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

by Anne Cleeland

  “Oh. Well, there’s another blow to my ego. If this keeps up, I’ll be sorry I came over. But you can trust me; Williams will vouch for me.”

  This was true, and rather surprising, since she didn’t think Gabriel and William were more than nodding-acquaintances. Frowning, she contemplated the locked door. “I thought you were worried that Williams is compromised.”

  “I still am. But he needed an assist, and he didn’t want to go to Acton, so I said I’d lend a hand.”

  This was also completely true, and sounded very much like something Gabriel would do. It also explained how he seemed to know so much about the ACC plot against Acton, since presumably, Williams was trying to find some way out of the web.

  “I wouldn’t trust him, madam,” Reynolds offered in a low voice.

  “That’s unfair, Reynolds,” Gabriel protested through the door. “I hope you’re not prejudiced—I’m only half Persian, you know. And as a sign of good faith, I’ll not pick the lock.”

  “Oh no, you won’t; it’s Acton’s lock,” Doyle explained. “Acton’s locks are un-pickable.”

  Gabriel laughed. “Insult upon insult. You win; we’ll wait for Williams.”

  As if on cue, the concierge buzzed. “There is an Officer Williams in the lobby, who says he is expected. He also states that he has declined the advice of the young lady to wait downstairs, and would like to come up.”

  Blowing out an exasperated breath, Doyle moved over to the intercom. “No—don’t let him up. I’ll be right down.” Truly, it was like one of those raree shows, where everyone kept entering and leaving through various doors so that it was impossible to keep up. Exhausting, it was, to try to put all the pieces in place, and she didn’t know how Acton bore all his own guileful maneuvering, except that she had a niggling suspicion that he very much enjoyed it.

  Despite Reynolds’ small gesture of alarm, she unlocked the laundry room door. “Come on, then, Gabriel. Williams is a stubborn boyo, and he’s goin’ to try to stop me from goin’ anywhere. So now I’m the one who’s needs an assist, if you won’t mind turnin’ coat on Williams, but I promise it’s all for the best.”

  “I’m your huckleberry,” Gabriel replied easily, stepping out of the laundry room. “Is Williams a level six?”

  “No, he is not,” she retorted, and tried not to smile. Police officers categorized the appropriate level of force in any given situation, and level six was the maximum—the suspect could be subdued by any means necessary.

  As could be expected, William’s brow looked like a storm cloud when they confronted him in the lobby. “Back upstairs, Kath. I’m under strict orders.”

  But Gabriel interrupted apologetically. “Then we have a conflict; DS Doyle has given me strict orders to take her over to holding.” He gestured Doyle past the other man. “Sorry; I have no choice but to obey.”

  Doyle looked to Gabriel in surprise. “Do I outrank you?”

  “Maybe.”

  It was no surprise that this was not true, and so Doyle curtailed any further discussion about who-outranked-whom, and said to Williams. “I’ll explain in the car, Thomas, but it’s inperative that I go over to holdin’.”

  “Who’s in holding?”

  “The Santero. Or he will be, soon.”

  For a moment, Williams stared at her, speechless, and no doubt remembering the last time Doyle and the Santero had shared the same space. “What’s this?”

  But Doyle sidestepped all explanations and brushed past him. “I have to go turn the tables—somethin’ I learned to do at the feet of the master. Are you in?”

  Reluctantly, Williams fell into step beside her. “No, but I’ll go anyway.”

  This was a welcome surprise, and she glanced up at him as they headed to the garage lift. “Truly? And here I’d warned Gabriel that it may come to duelin’ choke-holds.”

  Williams bent his head for a moment, as he pressed the button to take them down. “I’m coming along because I remember what happened the last time you wanted to take an unsanctioned field trip.”

  She smiled, because the last time the princess had escaped from her tower, they’d wound up at Trestles, just in time to save the day. “Now, there’s a car ride I won’t be soon forgettin’.” For Gabriel’s benefit, she added, “Williams and Lizzie Mathis were goin’ at it, hammer and tongs.”

  Gabriel raised his brows. “Were they? Do you mean fighting, or having sex?”

