Detective

1

In the austerely furnished, windowless room to which Elroy Doil had been brought, Malcolm Ainslie's thoughts were pulled back from the past by the pale, emaciated figure facing him. The man wearing leg irons and handcuffs secured to a waist belt and flanked by prison guards seemed so much in contrast to the physically powerful and aggressive Doil of the past that Ainslie found it hard to believe this really was the condemned prisoner he had come to see. But Doil's behavior had quickly left no doubt.

The room was quiet now that the priest, Father Ray Uxbridge, had left under protest, after Doil's insistent demand, "Get that asshole out of here!"

Doil was still kneeling before Ainslie, and the words of the prison officer, Lieutenant Hambrick If you want to hear it at all, better let him do it his way hung in the air.

"Whenever your last confession was," Ainslie told Doil, "doesn't matter now."

Doil nodded, then waited in silence. Ainslie knew why, and reluctantly, hating himself for the charade, recited, "May the Lord be in your heart and on your lips so that you may rightly confess your sins." Doil said immediately, "I killed some people, Father." Ainslie leaned forward. "Which people? How many?"

"There was fourteen."

Instinctively, Ainslie felt a surge of relief. The small but vocal group who had been arguing Doil's innocence would be squelched by the statement he'd just made. Ainslie glanced at Hambrick, who was a witness, remembering, too, that his own concealed tape recorder was running.

Miami Homicide, which conducted investigations into four double serial killings, and collaborated with Clearwater and Fort Lauderdale police concerning two more, would have their judgments confirmed. Then a thought struck Ainslie. "Who was the first you killed?"

"Them Ikeis couple Japs in Tampa."

"Who?'' Ainslie was startled. It was a name he had not heard before.

"Two old farts. I-k-e-i." Incongruously, as Doil spelled out the name, he chuckled.

"You killed them? When?"

"Don't remember . . . Oh, 'bout a month, maybe two, before I done them spies at the trailer place."

"The Esperanzas?"

"Yeah, them."

On hearing Doil admit to fourteen murders, Ainslie had assumed that number included Clarence and Florentina Esperanza, murdered seventeen years ago in West Dade's Happy Haven Trailer Park. As a juvenile, Doil was never charged, though recent evidence had shown him to be guilty as he had just admitted.

And yet, if the Ikeis were included a crime that, so far as Ainslie knew, Miami Homicide had never heard of something was wrong with the numbers.

Ainslie's mind was racing. Would Doil admit to a murder of which he wasn't guilty, especially now, when he was about to die? Inconceivable. So if he had killed the Ikeis and admitted to fourteen murders altogether, that left two victims unaccounted for.

But everyone police, state attorneys, news media, the public were convinced that Doil had committed fourteen murders: the Esperanzas, Frosts, Larsens, Hennenfelds, Urbinas, Ernsts, and Tempones.

If Doil was telling the truth, had some murders been committed by someone else? And if so, which ones?

Inevitably, Ainslie remembered his own instinct, first expressed to Sergeant Brewmaster, that the Ernst murders might not have been the work of the same serial killer they were after. But for the moment he brushed the thought away; this was no time to indulge personal theories. Earlier, his colleagues had all disagreed with him and he had not contested the consensus view. But now, somehow representing everyone, all viewpoints, including his own he had to wring the truth from Doil.

Ainslie glanced at his watch. So little time! Less than a half hour to Doil's execution, and they would take him away ahead of time . . . He steeled himself and his voice to lean hard on Doil, remembering Father Kevin O'Brien's words: Elroy was a pathological liar. He lied when he didn't have to.

Ainslie hadn't wanted to assume the priestly role; now it was time to drop it. "That's a crock of shit about the Ikeis and the Esperanzas," he scoffed. "Why should I believe you? Where's the proof?"

Doil thought briefly. "In the Esperanzas' trailer I musta dropped a gold money clip. Had 'HB' on it. Got it in a robbery, couple months before I knocked off them slants. Missed it when I got away."

"And the people in Tampa. What proof there?"

Doil smiled aberrantly. "There's a cem'tery near where the Ikeis lived. Had ta get rid o' the knife I used, hid it in a grave. Know what was on the marker? Same last name as mine. Saw it, knew I'd remember if I wanted the fuckin' knife back, but I never got it."

"You buried the knife in a grave? Was it deep?"

"NO, not deep."

"Why did you always kill old people?"

"They had it good too long, were fulla sin, Father. I did it for God. Watched 'em first, though. All fat cats."

Ainslie let the answer go. All of it made as much sense, or as little, as most of Doil's tortured mind. But how much of the truth was he telling, even now? Some for sure, but Ainslie disbelieved the knife-in-the-grave story; probably the money clip, too. And there was still the problem about numbers. He became specific.

"Did you kill Mr. and Mrs. Frost at the Royal Colonial Hotel?"

Doil nodded several times.

"You nodded your head. If that meant yes, please say so."

Doil looked at Ainslie sharply. "Gotta tape on, ain't you?"

Annoyed that he had given himself away, Ainslie said, "Yes."

"Don't matter. Yeah, I done them people, too."

At the mention of a tape, Ainslie had glanced toward Lieutenant Hambrick, who shrugged. NOW Ainslie continued.

"I want to ask about other names."

"Okay."

Ainslie went through the list Larsen, Hennenfeld, Urbina. In each case the answer was yes, Doil admitted having killed them.

"Commissioner and Mrs. Ernst."

"No, I never done them. That's what "

Not letting him finish, Ainslie said sharply, "Wait!" He went on, speaking for the consensus viewpoint he was representing, "Elroy, at this time, because of what's soon to happen, you must tell the truth. The Ernsts were killed in the same way as all the others exactly the same way. And you knew about Bay Point, where they lived. You went there when you worked for Suarez Motors; you knew the security system and how to get in. And the day after the murders, you left your job at Suarez and never went back, even to collect your paycheck."

Doil's voice was frantic. "That's 'cause I heard about them killings, watched the fuckin' TV an' figured, because of them others, they might think it was me. But it wasn't. Father, I swear! That's what I want forgiveness for. I didn't do it!"

Ainslie persisted, "Or is it because you think the Ernsts were important people and "

Doil cut in, shouting, his face flushed. "No! NO, no! It ain't fuckin' true. I done them others, but I don't wanna die blamed for what I never done."

Was it a lie or the truth? Superficially, Doil was convincing, Ainslie thought, but it was like flipping a coin for the answer.

He pressed on. "Let's clear up something else. Do you admit you killed the Tempones?"

"Yeah, yeah. I done that."

Throughout his trial, despite overwhelming evidence against him, Doil had insisted he was innocent.

"About all those killings the fourteen you admit to. Are you sorry for those?"

"Fuck 'em all! I don't give a shit! If you wanna know, I enjoyed coin' 'em. Just forgive me them others I never done!"

The demand made no sense, and Ainslie wondered if Doil should, after all, have been declared insane before his trial.

Still trying to reason, Ainslie said, "If you didn't murder Mr. and Mrs. Ernst as you claim then you don't need forgiveness. In any case, without contrition and penance for all you've done, a priest could not give you absolution, and I'm not a priest."

Even before the words were finished, Doil's eyes were pleading. When he spoke, his voice was choked with fear. "I'm gonna die! Do somethin' for me! Gimme somethin'!"

It was Lieutenant Hambrick who moved first. The young, black prison officer confronted Ainslie. "There's less than five minutes left. Whatever you were or weren't, or are now, doesn't matter. You still know enough to do something for him. Put your goddam pride in your pocket and do it!"

A good man, Hambrick, Ainslie thought. He also decided that, true or false, nothing would persuade Doil now to change his story.

He groped in his memory, then said, "Repeat after me: 'Father, I abandon myself into Your hands; do with me what you will.' "

Doil reached out as far as his belt-secured handcuffs would allow. Ainslie moved forward, and Doil placed his hands on Ainslie's. Doil repeated the words clearly, his eyes locked on Ainslie.

Ainslie continued, "'Whatever You may do, I thank You: I am ready for all, I accept all.' "

It was Foucauld's Prayer of Abandorlmerlt left for all sinners by the French nobleman Viscount Charles-Eugene de Foucauld, once a soldier, then a humble priest remembered for his life of study and prayer in the Sahara Desert. Ainslie hoped his own memory would last. He took it line by line.

"Let only Your will be done in me,

and in all Your creatures -

I wish no more than this,

O Lord, Into Your hands I commend my soul."

There was a second of silence. Then Hambrick announced, "It's time." He told Ainslie, "Mr. Bethel is waiting outside. He'll take you to your witness seat. Let's all move quickly."

The two prison guards had already raised Elroy Doil to his feet. Strangely composed, as compared with his mood of a few moments earlier, he let himself be led, walking awkwardly in his leg irons, toward the door.

Ainslie preceded Doil. A waiting guard outside, with the name tag BETHEL, said, "This way, sir." At a fast pace now, they moved back the way Ainslie had come, through concrete corridors, then circuiting the execution area and pausing at a plain steel door. Beside it a sergeant guard held a clipboard.

"Your name, please?"

"Ainslie, Malcolm."

The sergeant checked off the name on the clipboard. "You're the last. We saved a hot seat for you."

Behind him, Bethel said, "You'll make the man nervous, Sarge. It's not the hot seat, Mr. Ainslie."

"No, not that one," the sergeant agreed. "That's reserved for Doil, but he said to give you a good view." He regarded Ainslie curiously. "Also said you are God's avenging angel. That true?"

"I helped get him convicted, so maybe that's the way he sees it." Ainslie did not enjoy the conversation, but he supposed that if you worked in this grim place, a light touch now and then was needed.

The sergeant opened the door; Ainslie followed him inside. The scene ahead, with only minor variations, was as it had been three years earlier. They were at the rear of the witness booth, and immediately in front of them were five rows of metal folding chairs, most already filled. There would, Ainslie knew, be the twelve official witnesses whom he observed soon after his own arrival today, about the same number from the news media, and perhaps a few special visitors approved by the state governor.

Surrounding the witness booth on three sides was an expanse of reinforced and soundproof glass. Visible through the glass and directly ahead was the execution chamber, its central feature the electric chair made of solid oak, with only three legs, and once described as "rearing back like a bucking horse." The chair, built by convicts in 1924 after Florida's legal form of execution changed from hanging to electrocution, was bolted to the floor. It had a high back and a broad seat covered with thick black rubber. Two vertical wooden posts formed a headrest. Six wide leather straps were designed to secure a condemned prisoner so tightly that any movement was impossible.

Five feet from the chair, and also visible through the glass, was the executioner's booth, a walled enclosure with a rectangular slit for the executioner to peer through. By this time the executioner would already be in place hooded and robed, his identity a guarded secret. At the exact moment he received a signal from outside, the executioner would turn a red switch inside the booth, sending two thousand volts of electricity into the electric chair and its occupant. In the execution chamber a few figures were milling around. A prison officer studied his watch, comparing it with a large wall clock with a sweep second hand. The clock showed the time as 6:53.

Within the witness booth a faint hum of conversation ceased, most of the assembled people watching curiously as the guard sergeant led Ainslie to the front row and pointed to an empty central chair. "That's for you."

Ainslie had already noticed that Cynthia Ernst was in the seat immediately to his left, though she neither acknowledged him nor looked at him, keeping her eyes directed forward. Glancing beyond, Ainslie was startled to see Patrick Jensen, who did look over and gave the slightest smile.

2

Abruptly, the execution chamber came alive. Five of the men who had been waiting in the chamber formed a line. A prison lieutenant in charge stood in front; behind him were two guards, a doctor carrying a small leather medical bag, and a lawyer from the state attorney's office. The prison electrician, surrounded by thick, heavy cables that he would shortly connect, was behind the electric chair.

In the witness booth a guard called out, "Silence, please! No talking." What little conversation there had been ceased entirely.

Seconds later a side door in the execution chamber opened and a tall man with stern features and closecropped, graying hair entered. Ainslie recognized him as the prison warden, Stuart Foxx.

Immediately behind the warden was Elroy Doil, staring fixedly at the ground as if unwilling to face what he knew must lie ahead.

Ainslie noticed that Patrick Jensen had reached out and was holding Cynthia's hand. Presumably consoling her, he thought, for the murders of her parents.

His eyes went back to Doil, and Ainslie was reminded again of the difference between the once robust, powerful figure of the past, and the pathetic, tremulous creature he had since become.

Doil was still restricted by leg irons, which allowed him to take only small, awkward steps. A prison guard was on each side of him, a third guard in the rear. Each of Doil's hands was secured to one of the guards alongside by an "iron claw" manacle device a single handcuff with a horizontal metal bar that enabled each guard to totally control one hand, so that any kind of resistance was impossible.

Doil was wearing a clean white shirt and black trousers. A jacket matching the trousers would be placed on him for burial. His shaved head shone where electrically conductive gel had been applied moments earlier.

The small procession had come down what was known as the "death watch corridor," passing through two armored doors, and Doil, when he chose to look up, would see for the first time the electric chair and the audience that had come to watch him die.

Finally he did, and at the sight of the chair, his eyes widened and his face froze with terror. He halted impulsively, averting his head and body as if to bolt away, but it was a split-second gesture only. The guards on both sides instantly twisted the iron claws, causing Doil to yelp with pain. All three guards then closed in on him, propelling him to the chair, and while he struggled in vain, they lifted him into it.

In his helplessness, Doil looked intensely at the red telephone on a wall to the right of the electric chair. As every condemned prisoner knew, it represented the only chance of a last-minute reprieve from the state governor. Doil stared at the phone, as if pleading for it to ring.

Suddenly he turned toward the glass separating him from the witness booth and began shouting hysterically. But because the glass was soundproof, Ainslie and the others could hear nothing. They simply watched Doil's face contort with rage.

He's probably ranting about Revelation, Ainslie thought grimly.

In earlier days the sounds within the execution chamber were transmitted to witnesses through microphones and speakers. Now, all that witnesses heard was the warden's reading of the death warrant, his prompting of the condemned for any last words, and whatever brief statement followed. Then for a moment Doil stopped and scanned the faces in the witness booth, causing several to fidget uncomfortably. When his eyes fell on Ainslie, Doil's expression changed to pleading, his lips framing words that Ainslie understood. "Help me! Help me!"

Ainslie felt beads of sweat break out on his forehead. What am I doing here? he asked himself. I don't want to be involved in this. Whatever he's done, it's wrong to kill anyone this way. But there was no means of moving. In a bizarre fashion, within this prison Ainslie and the others with him were prisoners, too, until Doil's execution was concluded. Then, when a guard on the execution floor moved, blocking Doil's view, Ainslie felt a flood of relief, while reminding himself that Doil had just confessed to fourteen vicious murders and dismemberments.

For a moment, he realized, he had fallen into the same warped trap as the mawkish protesters outside the prison caring about the murderer while forgetting his dead, savaged victims. Still, if cruelty was an issue, Ainslie thought, these last few minutes were probably the cruelest of all. No matter how fast the prison staff worked, the final procedures all took time. First, Doil was pulled back into the chair by the guards on either side and held there while a wide chest strap was cinched and secured; now, whatever else he did, he could no longer move his body. Next his feet were seized and pulled down into T-shaped wooden stocks, then secured by ankle straps so that neither foot could shift at all. More conductive gel was applied this time to his previously shaved right leg; after that a leadlined leather ground pad was put around the leg four inches above the ankle and laced tightly. Meanwhile the remaining straps had been cinched and tightened, including a chin-strap that held Doil's head immovably against the two upright wooden posts at the back of the chair. The brown leather death cap, resembling an ancient Viking helmet, which held a copper conductive plate inside, was poised above the chair like a Damoclean sword about to be lowered . . .

* * *

Ainslie wondered if electrical execution really was as savage and barbaric as so many claimed. What he was now seeing certainly seemed so, and there were other instances to support that belief. He knew of one a case nearly a decade ago. . .

On May 4, 1990, in Florida State Prison, a condemned prisoner named Joseph Tafero, convicted of killing two police officers, received an initial two thousand volts. Flames and smoke erupted at once as his head and a supposedly wet sponge beneath the death cap caught fire. The executioner immediately turned the current off. Then, for four minutes, the current was repeatedly turned on and off again, and each time more flames shot out and smoke poured from under a black mask covering Tafero's face. Through it all, Tafero continued to breathe and slowly nod his head until, after three voltage surges, he was finally declared dead. Witnesses were sickened; one fainted. Later an official statement admitted "there was a fault in the headpiece." Another claimed Tafero "was unconscious the minute the current hit him," though few witnesses believed it.

Some people, Ainslie was reminded, argued that execution should be barbaric, given the nature of the crime preceding it. The gas chamber, still used in the United States, killed a prisoner by suffocation with cyanide gas, and witnesses said it was a terrible, frequently slow death. There seemed a consensus that death by lethal injection was more humane though not in the case of former drug users with collapsed veins; finding a vein to administer the dose could take an hour. A bullet to the head, used in China, was probably swiftest of all, but the prior torture and degradation was undoubtedly the world's most bestial.

Would Florida adopt some other form of execution, perhaps lethal injection? Ainslie speculated. It seemed unlikely, given the public mood about crime, and widespread anger that criminals had brought the Sunshine State into international disrepute, thereby frightening away tourists, so vital to Florida's livelihood.

As to his own feelings about capital punishment, he had been opposed to it as a priest and was against it now, though for different reasons.

Once upon a time he had believed all human life to be divinely inspired. But not anymore. Nowadays he simply believed that judicial death morally demeaned those who administered it, including the public in whose name executions were carried out. Also, whatever the method, death was a release; a lifetime in prison without parole was a greater punishment by far. . .

* * *

The warden's voice interrupted Ainslie's thoughts, this time transmitted to the witness booth, as he read aloud the black-bordered death warrant, signed by the state governor.

" 'Whereas . . . Elroy Selby Doil was convicted of the crime of murder in the first degree, and thereupon . . . sentenced for said crime to suffer the pains of death by being electrocuted by the passing through his body of a current of electricity . . . until he be dead . . .

" 'You the said Warden of our State Maximum Security Prison, or some deputy by you to be designated, shall be present at such execution . . . in the presence of a jury of twelve respectable citizens who shall be requested to be present, and witness the same; and you shall require the presence of a competent practicing physician . . .

" 'Wherefore fail not at your peril . . .' "

The document was lengthy, burdened by pompous legalisms, and the warden's words droned on.

When he was finished, a prison guard held a microphone before Doil, and the warden asked, "Do you have any last words?"

Doil tried to wriggle but was too tightly secured. When he spoke, his voice was choked. "I never..." Then he spluttered, trying vainly to move his head while managing only a feeble "Fuck you!"

The microphone was removed. Immediately the preexecution procedures resumed, and again Ainslie wished he were not watching, but the process was hypnotic; none of the witnesses turned their eyes away.

A tongue pad was forced between Doil's teeth, so he could no longer speak. Beside the chair, the prison electrician dipped his hand into a five-gallon bucket containing a strong salt solution and retrieved the copper contact plate and a natural sponge. He inserted both in the death cap poised above Doil's shaven head. The contact plate was a perfect conductor of electricity; the salt-soaked sponge, also a good conductor, was intended to prevent the burning of Doil's scalp and the resulting sickly stench of seared flesh that had offended witnesses in the past. Mostly the sponge worked; occasionally, as in the Tafero execution, it didn't.

The death cap was lowered onto Doil's head and secured in place. At the front a black leather strip served as a mask, so that Doil's face could no longer be seen.

Ainslie sensed a collective sigh of relief from the witnesses around him. Had it, he wondered, become easier to watch now that the victim had, in a sense, become anonymous?

Not anonymous, though, to Cynthia in the seat beside him. Ainslie saw now that Cynthia and Patrick Jensen had their hands entwined so tightly that Cynthia's knuckles were white. She must hate Doil fiercely, he thought, and in a way he could understand why she was here, though he doubted that watching Doil die would ease her grief. And should he tell her, he wondered, that while Doil had confessed to fourteen murders, he had denied killing Gustav and Eleanor Ernst something Ainslie himself considered might be true? Perhaps he owed that information to Cynthia, if only because she was a former police officer and colleague. He wasn't sure.

On the execution floor, all that remained was the connection of two heavy electric feed lines, one to the top of the death cap, the other to the lead-lined ground pad around Doil's right leg. Both were attached quickly and locked down with heavy wing nuts.

At once the guards and electrician stepped back, well clear of the chair, though making sure not to block the warden's view.

In the witness booth, some of the media people were scribbling notes. One woman witness had grown pale and held a hand to her mouth as if she might be sick. A man was shaking his head, clearly dismayed by what he saw. Knowing the intense competition for seats, Ainslie wondered what motivated people to come. He supposed it was a universal fascination with death in all its forms.

Ainslie returned his attention to the warden, who had rolled up the death warrant and now held it, poised like a baton, in his right hand. He looked toward the executioner's booth, from where, through the rectangular eye slit, a pair of eyes peered out. In a single gesture the warden lowered the rolled warrant and nodded his head.

The eyes disappeared. An instant later a heavy thank reverberated throughout the execution chamber as the red death switch was turned on and heavy circuit breakers engaged. Even in the witness booth, where microphones and speakers were again cut off, a softer thud was audible. Simultaneously the lights all dimmed.

Doil's body convulsed, though the initial effect of two thousand volts surging through him was largely suppressed because, as a reporter wrote for the next day's edition, Doil was "strapped in tighter than a fighter pilot." The same effect, however, was repeated during a two-minute automatic killing cycle, the voltage falling to five hundred, then rising back again to two thousand, eight times in all. At some executions the warden would signal the executioner to override the automatic control and switch off if he believed the first cycle had done the job. This time he let the full cycle run, and Ainslie suddenly smelled the rancid odor of burning flesh, which had seeped into the witness booth through the air conditioning. Others nearby wrinkled their faces in disgust.

When safety clearance had been given, the doctor moved to the chair, opened Doil's shirt, applied a stethoscope, and listened for a heartbeat. After about a minute he nodded to the warden. Doil was dead.

The rest was routine. Electric lines, belts, and other fastenings were quickly undone. Doil's released body slumped forward into the arms of the waiting guards, who swiftly transferred it to a black rubber body bag. The bag was zipped up so quickly that it was impossible to see from the witness booth if the body was burned. Then, on a gurney, the remains of Elroy Doil disappeared through the same doorway that only minutes earlier he had entered alive.

By this time most witnesses were on their feet, preparing to leave. Without waiting, Ainslie turned toward Cynthia and said quietly, "Commissioner, I feel I should tell you that shortly before his execution, I talked to Doil about your parents. He claimed "

Instantly she swung toward him, her expression blank. "Please, there is nothing I want to hear. I came to watch him suffer. I hope he did."

"He did," Ainslie said.

"Then I'm satisfied, Sergeant."

"I hear you, Commissioner."

But what did he hear? Following the others, Ainslie left the witness booth wondering.

Immediately outside, where witnesses were gathered, waiting to be escorted from the prison, Jensen broke away and approached Ainslie.

"Just thought I'd introduce myself. I'm "

"I know who you are," Ainslie said coolly. "I wondered why you were here."

The novelist smiled. "I have a scene in a new novel about an execution and wanted to see one firsthand. Commissioner Ernst arranged to get me in."

At that moment Hambrick appeared. "You don't have to wait here," the lieutenant told Ainslie. "If you'll follow me, we'll get your gun, then I'll take you to your car." With a cursory nod to Jensen, Ainslie left.

3

"I saw the lights dim," Jorge said. "I figured Animal was getting the juice."

Ainslie said quietly, "He was."

It was their first exchange since leaving the prison ten minutes earlier. Jorge was driving the Miami Police blueand-white and handled outward clearance through the prison checkpoints. They passed the inevitable demonstrators on the way; a few still held lighted candles, but most were dispersing. Ainslie had been silent.

He had been deeply affected by the grim process by which Doil had died. On the other hand, there was no denying Doil got what he deserved, though of course that took into account Ainslie's knowledge that Doil was guilty not only of the two killings for which he had been charged and sentenced, but for at least twelve others.

He touched his suit jacket pocket, where he had put the crucial recording of Doil's confession. When and how the taped information would be released, or if it would be made public at all, would be someone else's decision. Ainslie would turn over the tape to Lieutenant Newbold, and the Police Department and the state attorney's of lice would handle it from there. Jorge began, "Was Animal "

Ainslie interrupted. "I'm not sure we should call him Animal anymore. Animals only kill when they have to. Doil did it for " Ainslie stopped. Why did Doil kill? For pleasure, a religious mania, uncontrollable compulsion? He said aloud, "For reasons we'll never know."

