By then they had abandoned the subject of Val Castellon, which Ainslie intended to bring up later, though he never did. Nor did he learn how the missing information in Cynthia’s murder inquiry was supplied, except that she obtained it, resulting in one more investigative triumph for Cynthia—and himself.
What Ainslie did make sure of was that Castellon was not charged with drug possession, and his parole was not revoked. In one way or another, it seemed, Ainslie’s warning to Cynthia had been heeded.
Something else bothered Ainslie. Unlike most other police officers, Cynthia seemed comfortable, even happy, in the company of criminals, mingling with them at bars in an easy, friendly way. She and Ainslie also differed in their attitudes to lawbreaking. Ainslie viewed crime-solving, particularly of homicides, as moral high ground. Cynthia didn’t, and once told him, “Face reality, Malcolm! It’s a contest, with crooks, police, and lawyers all competing. The winner depends on how clever each lawyer is and how rich the defendant is. Your so-called moral issues don’t stand a chance in this game.”
Ainslie was not impressed. Nor was he happy to learn eventually that a regular companion of Cynthia’s at bars and restaurants was Patrick Jensen, a successful novelist and Miami bon vivant, but with an unsavory reputation, particularly among police.
Jensen, a former TV newsman, had written a succession of best-selling crime novels, published worldwide, and by the age of thirty-nine he had amassed what was rumored to be twelve million dollars. Some said the success had gone to his head, and Jensen had evolved into a rude and arrogant womanizer with a violent temper. His second wife, Naomi, from whom he was divorced, made several spousal battery complaints to police, then withdrew them before official action could begin. Several times after their divorce, Jensen tried to reconcile with Naomi, but she would have no part of it.
Then Naomi Jensen was found murdered, with a .38-caliber bullet through her throat. Beside her lay a young musician, Kilburn Holmes, whom she had been dating, killed by a bullet from the same gun. According to witnesses, earlier that day Naomi and Jensen had had a bitter argument outside Naomi’s house, during which she insisted he leave her alone and told him she intended to remarry.
Patrick Jensen was an obvious suspect, and inquiries by Miami Homicide showed he had opportunity and no alibi. A handkerchief near the bodies matched others owned by Jensen, though there was nothing on the handkerchief to prove it was his. However, a fragment of paper in Holmes’s hand did match another fragment, found in Jensen’s garbage. Detectives then discovered that two weeks before the murders Jensen had purchased a Smith & Wesson .38-caliber revolver, but he claimed to have lost the gun, and no murder weapon was found.
Despite intensive effort by Sergeant Pablo Greene’s Homicide team, no other evidence was obtained, and what little they had was insufficient to take to a grand jury.
Patrick Jensen knew it, too.
Detective Charlie Thurston, the lead investigator, told Sergeants Greene and Ainslie, “I went to that arrogant dickhead Jensen today to ask a few more questions, and the fucker just laughed and told me to beat it.” Thurston, a seasoned detective, normally mild-mannered and patient, was still burning from the encounter.
“The bastard knows we know he did it,” he went on, “and he’s telling us, ‘So what, you’ll never prove it.’”
“Let him laugh now,” Greene said. “It may be our turn later.”
But Thurston shook his head. “Won’t happen. He’ll put it all in a goddam book and make a pisspot full of money.”
To an extent Thurston was right. Nothing more emerged to connect Jensen with the murders of Naomi and her friend Kilburn Holmes, and he did write a new crime story in which the homicide detectives were incompetent buffoons. But the book did not do well, nor did one more which followed, and it appeared that Patrick Jensen’s best-seller days had ended, as so often happens when fresh young writers ascend into literary orbit and older ones decline. At the same time there were rumors that, through bad investments, Jensen had lost a major part of his millions and was looking around for other sources of income. Another rumor was that Jensen and Detective Cynthia Ernst had, for a long time, been having an affair.
