Murder in Just Cause Read online

  “Yes,” said McShane, and it was not true.

  As they moved out the Clinic’s door, Munoz continued, “We’ll be in touch, then, and I suppose I don’t have to caution you to say nothing of this to anyone—you may put yourself at risk.”

  “I understand,” the man nodded, and then he thrust his hands in his jacket pockets and walked away without a backward glance.

  Doyle duly noted that there had been no further mention of the illegal weapon, and surmised that Geary had returned it to him on the sly, with Munoz deciding not to pursue the matter.

  In silence, the three detectives started on their way down the pavement toward their parked vehicles. Munoz hunched her shoulders against the wind, and said to the others, “What do we think?”

  “I think our Mr. McShane wanted to fire off a shot across the bow,” Doyle offered. “I think he knew Ruppe was comin’ in, and he wanted to scare the dickens out of her.”

  She paused, trying to decide if she should mention that she didn’t think he truly worked at the Clinic, but—considering the recent discussion about Doyle’s hunches—she opted not to. She’d tell Acton, of course, but then again, she wouldn’t be at all surprised if Acton was aware already. Although—although this didn’t much seem like an Acton-type set-up, with Sergeant Ruppe stumbling-in like a cow in a cornfield. Acton tended to be more subtle—he specialized in guile, and sleight-of-hand. She frowned slightly, because yet again, her scalp was prickling.

  She was recalled to the discussion when Munoz asked, “Why would he claim to want to set-up a surveillance sting, then? He’s compromised it, if we assume that Ruppe is involved with the rig in the first place.”

  “I think we assume that this was his intent, all along,” Geary said.

  The other two detectives thought this over, as they all walked along the pavement, keeping a wary eye on their questionable surroundings.

  “Right,” said Munoz. “I think you’re right; he didn’t really want to set-up a sting, instead he wanted us to give Ruppe a good scare—maybe scare her away from the rig.”

  “She’s his girlfriend?” Geary suggested. “Former girlfriend?”

  No, thought Doyle. When McShane said he didn’t know her, it had been true.

  “I don’t know,” Munoz said. “But I’ve got to know what to say on my report. If Ruppe is a dirty copper, that’s the main thing to come away with, and I’ve got to report it to Acton straightaway.”

  “Is this Acton’s assignment?” asked Doyle, a bit surprised. Acton usually handled homicides.

  “Yes—let’s get to the cars, so we can speak out of the wind.”

  She quickened her pace, so that the two girls were walking briskly side-by-side down the pavement, with Geary bringing up the rear. Almost immediately, Munoz lowered her voice and said to Doyle, “Do you think any of this was Acton’s doing?”

  Another reminder that Munoz was nobody’s fool, and after all, it only made sense; this assignment seemed too-much connected to the kook-murder, what with the witness mentioning the poisoned inoculations, and Sergeant Ruppe showing up as though on cue. And not to mention that the fair Munoz should never have been given this type of assignment in the first place—it did seem as though it was an Acton set-up, even if it’s purpose wasn’t at all clear.

  On the other hand, Doyle couldn’t let Munoz know that Acton manipulated police events on a regular basis, and so she cautiously advised, “I suppose it’s possible, Munoz; but remember, he didn’t want us to say anythin’ about the set-up in the stairwell, so we’d best be careful about what we say about this, too.”

  “Right.” Munoz then indicated Geary with her eyes. “Do you think Acton was behind his assignment, too?”

  Doyle decided there was no harm in admitting, “I do. We met him in Dublin when we were workin’ on a case there, and I shouldn’t be surprised if Acton called him in to act as some sort of unofficial bodyguard.”

  Munoz nodded, and ducked her head slightly. “What do you know about him—about Geary?”

  “Not a lot, actually; why?”

  It seemed clear that Munoz was weighing what to say, and she was silent for a moment as they walked a few paces. “I’m a bit worried about him.”

  This was a surprise—although it seemed as though this wretched day was one surprise after another—and Doyle lifted her brows, glancing back at the big man following in their wake. “Worried about Geary? Why so?”

