Murder in Thrall by Anne Cleeland Page A

behind his back. She wrote on the flyleaf, To Acton: Many happy returns. Doyle. He watched her hands as she wrote.
    She handed it to him and he reviewed what she had written. “How did you know it was my birthday next week?”
    “Oh, I have my ways of obtainin’ secret information, sir—recall that I am a detective.”
    He was very much amused for some reason and met her eyes. “I see that I will have to guard my secrets, then.”
    Munoz could stand it no longer and at this juncture approached the table in an obvious bid for Acton’s attention. “Hallo, Doyle.” The girl waited for an introduction, smoothing back her long black hair with a graceful gesture that inspired Doyle to decide she should practice it later in front of a mirror.
    Resigned, Doyle made the introduction and hoped she wouldn’t regret it. “DCI Acton, may I present DC Munoz?”
    Acton stood and briefly took Munoz’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Detective Constable.” He then nodded to Doyle and took his leave with no further ado, Doyle’s book in his hand. It was smoothly done and Doyle was all admiration; how useful to have the ability to issue a snub and remain so polite—it was in the breeding, it was.
    Munoz watched him go and then sank down beside Doyle, who wished for a moment that she had Acton’s resolve. “What were you talking about?” Munoz was fascinated by Acton; she was beautiful and tempestuous and specialized in dating well-connected men. Acton fit the bill.
    Doyle blew out a breath. “A case. A case that doesn’t make much sense.”
    “I’d be happy to work his case.” Munoz pursed her full lips in appreciation as she watched his figure in retreat.
    Openly annoyed, Doyle chided the other girl. “Whist, Munoz—you’ll not stay in CID for long if you start makin’ eyes at him, I promise you.”
    Acton having left the room, Munoz reluctantly turned back to Doyle. “He’s never married. Do you think he is gay?”
    No, thought Doyle immediately, not knowing how she knew with such certainty. She equivocated, “I don’t know. The subject has not come up.”
    Munoz smiled the slow smile that had enslaved many a man. “Normally I don’t go for the unattainable type, but they say still waters run deep—I may give it a touch.”
    “You’d be a fool,” Doyle continued, annoyed.
    Munoz raised her brows. “Why? Are you having sex with him?”
    Doyle was horrified. “Munoz, lower your voice, for heaven’s sake—he’s my CO.”
    The other girl smirked. “Turned you down, did he?”
    Doyle counted to ten.
    At the other’s reaction, Munoz laughed. “Oh, give over, Doyle—you can’t take a joke. No one thinks that’s what it is, but there must be some reason you’re in his pocket and it’s a mystery, believe me.”
    Doyle tried to sooth away the other girl’s resentment; Munoz was a good detective and ambitious—she didn’t like the thought that Doyle had an advantage. “We work well together, is all. We’ve cracked some thorny cases.”
    “Habib won’t take me off misdemeanor thefts.” Munoz tossed back her long black hair in chagrin. “It’s not fair.”
    “No,” Doyle agreed. “It’s not.”
    Mollified, Munoz offered to buy Doyle a cup of coffee, but Doyle declined; she was certain that she would not be reduced to plain coffee ever again but decided this was a piece of information Munoz needn’t know.

C HAPTER 7
    H E WAS ON A PRECIPICE, PAINFUL AND PLEASURABLE. H E COULD sense she was not indifferent; he had only to risk it.
     
    Doyle was back at her cubicle researching Giselle’s ex-husband and how the call came in about her murder. The ex-husband ran a pawnshop in Southwark and had a record of misdemeanor pleas and convictions, which was rather a surprise, as the licensing authority looked with disfavor upon criminals who ran pawnshops—may as well issue an open invitation for trouble. She could find no order for support stemming from the divorce, so it would appear that money was