Detective

1

Since Malcolm Ainslie's decision to summon an ID crew to the small temporary room in Police Headquarters, momentous discoveries had transpired. It was, as a state attorney would describe it later, "like honest daylight lighting up black evil."

The objects in the box unsealed by Ruby Bowe appeared to show convincingly that six and a half years earlier Patrick Jensen had killed his ex-wife, Naomi, and her friend Kilburn Holmes. It was a crime for which Jensen had been a strong suspect, though detectives were unable to prove his guilt.

It was also apparent from the box that Cynthia Ernst, who at that time was a Homicide detective, had conspired to conceal the evidence of Jensen's crime. Ainslie, though stunned and depressed by what he saw, brushed aside his personal feelings and waited impatiently for ID assistance to arrive.

The ID chief, Julio Verona, who responded personally to Ainslie's call, made a fast inspection of the box and contents, then declared, "We won't touch any of this here. Everything must go to our labs."

Lieutenant Newbold, who had also been called and briefed by Ainslie, told Verona, "Okay, but do everything as fast as you can, and tell your people this is ultra-secret; there must be no leaks."

"No leaks. I guarantee it."

Two days later, at 9:00 A.M. on a Thursday, Verona returned to the same small room with the box of evidence and his report. Ainslie was waiting for him along with Newbold, Howe, and Assistant State Attorney Curzon Knowles, chief of the state attorney's Homicide division.

Newbold had offered to move the proceedings to Knowles's of lice in another building, several miles away state attorneys were notorious for insisting that the police come to them, rather than the other way around but Knowles, a former New York cop himself, always liked coming to what he called "the heat." Thus the five were standing in the small, crowded space.

"I'll report on the plastic bags first," Verona told the others. "All of them bear fingerprints matching Cynthia Ernst's." As they all knew, police officers had their prints recorded, and they were not removed from the files when someone left the force.

The ID chief continued, "Then there's the handwriting on the labels. We have a couple of handwritten memos in our files from when Commissioner Ernst was a major, and our handwriting expert says it's a perfect match." He shook his head. ''To be so careless . . . she must have been crazy."

"She never intended any of this to be found," Knowles said.

"Keep going," Newbold told Verona. "There was a gun.''

"Yes, a Smith & Wesson .38."

One by one, the ID supervisor listed the checked items and results: The revolver bore the fingerprints of Patrick Jensen. Several years previously his house had been broken into, and he had let himself be fingerprinted to compare his prints with others left by the thief. Routinely, Jensen had received his fingerprint card back, but what he and other non-suspects were not told was that copies often were retained on file.

The gun, sent to the firearms lab, was loaded and fired into a tank of water. Immediately after, the bullet was placed in a double microscope along with one of the two original bullets removed from the dead victims. The distinctive markings on both bullets, put there by the rifling of the gun barrel, were identical. The same was true of the second crime-scene bullet. "There's no doubt whatever,'' Verona declared, pointing to the box. "This is the gun that was used to kill both those people."

Bloodstains on a T-shirt and sneakers found in the box showed the presence of both Naomi Jensen's and Kilburn Holmes's DNA.

"Then here's the clincher," Verona announced, producing an audiotape cassette. "This is a copy; the original is resealed and back in the box. Apparently it's a statement by Jensen of how he did the killing. But there are gaps. It looks as if someone else's voice was originally on the tape, but has been wiped out.''

He produced a portable player-recorder, inserted the tape, and pressed PLAY. As the tape ran, there were several seconds of silence, then sounds like objects being moved, followed by a faltering male voice, at moments choking with emotion, though the words were clear.

"I didn't plan it, didn't intend . . . but always hated the thought of Naomi with someone else. . . When I saw those two together, her and that creep, I was blinded, angry. . . I'd been carrying a gun. I pulled it out, without even thinking, fired . . . Suddenly it was over. . . Then I saw what I'd done. Oh God, I'd killed them both!"

A silence followed. "Here's where someone wiped the tape," Verona said. Then, again, the same voice from the player.

". . . Kilburn Holmes. . . He'd been seeing Naomi, was with her all the time. . . People told me.''

Verona stopped the tape. "I'll leave you to listen to the rest. It's bits and pieces, obviously answers to questions that were erased, and all the same voice. Of course, I can't say for sure it's Jensen speaking; I've never met him. But we can run a voice test later."

"Make your test," Ainslie said. "But I can tell you right now, that was Jensen." He was remembering their encounter at Elroy Doil's execution.

* * *

When Julio Verona had left, there was a silence, which Leo Newbold broke. "So, anyone have any doubts?"

One by one the others shook their heads, their expressions somber.

The lieutenant's voice was distressed. "Why? In God's name, why would Cynthia do it?"

Ainslie, his expression anguished, raised his hands helplessly.

"I could make some guesses," Curzon Knowles said. "But we'll know better when we've talked with Jensen. You'd better bring him in."

"How do you want us to handle that, counselor?" Ainslie asked.

Knowles considered, then said, "Arrest him." He gestured to the box that Verona had left. "All the evidence we need to convict is here. I'll prepare an affidavit; one of you can take it quietly to a judge."

"It was Charlie Thurston's case," Newbold pointed out. "He should make the arrest.''

"All right," Knowles agreed. "But let's have as few people involved as possible, and warn Thurston not to talk to anyone. For now, we must continue keeping a lid on this, screwed down tight."

Newbold asked, "So what do we do about Cynthia?"

"Nothing yet; that's why we need a tight lid. First I have to talk to Montesino. Before we arrest a city commissioner, she'll probably want to go before a grand jury, so Ernst mustn't even hear a whisper."

"We'll do our best," Newbold acknowledged. "But this stuff is red hot. If we don't move fast, word will fly.''

* * *

By early afternoon, Detective Charlie Thurston had been called in and given the arrest warrant for Patrick Jensen. Ruby Bowe would accompany him as backup. Newbold told the balding veteran, Thurston, "We don't want anyone else knowing about this. No one!"

"Fine by me,'' Thurston acknowledged, then added, "For a long time I've wanted to collar that prick Jensen."

From Police Headquarters it was only a short distance to Jensen's apartment. Ruby, at the wheel of an unmarked car, said to Thurston on the way, "You got a problem with Jensen, Charlie? You sounded pretty intense back there."

Thurston grimaced. "I guess bad memories got to me. When the case was running, I saw a lot of him, and from the beginning we were positive Jensen killed those two people. But he was arrogant as hell, all the time acting as if he knew we'd never nail him. One day I went to ask a few more questions and he laughed, told me to beat it."

"Do you think he'll be violent?"

"Unfortunately, no." Thurston chuckled. "So we'll have to take him in unmarked. Looks like we're here."

As Ruby stopped the car a few yards from a six-story brick building on Brickell Avenue, Thurston surveyed it. "Guy's come down in the world a bit; had a fancy house when I last knew him." He checked the warrant. "Says here apartment 308. Let's do it."

Moments later, at a push-button panel by the main glass doorway, the third-floor number was confirmed, though neither detective had any intention of alerting Jensen from below. "Someone'll come soon," Thurston said.

Almost at once a slight, elderly woman wearing a tam, tweeds, and high boots appeared in the hallway inside with a small dog on a leash. As she released the door, Thurston held it open and showed his identification badge. "We're police officers, ma'am, on official business."

As Ruby produced her badge, the woman peered at both. "Oh dear, and just as I'm leaving! Is this going to be exciting, Officers?"

Thurston responded, " 'Fraid not. We're just delivering a parking ticket."

The woman shook her head, smiling. "I read your badges. Detectives don't do that." She tugged at the dog's leash. "Come, Felix; it's plain we're not wanted here."

* * *

Thurston rapped twice on the door of apartment 308. They heard movement inside, then a voice. "Who is it?"

"Police officers. Open up, please!"

In the door a small circle of light appeared as a peephole was used, followed a moment later by the sound of a latch, and the door opened. As it did, Thurston pushed it wide open and strode in. Patrick Jensen, wearing an open sport shirt and slacks, stepped two paces back. Ruby, entering behind Thurston, closed the door. Thurston, arrest warrant in hand, spoke crisply. "Patrick Jensen, I have a warrant for your arrest on a charge of murdering Naomi Mary Jensen and Kilburn Owen Holmes . . . I caution you that you have the right to remain silent. You need not talk or answer questions... You have the right to an attorney..." As the Miranda words rolled on, Thurston watched the other man's face, which seemed strangely unperturbed. It was almost, the detective thought, as if this moment had been expected.

At the end, Jensen said quietly, "May I phone him from here?"

"Yes, but I have to check you for a weapon first." While Jensen held up his hands, Thurston patted him down, then announced, "Okay, sir, you can go ahead and use the phone. One call."

Jensen went to it and tapped out what was plainly a familiar number. After a moment he said, "Stephen Cruz, please." A pause, then, "Stephen, it's Patrick. Remember I said a day might come when I'd need your help? That day is here. I've been arrested." Another pause, then, "Murder."

Jensen listened with the phone to his ear; obviously Cruz was giving him instructions. He replied, "I haven't said anything, and I won't." Addressing the detectives: "My lawyer wants to know where I'm being taken."

Thurston replied, "Police Headquarters Homicide."

Jensen repeated the information, said, "Yeah, see you soon," and hung up.

"We'll have to handcuff you, sir," Ruby Bowe said. ''Would you like to put on a jacket first?''

"Actually, I would." Jensen sounded surprised. Going to a bedroom, he buttoned his shirt and slipped on a jacket, after which Ruby swiftly secured his hands behind him. "You guys are being pretty polite about this,-' he said. "Thank you."

"Doesn't cost us anything," Thurston acknowledged. "We can go the rough route when we need. We prefer not to."

Jensen looked at him intently. "Haven't we met before?"

"Yes, sir. We have."

"I remember now. I was pretty obnoxious at the time."

The detective shrugged. "It was a long time ago."

"Not too long for an apology if you'll accept it."

"Sure." Thurston's voice became coolly matter-of-fact. "But I think you've got a lot more than that to worry about right now. Let's get moving."

Ruby Bowe was speaking on her radiophone.

* * *

"They got Jensen and they're on the way," Ainslie told Leo Newbold and Curzon Knowles. Since their earlier session Knowles had been away, consulting with his superior, State Attorney Adele Montesino, and had just returned.

"Jensen's already called his lawyer," Ainslie added. "Stephen Cruz. He's on his way, too."

