Murder in Misdirection

by Anne Cleeland

  “I am meetin’ with Savoie and the DCS, since they are producin’ a program together for my church’s Everyday Heroes outreach. It’s goin’ to be about the perils of criminal behavior.”

  Mathis thought this over, then nodded. “That’s a good one.” “Thank you,” said Doyle, who was rather proud of it, herself. “They’ll give you an escort, you know.”

  “I know. I’ll just need a minute to speak with Savoie, on the side. Mayhap you could distract the guard.” This, with a sidelong glance. That Mathis was perfectly capable of such a subterfuge went without saying; she’d flirted with Drake, after all, so that he wouldn’t notice he was being well-and-thoroughly poisoned.

  “I will do my best.”

  “Thanks, Mathis. I truly, truly, appreciate it, and I wouldn’t have asked, if it weren’t so important.”

  “Let’s keep it brief.”

  “No argument, here.”

  They drove the rest of the way in silence, and Doyle wondered whether her companion would take her first

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  opportunity to squeak to Acton about his wayward wife. Perhaps she would, but so long as Doyle could manage two minutes with Savoie, it would be worth it—she’d happily take her lumps once she’d sorted out what-was-what, and figured out how she could save the DCS from his fate. Hard to believe—that Savoie would turn coat—but on the other hand, something was definitely afoot, what this morning’s gold coin staring her in the face, and the Filipino priest sounding the alarm. It needed only to be sorted out, and then she’d be home in time for lunch. Acton would be very unhappy with her for this unsanctioned field trip—especially if she threw a spanner in his wheel-of-many-schemes—but she was doing it for his own good, and let this be a lesson to him. Besides, now that she’d determined on a plan of action, she was hugely enjoying having slipped her leash; there was only so long a body could stare at the four walls, for the love o’ Mike.

  Mathis turned into the prison’s guest lot. “And here we are, Lady Acton.”

  Doyle smiled at the girl. “Since we’re havin’ an adventure together, d’you think you could call me ‘Kathleen’?”

  “No,” Mathis replied, and secured the gear shift. “I’m afraid I couldn’t.”

  “Fair enough,” said Doyle, who’d only expected as much.

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  He texted, to inform her of the rescheduled appointment, but she did not respond.

  As Doyle had anticipated, the prison guards at the reception desk gave Mathis a knowing look, and then waved them through.

  I’d forgotten that the guards here are all bent, she thought, as Mathis explained their errand to the visitors’ desk. And I suppose I mustn’t be surprised that this sad situation hasn’t been remedied, since my better half has obviously decided to take advantage of it, himself.

  This actually gave her a moment’s pause, in that she’d presumably have no backup on site if things went awry—for example, if Savoie were indeed a turncoat, and decided he’d like nothing better than to take Acton’s foolish wife as a hostage.

  I hope I’m not making a monumental mistake, here, she thought, and braced her hands against her back, because her stupid backache refused to go away. But I can’t believe it of Savoie; more likely he’s working with Acton—as opposed to against him—and no doubt he’s been enlisted to murder the DCS, since that would explain why he’s been so content to sit in prison, biding his time and counting out gold coins.

  The only factor that made her uneasy was Emile’s tale of secret inoculations and passport papers. If the now-dead Mrs. Barayev planned to spite them all by whisking Emile back to Russia, why would she make the clandestine arrangements here—on the prison premises—where word would certainly get back to Savoie? More likely Savoie knew about it in the first

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  place, which did not bode well, and she should not make any foolish assumptions by pretending that Savoie couldn’t possibly mean her harm. He was a dangerous man, after all.

  Doyle straightened her shoulders with renewed resolution, as a rough-looking guard was given the task of escorting them to the prison ministry’s office. The man spoke to Mathis in a familiar way, but didn’t give Doyle more than a passing glance. That’s exactly what I get, for thinking I’m world-famous, she thought. Although I’m hugely pregnant, which means that no one is bothering to take a close look.

  As they walked down the linoleum hallway, the guard openly eyed Mathis in appreciation, and Doyle was reminded that the stupid guards were cheeky and horrid—as she’d discovered herself, when she’d visited the evil Solonik the first time she was here. Faith, she hated this place—no one here was happy, and decades of human misery practically emanated from the very walls. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here, she thought, and then couldn’t suppress a shudder.

  “Mr. Savoie will be here shortly,” the man explained, as they paused before a door in the hallway. “Allow me to take your jacket.” With a knowing smirk, the guard lifted Emile’s jacket from Mathis.

  Oh-oh, thought Doyle; no gold in there, today. And now that she thought about it, she realized the obvious—the gold coins had been going to bribe the guards. After all, there was no need for Savoie to receive cold hard cash in prison, but the guards were another matter.

  Doyle had only a moment to worry about the guard’s reaction when the jacket came up empty, because the security door had swung open, and they were escorted into the small prison ministry office.

