather it didn’t look as though I asked you to be there, though.”

  “Oh-oh,” she warned. “I’m not very good at pretendin’ things.”

  “This I know, Kath. It’s important, or I wouldn’t ask.”

  Doyle suddenly saw a way to kill multiple birds with a single sandwich. “Shall I bring Acton, as my cover? Mayhap he could shake up our Ms. Percy a bit, and make her re-think her evil ways.”

  There was a small pause. “Probably not a good idea—and anyway, no one would believe that Acton would go to the deli for lunch. How about Munoz, is she available?”

  “I’ll arrange it, Thomas, not to worry. Just tell me when and where.”

  Thoughtfully, she rang off and wondered what this was all about. Williams had been mysterious and guilt-ridden about Blakney’s death, and one would think that the last needful thing he would do was lunch with Morgan Percy, although perhaps he needed to placate the girl.

  “Have a mo?”

  Doyle looked up to see Officer Gabriel, leaning on her cubicle and causing the fair Doyle to suffer yet another pang of guilt in that she hadn’t followed up with him after the racecourse incident, and he no doubt thought her thoroughly unhinged. “Oh—oh hallo, Gabriel. I’ve been meanin’ to phone you, truly.”

  He smiled, and shrugged. “No matter; shall we discuss the case that we’re not worthy of? Any news?”

  She was tempted to send him to speak with the shop-minder, but drew back, yet again. Gabriel seemed on the up-and-up, but she’d the uneasy feeling that the ticking clock was getting closer to going off, and she wasn’t certain who could be trusted, and who could not. Instead, she replied, “Yes, let’s brainstorm—I’m lookin’ for a motive, and I can’t find the whisper of one.” Her forehead suddenly cleared. “Are you available for lunch at the deli? A walk would do me good.”

  34

  Another meeting, it seemed. Little doubt that she’d discovered what Williams had done. He hoped it didn’t color her affection for him.

  Doyle and Gabriel walked over to the deli just before noon, and since the place was not yet crowded, she easily spotted Williams and the fair Ms. Percy, seated at an outdoor table in plain view of any chance detectives who happened to be passing by.

  “Morgan,” Doyle called out in her best imitation of surprise. “How goes the pursuit of justice?”

  “Overrated,” the other girl smiled. “We just lost a motion to keep my client’s nasty cult practices out of evidence, and so now we’ve got to try to soft-pedal the fact that he made potions out of kitten’s blood.”

  “Reason number two thousand twenty that I’m glad I’m on offense, rather than defense,” Gabriel offered.

  “Yes, you’re naturally offensive,” Percy teased with an arched brow, and Gabriel laughed out loud, pulling up a chair without waiting for an invitation.

  Mother a’ mercy, this is awkward, Doyle realized, as Williams found her another chair. Doyle had forgotten that there was apparently some canoodling going on betwixt Gabriel and Percy, and so bringing him along on this little outing was perhaps not the brightest idea she’d ever had. Williams didn’t seem thrown, however, and so she decided that he probably appreciated anyone who was willing to take the girl off his hands.

  “I was just hearing about Morgan’s bad morning in court,” Williams continued. “They’re getting the pre-trials done, and it’s not going their way.”

  “It was the worst,” the girl agreed, with a sigh that showcased her impressive bosom. “The judge was completely unreasonable.”

  Although it truly wasn’t much of a surprise, Doyle duly processed the fact that this was not true—Morgan was secretly very pleased. No doubt the corrupt judge was happy to allow any and all evidence that would paint the blackhearted suspect even blacker, so that the jury would convict him without even having to discuss it.

  “Are you going to testify for the prosecution?” Gabriel asked Williams.

  “Yes; I will lay the foundation for chain-of-evidence,” Williams replied.

  Doyle straightened up to eye him, because this was not true. Why would Williams lie about something so mundane? Mayhap he didn’t want to give away state secrets to the opposing side—although the evidence list had surely been exchanged, by now. Prosecution wasn’t allowed to surprise the defense, so all cards would be already on the table.