Knowles nodded. "Good choice. Cruz is tough, though he can be reasoned with.')

"I know him," Newbold said. "But however good he is, nothing can argue with the new evidence we have."

"I have an idea about that box of evidence," Knowles continued. "Before Jensen gets here, why don't we take that box to an interview room, open it, and spread everything out on the table? The moment Jensen sees it all, he'll know he's cooked, and maybe start talking."

"Great idea." Newbold glanced at Ainslie. "Malcolm, will you set it up?"

* * *

At Police HQ, Jensen was in the course of being processed fingerprinted, photographed, his pockets emptied, their contents stored and recorded, other paperwork proceeding. He was, he knew, enmeshed in the cogs of an impersonal machine. Who knew when he would be free from it, if ever? While concerned, at this moment he found himself not worrying all that much.

Ever since the detectives' arrival at his apartment, his thoughts had been in a curious limbo. He had long feared what had so recently occurred; at moments in the past it had been a haunting nightmare. But now that it was reality the immediate fear was gone perhaps, he thought, because of the inescapability of whatever lay ahead. In a foolish moment of passion and emotion he had committed a capital crime, and now, according to the law and in whatever way the judicial system chose, some punishment was likely. Being human, he would use every possible means to escape or diminish that punishment, though only later would he know how good those chances were.

Of course, at this point he still did not know what had changed to prompt his arrest so suddenly, but he knew enough of the system to realize it was something important and compelling. If it were not, he would have been brought in for questioning before a warrant was procured.

After the routine processing, Jensen, still handcuffed, was taken in an elevator up several floors to Homicide. There he was escorted to an interrogation room nowadays, in official "soft-speak," referred to as an interview room.

Jensen was hardly through the doorway when he saw on a table ahead the opened box bearing Cynthia Ernst's personal blue sealing tape. And, beyond the box, its contents laid out one by one in a neat, highly visible, condemning row.

Involuntarily Patrick stopped, all movement frozen, as enlightenment, despair, and a sudden hatred of Cynthia exploded in his mind.

Moments later, having been pushed forward by his uniformed police escort, he was directed to a chair, handcuffed to it, and left alone.

* * *

It was a half hour later. Malcolm Ainslie, Ruby Bowe, Curzon Knowles, Stephen Cruz, and Patrick Jensen were all, by now, gathered in the interview room. Leaving Jensen alone for the intervening time had been deliberate on the detectives' part.

"I'm quite sure you recognize all of this," Ainslie said to Jensen, gesturing to the assortment on the table. Everyone was seated except Ainslie, who circled the table as he spoke. "Especially the gun that killed your former wife, Naomi, and her friend Holmes. Incidentally, the gun has your fingerprints all over it, and it fired the bullets that killed them both all of that has been certified by experts who'll testify in court. And, oh yes, there's a tape recording, unmistakably your voice, in which you describe exactly how you killed them both. Would you like me to play that?"

"Don't answer that question," Stephen Cruz advised. "If the sergeant wishes to play a tape, let it be his decision. Also, you do not need to respond to those other things he said."

Cruz, a small-boned figure in his late thirties, with a sharp, decisive voice, had arrived soon after Jensen was delivered in custody. While waiting, he had chatted amiably with Knowles and Newbold, then was brought to the interview room.

Jensen, visibly distressed, looked directly at Cruz. "I need to talk with you alone. Can we do that?"

"Sure." Cruz nodded. "That's your privilege anytime. It'll mean transferring you to "

"No need for that," Knowles interjected. ''The rest of us will go, and leave you here. Okay with you, Sergeant?''

Ainslie answered, "Of course." He collected all of the evidence and followed Knowles and Ruby Bowe out.

Jensen shifted uncomfortably in his seat; earlier his handcuffs had been removed. ''How do we know they're not listening?" he asked.

"Two reasons," Cruz informed him. "One, there's something called lawyer-client privilege. Two, if they listened and got caught, they'd face disciplinary action." He paused, surveying his racquetball partner and new client. "You wanted to talk, so go ahead."

Jensen took a deep breath and released it, hoping his muddled thoughts would clear. He was weary of concealment, and here and now at least he wanted to disclose the truth. Also, in whatever way the police had obtained the damned box, he decided, the blame was Cynthia's. Long ago she'd led him to believe she would destroy it all. Instead, despite all he had done and risked to protect and aid her, she had kept it, and it had betrayed him. In return, he knew that he would hold true to a promise of his own.

Jensen looked up at Cruz and began, "You heard what they said just now. Well, Steve, those are my fingerprints on the gun, I guess those bullets really match, and on the tape you didn't hear, it is my voice. So what do you think?"

"My strong impression," Cruz answered, "is that you are in deep shit."

"Actually," Jensen said, "it's deeper than you think."

2

"I'm going to tell you everything," Jensen said. still sitting in the Homicide interview room with Stephen Cruz.

As Jensen poured out his story, Cruz listened, his face trying to mask shock, incredulity, and finally resignation, yet not succeeding. At the end, after a long and thoughtful pause, he said, "Patrick, are you sure you're not making all this up, that it isn't just another novel you're about to write? You're not bouncing the plot off me to find out what I think?"

"There was a time when I might have done just that," Jensen replied dolefully. "Unfortunately, every word is true."

Jensen felt some relief that at least in this limited sense everything was out in the open. Even sharing seemed to ease the load he had carried alone for so long. Common sense, though, warned him that the feeling was an illusion. Cruz's next words confirmed it.

"I'd say that your first need isn't so much a lawyer, but a priest, or someone of that ilk to say a prayer."

"That may come later if I get so desperate," Jensen said. "Right now I have a lawyer, and what I want from you is the bottom line: Where do I stand? What should I aim for? What are my chances?"

"All right." Cruz had risen from his chair and began to pace the length of the small room, glancing at Jensen as he talked. "According to what you've told me, you are heavily involved in the murders of five people. There's your ex-wife and her man; and the guy in the wheelchair, Rice. Then there are Gustav and Eleanor Ernst, who were important people, and don't think that doesn't make a difference; also, that Ernst case is clearly murder one. Certainly for the Ernsts, and maybe also those first two people, you could face the death penalty. How's that for a bottom line?"

Jensen started to speak, but Cruz silenced him with a gesture. "If you'd killed only your ex-wife and the man, I could have claimed it was a crime of passion and have you plead manslaughter, which, in cases where a firearm's used, carries a maximum sentence of thirty years. Since you'd have had a clean record, I'd have argued for less and maybe got fifteen, even ten. But with those other two killings in the wings..." Cruz shook his head. "Those change everything."

He looked out the window. "There's one thing you should come to terms with, Patrick. Even if you avoid the death penalty, there's no way you can escape prison time probably a lot of time. It's unlikely, I think, that you and I will ever play racquetball again."

Jensen grimaced. "Now that you know the kind of person I am, I doubt you'd want to."

Cruz waved the remark away. "I leave judgments like that to the judges and juries. But while I'm your attorney and by the way, sometime soon you and I have to talk money, and I warn you I'm not cheap anyway, as an attorney, whether I like or dislike my clients and I've had some of each they all get the utmost I can give, and the fact is I'm good!"

"I accept all that," Jensen said. "But I have another question."

Cruz resumed his seat. "Ask it."

"What is Cynthia's legal position? First, because of failing to report what she knew about Naomi's and Holmes's killing, and then concealing the evidence the gun, clothing, audiotape, all the rest?"

"She'll almost certainly be charged with obstruction of justice, which is a felony, and in a homicide case extremely serious; also conspiracy after the fact, and for all of that there'd likely be a prison term of five years, even ten. On the other hand, if she had a top-notch lawyer she might get away with two years, or even though not too likely probation. Either way, her civic career is over."

"What you're saying is, she'd make out much better than me."

"Of course. You admitted you did that killing. She didn't know about it in advance, and whatever she did was after the fact."

"But in the case of the Ernsts Cynthia's parents she knew in advance. She planned it all."

"So you say. And I'm inclined to believe you. But in my opinion Cynthia Ernst will deny it all, and how could you prove otherwise? Tell me did she meet this Virgilio, who you say did the actual killing?"

"No."

"Did she put anything in writing to you, ever?"

"No." He stopped. "But, say . . . there is something. It's not much, but..." Jensen described the real-estate brochure with the layout of streets in Bay Point, on which Cynthia had marked the Ernst house with an X, then in Jensen's presence had written words showing the maid's working hours and the nighttime absence every Thursday of the butler Palacio and his wife.

"How many words?"

"Probably a dozen; some abbreviations. But it's Cynthia's handwriting."

"As you said, it isn't much. Anything else?" As they talked, Cruz was making notes.

"Well, we were in the Cayman Islands together, for three days at Grand Cayman. That's when Cynthia first told me about wanting to kill her parents."

"Without a witness, I presume?"

"Okay, so I couldn't prove it. But wait." Cruz listened while Jensen described the separate travel and hotel arrangements. "I flew Cayman Airways; saved my ticket, still have it. She was on American Airlines and used the name Hilda Shaw; I saw her ticket."

"Would you know the American flight number?"

"It was the morning flight; there's only one. Shaw would be on the manifest."

"Which still proves nothing."

"It shows a connection because later on Cynthia must have drawn that four-hundred-thousand-Doilar payment from her account at a Cayman bank."

Cruz threw up his hands. "Have you any idea how impossible it would be to get a Cayman bank to testify about a client's account?"

"Of course. But suppose the whole thing details of the Cayman account was on record with the IRS?"

"Why would it be?"

"Because it damn well is." Jensen described how, during the time in the Caymans, he had looked covertly into Cynthia's briefcase and, after discovering the account's existence, had made quick notes of important points. "I have the bank's name, account number, the balance then, and the guy who put money there as a gift an 'Uncle Zack.'

I checked later; Gustav Ernst had a brother, Zachary, who lives in the Caymans."

"I can see how you wrote books," Cruz said. "So how'd the IRS get in?"

"Cynthia did it. Seems she didn't want to break U.S. laws, so she got a tax adviser in fact, I have his name and a Lauderdale address who told her it was all okay providing she declared the interest and paid tax, which she did. There was a letter from the IRS."

"Of which you have details, no doubt."

"Yes."

"Remind me," Cruz said, "never to put my briefcase down when you're around." His face twitched with a halfsmile. "There isn't much that's funny in all this, except Cynthia Ernst was such a smartass about being legal, she created evidence that could work against her. On the other hand, having all that money doesn't prove a goddam thing, unless . . ."

