Murder in Retribution (20 page)

D
OYLE SIGNED IN TO THE
E
VIDENCE
L
OCKER, AND LOCATED
the boxes containing evidence from several recent cases that were now loosely termed the park murders because the killings had occurred in park settings. Because the room was chilly, she wished she had remembered to wear her coat—although she probably would have looked ridiculous in it amongst the dusty shelves. She would buy a less ostentatious coat to keep at her workstation so she didn’t hurt Acton’s feelings—she could wear the black one to and fro, and he’d be none the wiser.

After spending several hours studying the hard evidence along with the case notes, she felt the familiar prickling of her scalp; there was indeed a pattern, and she began to take careful notes so that she didn’t forget her first impressions. Absorbed in the task, she didn’t realize how much time had elapsed until she stretched her back and glanced at her mobile to check the time. She had forgotten to text her symbol to Acton, but he had not checked in with her, as he invariably did when she was late or forgot. This was a surprise; perhaps she couldn’t get service, here in the bowels of the building. As she walked down the linoleum hallway, she phoned his private line, hoping he wasn’t worried about her.

“Yes.”

She was a little surprised by his abruptness, considering he knew it was her, and teased him, “I see how it is; you’ve had your way wi’ me this mornin’ and now I’m to be neglected.”

“I’m sorry, Kathleen; I’m trying to track down a suspect who’s agreed to speak with me. I’m afraid it’s rather important.”

She paused. This was true; and equally true was the fact he was in no mood to speak to her for perhaps the first time in recorded history. “Is everythin’ all right?” she asked, trying to stifle a pang of alarm.

“Yes—I will ring you later, once this is straightened out.”

“Of course.” She rang off, and frowned at the blank screen on her mobile for a moment. Something was afoot; he was preoccupied, and she was uneasy—mother a’ mercy, here we go again. As she considered this strange turn of events, the mobile vibrated in her hand; it was Samuels.

“Ho, Doyle, I wondered if you’d heard anything about Solonik’s attack—have they found the suspect yet?”

He was actually wondering if she’d heard anything from Acton; Samuels would have the same access to reports that she had. “No, I haven’t heard yet, which is probably not good news.”

“No,” he agreed. “Should we brainstorm for ideas?”

“Absolutely; I’ll be right over.”

Doyle made her way to Samuels’s corner of the basement, feeling that it was the least she could do. Compared to Williams, Munoz, and her fair self, Samuels didn’t have much of a portfolio and the Solonik attack was a fine chance to be involved in a high-profile case—she would make good work of her latest resolution to be kinder, and hope it lasted longer than her last resolution to be kinder.

She joined the other DC at his desk, and together they reviewed the Solonik report on-line, which listed all the latest efforts that were being made to track down Rourke, including the addresses of relatives and known associates. He had many relatives, some in Ireland and some in England, which meant a lot of slog work to check in with them—assuming a relative would grass on him in the first place. All agencies had been alerted that he was wanted for questioning, but no leads had been called in, even by paid informants. It was almost incredible, except that it had happened; Rourke had attacked Solonik, walked out of the high security Detention Center, and disappeared—even the CCTV cameras around the facility and in the street were unhelpful. He was good with disguises, thought Doyle; but still and all, it was baffling—where did he go?

“Has Acton mentioned whether there are any other leads? Perhaps this is not up to date.”

Doyle remembered her preoccupied and distracted husband, and shook her head. “I think he’s handlin’ somethin’ else; in any event, I haven’t heard.”

“Too bad.”

This was true, which meant that Samuels was trying to gain an advantage by priming her for information the others wouldn’t have. She felt a bit sorry for him, and it was a shame she couldn’t help him out. To make up for it, she offered, “Acton seems to think that Solonik and Rourke have a mutual secret.”

Samuels stared at her for a moment. “Is that so?”

Doyle rose, since she needed to return to her station and begin entering her notes from the other case. “It doesn’t make much sense, though; you wouldn’t think Solonik and Rourke would be willin’ to collaborate on
anythin’.
”

Thoughtfully, he eyed her for a moment. “Tell you what; drop me a line if you hear anything—I’d love to help break this one.”