  Whilst she was puzzling over this, Williams met her eye for the barest moment and then looked away.

  Ah, thought Doyle, trying to hide her surprise. I’m not on chaperoning duty at all; Williams wants me to hear the lies that are being told, and—and what? Figure out why his hands are tied? Report to Acton?

  “The defendant won’t wear a suit of clothes,” Percy disclosed with an air of incredulity. “Instead, he wants to wear his tribal dress.”

  “Maybe he can shake some shrunken skulls,” Gabriel suggested. “That would impress them.”

  They all chuckled, but Doyle warned, “Acton says that the jury’s perception often trumps the strongest evidence. If everyone hates him on sight, they won’t much care whether there’s reasonable doubt.”

  “Then you’ve got an uphill battle,” Williams said to Percy, and it was not true.

  This is going to be a very strange sort of lunch, Doyle decided, and wished she could make some notes on a napkin, or something.

  With a sympathetic shrug, Gabriel said to the other girl, “Look on the bright side; if it’s so very hopeless, it makes your job easier. No one is expecting a miracle, and it will be good experience, if you’re sitting second chair. Will the lead barrister allow you to do any questioning?”

  Percy shook her head. “Not much—the case is too high-profile. I’m to do some of the preliminaries; chain-of-custody, that sort of thing.”

  Gabriel grinned. “Then I hope you grill Williams, here, within an inch of his life.”

  “Oh, I will,” she laughed. “Although I think there’s no such thing as a good chain-of-custody grilling. Instead, everyone will be asleep.”

  “I won’t,” Williams promised. “If you’re going after me, I’ve got to be on my toes—nothing but the truth.”

  Another lie, Doyle duly noted. Apparently, Williams was going to lie on the stand—or he wasn’t going to testify, or something—truly, he needed to be clearer about what was going on, here.

  Struck with a sudden thought, she decided to probe a bit. “It’s lucky, we are, that you never had to take the stand against Dr. Harding, remember? You’d be impeached in a pig’s whisker.”

  Bull’s-eye; there was a heavy, strained moment of wariness. “What happened?” Percy asked with studied casualness. “Never say that Williams compromised a witness?”

  With a small smile, Williams shrugged. “Not my finest hour. No harm done; the witness didn’t lose any teeth.”

  They all laughed, and then Doyle idly leaned back in her chair. “Whatever happened to Dr. Harding, d’you know? I don’t think he’s practicin’ in the city anymore.”

  “I don’t know,” Williams replied, and it was a lie.

  Morgan Percy pushed out her chair. “Anyone want anything? I’m going to need more coffee, to stay awake for the next round.”

  “Coffee,” breathed Doyle, with a great deal of longing. “Would you mind if I smell it, before you drink it down?”

  “I’ll get one, and you can smell mine,” Williams offered. “Gabriel?”

  “I’m good,” Gabriel replied. “I’ll stay here with the baroness.”

  Doyle noted that Gabriel watched the other two with a thoughtful expression, as Williams held the door for
Percy. “I hope you’re not jealous,” she ventured. “Sorry, if this is crackin’ awkward.”

  “Oh, I’m fuming jealous. Ready to knife DI Williams, and watch him bleed all over the table.”

  Needless to say, this was not true, and Doyle had to laugh. “Try to resist the impulse; I’d hate to have to put you in a headlock, in my condition.”

  He tilted his head, as he continued to watch the other two through the window. “So; will you tell me what’s going on, here?”

  Startled, Doyle stammered, “Oh—oh, what do you mean?”

  He turned his thoughtful gaze to her. “Williams shouldn’t be testifying about chain-of-custody; you should. You’re the one who found the shoes.”

  “Oh.” This hadn’t even occurred to her, which only went to show that Gabriel was a sharp stick. Uncomfortably aware that her companion was doing an excellent job of putting two and two together, she hedged, “Mayhap the prosecution has decided not to use the shoes? I suppose it would only make sense; the shoes would be easily precluded because there is no chain-of-custody, in the first place.”