"Unless what?"

"Unless that smirk on your face which I don't much like means there's something else you haven't told me. So if there is, let's hear."

"Okay," Jensen said. "There's a tape recording I have, another tape. It's in a safe-deposit box to which I have the only key, and on that tape is proof of everything I've told you. And, oh yes, those other papers the one with Cynthia's handwriting about the Palacios, my notes from the Caymans, and the airline ticket they're in the box, too."

"Cut the smart talk." Cruz moved within inches of Jensen's face and whispered menacingly, "This is not some fucking game, Jensen. You could be on your way to the electric chair, so if you've an important tape recording, you'd damn well better tell me everything about it rzow."

Jensen nodded compliantly, then went on to describe the recording he had made secretly a year and nine months earlier, during a lunch in Boca Raton. It was the tape on which Cynthia had approved hiring Virgilio to murder her parents; agreed she would pay two hundred thousand Dollars each to Virgilio and Jensen; explained her own plan to make the murders look like other serial killings; and was told by Jensen that Virgilio had committed the wheelchair murder, knowledge she had subsequently kept to herself.

"Jesus Christ!" Cruz paused, considering. "Add that all up and it could change everything . . . Well, not everything. But quite a lot."

* * *

"My client is willing to cooperate in return for certain considerations," Stephen Cruz informed Knowles when the session in the Homicide interview room resumed.

"Cooperate in what way?" Curzon Knowles asked. "Because we certainly have all the evidence we need to convict Mr. Jensen for the murders of Naomi Jensen and Kilburn Holmes. Also, by the way things look, we can probably get the death penalty."

Jensen paled. Involuntarily, he reached out and touched Cruz's arm. "Go on, tell him.''

Cruz swung toward Jensen and glared.

With a slight smile, Knowles asked, "Tell me what?"

Cruz recovered his composure. "Looking at it all from here, it appears you have a good deal less evidence with which to confront Commissioner Cynthia Ernst."

"I don't see why that concerns you, Steve, but since you mention it, there is enough. At the time she was a sworn police officer, and criminally delinquent by aiding, abetting, and concealing a crime. We would probably ask for twenty years in prison."

"And probably find a judge who'll give her five, or maybe two. She might even walk."

"Walking's impossible, though I still don't see "

"You will in a moment," Cruz assured him. "Please listen to this: With the state's cooperation, he can give you a much bigger prize Cynthia Ernst on a platter as the hidden-hand murderer of her parents, Gustav and Eleanor Ernst." In the interview room there was a sudden stillness and the sound of indrawn breath. All eyes were on Cruz. "Whatever penalty you sought in that event, Curzon, would be yours and Adele's decision but obviously there you could go the limit."

Part of an attorney's training was never to show surprise, and Knowles did not. Just the same, he hesitated perceptibly before asking, "And by what piece of wizardry could your client do that?"

"He has, safely hidden away where even a search warrant won't reach, two documents that incriminate Ms. Ernst, but also more important a tape recording. Unedited. On that recording is every bit of evidence you'd need to convict, spoken in Cynthia Ernst's own voice and words.''

Cruz went on to describe, from notes made earlier, a broad outline of what the tape contained concerning Cynthia, though he omitted any direct reference to Patrick Jensen or to the wheelchair murder. Instead, Cruz said, "There is also on the tape, and I suppose you could consider it a bonus, the name of another individual who is guilty of another, entirely different murder, so far unsolved."

"Is your client involved in both of those additional crimes?"

Cruz smiled. "That is information which, in my client's interest, I must withhold for the time being."

"Have you listened to this alleged tape recording yourself, counselor? Or seen the documents, whatever they are?"

"No, I haven't." Cruz had anticipated the question. "But I have confidence in the accuracy of what has been described to me, and I remind you that my client is well versed in words and language. Furthermore, if you and I reached an agreement and the evidence fell short of what was promised, anything we had arranged would be renegotiable."

"It would be null and void," Knowles said.

Cruz shrugged. "I suppose so."

"But if everything did work out the way you say, what would you want in return?"

"For my client? Taking everything into account allowing him to plead manslaughter."

Knowles threw back his head and laughed. "Steve, I really have to hand it to you! You have the most incredible balls. How you can ask for a slap on the wrist in these circumstances, and do it with a straight face, I really don't know."

Cruz shrugged. "Sounded reasonable to me. But if you don't like the idea, what's your counteroffer?"

"I don't have one, because at this point you and I have gone as far as we can," Knowles told him. "Any decisions from here on must be Adele Montesino's, and she may want to see us together, probably today." The attorney turned to Ainslie. "Malcolm, let's break this up. I need to use a phone."

* * *

Knowles had left for the state attorney's headquarters, while Stephen Cruz returned to his downtown office, agreeing to be available when needed. Meanwhile, Newbold, aware that the Police Department's role was becoming more complex, had advised his superior, Major Manolo Yanes, commander of the Crimes Against Persons Unit, of the broad issues pending. Yanes, in turn, had spoken with Major Mark Figueras, who, as head of Criminal Investigations, summoned an immediate conference in his office.

Newbold arrived, along with Ainslie and Ruby Bowe, to find Figueras and Yanes waiting. Seated around a rectangular conference table with Figueras at the head, he began vigorously, "Let's go over everything that's known. Everything. "

Normally, while general Homicide activity was reported to superiors, specific case details seldom were on the principle that the fewer people who knew the secrets of investigations, the more likely they would stay secret. But now, at Newbold's prompting, Ainslie described his early doubts about the Ernst case, followed by Elroy Doil's confession to fourteen killings but his vehement denial of having killed the Ernsts. "Of course we knew Doil was a congenital liar, but with the lieutenant's approval, I did more digging." Ainslie explained his search through records, the inconsistencies with the Ernst murders, and Bowe's research at Metro-Dade and Tampa.

He motioned to Ruby, who took over, Figueras and Yanes following her report closely. Ainslie then summarized: "The test was had Doil told me the truth about everything else, apart from the Ernsts? As it turned out, he had, which was when I really did believe he hadn't killed the Ernsts."

"It's not proof, of course," Figueras mused, "but a fair assumption, Sergeant, which I'd share."

It was apparent that the two senior of firers were looking to Ainslie as the principal figure in the discussion, clearly regarding him with respect and, strangely it seemed, at moments with a certain deference.

Next, Ainslie had Bowe describe her examination of the boxes from the Ernst house, the revelations about Cynthia's childhood, and, finally, the discovery of the evidence proving Patrick Jensen a murderer, evidence that Cynthia had concealed all of that detail so new that it had not, until today, progressed beyond Homicide's domain.

Following it all was the arrest of Jensen earlier that day, prompting Jensen's accusations against Cynthia Ernst, and the promise of documents and a tape recording.

Figueras and Yanes, though accustomed to a daily diet of crime, were clearly startled. "Do we have any evidence," Yanes asked, "anything at all, linking Cynthia Ernst to the murders of her parents?"

Ainslie answered, "At this moment, sir, no. Which is why Jensen's documents and tape if they're as incriminating as his lawyer claims are so important. The state attorney should have everything tomorrow."

"Right now," Figueras said, his glance including Newbold, "I'll have to report this to the top. And if there is an arrest of a city commissioner it must be handled very, very carefully. This is beyond hot." He removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and muttered, "My father wanted me to be a doctor."

* * *

"Let's not waste time playing games," Florida's state attorney, Adele Montesino, said sternly to Stephen Cruz. "Curzon told me about your fantasy that your client plead guilty to manslaughter, so okay, you've had your little joke. Now we'll deal with reality. This is my offer: Assuming the documents and the tape recording offered by your client are as good as he claims, and he is willing to testify confirming what is there, for him we will not seek the death penalty."

"Whoa!" Raising his voice, Cruz faced her squarely.

It was late afternoon, and they were in her impressive office, with its mahogany-paneled walls and bookcases laden with heavy legal volumes. A large window looked down on a courtyard with a fountain; beyond were office towers and a seascape in the distance. The desk at which Montesino sat, if used as a dining table, would have seated twelve. Behind the desk, in an outsized padded chair capable of tilting and swiveling in all directions, was the state attorney short and heavyset, and fulfilling once more her professional reputation as a pit bull.

Stephen Cruz sat facing Montesino, Curzon Knowles on his right.

"Whoa!" Cruz repeated. "That's no concession, none at all when what my client is being held for is a crime of passion . . . you remember passion, Adele love and haste." A sudden smile accompanied the words.

"Thank you for that reminder, Steve." Montesino, whom few presumed to address by her first name, was noted for her sense of humor and a love of bandying words. "But here's a reminder for you: the possibility, which you and your client raised voluntarily, that he may be involved in another crime the Ernst murders, a case which is clearly murder one. In that event my offer not to seek death is generous."

"An interpretation of generosity would depend on the alternative," Cruz countered.

"You know it perfectly well. Life in prison."

"I presume there would be a rider a recommendation at sentencing that after ten years, clemency might be recommended to the governor."

"No way!" Montesino said. "All of that went out the window when we abolished the Parole Commission."

As all three knew, Cruz was indulging in rhetoric. Since 1995 a Florida life sentence had meant exactly that life. True, after serving ten years a prisoner could petition the state governor for clemency, but for most especially if the conviction had been for first-degree murder any hope would be slim.

If Cruz was dismayed, he didn't show it. "Aren't you overlooking something? That, given those harsh alternatives, my client may decide not to produce the tape and documents we've spoken of, and take his chances on a jury trial?"

Montesino gestured to Knowles. "We've discussed that possibility," Knowles said, "and in our opinion your client has a personal vendetta against Ms. Ernst, who has also been named in this whole matter. And to pursue that vendetta he will produce the tape and whatever else, anyway."

"What we will do," Adele Montesino added, "is take a fresh look at possible plea bargains when all the evidence is in and when we know what your client actually did. But no other guarantees than the one I've already offered. So no more argument, no more discussion. Good afternoon, counselor."

Knowles escorted Cruz out. "If you want to deal, get back to us fast, and by fast I mean today."

* * *

"Oh Jesus! God! The whole of the rest of my life in jail. It's impossible, inconceivable!" Jensen's voice rose to a wail.

"It may be inconceivable," Stephen Cruz said. "But in your case it is not impossible. It's the best deal I could get you, and unless you prefer the electric chair which, in view of all you've told me, is a clear possibility I advise you to take it." In presenting hard facts to a client, as Cruz had learned long ago, there came a time when plain, blunt words were the only ones to use.