  The former DCS of Scotland Yard was seated behind a cluttered wooden desk, and, after a moment’s astonished

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  surprise, he rose to greet them. “Why, DS Doyle; it is good to see you again.”

  But Doyle was too astonished to speak. Holy Mother of God, she thought, completely thunderstruck; there was no need to abandon all hope, because hope was right here, like a candle in the darkness.

  He’d offered his hand, and she took it as she managed to find her voice. “Sir.”

  It was force of habit, because he wasn’t a ranking officer any more—indeed, the last time she’d seen him, the net was closing in, and he was desperately trying to figure a way out of the trap that Acton had set for him. But this deceitful leopard had indeed changed his spots, and now radiated a palpable and holy goodness. The former DCS of Scotland Yard could not have had less in common with the ghostly Filipino priest, yet they were entirely the same.

  “I am Lizzie Mathis,” Mathis prompted into the silence, and offered her hand in turn. “We’ve come to discuss an upcoming episode for the Everyday Heroes program.” Mathis slid a meaningful glance in the direction of the guard.

  There was a small pause, but the DCS replied, “Of course, of course. Please be seated, ladies—I’m afraid we’ve only the one chair.”

  Mathis turned to bestow a flirtatious glance upon the guard. “I’ll wait outside with you, then.” With some eagerness, the guard approved of this plan, and Mathis smiled up at him as he held the door for her, even though she was emanating loathing and disgust.

  Good one, thought Doyle, as the door shut closed, and she wondered if perhaps Mathis had also realized that their failure to come bearing gold gifts might arouse suspicion. Hopefully, the girl could stall the fellow long enough to allow Doyle to fulfill her task, because suddenly her task had become very clear; small

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  wonder the ghost-priest was urging her on—saints weren’t exactly thick on the ground, nowadays.

  “How can I help you?” The DCS leaned forward, and clasped his hands on the table. “I’d be happy to collaborate on an outreach, although my resources are limited.”

  “They’re going to murder you,” Doyle said without preamble. And they mustn’t.”

  Her companion was understandably puzzled by this outburst. “Are you quite all right, DS Doyle? May I fetch some water?
”

  “We’ve got to get you out of here, and quickly,” Doyle repeated. “No one is goin’ to protect you, here—and this is no place for the likes of you.”

  But the man only smiled at her—the same benign smile she’d seen from the ghost-priest. “On the contrary; I think this is exactly the place for me. When Jesus Christ is in my prison cell, every stone shines like a ruby.”

  Doyle blinked; leave it to the evangelicals to be spouting off about Jesus Christ, when any self-respecting RC knew that you kept your head down as you slid in and out of the back pew, as God intended.

  Rapidly re-assessing her strategy, she offered, “Well—be that as it may—you’re slated to be killed, and you’ll not want anyone committin’ mortal sins in the process.”

  He considered this, and nodded. “Right. I imagine the exercise yard is where they plan to strike; I think there was a dry run, just the other day.” He paused, and bent his head for a moment, thinking, as Doyle duly observed the nasty, purple bruise on his temple. In a low voice, he asked, “How many assets on site, and how many on back-up?”

  Doyle decided she’d gloss over this rather discouraging information, and instead hurriedly warned, “Savoie is comin’ in any minute; let me do all the talkin’.”

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  Understandably, the man raised his brows. “Savoie is coming here?”

  “He is.” Again, Doyle hurried past an explanation. “I’m afraid it’s a rather long story, but we’re to pretend you’re collaborating with him on a program about turning your lives around.”

  The DCS regarded her with gentle incredulity. “If that’s the case, you’ve got a hard row to hoe, Sergeant. If there is a plot to murder me, it is undoubtedly Savoie’s plot—he’s very unhappy about his missing money.”

  Because her scalp had suddenly started prickling, Doyle paused at this disclosure. What missing money? Was he talking about the gold coins? Then she remembered Williams telling her about the cascade scheme, and how it had passed through the prison ministry’s account. A bit taken aback that the battered-but-holy man seated before her would have the remotest interest in filthy lucre, she chided, “Well, it just goes to show you that it’s not very smart to cross someone like Savoie. And you mustn’t steal, in the first place.” Drawing her brows together, she added, “I think that’s one of the commandments.”

  With a small sigh, the DCS shook his head. “Oh, I didn’t steal his money, Sergeant. He remains unconvinced, however.”

  Further discussion was curtailed when the door swung open and Savoie himself entered, accompanied by another guard who seemed to be more along the lines of Savoie’s assistant, than his escort. It was clear that the Frenchman was a bit taken aback, upon beholding the fair Doyle, and she could sense the wariness behind his impassive expression. “Yes? What is it you wish?”

