Murder in Retribution by Anne Cleeland

that she was not to be molested en route to his cab.
    Maguire put his hands up and smiled in a gesture of defeat. As they drew away from the curb, she looked back to see him wave—he was no doubt used to being given the cold shoulder.
    “Thank you,” said Doyle, turning to the driver. “You are very kind.”
    He turned and smiled at her, his white teeth gleaming, and she smiled back. I am surrounded by champions who think I’m in need of rescue, she thought with an inward sigh. I suppose I shouldn’t complain. Thankfully, the driver didn’t follow up with any conversation—it would be too draining and she just wanted to marshal up her energy— faith , her joints ached. Hopefully she wasn’t catching the flu on top of everything else.
    Williams was apparently eager to begin their assignment, as he was lurking about her cubicle, making conversation with Munoz whilst he waited for Doyle. Doyle realized they must have been talking about her, because they lapsed into silence as she approached. A nine day’s wonder, she was; just crackin’ grand .
    “Sorry I’m late,” she said to Williams. “I’m ready to go.” She grabbed her latte as though it were a lifeline, and thought; I’ve got to stop drinking this stuff—maybe tomorrow.
    She saw that Munoz’s mouth had a mulish cast, which she nonetheless managed to make alluring. It was clear the girl was unhappy that Doyle, who was taken, was to spend the day with handsome Williams, who was not. To distract her, Doyle asked, “How is the Belarus prince?”
    “Charming,” said Munoz, throwing a glance at Williams which apparently was meant to remind him that he had lost his chance and should repent fasting. “I’m seeing him again tonight.”
    “I’ll want to hear the details,” said Doyle, although she was just being kind. She had no real interest in Munoz’s complicated love life.
    “Later, then,” said Munoz, glancing up at Williams through her lashes.
    As they walked down the aisle way, Williams leaned in to ask, “What do they call that kind of girl in Dublin?”
    Doyle smiled broadly. “A brasser, she is.”
    “I see.”
    “I’m thinkin’ you have met more than your fair share,” she teased, and it was his turn to smile broadly. This seemed an auspicious start to their field trip, and she was cautiously optimistic that she wouldn’t be tempted to sulk over his newly exalted status—she had always gotten along with Williams, and although he was a bit reserved, he was a good man. Acton seemed to think so, certainly, and again she thought it interesting that a straight-arrow like Williams would be willing to skirt protocols at the behest of her better half. She didn’t know anything definite, of course, but her instinct was rarely wrong. Perhaps he had his own notions of justice, like Acton did, which was a bit alarming; she was too fresh from the Crime Academy to look upon such an idea with anything but disquiet. As they walked out to the utility garage where the unmarked vehicles were housed, she recalled that he’d been ill. “How are you feelin’, then?”
    “I am well,” he replied in a clipped tone. “How are you feeling?”
    So, he did not appreciate the inquiry. Touchy about it, he was, and so much for their auspicious start. Which reminded her that she was to have a new attitude, and it was past time for the fair Doyle to face facts.
    As she opened the door she asked, “Where to first, sir?” She could see he was taken aback at being thus referred to, but there was nothing for it; he outranked her and protocol was protocol. She had been petty not to call him “sir” the other day at the aqueduct.
    He slid in and started up the car. “Newmarket; there’s a witness who may have seen something. He owns a souvenir shop off the track and called in after reading about the murder in the papers. Dispatch says he was barely coherent, though—we’ll see.”
    This was one of the hazards of having a sensational case; those odd