Doyle could feel the interested gaze of passers-by upon them as they ate the sandwiches, and she tried not to look self-conscious—usually her role as Acton’s surprising protégé was not so public. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw DC Izzy Munoz hovering nearby whilst pretending to buy a soda from the machine, her ears on the stretch. Fortunately, there was as yet nothing to overhear. Move along, Munoz, thought Doyle, annoyed; nothing to see here.
“It is as though there are false trails being laid.”
Doyle refocused her attention on her commanding officer and realized she was at sea. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”
Acton rested his thoughtful gaze upon her. “As you aptly pointed out, Giselle’s death was not an execution; it was an act of rage and probably pathological. But there is no indication she was aware of her danger.”
“It was not overt.” Good one, Doyle.
“No. On the other hand, the methods are those of a professional. Looking at the motivation for the murders, the two deaths should not be connected, but the removal of the evidence and the fact Giselle was killed immediately after we spoke to her about the first one is just too coincidental.”
“The case should fit two different profiles, but it doesn’t,” agreed Doyle. “It’s almost as though he’s tryin’ to throw us off.” They thought about it for a moment, mulling over this odd combination of events. “Was there any evidence that the trainer acted defensively?” She wouldn’t know, having been locked in the tack room like a dosser.
“No. He didn’t see it coming, either.”
“So the killer is innocutous.”
There was a small pause. Oh-oh, she thought; got that one wrong.
“Apparently,” he agreed.
She realized she was biting her fingernail and desisted. She should really try to grow her nails out; Munoz had long and well-tended nails that Doyle secretly envied. With an effort, she refocused her thoughts. “So it’s either someone they know or someone who does not appear threatening.”
“Or both,” Acton noted.
“Or both,” she agreed. “And perhaps the murder of Giselle was so brutal so as to send a message to any other potential grassers.”
“Perhaps. But remember she had not yet grassed and as you pointed out, there are cleaner ways to silence someone. I think it is a good working theory; I think he wanted to punish her for his own satisfaction.”
She remembered what Habib had said. “A crime of rage that was perhaps sexual in nature.”
He met her eyes dispassionately. “Something along those lines.”
She nodded, wondering if she had the wherewithal to discuss crimes of sexual rage with Acton. Coward, she thought—it’s strictly business; take hold of your foolish self.
Apparently she was indeed a coward because she changed the subject. “Perhaps Sid’s idea is a good one, then; it may have been a medico at the track.”
Acton’s gaze was suddenly sharp upon hers. “Never say you found Sid persuasive.”
His tone held an edge of derision, which surprised her—although perhaps Acton had noticed it, too. She said carefully, “I think Sid may need some help; some sort of intervention.”
He nodded and then seemed to be deep in thought, which happened on occasion and which usually resulted in some extraordinarily shrewd insights, so she respected the process by keeping her own mouth shut as they finished their lunch in silence. Doyle noted that Munoz was now seated strategically nearby, lingering over her soda and awaiting her moment with all the strategy of a field marshal. There is nothing for it, thought Doyle with resignation; Munoz was not going to let the opportunity pass, but on the other hand, Acton was not one to tolerate toad-eating and the best that could be hoped for was there would be no blood spilt.
“Should I interview the medical personnel at the track, then?” Doyle craved a better field assignment than the one she had been relegated to thus far.
“No,” he said immediately. “I will put a DS on it.”
She didn’t want to challenge him, but it appeared he was forgetting her one—and rather formidable—talent. “I may be of more use, sir.”
His gaze met hers, and she could see he debated what to say. “I’d rather not. I don’t like this killer; I don’t understand him.”
She assimilated this comment in surprised silence. It appeared he thought it too dangerous for her to interview suspects even though she would know if lies were being told. She wasn’t sure how to respond—it was her job and she was good at it.
He offered, “If we bring someone in, you can watch from the gallery.” The gallery was adjacent to the interrogation room where the suspect could be observed unseen through one-way windows. Acton was throwing her a bone.
“Grand,” she replied, trying without much success to hide her annoyance.
“Are you reading Trendelberg?”
It was a deft change of subject, and forced her to abandon her inclination to sulk. He had seen the book, then, when she was packing up her rucksack in the meeting room—she had forgotten it was there and hoped he hadn’t noticed; a faint hope. Acton noticed everything. “Not exactly,” she admitted in a dry tone. “It’s somethin’ I picked up for your birthday. Since you’ve spoiled your own surprise, you may have it now instead of next week.”
She pulled it out of the bag to hand it to him, and he said nothing—only held the book as though he had no idea what to do with it. His reaction was such that she feared for one horrifying moment she had overstepped. It was a new book by the physicist Acton had mentioned once whilst trying to explain probabilities to her. At the time, she had no idea what he was talking about and she still didn’t—she was thick as a plank when it came to such things, which was a regrettable handicap in this business. The book had been on display at a bookstore she passed on the street, and she remembered the author’s name.
The silence stretched out and she fought an almost overwhelming inclination to squirm. “Do you have it already, sir? You can exchange it, you know.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t.”