Jorge glanced sideways. "Anyway, did you find out anything, Sergeant? Something you can tell me?''

Ainslie shook his head. "I have to talk with the lieutenant first."

He checked his watch: 7:50 A.M. Leo Newbold was probably still at home. Ainslie picked up the phone from the seat beside him and tapped out the number. Newbold answered on the second ring.

"I thought it was you," he said moments later. "I presume it's all over."

"Well, Doil's dead. But I doubt very much if it's over."

"Did he tell you anything?"

"Enough to know the execution was justified."

"We were certain anyway, but it's a relief to know for sure. So you got a confession?"

Ainslie hesitated. "I've quite a bit to report, sir. But we don't want this going out over the wire services."

"You're right," the lieutenant acknowledged. "We should all be so careful. Okay, not on a cell phone."

"If there's time," Ainslie told him, "I'll call you from Jacksonville."

"Can hardly wait. Take it easy, Malcolm."

Ainslie switched off the cellular.

"You'll have plenty of time; the airport's only sixty miles," Jorge volunteered. "Maybe enough for breakfast."

Ainslie grimaced. "The last thing I feel like is eating."

"I know you can't tell me everything. But I gather Doil must have confessed to at least one murder."

"Yes."

"Did he treat you like a priest?"

"He wanted to. And I guess, to a degree, I let him."

Jorge asked quietly, "Do you believe Doil is in heaven now? Or is there some other fiery spot called hell that's run by Satan?"

Ainslie chuckled and asked, "Why, are you worried?"

"No. Just wanted your opinion is there a heaven and a hell?"

You never leave your past behind totally, Ainslie thought. He remembered parishioners asking him much the same question, and he was never certain how to answer honestly. Now, turning toward Jorge, he said, "No, I don't believe in heaven anymore, and I never did believe in hell."

"How about Satan?"

"Satan's as fictional as Mickey Mouse invented as an Old Testament character. He's fairly harmless in Job, then in the second century B.C. he was demonized by an extremist Jewish sect called the Essenes. Forget it."

For years after leaving the church, Malcolm Ainslie had been reluctant to discuss his beliefs, disbeliefs, and religion's sophistry, even though he was sometimes sought out as an expert because of his book on comparative religions. Civilization's Evolving Beliefs, he learned from time to time, was still widely read. Lately, though, he had become more up front and honest about religion, and now here was Jorge, who so clearly wanted guidance.

They were well clear of Raiford by this time and in open countryside, the grimness of the prison and its dormitory towns behind. The sun was shining brightly, the beginning of a beautiful day. Directly ahead was a four-lane highway, Interstate 10, which they would take into Jacksonville, where Ainslie would catch his flight. He was already happily anticipating his reunion with Karen and Jason and the family celebration.

"Mind if I ask another question?" Jorge said.

"Ask away."

"I always wondered how you got to be a priest to begin with."

"I never expected to be a priest," he said. "It was something my older brother wanted. Then he was shot and killed."

"I'm sorry." Jorge was startled. "Do you mean murdered?"

"The law saw it that way. Though the bullet that killed him was intended for someone else."

"What happened?"

"It was in a small town just north of Philadelphia. That's where Gregory and I grew up. . ."

* * *

New Berlinville was a small borough incorporated near the end of the nineteenth century. It had several steel mills and ironwork factories, as well as producing ore mines. The combination provided work for most local residents, including Idris Ainslie, the father of Gregory and Malcolm, who was a miner. He died, however, when the boys were babies.

Gregory was only a year older than Malcolm, and they were always close. Gregory, big for his age, took pride in protecting his younger brother. Victoria, their mother, never remarried after the death of Idris, but brought up her sons alone. She worked at unskilled jobs, her income aided by a small annuity inherited from her parents, and spent all the time she could with Gregory and Malcolm. They were her life and they, in turn, loved her. Victoria Ainslie was a good mother, a virtuous woman, and a devout Catholic. As time went by, it became her greatest wish that one of her sons become a priest, and, by precedence and his own willingness, Gregory was chosen.

At eight, Gregory was an altar boy at the community's St. Columkill Church, and so was his close friend, Russell Sheldon. In some ways Gregory and Russell were an unlikely, contrasting combination. Gregory, as he grew, was tall and well built with blond good looks, his nature warm and outgoing; he was also devoted to the church, especially its rituals and theatrics. Russell was a short, tough bulldozer of a boy with a flair for mischief and practical jokes. On one occasion he put hair dye in Gregory's shampoo bottle, turning him temporarily into a brunette. On another he placed an ad in the local paper offering Malcolm's new and beloved bicycle for sale. He also placed Playboy pinups in both Gregory's and Malcolm's bedrooms for their mother to find.

Russell's father was a police detective in the Berks County sheriff's department, his mother a teacher.

A year after Gregory and Russell became altar boys, Malcolm was recruited, too, and, through succeeding years, the trio were inseparable. And just as Gregory and Russell had differing natures, so did Malcolm. He was an unusually thoughtful boy who took nothing for granted. "You're always asking questions," Gregory once said irritably, then conceded, "But you sure get answers." Malcolm's questioning, combined with decisiveness, sometimes put him though younger than the other two in a leadership role.

Within the Church the three were obedient Catholics, their minor sins confessed weekly and consisting mainly of Indecent Sexual Thoughts.

The trio were all good athletes and played for South Webster High's football team, where Russell's father, Kermit Sheldon, was a part-time coach.

Then, toward the end of the trio's second football year, there arose expressed in biblical terms, as Malcolm Ainslie would remember it "a little cloud out of the sea, like a man's hand." Unbeknownst to school authorities, Cannabis saliva was procured and used by a few senior members of the football team. Before long, other team members learned of marijuana's pleasurable, exciting highs, and soon, inevitably, almost the entire football team was smoking pot. In some ways it was a preview of how cocaine use would expand, more seriously, in the 1980s and 1990s.

The Ainslie brothers and Russell Sheldon were latecomers to cannabis, and tried the "weed," as the players called it, only after being harassed by their peers. Malcolm tried it once, then asked innumerable questions where the substance came from, what it was, its lasting effect. The answers convinced him cannabis was not for him, and he never used it again. Russell, though, continued using it occasionally, and Gregory more intensively, having convinced himself it was not a religious sin.

Malcolm at first was inclined to question Gregory's growing habit, then let it go, believing his brother was indulging in a fad that would shortly disappear. It was a lapse in judgment that Malcolm would regret for the rest of his life.

The marijuana came mostly in "nickel bags" plastic bags containing a small quantity of pot and selling for five Dollars on the street meaning the area around South Webster High. However, the total amount consumed by the football players and, by now, other students consistently increased, prompting greater trafficking and competition.

Even in those times, drug gangs were beginning to pro-literate, and initially one such gang, the Skin Heads, based in Allentown, supplied the New Berlinville students' needs. Then, as demand expanded and with increasing cash flow, a gang in nearby Reading, the Krypto-Ricans, looked covetously at the territory. One day they decided to take it over.

It was the same afternoon Gregory and Russell left school and headed for a seedy part of town. Gregory, having been there before, knew exactly where to go.

At the doorway of an abandoned house a burly white male with a shaven head confronted him. "Where you headed, punk?"

"You got four bags of weed?"

"Depends if you got the green, man."

Gregory produced a twenty-Doilar bill, which the other snatched, adding it to a bulging roll pulled briefly from his pocket. From behind, another man handed over four nickel bags, which Gregory stuffed beneath his shirt.

At that precise moment a car pulled up outside and three members of the Krypto-Ricans emerged, their guns drawn. The Skin Heads saw the others coming and dived for their guns, too. Moments later, as Gregory and Russell headed for the street to get away, bullets were flying.

Both ran hard until Russell realized that Gregory was no longer at his side. He looked back. Gregory was lying on the ground. By then the wild shooting had stopped, and the members of both gangs were vanishing. Soon after, police and paramedics were called. The paramedics, arriving first, quickly declared Gregory dead, the result of a gunshot wound to the left side of his back.

By chance, because he was driving nearby and heard the dispatcher's radio call, Detective Kermit Sheldon was the first police officer on the scene. Taking his son aside, he spoke sternly. "Tell me everything fast. And I mean everything, exactly as it happened."

Russell, still in shock and in tears, complied, adding at the end, "Dad, this will kill Greg's mother, not just him dying, but the marijuana. She didn't know."

Russell's father snapped, "Where is the stuff you bought?"

"Greg hid it in his shirt."

"Do you have any at all?"

"No."

Kermit Sheldon put Russell in his official car, then walked to Gregory's body. The paramedics had finished their examination and covered the body with a sheet. Uniform police hadn't arrived yet. Detective Sheldon looked around. He lifted the sheet, groped inside Gregory's shirt, and found the marijuana packets. He removed and put them in his own pocket. Later he would flush them down a toilet.

Back at his car he instructed Russell, "Listen to me. Listen carefully. This is your story. The two of you were walking when you heard the shooting, and ran to get away. If you saw any of the people with guns, describe them. But nothing more. Stick with that and do not vary it. Later," Russell's father added, "you and I will have a serious talk, which you're not gonna enjoy."

Russell followed the instructions, with the result that subsequent police and press reports described Gregory Ainslie as an innocent victim caught in the crossfire of an out-of-town gang war. Several months after Gregory's death, the bullet that killed him was matched with a gun owned by a Krypto-Ricans gang member, Manny "Mad Dog" Menendez. But by that time Mad Dog was also dead, having been killed in another shootout, this time with police.

Not surprisingly, Russell Sheldon never used marijuana again. He did, however, confide in Malcolm, who had already half-guessed the real story. The confidence they thus shared as well as grief and a shared sense of blame made their friendship stronger, a bond that would last across the years.

Victoria Ainslie suffered terribly because of Gregory's death. But the cover-up contrived by Detective Kermit Sheldon left her with a comforting belief in Gregory's innocence, and at the same time, her religious faith consoled her. "He was such a wonderful boy that God wanted him," she told friends. "Who am I to question God's decision?"

Malcolm was impressed by what Russell's father had done at some risk to himself to protect the memory of Gregory for their mother's sake. It had not occurred to Malcolm before that police officers could be figures of benevolence in the community as well as enforcers of the law.

It was shortly after Gregory's death that Victoria said to her son, "I wonder if God knew that Gregory was going to be a priest. If He had, He might not have taken him."

Malcolm reached for her hands. "Mom, maybe God knew that I would follow Gregory into the Church."

Victoria looked up with surprise. Malcolm nodded. "I've decided to go to St. Vladimir Seminary with Russell. We've talked about it. I'll take Gregory's place."

And so it happened.

The Philadelphia seminary, which Malcolm Ainslie and Russell Sheldon attended through the next seven years, was an old but renovated turn-of-the-century building, conveying serenity and erudition, an atmosphere in which both young men were immediately at home.

From the beginning, Malcolm's decision to seek religious orders entailed no sacrifice for him. He was happy and composed when it was made. In what he saw as their order of importance, he believed in God, the divinity of Jesus, and the Catholic Church, which brought system and discipline to those other beliefs. Only years later would he realize that, as an ordained priest, he would be expected to reorient that precedence subtly, so that, as in Matthew 19:30, the "first shall be last; and the last shall be first."

The seminary education, strong on theology and philosophy, was the equivalent of college, followed by three more years of theology, producing, at the end, a doctoral degree. Thus, having graduated at ages twenty-five and twenty-six respectively, Fathers Malcolm Ainslie and Russell Sheldon were appointed associate parish priests Malcolm at St. Augustus Church in Pottstown, Pennsylvania, Russell at St. Peter's Catholic Church in Reading. The two parishes were in the same archdiocese and only twenty miles apart.

"I suppose we'll be visiting each other all the time," Malcolm said cheerfully, and Russell agreed, their closeness having persisted through the seminary years. But in fact, because of heavy workloads and a shortage of Catholic priests worldwide, which would continue and worsen, their meetings were few and hurried. That is, until several years later, when a natural catastrophe brought them, once more, close together.

* * *

"And that," Ainslie told Jorge, "is pretty much how I became a priest."

Several minutes earlier, in the Miami blue-and-white, they had passed through Jacksonville. Now the airport was visible directly ahead.

"So how come you left the Church and became a cop?" Jorge asked.

"It's not complicated," Ainslie told him. "I lost my faith."

"But how'd you lose your faith?" Jorge persisted.

Ainslie laughed. "That is complicated. And I have a plane to catch.''

4

"I don't believe it," Leo Newbold said. "The bastard probably thought he was being cute, leaving some phony clue so we'd bash our brains together and get nowhere."

The lieutenant was responding to Malcolm Ainslie's report, made from a pay phone at Jacksonville Airport, that while Elroy Doil had admitted to fourteen murders, he had denied killing Commissioner Gustav Ernst and his wife, Eleanor.

"There's too much evidence against Doil," Newbold continued. "Just about everything at the Ernst killings matched those other scenes, and because we held back so much of the information, no one but Doil knew enough to put all that together. Oh, I know you have doubts, Malcolm, and I respect them, but this time I think you're wrong."

A moment of obstinacy seized Ainslie. "That damn rabbit left beside the Ernsts didn't make sense. It didn't fit the other Revelation signs. Still doesn't."

"But that's all you have," Newbold reminded him. "Right?"

Ainslie sighed. "That's all."

"Well, when you get back, I guess you should checkout that other name Doil gave you. What was it?"

"Ikeis, in Tampa."

"Yeah, and the Esperanza thing, too. But don't take too much time, because we've got two new whodunits here and more pressures every day. As far as I'm concerned, the Ernst case is closed.''

"How about the tape of Doil? Should I FedEx it from Toronto?"

"No, bring it back with you. We'll have copies and a transcript made, then decide what to do. For now, have a good trip with your family, Malcolm. You've all earned it."

* * *

With ample time to spare, Ainslie boarded his Delta flight for Atlanta en route to Toronto. A light passenger load allowed him a three-seat economy section to himself, where he leaned back and relaxed, enjoying the luxury of being alone.

Despite his efforts to sleep, Jorge's words kept ringing through his mind: But how 'd you lose yourfaith?

It was impossible to answer simply, Ainslie realized, because it had happened almost without his awareness as incidents along the way, subtly and over time, contrived to steer him in a new direction.

The first effect occurred during his seven-year education at St. Vladimir Seminary, shared with Russell Sheldon. Malcolm, then twenty-two, was recruited by Father Irwin Pandolfo, a Jesuit priest-professor, to assist him in researching and writing a book about ancient and modern comparative religions. Malcolm accepted eagerly, and thus, for the next two years, slaved over the book project as well as completed regular studies. The result was that by the time Civilizatiorl's Evolving Beliefs was ready for press, with a publisher hovering, it was hard to tell how much Pandolfo and Malcolm Ainslie had each contributed. Pandolfo, a small man physically but with a large intellect and sense of fairness, then took an extraordinary step. "Your work's been exceptional, Malcolm, and you'll get equal author billing. No discussion. Both our names in the same size type, but mine comes first. Okay?''

Malcolm was so overwhelmed that for once he could not speak.

The book brought both men a great deal of acclaim. But it also made Malcolm, now an acknowledged scholar on the origins of all religions, question aspects of the single religion to which he planned to dedicate his life.

He recalled one occasion a conversation with Russell near the end of their seminary years. Looking up from some lecture notes, Malcolm asked, "Who was it that wrote, 'A little learning is a dangerous thing'?"

"Alexander Pope."

"He might also have written, 'A lot of learning is a dangerous thing, especially for priests-in-training.' "

No need to ask what Malcolm meant. Portions of their theology studies had involved the history of the Bible, both Old and New Testaments. In recent years mainly since the 1930s historians and theologians had uncovered facts about the Bible previously unknown.

The Old Testament, for example, still considered by many especially lay people as a single, unified text, was perceived nowadays by scholars as a dubious miscellany of independent documents from many sources, much of it "borrowed" by Israel at the time a small, backward power from the religious creeds of ancient neighbors. The Old Testament, it was generally agreed, covered a thousand years, from about 1100 B.C.E. the beginning of the Iron Age to after 200 C.E. Historians preferred the terms "Before the Common Era" and "Common Era" to B.C. and A.D., though in numbers of years the meaning was the same. As Malcolm once joked, "You don't have to work it out like Fahrenheit and Celsius."

Malcolm said to Russell, "The Bible isn't holy, or 'God's word,' as zealots claim. Those who believe that just don't understand or maybe don't want to know how the Bible was put together."

"Does any of that lessen your faith?"

"No, because real faith isn't built on the Bible. It stems from our instinct that everything around us didn't happen accidentally, but was an act of God, though probably not God as portrayed by any Bible."

They discussed another scholarly acceptance that no record or writing about Jesus is known to have existed until fifty years after his death, and then by Paul in First Thessalonians, the New Testament's oldest writing. Even the four gospels Mark's was first were all written later, between 70 and 110 C.E.

On another level, until 1943, Catholics were forbidden by papal decree to engage in what was labeled "Bible probing." But in that year Pope Pius XII lifted the ban, with his encyclical Divino andante Spiritu, and Catholic scholars were now as well informed as any in the world, generally agreeing with Protestant researchers in Britain, America, and Germany about Bible authorships and dates.

"They took off the blindfolds," was how Malcolm put it to Russell, "though churches are still concealing those facts about the Bible from the laity. Look, there isn't any question Jesus existed and was crucified; that's in Roman history. But all those stories about him the virgin birth, the star in the east, shepherds and a neon angel, wise men, the miracles, the Last Supper, even the Resurrection they're simply legends, passed down by word of mouth for fifty years. As to accuracy . . ."

Malcolm stopped. "Consider this: How many years is it since President Kennedy was killed at Dallas?"

"Nearly twenty."

"And the whole world saw it television, radio, news reporters, the Zapruder tape, playbacks of everything, then the Warren Commission."

Russell nodded. "And there still isn't agreement about how it happened and who did what."

"Exactly! So go back to New Testament times without communication systems, no surviving records if any existed curing filly years, and imagine the invention and distortion in all that intervening time.''

"Don't you believe those stories about Jesus?"

"I'm doubtful, but it doesn't matter. Whether by legend or fact, Jesus had more effect on the world than anyone else in history, and left behind the purest, wisest teaching there has ever been."

Russell asked, "But was he the Son of God? Was he divine?"

"I'm willing to believe so. Yeah, I still believe it."

"Me too."

But did they really? Even then at least for Malcolm faint glimmerings of doubt arose.

Later, during a discourse on Church doctrine by a visiting archbishop, Malcolm stood and asked, "Why is it, Your Excellency, that our Church never shares with parishioners the expanded knowledge we now have about the Bible's origins, and the fresh light it sheds on the life and times of Jesus?"

"Because doing so could undermine the faith of many Catholics," the archbishop responded quickly. "Theological debates are best left to those with the intellect and wisdom to handle them."

"Do you not believe, then, in John 8:32?" Malcolm shot back. " 'Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free'?"

The archbishop replied tartly, "I would prefer young priests to concentrate on Romans 5:19 'By the obedience of one shall many be made righteous.' "

"Or perhaps Ephesians 6:5, Your Excellency," Malcolm returned, " 'Be obedient to them that are your masters.' "

The lecture hall exploded with laughter. Even the archbishop smiled.

* * *

After their seminary graduations, Russell and Malcolm went their separate ways as associate priests, their views about religion and the contemporary scene growing and changing as time moved on.

At St. Augustus Church in Pottstown, Malcolm was second-in-command to Father Andre Quale, who, at sixty-seven and suffering from emphysema, almost never left the rectory and often ate alone in his room.

"So you basically run the show," Russell commented one day over a shared rectory dinner.

"I don't have as much freedom as you think," Malcolm said. "I've already had two reprimands from Old Ironass."

"Our lord and master, Bishop Sanford?"

Malcolm nodded. "Some of the old brigade here told him about two of my homilies. He wasn't happy."

"What were they about?"

"One was on overpopulation and family planning; the other on homosexuals, condoms, and AIDS."

Russell burst out laughing. "You sure went for the jugular."

"I guess so. But some obvious things the Church won't recognize exasperate me. Okay, so the physical idea of homosexuality makes my skin crawl, but there are wellknown professionals in science and medicine who insist homosexuality is mainly a matter of genes, and that those people can't change, even if they want to.''

Russell filled in. "So you ask, 'Who made those people that way?' And if God made us all, didn't he make homosexuals, too? maybe even for a purpose we don't understand?"

"Our stand on condoms infuriates me even more," Malcolm added. "How can I look my parishioners in the eye and forbid them to use something that helps prevent the spread of AIDS? But the Church doesn't want to hear what I think. They only want me to shut up."

"Are you going to?"

Malcolm shook his head slowly. "Wait till you hear what I'm planning for next Sunday."

* * *

The 10:30 A.M. mass began with a surprise. Bishop Sanford arrived, without warning, only minutes before the mass was due to begin. The elderly, wizened prelate was accompanied by an aide, and today was walking with a cane. He had a reputation as a disciplinarian who followed rigidly the Vatican line.

After the opening procession Malcolm publicly welcomed the bishop. Internally he felt his anxiety mounting. The sudden arrival had startled him, since he knew that the remarks he planned to deliver would inevitably meet with Sanford's disapproval. Malcolm had expected word to filter through to the bishop after his homily, and was prepared for that, but having him listen directly was another matter. But it was too late to change, even if he wanted to.

When the time came he leaned forward in the pulpit and spoke forthrightly. "Absolute faith in the reality of God and Jesus Christ is essential to us all. But, equally, we must have strength to retain our faith when it is tested, as occurs so often in our lifetimes. I intend to test your faith right now."

Surveying the crowded pews facing him, he continued, "True faith needs nothing whatever to support it, nothing materialistic, no proof of any kind, because if there were proof we would have no need of faith. And yet at times we do prop up our faith, we support it with a material object, usually the Bible."

Malcolm paused, then asked, "But what if you found out that parts of the Bible, supposedly important parts, and particularly concerning Jesus, were untrue, or distorted, or exaggerated? Could you still hold on to your faith, with the same conviction?"

Half smiling, he asked, "Do I see puzzled faces? Well, I assure you my question is very real. Real because modern scholarship has shown that parts of the Bible are almost certainly inaccurate for one simple reason: They were passed down through generations, not by written words, but by word of mouth a notoriously unreliable means of communication, as we all know.

"This is not news. Historians and Bible scholars have known it for a long time, as have the upper echelons of our Church."

By now there was some stirring among the congregation, a few questioning glances exchanged, and the bishop was frowning and shaking his head.

But Malcolm continued, "Let's take specifics. Did you know that after the crucifixion of Jesus, a gap of fifty years passed before there was any written record about Jesus' birth, his life, his teachings, his disciples, and the Resurrection? Half a century, and if anything was written during that time, not a trace remains."

Despite the restiveness of a few in the church, the majority stayed focused on Malcolm as he summarized what was known but so seldom talked about: The gospels were written separately, for varying purposes . . . Matthew's and Luke's gospels were almost certainly copied from Mark's . . . All four are by unknown authors, despite the names on them . . . The New Testament was not assembled until the fourth century C.E.... And none of the original text in Greek, on papyrus scrolls still exists.

"Papyrus," Malcolm explained, "was made from a reed growing by the Nile and was the only form of paper at that time. But papyrus disintegrated quickly, so all of the original writing was lost. Of course, copies were written, but the Canon copier, if you'll pardon the pun...." He paused, smiling. "Copying machines were still three thousand years away, so changes inevitably occurred. There were other changes in the New and Old Testaments during translations from Greek and Hebrew to Latin, then to other languages, including English . . . So all we can be sure of is that the Bible as it exists today is neither accurate nor a true copy of what was first set down."

He added thoughtfully, "I tell you all this not to influence your thinking or alter your faith, but simply to relay the facts. I don't believe in withholding the truth not for any reason."

* * *

After the mass, as the clergy moved outside to shake hands with departing parishioners, positive words could be heard from those around Malcolm. "Most interesting, Father" . . . "Never heard all that before" . . . "You're right, it should be known more widely."

Bishop Sanford was gracious and smiling as parishioners shook his hand. When everyone had gone he waved his cane peremptorily, motioning Malcolm aside.

His warmth replaced with glacial coldness, the bishop ordered, "Father Ainslie, you will preach no further homilies here. I am once more reprimanding you, and you will shortly receive orders about your future. Meanwhile I urge you to pray for humility, wisdom, and obedience, qualities you clearly lack and sorely need." Unsmiling, he raised a hand in formal benediction. "May God guide your penance and move you in more virtuous ways."

