The light dawned. “Ah—was the reporter a man named Maguire?” A few months ago, Doyle had a small kerfuffle with Maguire, who had wanted to run a page-seven story about Doyle’s unexpected marriage to Acton. Perhaps he was still intent on following through, despite his earlier decision to show her some mercy.
“No,” said Munoz. “It was a woman; I have her card.” She fished it out of her coat pocket, and handed it to Doyle. It displayed the logo of a popular tabloid that featured sensational, anonymous stories about celebrities, and was imprinted with the name “Jennifer Smith.”
“What did you tell her?” Doyle asked with some misgiving—although Munoz wouldn’t know much, if the subject was Doyle’s marriage to Acton. Doyle didn’t know that much, herself.
“Nothing,” Munoz admitted. “I didn’t like where it was going.”
“Good one, Munoz.” Doyle touched the other girl’s elbow with relief. “Acton would not have been happy.”
“I know—I didn’t want to get the sack over something stupid like this. But the reporter was not happy with me, and ended up not paying me anything.”
“But you did the right thing, Izzy, and I appreciate it—truly I do.”
“I thought you should know.” The other girl paused, frowning. “She also asked me some questions about TDC Owens.”
Doyle stared in surprise, a sinking feeling in her midsection. “Owens?” Owens was the trainee that Doyle had killed, and why anyone would be asking about his disappearance was a mystery—and not one of those nice mysteries with cats; more like a dark and ominous mystery.
Munoz exclaimed in annoyance, “Why is everyone so interested in Owens? Remember—Rourke was asking about him, too.”
Rourke was an Irish villain in the turf wars who’d met a bad end; he’d been posing as a banker to date Munoz, apparently with the sole aim of winkling information from her. Doyle paused with that thought—was it only a coincidence that two different and apparently unrelated persons were laying siege to Munoz for information about Owens? Acton famously said that he didn’t believe in coincidences, and so Doyle’s uneasiness grew. “Did this reporter mention Rourke, too?”
“No—thank God for small favors.” The story was not a pretty tale; Munoz had not shown to advantage, having been hoodwinked by the charming Mr. Rourke.
Knitting her brow, Doyle digested these rather alarming revelations. “I’ll tell Acton—maybe he can bring some pressure to bear on the paper.”
“Don’t,” urged Munoz, her gaze meeting Doyle’s in alarm. “He’ll think I’m an idiot.”
This was a fair point, and besides, Doyle should not discourage Munoz from making any future confessions she may need to make. “I won’t, then—I’ll just tell him I discovered this reporter was sniffin’ about, lookin’ for a story.”
“Don’t tell Williams, either.” Munoz was interested in Williams, as was nearly every female on staff at the Met. Except for Doyle, ironically.
“I won’t—I won’t say anythin’ about it, I promise.”
They parted, Munoz heading back into headquarters while Doyle made for the deli, texting Williams that she was en route. It was starting to drizzle and she’d forgotten her umbrella, but there was a table available inside, as it was too early for the lunch crowd. She settled in to wait, thinking about what Munoz had revealed. She’d little doubt that the reporter was looking to put up a story about her marriage to Acton, in the same way that Maguire had tried—it was an intriguing story, and even more so now, after the bridge-jumping incident. Acton was a well-known figure—the titled, brilliant-but-reclusive detective who solved high-profile murders, and the fact that he’d married a first-year DC out of the blue only added to his mystique. But why would anyone couple their story with TDC Owens’s mysterious disappearance? No matter what angle she studied this from, the answer made her very uneasy, as it appeared that someone was aware that the trainee’s disappearance was somehow connected to the House of Acton. Owens had been a detective trainee, but in truth he’d been infiltrating the racecourse—another foot soldier working for one of the underworld players who were trying to muscle in on the racecourse smuggling ring. He’d gotten sidetracked from his dark doings by his attraction to Acton, and his unfortunate fantasy had led him to believe that he only had to murder Doyle to have Acton for himself.