They were in an interview room at Dade County Jail. Jensen had been brought here, in restraints, from the cell to which he had been moved from Police Headquarters, a block away. Outside it was dark.

Cruz had had to get special clearance for the late interview, but a phone call from the state attorney's office had cleared the way.

"There is one other possibility, and as your legal counsel I'll point this out. That is, you do not produce the tape, and go to trial solely for the killings of Naomi and her man. In that event, though, you'd always have hanging over you the possibility that proof implicating you and Cynthia in the Ernsts' murders could come out later."

"It will come out," Jensen said glumly. "Now that I've told them, the cops especially Ainslie won't stop digging until they can prove it. Ainslie talked to Doil just before his execution, and afterward started to tell Cynthia something Doil had said about her parents, but she cut him off. I know Cynthia was scared stiff, wondering how much Ainslie had discovered."

"You know that Ainslie was once a priest?"

"Yeah. Maybe that gives him some special insights." Making a decision, Jensen shook his head. "I won't hold the tape and papers back. I want it all to come out now, partly because I've had enough of deceit and lies, and partly because whatever happens to me, I want Cynthia to get hers, too."

"In which case we're back to the plea bargain you've been offered," Cruz said. "I've promised to give an answer yes or no tonight."

It took another half hour, but in the end Jensen conceded tearfully, "I don't want to die in the chair, and if that's the only way not to, I suppose I'll take it." He gave a long, deep sigh. "A few years ago, when I was riding high, with everything I'd ever wanted coming true, I never dreamed that one day I'd be in this position."

"Unfortunately," Cruz acknowledged, "I meet others who say exactly the same thing."

As Cruz left the room, escorted by a guard, he called back, "Early tomorrow I'll make arrangements to get that tape and papers."

* * *

The next morning, at the First Union Bank at Ponce De Leon and Alcazar in Coral Gables, Malcolm Ainslie entered first. The bank had just opened, and he went directly to the manager's office; a secretary seemed ready to stop him, but he flashed his police badge and walked in.

The manager, fortyish and well dressed, saw Ainslie's credentials and smiled. "Well, I guess I was driving a little fast coming in this morning."

"We'll overlook it," Ainslie said, "if you'll help with a small problem."

He explained that a customer of the bank, now a prisoner, was waiting in an unmarked police car outside. He would be escorted to his safe-deposit box, which he would open, and the police would remove whatever the box contained. "This is entirely voluntary on your customer's part you may ask him if you wish so no warrant is needed, but we'd like to do the whole thing quickly and quietly."

"So would I," the manager said. "Do you have . . ."

"Yes, sir." Ainslie handed over a paper on which Jensen had written his name and the safe-deposit box number.

As he saw the name, the manager raised his eyebrows. "This is like a scene from one of Mr. Jensen's books."

"I suppose so," Ainslie said. "Except this isn't fiction. "

Earlier that morning, Friday, Ainslie had gone to where Jensen's personal effects, taken from him immediately after his arrest, were stored at Police Headquarters. Among the effects was a key ring from which Ainslie removed what was obviously a safe-deposit box key.

The process in the bank's safe-deposit vault was brief. Jensen, whose hands were free, though handcuffs secured his left hand to Ruby Bowe's right, went through the usual formality of signing, then opened his box with the key.

With the box removed from its housing, a woman technician from ID staff stepped forward. Wearing rubber gloves, she opened the box lid and took out four items: an apparently old, folded real-estate brochure, a small notebook page filled with handwriting, an airline ticket stub, and a tiny Olympus XB60 audiotape. The technician inserted everything in a plastic container, which she sealed.

The technician would rush the items to ID, where they would be checked for fingerprints, then two copies made of everything, including the tape, regarded as the most important. Ainslie would deliver the original items and one set of copies to the state attorney's office. The second set was for Homicide.

"Okay, that's it. Let's go," Ainslie said.

Only the manager, hovering in the background, had a question. "Mr. Jensen, I notice the box is now empty. Will you be wanting it anymore?"

"Highly unlikely," Jensen told him.

"In that case, may I have the key?"

"Sorry, sir." Ainslie shook his head. "It's evidence; we'll have to retain it."

"But who will pay the box rent?" the manager asked as the visitors filed out.

The rest of Friday was a patchwork of sharing information. Ainslie delivered the original documents and tape, along with a set of copies, to Curzon Knowles at the attorney general's office. Ainslie returned to Homicide and, in the privacy of Leo Newbold's office, he, Newbold, and Bowe listened to their copy of the tape.

The sound quality was excellent, with every word from both Jensen and Cynthia Ernst audible and clear. Part way through, Bowe breathed excitedly, "It's exactly what Jensen promised. Everything is there!"

"You can tell he's steering the conversation," Newbold pointed out. "Cagily, but making sure he gets everything that matters on the tape."

"It's like Cynthia walked into her own mousetrap," Bowe observed.

Malcolm Ainslie, his thoughts in turmoil, said nothing.

* * *

A phone call from the state attorney's office, requesting Ainslie's presence, came in late afternoon. He was shown into Adele Montesino's office. Curzon Knowles was with her.

"We've listened to the tape," Montesino said. "I presume you have as well."

"Yes, ma'am."

She nodded.

"I thought I should tell you this personally, Sergeant Ainslie," Montesino said. "The grand jury has been summoned for next Tuesday morning. We will be seeking three indictments of Commissioner Cynthia Ernst, the most important being for murder in the first degree and we'll require you as a witness."

Knowles added, "That gives us the weekend and Monday for preparation, Malcolm, and we'll need all of it arranging witnesses and evidence, including a statement from you about what Jensen has revealed, and a good deal more. If you don't mind, we'll go right from here to my office and begin."

"Of course," Ainslie murmured automatically.

"Before you go," Montesino said, "let me say this to you, Sergeant. I have learned that while everyone else accepted the Ernst murders as part of the other serial killings, you were the one the only one who didn't believe it and set out, with patience and great diligence, to prove the contrary, which you finally have. I want to thank and congratulate you for that, and in due course I'll convey those thoughts to others." She smiled. "Have a good night's rest. We have four tough days ahead."

* * *

Two hours later, driving home, Ainslie supposed he should feel a sense of triumph. Instead he felt nothing but overwhelming sadness.

3

"We've worked like hell to put everything together," Curzon Knowles told Ainslie. "Everyone's cooperated, we think the case is strong but, Christ, this heat sure doesn't help!" It was nearly nine o'clock on Tuesday morning, and Knowles and Ainslie were on the fifth floor of the Dade County Courthouse in Miami, in a small office reserved for prosecutors. Close by was the grand jury chamber where today's business would be done.

Both men were in shirtsleeves, having shed their jackets because the building's air conditioning had failed overnight and a repair crew was reportedly working somewhere below so far without effect.

"Montesino will be putting you on as the first witness," Knowles said. "Try not to melt in the meantime."

Voices in the corridor outside signaled that the grand jury members were filing in. There were eighteen, with an equal number of men and women and a mix of Hispanic, black, and white.

* * *

The primary purpose of any grand jury is simple: to decide whether sufficient evidence exists to initiate criminal charges against a person. Some grand juries have a secondary function to stage inquiries where local civic systems are corrupt or malfunctioning but the direct criminal focus is more significant and historic.

Unlike a regular court trial, grand jury proceedings are surprisingly informal. In the Dade County facility a circuit judge was available but rarely present. His duties were impaneling and swearing in the jury usually for a sixmonth term and appointing a foreperson, a viceforeperson, and a clerk. The judge would give legal rulings if required and, at the end of any proceeding, accept the grand jurors' decisions.

Within the grand jury chamber, jurors sat around four long tables. Along one end of the tables was another table at which the foreperson, the vice-foreperson, and the clerk sat facing their colleagues. At the opposite end was the prosecutor, usually an assistant state attorney, who described the evidence available and examined witnesses. Today the state attorney herself would do both.

A court stenographer was present when witnesses were examined.

Grand jurors could, and did, interrupt proceedings with questions. Everything that transpired, however, was secret all those involved in the process took an oath to that effect, and unauthorized disclosure was an indictable offense.

At the outset, standing at the multi-table complex, Adele Montesino began casually, ''I apologize for the excessive heat. We've been promised that air conditioning will be restored soon; meanwhile anyone who wants to shed some clothing may do so within reason, though of course that's easiest for the men if less interesting."

Amid mild laughter, several men removed their jackets.

"I am here today to seek three indictments against the same person," Montesino continued. "The first is for murder in the first degree, and the accused is Cynthia Mildred Ernst."

Until this moment the jurors had seemed relaxed; now, abruptly, their tranquillity disappeared. Startled, sitting upright in their chairs, some gasped audibly. The foreperson, leaning forward, asked, "Is that name a coincidence?"

Montesino responded, "No coincidence, Mr. Foreman." Then, facing all the jurors, "Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am speaking of Miami City Commissioner Cynthia Ernst. The two people she is charged with feloniously killing are her late parents, Gustav and Eleanor Ernst."

Mouths were agape. "I don't believe it!" an elderly black woman declared.

"At the beginning I scarcely believed it, either," Montesino acknowledged, "but now I do, and I predict that before I'm finished, and you have heard witnesses and listened to an incredible recording, you will believe it, too or at least sufficiently to order a regular jury trial."

She shuffled papers on the table in front of her. "The second indictment I am seeking, also against Cynthia Ernst, is for aiding, abetting, and concealing a crime while serving as a police officer. That crime was the murders of two other people, and I shall bring you evidence in support of that charge also. The third indictment is for obstruction of justice by possessing knowledge of a crime, namely the perpetrator of a murder, and failing to report it."

Again the grand jurors seemed stunned, glancing at each other as if asking, Can this be true? There was a low buzz of spoken exchanges.

Adele Montesino waited patiently for silence, then called her first witness for the murder-one indictment Ainslie, who was escorted in by a bailiff and directed to the prosecutor's table. Before entering, Ainslie had replaced his jacket.

The state attorney began, "Mr. Foreman, ladies and gentlemen of the grand jury, this is Sergeant Malcolm Ainslie of the Miami Police Department, a Homicide detective. Is that correct, sir?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"A personal question, Sergeant Ainslie: Since you are not being charged with anything, why are you sweating?"

The room erupted with laughter.