  “We were canvassing a neighborhood this morning, and an Irishman came up to him—a dodgy sort of fellow. It seemed strange that they’d know each other, since Geary told me he’d never been to London before. And after they’d spoken for a few minutes—their heads together—Geary couldn’t wait to get over to the racecourse, even though we weren’t finished with our canvass.”

  But Doyle drew a reasonable conclusion. “Mayhap the dodgy fellow was an informant, then, and passed on a tip.”

  Munoz replied in a low voice, “I don’t think so. If it was a tip, then he should have mentioned it to me—I’m his supervising officer, after all. And he clocked out, when he went to the race-course—I checked—so whatever it was, it wasn’t official business.”

  This did not bode well, as Doyle could think of no reasonable explanation for this behavior—especially by an out-of-town copper, newly arrived. Officers weren’t allowed to socialize with informants, and so if a snitch gave an officer a tip, the encounter had to be duly recorded—it was another way for the Met to perform integrity-checks on its personnel and ensure that no one was getting too friendly with the criminal element they encountered.

  And—lest we forget—the CID had uncovered an Irish smuggling rig at the race-course a short while back, and it appeared that Munoz wasn’t comfortable with the conclusions she was drawing.

  “Faith, Munoz; d’you think Geary might be dirty, too?”

  Reluctantly, Munoz replied, “Maybe. It doesn’t look good.”

  Frowning, Doyle thought it over as they approached their unmarked. “I don’t think so, Munoz—I’m sure he’s here at Acton’s request, and I don’t think Acton would saddle us with a dirty copper. But I suppose we’d best be cautious, if we’re not certain. I’ll call Acton, and ask him how much of this to put in your report, and I’ll also ask him about Geary, whilst I’m at it. In the meantime, recall that Geary has McShane’s envelope.”

  “Right—thanks, I’ll get it from him. I’ll go sit in his car with him while you make your call—that way he won’t listen in. I’ll tell him you need some privacy to discuss what’s to be done about Sergeant Ruppe.”

  “Right,” said Doyle. Of course, this would seem odd, since it should be Munoz-the-lead-officer calling their commanding officer on this sensitive topic, but since Doyle was itching to speak to her wayward husband anyways, she did not demur, and pulled the car door open with no further ado.

  Chapter 17

  Surely, he’d move on this soon. Every day’s delay was dangerous.

  Doyle shut the door to the unmarked, pulled her mobile and scrolled up her husband’s number. Her call wouldn’t go through, for some reason, and as she was about to re-try, she got a ping on her private mobile and then remembered that he didn’t want them speaking on their government-issued phones—she’d forgot, again.

  Dutifully, she pressed the answer button on the private mobile, and then held it to her ear. “Ho, husband. It feels like old times, what with you tryin’ to pull the wool over my eyes. So happy, I am, that I’m back at work and providin’ a roof over your wretched, gombeen head.”

  He didn’t attempt to disclaim, but instead soothed, “I am sorry I didn’t warn you, Kathleen; it is an unfortunate situation.”

  “Spill,” she directed. “I’m countin’ to ten.”

  “Please don’t be unhappy.”

  “I’m up to five,” she replied.

  He teased, “A shame; you seemed much happier with me, at lunch time.”

  He was trying to distract her with sex-talk, but she was wise to his wily
ways, and therefore was not distracted from her course. “Well, if you ever want more of the same, you’d best unsnabble, husband. Why was I blindsided, here?”

  “Because I don’t want you to know,” he answered simply.

  She blinked in surprise. “It’s that grave?”

  “Yes. I am afraid that it is.”

  “And yet you wanted me to be here, in the midst of it all?” This didn’t make a lot of sense; if he was trying to keep secrets from her, then why would he pitchfork her into the center of this tangle-patch in the first place?

  “Yes. It was necessary, and again, I am sincerely sorry.”

  “Geary is your doin’, though.” She wanted to verify this, in light of Munoz’s alarming race-course tale.

  “Yes.”

  Doyle paused, then added, “Well, Munoz is worried that Geary’s dirty.”

  “Is she?”