That night on the phone Malcolm repeated the conversation to Russell, adding, "We're ruled by too many sour old men."

"Who are completely sex-starved. What do you expect?"

Malcolm sighed. "We're all sex-starved. This life is perverse."

"Sounds like another homily in the making."

"No way. Sanford's put a muzzle on me. He thinks I'm a rebel, Russell."

"Has he forgotten Jesus was a rebel? He asked questions just like yours."

"Tell that to Iron-ass."

"What sort of penance do you think he'll give you?"

"Who knows?" Malcolm said. "To tell the truth, I'm not sure I care."

But the answer came quickly.

Bishop Sanford's decision was relayed to Malcolm two days later by Father Andre Quale, who received the news in an archdiocesan letter. Malcolm was to be transferred immediately to a Trappist monastery in the Pocono Mountains of northern Pennsylvania, a lonely place where he would remain indefinitely.

"I've been sentenced to silence in Outer Mongolia," Malcolm reported to Russell. "You know about the Trappists?"

"A little. They live hard and never speak." Russell recalled an article he had read. The Catholic Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance, the Trappists' official name, had a doctrine and way of life that were penitential little food, no meat, arduous manual labor, and strict silence. Founded in France in 1664, the Trappists had seventy monasteries worldwide.

"Penance is what old Sanford promised," Malcolm said, "and he kept his word. I'm to stay there and keep praying silently, of course until I'm ready to toe the Vatican line."

"Will you go?"

"I have to. If I don't, they'll unfrock me."

"Which might not be the worst thing for either of us." The impulsive words tumbled out, surprising Russell himself.

"Maybe not," said Malcolm.

* * *

He went to the monastery and, to his surprise, found himself at peace. The hardships he simply shrugged off. The silence, which he had expected to be a burden, wasn't, and later, when he returned to the outside world, he found it full of senseless chatter. People, Malcolm realized, were compulsive about filling a silence with their voices. But silence, accompanied by quickly learned hand signals, he discovered in the Poconos, was in many situations more desirable. Malcolm disobeyed only one condition of his banishment. He did not pray. While the monks around him presumably did so in their silence, he used the time to think, imagine, dip into accumulated knowledge, and assess his past and future.

At the end of a month of introspection he reached three conclusions. He no longer believed in any god, the divinity of Jesus, or the mission of the Catholic Church. While the reasons were multiple, most important was that all religions had a background of, at maximum, a mere five thousand years. Compared with the vast unknown aeons of geological time through which the universe had existed Earth being a relative pinhead the duration of religion's presence equaled, perhaps, a single sand grain from the whole Sahara Desert.

It was also increasingly conclusive that mankind, Homo sapiens, evolved from hominids apelike creatures millions of years ago. The scientific evidence had become increasingly irrefutable, evidence that most religions chose to ignore because accepting it would put them out of business.

Therefore all the many gods and religions were simply recent, made-up fantasies.

Then why did so many people choose to believe, Ainslie often asked himself. One answer: It was mainly their subconscious urge to escape oblivion the dust-to-dust concept, which, ironically, Ecclesiastes spelled out so well.

That which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts . . .a man hath no preeminence above a beast; for all is vanity. All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.

Should the practice of religion be discouraged? Absolutely not! Those who found solace in it should be left alone and, if need be, protected. Malcolm vowed that he would never, of his own accord, disturb the genuine beliefs of others.

As for himself, what came next? Clearly he would quit the priesthood. In retrospect he saw his choice of vocation as a mistake from the beginning a reality easier to confront because of his mother's death, a year earlier. At their final meeting, and knowing the end was near, Victoria Ainslie had held his hand and whispered, "You became a priest because I wanted it. I'm not sure you really did, but I was full of pride and had my way. I wonder if God will hold that against me as a sin." Malcolm had assured her that God would not, nor did he regret his choice. Victoria died peacefully. But, without her, he felt free to change his mind.

* * *

A flight attendant's voice on the PA system broke into Malcolm's thoughts. "The captain advises we will shortly begin our approach into Atlanta. Please make sure your seat belts are fastened, tray tables stowed, and seat backs restored . . ."

Tuning out those familiar words, Malcolm drifted back into the past.

* * *

He stayed at the monastery for another month, allowing time for his mind to change. But his convictions only deepened, and at the end of the second month, he wrote a letter of resignation as a priest and simply left.

After walking several miles, carrying all that he wanted from his past in a single suitcase, he was given a ride by a truck driver into Philadelphia. Taking a bus to the city's airport and undecided where to go, he impulsively bought a ticket on the next flight out a nonstop to Miami. There his new life began.

Soon after Malcolm's arrival he met Karen, a Canadian on vacation.

They were in line at Stan's Dry Cleaners. Malcolm, leaving some shirts for laundering, had been asked by a clerk if he wanted them folded or on hangers. He was hesitating when a voice behind him prompted, "If you travel a lot folded. If you don't, have hangers."

"I'm all through with traveling," he said, turning to face the attractive young woman who had spoken. Then to the clerk, "So make it hangers."

After Karen had left a dress for cleaning, she found Ainslie waiting at the doorway. "Just wanted to say thanks for your help."

"Why are you through with traveling?" she asked.

"Not the best place to tell you. How about over lunch?"

Karen paused for only a moment, then answered cheerfully, "Sure. Why not?"

Thus their romance began, and they quickly fell in love, leading to Ainslie's proposal of marriage two weeks later.

At about the same time, Malcolm read in the Miami Herald that the city police force was recruiting. Spurred by the memory of Russell's father, Detective Kermit Sheldon, who had befriended the Ainslie family, Malcolm applied. He was accepted, and enrolled in the Police Department Academy's ten-week course, emerging with distinction.

Karen not only had no objection to living in Florida instead of Toronto, but loved the idea. And having by now learned about his past, she was perceptive concerning Malcolm's work choice. "In a way you'll be doing the kind of thing you did before keeping humanity on the straight and narrow."

He had laughed. "It will be a lot more gritty, but a hell of a lot more practical."

In the end, it turned out to be both.

* * *

After a gap of several months, Malcolm learned that Russell Sheldon, too, had left the official Catholic Church. Russell's first objective was simple: he wanted to marry and have children. He wrote in a letter to Malcolm:

Did you know there are seventeen thousand of us, more or less, in the United States priests who left the Church by their own decision, and most in their thirties? That's a Catholic figure, by the way.

Russell, however, neither lost his beliefs nor abandoned religion, and joined an independent Catholic group in Chicago, where he was accepted as a priest, his unfrocking ignored. In the same letter Russell wrote:

We worship God and Jesus, but regard the Vatican and Curia as power-obsessed, inward-looking pachyderms which eventually will self-destruct.

And we are not alone. All over America are about three hundred parishes of Catholics who 've cut their ties to Rome. There are more here in Illinois, five we know of in South Florida, others in California. Don't have a full list because there's no central authority and may never be. Our feeling is that some "infallible" HQ, staffed by deputy-gods, is the last thing we need.

Oh yes, we do certain things Rome wouldn't like. We let all who wish take Communion, believing we don't have to protect God from anyone. We'll marry divorced Catholics, and those of the same sex if that's their choice. We do our utmost to persuade against abortion; on the other hand, we believe in a woman's right to choose.

We've no elaborate church, no fancy robes, statuary, stained glass, or gold ornaments, and won't be buying any. Whatever spare money there is we use to feed the homeless.

From time to time we're attacked by the Roman Catholic Church, and as our numbers grow, it happens more often. They're increasingly nervous, we thing An RC archbishop told a newspaper reporter that nothing whatever that we do has God's blessing. Can you believe that! Rome has the holy ointment; no one else.

Malcolm still heard from Russell occasionally. He continued to be an independent priest, happily married to a former Catholic nun; at last report they had two children.

* * *

The Delta flight touched down smoothly at Atlanta and taxied in. All that remained now was the two-hour flight to Toronto.

Gratefully, Malcolm turned his mind from the past to pleasant thoughts of the next few days ahead.

5

Outside immigration and customs at Toronto airport Malcolm was confronted by a raised card reading ANSLIE, held by a uniformed limousine driver.

"Mr. Ainslie from Miami?" the young man inquired pleasantly as Malcolm stopped.

"Yes, but I wasn't expecting "

"I have a car here with the compliments of General Grundy. It's right outside. May I take your bag, sir?"

Karen's parents, George and Violet Grundy, lived in Scarborough Township, near the eastern limits of Metro Toronto. The journey there took an hour and a quarter longer than usual because of a heavy snowfall the previous night, only partially cleared from the transprovince Highway 401. The sky was gloomily gray and the temperature near freezing. Like many Floridians heading north during the winter months, Malcolm realized he was dressed far too lightly, and if Karen had not brought him some warm clothes, he would have to buy or borrow some.

His reception at the Grundys' modest suburban home, however, was exceedingly warm. The moment the limousine stopped outside, the front door flew open and a flock of family members streamed out to greet him Karen in front, Jason close behind. Karen kissed and hugged him tightly, whispering, "It's so good to have you," which was unexpected and reassuring. Jason was tugging at his coat, shouting, "Daddy! Daddy!" Ainslie lifted him with a joyous "Happy birthday!" and the three were locked together in each other's arms.

But not for long. Karen's younger sister, Sofia, tall, slim, and sexy, eased herself in to give Malcolm an affectionate kiss, followed by her husband, Gary Moxie, a Winnipeg stockbroker who gripped Malcolm's hand, assuring him, "The whole family's proud of what you do, Malc. Want to hear a lot about it while you're with us." The Moxies' two daughters, Myra, twelve, and Susan, ten, joined the noisy, fond welcome.

Violet Grundy, elegant and motherly, with large eyes and a sweet smile, was next, embracing her son-in-law. "We're all so happy you could come. A little delay doesn't matter; what's important is you're here."

As the others turned back toward the house, George Grundy, white-haired, erect, and not an ounce overweight at seventy-five, put an arm around Malcolm's shoulders. "Gary's right, we're proud of you. Sometimes people forget how important it is to put duty first; nowadays so many don't." George lowered his voice. "I gave them all especially Karen a little lecture on the subject."

Ainslie smiled; the brief confidence explained a lot. Karen adored her father, and whatever he had said clearly had a strong effect. "Thank you," he said appreciatively. "And a very happy birthday."

Brigadier General George Grundy, an active-duty soldier for most of his life, had served in the Canadian Army in Europe through World War II, where he was commissioned from the ranks, survived some of the heaviest fighting, and received the Military Cross. Later he'd fought in the Korean War. Since retiring at age fifty-five he had been a college lecturer, specializing in international affairs.

"Let's get inside before you turn into a pillar of ice," George Grundy said. "They've planned a full program for both of us."

* * *

The welcoming continued through the day. The doublebirthday dinner for George and Jason included an additional twelve people, a total of twenty, crammed into the Grundys' modest house. The newcomers included Karen's older brother, Lindsay, from Montreal, who, like Malcolm, had been delayed by his work. With him was his wife, Isabel, their grown son, Owen, and Owen's wife, Yvonne. The other seven guests were longtime friends, mainly exmilitary, of George and Violet.

Amid it all, Malcolm found himself the center of attention. "It's like having a real detective from TV," twelve-year-old Myra said after plying him with questions.

Jason sat up, suddenly alert. "My dad's a lot neater than those guys on TV."

Others wanted to hear a description of the execution Malcolm had just attended, of the murders that preceded it, and how they were unraveled. Malcolm answered as honestly as he could, though he left out his final confrontation with Elroy Doil.

"One reason for our interest," George Grundy said, "is the big increase of violent crime in Canada. Time was when you could walk out of your house and feel safe, but not anymore. Now we're almost as gun-crazy here as you are in the States." There were murmurs of agreement.

During a discussion about homicides, Malcolm explained that most murderers were caught either because they did stupid things or failed to realize the forces they were up against.

"You'd think," Sofia Moxie said, "that with so much information in newspapers and novels, and on TV about crime and punishment, they'd know the odds are against them."

"You would," Malcolm acknowledged. "But the murderers out there are often young and not well informed."

"Maybe they're not informed because they don't read much," Owen Grundy said. He was thin and wiry, an architect with a passion for oil painting.

Malcolm nodded. "Lots of them don't read at all. Some probably can't read."

"But they must watch television," Myra said. "And TV criminals get caught."

"Sure they do," Malcolm agreed: "But the crooks on TV seem like big shots. They get noticed, and that's what kids especially deprived kids want. The consequences come later, when it's usually too late."

To Malcolm's surprise, most of the group favored the death penalty for murder, even crimes of passion. It was an opinion-swing evident in the United States, and now perhaps in Canada, where capital punishment had been abolished nationally in 1976. Isabel Grundy, a homemaker and physics teacher, with a brusque no-nonsense manner, was vehement. "We should bring back capital punishment. Some people say it isn't a deterrent, but common sense says it has to be. Besides, those who get executed are usually the scum of the earth. I know that's not fashionable to say, but it's true!"

Out of curiosity, Malcolm asked, "What kind of death penalty would you favor?"

"Hanging, electrocution, injection I don't care which, as long as we're rid of those people." There was an awkward silence, because Isabel had spoken heatedly. Just the same, Malcolm noted, no one contradicted her.

* * *

For the birthday dinner, a partition between the living and dining rooms had been opened to accommodate a fifteen-foot table with colorful streamers and party hats. While caterers prepared to serve a four-course meal, George and Jason took their places of honor, side by side.

George looked around and commented, "I have a feeling something should be said . . ."

Karen told her father, "Let Malcolm!"

Heads turned toward him. Gary Moxie said, "Ball's in your court, Malc."

Raising his head, Malcolm said, smiling, "A few unrehearsed thoughts for this historic occasion. . ."

He continued, looking around and speaking clearly, "At this table, where we join for food and fellowship, we reaffirm our belief in ethics, truth, love, and especially today the best ideals of family life. We celebrate this family's unity, its achievements, good fortune, and for our youngest clan here their promise, dreams, and hopes. On this sunny occasion for George and Jason we pledge our mutual loyalty, promising to support each other in difficult times, however and wherever these occur. And as well as family, we welcome those treasured friends who share our celebration and affections."

Malcolm concluded, aware of bilingual Canada, with a robust "Salut!"

Amid appreciative murmurs, the toast was echoed. One of the guests said, "I'm a churchgoer, but I like that better than a lot of conventional graces that I've listened to."

The meal proceeded roast turkey as its centrepiece followed by more toasts and responses, including a simple but heartfelt "Thanks a lot!" from Jason.

* * *

The following morning Malcolm, Karen, and Jason walked together through the residential lakeside streets of Scarborough. From high bluffs they could see clearly across Lake Ontario, though neighboring New York State, some ninety miles away, was beyond their sight. It had snowed again during the night, and the trio threw snowballs at each other. After three tries, Jason finally found his target: Malcolm's head. "Wish we had snow in Miami!" he shouted happily.

He was a sturdy boy, square-shouldered, with long, well-shaped legs. His eyes were wide and brown and often looked serious and questioning, as if aware that there was much to discover, though the means of doing so was at times unclear. But now and then his face would light up with a radiant smile as if to remind the world that life was sunny after all.

Brushing the powdery snow from each other, they resumed walking. These moments were all too few, Malcolm realized, draping his arms around his wife and son.

After a while, as Jason skipped ahead, Karen said, "I guess this is as good a time as any to break some news. I'm pregnant."

Malcolm stopped, his eyes wide. "I thought. . ."

"So did I. It shows sometimes doctors can be wrong. I've had two examinations, the second yesterday; didn't want to tell you sooner and raise both our hopes. But, Malcolm, think about it we're going to have a baby!"

For the past four years they had wanted another child, but Karen's gynecologist had told her it was unlikely to happen. Karen went on, "I'd planned to tell you on the airplane coming here . . ."

Malcolm clapped a hand to his head. "Now I understand how you felt yesterday. Darling, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I know you did the right thing. Anyway, here we are, and now we know. Are you happy?"

Instead of answering, Malcolm swept Karen into his arms and kissed her.

"Hey!" Jason said, and laughed. "Look out!" Then, as they turned, a snowball hit them, perfectly aimed.

* * *

"We gotta do this more often," Gary Moxie said early on the fourth day when the family rendezvous was breaking up with affectionate farewells. They had risen before dawn for a quick breakfast, then departed in several cars, all heading for the Toronto airport and early flights.

George Grundy drove Karen, Malcolm, and Jason. On the way, Jason chatted happily. He said, "Gramps, I'm sure glad we have the same birthday."

"Me too, son," the general told him. "I hope when I'm not around anymore, you'll celebrate for both of us. Think you can do that?"

"Oh yes."

"He'll do it," Karen said. "But you're talking a long way off, Dad. How about having next year's birthdays in Miami? We'll invite the family."

"A done deal!" Her father turned to Malcolm, who was seated behind. "If that's okay with you?"

Malcolm looked startled. "Sorry! What was that?"

Karen sighed. "Hello! Anyone home?"

George Grundy laughed. "Never mind. Used to be that way myself; I know the signs. Were you sorting out tomorrow's problems?"

"To tell the truth, I was," Malcolm acknowledged. He had been wondering: What was the best way to deal with the still unanswered questions arising from the final dialogue with Elroy Doil? And how quickly could it be done?

6

As it turned out, Malcolm Ainslie had no chance whatever to think about Doil during most of his first day back at work. Upon reaching his desk in Homicide, he found the entire surface covered with files and paper accumulated during the four days he was away.

The first priority was a pile of detectives' overtime slips. Ainslie pulled them toward him. At the next desk, Detective Jose Garcia greeted him with, ''Nice to have you back, Sergeant," then, seeing the overtime slips, "Glad to see you're getting to the important stuff first."

"I know how you guys operate," Ainslie said. "Always out to make an extra buck."

Garcia feigned outrage. "Hey, we got to make sure our kids get fed."

In truth, overtime pay was critical to detectives' livelihoods. Paradoxically, while a promotion to detective was coveted and went only to the best and brightest, on the Miami police force no extra pay accompanied the advancement.

Until 1978 Miami detectives received an extra hundred Dollars a month in recognition of their specialized duties, skills, and risks. But that year the Fraternal Order of Police union, in which detectives were an oft-ignored minority, needed a bargaining chip and gave away the bonus a sellout, as detectives saw it, making overtime earnings a necessity. Now, on average, a detective working a regular forty-hour week earned $880, from which taxes took a hefty bite. An additional twenty hours' overtime produced another $660. However, there was a price: any hours left for the detective's normal home life were virtually nil.

Every hour of overtime, though, was reported in detail, then certified by a sergeant in charge of a detective team a time-consuming chore that Ainslie impatiently completed.

After that came semiannual personnel evaluations one was now due for each detective on his team, handwritten for a secretary to type. Then still more paper a review of detectives' reports on investigations in progress, including new homicides all for memorizing, signature, and action where needed.

"Sometimes," Ainslie complained to Sergeant Pablo Greene, "I feel like a clerk in a Dickens novel."

Greene replied, "That's because we're all busting our butts for Scrooge."

Thus, it was not until late afternoon of his initial day back that Ainslie had time for the Doil matter. Carrying the tape recording, he headed for Newbold's office.

"What kept you?" Leo Newbold asked. "On second thought, don't tell me."

While Ainslie set up a tape recorder, Newbold told his secretary, "No calls unless it's urgent," and closed his office door. "I've been looking forward to hearing this."

Ainslie let the tape run from the beginning when he had switched. it on in the small, austere office near the execution chamber. There was a short silence, then the sound of a door opening as the young prison officer, Ham brick, returned with Elroy Doil, his head shaved, along with two prison guards, the grim procession trailed by the chaplain, Father Ray Uxbridge. Ainslie murmured an explanation of the sounds.

Newbold listened intently to the exchanges that followed: the chaplain's oleaginous voice . . . Doil's blurred tones addressing Ainslie, "Bless me, Father..." Uxbridge shouting, "Blasphemy!" . . . Doil shouting, "Get that asshole out. . ."

Newbold shook his head, his face incredulous. "I can't believe this."

"Wait, there's more."

The recording was quieter as Ainslie went through the charade of hearing Doil's "confession."

"I killed some people, Father". . .

"Who was the first?"

"Coupla Japs in Tampa"...

Newbold, his attention riveted, began making notes.

Soon, Doil's affirmation of his other killings...Esperanzas, Frosts, Larsens, Hennenfelds, Urbinas, Tempones . . .

"The numbers don't add up," Newbold said. "You told me so, though I was hoping . . ."

"That my math was wrong?" Ainslie smiled faintly, shaking his head.

Next came Doil's frantic plea concerning the Ernst murders: "Father, I swear. .. I didn't do it. . . ain't fuckin' true. . . don't wanna die bein' blamed for what I never done . . . "

The outpouring continued, then abruptly Newbold exclaimed, "Stop it!" Ainslie pressed the black PAUSE key. In the glass-paneled office there was silence.

''Jesus! It's so goddam real." Newbold rose from his chair, took an impulsive turn around the room, then asked,

"How far away was Doil from being dead when he said all this?"

"Ten minutes, maybe. Not much more."

"I don't know, I just don't know. I was sure I wouldn't believe him . . . But when death is that close . . ." The lieutenant faced Ainslie directly. "Do you believe what he said?"

Ainslie answered carefully. "I've always had doubts about that one, as you know, so. . ." He left the sentence incomplete.

Newbold finished it. "You find it easier to believe Doil."

Ainslie was silent. There seemed nothing more to say.

"Let's hear the rest of it," Newbold said.

Ainslie pressed PLAY.

He heard himself ask Doil, "About all those killings the fourteen you admit to. Are you sorry for those?"

"Fuck 'em all!. . . Just forgive me them others I never done. ''

"He's insane," Newbold said. "Or was."

"I thought so, too; still do. But the insane aren't lying every minute."

"He was a pathological liar," Newbold reminded them both.

They stopped, listening again as Ainslie told Doil, ". . . a priest could not give you absolution, and I'm not a priest. "

Then Lieutenant Hambrick, confronting Ainslie: "You know enough. . . Do something!''

Newbold's eyes were on Ainslie during Foucauld's Prayer of Abandonment, which Ainslie intoned and Doil repeated. The lieutenant passed a hand across his face, seemingly moved, then said softly, "You're a good man, Malcolm."

Ainslie switched off the recorder and rewound the tape. Back at his desk, Newbold sat silently, clearly weighing what he had believed against what he had just heard. After a while he said, "You were in charge of the task force, Malcolm, so to that extent it's still your case. What do you suggest?"

"We check everything Doil claimed the money clip, a robbery, the Ikeis, the knife he talked about, and a grave. I'll give it to Ruby Bower she's good at that kind of thing. At the end we'll know how much Doil was Iying, or if he was Iying at all."

"And if, just for once," Newbold queried, "Doil wasn't Iying?"

"There isn't any choice. We take a fresh look at the Ernsts."

Newbold looked glum. Few things in police work equaled the frustration of reopening a closed murder case that everyone believed was solved, especially one so public and celebrated.

"Do it," Newbold said finally. "Get Ruby started. We have to know."

7

"Check out those things in whatever order you want, Detective," Ainslie told Ruby Bowel "But at some point you'll have to go to Tampa."

It was shortly after 7:00 A.M. the morning following Ainslie's session with Lieutenant Newbold, and they were in the Homicide offices, Bowe in a chair alongside Ainslie's desk. The previous evening he had given her a tape deck and a headset, telling her to take both home and listen to the State Prison recording. When he first saw her this morning she had shaken her head in dismay. "That was heavy shit. I didn't sleep much afterward. But I felt it. Closed my eyes and I was there."

"So you heard the things Doil said, the stuff we need to check?"

"I wrote them down." Bowe handed Ainslie a notepad, which he glanced at. Typically, she had listed every point requiring follow-up.

"It's all yours," he told her finally. "I know you'll get it right."

Ruby Bowe left, and Ainslie returned to the accumulated paper that confronted him though unaware he would have only a few fleeting minutes in which to work on it.. . .

* * *

The 911 call came through to the Miami Police Communication Center at 7:32 A.M.

A complaint clerk responded. "Nine-one-one Emergency, may I help you?" Simultaneously the caller's phone number and a name, T. DAVANAL, appeared on an ID box above the clerk's computer.

A woman's breathless voice: "Send the police to 2801 Brickell Avenue, just east of Viscaya. My husband has been shot."