She decided not to mention the obvious; that by the time the fair Doyle heard anything, it was usually all over but the shouting. “I will. Sorry I couldn’t be of more use.”

He expressed his thanks, and Doyle returned to her cubicle, thinking Samuels was a bit odd; if you were hoping to impress the brass by tracking down the Irish kingpin, one would think you’d be out in the field following the leads and hoping for a break, not sitting at headquarters trying to find out what Doyle knew.

As she came down the aisle way, Habib spied her and said in surprise, “DC Doyle; have you not left yet?”

“Left where?” she asked blankly.

He pursed his lips slightly to express his disapproval that she was not well-informed. “Dispatch received a call from a tipster on the Solonik attack, specifically asking to meet with you—it was someone who didn’t want to be seen coming in. I could not reach you on your mobile, and so Munoz said she would find you.”

With a faint twinge of alarm, she thought of the walk-in who had asked for her—the one who may have been sent by that Savoie person—but decided it couldn’t be the same man; Lestrade hadn’t been afraid to come into the Met. And this was a very good sign; usually, if an informant wanted to keep a meeting with the police quiet, he was not the usual gate-crasher but instead someone with valid information, hoping to cut a deal. “How long ago?”

“Twenty minutes, perhaps,” said Habib. “Where is Munoz?”

With a flash of dismay, Doyle whirled and looked into Munoz’s cubicle—she was gone and Doyle was suddenly certain that the other girl had made no attempt to find her, but had gone to meet the tipster herself. Making a monumental effort to moderate her voice, Doyle asked Habib the location of the rendezvous point and discovered it was Greyfriars Bridge, off Battersea.

“I’ll go straightaway, sir,” she said a bit grimly. She noted that her coat was missing, and added, “Believe me.”

Nearly grinding her teeth with frustration that Munoz had not only pulled such a trick, but had left her without a coat, to boot, Doyle debated borrowing someone’s jacket, but then decided she didn’t want to miss the meeting altogether, and so grabbed her rucksack and left with all speed. It was still raining, and at least Munoz had not taken Doyle’s umbrella—although it was probably unnecessary because the flippin’ coat had a hood. Come to think of it, the rain may actually be a boon; if traffic was slow, Doyle might even beat Munoz there by taking the tube—it would serve her right.

After sitting uncomfortably amongst the wet and crowded passengers on the tube for a few minutes, Doyle began to calm down, and reflect upon her actions. She was still holding on to her anger at Munoz from their argument that morning and as a result, her reaction was perhaps a bit overwrought. Munoz, like Samuels, had seen a chance to try to break this important case by exploiting Doyle’s connection and—to be fair—she shouldn’t be angry at Munoz if she wasn’t angry at Samuels. In addition, Doyle had been in the bowels of the Evidence Locker, and valuable time would have been wasted in going to fetch her. And Munoz may also feel some residual guilt for her role in squiring Rourke around when he was posing as Sergey—indeed, perhaps the tipster was Rourke himself, hoping to cut a deal and be brought in.

No, Doyle thought almost immediately; Rourke is dead. Surprised, she shifted away from the man thinking lecherous thoughts to her right, and wondered why she was convinced of this, closing her eyes to try to come up with it. After a moment, she gave up; she didn’t know why, but she knew—in the way she knew things—that Solonik’s attacker was no longer amongst the living.

As she exited at the nearest station to the bridge, she realized that now they may never know why Rourke attacked Solonik, and that in any event, she shouldn’t be so jealous and territorial. Munoz was right; Doyle had been investigating interesting and high-profile homicides alongside Acton when she should have been collecting statistics or reviewing CCTV tape like any other first-year DC, and it wasn’t fair. By the time she emerged from the stairway, she’d resolved to take a secondary role today, and help Munoz win some acclaim. I am sorry, she offered up, thinking of Aiki and how fragile life was; I have to be remembering what’s what.

