Detective

  “Could you meet her tomorrow?”

  Ainslie agreed he would.

  Lisa Kane was thirty-three, looked ten years younger, and some days as if she were still in high school. She had short red hair, a cherubic face with no makeup, and was dressed, when she met Ainslie, in jeans and a cotton T-shirt.

  Their rendezvous was a small, dilapidated apartment block, three stories high, in Miami’s crime-notorious Liberty City. Ainslie had come alone in an unmarked police car, Lisa in a vintage Volkswagen bug.

  “I’m not sure why I’m here,” he said. In fact, curiosity had brought him.

  “My client and I need some advice, Sergeant,” Lisa answered. “Beth said you’d be able to give it.” She moved to a stairway and they climbed to the third floor, avoiding garbage and animal droppings, and emerged on a balcony with crumbling cement and rusty railings. Lisa stopped at a door halfway along and knocked. It was opened by a young woman, probably in her early twenties. Taking in her two visitors, she said, “Please come in.”

  Inside, Lisa announced, “This is Serafine … Sergeant Ainslie.”

  “Thank you for coming.” The girl put out her hand, which Ainslie took, at the same time looking around him.

  In contrast to the squalid exterior, the small apartment was spotless and gleaming. The furniture was a mixture. Several pieces—a bookcase, twin side tables, a reclining chair—looked expensive; the rest was of poorer quality, but all well cared for. A glimpse into another room revealed the same.

  And then there was Serafine—attractive, poised, dressed in a flowered T-shirt and blue leggings, her brown eyes regarding Ainslie gravely. She was black and, it was evident, several months pregnant.

  “I’m sorry about the way things are outside,” she said, her voice deep and soft. “Byron wanted me to …” Abruptly, shaking her head, she stopped.

  Lisa Kane took over. “Byron wanted to find a better place for Serafine, but other things got in the way.” Then, gesturing, “Let’s sit down.”

  When they were seated, Serafine spoke again, looking directly at Ainslie. “I’m carrying Byron’s children. You probably know that.”

  “Children?”

  “My doctor told me yesterday. It’s twins.” She smiled.

  “There’s some background,” Lisa said. “Byron Maddox-Davanal and Serafine met because she was supplying him with drugs. She and I met when I got her off a drug-trafficking charge with probation. She’s clean now, the probation’s over, and Byron was off drugs months before he died; he was never a heavy user.”

  “I’m ashamed, though,” Serafine said. She glanced toward Ainslie, then turned her eyes away. “When it happened, I was desperate …”

  “Serafine has a four-year-old son, Dana,” Lisa continued. “She was an unmarried mother, without support, couldn’t find a job, and around here there aren’t many ways to get money for food …”

  “I see it all the time.” Ainslie’s tone was understanding. “So how does Maddox-Davanal fit in?”

  “Well, I guess you could say that he and Serafine responded to each other; somehow they filled each other’s needs. Anyway, Byron started coming here to get away from his other life, and Serafine weaned him off drugs; she never did any herself. Maybe it wasn’t love, but whatever it was worked. Byron had some money, apparently not much, but enough to help. He bought some things”—Lisa motioned around her—“gave Serafine money for food and rent, and she quit selling drugs.”

  Sure, Byron had money, Ainslie thought. You can’t imagine how much.

  “And of course they had sex,” Lisa added.

  Serafine broke in. “I didn’t plan to get pregnant, but something went wrong. When I told Byron, he didn’t seem to mind, said he’d take care of things. He was worried about something else, though, really worried, and one time he talked about being caught in a rat trap. It was right after that he stopped coming.”

  “We’re talking about a month ago, and the money stopped, too,” Lisa said. “That’s when Serafine called me for help. I tried phoning the Davanal house, but couldn’t get Byron and he didn’t return my calls. I thought okay, so I went to see Haversham and … you know, ‘We the People.’”

  Ainslie did know. The prestigious Haversham law firm had so many important partners that its full title on a letterhead occupied two lines. It was also well known that the firm represented most of the Davanal interests. “Did you get some result?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Lisa answered, “and it’s why we need your advice.”