"Would you like the bailiff to take your jacket?"

"Please." In a pocket of his mind, Ainslie reasoned that Montesino was smart to keep the jury happy; later they were more likely to give her what she wanted. He wished he were happy himself.

"Sergeant Ainslie," Montesino began, ''will you tell us, please, how you were first involved with inquiries into the deaths of Gustav and Eleanor Ernst."

Ainslie, tired and strained, breathed deeply, summoning strength for this personal ordeal.

* * *

Since last week, after learning conclusively first of Cynthia Ernst's concealment of Patrick Jensen's guilt of a double murder, then that Cynthia had arranged her own parents' murders Malcolm Ainslie had accomplished what was required of him in the way of duty, though at times he moved more like a robot. Certain things, he realized, he had to do himself; today's testimony was one, so were other initiatives and responsibilities. But for the first time in years he wished desperately that he could walk away and have someone else take over.

Through the few preceding days so packed with action and disclosures his mind had been in turmoil. Last Fri day night, when all the substance of the investigation came together, sadness had overwhelmed him. And on that occasion and so many others, central in his thoughts was Cynthia Cynthia, whose passion he had once welcomed and shared; whose competence he had so often admired; whose integrity he used to believe in. Then, more recently, there was the Cynthia he had desperately pitied after learning of her childhood abuse, and of her child having been snatched away before she even saw it.

True, there had been forewarnings. Malcolm recalled the sense of foreboding that had touched him a month ago in the temporary office where he instructed Ruby Bowe to search through the boxes retrieved from the Ernst house after the murders. By then they knew for sure that Doil had not killed Gustav and Eleanor Ernst, and that was when Cynthia's possible involvement had fleetingly crossed his mind. He had kept the thought to himself, scarcely believing it possible, then dismissed it. Now it was back, and it was real.

What must he do now? Of course, he had no choice. Despite all of his pity for Cynthia, his compassion for her suffering, and even understanding the hatred she had felt toward her parents, he could never, ever, condone their murder; and what he had to do as at this moment he would do, though with pain and sorrow.

There was one thing, though amid all the conflicts and emotions that he knew for sure.

A year and a half ago, at a time of great personal distress that Malcolm's work in Homicide had caused him, Karen had asked him, "Oh, sweetheart, how much more can you take?" And he had answered, "Not too many like tonight."

That answer had been an equivocation, and both knew it. Now he had another, different answer, and he would tell Karen before the ending of this day. It was, Dearest, I've had enough. This will be the last.

But for the moment Ainslie focused on answering Adele Montesino's question: Will you tell us, please, how you were first involved . . .

* * *

"I was in charge of a task force investigating a series of apparent serial killings."

"And did the Ernsts appear to be victims of the same serial killer?''

"Initially, yes."

"And later?"

''Serious doubts arose."

"Will you explain those doubts?''

"Those of us investigating the case began to think that whoever killed the Ernsts had tried to make their deaths appear to be one more killing in the series we were investigating, though in the end it didn't work."

"A moment ago, Sergeant, you referred to 'those of us investigating the case.' Isn't it true that you, initially, were the only detective who believed the Ernst murders were not serial killings?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I didn't want you to get away with too much modesty." Montesino smiled, and some of the jurors with her.

"Is it also true, Sergeant Ainslie, that a pre-execution interview you had with Elroy Doil, an admitted serial killer, suggested that the Ernst murders were not serial killings, and that afterward you followed an investigative trail that caused you to decide Cynthia Ernst had planned them and retained a paid killer?"

Ainslie was shocked. "Well, that's passing over an awful lot of "

"Sergeant!" Montesino cut him off. "Please answer my question with a simple yes or no. I think you heard it, but if you wish, the stenographer can read it back.''

He shook his head. "I heard it."

"And the answer?"

Ainslie said uncomfortably, "Yes."

He knew the question was flagrantly leading; it skirted facts, and was unfair to the accused. At a regular trial, defense counsel would have leapt up with an objection, which any judge would have sustained. But at a grand jury hearing there could be no objections because no defense counsel was allowed, or a defendant, either. In fact, so far as anyone knew, the accused Cynthia Ernst was entirely unaware of what was taking place.

Something else: In front of grand juries, prosecutors presented as much or as little evidence as they chose, usually disclosing the least amount they had to. They also used devices as Montesino was clearly doing to speed things along when they were confident of getting an indictment anyway.

Ainslie, who had testified before other grand juries, increasingly disliked the experience and knew that many more police officers felt the same way, believing the grand jury system was one-sided and contrary to evenhanded justice.

* * *

As a scholar with wide interests, Ainslie knew the system's history that grand juries originated in medieval England around the year 1200, when such juries accused those suspected of crimes and then tried them. During succeeding years the two functions were separated, and grand juries became "inquisitorial and accusatorial" only. Britain, after more than seven centuries, abolished grand juries in 1933, believing them incongruous in modern law. The United States retained them, though criticisms made it likely that eventually perhaps in the century soon to come the British example would be followed.

A problem with American grand juries was their secrecy, which permitted inconsistencies and barred even local supervision to a point where one legal critic described a grand jury as "a body of semi-informed laymen exempt from technical rules."

Some states had largely eliminated grand juries Pennsylvania and Oklahoma were examples; a few states nowadays allowed defendants and defense attorneys to be present. Only thirteen states required a grand jury indictment for all felony prosecutions; thirty-five did not. Several states advised jurors against accepting hearsay evidence; two examples were New York and Mississippi. Others allowed it, including Florida, which permitted hearsay evidence if given by an investigator. The list of inconsistencies and inevitable injustices was complex and long.

Some United States lawyers felt that grand jury procedures were still disconcertingly close to the Salem witch trials of 1692 though usually not prosecutors.

* * *

Even with Adele Montesino's shortcuts, a succession of witnesses and questioning continued for two hours. Malcolm Ainslie, after nearly an hour on the stand, had been dismissed and sent from the room, though instructed to stand by because his testimony would be needed again. He was not allowed to hear other witnesses; no one other than jurors or court of ficials ever attended a full grand jury performance.

For the principal murder-one accusation, the subject of motive Cynthia's lifelong hatred of her parents was addressed by Detective Ruby Bowe, who, smartly attired in a beige suit, was responsive to questions, and articulate.

Bowe described her discovery of Eleanor Ernst's secret diaries, though Adele Montesino's questioning stopped before reaching Cynthia's pregnancy. Instead, at the prompting of Montesino, who had clearly familiarized herself with the diaries' clarified version, Bowe jumped ahead, reading aloud the diary entry that began, I've caught Cynthia looking at us sometimes. I believe a fierce hatred for us both is there, and concluded, 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.

Bowe had expected the questioning would return to Cynthia's pregnancy and childbearing, but Montesino concluded, "Thank you, Detective. That is all."

Afterward, when Ruby Bowe discussed the omission with Ainslie, he said wryly, "Bringing out the pregnancy by her father might have created too much sympathy for Cynthia. If you're a prosecutor you can't let that happen.''

Setting the stage for the tape recording, the state attorney called as a witness Julio Verona, the Police Department's ID chief. After establishing his qualifications, Montesino proceeded. "I believe that the recording this grand jury is about to hear was subjected to tests to establish that the voices on it are indeed those of Cynthia Ernst and Patrick Jensen. Is that correct?"

"Yes, it is."

"Please describe the tests and your conclusion."

"In our own police records we already had recordings of Commissioner Ernst when she was a police officer, and of Mr. Jensen, who was once questioned in connection with another case. Those were compared with the recording you have just referred to." Verona described the technical tests on specialized acoustic equipment, then concluded, "The two voices are identical on both recordings."

"And now we'll play the recording that is part of the evidence in this case," Montesino told the grand jury. "Please listen carefully, though if there's anything you miss and want to hear again, we can play it as many times as you wish."

Julio Verona stayed to operate the tape, using highquality sound equipment. As the voices of Patrick Jensen and Cynthia Ernst were heard at first ordering their meal, then in lowered tones discussing the Colombian, Virgilio every grand juror was visibly concentrating, anxious not to miss a word. When Cynthia was heard protesting after Jensen told her Virgilio was the wheelchair murderer Shut up! Don't tell me that! I don't want to know a male Hispanic juror proclaimed, "Pues ya lo sabe." To which a young, blond Caucasian woman added, "But the bitch kept it to herself!"

Other jurors shushed the pair, and another voice asked, "May we hear that over again, please?"

"Certainly." The state attorney nodded to Verona, who stopped the tape, rewound it slightly, and recommenced playing.

Then, as the recorded voices continued two payments of two hundred thousand Dollars, one for the Colombian, the same for Patrick; Cynthia suggesting "odd features" to make the deaths appear to be serial killings. Murmurs, then exclamations of disgust, anger, and resolve surfaced among the jurors, one man declaring as the recording stopped, "Guilty as hell, an' I don't need to hear no more!"

"I understand what you're saying, sir, and I respect your feelings," Adele Montesino responded. "But there are two more indictments being sought here, and I must ask your patience for a little longer. By the way, I don't know if anyone's noticed, but we seem to have some air conditioning again."

There was scattered applause and some sighs, this time of relief.

Fairly quickly, a few gaps were filled. An IRS inspector produced Cynthia Ernst's subpoenaed tax records, showing she had declared and paid taxes on interest earned in a Cayman Islands bank account, the interest having resulted from deposits stated to be a series of gifts and therefore not taxable exceeding five million Dollars. "I point out to you," the inspector said at the end, removing his bifocals, "that Ms. Ernst's taxes are entirely in order."

"But the existence of the account," Montesino advised the grand jury, "supports the statement you heard on tape about Ms. Ernst's intention to pay four hundred thousand Dollars for the murders of her parents." Montesino did not mention the irony that Cynthia's compliance with U.S. tax laws had created evidence that otherwise would have remained concealed in the Caymans and been off limits to any U.S. court.

Malcolm Ainslie was recalled. He described the opening of Jensen's safe-deposit box, which included the tape recording the grand jury had heard, as well as other items. One of those was an airline ticket counterfoil showing a round-trip Miami~rand Cayman journey, by Jensen, aboard Cayman Airways.

"What is the significance of that flight?" Montesino asked.

"Two days ago, in the presence of his attorney," Ainslie replied, "Mr. Jensen told me that he and Cynthia Ernst spent three days together in the Caymans, during which they planned the Ernst murders; also that they travelled there separately Miss Ernst on American Airlines from Miami, using the name Hilda Shawl"

"And did you verify that second statement?"

