Murder in Retribution (21 page)

T
HE RESCUE TEAM IMMEDIATELY WRAPPED AN EMERGENCY FOIL
blanket around her as Acton crouched before her, chafing her hands as he looked into her face, assessing. He is having trouble breathing, she thought, so she smiled at him through shivering lips. “Stupid Munoz.”

“Are you injured?”

“Not at all; just cold.”

Munoz had already been transported away and the medical team from the second ambulance asked Acton if they could examine her. Doyle threw him a stricken look; she had an extreme distaste of being examined as a result of her miscarriage, and there was the small matter of her illegal weapon, wet but intact in her ankle holster.

“Not necessary,” said Acton, reading her aright. As the ambulance personnel retreated, he said, “Come into the car. Can you give a statement?” He motioned to Samuels, who joined them, taking out his tablet.

They retreated to Acton’s Range Rover and he engaged the engine and turned up the heat. Doyle’s shivering was now under control, and she threw off only an occasional shudder. “How is Munoz?”

“Stabbed. Between T-5 and T-6.”

“Mother a’
mercy,
” said Doyle, stunned. “I couldn’t see. It’s a miracle she didn’t bleed out. ”

“The cold water, plus there wasn’t sufficient penetration,” said Acton. “Her vitals are stable—she should be all right. What happened?”

This, of course, was a good question. “I don’t know, Michael. There was a call to Dispatch; an anonymous tipster wantin’ to give information on Solonik. I was in the Evidence Locker, so Munoz took it.”

The back door opened, and Williams joined them in the car, wrapped in his own foil blanket with his wet hair plastered against his head. Acton said to him, “Well done,” and then returned his attention to Doyle.

“I came because I thought I could help,” she continued, which was the truth, after all. “When I got here I didn’t see anyone, but then I heard Munoz. She was barely hangin’ on to the support, in the water.”

“Did you see anyone leave? Anything unusual?”

Doyle closed her eyes to concentrate. “No. No one was about. There was no one to shout to, so I texted you and jumped.”

Acton paused. “You jumped in the river?”

Faith, thought Doyle; he’s going to have an apoplexy, he is.

“Quite a jump,” said Samuels admiringly.

“She cannot swim,” Acton revealed. This announcement was met by the other two men with the incredulous silence it deserved.

“I caught some air in my rucksack,” Doyle explained, demonstrating with her hands. “For buoyancy—it worked really well.” Proud of her own ingenuity, she looked at the others for approval, but they seemed unable to respond.

“Let’s go home and get you out of these wet clothes,” her husband suggested. To Samuels he said, “See if you can find a witness or a CCTV that caught something.”

“I want to stay with Munoz,” insisted Doyle. “I don’t know if anyone is with her.”

“She’ll be in surgery, and her family has been notified. If you feel up to it, we’ll go after you are put to rights.” Acton gave more instruction to Samuels and thanked Williams, shaking his hand.

“Yes; thank you Williams,” added Doyle sincerely. “I don’t know how much longer I could have held on.” She would show Acton that they were to be civil, now that they had made their peace.

The others exited the car, and Acton put it in gear and headed for home. He took one of her hands and stroked the back with his thumb; back and forth, back and forth.

“I couldn’t help it, Michael; there was nothin’ for it.”

“No,” he agreed. “You did well.”

“Then you’ll not be regrettin’ the loss of my fine coat.”

“No,” he said. “I will buy you a dozen.”

“To be accurate, it was Munoz’s fault—she borrowed it without askin’.”

This offhand comment, however, received his full and alert attention. He asked slowly, “Was Munoz wearing your coat when she was attacked?”

Doyle saw where this was going, and protested, “Michael, Munoz looks nothin’ like me.” She added, “Even if you were color blind.”

Acton looked forward again. “It was raining; if she had the hood up, someone approaching from behind may not know the difference.”

Doyle thought about this, feeling a twinge of alarm. She admitted, “It is true she didn’t have an umbrella.”

There was a silence. The stroking had stopped. He knows something, she thought. She waited to hear what he was thinking, but he remained silent. She prompted, “Do you think it was done on Solonik’s order?” This never-ending vengeance business.

“Perhaps,” said Acton neutrally, so that she couldn’t read whether this was indeed what he thought. “Was the tip specifically for you?”

“Yes,” she conceded, not liking the implication at all.

He made no reply, and she eyed him—Mother of God; the man would drive a saint to sin. “Don’t be tiresome, Michael. Do you think this was connected to the turf war?”

He wrestled with it, and finally admitted, “I’d rather not say.”