As the caller spoke, the complaint clerk typed the information, then pressed a computer "F" function key, sending the data to a woman dispatcher in another section of the spacious room.

The dispatcher reacted promptly, knowing that the address given was in Zone 74. Her own computer already displayed a list of patrol cars available, with their numbers and locales. Making a selection, she called by radio, "Oneseven-four."

When Unit 174 responded, the dispatcher sent a loud "beep,'' prefacing an urgent message. Then by voice, "Take a three-thirty at 2801 Brickell Avenue, east of Viscaya." The "three" was for "emergency with lights and siren," the "thirty" notified a reported firearm discharge.

"QSL. I am at Alice Wainwright Park, close by."

While the dispatcher was speaking, she signaled Harry Clemente, the Communications sergeant in charge of dispatch and radio traffic, who left his central desk and joined her. She pointed to the address on her screen. "That's familiar. Is it who I think it is?"

Clemente leaned forward, then said, "If you mean the Davanals, you're goddam right!"

"It's a three-thirty."

"Holy shit!" The sergeant read the other information. "They got trouble. Thanks, I'll stay close."

The original complaints clerk was still speaking with the 911 caller. "A police unit is on the way to you. Please let me verify your last name. Is the spelling D-a-v-a-n-a-l?"

Impatiently: "Yes, yes. It's my father's name. Mine is Maddox-Davanal.''

The clerk was tempted to ask, Are you the famous Davanal family? Instead she requested, "Ma'am, please stay on the phone until the police unit arrives."

"I can't. I have other things to do." A click as the caller's phone connection ended.

At 7:39 A.M. the dispatcher received a radio call from Unit 174. "We have a shooting here. Request a Homicide unit to Tac One."

"QRX" shorthand for "stand by."

Malcolm Ainslie was at his desk in Homicide, with his portable radio switched on, when he heard Unit 174's message. Still sorting papers, he motioned to Jorge. ''You take it."

"Okay, Sarge." Reaching for his own radio, Rodriguez told the dispatcher, "Thirteen-eleven going to Tac One for Unit one-seven-four." Then, selecting the Tac One channel exclusive to Homicide: "One-seven-four, this is thirteen-eleven. QSK?"

"Thirteen-eleven, we have a DOA at 2801 Brickell Avenue. A possible thirty-one."

On hearing the address, followed by 31 for "homicide," Ainslie looked up sharply. Abandoning files and papers, he pushed his chair back from the desk and stood. He nodded to Jorge, who transmitted, "One-seven-four, we're en route to you. Secure the scene. Call for more help if needed." Pocketing the radio, he asked, "Is that the home of that rich family?"

"Damn right. The Davanals. I know the address; everyone does." In Miami there was no escaping the family name and its fame. Davanal's department stores were a huge Florida-wide chain. There was also a Davanal-owned TV station which Felicia Maddox-Davanal managed personally. But more than that, the family originally mid-European but American-Floridian since World War I was prestigious and powerful, both politically and financially. The Davanals were constantly in the news, sometimes referred to as "Miami's royalty." A less kindly commentator once added, "And they behave that way."

A telephone rang. Rodriguez answered, then passed the phone to Ainslie. "It's Sergeant Clemente in Communications."

"We're on to it, Harry," Ainslie said. "The uniforms called. We're leaving now."

"The DOA is Byron Maddox-Davanal, the son-in-law. His wife made the nine-one-one. You know about the name?"

"Remind me."

"He was plain Maddox when he married Felicia. Family insisted on his name change. Couldn't bear the thought of the Davanal name someday disappearing."

"Thanks. Every bit of info helps."

As he replaced the phone, Ainslie told Rodriguez, "A lot of power people will be watching this one, Jorge, so we can't screw up a thing. You go ahead, get a car and wait downstairs. I'll tell the lieutenant."

Newbold, who had just arrived in his office, looked up as Ainslie strode in. "What's up?"

"A possible thirty-one on Byron Maddox-Davanal at the family home. I'm just leaving."

Newbold looked startled. "Jesus! Isn't he the one who married Felicia?"

"He is. Or was."

"And she's old man Davanal's granddaughter, right?"

"You got it. She made the nine-one-one. Thought you'd want to know." As Ainslie left hurriedly, the lieutenant reached for his phone.

* * *

"It looks like some feudal castle," Jorge observed as they approached the imposing Davanal residence in an unmarked car.

The turreted, multi-roofed house and its grounds sprawled over three and a half acres. Surrounded by a high, fortress-like wall of quarried stone with buttressed corners, the entire place had a medieval flavor. "I wonder why they didn't include a moat and drawbridge," Ainslie said.

Beyond the whole complex was Biscayne Bay and, farther out, the Atlantic Ocean.

The massive, rambling house, only partly seen from outside, was accessible through a pair of handsome wrought iron gates bearing decorative heraldry. At the moment the gates were closed, but on the far side of them a long winding driveway was visible.

"Oh, goddam, not already!'' Ainslie exclaimed. He saw a mobile TV van immediately ahead and realized that the Miami media people, monitoring police radio, must have recognized the Davanal address. The van bore the insignia of WBEQ, the Davanal-owned TV station. Perhaps someone inside had tipped them off to be here first, he thought.

Three police blue-and-whites were near the entrance gates, roof lights flashing. Either Unit 174 had asked for help or more units had responded anyway probably the latter. Nothing like a nosy cop, Ainslie reflected. An argument appeared to be taking place at the gate between two uniforms and the TV crew, among them an attractive black reporter, Ursula Felix, whom Ainslie knew. Already, yellow POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape was in place across the entranceway, though a uniform officer, recognizing Ainslie and Rodriguez, opened a gap, leaving room for their car to pass.

Jorge slowed, but the reporter rushed forward, blocking them. Ainslie lowered his window. "Hey, Malcolm," she pleaded, "talk some sense into these guys! The boss lady, Mrs. Davanal, wants us inside; she phoned to say so. WBEQ is the Davanals' station, and whatever's going on, we want to catch the morning news." As she spoke, Ursula Felix pressed herself against the side of the car. Her ample breasts, made more prominent by a tight silk blouse, were so close that Ainslie could have touched them. Her jet black hair was tightly braided, and a heady perfume wafted into the car.

So there had been a call from inside, Ainslie thought and not from just anyone. Felicia Maddox-Davanal had made the call, a woman who had reportedly become a widow only minutes before.

"Look, Ursula," he said, "right now this is a crime scene, and you know the rules. We'll have a PIO here soon, and he'll let you know whatever we can release."

A cameraman behind the reporter cut in, "Mrs. Davanal doesn't recognize rules when there's Davanal property involved, and it's theirs both sides of the gate." He gestured to the TV van and the house.

"And the lady runs a tight ship," Ursula added. "If we don't get through, we could be out on our asses."

"I'll keep that in mind." Ainslie motioned to Jorge to drive forward through the heavy gates.

"You'll be lead detective," he told Jorge, "though I'll work closely with you."

"Yes, Sergeant."

Gravel crunched beneath their tires as they negotiated the driveway, passing high palms and fruit trees, then a parked white Bentley near the house. They stopped at an impressive main entrance where one of a pair of ponderous double doors was ajar. As Ainslie and Jorge alighted, the door opened fully and a tall, dignified, middle-aged man appeared, impeccably groomed and clearly a butler. He glanced at both detectives' ID badges, then spoke with a British accent.

"Good morning, Officers. Please come inside." In the spacious, grandly furnished hallway he turned. "Mrs. Maddox-Davanal is telephoning. She asked that you wait for her here."

"No," Ainslie said. "There's been a report of a shooting. We'll go to the scene immediately." A wide carpeted corridor branched off to the right; near the end was a uniformed officer who called out, "The body's this way."

As Ainslie moved, the butler insisted, "Mrs. MaddoxDavanal particularly asked "

Ainslie paused. "What is your name?"

"I'm Mr. Holdsworth."

Jorge, already making notes, added, "First name?"

"Humphrey. But please realize that this house is "

"No, Holdsworth," Ainslie said. "You realize. This house is now a crime scene, and the police are in charge. A lot of our people will be coming and going. Do not get in their way, but don't leave; we'll need to question you. Also, do not disturb anything in the house from the way it is now. Is that clear?"

"I suppose so," Holdsworth said grudgingly.

"And tell Mrs. Maddox-Davanal we would like to see her soon."

Ainslie walked the length of the corridor, Jorge follow ing. The waiting uniform, whose name tag read NAVARRO, announced, "In here, Sergeant," and led the way through an open door into what appeared to be a combined exercise room and study. Ainslie and Jorge, both with notebooks in hand, stood in the doorway, taking in the scene before them.

The room was large and sunny, with early-morning sunlight coming through open French doors. Beyond the doors was an ornate patio providing a spectacular view of the surrounding bay and distant ocean. Within the room and nearest the detectives, a half-dozen black-and-chrome exercise machines were lined up like spartan sentries. An elaborate weightlifting machine dominated, then a rowing simulator, a program treadmill, a climbing device, and two machines of unclear purpose. Easily thirty thousand Dollars' worth, Ainslie guessed.

In the same room, facing the exercise area, was the study elegant and luxurious, with lounge chairs, several tables and cabinets, oak bookshelves filled with leatherbound volumes, and a handsome modern desk with a reclining chair pushed back some distance from the desk.

On the floor between desk and chair was a dead white male. The body was lying on its right side, with the top left side of the head missing, and around the head and shoulders was a melange of blood, bone splinters, and brains. The bloody mess, beginning to coagulate, extended beyond the body and onto the floor at front and sides. The dead man was dressed in tan slacks and a white shirt, now drenched with blood.

Though no weapon was visible, all signs pointed to death by gunshot.

"Since you arrived," Rodriguez asked Navarro, "has anything been touched or changed?"

The young of fleer shook his head. "Nothing. I know the drill." A thought struck him. "The dead man's wife was in the room when I got here. She could have moved something. You'll have to ask her."

"We will," Jorge said. "But let me ask you this for the record. There's no weapon in sight. Have you seen one here or anywhere else?"

"I've been looking since I got here, but haven't seen one yet.''

Ainslie asked, "When you found Mrs. Maddox-Davanal here, how did she seem?"

Navarro hesitated, then gestured to the body. "Considering the way everything was, and this being her husband and all, she seemed pretty calm; you could even say poised. I wondered about it. The other thing . . ."

Ainslie prompted, "Go ahead."

"She told me there was a TV crew coming from WBEQ. That's the "

"Yes, the Davanals' station. What about it?"

"She wanted me pretty much ordered me to make sure they were let in. I told her she'd have to wait for Homicide. She didn't like that." The young policeman hesitated again. "If there's something else on your mind, let's hear it," Jorge said.

"Well, it's only an impression, but I think the lady's used to being in control of everything and everybody and she doesn't like things any other way."

Ainslie asked, "And all that was happening while her husband was lying there" he pointed to the body "like that?"

"Just like that." Navarro shrugged. "I guess the rest is for you guys to figure out."

"We'll try," Jorge said, scribbling notes. "Always helps, though, when we draw an observant cop."

Jorge then made the routine calls on his portable radio, summoning an ID crew, a medical examiner, and a state attorney. Soon this room and other parts of the house would be crowded and busy.

"I'll take a look around," Ainslie said. Stepping carefully, he approached the open French doors. He had already noticed that one door seemed to be out of line with the other; inspecting closely, he observed what looked like fresh pry marks on the outside of both doors, around the knobs and lock. Outside he saw several brown footprints on the patio, as if someone had stepped in loose dirt or mud. Beyond the footprints he saw a flower bed fronting a four-foot wall, with more prints in the soil, as if the same person had come over the wall, then approached the house. The prints appeared to be from some kind of athletic shoes.

Within the past few minutes the earlier sunshine had given way to darkening clouds, and now rain seemed likely. Ainslie hurried back inside and instructed Officer Navarro to cordon off the rear of the house and have another uniform officer guard the area.

"As soon as the ID crew gets here," he told Jorge, "have them photograph those footprints before the rain washes them out, and get plaster casts of the ones in the soil. Looks as if someone broke in," Ainslie continued. "In which case it would be before the victim came to this room."

Jorge considered. "Even so, Maddox-Davanal would have seen an intruder remember, he has a contact wound, so they'd be close. Judging by those exercise gizmos, the guy must have been fit, so you'd expect him to put up a fight, but there's no sign of one."

"He could have been taken by surprise. Whoever fired the shot could have hidden, then come up behind him."

"Hidden where?"

Together they looked around the spacious room. It was Jorge who pointed to a pair of green velvet curtains on either side of the French doors. The curtain on the right was held back by a looped sash, but on the left side the sash was hanging downward and the curtain was loose. Ainslie crossed to the left curtain, drew it toward him carefully, and looked behind it. On the rug were traces of mud.

"I'll get ID onto that, too," Jorge said. "What we need now are some times. Of death, of discovery of the body . . ."

The butler, Holdsworth, appeared and addressed Ainslie. "Mrs. Maddox-Davanal will see you now. Please follow me."

Ainslie hesitated. In a Homicide inquiry it was the investigating detective who sent for those to be questioned, not the other way around. Yet it was not unreasonable, he thought, that a wife would prefer to stay away from the room where her husband's dead body still lay. Ainslie had the right, if he chose, to take anyone, including Davanal family members and staff, to Police Headquarters for questioning, but what, at this point, would that gain?

"All right, lead on," he told Holdsworth, and to Jorge: "I'll come back with some answers about times."

* * *

The drawing room to which Malcolm Ainslie was escorted matched the rest of the house in spaciousness, style, and signs of obvious wealth. Felicia Maddox-Davanal sat on a large wing chair, upholstered in a handsome silk brocade. She was a beautiful woman of about forty, with a classic aristocratic face, straight nose, high cheekbones, smooth brow and jaw the last hinting at an early face-lift. Her light brown hair, thick and shining, with blond highlights, fell loosely to her shoulders. She wore a short cream colored skirt that showed her well-shaped legs, and a matching silk blouse with a wide, gold-trimmed belt. She was perfectly groomed in every way face, hair, nails, and clothes and knew it, Ainslie thought.

Without speaking, she motioned him to an armless French antique chair facing her a somewhat rickety gem and decidedly uncomfortable, he noted with amusement. If it was an attempt to make him feel servile, it wouldn't happen.

As he usually did in circumstances of bereavement, Ainslie began, "I'd like to say I'm sorry about your husband's death "

"That is not required." Davanal's voice was firmly composed. "I will deal myself with personal matters. Let us confine ourselves to official business. You are a sergeant, I believe."

"Detective-Sergeant Ainslie." He was on the point of adding "ma'am" but didn't. Two could play the dominance game.

"Well, before anything else, I wish to know why a crew from my own television station entirelyDavanal-owned has been prevented from coming to this house, which is also Davanal property."

"Mrs. Maddox-Davanal," Ainslie said quietly but firmly, "as a courtesy I will answer that question, even though I think you already know the answer. But when I have finished I will take over this interview." He was conscious, as he spoke, of the woman's cool gray eyes focused unwaveringly on him. He met her gaze with equal aplomb.

"About the TV crew," he said. "A so-far unexplained death has occurred here, and for the time being, no matter who owns this house, the police are in charge. And not allowing the media any media person into a homicide investigation is standard and lawful police procedure. Now, having dealt with that, I would like to hear, please, all that you know about your husband's death."

"Just a moment!" An elegant forefinger was pointed toward him. "Who is your superior officer?"

"Detective-Lieutenant Leo Newbold."

"Only a lieutenant? In light of your attitude, Sergeant, and before going any further, I shall speak to the chief of police."

Unexpectedly and out of nowhere, Ainslie realized, a confrontation had occurred. Still, it was not unprecedented; sudden stress, especially a violent death, sometimes had that effect on people. Then he remembered Officer Navarro's comment: The lady's used to being in control. . . she doesn't like things any other way.

"Madam,'' Ainslie said, "I will accompany you to a telephone right now, where you may, by all means, call Chief Ketledge." He let his voice become steely. "But while you are talking, inform him that when your conversation is over, I am taking you into custody and that means restrained in handcuffs to Homicide headquarters because of your refusal to cooperate in the investigation of your husband's shooting death."

They faced each other, Davanal breathing heavily, her lips tightly set, her eyes reflecting hatred. At length she looked away, then, turning back, said in a lowered voice, "Ask your questions."

Ainslie took no pleasure in his dialectical victory, and in a normal tone he asked, "When and how did you first learn of your husband's death?"

"Shortly before seven-thirty this morning. I went to my husband's bedroom, which is on the same floor as mine, wanting to ask him a question. When I saw he wasn't there, I went to his study on this floor he often gets up early and goes there. I found his body as you saw it. Immediately I called the police."

"What was the question you wanted to ask your husband?"

"What?" Davanal appeared startled by Ainslie's unexpected query, and he repeated it.

"It was . . ." She seemed at a loss for words. "I really don't remember."

"Is there a connecting door between your bedroom and your husband's?"

"Well . . . no.'' An awkward pause. "These are strange questions."

Not so strange, Ainslie thought. First, there was no ready explanation for Davanal going to her husband. Second, the absence of a connecting bedroom door said something about the pair's relationship. "Your husband appears to have received a gunshot wound. Did you hear a shot being fired, or any other noise that could have been a shot?"

"NO, I did not."

"Then it's possible your husband could have been killed quite some time before you found him?"

"I suppose so.''

"Did your husband have any great problems or enemies? Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill him?"

"No." Mrs. Maddox-Davanal had recovered her composure, and went on, "You will learn this sooner or later, so I may as well say it now. In certain ways my husband and I were not close; he had his interests, I have mine, they did not overlap."

"Had this arrangement been going on a long time?"

"For about six years; we were married for nine."

"Did you argue a lot?"

"No." She corrected herself. "Well, we quarreled occasionally about trivial things, but in important ways, hardly at all.''

"Were either of you considering a divorce?"

"No. The arrangement we had suited us both. For me there were certain advantages in being married; in a way, it provided a kind of freedom. As for Byron, the plain fact is, he was on to a pretty good thing."

"Will you explain that?"

"When we were married, Byron was a very attractive and popular man, but he didn't have much money and no great job prospects. After our marriage, both of those things were taken care of."

"Could you be specific?"

"He was given two important management posts first in Davanal's department stores, then at WBEQ."

"Was he still doing either of those jobs?" Ainslie asked.

"No." Felicia hesitated, then went on, "The truth is, Byron didn't measure up. He was lazy and lacked ability. In the end we had to remove him from our business scene entirely. "

"And after that?"

"The family simply gave Byron an allowance. That's why I said he was on to a pretty good thing."

"Would you be willing to say how much the allowance was?"

"Is that essential?"

"Probably not. Though I think before this inquiry's over it will come out anyway."

There were several seconds of silence, then Felicia said, "It was two hundred and fifty thousand Dollars a year. Byron lived here for free as well, and all that exercise equipment he loved so much was paid for."

A quarter of a million Dollars annually, Ainslie reflected, and for doing nothing. The Davanal family, by not having to pay that anymore, would benefit from Byron MaddoxDavanal's death.

"If you're thinking what I think you are," Mrs. Maddox-Davanal said, "forget it!" Then, as Ainslie made no answer, she went on, "Look, I won't waste time or words for this family, that kind of money's petty cash." She paused. "The real point is that while I didn't love Byron, hadn't for a long time, I still liked having him around. You might even say I'll miss him."

The last observation was made thoughtfully, as if in confidence. Somehow, since their exchange began, her antagonism had evaporated; it was almost, Ainslie thought, as if having been defeated in a showdown, she had surrendered and become a friendly ally. He did not believe, though, everything Felicia Maddox-Davanal had told him particularly about discovering her husband's body. At the same time his instincts suggested she had not killed her husband, though she possibly knew or guessed who had. In any event, she was hiding something.

"I'm a bit confused," Ainslie said. "You've told me you still liked your husband despite your separate lives. Yet, just after discovering his death, his body even in the same room, you were more concerned about getting your TV crew in. It seems "

Davanal cut in. "All right, all right! I know what you're suggesting that I'm cold-blooded; well, maybe I am in part. But what's more important, I'm pragmatic." She stopped.

Ainslie told her, "I'm still listening."

"Well, I realized immediately that Byron was dead, and I had no idea who killed him. It was a fact; nothing I could do would change it. But what I could do was make sure that WBEQ my TV station, which I run personally broke the news ahead of every competitor, and that's what I did. I sent for one of my crews, then when they weren't allowed in, I got on the phone and gave our newsroom everything I knew. By now it's all over Florida, probably much wider, but we were first, which, in a competitive market, matters."

"With all your experience," Ainslie said, "you really did know that your TV people wouldn't be allowed in, didn't you?"

Davanal grimaced. "Oh sure. But I was . . . What's that macho phrase about pushing?"

"Pushing the envelope?"

"Yeah. Been doing it all my life. It's second nature."

"Nothing wrong with that, normally. Not a good idea, though, in a homicide investigation."

They faced each other, then she said, "You're an unusual kind of policeman. There's something about you, I'm not sure what, that makes you different . . . and makes me curious." The closing words were accompanied by her first smile and a hint of sensuality.

"If you don't mind," he responded matter-of-factly, "I still have more questions."

She sighed. "If you must, all right."

"At seven-thirty this morning the time yogi said you found your husband's body and during last night, who else was in this house?"

"Let me think." As she answered and they continued, more facts emerged.

Felicia's parents, Theodore and Eugenia Davanal, lived in the house but were currently in Italy. Theodore was, in effect, the reigning Davanal, though he delegated much responsibility to Felicia. A valet and lady's maid worked for Felicia's parents and lived in, but they, too, were in Italy. The oldest living Davanal was Wilhelm. Aged ninetyseven and the family patriarch, he had a suite of rooms high up in the house, where a manservant and his wife, a nurse, took care of him. "Grandfather is in this house now, and so are Mr. and Mrs. Vazquez," Felicia explained, "though we see very little of any of them."

According to Felicia, Wilhelm Davanal was senile, with moments of lucidity, "though they are becoming fewer."

The butler, Humphrey Holdsworth, lived in with his wife, who was a cook. Two gardeners and a chauffeur, all with families, lived in separate accommodations on the grounds outside.

All of those people, Ainslie knew, must be questioned about any activity they might have seen or heard the previous night.

"Coming back to the discovery of your husband's body," he said to Felicia. "I believe that when the police Officer Navarro arrived, you were in the study."

"Yes." She hesitated. "Well, after I first found Byron, I ran out and called nine-one-one from a phone in the hallway. Then . . . I can't really explain this . . . but I was drawn back. I suppose I was partly in shock. It was all so sudden and horrible."

"That's understandable." Ainslie was sympathetic. "My question is, during those two occasions when you were alone with your husband's body, did you touch anything, or change or move anything, anywhere in that room?"

"Absolutely not." Felicia shook her head. "I suppose my instincts were that I shouldn't. But I couldn't, simply couldn't, bear to go even close to Byron or that desk . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"Thank you," Ainslie said. "For now, I have no more questions." Felicia Maddox-Davanal stood as their session together ended, her composure once more regained.

"I regret we got off to a bad start," she said. "Perhaps we'll learn to like each other better as time goes by." Unexpectedly, she reached out and touched Ainslie's right hand lightly, letting the tips of her fingers linger for a second or two. Then she turned and a moment later was gone.

* * *

While still alone in the drawing room, Ainslie made two calls on his police radio. Then he returned to Byron Maddox-Davanal's exercise room and study, now bustling with activity. The ID crew had arrived and was working, and the ME, Sandra Sanchez, was closely studying the corpse. The assistant state attorney, Curzon Knowles, who had worked on the Elroy Doil serial killings, was observing, questioning, and making notes.

Outside it was raining, Ainslie saw, but Rodriguez assured him, "We got pictures of those prints in time, good plaster casts, too.'' Now photos were being taken of the muddy earth behind the curtain with the unfastened sash, after which the mud would be removed and a sample preserved. Elsewhere, fingerprints were being sought.

"Let's talk," Ainslie said. Taking Jorge aside, he described his interview with Felicia Maddox-Davanal, then dictated the names of all others to be questioned. "I've called in Pop Garcia," he told Jorge. "He'll work with you, help out with interviews and anything else you need. I'm leaving now."

"Already?" Jorge regarded him curiously.

"There's someone I want to see,'' Ainslie said. "A person who knows a lot about old families, including this one. Who maybe can advise me."