He was lying, which was rather sweet, and she hid a smile. He handed it to her. “Will you inscribe it?”
Now it was her turn to stare at it. A crackin’ minefield, this was—what should she call him? Sir? Chief? Not Holmes, which is what the young detectives called him behind his back. She wrote on the flyleaf, To Acton: Many happy returns. Doyle. He watched her hands as she wrote.
She handed it to him and he reviewed what she had written. “How did you know it was my birthday next week?”
“Oh, I have my ways of obtainin’ secret information, sir—recall that I am a detective.”
He was very much amused for some reason and met her eyes. “I see that I will have to guard my secrets, then.”
Munoz could stand it no longer and at this juncture approached the table in an obvious bid for Acton’s attention. “Hallo, Doyle.” The girl waited for an introduction, smoothing back her long black hair with a graceful gesture that inspired Doyle to decide she should practice it later in front of a mirror.
Resigned, Doyle made the introduction and hoped she wouldn’t regret it. “DCI Acton, may I present DC Munoz?”
Acton stood and briefly took Munoz’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Detective Constable.” He then nodded to Doyle and took his leave with no further ado, Doyle’s book in his hand. It was smoothly done and Doyle was all admiration; how useful to have the ability to issue a snub and remain so polite—it was in the breeding, it was.
Munoz watched him go and then sank down beside Doyle, who wished for a moment that she had Acton’s resolve. “What were you talking about?” Munoz was fascinated by Acton; she was beautiful and tempestuous and specialized in dating well-connected men. Acton fit the bill.
Doyle blew out a breath. “A case. A case that doesn’t make much sense.”
“I’d be happy to work his case.” Munoz pursed her full lips in appreciation as she watched his figure in retreat.
Ope
nly annoyed, Doyle chided the other girl. “Whist, Munoz—you’ll not stay in CID for long if you start makin’ eyes at him, I promise you.”
Acton having left the room, Munoz reluctantly turned back to Doyle. “He’s never married. Do you think he is gay?”
No, thought Doyle immediately, not knowing how she knew with such certainty. She equivocated, “I don’t know. The subject has not come up.”
Munoz smiled the slow smile that had enslaved many a man. “Normally I don’t go for the unattainable type, but they say still waters run deep—I may give it a touch.”
“You’d be a fool,” Doyle continued, annoyed.
Munoz raised her brows. “Why? Are you having sex with him?”
Doyle was horrified. “Munoz, lower your voice, for heaven’s sake—he’s my CO.”
The other girl smirked. “Turned you down, did he?”
Doyle counted to ten.
At the other’s reaction, Munoz laughed. “Oh, give over, Doyle—you can’t take a joke. No one thinks that’s what it is, but there must be some reason you’re in his pocket and it’s a mystery, believe me.”
Doyle tried to sooth away the other girl’s resentment; Munoz was a good detective and ambitious—she didn’t like the thought that Doyle had an advantage. “We work well together, is all. We’ve cracked some thorny cases.”
“Habib won’t take me off misdemeanor thefts.” Munoz tossed back her long black hair in chagrin. “It’s not fair.”
“No,” Doyle agreed. “It’s not.”
Mollified, Munoz offered to buy Doyle a cup of coffee, but Doyle declined; she was certain that she would not be reduced to plain coffee ever again but decided this was a piece of information Munoz needn’t know.
CHAPTER 7
HE WAS ON A PRECIPICE, PAINFUL AND PLEASURABLE. HE COULD sense she was not indifferent; he had only to risk it.
Doyle was back at her cubicle researching Giselle’s ex-husband and how the call came in about her murder. The ex-husband ran a pawnshop in Southwark and had a record of misdemeanor pleas and convictions, which was rather a surprise, as the licensing authority looked with disfavor upon criminals who ran pawnshops—may as well issue an open invitation for trouble. She could find no order for support stemming from the divorce, so it would appear that money was not an issue of contention between them. The phone records showed they spoke occasionally, and Giselle had called him the day before she died; it may be helpful to discover what they spoke of.
Dispatch showed that the call reporting Giselle missing was from a man who did not leave his name but said he was worried about her. It was made at 0600 hours, which did seem an odd time to be making such a call. Upon discovery of the body, Acton’s office was contacted just before 0700 hours because the victim was already in the database as a witness for one of his cases. Acton arrived at the scene shortly thereafter, presumably after ascertaining that Doyle still walked the earth and coming by to leave his note with Habib. There was no indication the caller had ever come forward.
She rested her elbows on the desk and thought about it, staring at the screen. Acton arrived at work early; mental note. She may have to start coming in earlier in the event something came up first thing, like this one—all it needed was for Munoz to be Johnny-on-the-spot one day and take her place. Pigs would fly.
Other than that, there was something not right about the caller. It was too early for Giselle to have been missed by coworkers, and if the man had been a nonwork friend, he would have waited to see if she showed up at work before calling in. In addition, there was no record of a worried friend calling back to check on what had transpired.