Ainslie dismissed the second rumor. For one thing, he did not believe Cynthia would be so foolish, in view of Patrick Jensen’s status as a murder suspect. Second, he found it inconceivable that she could conduct two intense affairs at the same time, particularly since Cynthia’s relationship with Ainslie frequently left the two of them drained.
Just the same, Ainslie did raise Patrick Jensen’s name with Cynthia, trying to make the reference casual. Cynthia, as usual, wasn’t fooled.
“Are you jealous?” she asked.
“Of Patrick Jensen! That’ll be the day.” He hesitated, then added, “Do I have reason to be?”
“Patrick’s nothing!” she asserted. “It’s you I want, Malcolm—and all of you. More of your time, all of your time! I don’t want to share you, not with anyone.” They were in an unmarked police car, Cynthia driving. The last few words rang out like a command.
He was startled and asked, scarcely thinking, “Are you saying we should get married?”
“Malcolm, get free. Then I’ll consider.”
The answer, he thought, was typical Cynthia; in the past year he had come to know her well. If he were free, the probability was that she would use him, squeeze him dry, and then discard him. No permanence for Cynthia; on that point she had made herself quite clear.
So there it was. Ainslie had known something like this was inevitable and that a moment of decision had arrived. He knew Cynthia would not like what he would say next, and knew too that her anger could erupt like Vesuvius.
For a moment, postponing the confrontation, he thought back again to David and Bathsheba, the lovers who married after Bathsheba’s husband Uriah was disposed of in battle as King David prearranged. But God—according to the Bible—was personally upset by David’s perfidy.
… the thing that David had done displeased the Lord. And the Lord sent Nathan unto David … And Nathan said to David … Thus saith the Lord, Behold, I will raise up evil against thee out of thine own house, and I will take thy wives before thine eyes, and give them unto thy neighbor, and he shall lie with thy wives …
Like so much else in the Bible, it was—as scholars saw it—highly implausible folk legend, told around the campfires of semi-nomadic Israelites, then two hundred years later written down with a core of reality, plus myths from ten thousand retellings. But the extent of truth and fiction didn’t matter; what did was that in human relations there was nothing new under the sun, but only variations of old themes. One variation now—Ainslie wasn’t going to marry Cynthia and didn’t want to “get free” of Karen.
They had been driving on a quiet suburban street. As if anticipating what was to come, Cynthia pulled the car to the curb and stopped.
She looked at him. “Well?”
Reaching out to take her hand, he said gently, “My love, what’s happened between us has been magical, wonderful. It’s something I never expected, and as long as I live I’ll be grateful. But I have to tell you—I can’t go on, we have to end it.”
He had expected an outburst. But it didn’t happen. Instead she laughed. “I presume you’re joking.”
“No,” he answered firmly.
She sat silently for a few moments, staring out of the passenger window. Then, without turning, she said with eerie calm, “You’ll regret this, Malcolm, I promise—regret it for the rest of your miserable life.”
He sighed. “That may be true. I guess I’ll have to take that chance.”
Suddenly she looked at him with tears on her cheeks and rage in her eyes. Her fists were clenched and shaking. “You bastard!” she screamed.
From that point onward they saw little of each other. One reason was that Cynthia became a sergeant a few days later. She had taken the promotion exam a few weeks earlier and placed third on a list of six hundred.
Upon her
promotion she was transferred from Homicide to Sexual Battery as a supervisor. She was put in charge of a team of five detectives investigating rapes, attempted rapes, sexual harassment, peeping toms; the coverage was wide, and Cynthia became outstandingly successful. As in Homicide, she proved adept at developing leads through a web of contacts and informants. A dedicated, natural leader, she worked her team hard, as well as herself, and early on made a notable arrest that resulted in the sentencing of a fifteen-count serial rapist who, over two preceding years, had terrorized women in the city.
In part because of this and an excellent rating in one more promotion exam, Cynthia was made a lieutenant two years later and moved to a new department—Community Relations—as second-in-command. There she liaised with the public, appeared at town meetings, lectured community groups and sometimes other police forces, and generally put forward a convincingly positive image of the Miami force.