  “Very true.”

  He offered nothing more, and unable to resist, she asked, “What—what is it that you’re thinkin’, Gabriel?

  With a small smile, he crossed his arms and shrugged. “Nothing that’s any of my business. I’m just a secondary character, here.”

  His words triggered a sense of deep foreboding, and Doyle blurted out, “No—no, you’re not. You should stay away from it, Gabriel. Please.”

  He didn’t answer immediately, but considered her for a moment. “What is the ‘it’ I’m staying away from?”

  Doyle struggled with what to say since truly, she didn’t know herself—it was mostly guesswork, thus far. “I think there are some very desperate people, doin’ some very desperate things.”

  He lifted his gaze to the deli windows, where Percy and Williams could be seen picking up the coffee. “Present company included?”

  Aware that she was giving away too much, Doyle equivocated, “I don’t want to say more. I’m worried—I’m worried other people have been drawn in against their will, and I don’t want it to happen to you.”

  He turned his thoughtful gaze back to her. “You seem to think I’m in some sort of danger.”

  After hesitating, she decided that she couldn’t really deny it—that horse had already left the barn. “Yes, but I can’t tell you why.” This, of course, was only the truth; she’d sound as crazy as the Santero if she told him of prickling scalps, and shoeless ghosts.

  Shrugging again, he replied, “All right,” but it was not true.

  Stifling her alarm, Doyle eyed him, and wished she knew what he was thinking. “I’m sorry; I know I sound crazed, with all these dire warnin’s. I just can’t say more.”

  “Not to worry,” Gabriel smiled, and again, it wasn’t true.

  35

  There; she was eating with the others, and no harm done. She’d not be happy with his intervention, but he could not be easy.

  It was fortunate for Doyle that she hadn’t given in to the mighty temptation to take a swig from Williams’ coffee before she spotted Acton, approaching in their direction along the pavement. Worried, he is, she thought, assessing his calm demeanor with a practiced eye. Poor man’s got a free-range wife, who leads him a merry chase.

  “Hallo, sir,” she called out, so as to give the others a warning. “Am I needed, or would you care to join us?”

  There was not the slightest chance, of course, that Acton would deign to join them and predictably, he demurred. “I am afraid I must interrupt, and beg your pardon.” He nodded to the others, who’d all straightened up and pulled their feet under the table.

  And so, Doyle allowed her husband to escort her back toward headquarters—their progress necessarily a bit slow, as she was inclined to dawdle. Into the silence, she ventured, “It’s only the deli, Michael.”

  “I cannot like the company.”

  This was of interest, and she eyed him sidelong. “Oh? Who’s in your black book, aside from Williams?”

  He tilted his head. “What makes you think Williams is in my black book?”

  She made a wry mouth, and allowed her gaze to wander in the general direction of the shoe store, which was halfway down the nearest cross street. “Because he’s frettin’ about somethin’, but won’t tell me outright about whatever it is. That, and he nearly fainted when you showed up, just now.” She teetered on the verge of telling him that Williams wanted her to know that he was lying, but hesitated, because she knew Acton would not like to hear that Williams was exploiting her perceptive abilities in such a way. Instead, she offered, “I think he’s worried about the Santero trial, and the chain-of-custody testimony.”

  “He should be,” was her husband’s only response, and it was true.

  As she seemed to be getting nowhere, Doyle thought she’d throw a spanner into Acton’s wheel-of-closely-guarded-secrets. “Since it was such a fine day, I thought I’d ask him if he knew whatever had happened to Dr. Harding.”

  She’d sought to provoke him, and it turned the trick, as Acton paused mid-stride and took her arm with gentle insistence, bending his head to hers. “Kathleen, I must ask you–very seriously—not to follow up on these matters. I will have your promise.”

  Gazing into his eyes, so intent on hers, she decided there was nothing for it—if she couldn’t trust Acton, she may as well lie down in sackcloth and ashes. “I can’t give you my promise, Michael. I’m bein’ told that I’m not supposed to trust you.”