  She laughed, and even Williams chuckled as they emerged into the parking garage. Thus reminded, Doyle couldn’t help but think it was a shame that Williams hadn’t set his sights on Lizzie Mathis instead of William Blakney’s wife, but there was no accounting for such things, which was why—thank God fasting—the fair Doyle had ended up with Acton, as an excellent case-in-point. “You’re a good man, Thomas Williams. All will be well—my promise—but first I’ll need your mobile.”

  He was instantly suspicious, as he helped her slide into the car’s rear seat. “Why?”

  Slouching down, she raised up the hood on her jacket. “Because I left mine behind, and unless Gabriel is a complete knocker, he’s not carryin’ one, either.”

  “I have a disposable,” Gabriel admitted, as he joined Williams in the front seat. “I feel lost without one.”

  With no further comment, Williams handed Doyle his mobile, and then drove them out of the structure. “If you are phoning Acton, I may as well get on the Great North Road, and just keep going.”

  Doyle did not deign to reply to this sally, and instead scrolled until she rang up Morgan Percy’s number.

  It was answered immediately. “Hallo?”

  Doyle lifted the phone to her ear. “Hallo, Morgan; it’s not Williams, it’s Doyle.”

  The girl laughed lightly, although Doyle knew she was disappointed. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised—he’s been ducking me, lately. Should I ask how you got his mobile?”

  “He’s here, actually, since I’m not much of a driver. I’ve enlisted him because I have a secret errand to perform.”

  With a smile in her voice, the other girl asked, “Oh? Do I want to hear about this?”

  Good—Doyle knew she was very pleased that Williams was at hand, which was an excellent start; now, there was nothin’ for it—and here goes. “I’ve got to ask a favor of you, Morgan, and it’s a doozy. I want to speak to the Santero, off the record.” She paused, and then added in an undertone. “It’s not really connected to his case; I need—I need potion advice. The woman who’s mindin’ his shop said the ERU took all his potions away.”

  Not surprisingly, Percy’s first reaction was skepticism. “Potion advice? You?”

  “Yes; it’s—the shop-minder said he had a potion for stretch marks. You should see my stretch marks, Morgan—my belly looks like a map of the Amazon. I have to worry about my skin; Acton used to say my skin was—was lunimous.”

  “Luminous, I think you mean.” There was a calculating edge to the remark; she was not exactly displeased to hear that Acton’s interest was waning.

  “Yes; well, it won’t take more than a few minutes, but I’ll need you there, since I can’t very well just stroll in and ask him about it. Williams says he’ll take you out for a pint afterwards, as a reward.”

  The girl laughed again. “Oh? Maybe the Santero can spare me a love potion, too.”

  Doyle appeared to be much struck by this comment, and replied with a forlorn undertone, “Oh—oh, I hadn’t thought of that, but I suppose he knows a lot about such things. It wouldn’t hurt to ask—mayhap he can let us know where he hides his stash.”

  “All right; but it can’t be for long. I’ll try to keep it off the record.”

  “We’ll meet you in holdin’.”

  Doyle rang off, and into the silence, Williams noted, “I’m one step up from a prostitute, apparently.”

  “Needs must, when the devil drives, Thomas. But don’t let her put anythin’ in your drink.”

  “I’d be happy to drive that devil,” Gabriel offered. “I
t’s a shame she’s not mad for me.”

  No, thought Doyle, looking out the window for a moment. But—interestingly enough— she’d discovered that beneath his casual manner, Gabriel was mad for Munoz.

  Williams, being Williams, was trying to button down the details of his assignment. “Am I supposed to keep Percy busy for a specified time?”

  “You could always go at it, hammer and tongs,” Gabriel suggested helpfully.

  “I’ll let you know,” Doyle hedged. It was very unlikely that the date would actually go forward, after her little tête-a-tête with the Santero, but there was no point in giving the other two this alarming little tidbit of information.

  Gabriel gazed out the window, and remarked to no one in particular, “It’s a shame the Santero doesn’t accidently shiv himself in the back. I imagine that would solve all problems.”

  Annoyed, Doyle tucked her hair into the edges of her hood. “Stop conniving with Williams, Gabriel. You can’t murder the Santero—I need him. And that’s how everyone got into this mess to begin with—you can’t just go about doin’ shadow murders, willy-nilly, and hope it all comes out in the end. Leave retribution to God.”