8

Her name was legendary. In her time she had been considered the most outstanding crime reporter in the country, her reputation far wider than her Florida readership and regular newsbeat of Miami. Her knowledge about events and people was encyclopedic not only people in crime, but in politics, business, and the social milieu, remembering that crime and those other groups often overlapped. She was now semi-retired, meaning that when she felt like it she wrote a book, which publishers eagerly printed and readers grabbed, though recently she had felt less like writing and more like sitting with her memories and dogs she owned three Pekingese named Able, Baker, and Charlie. Her intellect and memory, though, were sharp as ever.

Her name was Beth Embry, and while she kept her age a secret, even in Who's Who in America, she was believed to be well past seventy. She lived in the Oakmont Tower Apartments in Miami Beach, with an ocean view, and Malcolm Ainslie was one of her many friends. The second phone call Ainslie had made from the Davanal house was to Beth, asking if he could pay her a visit. Now she greeted him at her apartment doorway. "I know why you're here; I saw you on the morning news, arriving at the Davanals'. As usual, you were shafting a reporter."

He protested, "I never shafted you."

"That's because you were scared of me."

"Damn right," he told her. "Still am." They laughed, then he kissed her on the cheek while Able, Baker, and Charlie bounded and barked around them.

Although Beth Embry had never been conventionally beautiful, she had a bright vitality that was evident in every body movement and facial expression. She was tall and lean, still athletic despite her age, and invariably wore jeans and colorful cotton shirts today's was a yellow and white check.

The two of them had met ten years ago when, as a newspaper reporter, Beth began showing up early at the homicides Ainslie was investigating and asking for him personally. At first he was wary, then discovered he open got as much from her in background and ideas as he gave out in information. As time went by, a mutual trust grew, prompting Ainslie to direct a few "scoops" Beth's way, knowing she would conceal their source. Then, once in a while, Ainslie would go to Beth for information and advice, as he was doing now.

"Wait a second," she told him. Gathering the three barking Pekingese into her arms, she took them to a back room and closed the door.

Returning, Beth said, "I read that you went to Elroy Doil's execution. Were you making sure he got his just deserts?"

Ainslie shook his head. "Wasn't my choice. Doil wanted to talk to me."

She raised her eyebrows. "A pre-death confession? Do I smell a story?"

"Maybe someday. But not yet."

"I'm still writing occasionally. Do I get a promise?"

Ainslie considered, then said, "Okay, if I'm involved, I promise you'll be the first to know any outcome. But deep throat."

"Of course. Have I ever let you down?"

"No." Though, as always with Beth Embry, there were maneuvers and trade-offs.

The mention of Doil reminded him that by now Ruby Bowe would have begun her inquiry. Ainslie hoped he could quickly resolve this new case. Meanwhile he asked Beth, "Are we off the record now, about the Davanals?"

She answered, "Non-attributable, okay? Like I said, I'm not writing much the kids on the crime beat are pretty good but once in a while I get antsy, and I especially might about the Davanals."

"You know a lot about them? And okay, non-attrib.''

"The Davanals are part of our history. And Byron Maddox-Davanal, as they made him call himself, was a sad sack. Doesn't surprise me he's been killed; wouldn't have surprised me if he'd killed himself. Do you have a suspect?"

"Not yet. Superficially it looks like an outside job. Why was Byron a sad sack?"

"Because he found out the hard way that 'Man cloth not live by bread alone,' even when it's thickly buttered." Beth chuckled. "Any of that familiar to you?"

"Sure. Except you've a couple of different sources in there started out with Deuteronomy, then finished with Matthew and Luke."

"Hey, I'm impressed! That seminary put its brand on you for life. Any chance you'll flip again and be reborn?" Beth, a churchgoer, rarely failed to needle Ainslie about his past.

"For you," he told her, "I'm turning the other cheek. That's from Matthew and Luke, too. Now tell me about Byron."

"Okay. At first he was the family's great white hope for a new generation of Davanals; that's why they made him change his name when he married Felicia. She's an only child, and unless she conceives, which isn't likely now, the Davanal dynasty will die with her. Well, there was never a shortage of Byron's sperm around town, and presumably he put some in Felicia, but it didn't take."

"I hear he wasn't successful in the family businesses, either."

"He was a disaster. I suppose Felicia told you that, and about his allowance for not working."

"Yes."

"She tells everybody. She had such contempt for him, which made his life even emptier than it was."

"Do you think Felicia might have killed her husband?"

"Do you?"

"At the moment, no."

Beth shook her head decisively. "She wouldn't kill him. First, Felicia's too smart to do anything so stupid. Second, Byron was useful to her."

Ainslie remembered Felicia's words: The arrangement we had suited us both . . . it provided a kind of freedom.

It was not hard to guess what her "freedom" meant.

Beth was looking at him shrewdly. "You've figured it out? With Byron in her life, she never had to worry about one of her many men coming on too strong and wanting to marry her."

"Many men?"

Beth put her head back and laughed. "You couldn't count thern! Felicia eats men. But she tires quickly, then discards them. If any got serious, all she had to say was 'I'm already married.' "

Again, Beth looked searchingly at Ainslie. "Did Felicia come on to you? . . . She did! My God, Malcolm, you're blushing!"

He shook his head. "It was momentary, and probably my imagination."

"It wasn't, my friend, and if she fancies the taste of you, she'll try again. Be warned, though Felicia's honey may be sweet, but she's a queen bee with a sting."

"You mentioned the Davanal dynasty. How far back does it go?"

Beth considered. "To the end of the last century 1898, I'm pretty sure. There was a book written; I remember a lot of it. Silas Davanal and his wife, Maria, came here as immigrants from Upper Silesia; that's between Germany and Poland. He had a little money, not much, and opened a general store. By the end of his life it was Davanal's Department Store, and had made the first fortune. Silas and Maria had a son Wilhelm."

"Who's just barely alive, right?"

"That sounds like Felicia again. Wilhelm's wife died many years ago, but he's still sharp, even at ninety-seven. I've heard there isn't much that goes on in that old house that he misses. You should talk to him."

Senile, Felicia had told him. "Yes, I will."

"Anyway," Beth continued, "with each Davanal generation the family got richer and more powerful, and that includes Theodore and Eugenia both of them tyrants."

"Frankly, they all sound like tyrants."

"Not necessarily. It's just that they're all driven by intense pride."

"Pride about what?"

"Everything. They've always cared hugely about appearances. Their public persona must be impeccable, making them superior, even perfect, people. And any dirty little secrets are buried so deep that even you, DetectiveSergeant, might have trouble finding them."

"From what you've told me," Ainslie said, "Felicia isn't always impeccable."

"That's because she's more tuned in to her times. All the same, she's pretty intense about pride and in any case has to conform because Theodore and Eugenia still control the family fortunes. She had trouble with her parents over Byron. They never wanted outsiders to know the marriage failed; that's why Byron got his allowance to keep it all quiet. And again, they don't much care what kind of life Felicia leads, as long as it's well concealed."

"Is it really concealed?"

"Not as much as Theodore and Eugenia would like. The way I heard, there was a big family row and an ultimatum: If Felicia brought disgrace in any way on the family name, she'd be cut off from running that TV station she loves so much."

They talked on, Ainslie relating in return some additional details of the Maddox-Davanal case. At the end, as they both rose, he said, "Thank you, Beth. As always, you've given me a lot to think about."

Able, Baker, and Charlie, released from their confinement, leaped and barked excitedly as he left.

* * *

As Malcolm Ainslie returned to the Davanal house, the remains of Byron Maddox-Davanal were being removed in a body bag destination the Dade County morgue, for autopsy. Sandra Sanchez had already left, leaving behind an opinion that the victim's death occurred somewhere between 5:00 and 6:00 A.M., roughly two hours before Felicia Maddox-Davanal's reported discovery.

In the study and exercise room, the earlier activity had tapered off, though the lead technician, Julio Verona, was still recording evidence. He told Ainslie, "There's something I'd like to show you, when you have a minute."

"Okay, Julio." But first Ainslie went to Detectives Jorge Rodriguez and Jose Garcia and asked, "What's new?"

Jorge grinned and motioned to Garcia. "He thinks the butler did it."

Garcia said sourly, ''Very funny!" Then, to Ainslie, "I don't believe that Holdsworth guy, is all. I questioned him, and all my instincts say he's lying."

"About what?"

"Everything not hearing a shot or any disturbance, when he lives on this floor, and not being on the scene until he was called by the dead man's wife, after she'd called nine-one-one. He knows more than he's telling; I'd stake my life on it."

"Have you checked his background?" Ainslie asked.

"Sure have. He's still a British citizen; has been in the States fifteen years on a green card, and never in trouble. I called U.S. Immigration in Miami; they have a file on Holdsworth."

"Anything helpful?"

"Well, this is funny in a way, but Holdsworth does have a criminal record in England and was smart enough to declare it when he made his green card application. Would have been discovered if he hadn't, but it's peanuts."

"Let's hear."

"When he was eighteen thirty-three years ago he snatched a pair of binoculars from the backseat of a parked car. A cop saw, and arrested him; he pleaded guilty, got two years' probation, no record since. The Immigration guy I talked to says that when someone applies for a green, they don't take something minor and that long ago seriously, as long as the applicant's declared it. Guess I wasted my time."

Ainslie shook his head. "It's never wasted. Save your notes, Pop. Did anything come from other interviews?"

"Not much," Jorge answered. "Two people the chauffeur's wife and a gardener now believe they heard the shot, but thought it was traffic. They have no idea about time, except it was still very dark."

"Has anyone talked to the old man Wilhelm Davanal?"

"No."

"I'll do that," Ainslie finished.

He, Jorge, and Garcia then joined Julio Verona across the room.

"Take a look at this," Verona said. From a plastic bag, using rubber gloves, the ID chief produced a small gold clock, which he placed on the desk formerly used by Byron Maddox-Davanal. He explained, "Where I just put the clock is exactly where ID found it. Here's a photo confirming that." Verona produced a Polaroid print.

"Look on the back of the clock," Verona continued, "and you'll see there's blood quite a lot for such a small surface. But" he paused for emphasis "assuming it's the victim's blood, and remembering the distance from the body, there is no way blood could have got on the back of that clock where it is now."

"So what's your theory?" Ainslie asked.

"During the killing, or immediately after, the clock got knocked off the desk into some blood on the floor. Later, some person maybe the killer saw the clock, picked it up, and put it back on the desk, where it sat until our crew took this photo."

"Any fingerprints?"

"Sure are a good set. What's more, two of the prints were bloody, and there were no other prints at all."

"So if you find a match," Jose Garcia said excitedly, "we'll have the killer."

Verona shrugged. "That'll be for you guys to decide, though I'd say whoever matches those prints will face tough questions. Anyway, they're being checked against records, and we'll have an ID, if any, tomorrow. Matching the blood with the victim's will take another day. And there's something else. Over here."

The ID chief led the way, stopping at a polished oak cabinet in the exercise area. "This was locked; we found some keys in a desk drawer." Opening the cabinet, he revealed an interior lined with red felt and containing firearms. A Browning automatic shotgun, a Winchester semiautomatic deer rifle, and a Grossman .22 automatic rifle were all upright and held in place by metal clips. Alongside, resting on several metal hooks. was a Glock 9mm automatic pistol. Beyond it were a few more empty hooks, shaped to contain another handgun.

The cabinet had several interior drawers. Verona opened two and announced' "It's obvious that Maddox-Davanal liked to shoot, and there's plenty of ammunition here for

the shotgun, both rifles, and the Glock handgun, which also has a fully loaded clip. As well, there's a box of .357 Magnum hollow-points."

"Bullets for which there's no handgun.'' Ainslie said.

"Right. Obviously a handgun's missing, and it could have been a .357 Magnum pistol."

Ainslie considered. "Chances are Maddox-Davanal had permits for his guns. Has anyone checked?"

"Not yet," Verona said.

"Let's do it." Using his police radio, Ainslie placed a phone call to the Homicide offices. Sergeant Pablo Greene . answered. "Pablo, will you do me a favor and go to a computer?" Ainslie asked. "I need a check of Dade County Firearms Registration." A few minutes' pause, then, "The name's Maddox-Davanal, first name Byron . . . Yeah, we're still at the house . . . We'd like to see if anything's registered to him."

While waiting, Ainslie asked Verona, "Were any bullets found here at the scene?"

The ID chief nodded. "Yes, one. It was against the baseboard behind the desk, and must have gone through the victim's head, hit the wall, then fell. It was pretty distorted and we won't be sure until the lab's examined it, but it might have come from a .357 round."

Ainslie spoke into his radio. "Okay, Pablo, go ahead." He listened while making notes. "Got it! . . . Yeah . . . It fits . . . We have that one, too . . . And that . . . Ah! Give me that again . . . Yes, I have it now . . . And that's everything, right? . . . Thanks, Pablo."

Putting away the radio, he told the others, "All these guns are registered to Maddox-Davanal. He also registered a Smith & Wesson .357. Magnum revolver, which isn't here."

The four men stood thoughtfully, silent, weighing the implications.

"Are you guys having the same feeling I am," Garcia said, "that if the missing gun was the murder weapon, this is starting to look like an inside job?"

"It's possible," Jorge agreed. "Except whoever made those footprints outside, then forced open the French doors, could have got the gun before hiding."

"But how'd they know the gun was there, and where the keys were kept?" Garcia asked.

"Maddox-Davanal could have had friends who knew all that," Ainslie said. "Gun owners are big talkers, and they like to show their guns off. Another thing Julio says the Glock pistol has a loaded clip, so the Smith & Wesson .357 was probably loaded, too."

"And ready to shoot," Garcia added.

"I'm wondering about 'inside,' too, Jose," Ainslie said, "though let's not lock our minds up yet."

"There's one thing we need," Julio Verona told the others. "We've got a fair number of fingerprints from this room, and we should get voluntary prints from any of the house people who normally come here."

"I'll arrange that," Jorge Rodriguez said.

"Be sure you include Holdsworth," Ainslie told him. "And I guess Mrs. Davanal."

* * *

That night and the next morning, the "Super-Rich-Davanals' Bloody Murder," as one newspaper headline described it, was the dominant story carried by local TV, press, and radio, and there was national coverage, too. Most reports quoted an interview with Felicia Maddox-Davanal on the Davanals' own WBEQ-TV, where she referred to "the savage murder of my husband." Asked if she knew whether police had any suspect in mind, she had answered, "I'm not sure they have anything in their minds. They seem totally lost." She promised that a reward would be posted by the family for information leading to the arrest and conviction of Byron Maddox-Davanal's killer, after as she put it "my father returns from Italy, where he is still confined to his hotel in a state of shock."

An AP reporter in Milan, however, who had tried unsuccessfully to interview Theodore Davanal the day after his son-in-law's death, reported that Theodore and Eugenia were observed lunching at the exclusive Ristorante L'Albereta di Gualtiero Marchesi and, in the presence of friends, were laughing uproariously.

Meanwhile, at the Brickell Avenue house, Miami Homicide continued its investigation. During the second day, Malcolm Ainslie, Jorge Rodriguez, and Jose Garcia met at midmorning in the exercise room and study.

Jorge reported that two housemaids and a male houseman had agreed to voluntary fingerprinting. "But when I asked Mrs. Davanal, she said absolutely no; she wasn't going to be fingerprinted in her own home." The butler, Holdsworth, had also refused.

"That's their privilege," Ainslie mused. "Though I wanted Holdsworth's prints."

"I can try for them without his knowing," Jorge suggested. Police detectives often obtained fingerprints surreptitiously, though officially the practice was frowned on.

"Too risky in this house." Then Ainslie asked Garcia, "That old British police record of Holdsworth's did you say he was convicted?"

"Pleaded guilty, got probation."

"Then they'll have his prints on record."

Garcia said doubtfully, "After thirty-three years?"

"The Brits are thorough; they'll have them. So call your U.S. Immigration contact again and have them get those old prints sent here by computer, fast."

"I'll do it now." Garcia nodded eagerly and went to a corner of the room and used his police radio. Julio Verona, who had arrived a few minutes earlier, said, "Let's hope you find something. Those prints from the clock were a dead end. Nothing comparable either in our records or the FBI's. Oh, and by the way, Dr. Sanchez would like to talk to one of you two at the morgue."

Jorge glanced at Ainslie, who said, "We'll go together."

* * *

"There's something funny about this Maddox-Davanal death, something that doesn't fit." Sandra Sanchez sat behind a desk in her second-floor office at the Dade County morgue on Northwest Tenth Avenue. Files and papers were spread around. The ME was holding some handwritten notes.

"Doesn't fit in what way, Doctor?" Jorge asked.

Sanchez hesitated, then said, "The murder scenario I heard all of you discussing. Not my business, really. All I'm supposed to do is give you the cause of death . . ."

"You do a lot more than that, and we all know it," Ainslie assured her.

"Well, it's the bullet trajectory, Malcolm difficult to follow exactly because so much of the head was blown away. But from what remains, and after X-rays, the bullet appears to have entered the dead man's right cheek, gone upward through his right eye into the brain, then out through the top of the head."

"Sounds enough to kill him," Jorge said, "so what's wrong?"

"What's wrong is that for someone to dispatch him that way, it had to be at extremely close range, with the gun held practically under his nose, then fired."

Jorge asked, "Couldn't the whole thing have been so fast and unexpected that the victim never knew what was happening?''

"Yes, it could, though that's hard to buy. And it leaves two questions: First, why would a shooter take a chance he didn't have to by getting that close to an athletic guy like Davanal? Second, fast or not, the victim would have resisted instinctively, even put up a fight, and there's no evidence of it."

Ainslie reminded Jorge, "When we first viewed the body, you pointed out there was no sign of resistance." He asked Sanchez, "So what else is on your mind? I know there's something."

"Yes, and it's a simple question. Have you considered the possibility of suicide?"

Ainslie was silent, then said slowly, "No, we haven't."

"With plenty of reason," Jorge broke in. "There's strong evidence of forced entry. A patio door was jimmied, there were shoe prints outside, and no gun, which there'd have to have been for suicide . . ."

"Detective," Sanchez shot back, "there is nothing wrong with my hearing, and I was at the death scene for an hour, listening as I said at the beginning."

Jorge flushed. "Sorry, Doctor; I'll think about your question. There's one thing, though with a self-inflicted gunshot wound there's always a powder burn on the victim's hand. Was one discovered?"

"The answer's no," Sanchez replied, "even though both hands were checked before autopsy. But anyone who knows about guns can wash a powder burn off. Which brings up another question for you to consider, Malcolm: Is it possible that all that other evidence could be faked?"

"Yes, it is possible,'' Ainslie answered, "and in view of what you've told us, we'll take a fresh look."

"Good." Sanchez nodded her approval. "Meanwhile I'm labeling the death 'unclassified.' "

9

Among several messages awaiting Malcolm Ainslie on his return to Homicide was one from Beth Embry. She hadn't left a name, but he recognized the number and called at once.

"I've been canvassing some of my old connections," she announced without preamble. "And I've learned two things about Byron Maddox-Davanal that may interest you."

"You're a love, Beth. What have you got?"

"The guy was in deep money trouble, and I do mean deep. Also, he'd got a young girl pregnant and her lawyer was coming after Byron for support and, failing him, the Davanal family."

Informational shocks, Ainslie thought, were arriving like beach-pounding waves. "Deep trouble sounds right," he answered. "And there's something you said the last time we talked that it wouldn't surprise you if Byron had killed himself."

"Do things look that way?" Beth sounded startled.

"It's a possibility, though no more at the moment. Tell me about the money trouble."

"Gambling debts. Byron owed the Miami mob. Big. More than two million Dollars. They were threatening his life, also threatened to go to Theodore Davanal."

"Who wouldn't pay them a cent."

"Don't be so sure. Anyone who's clambered to the stratosphere like the Davanals have things to hide, and the mob could know about them. But if Theodore had paid them off, it would have meant the end of Byron's cushy freeloading."

Ainslie thanked Beth again, promising to keep her informed.

Jorge had returned to his desk next to Ainslie's. ''How about the suicide notion? Are you taking it seriously?"

"I take Sandra Sanchez seriously. And the notion just got more plausible." Ainslie described his conversation with Beth Embry.

Jorge whistled softly. "If it is true, it means the Davanal woman lied. I saw her on TV she talked about 'the savage murder of my husband.' So what's she hiding?"

Ainslie already had a possible answer. It hinged on something Beth Embry had said the first time around, and consisted of one word: pride. And Beth had said of the family, Their public persona must be impeccable, making them superior, even perfect, people.

"Do we question Mrs. Davanal again?" Jorge asked.

"Yes, but not yet. Let's turn a few more stones over first."

That same day, Wednesday, the Dade County Coroner's Department released the body of Byron Maddox-Davanal to his wife, Felicia, who announced that a funeral service and burial of her late husband would take place on Friday.

* * *

Through most of Thursday the Davanal household was occupied with funeral arrangements and, considerately, the Homicide detectives made themselves inconspicuous. Malcolm Ainslie, however, did ride an elevator in the mansion, two floors up, to meet the Vazquezes husband and wife who looked after the patriarch Wilhelm Davanal. He found the couple in their third-floor apartment. They were friendly and helpful and clearly caring of their charge. Yes, they had learned early about the murder of Byron, and were shocked. And yes, "Mr. Wilhelm" knew of it, too, though he would not attend the funeral, owing to the strain involved. Nor would it be possible for Ainslie to meet Mr. Wilhelm during this visit, since he was asleep.

Karina Vazquez, a registered nurse and a responsible, maternal figure in her mid-fifties, explained, "The old gentleman doesn't have much energy and sleeps a lot, especially during the day. But when he's awake contrary to what you may hear from his family he's as sharp as a tack."

Her husband, Francesco, added, "Sometimes I think of Mr. Wilhelm as a fine old watch. It will eventually stop, but until it does, its movement works as well as ever.''

"I can only hope," Ainslie said, "that someone will speak that way about me someday." He continued, "Do you think the old gentleman can tell me anything about the death?"

"I wouldn't be surprised," Karina Vazquez answered. "He's very tuned in to family affairs, but keeps a lot to himself, and Francesco and I don't ask questions. I know Mr. Wilhelm often wakes up in the night, so maybe he heard something. But we haven't discussed it, so you'll have to ask him yourself."

Ainslie thanked them and agreed to return.

* * *

Though there hadn't been much time, Felicia did her best to arrange a grand funeral for her late husband. The chosen church, a large one, was St. Paul's Episcopal in Coral Gables. News releases were rushed to the media and announcements made on WBEQ. The Davanal stores in the Miami area were closed for three hours so that employees could attend, word being passed that anyone using the time for some other purpose would have his or her name recorded. A Requiem Eucharist was arranged, with full choir, and a bishop, dean, and canon to officiate. Pallbearers included the city's mayor, two state senators, and a U.S. congressman, all drawn by a Davanal summons like iron filings to a magnet. The church was filled, though conspicuously absent were Theodore and Eugenia Davanal, still in Milan.

Malcolm Ainslie, Jorge Rodriguez, and Jose Garcia were at the funeral, not as mourners but as observers, their eyes scanning the congregation. Despite newly kindled suspicions about suicide, the possibility that Byron Maddox-Davanal had been murdered had not been eliminated, and experience showed that some murderers were morbidly drawn to a victim's funeral.

As well as the detectives, three members of a police ID crew, using concealed cameras, discreetly shot photos of attendees and their car license plates.

* * *

During the late afternoon of that day, while the detectives were back at their desks in Homicide, a uniformed U.S. Immigration officer was escorted in, then taken to Garcia.

The two, who knew each other, shook hands. "Thought I'd bring this over," the Immigration man said. He handed the detective an envelope. "It's those fingerprints you wanted. They just came in by e-mail from London."

"Hey, thanks a lot!" Garcia, enthusiastic as usual, beamed. They chatted briefly, then the detective saw the visitor out. Back at his desk, Garcia waited briefly for Ainslie to finish a phone call, then gave up and headed for the neighboring ID Department to see Julio Verona.

Ten minutes later Garcia was back. Approaching Ainslie, he called out, "Hey, Sergeant, we got a break a hot one!"

Ainslie swung his chair around.

"It's that son of a bitch butler, Holdsworth; I told you he was lying. Those were his prints on that little clock bloodstained prints a perfect match. And ID has the blood report back. The blood on the clock is the same type as the victim's."

"Nice going, Pop..." Ainslie was interrupted by a shout from another desk: "Call on line seven for Sergeant Ainslie."

