Murder in Retribution (11 page)

D
OYLE WAITED WHILE
A
CTON PREPARED HIMSELF A SANDWICH
, smiling to herself. Hates Chinese food, loves me—and sometimes beyond what is reasonable. She recalled Williams’s story about Acton’s visit to his bedside. “Please don’t be too hard on poor Williams.”

He brought his food over and sat next to her again. “Are you softening on that subject?”

“Indeed I am,” she teased, looking thoughtful. “He’s younger than you, and I am thinkin’ of linin’ him up as husband number two.”

“By that time, you are welcome to him.”

“Michael,” she laughed. “When am I to see a show of jealousy? Some Section Seven you are.” Remembering why she raised the subject, she went back on-topic. “After I was sick at the side of the road, he guessed I was pregnant, and so then I had to tell him about the miscarriage. He blamed himself, no thanks to you.”

Acton looked as though he wanted to say something, but thought the better of it. She had a glimpse of deep unhappiness, and realized with some remorse that this was a subject she probably shouldn’t have brought up—and they’d been doing so well, too. Reaching over, she placed her hand on his. “It was a malfunctionin’ blastocyte,” she reminded him. “It was no one’s fault.” Although she said it calmly, she found that her mouth began to tremble, and he immediately pulled her onto his lap and enfolded her in an embrace. “Change the subject, Michael. Please.”

“Solonik is in custody,” he said, and kissed her head.

This was a spectacular change in subject, and she lifted her head in surprise. “Truly? I hadn’t heard.”

“Just this evening; he’s been booked and we’ll soon have a warrant for DNA samples.”

“D’you want me at the interrogation?” Together, they performed an excellent pantomime show whereby she sent him secret signals if the witness was not telling the truth.

He rested his chin on her head. “Not as yet—he’ll hire some very good solicitors and we have to await them. We can hold him, though—the weapon was illegal.” He squeezed her gently. “It was a good catch.”

“Thanks to Mr. Thackeray, who is a James Bond fan.”

“And to Solonik, who looks the part of a villain.”

He began stroking her arms and hands, and it dawned on her that he was moving onto foreplay—which would definitely be a change in subject. He put his mouth on her shoulder only to hear her mobile vibrate on the table top. Lifting it, he checked the ID. “Caroline.”

Doyle reached for the mobile. “I’d better take it; we don’t want to hurt her feelin’s.”

Instead, Acton answered. “Caroline, this is Acton.” He listened, and said, “She is sleeping, but I will give her the message.” He rang off and resumed the movement of his hands. “She wants to meet you for lunch.”

Doyle suppressed a groan—Caroline must have heard the sad news about the miscarriage from Timothy. She’d be full of platitudes, and Doyle doubted she could bear it without leaping up and overturning the lunch table. Correctly interpreting her silence, Acton said quietly, “I can tell her you will not be fit for company for a while.”

Doyle weighed her options. She couldn’t avoid Caroline forever, and the woman couldn’t help being annoying, after all—she was one of those people who never realized how others perceived her. “I’ll make time over the weekend—that would be easier, I think.”

“Don’t do it for me.”

She placed a placating hand on his chest. “I’ll call her tomorrow ; I have to demonstrate to you how to be civil, husband.”

“Civility is overrated.”

Laughing, she shook her head. “That’s easy for you to say, my friend—when you are rude everyone thinks you are brilliant and reclusive; if I did the same, I would be criticized as puttin’ on airs.”

“Why does it matter?”

He seemed genuinely curious, the blue-blooded aristocrat, and she had to smile. “I suppose that’s the difference twixt you and me; that it matters.”

He leaned in and murmured, his mouth on her neck, “There are other differences.”

“Michael,” she giggled, “d’ye think of
nothin
’ else?”

“No,” he admitted.

Leaning her head back, she kissed him. He responded immediately, deepening the kiss and cradling her jaw in his hand. She was almost surprised to realize she didn’t much feel like it. Get along with you, Doyle, she told herself sternly; the poor man needs the reassurance of sex, and you can certainly go through the motions and be of comfort to him.

He must have sensed she was not eager, though, because he broke off the kiss and gently pulled her head against his chest again.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“Not at all. We will wait until you are fit for duty.”

She lay curled on his lap whilst he resumed stroking her head, which he habitually did when he was worried about her, and a wave of sadness and guilt washed over her. Don’t think about it, she commanded herself, and fiddled with the button on his cuff. “Did you ride horses, growin’ up?”

“Yes, I did.”

“D’you think I could try it sometime?” She had surprised herself with this new ambition whilst she was walking around the stables with Williams.

“Would you like a horse?”

She smiled into his chest. “No, Michael; I do not need a horse. I just wanted to tr y it, is all.”