  The Haversham law firm, it emerged from Lisa’s recounting, was smart enough to take an unknown young lawyer seriously, treating her with respect. She met with a partner named Jaffrus, who listened to her story, then promised to investigate her client’s complaint. A few days later, Jaffrus called Lisa and arranged another meeting, which, as it turned out, took place about a week before Byron Maddox-Davanal’s suicide.

  “They didn’t futz around,” Lisa now told Ainslie. “It was obviously confirmed that Byron was responsible, so Haversham’s agreed to financial support for Serafine, but under one condition: the Davanal name must never, ever, be used in connection with her child, and there’d be a means to guarantee that.”

  “What kind of means? What guarantee?” Ainslie asked.

  Serafine, Lisa explained, would have to certify under oath, in a legal document, that her pregnancy resulted from fertilization in a sperm bank, with an anonymous donor. Documentation would then be obtained from a genuine sperm bank to confirm the arrangement.

  “Probably after a big donation,” Ainslie said. “And how much money would there be for Serafine?”

  “Fifty thousand a year. But that’s before we knew about her twins.”

  “Even for one child, it isn’t enough.”

  “That’s what I thought. It’s why I need your advice. Beth said you’d been around the family and you’d know where we should aim.”

  Serafine had been listening intently. Ainslie asked her, “How do you feel about the sperm-bank thing?”

  She shrugged. “All I care is that my children get to live someplace better than this and have the best education. If I have to sign a piece of paper to do it, even if it’s not true, okay. And I don’t care about the Davanal name. Mine’s just as good—maybe better.”

  “What is your last name?”

  “Evers. You know it?”

  “Yes, I do.” Ainslie remembered Medgar Evers, the civil rights activist of the 1960s, a World War II U.S. Army veteran who was shot and killed by a renegade white segregationist, now serving a life sentence for his crime.

  “Are you related?” he asked.

  “Distantly, I think. Anyway, if one of my children is a boy, I’ve decided to call him Medgar.”

  “And if there’s a girl, you could call her Myrlie.” Ainslie had once met the former wife of Evers, now—as Myrlie Evers-Williams—chairperson of the NAACP board of directors.

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” Serafine smiled again. “Maybe I will.”

  Ainslie thought back to his conversation with Felicia Davanal, in which she had revealed that Byron received a quarter of a million dollars annually, plus a luxurious life, for, in effect, doing nothing. And then her impatient words: For this family, that kind of money’s petty cash.

  He told Lisa, “Here’s my advice. Ask for two hundred thousand dollars a year until the twins are twenty, half to be paid to Serafine for living expenses, the rest to be in trust for the children’s education, and her present son …”

  “Dana.”

  “There should be room for Dana’s education in there, too. Stay with that figure, and if Haversham’s—which really means the Davanals—refuses or tries to bargain, tell them to forget the oath and the sperm bank, and you’ll take the case to court, Davanal name and all.”

  “I like the way your mind works,” Lisa said. Then, doubtfully, “Though it’s a long way from what was offered.”

  “Do it,” Ainslie said. “Oh, and if you want, try to convey to
Mrs. Davanal that the settlement idea came from me. It might help.”

  Lisa regarded him steadily, but merely nodded and said, “Thank you.”

  Forty-eight hours later, Ainslie was at home when Lisa Kane telephoned. Her voice was breathless. “I can hardly believe it! I’m with Serafine, and I’ve just had word from Haversham’s. They’ve accepted everything: no changes, no argument, just the way I—no! … just the way you proposed.”

  “I’m sure the way you handled it—”

  Lisa wasn’t listening. “Serafine told me to say she thinks you’re wonderful. So do I!”

  “Do you know, by chance, if Mrs. Davanal—”

  “Mike Jaffrus at Haversham’s phoned her with your message, and she sent one back. She wants to see you. Said you should call her house to fix a meeting.” Lisa’s voice changed, her curiosity too much to contain. “Is there something going on between you two?”

  Ainslie laughed. “Beyond a little cat-and-mouse game—nothing.”