  “Is he?”

  “Not that I am aware,” he offered.

  Thoroughly exasperated, Doyle glanced into her rear-view mirror to observe Munoz and Geary, seated in the other parked vehicle and carefully not speaking to each other. “Munoz also suspects that you are behind this strange set-up—and small blame to her, my friend—and so she wants to know what to do about Sergeant Ruppe’s showin’ up, all suspicious-like.”

  “Sergeant Munoz should file her report.”

  With some concern, Doyle glanced again at the other two. “Truly? It doesn’t look good for the fair Sergeant Ruppe.”

  “The fair Sergeant has brought on her own troubles, I’m afraid.”

  “Fair enough,” Doyle agreed. “Let the chips fall where they may.”

  “Indeed.”

  Doyle frowned as she thought of another potential landmine. “And does Munoz identify the witness we spoke to—won’t he be put at risk?”

  “I imagine he did not give you his real name.”

  She lifted her head, suddenly, and stared at the mobile in disbelief for a moment, before bringing it back to her ear again. “Mother a’ mercy, Michael; you don’t know who he is, either.”

  “No,” he agreed. “I do not.”

  This seemed completely fantastic, but on the other hand, it only supported her sense that it wasn’t Acton’s fine hand, maneuvering whatever-this-was from behind the scenes. Which, when you thought about it, was even more fantastic than anything else; that Acton would be willing to take a secondary role, waiting in the background whilst his much-loved wife was walking into one dangerous situation after another—talk about a cow in a cornfield.

  Into the silence, he offered, “I cannot say much more, I am afraid. As I mentioned, it is a delicate situation.”

  “It always is,” she retorted.

  “This one,” he replied, “is more delicate than most.”

  She frowned into the phone, as this was true. “All right then; I’ll tell Munoz to make a full report. There’d better not be a next time, though—I deserve a warnin’ before I’m blindsided like this, husband.”

  Carefully, he said, “It is important, for my own reasons, that you remain uninformed.”

  This hinted of further blindsidings, and so she retorted, “Just crackin’ grand.”

  “I am sorry, Kathleen.”

  The remorse in his voice was sincere, and she decided she’d press him no further, lest she get tempted to throw both of the stupid mobiles out the car window and reconsider this whole shifting-of-allegiances thing. “All right then. How’s the boyo?”

  “Mary has taken him to pick up Gemma from school.”

  This was welcome news—that he’d let the baby out of his sight—and yet another reason that she was reluctant to berate him like an archwife for his many misdeeds. “Well, I’ve got to go to my stupid task-force meeting, and then I’ll try to be home early. I’ve masses of paperwork to fill out, so mayhap I’ll let Edward sit on my lap and help me.”

  “You could sit on my lap—I’ll help, too.”

  She smiled into the mobile. “We’ll sort-out who’s sittin’ on whose lap later. Cheers.”

  Chapter 18

  It was never easy, to be exposed to enemy fire, and forced to wait.

  After Doyle duly reported Acton’s instructions, Munoz came back to their vehicle so that she could drive Doyle back to headquarters. As soon as they were underway, Doyle offered, “I couldn’t get much out of Acton, Munoz. I think we’ve our own Code Five situation goin’ on here, where there’s some purpose to these mysterious events, but they don’t necessarily want us foot soldiers to know what it is.”

  The other girl nodded. “Did you say anything about Geary?”

  “I did. It was Acton’s doin’—that he was brought down to be your MAO. It sounded as though Acton would be very surprised to find out Geary was dirty.”

  Munoz thought this over. “But Acton doesn’t know him well.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Doyle didn’t think Geary was dirty, but she was fast coming to the realization that she needed more information about the whole situation, since she’d come to some unsettling conclusions during her conversation with her husband.

  The first unsettling conclusion was that her husband wasn’t necessarily behind the Ruppe-sting at the Clinic, which then led inexorably to the second unsettling conclusion, which was that he didn’t seem over-concerned about the fact that his much-beloved wife was in the midst of some sort of skirmish involving dirty coppers and an illegal drug scheme.