“Then you shall.” He pulled on a strand of her hair and watched it fall to her shoulder. “Have you ever been to the seashore?”

“Never. Recall that I don’t swim.”

“Brighton was very pleasant; I thought you might like it.”

“Are we to be tourin’ like an old married couple, then?” she teased.

“I could teach you to swim.”

“Oh, I don’t know how much learnin’ I would do, what wi’ your fine torso on display.” This pleased him, and she could feel him chuckle. Better, she thought; and I hope I am fit for duty soon—Acton was not one to enjoy abstinence. If only I could feel well again, instead of like a wraith in a witch’s tale. On some level, she knew that they were making these idle plans to combat the grief and allay his anxiety about her health—whatever worked; they were not the kind of couple to make idle plans.

“I think you may have to visit Dr. Easton again.”

She grimaced. “Give me a few days to recover, Michael. If I go back there I will relapse, I promise you.”

He tightened his arms around her. “You couldn’t afford to lose much weight to begin with; I feel as though I could break your bones if I squeeze too hard.”

“I’m tr yin’ to eat—I did much better today.”

“You are not doing well.” He lifted her head with his hand to meet her eyes seriously, his thumb brushing her cheek. “I’m afraid I must insist.”

She sighed. “Aye, then.” He was worried, and she shouldn’t be such a baby. She was, in truth, a bit worried herself.

That night, the uncontrollable tears came again. Why is it, she thought, that everything that seems bearable during the daylight becomes unbearable in the darkness? She put her hand over her mouth, trying to smother the sobbing so as to not wake Acton, but his arms came around her and he pulled her against him, holding her close while she cried herself into an exhausted sleep.

B
Y SHEER FORCE OF WILL,
D
OYLE ATE BREAKFAST THE NEXT
morning and smiled brightly at Aiki when he opened his cab door for her. She had awakened late that morning, and Acton was already dressed and ready to leave when he leaned over her in the bed and studied her as though she were on a slide under a microscope. Frettin’, she thought. She hadn’t slept much, as he well knew.

“I feel much better,” she lied. “I’ll be in shortly; please don’t worry, Michael.” He had already suggested she stay home and rest, but she was very resistant to the idea and explained to him that such a course of action would only make her mopey. “I was not born to be a dosser,” she explained. “I would go mad.”

He kissed her, and she could see that he wanted to say something, but changed his mind. “Keep lunch free,” was all he said, and was gone; he had his hands full at work, what with an evil mastermind in custody.

For the love of Mike, she thought in disgust, as she propped up on an elbow; there is nothing physically wrong with you, ridiculous girl, so it must be mental; time to bite on the bit and fight. You don’t want to lose Acton to some floozy in the bloom of health, after all—you know they’re out there.

At work she took a double dose of aspirin to combat her unflagging headache and settled down with some reluctance to concentrate on the turf war project. She didn’t want to address the niggling worry, for fear it would mushroom into a cataclysmic worry, and her poor head could not take a cataclysmic worry, just now.

“DC Doyle, have you seen DC Munoz yet this morning?” Habib asked diffidently from the opening in her cubicle.

Doyle blinked. She hadn’t realized Munoz was not in yet. Unfortunately for Habib, he worshipped the beauty from afar, and this sad state of affairs could only end badly for him.

“No,” Doyle admitted, and had the sudden certainty that the Belarus boyfriend had absconded with her. This irrational thought was immediately belied by the entrance of Munoz herself, apologizing for her tardiness. She was as cool and composed as usual, but Doyle could sense that she was unhappy.

With an attempt at sternness, Habib reprimanded, “You must report to me if you are coming in late, DC Munoz. Fortunately, there were no field assignments this morning.”

Munoz gazed limpidly at him. “I’m so sorry, sir; female troubles.”

Habib expressed his complete understanding and sympathy in the manner of the mortified single man, and Doyle shot Munoz a look that was met with a twinkle. Doyle did not approve of the use of feminine wiles to gain an advantage, but Munoz had no such qualms.

“Say, did we ever find out what happened to Owens?” Munoz asked Habib as she set down her rucksack.

Doyle schooled her countenance as she always did when the subject came up. Thankfully, it arose rarely.

“He did not report to work, and no one has heard from him.” Habib disapproved of such undisciplined behavior, and did not want to give the mysteriously missing constable another thought.

“Why are you thinkin’ of Owens?” asked Doyle against her better judgment. Munoz was not one to engage in idle speculation.

“No reason,” said Munoz, as she checked her messages on her mobile. “I just was thinking about him.”

This was untrue, and Doyle wondered what had triggered the question. Her own mobile vibrated, and the text said: “Front sidewalk; noon.” Doyle smiled.

Observing this, Munoz asked, “What is it?”

“It’s makin’ a date, I am.”