"Yes. I went to American Airlines headquarters in Miami, and, using their computer records, they confirmed there was a passenger with the name Hilda Shaw on their flight 1029 to Grand Cayman that same day."

It was all hearsay evidence, Ainslie realized, which would have been thrown out of a regular court, but was usable in this sometimes zany proceeding.

Related to the second indictment Cynthia's concealment of the two murders by Jensen Ainslie produced the box of damning evidence against Jensen, put together and hidden by Cynthia Ernst. Then, prompted by Montesino, he showed and described the contents one by one.

Julio Verona was recalled next. He testified that fingerprints found on plastic bags in the evidence box were those of Cynthia Ernst, and that handwriting on several labels had been examined and certified as hers also.

"Concerning the third indictment," Montesino told the grand jury, "I will not call any witness to confirm that Cynthia Ernst learned the name of the guilty party in what has become known as the Wheelchair Murder, and subsequently failed to report that information to police, as required by law. That is because you the grand jurors are, in effect, witnesses yourselves, having heard exactly what happened during the recording that was played."

Again, murmurs and nods acknowledged her words.

* * *

Montesino was brief with her finale.

"This has been a long and painful session, and I will not prolong it, except with this reminder. Your task now is not to decide the innocence or guilt of Cynthia Ernst. That will be a trial jury's responsibility if you decide that the evidence presented is sufficient to take these matters onward through the courts. I do believe, most strongly, that it isfar more than sufficient, and that justice will be served by your issuance of three true bills indictments. Thank you."

Moments later, after the state attorney and other staff departed, the grand jurors were left alone.

But not for long. Barely fifteen minutes later the judge and the state attorney were summoned, after which the judge received the grand jurors' decisions and read them aloud. In each case an indictment called for the arrest of Cynthia Ernst.

4

"You guys will have to move fast," Curzon Knowles warned Ainslie as he handed him a plastic cover containing two signed copies of the three indictments. "Once those jurors get out of here, secrecy oath or not, someone will talk, and word about Commissioner Ernst will spread like a brush fire and surely get to her."

They were in a hallway outside the courtroom. As Knowles walked with him toward an elevator, Ainslie asked, "Can you keep everyone here for a while? You have more cases with this jury?"

"One. We planned it that way, but don't count on more than an hour. After that, you take your chances."

Knowles continued, "They already know about the indictments at the Police Department; Montesino called the chief. And, oh yes, I've been told to tell you that as soon as you arrive, you should go directly to the office of Assistant Chief Serrano." He glanced at Ainslie curiously. "Pretty unusual for the brass to be directly involved in a homicide."

"Not when it's a city commissioner. The mayor and commissioners are a special breed, and treated very warily."

As a state officer dealing with many towns and cities statewide, Curzon Knowles was not tuned in to local politics as, in Miami, even a detective-sergeant was.

Ostensibly, Ainslie knew, the Police Department was independent of city politics, but in reality it was not. The city commission controlled the Police Department budget through the city manager, who also appointed the chief of police and had the power to remove one; there was an occasion when he had done so. Commission members possessed inside knowledge about senior police officers who were in line for promotion. And some commissioners had friends on the force, so quiet influence on their behalf could be, and sometimes was, applied.

Occasionally, Ainslie knew, too, there had been difficulties between the city commission and the Police Department the commission highly protective of its authority, and touchy when it was infringed. All of which was why, five days ago, Lieutenant Newbold had brought the startling developments to the attention of his superiors, Majors Figueras and Yanes. They, in turn, had passed the information higher, and those at top command, once concerned, had stayed involved.

As the elevator doors closed, Knowles mouthed from outside, "Good luck."

Good luck with what? Ainslie wondered as the elevator descended. His concept of luck right now would be to have his role in this drama end when he delivered the indictments to the assistant chief. But he suspected it would not.

His own deep depression of the previous Friday had continued over the weekend and through yesterday, as the net of retribution tightened around Cynthia.

In his own personal domain there had been some change. Late Friday night he had told Karen of his decision to quit Homicide when this present duty was done, and the Police Department completely, though he wasn't sure about that. At the news, Karen had put her arms around him and, close to tears, assured him, "Darling, I'm so relieved. I've seen what these awful things do to you. You can't take any more, and you should get out altogether. Don't worry about the future; we'll manage! You're more important than anything else to me, to Jason, and" she touched her rounded stomach, now showing four months of pregnancy "and whoever."

That night with Karen he had spoken of Cynthia; he'd cited her childhood tragedies, described the woman filled with hate that those tragedies created, then told of Cynthia's crimes a fierce transfer of her hatred, with an impost under law now coming due.

Karen had listened, then reacted with some of her plain reasoning, which, through their nine years of marriage, he had come to know and value. "Of course I'm sorry for her; anyone would be, especially another woman. But the fact is, there's nothing either done to her or by her that can be undone now; it's all too late. So whatever happens, other people you and I especially don't have to share Cynthia's despair or guilt, and have our lives wrecked, too. So yes, Malcolm, do what you have to this very last time, and then get out!"

As Karen spoke Cynthia's name, Ainslie wondered, as he had before, if she was aware of his and Cynthia's longpast affair. But apart from all else, the objective was to get this present mission definitely his last over as fast as possible.

The elevator door opened at the courthouse main floor.

* * *

Exercising police privilege, Ainslie had left his unmarked car parked outside, and the journey to Police Headquarters - three blocks north and two west - was brief.

When he entered the office suite of Assistant Chief Otero Serrano, head of all police investigations, a secretary said, "Good afternoon, Sergeant Ainslie. They're waiting for you." She rose and opened a door to an interior office.

Inside, a conversation was in progress among Serrano, Mark Figueras, Manolo Yanes, and Leo Newbold. As Ainslie entered, voices quieted, heads turned toward him.

"Are those the indictments, Sergeant?" Chief Serrano, tall and athletically built, was behind his desk. A former detective, he had a distinguished record.

"Yes, sir." Ainslie handed over the plastic cover he was carrying, and Serrano removed the two copies of each indictment, passing the extra set to the other three.

While all four were reading, Ruby Bowe was ushered in quietly. She moved close to Ainslie and whispered, "We have to talk. I've found her child."

"Cynthia's?" Startled, he glanced around. "Do we . . ."

She whispered back, "I don't think so. Not yet."

As those in the room continued reading, low groans were audible, then Figueras breathed, "Christ! It couldn't be worse."

"Things happen," Serrano said resignedly, "that you think never would."

A door from outside opened, and Chief of Police Farrell Ketledge came in. A hush fell over the room as everyone straightened up. The chief said quietly, "Carry on." Moving to a window, standing alone, he told Serrano, "This is your show, Otero."

The reading resumed.

"Cynthia screwed us well and truly," said Figueras.

"Got herself promoted after she hid that killing of Jensen's wife and friend."

"Goddam media will have a field day," Manolo Yanes predicted.

Despite the more significant murder-one indictment, Ainslie realized, it was the second and third indictments Cynthia's participation in murders while a Homicide detective, and her concealing knowledge of another that hurt them most.

"If this goes to trial, it could take years," Leo Newbold said. "We'll be under the gun the whole time."

The others nodded gloomily.

"That's all, then," Serrano intervened. "I wanted to share what's happening because we'll all be involved. But we must move."

"Might not be so bad if Ernst did hear before we got to her." It was Manolo Yanes's voice. "Then she could do the decent thing and swallow a bullet. Save everyone a potful of trouble."

Ainslie expected Yanes's words to produce a sharp rebuke. To his surprise, there was none; only a silence followed, during which not even the chief spoke. Was a subtle message being conveyed ? As he dismissed the thought as unworthy, Serrano turned toward him.

"You may not like this, Sergeant Ainslie, but you're the one we've chosen to make the arrest." He paused, his tone becoming considerate. "Does this give you any kind of problem?"

So he knew. Ainslie supposed they all knew about him and Cynthia. He recalled Ruby's words: We're detectives, aren't we?

"I won't enjoy it, sir. Who would? But I'll do what's necessary." In a peculiar way, he felt he owed it to Cynthia to see this through. Serrano nodded approvingly. "Because it's a city commissioner, everything from this moment on will be under the closest public scrutiny. You have an outstanding reputation, and I'm confident there'll be no fumbling, no mistakes."

Ainslie was conscious of all eyes on him, and, just as during the session with Figueras and Yanes five days earlier, a note of respect seemed evident that transcended rank.

Serrano consulted a paper brought in by his secretary moments earlier. "We've kept tabs on Ernst since early this morning. Half an hour ago she went to her City Hall office. She's there now." He looked up at Ainslie. "You must have a woman officer with you. It will be Detective Bowel"

Ainslie nodded. Nowadays a woman suspect was almost never arrested by a male officer alone; it made sexual harassment claims too easy.

Serrano continued, "I've ordered a uniform backup. They're already below, waiting for your orders. And you'll need this." He passed over an arrest warrant, prepared in anticipation of the indictments. "Go do it!"

* * *

Ruby glanced at Ainslie in the crowded elevator. He murmured, "Save it. Tell me on the way." Then, as they left the elevator, "You get us a car. I'll talk to our backup."

Two uniform officers, Sergeant Ben Braynen, whom Ainslie knew well, and his partner, were beside a Miami Police blue-and-white at the building's staff-restricted exit. "We're your strong right arm," Braynen said, greeting him. "Orders came from the top. You must be mighty important."

"If I am, it's temporary," Ainslie told him. "And I'll get the usual check on payday."

"So what's the mission?"

"We go to City Hall in the Grove, the commissioners' offices. I'm doing an arrest with Bowe, and you're our backup." He produced the arrest warrant, pointing to the principal name.

"Holy shit!" Braynen said incredulously. "This for real?"

Ruby Bowe, in an unmarked police car, pulled ahead of the blue-and-white and stopped.

"As real as sin," Ainslie said, "so follow us. We may not need you, but it'll be good to know you're there."

When Ruby and Ainslie were clear of the police compound, he said, "Okay, let's hear."

"What's important," Ruby said, "is that Cynthia may be expecting us. Because of what I discovered late last night."

''We don't have much time. Better talk fast."

* * *

As Ruby told it.. .

Ever since learning from Eleanor Ernst's diaries that Cynthia had given birth to her father's child, Rubyhad tried to find out what had happened to the baby a child whom no one cared about, except to dispose of, its sex not even mentioned in Eleanor's notes.