Motioning the others to wait, Ainslie picked up his phone and identified himself. A voice responded, "It's Karina Vazquez, Sergeant. Mr. Wilhelm is awake and says he'll be glad to see you. I think he knows something. But please come quickly. He could fall asleep anytime."

Replacing the phone, Ainslie sighed. "Great news, Jose; gives us a lot to chew on. But there's something I have to take care of first."

* * *

On the fourth floor of the Davanal mansion, Mrs. Vazquez escorted Ainslie to a spacious bedroom with handsome light-oak paneling and wide windows overlooking Biscayne Bay. Facing the windows was a large four-poster bed with a slight, gaunt figure in it, propped up by pillows Wilhelm Davanal.

"This is Mr. Ainslie," Mrs. Vazquez announced. "He's the policeman you agreed to see, Mr. Wilhelm." While speaking, she moved a chair beside the bed.

The figure in the bed nodded and, motioning to the chair, said softly, "Sit down."

"Thank you, sir." As Ainslie did so, Vazquez murmured from behind, "Do you mind if I stay?"

"No. I'd like you to." If anything significant emerged, a witness would be useful.

Ainslie regarded the old man facing him.

Despite age and frailty, Wilhelm Davanal remained a patrician figure, with hawklike features. His hair, totally white, was thin but neatly combed. He held his head straight and upright. Only pockets of loose skin around his cheeks and neck, watery eyes, and a tremor in his hand betrayed his body's near century of wear and tear.

"Pity about Byron." The old man spoke in a weak voice, which Ainslie strained to hear. "Didn't have much backbone, no damn good in our business, but I liked him. Came to see me often; not many others do, too busy. Byron sometimes read to me. Do you know who killed him?"

Ainslie decided to be direct. "We're not sure anyone did, sir. We're looking into the possibility of suicide."

The old man's expression did not change. He seemed to be considering, then said, "Not surprised. Once told me his life was empty."

While Ainslie made quick notes, Vazquez whispered from behind, "Don't waste time, Detective. If you've got questions, ask them quickly."

Ainslie nodded. "Mr. Davanal, last Monday right, or early Tuesday morning, did you hear any noise that might have been a shot?"

This time the voice was stronger. "I heard the shot. Loud. Knew exactly what it was. Know the time, too."

"What time was that, sir?"

"Few minutes after half past five. Have a luminous clock there." With a shaking hand the old man gestured to a small table on his left.

Ainslie remembered that Sandra Sanchez had estimated Byron Maddox-Davanal's death as having occurred between 5:00 and 6:00 A.M.

"After the shot, Mr. Davanal, did you hear anything else?"

"Yes, I had my windows open. Few minutes later, lot of commotion down below. Some on the patio. Voices."

"Did you recognize anyone's voice?"

"Holdsworth. He's our. . ."

The old man's voice was drifting. Ainslie prompted, "Yes, I know he's the butler. Did you recognize any others?"

"I think . . . I think it was . . ." The words trailed off and he said weakly, "Some water." Vazquez brought it, and held him while he sipped. Then Wilhelm's eyes closed sleepily and his head fell back. The nurse lowered him to the pillow, then turned to Ainslie.

"That's all for now, Detective. Mr. Wilhelm will probably sleep for seven or eight hours. I did warn you." She reached over, shifting the old man in the bed to make him comfortable, and a moment later, "I'll see you out."

Outside the bedroom, Ainslie paused. "Mrs. Vazquez, I know the way and can let myself out. Right now there's something more important I need you to do."

She looked at him curiously. "What's that?"

"Later I may want to take a sworn statement from you about the questions and answers you just heard. So I'd appreciate it if you'd go somewhere quiet and write down everything you remember Mr. Davanal and me saying."

"Of course, I'll do it," Karina Vazquez said. "Just let me know when you need me."

As Ainslie drove back to Homicide, he wondered if the name that Wilhelm Davanal had almost spoken was Felicia.

* * *

"I want an arrest warrant for Humphrey Holdsworth on a charge of murdering Byron Maddox-Davanal," Malcolm Ainslie told Lieutenant Newbold.

Ainslie, Jorge Rodriguez, and Jose Garcia faced the lieutenant in his office. A few minutes earlier, Ainslie, reading from his notes, had described the evidence against Holdsworth.

"His fingerprints were the only ones on the desk clock that had the victim's blood on it. Therefore, in view of the distance between the clock and the body, it must have been picked up by Holdsworth and placed back on the desk. There was also blood on two of Holdsworth's fingerprints, though we haven't identified it yet.

"Holdsworth lied in a statement to Detective Garcia when he claimed to have known nothing about Byron Maddox-Davanal's murder until Felicia Maddox-Davanal told him after she'd called nine-one-one, which we know was at seven-thirty-two A.M.

"Contradicting Holdsworth's statement, Wilhelm Davanal states that at approximately five-thirty A.M. on the day of the murder he heard a loud gunshot, then, a few minutes later, Holdsworth's voice. HE knows the butler well, is certain it was him. The sound came from below Mr. bavanal's open bedroom window, on the patio directly outside the murder scene."

Newbold asked, "Do you all think Holdsworth did the killing?"

Ainslie responded. "Within these four walls, sir, no. But we have enough to bring him in, scare him stiff, and make him talk. He knows everything that went on at that scene; all three of us are agreed on that." He glanced at the other two.

"Sergeant's right, sir," Garcia offered. "And it's the only way we're gonna squeeze the truth out of him. Lady Macbeth over there sure as hell won't open her lily lips."

Rodriguez nodded agreement. "If I approve this," Newbold said, "what's your plan, Malcolm?"

"To get the warrant drawn tonight, then find a judge to sign it. Early tomorrow morning we'll have a squad car join us to pick up Holdsworth. Being handcuffed in a caged car will give him something to think about; also, the faster we get him away from the Davanal house, the better."

"Looks like the best bet we have," Newbold said. "So do it."

* * *

It was early evening when Ainslie reached the state attorney's offices on Northwest Twelfth Avenue. He had telephoned Curzon Knowles and knew he'd be waiting.

' Seated in the attorney's office, Ainslie described the evidence against Holdsworth. Knowles was familiar with the background.

"Sounds like enough for a warrant," he acknowledged. "We'd need more to convict, though I suppose you're counting on a confession." He regarded Ainslie shrewdly. "Or maybe some finger pointing elsewhere."

Before becoming a lawyer, Knowles had been a New York City police detective and knew from experience the sometimes devious routes to solving a tangled crime. Ethically, though, Ainslie knew they should not discuss the possible misuse of an arrest warrant and he answered warily, "There are always other possibilities, counselor, but at this moment Holdsworth is our strongest suspect."

The attorney smiled. "Funny thing is, when I saw that scene, and knowing Byron slightly, the first thing I thought of was suicide. But Davanals don't kill themselves, do they?"

Though Knowles eyed him cagily, Ainslie said nothing.

The attorney stood. "My secretary's gone home. Let's see how good I am at the computer.''

They moved to an outer office, where Knowles, using two fingers at the keyboard but otherwise adept, prepared an affidavit that he printed and Ainslie formally swore and signed. An arrest warrant followed.

"Now," Knowles said, the paperwork complete, "let's see which judges are on call." Back at his desk, he produced a list showing three judges available for extracurricular needs, along with phone numbers and home addresses. "Any preference?" He passed the list over.

"I'll try Detmann." Ainslie had appeared before Ishmael Detmann as a witness several times, and it helped if a judge knew the officer seeking the warrant.

"I'll phone him for you."

Moments later Knowles reported, "The judge's wife says they're having dinner, but her husband will be free by the time you get there."

* * *

Judge Detmann, who lived in a small house in Miami Shores, opened the front door himself. Portly, dignified, and graying, he took Ainslie to a study, where Mrs. Detmann brought them both coffee. Seated in facing chairs, the judge looked up from the papers Ainslie had presented him. "You've found a villain pretty quickly. Is your case strong?"

"We think so, Your Honor; so does a state attorney." Again, Ainslie was cautious, knowing that whatever ensued during the day ahead would become public knowledge fast.

The judge glanced down. "Knowles yes, he's appeared before me many times. Well, his imprint is good enough for me." The judge reached for a pen and signed.

* * *

At home, Ainslie set his bedside alarm for 5:00 A.M.

At 5:50, still in darkness, he and Jorge Rodriguez entered the Davanal estate in an unmarked car, followed by a Miami Police blue-and-white. The second car contained two uniform officers, one of them a sergeant.

At the house main entrance, all four police exited the cars and, by prearrangement, Rodriguez took the lead. Facing the massive double doors, he pressed a bell push and held it down for several seconds. After a pause, he pressed it again, then several times insistently. This time there were sounds from inside and a male voice calling, "All right, all right, whoever it is! I'm coming!"

There followed sounds of a bolt being withdrawn, and one of the double doors opened a few inches, restrained by a security chain. The gap revealed the face of the butler, Holdsworth.

Rodriguez announced, ''Police officers. Take the chain off, please."

Metallic sounds followed, then the door opened fully, revealing that Holdsworth had dressed hurriedly; his shirt was partially open, and he was pulling on a jacket. When he saw the group outside he protested, "For goodness' sake! What's so urgent?"

Jorge moved closer. Speaking clearly, he declared, "Humphrey Holdsworth, I have a warrant for your arrest on a charge of murdering Byron Maddox-Davanal. I caution you that you have the right to remain silent . . . You need not talk to me or answer any questions . . ."

Holdsworth's jaw dropped, his face displaying shock and disbelief. "Please! Wait!" he implored breathlessly. "This has to be a mistake! It can't be me . . ."

Unheeding, Jorge continued, "You have the right to an attorney . . . If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be supplied . . ."

"No! No! No!" Holdsworth shouted, reaching out for the document Rodriguez was holding. But Ainslie was faster. Moving forward, he seized Holdsworth's arm and ordered, "Be quiet and listen! There's no mistake."

As Rodriguez concluded, he told Holdsworth, "Put your hands behind you."

Before Holdsworth realized what was happening, he was handcuffed. Ainslie signaled the uniform officers. "You can take him now."

"Oh, do listen!" Holdsworth pleaded. "This is not fair, not right! Besides, I must tell Mrs. Davanal! She'll know what "

But the uniform officers were propelling him toward their patrol car. Opening the rear door, they thrust Holdsworth inside, pushing down his head to clear the doorway. Then, with the prisoner in the rear cage, struggling and shouting, the blue-and-white moved out.

* * *

The uniform officers delivered Holdsworth to Homicide headquarters, where he was placed in an interrogation room and handcuffed to a chair. Ainslie and Rodriguez, who arrived soon after, left him alone for half an hour, then entered the interrogation room together. They sat down, facing the prisoner over a large metal table.

Holdsworth glared at them, but when he spoke he was calmer than he had been at the house. "I want a lawyer immediately, and I demand that you tell me "

"Stop!" Ainslie raised a hand. "You want a lawyer and you'll have one. But until your lawyer gets here, we can't question you or answer your questions. First, though, there's some minor paperwork." Ainslie motioned to Rodriguez, who opened a folder, producing a notepad and a form. ..

Rodriguez asked, "Your full name, please."

"You know it perfectly well," Holdsworth snapped.

Ainslie leaned forward and said calmly, "If you cooperate, this will go much faster."

A pause. Then: "Humphrey Howard Holdsworth."

"Date of birth?"

When the routine information was complete, Rodriguez handed him the form. "Please sign this. It says you've been informed of your rights and have chosen not to answer questions until your lawyer is present."

"How can I sign it?" With his left hand Holdsworth gestured to his right, still handcuffed to his chair.

Rodriguez removed the handcuffs.

While Holdsworth rubbed his right wrist and peered Distrustingly at the printed form in front of him, Ainslie rose from his seat. "I'll just be a minute," he told Jorge, and crossed to the door. Opening it, he put his head outside and shouted to no one, "Hey, don't bother bringing those old fingerprints from England yet. We're waiting for a lawyer, so I'll have them later."

Holdsworth turned his head sharply. "What's that about fingerprints from England?"

"Sorry." Returning, Ainslie shook his head. "We can't talk until your lawyer's here."

"Wait a second," Holdsworth said impatiently. "How long will that take?"

Rodriguez shrugged. "It's your lawyer."

Holdsworth was indignant. "I want to know about the fingerprints now!"

Rodriguez inquired, "Do you mean you want to talk, and not wait for a lawyer?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Then don't sign that form I gave you. Here's another, which says you've been advised of your rights and have chosen "

"Never mind!" Holdsworth picked up a ballpoint pen and scribbled a signature. He turned to Ainslie. "Now tell me.''

"The fingerprints are yours. They were taken thirty-six years ago." Ainslie's voice was quiet and unhurried. "We had them sent from England, and they match those on a desk clock found at the murder scene. It had the victim's blood on it."

A silence followed, lasting several seconds. Then Holdsworth said gloomily, "Yes, I remember picking up that damn clock and putting it on the desk. I wasn't thinking."

Ainslie asked, "Why did you kill Byron MaddoxDavanal, Mr. Holdsworth?"

The butler's face twisted with emotion, then he blurted out, "I didn't kill him! There was no murder! It was suicide that idiot killed himself!"

With the words, Holdsworth's composure broke. Holding his head in his hands, he moved it dejectedly from side to side and spoke haltingly. "I told Mrs. Davanal it wouldn't work, that the police are clever and it would all come out. But no! she wouldn't listen to me, she knew best, knew it all! But she was wrong. And now this!" When Holdsworth looked up his eyes were brimming with tears.

"That old business in England," he said. "The reason for the fingerprints. I declared it "

"We know about that," Rodriguez told him. "It's trivia, doesn't count."

"I've lived in America fifteen years." Holdsworth was sobbing now. "I've never been in any trouble, and now a murder charge . . ."

"If all you've told us checks out, the murder charge will probably be dropped," Ainslie said. "You're still in serious trouble, though, and what we want from you is complete cooperation answers to all our questions, nothing held back."

"Ask what you want." Holdsworth straightened, and lifted his head. ''I'll tell you everything."

* * *

The facts, as they emerged, were simple.

Four days earlier, at 5:30 A.M., both Holdsworth and Felicia Maddox-Davanal were awakened by the loud sound of a shot. Still in their nightclothes, they met in the main floor corridor and entered Byron's study-cumexercise room to find him dead, his head blown partially away. A gun was in his right hand.

"I just felt sick; I didn't know what to do," Holdsworth told Ainslie and Rodriguez. "But Mrs. Davanal was calm. She's always been strong. She took over and began giving orders, both of us believing we were the only ones in the house awake."

According to Holdsworth, Felicia declared, "No one must know my husband killed himself." She went on to say it would mean a terrible disgrace for the family, and Mr. Theodore would never forgive her if she let it become public, so it had to be made to look like murder.

Holdsworth said, "I tried to tell her it wouldn't work. That's when I warned her about the police being smart, and that it would all come out, but she wouldn't listen. She said she'd been with TV reporters at crime scenes and knew just what to do to make things look the way she wanted. She also demanded my loyalty, said I owed a lot to the Davanals, which was true, but now I wish "

"Let's stay with the facts," Ainslie interrupted. "What happened to the gun?"

"Mrs. Davanal took it out of Mr. Byron's hand. It was one of those he kept in his cabinet."

Ainslie recalled Felicia's reply when asked if she had touched or moved anything while alone in the room with her husband's body: I couldn't, simply couldn't, bear to go close to Byron or that desk.

"Where is the gun now?"

Holdsworth hesitated. "I don't know."

Rodriguez looked up from notes he had been making. "Yes, you do. Or you have a pretty fair idea."

"What happened is that Mrs. Davanal asked me how to get rid of the gun so it would never be found. I advised her to throw it down a storm drain; there's one a block away."

"And did she do that?"

"I don't know. I didn't want to know. And that's the truth."

Rodriguez pressed on. "And that business outside the forced French door, footprints. Who did that?"

"I'm afraid I did. I used a big screwdriver on the door and, for the footprints, wore a pair of my own Nike shoes."

"Was that Mrs. Davanal's idea?"

Holdsworth looked shamefaced. "No, it was mine."

"Where are the screwdriver and shoes now?"

"That same morning, before the police arrived, I walked down the street and threw them in a Dumpster. It was cleared the next day. I checked."

"Is that everything?" Ainslie asked.

"I think so . . . Oh, there was one other thing. Mrs. Davanal got some soap and warm water and washed Mr. Byron's hand, the one that held the gun. She said it was to get rid of a powder burn she'd learned about that with the TV people, too."

"Have you learned anything from all this?" Rodriguez asked.

For the first time, Holdsworth smiled. "Only that I was right about the police being smart."

Suppressing a smile himself, Ainslie said, "Don't get too confident; you've still got things to answer for. You've impeded a police investigation with lies, you helped conceal evidence, and planted false evidence. So for the time being we're going to hold you here."

Soon after, a uniform officer escorted Holdsworth to a holding cell.

When they were alone, Jorge asked Ainslie, "So what comes next?"

"Time to pay our respects to Felicia Davanal."

10

Felicia Davanal was not at home. It was 7:50 A.M. No one knew where she had gone.

Karina Vazquez, standing in the front hall with the two detectives, explained, "All I know is that Mrs. Davanal went out of here in a tremendous rush and seemed to be upset. Then I heard her go tearing down the driveway in her car." In the absence of a butler, Wilhelm Davanal's nurse appeared to have taken charge of the lower portion of the house. She added, "It may have had to do with Mr. Holdsworth.'' Mrs. Vazquez looked from one detective to the other. ''You've taken him away, haven't you? Arrested him? His wife is frantic. She's on the phone, trying to get a lawyer."

"A lot of things are happening," Ainslie said noncommittally. "There's been perjury and deceit around here, as you probably know."

"I figured as much," Vazquez conceded. Then a sudden thought: "Maybe Mrs. Davanal went looking for you."

"It's possible," Rodriguez acknowledged. He called Homicide headquarters by radio, then told Ainslie, "No, she hasn't been there."

From behind, they heard hurried footsteps as Francesco Vazquez appeared. He announced breathlessly, "Mrs. Davanal's in the TV studios WBEQ! They just announced she'll go on the air at eight o'clock to talk about her husband's death."

"That's in three minutes," Ainslie said. "Where can we watch?"

"Follow me," Mrs. Vazquez instructed, and the others fell in behind as she led the way along a corridor and into a home theater, elaborately equipped. A giant television screen covered most of one wall. Francesco Vazquez moved to a control panel, which he manipulated, and a picture appeared the conclusion of a commercial accompanied by striking surround sound. A graphic followed WBEQ The Morning News then a woman news reader at a desk, who announced, "Exclusive to WBEQ an important revelation about the death, believed to have been murder, of Byron Maddox-Davanal. Here is Mrs. Felicia Maddox-Davanal, managing director of this station."

A fast cut revealed a close-up of Felicia's face. It was strikingly beautiful. Ainslie guessed a makeup artist had helped. Her expression was serious.

In the home theater, Mrs. Vazquez gestured to two rows of armchairs. "You can sit down."

"No, thanks," Ainslie said. He and Rodriguez remained standing, the Vazquezes with them.

In a clear and level voice, looking directly into the camera, Felicia began, "I am here, in humility and with remorse, to make a public confession and apology. The confession is that my husband, Byron Maddox-Davanal, was not murdered, as I and others, at my urging claimed. Byron died by his own hand; he committed suicide. He is dead, and neither guilt nor blame can any longer be attached to him.

"Yet both of those things guilt and blame can and must attach to me. Until this moment of truth I have lied about the manner of my husband's death, have deceived friends and family, made untrue statements to the media and police, concealed evidence, and created false evidence. I do not know what penalty I will pay for this. Whatever it is, I shall accept it.

"My friends, fellow citizens of Miami, the police, and TV viewers I apologize to you all. And now, having made this confession and apology, I will tell you why misguidedly I acted as I did."

Ainslie breathed to Rodriguez, "The bitch has outflanked us again."

"She knew Holdsworth would break," Rodriguez murmured, "so she did this before we could get to her.''

Ainslie grimaced. "She'll come out of this smelling like spring flowers."

Karina Vazquez said, "You'd have to get up extra early to outsmart Mrs. Davanal."

Felicia was continuing, her voice more subdued, but clear. "From my earliest youth, sharing the views of others in my family, I have regarded suicide as something shameful an act of cowardice to escape accountability, leaving others to clean up the mess left behind. The exception, of course, is when someone wants to end the terrible pain of terminal illness. But that was not the case in the death of my husband, Byron Maddox-Davanal.

"Our marriage and I must continue to be honest was not, in all its parts, fulfilling. To my great sadness I have no children . . ."

Watching and listening, Ainslie wondered how much advance preparation Felicia had done. Though her words sounded spontaneous, he doubted that they were. She might even be using a TelePrompTer; there had been time for any script to be copied, and she did, after all, control the TV station.

"Something I must make clear," Felicia was now saying, "is that no blame whatever attaches to anyone other than me. A member of my household staff even urged me not to do what I did. Unwisely, I ignored his advice, and I want him especially not to be blamed in any way . . ."

"She's letting Holdsworth off the hook," Rodriguez murmured.

"I do not know," Felicia continued, "what problems real or imagined caused my husband to end his life . . ."

"She knows damn well," Rodriguez gilded.

Ainslie turned away. "We're wasting time here," he said. "Let's go."

Behind them, as they walked away, they could hear Felicia's voice.

* * *

From his desk at Homicide, Ainslie phoned Curzon Knowles.

"Yes, I watched the lady," the lawyer said in response to Ainslie's question. "If there was an Emmy category for 'Real-Life Hypocrisy,' she'd be a shoo-in."

"You think others will agree?"

"Nope. Apart from cynical prosecutors and cops, everyone else will believe she's fine and noble a Davanal royal at work."

"What about any charges?"

"You're joking, of course."

"I am?"

"Malcolm, the only thing you've got on this woman is that she gave false information to a police officer and impeded an investigation both misdemeanors. But as for taking her to court, especially with her being a Davanal and having the best lawyers money can suborn, no prosecutor here would touch it. And in case you're wondering, I went upstairs and talked with Adele Montesino. She agrees."

"So we let Holdsworth go, then?"

"Of course. Let no one suggest American law isn't a level playing field for the rich and the not-quite-so-rich. I'll cancel the arrest warrant."

"You sound skeptical about our systems, counselor."

"It's an ongoing disease I've developed, Malcolm. If you hear of a cure, let me know."

Which appeared to end the Maddox-Davanal case, except for two postscripts. One was a phone message for Ainslie, asking him to call Beth Embry.

As promised, he had kept Beth informed of developments, with the understanding that her source would not be revealed, though so far nothing with her by-line had appeared in print. In returning her call, he asked why.

"Because I've become an old softy instead of what I used to be a let-the-shit-fall-where-it-may reporter," she told him. "If I wrote about why Byron killed himself, I'd have to describe his gambling debt to the mob, which wouldn't matter, but also the name of the girl he got pregnant, and she's a nice kid who doesn't need it. Incidentally, I want you to meet her."

"You know that Felicia lied when she said she didn't know why Byron killed himself."

"Felicia's definition of truth is what portion of it suits her at the moment," Beth acknowledged. "Now, about the girl. She has a lawyer, and I think you know her Lisa Kane."

"Yes, I do." Ainslie liked Kane. She was young and intelligent, and often served as a public defender. The difference with Kane was that despite the small fee public defenders received, she would go the extra mile and work to the limit for her clients.

"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, Ainsliethought. 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 MaddoxDavanal'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 some thing 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 Leslie 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."

"Touche!" 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 atfaire-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 informed 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 haste 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, welllit, 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, couple 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?"

"Nowadays, by computer, they can. The ancient stuff on microfilm no way."

Ruby sighed. "However long it takes, there's a robbery case I have to find."

"Good luck," the woman wished her. "Dade County has an average of seventeen thousand robberies a year."

* * *

As the hours passed, Ruby's eyes grew weary. She was seated in the Criminal Records main office, facing a stateof-the-art Canon Microprinter, which both read microfilm and made printed copies if needed. The microfilmed pages were copies of standard police forms Offense-Incident Reports. The standardization made scanning faster because at the top of each form was "Type of Incident," and only when this showed "Robbery" did Ruby pause to view the whole page quickly. Slightly lower was "Nature of Offense," and when this read "Armed Robbery" she paid extra attention, believing Elroy Doil was more likely to have committed that type of crime. A further item was "Property Taken," and if no money clip was listed as had been true in every case so far Ruby moved on.