Munoz tossed her hair back and said mulishly, “I’m giving up on dating—an arranged marriage would be miles easier.”

This pronouncement was met with much interest by Habib, who asked with forced heartiness, “What has happened Munoz? Surely no one has been unkind to you?”

Munoz hovered on the verge of speaking her mind, but thought better of it. “It’s nothing; I’m just annoyed, is all.”

“It may be just as well,” ventured Doyle. “I was a bit worried about Sergey, what with all the Russian perps lyin’ thick on the ground.”

Munoz did not appreciate this aspersion being cast on her judgment, and lifted her lip in scorn. “Don’t be ridiculous—you must try to control your prejudices, Doyle.”

“It is my besettin’ sin,” agreed Doyle humbly. There; at least she had planted the idea, and Munoz was no fool.

Habib, however, could not conceal his confusion. “Never say you are romantically interested in a perpetrator, Munoz?”

“Report her to Professional Standards,” Doyle suggested. “She’s a menace.”

“Doyle has a date with a superior officer,” Munoz returned. “You should report
her
.”

“Touché,” Doyle acknowledged, rather proud that she had managed to use the word correctly. “You win this round.”

Despite this reminder that he had no business angling after an underling, Habib offered, “If you need counseling, Munoz, as your supervisor, I am always available.”

Doyle was half-afraid the girl would say something unkind, but instead she presented a sincere face to him. “I appreciate that, sir. I was wondering if you could put in a good word with Public Relations; I’d like to try my hand at it, and I think if I had an interest on the side I would not be so attracted to unsuitable men.”

“Indeed,” Habib agreed with alacrity. “I will see what I can do.”

He hurried away, and Doyle watched him go, all admiration. “That was masterful.”

With a self-satisfied smile, Munoz retreated to her cubicle. “Watch and learn, Doyle; watch and learn.”

At noon, Doyle took more aspirin and made her way out to the front sidewalk, determined to show a cheerful face to her husband and
eat
something. He wasn’t there as yet, but Doyle immediately recognized Father John from St. Michael’s, standing near the entry door and holding a parcel. Doyle greeted him with surprise, “Why, hallo, Father; what brings you here?”

“Kathleen,” he replied, taking her hand. “Your husband thought you might be needin’ some quiet conversation.”

Doyle nodded, too overcome to speak; it was exactly what she needed, and trust Acton to know. The priest gazed into her face for a moment, then squeezed her hand. “Shall we go over toward the river, then? Nellie packed us a lunch.”

“That would be grand,” Doyle whispered when she found her voice. She put her hand in his arm, and as they turned to walk away she lifted her face toward Acton’s office, which faced the street—he would be watching. Thank you, she thought.

They settled on a bench, and the priest spoke of the divine plan which mortals perceived only through a glass darkly. Doyle wept, and Father John offered his handkerchief and assured her that her loss was heaven’s gain. There was no attempt to speak of blastocytes; only the hard, hard reality of acceptance and faith. The priest held her hands in his while they prayed together, and Doyle felt immeasurably sad and immeasurably comforted at the same time.

After an hour, Doyle wiped her face with the handkerchief and told the priest that she should return to work, and that she appreciated the visit more than she could say. He seemed reluctant to rise, however.

“Kathleen,” he began, and she could see that he was troubled. “I must ask that you answer some very delicate questions, and as honestly as you are able.”

“Yes, Father.” She knit her brow, puzzled by the change in his behavior.

He looked at her very seriously. “Do you trust that husband o’ yours?”

She blinked. Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t this. “Yes.” Best not to mention Acton’s other tendencies that were suspect—in the end, she did trust him.

The priest fixed her with his sharp eyes. “Truly?”

“Yes, truly.”

He hesitated for a moment. “Could there be another woman, d’ye think?”

Doyle had to hide a smile; Acton had neither time nor energy for an affair—she kept him far too busy. “No, Father; I am certain.”

The priest seemed to relax a little, although he frowned slightly. “Certainly, the man seems devoted to you,” he mused aloud.

Understatement of the century, thought Doyle.

The other shot her another shrewd glance. “Is there any chance that he doesn’t want to be married to you anymore?”

“None at all,” answered Doyle honestly. “And what is this about, if I may be askin’?”

The priest leaned back, his brows drawn together, thinking. “Let me pray about it, I’ll let you know.”

Doyle returned to work, bemused. Now, what was that all about? Had the priest heard some salacious rumor? She was not alarmed; she was assured of Acton’s full devotion, and then some. The conversation had invoked another train of thought, however; she was trying to avoid the niggling suspicion that refused to go away, but she knew, in the way that she knew things, that it was past time she took a hard look at these turf war murders in the proper context. Acton’s a devoted man, all right, she thought a little grimly. That’s the problem.