  “One thing I’ve learned from this experience,” Felicia Davanal said, “is not to be indiscreet when talking with a savvy detective, especially if he was once a priest. It can really cost you.”

  She was with Malcolm Ainslie in the same drawing room where they had met originally. This time, though, he was in a comfortable armchair that matched the one in which Felicia sat, only a few feet away. She was as lovely as before, though more relaxed, obviously because Byron’s death was no longer a mystery with unanswered questions hanging between them.

  “It sounds as if you’ve done some digging,” Ainslie said.

  “My TV station has an efficient research department.”

  “Well, I hope they made sure there’s enough petty cash to handle the settlement.”

  “Touché!” She leaned back and laughed. “Malcolm—if I may call you that—I’m getting to like you more and more.” She paused, then went on, “The report I read about you was highly complimentary. It made me wonder.”

  “Wonder what, Mrs. Davanal?”

  “Felicia—please!”

  He inclined his head in acknowledgment. Instinct told him where this conversation was going, and he was uncertain how to handle it.

  “I wonder why you’re still a policeman when you’re so clearly qualified to be something more.”

  “I like being a cop.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, “Felicia.”

  “That’s absurd! You’re highly educated, a scholar with a doctorate. You wrote a book on comparative religions that is still a standard reference …”

  “I was coauthor, and it’s a long time ago.”

  Felicia waved a hand dismissively and continued, “Everything shows you’re a thinking person. Anyway, I have a suggestion. Why don’t you join the Davanal organization?”

  He was startled. “In what capacity?”

  “Oh, I don’t know exactly; I haven’t consulted anyone yet. But we always have a need for outstanding people, and if you chose to join us, something matching your abilities could be found.” A soft smile accompanied the words, then Felicia reached forward, putting her fingertips on Ainslie’s hands. As she moved them slightly, her touch was like gossamer, subtly conveying a promise. “I’m sure that whatever was worked out, it would bring you and me closer.” She moistened her lips with her tongue. “If that would interest you.”

  Yes, it interested him; he was human, Ainslie thought. He felt a mental and physical stirring as temptation beckoned. Then pragmatism prodded. He recalled Beth Embry’s words: Felicia eats men … If she fancies the taste of you, she’ll try again … a queen bee with a sting.

  Sting or not, it would be exciting to be devoured by Felicia, and drown in her honey—perhaps worth whatever outcome followed. Ainslie had had one affair that he did not regret even now, despite the penalties of Cynthia’s malice. Where passion was involved, conventional morality often took second place; his hours of listening in the confessional had demonstrated that. In his own case, though, he reasoned, the episode with Cynthia had been enough. With Karen now pregnant with their second child, this was no time to start dancing to Felicia’s wild tune.

  He reached out, touching her hand, as she had his. “Thank you, and I may regret this. But I’ll let things stay the way they are.”

  Felicia had style. She stood, still smiling, and put out her hand formally. “Who knows?” she said. “Some other time our paths may cross.”

  Driving back to Homicide, Ainslie reminded himself that the affaire-Davanal, apart from postscripts, had lasted only seven days. It seemed much longer. He was impatient now to hear Ruby Bowe’s report.

  11

  It took Bowe exactly eleven days to determine whether or not Elroy Doil had been telling the truth during his “confession” to Malcolm Ainslie. Until that eleventh day, the crucial questions remained: Had Doil murdered the Esperanzas in the way he claimed? And had he murdered the Ikeis?

  Even if the answers to both questions were yes, there would, of course, still persist the most critical question: If everything Doil had said about the Esperanzas and Ikeis was true, had he also been truthful in his vehement assertion that he did not murder Miami City Commissioner Gustav Ernst and his wife, Eleanor? And if Doil was eventually believed about that, was there another murderer—a copycat killer—still at large?

  Bowe had begun her search at the Metro-Dade Police Department—Miami’s neighboring force—in their imposing building on Northwest 25th Street. She asked if the investigator who had handled the Esperanza double murder case seventeen years earlier was still available.