This admission was almost welcome; he didn’t want to put her off, but he didn’t want her to read a lie. She pointed out reasonably, “If you’re thinkin’ that I’m a target for some reason, you shouldn’t keep it a secret.”

“No,” he said immediately. “I don’t think you will be attacked again.”

It was the truth. Well, she thought—here’s a relief, although it was a mystery; how could he be so sure?

His mobile vibrated, and he checked the ID, and then picked up. “I’m afraid I am unavailable just now, may I call you back?” He waited for a response then rang off.

She teased him, “Was that your girlfriend?”

He smiled as he drove, genuinely amused. “I have nothing left over for a girlfriend.”

“Keep that to mind,” she teased him. “Else you’ll be embarrassin’ yourself.”

They arrived home, and Doyle did not pause but stepped immediately into a shower so hot it was painful. Before she did, she could hear Acton begin to explain to Reynolds what had happened, and couldn’t control her giggle—Reynolds must think this place is disaster central; best raise his salary or he’ll flee in horror.

She let the hot water wash over her and began to feel her toes and fingers tingle. I wonder, she thought, if that knife was meant for me. It was a chilling thought. She also wondered where Acton had been—he’d arrived at the scene later than Williams, although he must have contacted Williams to come to her aid. He was at a distance, then—farther away than the Met. She remembered how terse he’d been when she’d rung him up earlier; lucky it was, that it hadn’t been their last conversation on earth.

She turned to rinse her hair and saw Acton looming outside the shower door. He stepped in, and his mouth found hers, gently. She put her arms around his neck and decided this was all that was needed to warm her up completely.

Later, she dried her hair, embarrassed to note that Reynolds was still there and surely must have noted that all other residents were in the same shower. Acton watched her dress, unable to take his eyes from her, and she tried to ease him down. “Are you plannin’ on taking a bite out o’ the scotch?”

“No,” he replied, then amended. “Not yet.”

“I don’t mind, my friend. I can be the barkeeper.”

He smiled. “You don’t know the first thing about bar keeping.”

“I do know the first thing about you, however.”

They regarded each other for a long moment. He was not going to budge, so she gave up trying to find out what he was thinking. “Let’s be off to the hospital, then.”

They left after explaining to Reynolds that they were going to visit Munoz. Once in the car, Doyle took a long breath. “I’ll be needin’ a new coat for Brighton—Brighton is goin’ to be glorious and much needed, after this little episode.” She leaned her head back against the leather headrest. “Between you and me, I’m ready for glorious.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

Mother a’ mercy, she thought in dismay; we are not going to Brighton.

T
HERE WAS A GUARD POSTED OUTSIDE
M
UNOZ’S ROOM, AND
Acton showed his ID as a formality. Munoz lay on the hospital bed, propped up on her side and conversing with the others who were in the room and clearly related to her; a middle-aged couple who must have been her parents, along with a young woman—who was unmistakably her sister—and a grandmother, seated closest to the injured girl. They all turned to regard the newcomers, and Doyle was much struck; the group resembled the portraits of the Spanish royal family one saw in museums. Between these people and Acton, thought Doyle, I am a stranger in a strange land.

Doyle went straight to the patient and stood beside the bed. “Munoz,” she said accusingly. “You owe me a coat.”

“That’s not fair; I’m not the one who put a knife in it.”

Acton asked, “Did you see the attacker?”

Munoz shook her head. “No, sir—I was coshed first. There was no one on the bridge that raised any alarm; I was taken completely unawares, and Samuels has taken a report.”

Doyle leaned to examine her head. “Oh, Munoz,” she said in dismay. “They’ve had to shave some of your fine hair.”

“Yes—the doctor said it was a sacrilege.” This said with the slightest touch of smugness.

“Another one down,” Doyle proclaimed, and Munoz smiled.

The older woman interrupted to speak in a torrent of Spanish, and Munoz answered in kind. Doyle heard her name, and the others stood with one accord and approached her, thanking her profusely; Munoz’s mother embracing her fiercely and kissing both cheeks while Doyle blushed mightily.

“They’re going to give you a commendation for bravery,” said Munoz dryly. “Samuels told me.”

Doyle smiled and shook her head. “I’m that sorry, Munoz; it’s unlucky, you are.”

Munoz threw back her head and laughed aloud, much to the surprise of her family. Her grandmother directed a stream of Spanish at Munoz, who then responded and turned to interpret to Doyle. “My grandmother wanted to offer you a sum of money, but I told her you were married to this rich man whom you stole from me, and she has now withdrawn the offer.”