  Reminded that her original task was to find out if Savoie was double-crossing Acton, Doyle knew a moment’s extreme exasperation—faith, everything had suddenly got a lot more complicated, and her back hurt like the dickens, to boot. Next time a ghost pesters me, she promised herself, I’ll pull the covers over my head, and say something rude.

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  The DCS filled in the silence. “Good morning, Mr. Savoie. Thank you for offering to help with the program.”

  Savoie’s pale gaze slid to Doyle for a moment, and then he made a gesture with his head, and the guard who was with him turned to step out of the door, and close it behind him.

  “Shall we pray?” the DCS continued, and stood to place an arm around Doyle’s shoulders, pulling her in toward him, as he held out the other arm to Savoie.

  Trust the evangelicals to want to huddle, and get all touchy-feely in the midst of a crisis, Doyle thought with irritation. A bit angrily, she shook off the man’s arm and said to Savoie, “I don’t know what’s been cooked up, Philippe, but you mustn’t kill this man. It’s very important that I get him out of here.”

  Surprisingly, she could feel the dismayed reaction to her words from the other two. They didn’t respond, and so with some insistence, she repeated, “I’ve got to get him out, and you’ve got to help me.”

  But into the silence, the door was flung open, and Mathis was marched in; the guard she’d been flirting with holding her firmly by the elbow, and the floor’s desk supervisor accompanying the other two.

  “All right; what’s going on, here?” the supervisor asked in an ominous tone.

  The usually unflappable Mathis was emanating extreme concern as she informed Doyle, “I’m afraid there is a surveillance camera, in this room.”

  And I’m roundly an idiot, Doyle realized in acute dismay.

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  Worried, he phoned the concierge to ring her, and discovered that she’d left with Mathis. Strange, that neither had mentioned it.

  T here was a tense moment, whilst Doyle went through her options, none of which seemed very good.

  “Ȇtre prêt à prendre son arme,” said Savoie, into the

  silence.

  “What?” The supervisor glanced at him. “Do you know these two, Mr. Savoie?”

  Her mouth dry, Doyle forced a giggle, and tried to sound a bit stupid. “Of course, he does—after all, I asked him to come here. I think we’re havin’ a misunderstandin’ is all—we are going to produce a program about a prison break, and I think you heard us practicin’ our lines.”

  But it seemed apparent that the supervisor wasn’t buying what Doyle was selling, and he addressed Savoie again. “I don’t like this—what do you want to do?”

  “Moment,” Savoie instructed, and stepped forward to push Doyle rather roughly into the chair. He then bent over her, with a hand on each of the chair’s arms so that his face was close to hers, his manner menacing. “You will tell me what your purpose is, here.”

  The DCS interrupted, “Say; that’s quite enough—there’s been a misunderstanding, and there’s no need to frighten the poor woman.”

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  “We were playactin’,” Doyle quavered. “Please, please believe me.” If it came to it, she could clench her fists and attempt an upward throat-punch, but she doubted she could get the drop on someone like Savoie—not in her current condition.

  But his next words were unexpected. “I do not think so; I had the meeting with you before. At the projects.”

  With a show of extreme nervousness, Doyle nodded, and wished she could see where this was going. For some reason, he was referring to the night she’d first met him—the night she’d been attacked, and he’d rescued her.

  “Enough; please—”

  But Savoie ignored the DCS, and continued to fix Doyle with his pale, menacing gaze. “That was a fine weapon.”

  There was a small pause. “It still is,” she answered in a frightened whisper. So—he was asking if she was wearing her ankle holster, which she was, but it wasn’t at all clear whether she should allow him to have her weapon, or whether she should try to shoot him, instead. “I was afraid there was a wolf, wearing sheep’s clothes.”

  “Non,” he answered, and lowered his head even further, so that his face was an inch from hers, his posture sinister. “Not the wolf. The Saint Bernard.”

  Nothin’ for it, Doyle thought; I hope I’m not making a monumental mistake, here. In a semi-hysterical voice, she waved her hands a bit wildly, and began to plead, Oh, please—please, sir; my baby—”

  With a swift movement, Savoie pulled her weapon from its ankle holster and turned to shoot the supervisor directly in his face, then pivoted to shoot Mathis’ guard, who had pulled his own gun in abject surprise, but was thwarted when Mathis leapt to pull his arm down just as he fired. The resulting shot went wild, and then that guard collapsed also, a bullet hole centered on his forehead.

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  Savoie swore in French, and staggered, grasping the edge of the des
k before taking careful aim at the surveillance camera in the upper corner, and hitting it directly in the lens.

  There was an astonished silence, and then Mathis, her face spattered with blood, scrambled to reach for the fallen guard’s weapon.

  “Back,” ordered Savoie, as he turned Doyle’s gun on the girl. “Don’t shoot Mathis,” Doyle pleaded. “She’s a friendly.” Then to clarify, she addressed all of them. “No one should shoot