Murder in Retribution by Anne Cleeland Read Free Book Online

before they were married, the gesture had been the first indication that she meant something to him, and she fingered the cup fondly. With a start, she wondered if she was allowed to drink coffee in her condition and reluctantly set it aside. I’ll have to ask, she thought with resignation; it wants only this.
    Detective Inspector Habib, her supervisor, appeared in the entryway to her cubicle. He was a very correct and self-contained Pakistani man who would occasionally unbend enough to give Doyle some good insight on her cases. Today, however, he was issuing orders to beat the band, the singsong cadence of his voice rapid-fire. “The chief inspector has asked that you work with Detective Sergeant Williams on the aqueduct and Newmarket cases. He asks that you take witness statements and coordinate forensics with the senior investigating officer.”
    “Yes, sir, I will,” said Doyle, unconsciously speaking as rapidly in return. Acton was careful to respect the hierarchy, and despite their marriage, still delivered all assignments by way of Habib. As Habib was very keen on protocol, this seemed the right tack, although it was clear the man had been a bit thrown by the unexpected turn of events; he admired Acton, but he could not approve of inter-caste marriage.
    “DS Williams will take the lead,” Habib added, not-so-subtly reminding her that Williams outranked her now.
    “Yes, sir.” If Munoz was listening from the cubicle next door she would be fit to be tied; excluded from this plum assignment and reminded of Williams’s promotion all in one fell swoop. After Habib turned on his heel and left, Doyle waited for the explosion, but it did not come, so she decided to tempt fate. “Munoz, have you dropped dead over there?”
    Munoz’s voice came through the cubicle partition wall. “I don’t care, Doyle; Williams is not worth the trouble. You are welcome to him.”
    Doyle correctly interpreted this to mean that Williams had not succumbed to Munoz’s lures, and so did not argue the point. “Ah well; his loss.”
    The other girl continued, “I’m too busy working on a project for Drake, anyway.”
    The hint of triumph in this announcement reminded Doyle that there had been some serious flirtation going on between DCI Drake and Munoz. I hope she’s not having an affair with him, thought Doyle, remembering Drake as vain and self-centered. Nothing I could say to her, of course; she would laugh in my face, what with my own history. “What sort of project?”
    “I’m supposed to keep it under wraps. It has to do with flesh-peddling.”
    Doyle idly reviewed her inbox and found herself drinking from the latte again—it was that forbidden-fruit effect. “Sounds dangerous, if you don’t mind my sayin’. Look to yourself; you’ll be sold to white slavers, else.”
    “I’m not white; they’ll not have me.”
    “Spanish slavers, then,” Doyle corrected. Hopefully she had teased Munoz out of a temper tantrum, but it appeared she had been only partially successful.
    “They like Williams better because he is a man—it is so unfair.”
    This topic was a potential minefield; Williams and Munoz had vied for top honors at the Crime Academy, but Williams had topped Munoz in most subjects. She would not thank Doyle for reminding her of this irritating fact, and so Doyle turned the subject. “Whist, Munoz; you’re an intelligent and good-lookin’ minority female. Go out and exploit your fair self.”
    This comment was met with a few moments of profound silence. “You know, Doyle, every once in a while you have a decent idea.”
    “Don’t be over-kind,” Doyle cautioned. “You’ll get soft.”
    But Munoz wasn’t listening, instead thinking aloud, “I should make myself available to the public relations people; get my face shown about a bit.”
    “That’s the ticket; Williams is nowhere near as politically correct.”
    Munoz made an appearance in the cubicle entryway, surprising Doyle so that she juggled her