Plenty of villains had died in the ensuing turf war, so it would be logical for his employers to simply presume that Owens was just another casualty; it was strange that the man’s disappearance was being traced to Acton and her fair self.
“Hey.” Williams pulled up a chair.
She shook herself out of her abstraction. “Hey, yourself.”
“Anything new to report?”
Being as she didn’t want to confess that she was too busy having sex to work on the case since last they spoke, she shook her head. “I like the guilt angle, though; I was gettin’ nowhere with a straight vigilante, there were too many variables. This may start a new string.”
“Do you need help? My caseload is not very heavy, just now.”
“I do,” she admitted, grateful for the offer. “Most of the information on the cold cases is in hard copy, and it’s time-consumin’. I have a feelin’ I’m just on the brink, and it’s frustratin’ as all get out.”
“Happy to help.” He paused for a moment, studying his hands on the table. “I wanted to tell you something.”
Of course he does, thought Doyle, resigned. He’s flippin’ Williams.
He met her eyes with a small smile. “We’re friends, right?”
“Right,” she agreed easily, having a very good guess where this was going.
He chose his words carefully. “I hope you will not hesitate to let me help you, if you should ever need help—no questions asked, and no matter who is involved.”
Doyle replied with all sincerity, “I appreciate the offer. Thank you.” She decided she wasn’t going to argue again with his premise, that Acton could ill-treat her. He’d seen Acton in one of his black moods, and it was indeed a fearsome sight. Everyone wants to rescue me, she thought; it’s ironic, is what it is—I’m the one who’s the rescuer. With a suddenness that almost made her jump with surprise, her scalp started prickling, as it did when she was making an intuitive connection. What? She thought, perplexed; what is it about Williams’s offer—
He continued carefully, “There is sometimes a—an unwillingness to face a difficult fact—”
“What happened, Thomas?” She asked him softly, every nerve attuned. “Did someone else have bruises, once?”
The blue eyes met hers in surprise, and there was a frozen moment whilst she could tell he was trying to decide whether to go forward or to withdraw. Her intuition prompted her to ask gently, “Can’t you tell me?”
Slowly, he replied, “My cousin. I had a cousin who was about ten years younger.” He bent his head for a moment. “She’d have fingerprint bruises—where she shouldn’t have. She died when she was twelve; a drowning accident.” He raised his head. “A couple of years later, when I was doing my externship at the coroner’s office, I saw a girl with the same sort of bruises and learned what it meant—she’d been molested. I also learned about cerebral ischemia and what a broken hyoid meant.” He raised a finger to his throat, and Doyle nodded; a broken hyoid usually indicated death by strangulation.
“My cousin—my cousin had the same indicators; I just didn’t recognize it for what it was at the time.”
Doyle nodded sadly. “Yes—you realized that her death was a murder, in hindsight. Who did it? D’you know?”
“Her father—my uncle. I had nothing concrete, but I just knew. I think she’d gotten old enough to threaten him with exposure, so he killed her.”
“Yes; I imagine so.” This was, unfortunately, not an unusual sequence of events, as they had discovered in this business. “Faith, Thomas; I am so sorry.” And at that moment, the world lost a very fine doctor but gained a very fine detective, instead. “You canno’ be so hard on y
ourself, Thomas Williams; you canno’ rescue everyone.”
The steady gaze met hers. “I can try.”
But her own gaze did not waiver. “Not this time—I swear to you on my mother’s soul that it wasn’t Acton; my bruises were hard-earned, they were, and my attacker paid a very steep price for them.”
He searched her eyes, then nodded. “Right then; I’ll say no more.”
They sat in silence for a few moments. “How on earth do you face him—your uncle, I mean?”
Her companion examined his hands again. “No longer necessary; he died last year—fell and drowned while crossing a stream on his property.”
This was not true, but she observed in a mild tone, “Now, there’s justice and irony shakin’ hands.”
“Sometimes it all works out.”