"It was a girl," Ruby said. "I found that out early, at the adoption center." But the center had not been helpful beyond that, denying access to old records, claiming that confidentiality barred the way. Ruby had not persisted, she explained, because the information was not crucial. The child's existence was already known, and finding out more would not aid the investigation into the Ernsts' deaths.

"I wanted to know, though," Ruby said. "A couple of times I dropped in at the center, and there was an older social worker who I thought might bend the rules and help, but she was scared. Two days ago she phoned. She's retiring in a week. I went to her home last night and she gave me a paper."

The paper, as described by Ruby, showed that the adoption of Cynthia's child had lasted less than two years. The adoptive parents were convicted of abuse and neglect, and the child was taken away. There followed a long series of foster homes until the girl was thirteen, when the record stopped. "It's a sad story of indifference and cruelty," Ruby said, adding, "I was going to check with the last home listed, then didn't need to, when I saw the name the baby was given. And still uses."

"Which is?"

"Maggie Thorne."

It was familiar, Ainslie thought. He just couldn't place it.

Ruby prompted, "It was Jorge Rodriguez's case the German tourist, Nichaus, shot and killed. I think you were . . ."

"Yes . . . I was."

It sprang back in memory: the wanton, needless killing . . . an international furor and the hapless guilty pair a young black male, Kermit Kaprum; a white female, Maggie Thorne . . . tests showed shots were fired by both accused, two fatal shots by Thorne . . . under questioning, both confessed.

At the time, Ainslie recalled, there had been something familiar about the young woman's face. He had tried using flash recognition, but it hadn't worked. Now he knew why. It wasn't the accused girl whom he had seen before, but her mother, Cynthia. Even now, in memory, Thorne's resemblance to her was uncanny.

"There's something else," Ruby said as she turned the car onto Bayshore Drive. "The woman from the adoption center who gave me the report tried to cover herself. If they break confidentiality for any reason, they're supposed to notify the child's original parent, and my woman did. She sent a form letter addressed to Cynthia about her daughter, Maggie Thorne Cynthia probably never knew that name before saying the police had asked for the information and been given it. The letter was mailed on Friday and went to the Ernsts' old home address in Bay Point. Cynthia may have it now."

"The Niehaus case." Ainslie's mind was swirling, his voice barely under control. "In the end, what happened?" There were so many cases. He half remembered, but wanted to be sure.

"Kaprum and Thorne both got death sentences. They're on death row, going through appeals."

Everything else left Ainslie's mind. He could think only of Cynthia, receiving a form letter . . . Cynthia was sharp, she followed cases, would connect the name at once and put everything else in place, including the current interest of the police . . . A form letter to let her know that her only child, the child she never knew, would soon be executed. He thought despairingly, Was there no end to the unfair, dreadful hand that life had dealt to Cynthia? Compassion and the profoundest pity for her overwhelmed him, momentarily eclipsing all else. In the front seat Malcolm leaned forward, putting his head in his hands. His body shook convulsively. He wept.

* * *

"I'm sorry," Ainslie said to Ruby. "There are times when you lose a sense of proportion." He was remembering the protesters outside Raiford Prison, who appeared to have forgotten a murderer's victims. "It all got to me at once."

"I cried last night. This job sometimes..." Ruby's voice trailed off.

"When we go in," he told her, "I'd like to go to Cynthia first alone."

"You can't. It's against "

"I know, I know! It's against regulations, but Cynthia would never pull sexual harassment stuff; she's too proud for that. Look, you said the letter to her was mailed Friday to the old Bay Point address; she may not have it yet. If she doesn't, I can break the news more gently, and even if she does "

"Malcolm, I have to remind you of something." Ruby's voice was low and caring. "You're not a priest anymore."

"But I'm a human being. And I'm the one who'll be going against orders, though I need your okay."

She protested, "I have a duty; too." Both of them knew that if something went wrong, Ruby could pay a penalty with her career.

"Look, I'll cover you whatever happens, say I made it an order. Please."

They were at the Dinner Key waterfront and had arrived at City Hall. Ruby stopped their car at the main doorway. The blue-and-white was immediately behind.

She hesitated, still uncertain. "I don't know, Malcolm." Then, "Will you tell Sergeant Braynen?"

"No. The uniforms'll remain outside anyway. You come inside with me, but wait in the auditorium while I go to Cynthia's office. Give me fifteen minutes."

Ruby shook her head. "Ten. Max."

"Agreed."

They entered the main door of Miami's unique and anachronistic City Hall.

* * *

In an age when government opulence was the norm and cathedral-style official buildings proclaimed politicians' self-importance, the City Hall of Miami one of America's major cities expressed the reverse. Located on a promontory and with Biscayne Bay on two sides, it was a relatively small two-story building painted white, with its name and some minor art deco relief in bright blue. People were often surprised at the overall simplicity, even though the building housed Miami's elected mayor, vicemayor, three commissioners, and an appointed city manager. Others, usually old-timers, often said the building looked more like a seaplane base not surprisingly, since it had been a Pan American Airways base from 1934 through 1951, built to serve Clipper flying boats that carried passengers from Miami to thirty-two countries. Then, when flying boats went the way of dinosaurs, Pan Am closed the base and it became Miami City Hall in 1954.

History had been made here. Perhaps more history, Ainslie thought, would be made today.

In the main lobby, Ainslie and Bowe walked to a desk where they showed their police badges to an elderly security guard. The man waved them past. Knowing the location of Cynthia's office on the main floor, Ainslie turned left and gestured to Ruby to take an interior corridor to the right, which led to the auditorium where she would wait. Reluctantly, Ruby left him, pointedly checking her watch.

Before entering the building, Ainslie had instructed Braynen and his partner to hold their present position outside, listen to their radios, and respond immediately if called.

Ainslie continued down the hall until a door confronted him:

OFFICE OF THE

COMMISSIONER

CYNTHIA ERNST

A young male aide sat at a desk in a windowless room immediately inside. In a separate small office a woman secretary was working at a computer. Between the two was a substantial door, dark green, and closed.

Again, Ainslie showed his badge. "I'm here to see the commissioner on police business. Don't announce me."

"Wouldn't anyway." The young man gestured to the green door. "Go right in." Ainslie opened the door and entered, closing it behind him.

Cynthia faced him. She was seated at an ornate desk, her face expressionless. The of lice was spacious and pleasantly functional, though not luxurious. A window in the rear wall provided a view of the harbor and moored pleasure boats. A plain door to the right probably opened to a cupboard or a small powder room.

A silence hung between them. After several seconds he began, "I wanted to say "

"Save it!" Cynthia's lips scarcely moved. Her eyes were cold.

She knew. No explanations, he realized, were required on either side. Cynthia would have many contacts; a city commissioner could bestow favors and was owed them in return. Undoubtedly someone in her debt perhaps in the grand jury office, even, or the Police Department had quietly picked up a phone and made a call.

"You may not believe this, Cynthia," Ainslie said, "but I wish there were something, anything, I could do."

"Well, let's think about that." Her face and voice were icy, devoid of all empathy. "I know you like executions, so maybe you could attend my daughter's make sure everything goes off the way it should. Mine, too, perhaps. Now, wouldn't you enjoy that."

He pleaded, "I beg of you, don't do this."

"What would you prefer remorse and tears, some sleazy piety from your old game?"

Ainslie sighed. Unsure of what he had hoped for, he knew whatever it was had failed. He knew, too, that Ruby should be with him. He had made a mistake in persuading her to stay behind.

"There's no easy way to do this," he said, placing the arrest warrant on the desk. "I'm afraid you're under arrest. I have to caution you "

Cynthia smiled sardonically. "I'll accept Miranda as read."

"I need your gun. Where is it?" Ainslie's right hand had moved and was holding his own Glock 9mrn automatic, though he did not produce it. Cynthia, he knew, had a Glock also; like all sworn personnel who retired, she had received her gun on leaving as a gift from the city.

"In the desk." She had risen and pointed to a drawer.

Not taking his eyes from her, he reached down with his left hand, opened the drawer, and felt inside. The gun was under a cloth. Lifting it out, he put it in a pocket.

"Turn around, please." He had handcuffs ready.

"Not yet." Her voice had become near normal. "I have to go to the toilet first. There are certain functions you can't do with your hands fixed behind your back."

"No. Stand where you are."

Unheeding, Cynthia turned and walked toward the interior door he had noted. Over her shoulder she taunted, "If you don't like it, go ahead shoot me."

Two fleeting thoughts crossed Ainslie's mind, but he banished them.

As the door opened, he saw it was a toilet inside. Equally obvious, there was no other way out. The door closed swiftly. Removing his right hand from his gun, he strode forward, intending to open it by force if needed. For whatever reason, he suddenly knew he had moved too slowly.

Before he could reach the door, and only seconds after it had closed, it was flung open from inside. Cynthia stood in the doorway, eyes blazing, face tightly set a mask of hate. Her voice was a snarl as she commanded,

"Freeze!" In her hand was a tiny gun.

Knowing he had been outwitted, that the gun had probably been stored inside, he began, "Cyn, look . . . we can . . .',

"Shut up." Her face was working. "You knew I had this. Didn't you?"

Ainslie nodded slowly. He hadn't known, but barely a minute earlier the possibility had occurred to him; it was one of the thoughts he had dismissed. The gun Cynthia held was the tiny, chrome-plated Smith & Wesson fiveshot pistol the "throw-down" she had used so effectively during the bank holdup into which she and Ainslie once walked together.

"And you thought maybe I'd use it on myself! To save me and everybody else a lot of trouble. Answer me!"

It was a moment for truth. Ainslie admitted, "Yes, I did." That had been his second thought.

"Well, I will use it. But I'll take you with me, you bastard!" She was bracing herself, he could tell, for a marksman's shot. Possibilities, like summer lightning, flashed through his mind. Reaching for his Glock was one; but Cynthia would fire the instant he moved, and he had seen the bank robber with a hole precisely central in his forehead. As for Ruby, barely five minutes had passed. With Cynthia there was no more reasoning. Was there anything he could do? No, nothing. And so . . . the end came to everyone in time. Accept it. One final thought: He had sometimes wondered would he, in the last seconds of his life, return to a belief, even a hope, in God and some future life? He knew the answer now. And it was no.

Cynthia was ready to fire. He closed his eyes and then heard the shot . . . Oddly, he felt nothing . . . He opened them.