  “Before my time here,” a lieutenant in Homicide told her. He reached behind his desk to a shelf of indexed volumes. “Let’s see what we have.” Then, after turning pages, “Yep, here it is. Esperanza, Clarence and Florentina, case unsolved, still officially open. Are you guys going to close it for us, Detective?”

  “Looks like we might, sir. But first I’d like to talk with whoever was in charge.”

  The lieutenant referred to the page in front of him. “Was Archie Lewis, retired six years ago, lives in Georgia somewhere. It’s a Cold Case Squad affair now—you people have one of those, right?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  The Cold Case Squad dealt with old, unsolved serious crimes, especially homicides, which nowadays were being reinvestigated with the aid of new technologies used to review bygone records and evidence. Police departments with such squads were surprisingly successful in solving crimes that their perpetrators hoped had been forgotten long ago.

  “We rotate those cold cases around the squad members,” the lieutenant said. “Right now the Esperanzas belong to Vic Crowley.”

  Detective Crowley, who appeared soon after, was balding and amiable. “I went through that old file,” he told Ruby. “Figured there was nothing we could work on. Dead as the Esperanzas.”

  “It may still be.” Bowe explained how Elroy Doil had confessed to the Esperanza killings before his execution, though the truth was still in doubt. “I’d like to look at the reports in your file and see if there’s anything to support Doil’s story.”

  “Then what? You gonna disinter the guy and charge him? Oh well, I guess you got reasons. Let’s do some digging ourselves.”

  Crowley led the way to a storeroom where the Esperanza file, faded with age and bulging, was in the second cabinet he tried. Returning to his desk, the detective spread out the file’s contents and after a few minutes announced, “Here’s what you want, I think.” He passed over an official Offense-Incident Report form, which Bowe studied, turning pages.

  On the third page she found it—a property department receipt for evidence collected at the double-homicide scene, which included “Money clip, gold color, initials HB.” An investigator’s report on a subsequent page recorded that the clip had probably been dropped by the murderer, since the initials did not match those of either victim, and the next of kin—a nephew—told police he had not seen the money clip before.

  “That has to be the one,” she inf
ormed Crowley. “Doil told Sergeant Ainslie that he got it in another robbery, then missed it after he ran from the Esperanzas’.”

  “You wanna see the real thing? I guess it’s still in Property.”

  “I guess I’d better. If I don’t, somebody’s sure to ask why I didn’t.”

  “Don’t they always?”

  Crowley made a copy of the property report for Ruby, then led the way out of doors to a large separate building—the Property Department, where a crowded series of vaults and secure rooms contained the detritus of countless crimes.

  With surprising speed, two dusty boxes of evidence in the seventeen-year-old murder case were located, and when the first box was unsealed, a gleaming money clip was visible inside a plastic bag. Examining it more closely, Ruby saw the engraved monogram HB. “Hasn’t tarnished, so hasta be real gold,” Crowley said. “Wonder who the ‘HB’ guy was.”

  “That,” Ruby said, “is what I need to find out next.”

  Metro-Dade Criminal Records was in another section of the main police building. Here crime reports from Dade County’s twenty-seven municipalities, ranging over the past twenty years, were stored. Recent records were computerized, older ones were on microfilm. Like the rest of Metro-Dade’s headquarters, the offices were clean, well-lit, and modern.

  Ruby Bowe had brought with her a note of Elroy Doil’s tape-recorded confession, in which, referring to the money clip, he said, “Got it in a robbery, coupla months before I knocked off them slants.”

  She decided to begin her search of robbery records three months before the Esperanzas’ murders, which occurred on July 12, 1980.

  “Do you have any idea what you’re taking on?” a records clerk asked when Ruby told her. “You could be here for weeks.” She held up a single microfilm cassette. “In there, from 1980, are one day’s Offense-Incident Reports for Dade—about fifteen hundred pages on film, including robbery, burglary, auto theft, rape, battery, alarms—you name it! So for three months of reports you’d be looking at about thirty thousand pages.”

  “Can’t the robberies be separated?”