  It’s been my experience,” Gabriel offered diffidently, “that God needs the occasional assist.”

  “No, God’s got matters well in hand, and we can’t muck about in the plan just to suit our own notions.”

  Gabriel slid her a look. “Remind me why we’re going to pay the Santero an illegal visit.”

  But Doyle had a ready answer. “Because we’d like him to repent of his evil ways. That’s miles different than wantin’ to shadow-murder him.”

  “A fair point,” Gabriel agreed, and turned to face forward again.

  Williams offered, “Don’t argue with her about this, you’ll get nowhere.”

  “I’m not one to argue,” said Gabriel. “Let us go offer salvation to the Santero.”

  “Oh no, you won’t; you’ll stay in the car,” warned Doyle.

  “Got it,” he replied easily.

  42

  What was this? She’d checked in at Detention, of all places. Quickly, he wrapped it up, and headed over.

  Percy was standing in the hallway and looking slightly amused as Doyle approached. Doyle couldn’t decide if it if was good or bad that the holding area wasn’t as jammed-packed as it usually was, and mentally girded her loins for what was to come.

  “Where’s your support officer?” the other girl joked, as she turned to signal to the guard at the door.

  “Williams is not comin’ in; he’s worried if there were two of us, it would look worse than it does already.”

  “Good point. Make it quick,” Percy warned. “I don’t want to get into trouble, either.”

  This was not true, which came as no surprise—Percy was up to her neck in the ACC’s doings, and therefore had no fear of exposure or recriminations. For a moment, Doyle felt a pang; despite all evidence to the contrary, Percy wasn’t a bad sort. Hopefully she’d not go down with the ship that Doyle was determined to sink.

  “You go in first, Morgan. I’ll wait until you’re alone with him—I don’t want anyone else to hear what I’m goin’ to say.”

  “Got it.” Smiling, the girl lifted a brow. “Watch through the window, and come in when the coast is clear.”

  Doyle nodded, and watched through the door’s reinforced window, as the guard escorted the suspect into the interview room. The Santero hadn’t changed much since the last time she’d seen him—only now, she knew why he was such a seething mass of bitterness. It must be outside of annoying, to be framed for such paltry run-of-the-mill murders when you specialized in occult murders. It hurt the brand, so to speak.

  And as had happened the last time, the Santero seemed to know she was standing behind the door. As his guard saw him seated at the interview table, the suspect’s gaze skewed over toward her, the whites of his eyes showing.

  Here goes, thought Doyle, taking a deep breath and summoning up her best bad-cop. Time to be that brassy shant that Harding saw when I had him arrested; it’s a similar situation, after all. As soon as the guard exited through the far door, she slipped in through the entry door, and closed it behind her.

  “My friend Officer Doyle wanted to ask a small favor—” Percy began, but she was interrupted as the Santero sprang to his feet, and backed away, frantically making the sign against the evil eye. “No! No—away!”

  Astonished, Percy stood also. “Come, now; settle down—”

  Doyle stepped toward him with as much menace as she could muster. “You will grass on everyone who’s put you up to all this, or there will be no corner in hell for you to hide— you, or your stupid orishas.”

  “Ah,” the man cried, covering his face with his hands. “No! Away, away!”

  “Stop,” Percy commanded. “What on earth—”

  But Doyle loomed over the cowering man and threatened, “Call your solicitor in, and start confessin’, or you—and everyone you care about—will pay a terrible, terrible price.”

  “Wait a minute—you can’t do this—”

  “No! Stop; stop—” the man sank to his knees, eyes closed; his head shaking slowly from side to side.

  “Guard!” shouted Percy in outrage. “Guard!”

  The guard burst through the door, and then hesitated, seeing the suspect collapsed and weeping on the floor. “Do we need the medics?”

  “Yes,” Percy improvised. “The suspect seems to be hallucinating, and should be medicated.”

  “No—” Doyle protested, but just then, the entry door opened, and Acton stepped through.