Doyle’s scalp tingled. The caller was probably the killer—the forensic psychology people would say some killers enjoy standing among the spectators, seeing the results of their handiwork. Doyle may even have interviewed him, which was a chilling thought, but she did not recall speaking to anyone who was trying to suppress the exaltation the killer must have been feeling. She paused, struck. Again, it made no sense; if it was a professional killer—and by all accounts it was—why would he report the murder? A professional would not have hung around to watch them process the scene. On the other hand, the ex-husband may have killed her and been remorseful enough to want her found before she lay in a congealing pool of blood and brain matter for another day.
She was just starting on an email to Acton when her mobile buzzed—he always seemed to ring her when she was ready to report, which was useful, as it saved her from typing up an email.
“Sir, I was just goin’ to write you. The report was by an unidentified male caller at oh-six-hundred, which is mighty early to be reportin’ a murder. He has not come forward.”
“Do you think it was our suspect?”
“Perhaps. Or the husband, feelin’ sorry for his misdeed.”
“Let’s check the CCTV during the time when the scene was processed for faces in the crowd. And see if Dispatch remembers anything about the call.”
“I did, sir.” She was pleased to have anticipated him this time. “Nothin’ stands out on CCTV; we’ll have to do a face-recognition review. Dispatch remembers she had trouble hearin’ him. There was a lot of noise in the background, as though it was a public phone.”
There was a pause while he was thinking. “I’d like to eliminate the ex-husband; is he at hand?”
“Yes, sir. He runs a pawnshop at Fremont.”
“I’ll meet you at the parking garage, then.”
She rang off, and as she was gathering her things, her mobile buzzed; it was a text from Williams: “RU busy?”
She texted back: “Yes; sorry,” then headed toward the lift. Williams was another DC who worked on Acton’s cases, although he didn’t interact with the chief inspector to the same extent that she did. He had been first in their class at the Crime Academy and was the current favorite of the powers-that-be, including Habib. Williams was reserved to the point where many thought him arrogant, but Doyle knew better; he had offered to help her pass ballistics when she had despaired of it, and she considered him a good friend. Munoz saw him as her chief competition for advancement in the ranks but couldn’t despise him because he was tall and athletically handsome and therefore her natural prey. Doyle didn’t have time to wonder what he wanted; she was at the parking garage and Acton was waiting by the unmarked to open the door for her.
She smiled and slid in, reading out the address. He would listen to her report on the way over, and she would then take notes on his thoughts or suggestions. We are like an old married couple, she thought; we know our routine. “He is William Blakney and presently on parole. His last run-in was larceny by trick; cheating pensioners—charmin’ fellow. There was a call to him from Giselle the afternoon before her death.”
Acton thought about this. “How often did she call him?”
“Not very often.” She watched him for a moment as he drove and ventured, “If he’s the killer, then it does not appear that the two murders are connected. It seems unlikely that a professional would have called it in to Dispatch and then hung ’round to watch the show.”
“You are forgetting the scene was cleaned.”
She leaned her head back against the seat in frustration; stymied again, and just when she had hold of a semi-coherent working theory. Giselle’s murderer knew his forensics; he was a professional. A professional who had called it in, apparently. “Why would he call it in, then?”
“He wanted the murder discovered, and sooner rather than later.”
This seemed obvious, but sometimes the obvious was overlooked and needed to be said. She knit her brow. “I wonder why?”
Acton, apparently, had already puzzled it out. “The murder must have been a message, or a warning of some kind. The killer wanted another player to know of it.”
“So it is probably not the end,” Doyle concluded soberly.
“No,” he agreed. “The timing is of interest. There is a reason he wanted her discovered that morning rather than a day or two late
r. I will check to see if anything of interest was going forward on that particular day.”
Doyle debated but decided she was not going to ask how Acton would find out when underworld doings were scheduled. “It is a rare shame that DCI Drake managed to avoid these two cases; they should be his by all rights.”
“It evens out,” Acton replied philosophically as they waited at a light. “What was Giselle’s relationship with the dead trainer, if any?”
“Oh.” Here was a wrinkle; perhaps there was indeed a love triangle going on, and the jilted lover was coincidentally a professional killer. “I’ll check on it.”
They were almost to Fremont and he glanced at her. “Blakney may be dangerous; have a care.”
Still smarting from his refusal to let her interview the medical personnel at the racecourse, she retorted, “Perhaps I should just stay in the car, then.” The moment the words came out of her mouth, she was horrified and desperately tried to backtrack. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded—I’m that sorry, sir.” Her wretched, wretched tongue.
With a quick movement, he pulled over and parked the car, then shifted in his seat to face her. Holy Mother of God, she thought; I am getting the sack.
He ducked his head, gathering his thoughts, and then met her eyes. “You are very competent, but you have not the seasoning you need to help you judge when a situation is dangerous. Sometimes you are impetuous.”
She listened and repented. “Yes, sir.”
“The tack room.”
She nodded. Excellent case in point.
“You learn in this business that anyone is capable of anything. I don’t want you to be hurt.”
This last was true, and she nodded again, ashamed of herself.
He watched her for a moment. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. I am so sorry.”
He turned to restart the car, irritated. “I wish you would stop apologizing to me.”
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