  It made no sense a’tall, from where she was standing. Acton was not going to sit idly by whilst someone else was doing all the masterminding—pigs would fly. Not to mention that these self-same dirty coppers had already shown themselves to be utterly ruthless. So—what was going on, here? It was almost as though—faith, it was almost as though Acton didn’t feel it was important, for some reason.

  She lifted her chin, to review the buildings they passed without really seeing them. There—that was it; he didn’t feel this was important, but he was letting it go forward whilst he bided his time. But why? Surely, nothing could be more pressing than chasing down dirty coppers?

  Which brought her to another unsettling thought; mayhap his strange reaction was yet another symptom of his fragile state-of-mind, nowadays. Mayhap his sudden fixation with baby Edward was impairing his ability to think clearly—to assess what was truly a danger, and what was not. After all, he was certain that baby Edward was in danger when it simply wasn’t true; he wasn’t in any danger at all.

  If Acton’s mind was having trouble functioning at its normal levels, it was an alarming thought; no matter his proclivity for questionable doings, there was no doubt that the city was a safer place if the illustrious Chief Inspector was putting forth his best efforts.

  So—it seemed clear that the fair Doyle had best shake her stumps and do some more nosing around. Fortunately, she’d a pipeline to someone who might be able to shed some light, and so she was very much relieved to catch Williams in his office, a few minutes before she had to go report for the task-force.

  He was in the process of giving an assignment to a DS, and—seeing her at the door—he signaled that he’d be with her in a minute. She waited whilst the two men finished up; it sounded as though the DS was to interview a witness on the Sir Cavanaugh case, and they were concerned the witness might be recalcitrant, so they were exploring the correct tack to take.

  Small blame to the witness, Doyle thought—what with everyone on the Council getting themselves murdered, left and right. I’d be hiding under the bed for months, rather than talk to the police.

  The DS paused on his way out and addressed Doyle respectfully. “It’s an honor to meet you, Officer Doyle. Would you mind if I took a quick snap?”

  Doyle pinned on her best heroic-officer-with-two-commendations smile, and dutifully stood beside the man as he leaned in to take a snap, holding his mobile phone at arm’s length. She never knew what to say in these situations, but the man’s voice reverberated against her head, “I don’t know whether you’ve heard, ma’am
, but they’ve a new drink at The Bowman called ‘The Officer Doyle’.”

  “No—truly?” asked Doyle, trying to hide her less-than-enthusiastic reaction to this news. The popular local pub was where law enforcement’s rank-and-file tended to gather.

  The man checked the photograph, and smiled, happy with the result. “It’s an Irish Red Ale.”

  Behind him, Doyle could see Williams cover his mouth with a hand.

  “That is excellent,” said Doyle. “Please give them my regards.” She continued to smile, but as soon as he’d shut the door, she turned to Williams. “You may stop your sniggerin’ now, Thomas.”

  He laughed aloud. “I couldn’t help it. You could barely hide your dismay.”

  Annoyed, she flopped down into a chair. “It’s not fair; I’ll be the stupid bridge-jumper till the crack o’ doom.”

  He shrugged, still amused. “People need heroes, Kath, like it or not. You’ve earned the mantle, and so there’s not a lot you can do about it.”

  She groused, “Its ridiculous, is what it is—everyone needs to just get over it.”

  “People need heroes,” he repeated. “Law enforcement more than most.”

  Doyle’s scalp prickled, and she lifted her head to stare thoughtfully at her companion. “Yes—well, I’m here, Thomas, because I need to find out how Sergeant Ruppe’s husband died.”

  Williams appeared confused by this non sequitur. “Was he a hero?”

  “I don’t know,” Doyle said slowly, “but I think it’s important.”

  Sudden sober, Williams warned, “Acton’s being very tight-lipped about all this, Kath—even with me. I’d be careful.”

  With a sound of extreme exasperation, she complained, “Exactly—Acton won’t give me the smallest hint about what’s goin’ on, and I’m pig-sick of bein’ left in the dark.”

  With an air of wariness, he clasped his hands on his desk. “And this affects me how?”