The remainder of the first day produced nothing, and in late afternoon Ruby quit after arranging to resume her search the following morning.

The next day produced nothing, either, although by this time Ruby was moving at high speed through the microfilm reels, having learned to keep the non-robbery reports sliding by. By the end of that day she had reviewed and discarded five microfilm cassettes.

The next morning, while threading film from a new cassette through the reader-printer's setup reels, she wondered doubtfully, Did this robbery ever happen as Elroy Doil claimed ? And if it did, was it ever recorded ? The nagging questions stayed with her through the next two hours as she realized how much more searching lay ahead.

Suddenly Ruby's attention was riveted on an armed robbery case, number 27422-F, dated April 18, 1980. At 12:15 A.M. that day a robbery occurred outside the Carousel Nite Club on Gratigny Drive, Miami Lakes. She zoomed in to magnify the details. These showed that the robber, wielding a knife, approached his male victim, Harold Baird, and demanded all of Baird's money and jewelry. Four hundred Dollars in cash was taken, as well as two rings worth a hundred Dollars each, and a gold money clip worth two hundred. The clip bore the victim's initials, HB. The report described the perpetrator as "a very large white male, identity unknown."

With a sigh of relief, Ruby pressed the machine's printout button and reached for the emerging copy of Report 27422-F. Then she leaned back and relaxed, knowing she had found proof that at least part of what Doil had told Sergeant Ainslie was true.

Now on to Tampa.

* * *

Back at her Miami Homicide desk, Ruby telephoned the Tampa Police Department, was transferred to the Detective Bureau, and then to its Homicide Squad, where a Detective Shirley Jasmund took Ruby's call.

"We have some information here," Ruby announced, "about what we think is an old case of yours a husband and wife named Ikei, murdered in 1980."

"Sorry, I was still in school that year fifth grade." Detective Jasmund giggled, but added, "Somewhere, though, I've heard that name. How'd you spell it?"

When Ruby told her, Jasmund responded, "It may take a while to look up, so give me a number and I'll call back."

Three hours later Ruby's phone rang and Jasmund's voice announced, "We found that file, looks interesting. An old couple Japanese, both in their seventies stabbed to death in a summer home they had here. Bodies shipped back to Japan for burial. No serious suspects, it says here." "Are there details about the crime scene?" Ruby asked. "Sure are!" Ruby heard the sound of pages turning. "Officers' reports say it was very messy. Bodies brutalized, bound and gagged, facing each other . . . money taken, and . . . wait, here's something odd . . ."

"What?"

"Hold on, I'm reading here . . . Well, there was an envelope found beside the bodies. It had blobs of sealing wax on the back, seven in a circle it says, and inside was a printed sheet a page from the Bible."

"Does it say what part of the Bible?"

"No . . . Yes! Here it is. Revelation."

"That's it! The case I want." Ruby's voice was excited. "Look, we have a lot of information to exchange, so I'm going to fly up to you. Would tomorrow be okay?"

"Let me ask my sergeant."

The sound of muffled voices followed, then Jasmund's again. "Tomorrow's fine. You've got us all curious, including our division captain, who's been listening. He said to tell you that the Ikeis' relatives in Japan still phone each year with the same question: Is there any news? That's where I heard the name."

"Tell the captain that when he gets his next call from Japan, I think he'll have answers."

"Will do. And when you know what time you'll get in, call and we'll have a squad car meet you at the airport."

* * *

An early Gulfstream Airlines flight from Miami to Tampa took sixty-five minutes, and Ruby Bowe was at the City of Tampa Police Department by 8:30 A.M. Detective ShirIey Jasmund came to the front desk to escort her to the Detective Bureau, and the two women black and white liked each other immediately. "Word's gone around about you," Jasmund said. "Even the chief has been told about that old case with the Japanese. When we're all through, he wants a report."

Jasmund, in her mid-twenties, was outgoing and lively, with shining brown eyes, dark hair, high cheekbones, and a slim figure that Ruby envied, having recently put on a few-pounds herself. You'll have to lay off the junk food soon, honey, she told herself for the umpteenth time.

"We have a meeting set up," Jasmund told her. "With Sergeant Clemson, Detective Yanis, and me.''

* * *

"The reason that Japanese family keeps calling us year after year," Detective Sandy Yanis of Homicide told Ruby, "is that they care so much about their ancestors. It's why they had the bodies flown back for burial, but apparently they won't rest well until whoever killed them is found and punished."

"They can rest soon," Ruby said. "It's ninety-eight percent certain that the man who did the killing was Elroy Doil, executed three weeks ago at Raiford for another crime.''

"I'll be damned. I remember reading about that."

Yanis, clearly an old hand, with a lanky, rugged physique, appeared to be in his late fifties. His face was seamed, the lines intersected by a long scar on his cheek that looked like an old knife wound. What remained of his graying hair was brushed back untidily. Half-moon glasses perched on the end of his nose; mostly he looked over them with a penetrating gaze.

The four were crowded into Sergeant Clemson's tiny office. In Miami's Metro-Dade headquarters, which she'd visited yesterday, broom closets would be larger, Ruby thought. Shirley Jasmund had already explained that the Tampa police headquarters, built in the early sixties, was inadequate and outmoded. "The politicians keep promising a new one but can never seem to find the money, so we struggle on."

Yanis quizzed Ruby. "You said you were ninety-eight percent certain about your guy Doil. How about the other two percent?"

"There's supposedly a knife hidden in a graveyard here in Tampa. If we find it, that ninety-eight becomes a hundred."

"Let's not play games," Sergeant Clemson said. "Be specific." He was younger then Sandy Yanis; though senior in rank, he seemed to defer to the older detective.

"All right." Once more Ruby described Elroy Doil's pre-execution confession to fourteen murders, including the Ikeis in Tampa a case that no one in Miami Homicide had heard of then Doil's emphatic denial of the Ernst double murder attributed to him, though he had not been formally charged.

"He was a pathological liar, and at first no one believed him," Ruby continued. "But now there are some doubts, and I have the job of checking everything he said."

Jasmund asked, "Have you caught him out in anything?"

"So far, not one thing."

"So, if whatever he said about Tampa checks out," Yanis prompted, "you might have another unsolved murder on your hands."

Ruby nodded. "A copycat."

"So what about the knife and a graveyard?" Clemson put in.

Reading from a notebook, Ruby quoted Doil's own words. " 'There's a cem'tery near where the Ikeis lived. Had ta get rid o' the knife I used, hid it in a grave. Know what was on the marker? Same last name as mine. Saw it, knew I'd remember if I wanted the fuckin' knife back, but I never got it.'

"Question: 'You buried the knife in a grave? Was it deep?'

"Answer: 'No, not deep.' "

Clemson opened a file on his desk. "The address where the Ikeis lived is 2710 North Mantanzas. Is there a cemetery near there?"

"Sure is," Yanis said. "Mantanzas runs into St. John, and there's a graveyard right behind called Marti Cemetery. It's small, old, and owned by the city."

"In case you hadn't realized it," Clemson told Ruby, "Sandy is our resident oracle. He's been around forever, forgets nothing, and knows every arcane corner of Tampa. Which is why he does pretty much what he likes and we put up with his peculiar ways."

"About memory," Yanis said, "I do have trouble remembering birthdays. Haven't a clue how many I've had."

"The bean counters know," Clemson rejoined. "When it's time they'll be around here with your pension check."

Ruby felt she was hearing an exchange that had taken place many times before.

More seriously, Yanis told her, "Most of the guys who work in Homicide get promoted out or move on to something else after six or seven years. The stress is too great. Me, I'm hooked on it all. I'll be here till they carry me out, and I remember old cases like the Ikeis, and love to see 'em closed. So let's get on start digging in that cemetery. Won't be the first time I've done that."

* * *

Sergeant Clemson used a speakerphone to call an assistant state attorney so the others could hear their conversation. After having the problem described to him, the attorney was uncompromising.

"Yes, Sergeant, I do realize we're not talking exhumation. But the reality is, no matter how near the surface the knife might be, you can't go disturbing any human grave without a judge's order."

"Any objection to us checking first, to find if there is such a grave?"

"I guess not, as part of an official investigation. But be careful. People are touchy about graves; it's like invading someone's privacy, or worse."

Afterward Clemson told Yanis, "Sandy, find out if there's a grave in that cemetery for someone named Doil. If there is, you can swear an affidavit, then ask a judge to sign an order letting us dig there." He added for Ruby, "This is going to take a couple of days, maybe more, but we'll move as fast as we can."

* * *

Ruby accompanied Yanis to City Hall and the Real Estate Division to meet an assistant property manager, Ralph Medina, whose responsibilities included Marti Cemetery. Medina, a small, middle-aged civil servant with a friendly attitude, explained, "Mart) doesn't need much managing, takes maybe four, five percent of my working time. One good thing once our tenants are inside, they never complain." He smiled at his own joke. "But if I can help, I will."

It was Ruby who described the purpose of their visit, Elroy Doil's pre-execution statement, and what they were seeking. She then inquired how many people were buried in the cemetery who had had that same last name.

"How do you spell that?"

"D-o-i-l."

Medina produced a file, ran a finger down several lists, then shook his head. "There's no such name. No one with that name's ever been buried at Marti."

"What about similar names?" Yanis asked.

"There are some spelled D-o-y-l-e."

"How many of those?"

Medina checked his lists again. "Three."

Yanis turned to Ruby. "What do you think?"

"I'm not sure. Doil's words were 'same last name as mine,' and the idea of disturbing three graves without real reason . . ." She shook her head.

"Yeah, know what you mean. Mr. Medina, when were the people in those Doyle graves buried?"

The answers took several minutes to find. At length: "One was in 1903, another in 1971, the last in 1986."

"Forget the third; that's six years after the Ikei murders. About the other two are you still in touch with the families?"

Again, more searching through registers, files, and yellowed pages, then the pronouncement, "The answer's no. The 1903 burial shows no contact at all; it was so long ago. After the 1971, there was an exchange of letters, then nothing."

"So you couldn't contact relatives of those dead people, even if you wanted?" Yanis queried.

"No, probably not."

"And if we obtained a judge's order to search those two graves just a foot or so below the surface, you'd cooperate?"

"With a judge's order, of course."

* * *

As Ruby and Yanis left City Hall together, she said, "So you decided to go ahead anyway."

"We have to," he answered tersely, adding, "It's a long shot with those different names, and maybe we'll waste our time. But it's a bigger risk to pass up a chance of finding the truth about how those old people died."

She regarded him curiously. "You really care about the answer, don't you? Even though it's all those years ago."

"For me," he told her, "those old cases never go away, no matter how many years you wait. So you tried to solve a case ten, fifteen years ago, but couldn't. Then something new comes up like now and you try again, every bit as hard as before."

"Not everyone does," Ruby said. "It's good that you care."

As if he had not heard, Yanis tapped his forehead, then continued, "I have a list in there that won't go away. Right up top is a little girl named Juanita Montalvo. She was ten years old; fifteen years ago, here in Tampa, she disappeared. A lot of us worked hard on that case. We got nowhere, but somehow, someday, before I finish, I want to know what happened to Juanita, and where she is, even if it's buried in the woods and we have to dig to find her."

"Did you know her?"

"Not before she disappeared. But afterward I learned so much about her she was a nice kid, everybody said so I have a feeling I really did." Yanis glanced at Ruby. "You think I'm spooked, don't you? That maybe I've been in Homicide too long?"

"Absolutely not," she told him. "Though I think you're hard on yourself."

"Maybe so. But I'll still go to the limit, along with you, to learn what happened to the Ikeis."

* * *

The preliminary arrangements took two full days.

The assistant state attorney prepared an affidavit and a judicial order allowing the police to open two graves, which Detective Yanis and Ruby Bowe took for a judge to sign.

Initially the judge, who clearly knew Yanis well, demurred at the notion of disturbing two graves, asking, "Why don't I authorize just one, Sandy? Then, if you don't find what you want there, I'll consider a second order."

The veteran detective pleaded persuasively, "I promise, Judge, that if we find what we're looking for at the first grave, we won't go near the second. But if we do have to search the second, having your okay in advance will save the city a lot of money not to mention your own valuable time."

"Your bullshit, I see, is as deep as ever," the judge commented. He turned from Yanis to Ruby. "Pardon my language, Detective, but what's your thinking on this?"

"Sometimes, Your Honor, I think bullshit makes sense."

"I'm an old fox who's outfoxed," the judge remarked as he scribbled a signature.

* * *

The workforce that assembled at 7:00 A.M. the next day at Marti Cemetery comprised four detectives Yanis, Jasmund, Bowe, and an Andy Vosko, borrowed from Robbery and three uniform officers from the ID Department. The City Real Estate Division's Ralph Medina also arrived "Just to keep an eye on my turf," he commented and a police photographer was taking pictures of the two designated graves.

Ample equipment had been stockpiled, too. There were wooden boards, an assortment of spades and hand trowels, coils of light rope, two sifting screens, and the ID crew had brought technical gear in boxes and leather cases. Also lined up were a dozen gallon-size bottles of drinking water. "By the end of this day we'll have finished those," Yanis declared. "It's gonna be a hot one." Although it was still officially winter, the sky was clear, the sun already climbing, the humidity high.

As instructed, everyone had dressed in old clothes, mainly jumpsuits and rubber boots, and had brought gloves. Ruby had borrowed baggy jeans from Shirley Jasmund, though they were pinching Ruby at her waistline and crotch.

The first grave to be opened was the older of the two, the burial place of a Eustace Maldon Doyle, who, according to a crumbling but still readable gravestone, died in 1903. "Hey, that's the year the Wright brothers flew the first airplane," someone said.

"It's the oldest part of the cemetery," Yanis acknowledged. "And closest to the house where the Ikeis were killed."

The first procedure, supervised by the ID sergeant, was to nail four boards together, forming a rectangular enclosure six feet by four. This was lowered over the grave and marked the limit of the dig. Next, several lengths of light rope were secured on top of the wooden frame by the ID crew, creating a grid a total of twenty-four twelve-inch squares. The purpose was to explore one square at a time, and also to keep a record of exactly where anything was found.

But would anything be found, Ruby Bowe wondered. Despite the activity, since arriving here today her doubts had grown. The name on this grave, she was reminded, was not what Elroy Doil had claimed it to be. In any case he was a notorious liar, so was Doil ever here at all? Her thoughts were interrupted by the ID sergeant's voice.

"Your turn now, Sandy," he told Yanis. "We're the gurus here. You guys are the chain gang."

"At your service, bossman." Taking a spade himself, Yanis instructed the other detectives, "Okay, let's play tictac-toe," and began digging carefully in one of the twelveinch squares. The other three Tampa detectives, along with Ruby, followed suit, choosing squares some distance from Yanis and each other.

"We'll go down six inches to begin," Yanis ordered. "Then, if we need to, another six."

The ground was hard, and only small amounts of earth could be lifted at one time. Gradually and carefully the dirt was transferred to a bucket, then as each bucket was filled, its contents were shaken into sifting screens.

The process was painstaking and tedious, and after a while they were all perspiring. At the end of an hour only twelve squares had been excavated to a six-inch depth, and, following a brief water break, work continued on the remaining twelve. At the end of two hours only three objects had been found an old leather dog collar, a fivecent coin dated 1921, and an empty bottle. The dog collar and bottle were discarded. The nickel, Yanis announced amid mild amusement, would go to the city treasury. Then they all began to dig another six inches down.

Finally, at the end of four hours and no results, Yanis declared, "That's it, everyone. Take a break and a drink, then we'll work on the other grave."

A chorus of weary sighs arose from the crew as they contemplated another four hours of back-straining labor.

Work started on the second grave at 11:40 A.M., with the temperature at eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit. It continued for an hour and a half, then Shirley Jasmund said quietly, "I think I have something."

They all stopped and looked up.

With her spade, Detective Jasmund gently probed downward in the square she was working on and said, "It's quite small. Solid, though. Maybe a stone."

Ruby's heart sank. Whether a stone or something else, it was clearly not a knife.

"May we take over?" the ID sergeant asked.

Jasmund shrugged as she handed him her spade. "I do the work, you get the glory."

''Them's the breaks, kid!" The sergeant passed the spade clear of the grave, then, kneeling, loosened the object in the ground with his fingers.

It was not a stone. Even with some earth still clinging to it, the object was revealed as a gold and enamel brooch clearly valuable.

The ID sergeant dropped the discovery into a plastic bag. "We'll look at it more closely in the lab."

"Okay, gang," Yanis echoed. "Let's keep digging."

Another hour and ten minutes passed and, along with the time, Ruby's spirits drooped. She had decided that this portion of her quest was close to ending in failure when Robbery's Andy Vosko spoke up.

"Got something here," he said, then added, "This time it's bigger."

Again everyone stopped work to watch, and again the ID sergeant moved in and took charge. Using a hand trowel, he carefully loosened the largish object and, as earth fell away, the vague shape became clear it was a knife. Producing tongs, the sergeant used them to hold the knife while one of the ID crew women brushed the remaining earth away.

"It's a bowie knife," Ruby said breathlessly, viewing the sturdy wooden handle and long single-edged blade straight, then curving concavely to a single sharp cutting point. "It's what Doil used in his killings." Her mood turned upbeat and she felt gratitude to Sandy Yanis for his persistence despite Ruby's own doubts.

The knife was now in another plastic bag. "We'll look at this in the lab, too," the ID sergeant said. "Nice going Sandy!"

"I suppose it isn't likely," Ruby queried, "that you'll find fingerprints or blood after all these years."

"Highly unlikely," the sergeant answered. "But..." He glanced toward Yanis.

"Yesterday," Yanis said, "I went to look at the Ikeis' clothing nightclothes they were wearing when they were killed; we still have it all in Property. What it showed was that they were stabbed through their clothing, which means there may be threads from the clothing still on that knife. If the threads and the clothing match..." He raised his hands, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Ruby said admiringly, "You just taught me something I didn't know."

"He does that to all of us," Jasmund echoed. "All the time."

"So we found what you were looking for," Andy Vosko said. "Do we quit or go on?"

"We go on," Yanis answered, and so they did for another hour, but nothing more was found.

* * *

Ruby Bowe booked a late-evening flight back to Miami. Shirley Jasmund drove Ruby to the airport; Sandy Yanis came along. As they parted at the terminal entrance and Ruby said good-bye, she reached out impulsively and hugged them both.

12

"So what's the verdict?" Malcolm Ainslie asked.

"The verdict," Ruby Bowe responded, "is that when Elroy Doil told you he murdered the Esperanzas and the Ikeis, he was telling the truth. Oh sure, a few details were different, and he left out one item entirely, but none of it changes the basic facts." She paused. "Shall I go back to the beginning?"

"Do that." It was the morning following Ruby's return from Tampa, and both were at Ainslie's desk in Homicide.

Ainslie listened while Ruby described what she had learned, first at Metro-Dade, then Tampa. At the end she added, "I had a phone call at home early this morning. The lab people in Tampa have identified threads on the bowie knife that match the Ikeis' clothing, so for sure it's the knife that killed them, just as Doil said. And the brooch we found in the grave . . ." Ruby consulted her notes. "It's been identified as cloisonne very old, very valuable, and Japanese. Sandy Yanis figures the old lady had the brooch somewhere close to her when she was killed, and Elroy Doil fancied it."

''Then got scared of having it found on him, and left it in the grave, too," Ainslie finished.

"Exactly. So Doil didn't tell the complete truth after all."

"But what he did tell me has checked out, and you've proved it to be true.

"Oh, there's something else." From among the papers Ruby had brought back, she produced copies of the envelope that, according to Shirley Jasmund, was found beside the Ikeis' bodies the envelope with seven seals in a circle on the rear and, inside, a page from Revelation. Ainslie studied both.

"It's chapter five," he said, looking at the torn page. "Three verses are marked." He read them aloud:

" 'And I saw in the right hand of him that sat on the throne a book written within and on the backside, sealed with seven seals.

" 'And I saw a strong angel proclaiming with a loud voice, Who is worthy to open the book, and to loose the seals thereof?

"'And one of the elders saith unto me, Weep not: behold, the Lion of the tribe of Juda, the Root of David, bath prevailed to open the book, and to loose the seven seals . . .'

"It's Doil's handiwork." Ainslie remembered his conversation with Father Kevin O'Brien of Gesu Church, who had described Doil's obsession at age twelve with as the priest expressed it "God's wrath, pursuit, revenge, and killing."

Ainslie added, "It matches everything he did much later."

"Why that page beside the bodies?" Ruby asked.

"Only Doil knew that. My guess is he saw himself as the Lion of Judah, which led him to the serial killings." Ainslie shook his head ruefully, then, touching the envelope and the page, said, "If we'd had this sooner, and known about the Ikeis, we'd have nailed Doil long before we did."

There was a silence which Ruby broke. "You just said 'serial killings.' How does the Ernst case stand now?"

"It stands alone." In his mind Ainslie could hear Elroy Doil's desperate, frantic words: I done them others, but I don't wanna die blamed for what I never done.

"There were doubts that Doil was telling the truth," Ainslie said. "But now it looks very much as if he was, so I guess the Ernst case will be reopened."

* * *

"The Ernst case is reopened, as of now," Leo Newbold said. "And it's looking very much as if you were right all along, Malcolm."

Ainslie shook his head. "That doesn't matter. The question is, where do you suggest we start?" The two were in Newbold's office, with the outer door closed.

"We'll start by keeping everything very quiet, and for as long as possible." Newbold hesitated before adding, "That means even in Homicide, and tell Ruby not to discuss this with anyone else."

"I already have." Ainslie regarded his superior curiously.as he asked, "What are you thinking?"

The lieutenant shook his head uncertainly. "I'm not sure. Except, if the Ernst murder was a copycat killing the way it now looks then whoever did it set it up deliberately to look like another serial. And that same person knew a helluva lot about Doil's other murders stuff that was never in the newspapers or on TV."

Ainslie chose his words carefully. "You're suggesting someone had inside information, or there were deliberate leaks to the outside?"

"Goddam, I don't know what I'm suggesting! All I know is, I'm nervous as hell wondering if someone in the PD, even in this department, knows something about the Ernst case that you and I don't." Newbold rose from his chair, paced his office, and returned. "Don't tell me you're not thinking the same thing, because I know damn well you are."

"Yes, I have been." After a pause Ainslie said, "What I thought I might do to begin is study all the files on every case, sort out what facts were made public and what we kept under wraps. Then we can see how it all compares with what happened at the Ernsts'."

Newbold nodded. "A good idea, but don't do it in the office. If anyone sees those files spread around, they could guess what's happening. Take them home and stay there for a couple of days. I'll cover for you."

Ainslie was startled. He had intended to be cautious, but not to the extent of mistrusting his colleagues. Yet he supposed Newbold was right. Also, lots of people, including outsiders, came and went from Homicide, and there was always curiosity about what was going on.

That evening, therefore, having discreetly transferred five bulging files to his car one each for the double murders of the Frosts, Larsens, Hennenfelds, Urbinas, and Ernsts Ainslie drove home, prepared for an intensive, probing study.

* * *

"I don't know why you're working at home," Karen said the next day, "but just having you here with all that stuff spread out is great. Is there any way I can help?"

Malcolm looked up gratefully. "Could you print some of my notes on your computer?"

Jason, returning from school, was equally pleased. Joining his father at the dining room table, he shoved some Homicide files aside to clear space for his homework, and the two worked side by side, interrupted only when Jason had questions like, "Dad, did you know that when you multiply by ten, all you have to do is add a zero? Isn't that neat?" . . . "Dad, did you know the moon is only two hundred and forty thousand miles away? Do you think I'll ever go there?" . . . And finally, "Dad, why don't we do this all the time?"

* * *

It took Ainslie two full days to pore over the files he had brought home, extract details, make notes, and finally create a crime-by-crime chart, but at the end he had drawn some important conclusions.

He began by reviewing the crime-scene details that were kept from the media withheld in hopes that a suspect might incriminate himself by volunteering such knowledge. Included in those facts were the series of bizarre objects left beside the victims, beginning with the four dead cats. Something else not disclosed was the radio that police found playing loudly at all the crime scenes. Yet another detail was that each couple, while bound and gagged, was positioned facing each other. The fact that all of the victims' money had been taken was disclosed, but there was never any mention that valuable jewelry, which could have been removed, had consistently been left.

