Murder in Retribution by Anne Cleeland Page A

members of the general citizenry who yearned for attention would call in false leads so as to feel a part of it. Although Doyle was well-suited to sort the wheat from the chaff, it nevertheless meant a waste of time and resources. Of course, sometimes the witness honestly believed they’d seen or heard something significant, which meant the lead had to be run down until it could be ruled out. Much of detective work, Doyle had discovered, was crossing out false leads, but although it was tedious work, it was necessary work—particularly in this type of case where the body count was mounting faster than the police could keep track. “Do we have a workin’ theory, sir?”
    Williams did, apparently. “Since the victim was an Irish national and killed at a racecourse, on the surface it appears to be connected to the turf war—perhaps a tit-for-tat for the latest Russian victim.”
    Doyle knit her brow. “But the latest Russian victim doesn’t seem to be involved in any of this. Acton believes it was some sort of shadow murder, instead.”
    Williams shrugged his broad shoulders slightly. “We have to take the facts as they are, and see where they lead.”
    This seemed inarguable, and sounded a lot like something Acton would say. “Remind me about the Newmarket victim, do you have the case sheet handy?”
    “Thirty-five-year-old Irishman named Todd Rourke. Not on the Watch List, and it appears he had no particular connection to the racecourse—not an employee, or a regular of any sort. His car was there, so ERU is going over it for prints, and we are checking his mobile records to see if he was visiting anyone in particular.”
    Rourke, thought Doyle; that rings a bell—who was it? She couldn’t remember. Perhaps it would come, given some time. She wished she had Acton’s memory for details—he could remember everything about every case he ever had, it seemed. He certainly knew everything about her. “Priors?” she asked, trying to jog her own memory.
    He glanced over at her. “No convictions, but has known associates in the contraband business—weapons and drugs.”
    “Certainly sounds like the Sinn-split.” Not to mention the man was probably a rival of Acton’s if he was muckin’ about in illegal weapons—faith, it was all too complicated for anyone with a queasy stomach and aching bones. In an attempt to focus, Doyle pulled out her occurrence book and started making notes—she could always organize her thoughts better when she wrote them down. After a moment, she suddenly stopped writing and looked up at the road through the windshield. She didn’t feel very well. Desperately surveying the horizon, she breathed deeply. You’re all right, Doyle, she thought—don’t you dare. Think about something else; mind over matter. After another minute of furious concentration, she realized it was hopeless.
    “Sir,” she said in a strangled voice. “Would you please pull over? I am goin’ to be sick.”
    Williams looked over at her in alarm and immediately pulled to the shoulder. Thankfully, the road was undeveloped along this particular stretch, and Doyle hastily alighted and walked behind a small clump of bushes where she was promptly sick as a cat. Grand, she thought; you are a tryin’ little baby, you are.

CHAPTER 11
    D OYLE SMOOTHED HER HAIR AS SHE RETURNED TO THE CAR, feeling better physically but mortified to the soles of her shoes. Williams was watching her as she slid in. “Shall we go back?”
    “No,” she replied, too embarrassed to look at him. “Sir,” she added belatedly.
    “Are you pregnant?”
    “Yes.” She was so taken aback by the bald question that she simply answered; he was one who ordinarily had more tact. He said nothing more, but started the car again. He was angry, she thought in surprise—or dismayed; something powerful. Perhaps he feared she would be of little use.
    “I’ll be fine now,” she offered cautiously, with more optimism than was warranted. “I can do the