  Into the sudden silence, Acton’s impassive gaze swept the room, and came to rest on the Santero, who’d buried his face on his knees, and was rocking back and forth, moaning. “Do you have a report, Sergeant?”

  Doyle swallowed, and then spoke in a rush. “Sir, the suspect is goin’ to grass, and he’s got an alarmin’ tale to tell. He’s been framed for a variety of shadow murders that were committed by members of the ACC, and by Judge Horne. He’d like to call in his solicitor, and make a full confession.”

  Acton stepped forward, then crouched down before the suspect. “This is true?”

  After taking a last, fearful glance at Doyle, the Santero buried his face in his knees again. “Yes—yes.”

  Acton then looked up at Percy, who’d stood, pale and silent, since his entry. She’s trying to decide which horse to back, thought Doyle. She’s no fool, and the wind has suddenly shifted.

  “Counsel?” Acton asked.

  “Let me call the solicitor,” the girl replied quietly.

  “She’s goin’ to raise the alarm,” Doyle warned, although if her husband hadn’t figured this out for himself, she’d wash her hands of him.

  “I don’t think so.” Acton stood, and pulled his mobile. “Because then it would be a simple matter to prove conspiracy.”

  Percy paused, and then asked bluntly, “Do I need to hire counsel, sir?”

  “No,” said Acton, lifting the mobile to his ear. “You do not.”

  “Do I?” asked Doyle in a flippant tone.

  “You will come with me.” Acton ushered her out of the room, signaling to the guard to stay with the Santero. Doyle then listened as he gave instruction to the desk sergeant over his phone—all available PCs were to meet him in the strategy room, because he was going to run a simultaneous sweep, and time was of the essence. “We’ll need to prep the public relations department,” he added. “Send them along, too.”

  “Oh—can I come?” asked Doyle, after he rang off. “Faith; we could have a front-page photo of the bridge-jumper, slappin’ the cuffs on Judge Horne.”

  Acton scrolled for the next number. “Instead, I am going to send you home with Williams, and ask that you stay there, please.”

  “Oh—but I’m just gettin’ warmed, up, husband; for my next act—”

  Pausing, Acton met her gaze, and placed a soothing hand on the back of her neck. “It’s all right
, Kathleen.”

  She pressed her lips together, and made a mighty effort to regain her equilibrium. “I’m gabblin’. Sorry.”

  He pulled her under his arm and kissed her temple, in a rare display of public affection. Trust him to know that she was always unnerved, when she was forced to put her perceptive abilities on display. Safe in his embrace, she listened to him speak with Previ, the editor of the London World News, as his voice resonated against the bones in her face.

  43

  It was all very apt; hubris had brought on Até, as it always did. He’d have to be more careful, in the future. He’d upset her.

  “I can’t believe you got me into so much trouble. You, of all people.”

  Doyle and Percy remained in the holding area, sitting on the battered hallway bench and waiting for Williams, who was supposed to drive Doyle home, but was instead briefing a hapless PC, who wouldn’t understand why Williams was over-explaining a simple arrest—the officer was going to round up one of the smaller-fish at the racecourse, now that the bigger-fish from the ACC were being swept up.

  Doyle understood, though; Williams—naturally—had been champing at the bit in his eagerness to accompany Acton on the initial arrests, but Acton had met his eyes for a silent moment, and Williams had retreated from the fore.

  You’ve been sidelined, she thought; and with good reason—let this be a lesson, my friend. Although there was no doubt that Acton would carefully arrange matters so that the cloud that hovered over Williams disappeared—perhaps even a suggestion that it was off-the-record undercover work that he’d been performing, all along; after all, even the mighty Acton couldn’t erase Williams from this plot entirely. Although—although after Acton had nailed down the Santero’s statement, no one thought to ask Doyle for a statement, or even seemed to realize that she’d been in the interview room, in the first place.

  Next to her, Morgan Percy was emanating waves of angry frustration, mixed with a healthy dose of fear. Doyle was mightily tired of saving the day, but decided she should make one last effort. “It will be less trouble than the trouble you were already in, Morgan. You can’t dance with the devil, and expect it to work out well. If you don’t think a blackleg like Judge Horne wouldn’t turn on you in an instant, you are sadly mistaken.”