Another lie; but she already knew this—already knew why her scalp had been prickling and her intuition was practically beating her over the head to pay attention. Williams’s situation was similar to their working theory on the vigilante murders; there had been a trigger, just as Acton had speculated. A trigger made Williams recognize a murder in hindsight, and then he became a vigilante in his own way—probably with Acton’s help; two men who felt the justice system needed an occasional helping hand. She wondered whether Acton had experienced a similar trigger, one that had started him down his own path.
Suddenly certain, she told him, “I think we’re lookin’ for a vigilante who’s consumed with guilt instead of vengeance, just as you suggested. Might well be a case-worker, or someone on the defense team—someone who helped the murderers get off and then realized, somehow, that he’d truly mucked it up.”
He nodded. “All right; where do you want me to start?”
“Let me think about how to divide up the task; in the meantime, I need a favor.”
“You need only ask.”
She glanced at the time on her mobile. “I’m goin’ to meet a reluctant witness in the bookstore shortly, and I’d like you to cover the flank.”
This did not set well, and he was suddenly on high alert. “Is he dangerous? I’ll come in with you.”
“No—if you’re there he won’t speak, but I’d like an excuse to leave if it’s goin’ nowhere. Could you ping my mobile about twenty minutes after I go in? If I don’t answer, come and extricate me with some excuse.” She paused. “And please do not mention this to Acton.”
This remark caused no end of alarm, and he raised his brows. “Kath—”
She raised her own brows in response. “Oh—is this a problem? And here I thought you sincerely meant your fine speech of five minutes ago.” It was masterful, truly; she had him caught by his own promise.
“What is this about?” he asked heavily.
“Not sayin’. Are you in?”
“Of course.” He wasn’t happy about it, though.
She wasn’t afraid of her rescuer; she truly didn’t think he was a danger to her. But one never knew, and she couldn’t quite like the way he’d followed her around, yesterday. “That’s grand of you, Williams, and much appreciated,” she said cheerfully, and gathered up her things to go.
CHAPTER 13
ONCE IN THE BOOKSTORE, DOYLE MADE HER WAY TO THE RELIGION section, which was as deserted as the last time. Her rescuer held a Bible, thumbing through it as he waited for her. “Anythin’ in there about the wages o’ sin?” she asked.
He looked up, and replaced the book. “Who is in the cemetery?”
There seemed no harm in saying. “My mother.”
He tilted his head in sympathy. “My mother, also. And now my brother.”
“Gerry?” she asked in surprise.
He regarded her with his unreadable pale eyes. “I did not say that Gerry was my brother.”
“I think he is. Or a cousin, or somethin’.”
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why do you think this?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know; I met him, you know, and you rather remind me of him.” And her perceptive ability told her this—although it was true that sometimes it led her astray.
Apparently, he was willing to concede the issue. “A different brother is dead. You knew him—he was a policeman here, in London.”
With dawning realization, she struggled to control her reaction. Holy Mother of God; the chickens were coming home to roost with a vengeance, and suddenly all the coincidences were no longer coincidences. Her mouth dry, she managed to offer, “I am that sorry for it; who was he?”
“He used the name Owens.”
She feigned surprise, no small feat, as she wasn’t very good at subterfuge. “TDC Owens is dead? Are you sure? No one knows whatever happened to him.”
Her companion fixed his pale, cold gaze upon hers. “Solonik, he says he knows.”
Thinking to throw a wrench, she ventured, “Maybe Solonik had him killed, and that’s how he knows. Solonik is not a good man.” This last said with some emphasis.
“Perhaps. I will find out.” He watched her for a moment. “You think Solonik is taking Acton’s goat.”
“Yes, I do.” She met his eyes candidly. “What do you think—has he told you what he plans?” Perhaps her rescuer would turn coat on Solonik; she had the very strong impression he was a bit beguiled by her fair self, despite his hard-as-nails appearance.
He shook his head. “No, he has not told me what he plans.”
This was not true, and they stood together for a moment, at an apparent impasse. She wasn’t quite clear on the purpose of this meeting—although it may just have been that he wanted to speak with her again. She should be nice; hopefully he’d never find out what happened to his wretched brother, but if he did, any measure of goodwill she could establish would be needful—she had no doubt that this man was a very tough customer. To this end, she said lightly, “Did you inform Mr. Solonik that I’m wise to his wily ways?”