All of this brought her to the attention of Police Chief Farrell Ketledge, and when Cynthia’s department head died unexpectedly, the chief appointed her to take over. At the same time, because of the prominence and increasing importance of Community Relations, Chief Ketledge decided it should be headed by a police major. Thus Cynthia attained that senior rank without ever having been a captain.
Meanwhile, Ainslie was still a sergeant, to some extent penalized by the fact that he was a white male at a time when affirmative-action promotions of minorities and women were disproportionately—and many thought unfairly—large. However, he had passed the examination for lieutenant with distinction and expected to move up soon. From a practical point of view, a promotion would increase his annual sergeant’s salary of $52,000 by a welcome $10,400.
With financial pressures eased, he and Karen would be able to travel more, go to more concerts—they loved jazz and chamber music—dine out more often, and generally improve the quality of their lives. Since he’d ended his affair with Cynthia a belated sense of guilt had grown, making Ainslie more determined then ever to be a loyal, devoted husband.
Then he received a call from Captain Ralph Leon, who was in Personnel Management. Ainslie and Leon had been recruits together, and in the same police academy class, where they became friends, frequently studied in tandem, and otherwise helped each other. Leon was black and well qualified—and therefore affirmative action had not delayed his upward progress.
On the phone Leon merely said, “Malcolm, meet me for coffee.” He named a day and time and a small café in Little Havana—a long way from Police Headquarters.
Outside the restaurant they smiled at the sight of each other and shook hands warmly. Leon, who wore a sports jacket and slacks instead of his uniform, opened the door and led the way to a quiet booth. He was a trimly built man, studious and methodical, and becoming serious, he weighed his words before speaking. “Malcolm, this conversation is not taking place.”
His eyes posed a question, to which Ainslie nodded. “Okay. I understand.”
“There are things I hear in Personnel …” Leon stopped. “Oh, hell, Malcolm. Here it is. If you stay a Miami cop, you’re never going anywhere. You’ll never make lieutenant or any rank higher than you have now. It isn’t fair, I hate it, but out of friendship I had to let you know.”
Ainslie, stunned by what he had heard, sat in silence.
Leon’s voice became more emotional. “It’s Major Ernst. She’s bad-mouthing you everywhere, blocking your promotion. I don’t know why, Malcolm; maybe you do. But if you do know, don’t tell me.”
“Blocking it on what grounds, Ralph? My record’s clean and officially … well, outstanding.”
“The grounds are trivial, and everybody knows it. But a major—that one especially—has a lot of influence, and in our shop, if you have a powerful enemy, you usually can’t win. You know how it is.”
Ainslie did know. But curiosity made him ask, “What am I accused of?”
“Neglect of duty, laziness, careless work habits.”
In other circumstances, Ainslie might have laughed.
Leon said, “She must have searched through every goddam file.” He spelled out some details. There was an occasion, for example, when Ainslie had failed to make a scheduled court appearance.
“I remember that. I was on the way to court when I got a radio call—a freeway killing. There was a chase, we got the guy, and afterward a conviction. Later that day I saw the judge, explained, and apologized. He was fine about it and rescheduled.”
“Unfortunately the court documents just show your absence. I checked.” Leon pulled a folded paper from his pocket. “Several times you were late for work, missed meetings.”
“Jesus!—that happens to everybody. There isn’t anyone in the Department who doesn’t get that kind of stuff—emergency calls, so you respond and let the office wait. I don’t even remember.”
“Ernst remembered and found the records.” Leon looked at his paper. “I said it was trivia. Want more?”
Ainslie shook his head. Quick changes of plan, fast decisions, dealing with the unexpected, were a normal part of police work, especially in Homicide. Sometimes, administratively, the results were messy; it was part of the job. Everyone, including Cynthia, knew it.
But he knew the answer, too; there was nothing he could do. Cynthia had the rank and the influence, and held all the cards. He remembered her threatening words to him. Well, she had kept her promise in spades.