Some reporters, however, had private sources of information within the Police Department, and whatever they learned unofficially was broadcast or printed, restricted or otherwise. Which left two questions: First, had the news media managed to publicize everything about the four double killings preceding the Ernsts'? Almost certainly not, Ainslie thought. And, second, was there a possibility as Leo Newbold had implied of a leak within the Police Department, either accidental or deliberate? In Ainslie's opinion, that answer was yes.

Ainslie considered next: Were there any differences between the murders of Gustav Ernst and his wife and the other Doil killings? Yes, he discovered, there were several.

One concerned the radios left playing at every murder scene. At the Frost murders at the Royal Colonial Hotel, the radio had been tuned to HOT 105 and was playing hard rock, that station's staple fare. The Clearwater murders of Hal and Mabel Larsen were next and, because no radio was referred to in the report, Ainslie phoned Detective Nelson Abreu, the senior investigator. "No," Abreu reported, "as far as I know, no radio was on, but I'll check and call you." He did so an hour later.

"I just talked to the uniform who was first on the scene, and yes, there was a radio on, he tells me now, says he remembers it was loud rock and roll, and the idiot turned it off and didn't report it. He was a new kid, and I've reamed him out good. Was it important?"

"I'm not sure," Ainslie said, "but I appreciate your checking."

Abreu was curious about the query's background. "The Larsens' next of kin have asked whether Doil definitely did those killings here. Do you have anything on that?"

"Not at this moment, but I'll tell my lieutenant you'd like to know if anything breaks."

Abreu chuckled. "I get it. You know something but can't tell me."

"You're in this business," Ainslie said. "You know the way things are."

He knew that Doil's Raiford confession had not been circulated so far, and for the time being he hoped it would not be. Eventually, though, for the peace of mind of the victims' survivors, the full story would undoubtedly be released.

After the Larsens came the Fort Lauderdale slayings of Irving and Rachel Hennenfeld. During a liaison visit to Miami, Sheriff-Detective Benito Montes reported that when the bodies were found, a radio was "playing hot rock, so goddam loud you couldn't hear yourself speak."

Then there were Lazaro and Luisa Urbina, killed in Miami. A neighbor turned off a loud-playing radio while he called 911, but left the dial setting unchanged at HOT 105.

A radio was also playing loudly when the bodies of Gustav and Eleanor Ernst were discovered by Theo Palacio, their majordomo. Palacio, too, turned off the radio, but remembered it was FM 93.1, WTMI, "a favorite station of Mrs. Ernst," he'd said, because it played classical music and show tunes. WTMI never played hard rock.

Was the type of music at the murder scenes significant? Ainslie thought it might be, especially when combined with another difference at the Ernsts' the presence of the dead rabbit, which, from the beginning, Ainslie was convinced was not a symbol from Revelation.

So, he asked himself, was it possible that whoever had committed the Ernst murders had heard of the Frosts' four cats and mistakenly believed another animal would fit the bill? Again the answer seemed a likely yes.

Also significant was that Ainslie's Revelation theorem had become known to a small group of senior investigators the day after the Ernst murders, and before that time the meaning of the murder-scene symbols was anybody's guess.

Another time factor raised questions, too.

After each of the preceding killings Frosts, Larsens, Hennenfelds, and Urbinas the elapsed time before the next double killing was never less than two months and averaged two months, ten days. Yet between the Urbinas' and the Ernsts' murders, the gap was only three days.

It was as if, Ainslie thought, wheels had been set in motion for the Ernsts' deaths, which would have occurred after the normal time gap if the Urbina killings had not abruptly intervened. And while news of the Urbina killings spread quickly, was it, perhaps, too late to stop the wheels rolling on the Ernst murders?

A fleeting thought occurred to Ainslie, but he dismissed it instantly.

* * *

As to Elroy Doil's final killing, that of Kingsley and Nellie Tempone, while the crime lacked some of Doil's previous hallmarks probably because he was interrupted and tried to flee the timing came close to fitting what had gone before, and Ainslie had a theory about that.

It was Ainslie's belief that, notwithstanding the court ruling about sanity, Doil was insane. If so, it was possible he had a compulsion to commit murder on a regular schedule and, tragically for the Tempones, Doil's killing time had come.

But the validity of that theory, Ainslie knew, would never be known.

Immediately following his two-day research, Ainslie went on an expedition to the Miami Police Property Unit.

* * *

Property, a pivotal, bustling organization, was located on a lower ground floor of the main Police Department building. Its commander, Captain Wade Iacone, a heavyset, graying, twenty-nine-year police veteran, greeted Ainslie in his office.

"Just the man I needed to see! How are you, Malcolm?"

"Fine, sir. Thanks."

Iacone waved a hand. "Forget the formality. I was about to send you a tickler, Malcolm about those Doil serials. Now that the guy is dead and the case is wound up, there's a mountain of stuff we'd like to clear. We desperately need the space."

Ainslie grimaced. "Forget the tickler, Wade. One of the cases has been reopened."

"Tickler" was jargon for a periodic memo sent to police officers who had brought in crime evidence for storage, perhaps, while awaiting trial, or in the hope of making an arrest eventually. In effect the tickler said, "Hey! We've held this for you a long time and it's taking up space we urgently need. Please consider whether you need it any longer, and if not, let's get it out of here." More often than not, removing the evidence involved getting a court order.

Another code word, "stuff," referred to vast quantities of items stored in the Property Unit, including narcotics cocaine and marijuana in case-numbered plastic bags, worth several million Dollars on the street; hundreds of firearms, including guns, rifles, machine pistols, ammunition, "enough to start an insurrection," as Captain Iacone once declaimed; blood and body fluids from homicides or sexual assaults and preserved in refrigerators; then more prosaic stolen TV sets, stereos, and microwaves, plus hundreds of sealed and stacked-high cardboard boxes containing the bric-a-brac of other crimes, including homicide.

As for space, there was never enough. "We're loaded full from floor to rafters, and then some," was Iacone's constant complaint, though somehow new objects and boxes were unfailingly squeezed in.

"So what's going on?" Iacone asked Ainslie.

"One of those serial killings may not be solved, so the evidence will have to stay. But you said 'mountain.' Is there really that much?"

"There wasn't a huge amount until Commissioner Ernst and his wife were killed," Iacone answered. "That's when the big bundle came. All sealed boxes. They told me there was so much because the case was so important."

"May I see them?"

"Sure."

The Property commander led the way through offices and storerooms where a staff of twenty worked five police officers, the remainder civilians producing remarkable order from the packed miscellany around them. Anything stored no matter how old, and twenty years of storage was not unique could be located in minutes via computer, using a case number, name, or storage date.

Iacone demonstrated the procedure, stopping unhesitatingly at a pile of more than a dozen large boxes, each sealed with tape bearing the words CRIME SCENE EVIDENCE. "These were brought in right after the Ernst killings," he said. "I believe your guys collected a lot of stuff from the house, mainly papers, and were going to go through it all, but I don't believe anyone did."

It was easy to guess what had happened, Ainslie realized. Immediately after the Ernst murders, Homicide's special task force began its surveillance of suspects, using every available detective and drawing on other departments, too. As a result, the Ernsts' papers and effects, while needing to be safeguarded, would have become a secondary concern. Then, with the Tempone killings and the arrest and conviction of Doil, the Ernst case was assumed closed, and the many boxes, it now appeared, had never been carefully examined. Ainslie told Iacone, "Sorry I can't take the Doil stuff off your hands, but what we will do is take a few of those boxes at a time, study the contents, then bring them back."

Iacone shrugged. "That's your privilege, Malcolm."

"Thanks," Ainslie answered. "It could be important."

13

"What I want you to do," Ainslie told Ruby, "is go through every one of those boxes stored in Property and see what you can find."

"Are we looking for anything special?"

"Yes, something that will lead us to whoever killed the Ernsts."

"But you've nothing more specific?"

Ainslie shook his head. A sense of foreboding he could not explain warned him that uncharted seas lay ahead. Who had murdered Gustav and Eleanor Ernst, and why? Whatever answer emerged would not be simple, he was sure. A line from the Bible's Book of Job occurred to him: The land of darkness and the shadow of death. He had an instinct he had entered it, and found himself wishing someone else was handling this case.

Ruby was watching him. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't know." He forced a smile. "Let's just find out what's in those boxes."

The two of them were in a small room on the far side of the main police building, away from Homicide. Ainslie had arranged temporary use of the space because of Leo Newbold's wish to keep the revived investigation as quiet as possible. The room was little more than a cupboard with a table, two chairs, and a phone, but it would do.

"We'll go down to Property," he told her, "and I'll authorize you to remove the Ernst boxes as you're ready for them. The whole thing shouldn't take more than a few days."

A prediction that, as it turned out, was wholly wrong.

* * *

At the end of two weeks, with some impatience, Ainslie went to visit Ruby for the third time in her temporary quarters. As on the two previous visits, he found her surrounded by piles of paper, much of it spread around the floor.

On the last occasion she had told him, "I don't believe either of the Ernsts could bear to throw away any piece of paper. They squirreled everything letters, bills, handwritten reminder notes, news clippings, canceled checks, invitations you name it and most of it's here."

Ainslie had said then, "I've talked with Hank Brewmaster, who had the case at the beginning. The problem was, there was an enormous quantity of papers in the house box after box, stored in almost every room. Well, because we were so swamped at the time, no one could be spared to go through everything, though it had to be preserved in case there was important evidence. So what happened is all that stuff was scooped up from the Ernsts' house, then afterward no one got around to going through it."

Today, Ruby had a tattered exercise book open in front of her and was making notes on a pad alongside it.

Gesturing to an open cardboard carton, he asked, "Is it more of the same?"

"No," Ruby said, "I may have found something interesting."

"Tell me."

''Mrs. Ernst was the one who accumulated the most paper, and a lot is in her handwriting spidery and hard to read. All innocuous, I thought, until two days ago, when I found what's turned out to be a diary. She wrote it in exercise books lots of them, going back years."

"How many?"

"Could be twenty, thirty, maybe more." Ruby motioned to the cardboard carton. "This was full of them. My guess is, there'll be more in others."

"What do they say?"

"Well, that's a problem. Apart from the difficult handwriting, it's in a kind of code a personal shorthand, you could call it for privacy I suppose, especially from her husband; she must have concealed her diary from him over all those years. If anyone's patient enough, though, they can learn to read it."

Ruby pointed to the tattered pages in front of her. "For example, instead of using names, she uses numbers. After a while I realized '5' stood for herself and '7' for her husband. Then I caught on 'E,' for 'Eleanor,' is the fifth letter of the alphabet; 'G.' for 'Gustav,' the seventh. A simple code. Two numbers with a hyphen between is two names. I figured that '4-18-23' meant 'Dr. W.' whoever he is, or was. And she compresses words, skips the vowels mostly. I'm getting the hang of it, but wading through all these will take time.''

He must make a judgment, Ainslie knew. Was it worth keeping Ruby on this tedious search, which could drag on much longer and most likely produce nothing? Other matters in Homicide were, as usual, pressing. He asked, "Is there anything at all you can tell me? Anything important?"

Ruby considered. "Okay, maybe there is, and I guess I was holding back, wanting to have more." Her voice took on an edge. "Try this for size. What the diaries show already is that our late, high and mighty City Commissioner Gustav Ernst was a wife-beater of the worst kind. He beat his wife from the beginning of their marriage, sending her to the hospital at least once. She kept quiet because she was ashamed and scared, and thought no one would believe her, which is what her bastard of a husband told her. In the end all she could do was transfer the pain and torment in her lonely private code to these miserable pages. It's all in here!"

Abruptly, Ruby flushed. "Oh fuck! I hate this shit." Impulsively she seized one of the exercise books and flung it wildly across the tiny room.

After a pause, Ainslie retrieved the book and returned it to the table. "She was probably right; she might not have been believed, especially all those years ago, when no one ever talked about battered wives; people didn't want to know. Do you believe it all?"

"Absolutely." Ruby was calm again. "There's too much detail to have invented it, and every bit rings true. Maybe you should read some."

"I will later," Ainslie said, confident of Ruby's judgment.

She looked over at the exercise-book diary and added thoughtfully, "I think Mrs. Ernst knew, perhaps even hoped, that what she was writing would be read someday."

"Have you come across any reference to " Ainslie stopped, realizing the question was unneeded. If the answer was yes, Ruby would have told him.

"You're wondering about Cynthia, aren't you?"

He nodded without speaking.

"I'm wondering, too, but there hasn't been anything yet. The books I've had are from the Ernsts' early marriage years; so far, Cynthia isn't born. When she is, she'll be in there as '3.' "

Their eyes met directly.

"Keep going," Ainslie said. "Take whatever time you need, and call me when there's something I should see." He tried to dismiss that gnawing apprehension, but did not succeed.

It was almost two more weeks before Ruby Bowe telephoned again. "Can you come down? I have some things to show you."

* * *

"What I've found," Ruby said, "changes a lot of things, though I'm not sure how."

Once more they were in the tiny, windowless room, still crammed with papers. Ruby sat at her small table.

"Let's get on with it," he said, aware of having waited long enough.

"Cynthia has come on the scene, and within a week of her being born, Mrs. Ernst found her husband playing with the baby sexually. Here's what she wrote." Ruby pushed an open exercise book across the table and pointed partially down a page. Peering closely, Ainslie saw:

Fnd 7 tdy tchng 3, cd only b sxl. He had rmvd hr diapr & ws peerng at hr. Thn nt knwng I hd sn hm, he bnt dwn & dd smthng unspkbl. Ws so dsgstd & fraid for 3. Is ths prvt, hr fthr, wht sh mst fce thru chldhd ? Tld hm ddnt cre whtvr he dz to me, bt mst nvr do tht agn to 3, & if he dd wd cll chid prtctn ppl nd he wd go to jl. He ddnt sm shmd bt prmsd nt to do it ny mre. Nt sre if blv hm, knw hs dpravd. Cn I prtct 3? Agn nt sre.

"Read it to me," he said. "I get the idea, but you'll be faster."

Ruby read aloud:

" 'Found Gustav today touching Cynthia, it could only be sexually. He had removed her diaper and was peering at her. Then, not knowing I had seen him, he bent down and did something unspeakable. Was so disgusted and afraid for Cynthia. Is this pervert, her father, what she must face through childhood? Told him I didn't care whatever he does to me, but he must never do that again to Cynthia, and if he did would call child protection people and he would go to jail. He didn't seem ashamed but promised not to do it any more. Not sure if believe him, know he's depraved. Can I protect Cynthia? Again not sure.' "

Without waiting for a reaction, Ruby said. "There are bits and pieces like that over the next two years, and despite Mrs. Ernst's threat, it's clear she did nothing. Then after a year and a half, there's this." Reaching for another exercise book, she pointed to a passage:

Hv wrnd 7 so mny tms bt sill he gs on, smtms hrtng 3 so sh crs out. Whn I trd to rgu wth hm he sd, "Its nthng.Jst a Ittl fectshn frm hr dad. " Tld him . . .

With a gesture, Ainslie indicated that Ruby should read it. She did so.

" 'Have warned Gustav so many times but still he goes on, sometimes hurting Cynthia so she cries out. When I tried to argue with him he said, "It's nothing. Just a little affection from her dad." Told him, "No, it's sick. She hates it and she hates you. She's afraid." Now every time Gustav comes near Cynthia she cries and curls up defensively, shrinking away. I keep threatening to call someone, child welfare people or police or even our own Dr. W., and Gustav laughs, knowing when it comes right down to it I can't, and that's the truth. The shame and disgrace would be too awful. How could I face people afterward? Can't even speak of this to anyone, not even for Cynthia's sake. I have had to bear this burden alone and so will Cynthia.' "

"Does this shock you?" Ruby asked.

"After nine years in Homicide nothing shocks me, but I'm worried about what's to come. There is more right?"

"Lots. Too much to cover now, so I'll skip ahead and we can come back to the other stuff later." She consulted notes. "Cruelty came next. When Cynthia was three, Gustav began beating her 'slapping her hard for trivial reasons or sometimes for no reason at all,' the diary says. He hated her crying, and once, as 'punishment,' put her legs in steaming hot water. Mrs. Ernst took Cynthia to a hospital, reporting the burn as an accident. She says in her notes that she knows she was not believed, but nothing happened.

"Then, when Cynthia was eight, Gustav had sex with her for the first of many times. After that, Cynthia shrank from anyone who tried to touch her, including her mother, showing terror at the idea of being touched." Ruby's voice faltered. She drank water from a glass and pointed to a pile of exercise books. "It's all in there."

Ainslie asked, "Do you want a break?"

"I think so, yes." Ruby went to the door, murmuring as she left, "I'll be back soon."

Left alone, Ainslie found his thoughts were in tumult. He had not erased from memory the fervent excitement of his affair with Cynthia, nor ever would. Despite her bitterness at his decision to end it, and afterward her deliberate sabotage of his own career, he still cared about Cynthia and would never wish to harm her in return. But now, with this new knowledge, his thoughts and pity went out to her in waves. How could supposedly civilized parents abuse and violate their own child the father with degraded lust, the mother so spineless that she took no action whatever to aid her daughter?

The door opened quietly and Ruby slipped in. He asked, "Do you feel like going on?"

"Yes, I want to finish, then maybe I'll go and get drunk tonight and put this out of mind."

But she wouldn't, he knew. Ruby, because of her father's tragic shooting death by a fifteen-year-old junkie, strictly abstained from all drugs and alcohol. This experience would not change that.

"The inevitable happened when Cynthia was twelve," she continued, returning to her notes. "She got pregnant by her father. Let me read you what Mrs. Ernst wrote."

This time Ruby did not show the diary version in code, but read directly from her transcribed notes.

" 'In this terrible, shameful situation, arrangements have been made. With the help of Gustav's lawyer, L.M., Cynthia was spirited out of town to Pensacola under another name and to a discreet hospital where L.M. has connections. Medical advice is she must have the child, pregnancy too far advanced for anything else. She will stay in Pensacola until it happens. L.M. also arranging to have baby immediately adopted; I told him we don't care how, where, or to whom, as long as all is kept quiet and never traceable. Cynthia will not see the child or hear of it again, and neither will we. Thank goodness!

" 'Something good may even come out of this. Before L.M. agreed to handle the case, he gave the biggest dressing-down to Gustav I ever heard. He said Gustav sickened him and used words I won't repeat. Also he gave an ultimatum: Unless Gustav gives up for all time his abuse of Cynthia, L.M. will inform the authorities of his actions and Gustav will go to prison for a long time. L.M. said he really meant it and, if he had to do it, "the hell with client privilege." Gustav was truly frightened.'

"Some time after that there's a reference to Cynthia's baby being born," Ruby said. "No other information, not even the child's sex. Then Cynthia came home and, soon after, there was this in the diary:

"'Despite all our precautions, somehow something must have leaked. A child welfare person came to see me. From her questions I could tell she didn't know everything, but did have information that Cynthia had a child at age twelve. Was no point in denying that, so I said yes she had, but about the rest I lied. I said we had no idea who the father was, though Gustav and I had been concerned for some time about Cynthia mixing with undesirable boys. From now on we would be more strict. Am not sure she believed me altogether, but there's nothing she can do to disprove what I said. Those people are such busybodies!

" 'Just as the woman left, I discovered Cynthia had been listening. We didn't say anything to each other, but Cynthia had a fierce look. I think she hates me.' "

Ainslie said nothing, his thoughts too complex to express. His disgust was overwhelming, particularly that neither Gustav nor Eleanor Ernst had given the slightest thought to the welfare of the newborn child her grandson or granddaughter, his son or daughter; apparently neither had cared which.

"I skipped ahead," Ruby continued, "reading just parts of the diary in the years when Cynthia was growing up. There's been no time to read it all; maybe no one ever will. But the picture is that Gustav Ernst stopped molesting Cynthia and began trying to help her, hoping according to the diary she'd 'forgive and forget.' He gave her lots of money and he had plenty. It was all still happening when he was a city commissioner and Cynthia joined the Miami Police. He used his influence to put pressure on the PD, first to get her into Homicide, then to have her promoted fast."

"Cynthia was good at her job," Ainslie said. She's probably have gone ahead anyway."

Ruby shrugged. "Mrs. Ernst thought it helped. though she didn't believe Cynthia would ever be gratef' l for anything she and Gustav did. Here's something Mrs. Ernst wrote four years ago:

" 'Gustav is living in a fool's world. He thinks that all is well between the two of us and Cynthia, that the past has been put behind and left there, and that Cynthia cares about us now. What nonsense! Cynthia doesn't love us. Why should she? We never gave her reason to. Now, looking back, I wish I had done some things differently. But it's too late. All too late.'

"I have one more diary piece to read, and maybe it's the most important," Ruby said. "This is Mrs. Ernst four months before she and Gustav were killed:

" 'I've caught Cynthia looking at us sometimes. I believe a fierce hatred for us both is there. It's part of Cynthia's nature that she never forgives. Never! She doesn't forgive anyone for even the smallest offense against her. She gets back at them somehow, makes them pay. I'm sure we made her that way. Sometimes I think she's planning something for us, some kind of revenge, and I'm afraid. Cynthia is very clever, more clever than us both.' "

Ruby put her notepad down. "I've done what you asked me to. There's just one thing left." She saw Ainslie's troubled face, and her expression softened. "This must have been hard for you, Sergeant."

He said uncertainly, "What do you mean?"

"Malcolm, we all know why you were never made lieutenant. By now you should probably be a captain."

He sighed. "So you know about Cynthia and me. . ." He let his words tail off.

"Of course. We all knew it while it was happening. We're detectives, aren't we?"

In other circumstances Ainslie might have laughed. But something dark and unspoken was hanging in the air. "So what's left?" he asked. "You said there was one thing. What?"

"There's a sealed box in Property that was brought in with the others from the Ernst crime scene, but has Cynthia's name on it. It looks as if she stored it in her parents' house and it got caught up with all the rest."

"Did you check who signed the box in?"

"Sergeant Brewmaster."

"Then it's official evidence, and we have the right to open it."

"I'll get it," Ruby said.

* * *

The cardboard carton that Ruby brought was similar to the others, with the same CRIME SCENE EVIDENCE tape around it. But when that tape was removed there was more tape beneath, colored blue, bearing the initials "C.E.," and secured by sealing wax at several points.

"Take that off carefully and save it,'' Ainslie instructed.

A few minutes later Ruby had opened the carton flaps and folded them back. Both peered inside, where several plastic bags were visible, each containing an object. One, near the top, was a gun that looked like a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. In another bag was an athletic shoe, with another shoe beneath. Both shoes bore stains. A fourth bag contained what appeared to be a T-shirt with a similar stain; a portion of a recording tape was also visible. Each bag had a label attached, with handwriting that Ainslie recognized as Cynthia's.

He could hardly believe what he was seeing.

Ruby was puzzled. "Why is this here?"

"It was never intended to be. It was concealed in the Ernst house and, just as you said, brought here by mistake." Ainslie added, "Don't touch anything, but see if you can read what's written about the gun."

She leaned closer. "It says, 'The weapon which P.J. used to shoot his ex-wife Naomi with her friend Kilburn Holmes.' There's a date. 'August twenty-first' six years ago."

"Oh Jesus!" Ainslie said in a whisper.

Ruby straightened, facing him. "I don't understand any of this. What is it?"

He answered grimly, "The artifacts of an unsolved homicide. Unsolved until now."

Although the Jensen-Holmes case was not handled by Ainslie's Homicide team, he remembered it well because of Cynthia's long association with the novelist Patrick Jensen. He recalled again that Jensen had been a strong suspect following the murders of his ex-wife and her young male friend, killed by .38-caliber bullets from the same gun. Jensen was known to have purchased a Smith & Wesson .38-caliber revolver two weeks earlier, but claimed to have lost the gun, and no murder weapon was found. In the absence of specific evidence, no charges were laid.

An obvious question: Was the gun in the box just unsealed the missing weapon? Another: If the evidence was real, why had Cynthia labeled it, then concealed it for six years? Such labeling was routine for a trained Homicide detective, which Cynthia was. Concealing evidence was not.

Ruby broke in. "Does this 'unsolved homicide' fit in somehow with the Ernst murders?"

It was one more question Ainslie was already asking himself. The questions were endless. Was Patrick Jensen involved in the Ernst murders? If so, was Cynthia protecting him from that, as well as from an earlier crime?

Weighing it all, Ainslie felt a mood of deep depression sweep over him. "Right now I'm not sure of anything," he told Ruby. "What we do need is an ID crew to go through this box."

He lifted the tiny office's single phone.