He paused, and replied, “He says it would be best if you come to see him; he must warn you.”
Suddenly wary, Doyle was silent. This sounded more like the Solonik she knew, and her rescuer was now a bit grim—or grimmer than his usual. “Warn me of what?”
Her rescuer lowered his gaze for a moment. Oh-oh, she thought in alarm; this is serious.
“There is information about Acton that is being gathered up by Solonik. Weapons, killings.”
Doyle stared at him, trying to hide her horror.
“He wishes you to meet him to speak of it—of what is to be done.”
Blackmail. Controlling her first flare of panic, Doyle brought herself under control and thought about it carefully. So—this was a fine incentive to bring her before him; Solonik was bound and determined, he was. It could be a ruse—Solonik was already aware of Acton’s unlawful propensities; falsified evidence had put the man in prison, after all. He was trying to manipulate her so as to wreak some kind of revenge on her husband, and she should play along, perhaps—at least until she knew what-was-what. On the other hand, perhaps the only goal was to get her to visit the prison for some reason, and it would be best to stoutly refuse, no matter the incentive.
Whilst she tried to decide the best strategy, her mobile vibrated. “Excuse me,” she said, and texted “OK” to Williams.
“You must come to see him, to discuss this problem. But you must not tell Acton.”
She mustered up a confident expression. “He’s bluffin’, my friend; he doesn’t know anythin’ that could hurt Acton.” She’d see if her rescuer was willing to give her any proof, so as to gauge the seriousness of this ploy.
Her companion shrugged. “Your husband does not act wisely, sometimes. He drinks too much, and tells secrets.”
This seemed a little ominous—that they would know about the drinking—but she raised a skeptical eyebrow. “It’s clear you’ve never met him; no one would call Acton a gabbler.”
With a measured movement, he pulled two photographs from his inner jacket pocket, and handed them to her.
Doyle stared at the photographs; almost
unable to process what they portrayed. They were of Acton and the woman reporter from the London World News who had spoken to him at the crime scene. Both were seated at a small round table—as though at a nightclub—and the light was dim. They were leaning with their heads together, speaking intimately. In one photo Acton’s head was bent and his mouth was next to her ear while she listened, smiling knowingly. Both were smoking, and Acton held a tendril of hair from her temple between his fingers.
Doyle wasn’t aware that she swayed until her rescuer put his hands at her elbows to steady her. “Ah-ah; do you need to sit?”
Lifting her gaze, she met his a little blankly. “This makes no sense.”
He lifted a shoulder, in a gesture that seemed very French. “The men—sometimes they cannot resist; it is the way of it.”
“No.” She reviewed the photos again, trying to find two thoughts to put together. “That is not the way of it.”
“It is painful—like the teeth in the licorice,” he observed with a trace of sympathy. “You are upset, but we will talk of what is to be done, and you will feel better.”
She raised her head again, and with a mighty effort, pulled herself together. “I’ll not be makin’ any decisions, just now.”
He put a finger under her chin so as to hold it steady and looked into her eyes, speaking seriously. “I think you should speak to Solonik—you must be very careful.”
She had the strong impression he was trying to decide whether to kiss her—which was symmetrical in a strange way, but nevertheless not appreciated—and so she pulled her head back.
“Kath?” It was Williams, standing in the aisle beside them and looking like murder.
The rescuer released her immediately and faced Williams, assessing him. Williams’s hands curled into fists at his sides.
“Williams, please wait outside, I’ll be out in a moment,” Doyle said as calmly as she was able.
“Go outside, Doyle,” he replied, never taking his eyes off the other man.
Williams was a head taller and at least a stone heavier, but Doyle had absolutely no doubt as to who would prevail in a donnybrook, although she wasn’t sure why she was so certain. “Thomas,” she pleaded, “I am beggin’ you.”
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