D
OYLE APPROACHED
G
REYFRIARS
B
RIDGE, WHICH WAS DE
serted. Very few people were about due to the rain, which pattered steadily on Doyle’s umbrella. She wondered if Munoz had already spoken to the tipster, or if she hadn’t yet appeared on the scene, having been stuck in traffic. Doyle decided to walk out to the center of the bridge so as to be conspicuous in the event the tipster was watching from some concealed position, which was always a possibility.

As she waited there a few moments, shivering in the cold wind, she looked about. There was no one who remotely looked like a tipster in the area. After glancing at her mobile to check the time, she decided to wait twenty more minutes and then stop in a pub for coffee—she shouldn’t have come without a jacket, and now she was paying the price. As she put her mobile away, she thought she heard a small sound, coming from beneath her. Leaning carefully over the railing, Doyle peered at the flowing river, brown and churning below her. The light was not good, and she didn’t see anything of interest.

But there. A movement. Doyle strained her eyes and made out the outline of a figure clinging to one of the cement supports as the strong current flowed past. She couldn’t make out the face, but knew immediately that it was Munoz.

Her mouth dry, Doyle dropped her umbrella and looked frantically in all directions, but there was no one about. She leaned over the railing to look again at Munoz and shouted at her, “Izzy! Can you hear me?”

No response. The girl’s arms clung to the cement base of the support, but her face appeared to be nearly submerged in the swirling water—she was losing consciousness. Think, Doyle. Stay calm.

Quickly pulling out her mobile, she texted an exclamation point to Acton’s private line; it was their symbol for an emergency, and she had never used it before. She laid the phone on the bridge, propped her umbrella over it, then turned her rucksack upside down and dumped out its contents—even her tablet, which broke apart upon impact with the concrete walkway. Holding the empty rucksack upside down against her chest, she pushed her arms through the straps, and climbed to balance atop the rail, which was slick with the rain. I can’t hesitate, even to say a prayer, she thought, or I’ll change my mind. Just as she jumped, she could hear her mobile ring.

She aimed to land in the water a few feet into the current, up from the support to which Munoz clung, and with this in mind held the bottom of her upside-down backpack open as she fell through the air, her midsection clenching with the sensation. Hitting the surface of the river with a roaring jolt, she bobbed up immediately, the trapped air in the rucksack making her buoyant. The water was an unbelievably cold shock, and the current began to move her as she frantically flailed her legs so as to grab on to the support. There was a terrible, terrible moment when she had trouble securing a grip on the wet cement and she was almost swept past, but then she flung her arms wide and managed to scramble onto the support next to Munoz, gasping for breath. Nothing to this swimming business, she thought; good one, Doyle.

Her relief was short-lived, however, as Munoz began to sink into the river, her hands trailing limply on the cement base. Doyle grabbed at her, trying not to lose her own grip on both the rucksack and the support, and just managed to grasp the hood of Munoz’s coat. My coat, Doyle amended.

Doyle strained to heave the other girl back onto the support, but the coat was heavy with water and she decided she would have to let go of the rucksack, which was in the way. Thanks to her recent bouts with poison and pregnancy, she was not as strong as she normally was, but she managed to leverage Munoz into a position so that her face was above the swirling water. “Izzy,” she gasped. “You have to help me.”

Munoz moaned and her eyes fluttered open. Doyle could have wept with relief; she had been afraid, for a moment, that the other girl was dead. “Help me take the coat off—it’s too heavy.”

Weakly, Munoz obeyed by moving one arm at a time and between them they removed the coat, and let it sink.

“I’m hurt,” mumbled Munoz. “Back.”

Doyle leaned out, trying to look, but found she did not want to risk her precarious grip on the support and on Munoz. “It’s hardly anythin’, Munoz, you’ll be fine,” she said firmly. “The cold water will help.”

Munoz’s eyes slowly closed again, and Doyle could see the delicate blue veins on her eyelids. “Izzy,” she called sharply. “You must stay awake—help is comin’ and I can’t hold you.”