It appeared she wasn’t joking, as the grandmother had furrowed her stately brow and now fixed her incredulous gaze on Acton, who stood against the back wall. Before the woman could confront him, Doyle decided they should take their leave, and so she said to Munoz with a smile, “Well, I’m glad you’re all right, Izzy.”

“I’ll start on that project we discussed as soon as I am able.”

Doyle found, suddenly, that she had to wipe away tears with the back of her knuckles until Acton put a handkerchief in her hand. “That’s grand,” she whispered.

“Doyle,” Munoz remonstrated. “Don’t go soft on me.”

After they left, Doyle and Acton sat in the car for a few minutes whilst she cried on his chest, thoroughly wetting his shirt. When the tears stopped, she sat up and had recourse to his handkerchief once again. “Sorry. It’s reaction, I think, from seein’ her again.”

“You’re entitled.” He started the car. “I’ve asked Reynolds to prepare something to eat.”

“I think,” she ventured, “that we are out of fruit pies.”

He turned his head to look at her. “Please,” he teased, “you’ve put me through enough today; don’t do this to me.”

Delighted that he seemed in a teasing mood, she insisted. “Recall that I’m to be gettin’ a commendation. It’s deservin’, I am.”

They stopped at a corner convenience store and Doyle assured him she was willing to go in alone. “Although it’s not like we’re buyin’ pornography, Michael, and no one will recognize us, anyway.”

He accompanied her with a fine show of reluctance, and she teased him the entire time, threatening to tell the clerk that she was buying the pies for him, and debating what flavors to choose at length. He smiled and touched her, the expression in his eyes promising intimate attention later. She was not fooled, however. I wish I knew what it was, she thought, but I haven’t a clue; at least he’s not in one of his black moods, and I’m determined not to allow him to start in.

When they returned home, Reynolds informed them that a reporter had asked for Doyle at the concierge desk. “I told him you had already retired, so that he wouldn’t be waiting for you at the garage.”

“Thank you, Reynolds,” she replied, and wondered if it was the same one who had tried to speak to her that day when Aiki came to her rescue. He’d get no story from her, leastways.

They ate in companionable silence, and when they did speak, Doyle noted well that there was no mention of the turf war murders, and no mention of Brighton.

After Reynolds had cleared away the dishes and left for the night, she sat with Acton on the sofa, gazing at the fire and letting her fingers play on his chest. Usually this activity drew an immediate reaction from him—the man was on a hair trigger, he was—but tonight he seemed lost in thought. Doyle rested her head on his shoulder and hoped he would be done thinking soon, she was tired. Small wonder, she thought; another crackin’ foul day.

She didn’t realize she had fallen asleep until she was awakened by his hand moving on her breast. Sleepily assessing, she realized that she was lying with her head in his lap, and he was drinking, his hand beginning to wander. She picked it up and brought it to her mouth to kiss it. “I might actually be too tired, Michael,” she murmured. “Can you proceed without wakin’ me up?”

She could feel him smile, and his hand moved to caress her cheek. “You are something.”

She knew he referred to the bridge-jumping. “I truly didn’t have a choice. All’s well that ends well, I suppose.”

He made a sound to indicate this was a gross understatement, and she could feel his chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath. Thinking it an opportune time to do a little probing, she asked, “Where were you this afternoon—when you were so short with me on the phone?”

“I thought we had established I was visiting my neglected girlfriend.”

“She should find another callin’, poor thing.”

His hand found her jaw and turned her head so he could meet her eyes. “You know I don’t even look at other women.”

“Oh, I know,” she said with emphasis. It was a little daring; they rarely spoke directly of his neurosis.

He leaned back into the sofa, satisfied, and took another drink. Unimaginable that he should have an affair; he was focused on her like a laser beam. She duly noted, however, that he had avoided answering the question. He would not tell her unless he wanted to, and he clearly didn’t want to; hopefully he wasn’t plotting more retribution murders.

“Rourke is dead,” she announced.

His hand stilled. “Is he indeed?”

“Bank on it,” she teased. They rarely spoke directly of her abilities, either. “Is Solonik under lock and key?”

“Solonik is under lock and key.” He said it with great satisfaction.

“Cheers, then.” She tapped the bottom of his glass with a finger, wishing she knew what he was thinking about; he had feared the attack on Munoz may have been meant for her, but then assured her she was in no danger. It was a puzzle, and her husband’s puzzles always seemed to end up being cataclysmic.

“I would say that you are wide-awake, wouldn’t you?” The hand moved back to her breast and she giggled.