  The expression in his eyes turned to one of abject surprise. “What is this?”

  She covered the hand on her arm, so as to take the sting from the words. “I know you’re tryin’ to smooth my way, Michael—and it’s much appreciated—but sometimes your methods are a bit—are a bit questionable. I’m gettin’ warnin’s that I mustn’t trust you.”

  He stared at her, speechless, and she had to laugh at his unfeigned amazement; Acton’s devotion to her was almost frightening in its intensity—poor man—and the last blessed thing he’d ever do would be to give her the old double-cross. “I know, I know; but it’s—it’s a persistent message, and so I think it’s best that I tell you—it makes no sense, truly.”

  He frowned, and she could sense that he was genuinely perplexed. “Can you elaborate?”

  Taking hold of his arm, she sighed, and began walking forward again. “I wish I could. I wish it was clearer.” She knew—in the way that she knew things—that it was important she not tell him that it was Harding who was the relater-of-dire-warnings, and so she didn’t mention it. He’d no doubt argue that Harding was stirring up trouble, and he couldn’t know—like she did— that he was beyond that, now.

  He guessed, “Could it be the succession hearing? Because I can assure you that the ends justify the means.”

  She lingered at the intersection, wondering what she could tell him when she wasn’t certain what it was that she was talking about, in the first place. “In a strange way, I think everythin’ is all bound up in everythin’ else—the succession hearin’, the Santero trial, Williams bein’ all afret.” She paused, thinking. “Munoz’s assignment.”

  Ah, she caught a flare of emotion from her husband, and quickly lifted her face to his. “What? What is it?”

  Slowly, he revealed, “Munoz has asked to meet with me, off the record. Please don’t mention it.”

  But this news was not alarming, and Doyle nodded in relief as she gently steered him down the cross street. “Good. I think there’s somethin’ gafty about this whole undercover rig, and I even suggested that she appeal to you, given that the net is closin’ in around the ACC, and they’re dirty birds in the first place.” Glancing up at him with a gleam, she teased, “Mayhap that’s what all these warnin’s are about—mayhap I shouldn’t trust you to be alone with the fair Munoz. Promise me you won’t be meetin’ her at the stables.”

  They exchanged a fond smile, because Edward was conce
ived in the stables at Trestles, on a glorious afternoon that featured hurried sex, and the scent of sweaty horses.

  But the moment quickly passed, because Doyle felt a sudden jolt of uneasiness. “You know, there was somethin’—somethin’ Munoz said about her assignment that struck me as odd, and I wish I could remember what it was. It’s one of those willow-wisks, that Reynolds talks about.”

  “Has she said anything that didn’t ring true?”

  This was his delicate way of reminding her that Munoz could be compromised, and she was quick to reassure him, “She doesn’t tell me anythin’, which is just as well—faith, I can’t keep all the fish tales straight as it is.” She eyed him sidelong. “Orkney Islands, my eye.”

  With a small smile, he asked in a diffident tone, “Where are we going?”

  Since she’d maneuvered him down the cross street, she was forced to confess, “Well, here’s the thing, Michael. There are some very sharp-lookin’ black boots in the store window, and I don’t think I can even zip them over my calves at this point, but I would truly, truly, like to try.”

  “Then by all means.”

  Reading him aright, she giggled. “No one is more surprised than I am—it must be my hormones, runnin’ amok. I’ve never been the least bit interested in frivolous shoes, before.”

  He held the shop door for her. “I confess that I am very fond of your hormones, and willing to indulge them as a reward for past performance.”

  She giggled again, and pausing for a moment, he bent his head to hers. “Will you tell me if you have any more insights?”

  It was bothering him—as she knew it would—and she felt a bit ashamed for making him worry. “It seems so stupid, Michael; I trust you down to the soles of my shoes, and I’ll swear to it on all the holy relics.”

  But his tone was serious, as they continued into the shop. “On the contrary; it was no easy thing for you to bring yourself to tell me of this. Therefore, I believe it is important.”