Munoz lifted her head weakly in response, but did not open her eyes and after a moment, her head slipped back again. Gritting her teeth, Doyle closed her own eyes, fiercely concentrating on not letting her hands release their weak grip on the cement as the other girl’s weight became heavier and heavier. I can’t let her go, she thought in despair; I am so sorry, Michael—I can’t let her go.

Through her eyelids, Doyle thought she could see flashing blue lights and opened her eyes again, equal parts incredulous and relieved to see the reflection of emergency vehicle lights on the water—a rescue crew must be on the bridge. A few more minutes, a few more minutes. She had to keep Munoz awake; she could not maintain her grip if the other girl lost consciousness and became dead weight—and they were so close, so close to being rescued. “You never gave me a weddin’ present, Munoz,” Doyle loudly accused in the other girl’s ear.

“Shut
up
, Doyle,” murmured Munoz weakly.

Doyle heard someone shouting. She didn’t want to move her head, but shouted “Help!” as loudly as she could, and Munoz started from the noise as it echoed along the rafters under the truss.

“I’ll want one of your drawin’s,” Doyle gabbled. “Of the Madonna. I’ll hang it over my fireplace, I will.”

Munoz moaned and began to slowly roll away. “Izzy,” scolded Doyle desperately, “don’t you
dare
.”

She started in surprise at a large splash near her side, but didn’t want to turn around to look as the displaced water landed on her in a wave. An arm was felt, supporting her upward so that she could get a better grip, higher up on the support.

“How are we doing?” asked Williams, slightly out of breath, from behind her head.

“Ach,” panted Doyle, “not so very grand, I’m afraid. Munoz is hurt.”

She could feel Williams lean back to inspect Munoz, and lean in again. “They’ll bring her up with a lift—right now they’re spanning a rope across the river downstream, in case we let go. Cover your ears.” He leaned back and shouted that one of them was hurt and needed medical. The person on the bridge had a megaphone and assured him a lift would be lowered straight away.

Williams returned to his position supporting them from behind, his arms securely around both girls as the cold water rushed by. Doyle was shivering uncontrollably. “Sorry,” she chattered. “It’s s—so cold.”

“It is a shame there is no desk nearby,” he replied. “We could have sex.”

She started to laugh, and so did he, huddled together with Munoz’s limp form firmly wedged between them. “I didn’t know how I could face you again,” she confessed. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

“You definitely got your point across.” With a lunge, he reached over to grasp the canvas harness that had been lowered to the water.

“I’m sorry I didn’t respond to your messages.” She helped him fasten the harness around the unconscious girl. “But there’s nothin’ I can say to make it better.”

They watched anxiously as Munoz was briefly suspended over the water and then, swinging slightly, disappeared above them into the darkness that was punctuated by flashing blue lights.

Williams maintained his grip on Doyle and lowered his head to hers so that they were face-to-face, inches apart. “Promise me something.”

“That depends,” she answered cautiously. He may have saved her, but that didn’t mean she would throw caution to the winds.

“If I promise not to bother you anymore, please don’t shut me out of your life.”

“That’s fair enough,” she agreed through chattering teeth.

“I love you,” he said simply. “I know I shouldn’t, but there it is.”

She swallowed and shivered, not knowing what to say and fighting an almost overwhelming urge to cry. He continued gently, “I’ll get over it, don’t worry.”

“I would like us to be friends,” she replied, as steadily as she was able. “But it may not be possible.”

“I will make it possible.”

Then, because he was so sincere and because she figured she wouldn’t get the chance for the next fifty years or so, she leaned in and kissed him, even though her mouth was nearly numb with the cold. He returned the kiss, and it was rather nice. It was the sort of kiss she may have had after a promising first date, and she couldn’t help but compare it to the first time she’d kissed Acton, when it felt as though they’d set the room on fire.

They disengaged when a harness splashed behind her, and Williams helped fasten her in. He then held her legs carefully so she didn’t bang against the support as they pulled her up. The cold wind hit her and she shivered convulsively as she was lifted to the rail where many hands reached for her, including her husband’s.