“Damn it,” Ainslie muttered, staring through a window at the street outside.
“I’m sorry, Malcolm. It’s really a bum rap.”
Ainslie nodded. “I appreciate your telling me, Ralph. And no one will ever know we talked.”
Leon looked down at the table in front of him. “That doesn’t seem so important now.” He raised his eyes. “Will you stay on?”
“I think so.” Mainly, he reasoned, because there were few alternatives.
And in the end he did.
Following the exchange with Ralph Leon, one other thought came back to Malcolm: the memory of a brief, unexpected conversation several months earlier with Mrs. Eleanor Ernst, Cynthia’s mother.
Police sergeants normally do not meet city leaders or their spouses socially, but this happened at a small retirement dinner given for a senior officer with whom Ainslie had worked, and Commissioner and Mrs. Ernst attended. Ainslie knew Mrs. Ernst by sight; she had always seemed a demure woman, expensively dressed but slightly shy. Therefore he was surprised when, holding a wineglass, she approached him during the reception preceding the dinner.
Speaking softly, she asked, “You’re Sergeant Ainslie, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I believe that you and my daughter are no longer—how shall I put it?—meeting each other. Is that correct?” Seeing Ainslie hesitate, she added, “Oh, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. But sometimes Cynthia isn’t the most discreet person.”
He answered uncertainly. “I rarely see Cynthia at all these days.”
“This may seem strange, coming from a mother, Sergeant, but I was sorry to hear that. I think you were a good influence on her. Tell me, was the ending friendly or otherwise?”
“Otherwise.”
“A pity.” Mrs. Ernst lowered her voice still more. “I shouldn’t do this, I suppose, but I want to tell you something, Sergeant Ainslie. If Cynthia thinks she’s been wronged, she never forgets, never forgives. Just a warning you should bear in mind. Good evening.”
Still holding her wineglass, Mrs. Ernst melted away.
Thus, in due course, the predictive words of Eleanor Ernst were confirmed. Captain Ralph Leon had become the messenger, and Ainslie—permanently it seemed—had paid Cynthia’s price.
Now, long after so many events, so much maneuvering, and so many changes for them both, Malcolm Ainslie and Cynthia Ernst faced each other in Leo Newbold’s office.
“Get to the point,” Cynthia had said about her parents’ murders. “I want to hear what you’re really doing, and don’t hold anything back.?
??
“We’ve compiled a list of suspects for surveillance. I’ll have a copy sent—”
“I already have it.” Cynthia touched a file folder in front of her. “Is there anyone on that list who’s number one?”
“Robinson seems a probability. Several things fit, but it’s too early to tell. Surveillance should give us more information.”
“Are you convinced the same person did all of the murders?”
“Just about everybody is.” His own doubts, Ainslie thought, were unimportant.
More questions followed, and as far as he could, Ainslie tried to convey sympathy with his answers, despite Cynthia’s coldness. At the same time he was very much on guard. Cynthia had that effect on him, knowing from experience that she would make use of any information in any way she chose.
Toward the end she said, “I understand you associated some things found at the murder scenes with Biblical references.”
“Yes, mostly Revelation.”
“Mostly?”
“Nothing is exact. As you know, it’s impossible to be sure of a source, or of a criminal’s reasoning, which can be inconsistent. What those references did was point us toward the group of people we’re now watching.”
“I want you to inform me of every new development. Daily reports by phone.”
“Excuse me, Major, but you should clear that with Lieutenant Newbold.”
“I already have. He has my instructions. Now I’m giving them to you. Please see that you follow them.”
Well, he thought, Major Cynthia Ernst had the rank to get away with such instructions, even though, strictly speaking, they were outside her own departmental field. It didn’t follow, though, that she should receive every last scrap of information, even about her parents’ murders.
Standing, Ainslie moved closer to the desk and looked down at Cynthia. “Major, I will do my best to keep you informed, but as head of this task force my first duty is to solve the case.” He waited until she looked up, then continued. “Nothing will come before that.”