Murder in Hindsight by Anne Cleeland Page B

offended, she teased, “Are you? I wondered a little that you took this job.” Samuels did not show to advantage next to his colleagues; he seemed to lack any real passion for detective work.
    “I’m not as mad about it as the rest of you, but I do enjoy it,” he protested. “It certainly pays well.”
    Doyle had the strong impression he felt he’d said something very amusing. Hoping she hadn’t embarrassed him, she changed the subject. “Have you identified the suspects in the garden shed case?”
    “Not as yet.”
    Interestingly enough, this was not true. He’s a confusing one, she thought; he doesn’t match himself, or something.
    “Here we are.”
    They had arrived at the Crime Academy, and as they passed through the door, Doyle grimaced in remembrance. “Faith, I’m glad I’m quit of this place.”
    He laughed, “Surely it wasn’t that bad.”
    But she could not agree. “I’m not much of a student, my friend; I’d still be here if Williams hadn’t helped me pass ballistics.”
    Samuels laughed again, but slanted her a knowing look that annoyed her, as it seemed to imply there was something going on betwixt herself and Williams. She shrugged it off; she couldn’t let it bother her—gossip always ran rampant in any workplace, and she and Williams were thick as thieves.
    They walked to the main lecture hall, but it was locked. Doyle peered through the window in the door, but it was dark inside. “We must have missed it—I might have mixed up the time.”
    “Or it was cancelled,” Samuels suggested.
    This seemed unlikely; certainly Acton would have let her know. “Maybe.”
    Samuels called to two trainees who were passing by in the hallway. “Did DCI Acton give his lecture?”
    “Oh yes, it was three to four o’ clock,” answered one. “Very interesting.”
    “How annoyin’,” said Doyle with a smile. “I got my times crossed.” It was puzzling; she was certain Acton had said the lecture would make him miss dinner.
    But her thoughts were interrupted by one of the trainees, who ventured, “You are Officer Doyle, aren’t you ma’am?” The woman emanated waves of respect and goodwill.
    With her pinned-on smile, Doyle admitted, “Indeed I am.”
    The young man added reverently, “The instructor spoke of you at class today; about—about how important it was for us to have each other’s backs, no matter what. It is an honor to meet you.” They all shook hands, whilst Doyle tried to think of something profound to say and came up short.
    “Carry on,” said Samuels easily, and they walked away. “Look at you; you’re a rock star.”
    “Just lucky to be there when I was,” she demurred, thinking about her discussion with Munoz. Doyle’s belief system didn’t really recognize luck as such, but it was an easier, shorthand way to discuss weighty issues like providence and grace.
    “Want to share a cab?” asked Samuels as they approached the street.
    “No thanks, I’ll take the tube.” She was reluctant to take a cab, since to do so always made her miss Aiki, and although she was supposed to call the concierge’s driving service, Doyle found she wanted to walk for a bit so as to clear her head. It had been a strange day, between Williams, and her rescuer, and Samuels, and Acton not being where he said he’d be; an overabundance of men putting her through her paces—although Munoz was in there, too, so it hadn’t been only the men. Hunching her shoulders against the chilly wind, she walked for a block toward the tube station, thinking about the park murders. She was making headway on the case—even though nothing leapt out off the page as yet. It would; she was certain. She had a feeling, she did, and her feelings were usually reliable. There was a common denominator and she would find it—she knew she was close.
    On the other hand, Acton would not be happy when she did solve it, because this case kept her out of the field, and he was a first-class fretter. Reminded, she