Cynthia had fallen to the floor; her eyes closed, the tiny gun clutched in her hand. On the left side of her chest, blood was oozing from an open wound.

Against the outside door, rising from the half-crouched stance from which she had fired her 9mm automatic, was Ruby Bowel

5

News of Cynthia Ernst's violent death swept through Miami like a tidal wave.

And the news media exploded.

So did surviving city commission members, infused with white-hot anger at what they saw as the wanton slaying of one of their own.

Even before the body of Cynthia Ernst could be removed, her death having been certified by paramedics, two mobile television crews were at City Hall, filming and posing questions to which no one had coherent answers. They had been alerted by police radio exchanges, as had other reporters and photographers who quickly joined them.

Sergeant Braynen and his partner, aided by hastily summoned reinforcements, attempted to maintain order.

For Malcolm Ainslie and Ruby Bowe, the postconf~ntation events became a mercurial montage. After hasty calls to and from Assistant Chief Serrano's office, they were ordered to remain in place and talk to no one until a "shoot team" from Internal Affairs arrived standard procedure when death or serious injury was caused by an officer on duty. The team, appearing moments later, comprised a sergeant and detective who questioned Ainslie and Bowe carefully, though without hostility, it becoming quickly evident that Internal Affairs had been informed, before the of ricers' departure, of the grand jury indictments and arrest warrant for Cynthia Ernst.

The Police Department, itself scrambling for information, declined immediate comment on the shooting death of City Commissioner Ernst, but promised total disclosure at a news conference at 6:00 P.M. that day, which the chief of police would attend.

Meanwhile the chief sent messages to the mayor and city commissioners that he would telephone each of them personally during the hour before the news conference, to report the latest information. It would have been more convenient to have a special briefing in his office, but under Florida's "sunshine law," commission members could not meet together in any place without the media or public being informed and admitted.

From the "shoot team" interrogation, Ainslie and Bowe moved onward to a private accounting in Assistant Chief Serrano's office behind closed doors, and before Serrano and Majors Figueras and Yanes. During all the questioning, Ainslie and Bowe told no lies, but nor, it seemed, were overly probing questions asked in particular, how did Ainslie and Ruby become briefly separated at City Hall? Instinct told Ainslie that, justly or otherwise, ranks were closing, with the Police Department maneuvering to protect its own. He wondered, too: Was there, among the five, an uneasy memory of Yanes's covert words concerning Cynthia, spoken in this same room barely an hour before: She could do the decent thing and swallow a bullet. Save everyone a potful of trouble. Did they now share a feeling of guilt that no one had protested? And was there an instinct that if probing became too intensive and specific, something they would prefer not to hear would be divulged?

Those were questions, Ainslie knew, that would never be answered.

In the end, what would become the essential police retelling was summarized in a handwritten note by Serrano, to be rewritten and enlarged on as an official statement:

Acting with authority derived from three grand jury indictments, two of Ricers Sergeant Malcolm Ainslie and Detective Ruby Rowe attempted to arrest Commissioner Cynthia Ernst After the prisoner was apparently disarmed, with the gun she was known to own taken from her, and before being handcuffed, she suddenly produced a small concealed pistol which she was about to fire at Sergeant Ainslie when Detective Rowe, using her own police weapon, shot and killed the prisoner.

Those facts were upheld, soon after, by the uniformed officers, Braynen and his partner, who, immediately after the shooting, responded to a radio summons from Ainslie and were on the scene in seconds.

Only in a quiet moment later did Ainslie and Ruby talk about what had happened.

"After a few minutes of waiting, I got antsy," Ruby explained. "Just as well, wasn't it?"

Ainslie grasped her shoulders with both hands and met Ruby's eyes. "I owe you my life," he told her. "Whatever you need from me, you only have to ask."

"If I think of something," she said with a half-smile, "I'll tell you. But a lot of it was self-interest. Working in Homicide wouldn't be the same without you. You've taught all of us so much, set great examples. I hope I'm not embarrassing you."

Ainslie shrugged self-consciously. "A little, I guess." Then he added carefully, "Working with you, Ruby, has been a privilege for me." This was not the moment, he decided, to reveal his decision to leave Homicide and perhaps the Police Department. For the time being he would keep that knowledge between Karen and himself.

* * *

Preparations for the news conference were made at breakneck speed as lengthy phone calls flew between the Police Department and the state attorney's office. Together they decided that all relevant facts concerning Cynthia Ernst would be disclosed: the three grand jury indictments; Eleanor Ernst's diaries; Cynthia's early abuse at the hands of her father; the pregnancy; Cynthia's plot to have her parents killed; even the fact that crucial evidence concerning another double murder that Cynthia concealed had sat unexamined for a year and a half in the police Property Department. Finally there would be Cynthia's failure to divulge her knowledge of the wheelchair murderer.

As Assistant Chief Serrano expressed it, after consulting with the chief and the Department's public information officer, Evelio Jimenez, "It's one monstrous mess, and no one will come out smelling sweet. There could be pmblems, though, if anything's held back and then ferreted out by some smart reporter."

Only certain evidence, which might be needed for the trials of Patrick Jensen and Virgilio, would remain temporarily undisclosed. Jensen's arrest, and the charges against him, had now become known.

As for Virgilio, there was doubt about whether he would ever be caught and tried. Metm-Dade Homicide, on learning of his participation in the wheelchair murder, had begun a search for him, as had Miami Homicide, because of his reported slayings of the Ernsts. But Virgilio had fled to his native Colombia, from where extradition was unlikely because of the mutual hostility between that country and the United States.

* * *

The news conference was held in the lobby of Police Headquarters, entry being controlled by several police officers near the main doorway, where credentials were examined. A podium and microphones were set up near the main-floor elevators. There, Evelio Jimenez, the public information officer a former newspaper reporter with a frank, no-nonsense attitude would be in charge.

Only minutes before the crowded conference began, city commission members, all of whom had already spoken with the chief, filed into the lobby, their expressions ranging from shock to grief. The media closed in on them, but no one responded to questions. When a microphone was thrust in the face of the mayor, he snapped uncharacteristically, "Take that away! Just listen to what they'll tell you."

TV cameras were rolling, microphones lined up like bean sprouts, and pencils and laptop computers were poised as the PIO announced, "Chief Farrell Ketledge."

The chief of police stepped forward. He spoke solemnly, though he wasted no time in coming to the point.

"Without any doubt, this is the saddest day in my entire police career. I considered Cynthia Ernst to be a loyal colleague and good friend, and shall remember her, in part, that way, despite the crimes and horror that are now exposed. For as you will shortly hear in detail, Miss Ernst was a criminal, guilty, among other things, of the terrible murders of her parents. . ."

A collective gasp filled the hall. Simultaneously, several reporters rose hastily and left, heading for TV vans outside; others spoke into cellular phones.

The chief continued, mentioning the two murders Cynthia had helped to conceal while a Homicide detective. He then stated, "Earlier today, three grand jury indictments were issued for her arrest. It was during that arrest that Miss Ernst suddenly produced a concealed weapon, which she clearly intended to use on one of the arresting officers. The other officer fired a single shot, instantly killing Miss Ernst.

"We will, if you wish, talk more about that later, but for now I want to deal with today's events, beginning with the grand jury indictments directed at Cynthia Ernst. So I will ask Mr. Curzon Knowles, head of the state attorney's Homicide division, to describe those indictments and the evidence behind them."

Knowles, dressed more formally than usual in a blue pinstriped suit, moved to the podium and spoke authoritatively for ten minutes, relating most of the facts presented to the grand jury. Many in the audience looked up from their notes and listened intently as he described Eleanor Ernst's diaries and the details of child abuse. "I understand," Knowles continued, "that significant pages of those diaries are being copied now and will be available soon." A few questions were asked of Knowles, but none were aggressive. Most of the reporters seemed stunned at what was being revealed; there was a sense that plain words and frankness were the order of the day.

When Knowles concluded, Serrano took over. The assistant chief introduced Leo Newbold, who spoke briefly, then Malcolm Ainslie, who described the murders of Gustav and Eleanor Ernst and the attempt to make them look like earlier serial killings. It quickly became evident that Ainslie had a grasp of the entire complex scene, and for a half hour he responded clearly and confidently to reporters' quenes.

He was tiring, though, when a woman TV reporter asked, "We were told earlier . . ." She paused, consulting her notes. ". . . told by Lieutenant Newbold that you were the first one who believed the Ernst murders were nor part of those earlier serials. Why did you have that first impression?"

He responded impulsively, "Because there's no rabbit in Revelation," then regretted the words the moment they were out.

After a puzzled silence the same woman asked, "Will you explain that?"

Ainslie glanced at Deputy Chief Serrano, who shrugged and told the journalists, "We have talented people here who sometimes solve crimes in unusual ways." Then, to Ainslie: "Go ahead, tell them."

Reluctantly, Ainslie began, "It goes back to symbols left by a perpetrator at four murder scenes and eventually recognized as-religious symbols inspired by the Book of Revelation in the Bible. At the Ernst murders a rabbit was left. It didn't fit the pattern."

While continuing to describe the earlier symbols, Ainslie remembered that all of that information had been held back from the media at the time, and never released later because there had been no need. In the end Elroy Doil was tried, sentenced, and executed for the Tempones' murder only, where no symbol was involved.

Thus, this information was new, and also fascinating, judging by the number of reporters who, with heads down, were scribbling notes or typing on laptops. As Ainslie concluded, a male voice asked, "Who figured out what those symbols meant?"

"I'll answer that," Serrano said. "It was Sergeant Ainslie who made the connection, and it led to several suspects, one of whom was Elroy Doil."

A veteran print reporter asked, "Is it true, Sergeant Ainslie, that you were once a priest? Is that how you know your way around the Bible?"

It was a subject Ainslie had hoped would not come up. While he had made no great secret of his past, few outside the Department knew of it. Anyway, he answered, "Yes, I was, so in that regard it helped."

Next a woman's voice. "Why did you stop being a priest and become a cop?"

"Leaving the priesthood was my personal choice, freely made. The reasons were private and not relevant here, so I won't discuss them." He smiled. "For the record, I left behind no misbehavior; my acceptance as a police officer should vouch for that." Despite the overlay of seriousness, there was some good-natured laughter.

Soon after, with many reporters eager to get going, the formal news conference broke up, though some reporters and TV crews stayed on, doing one-on-one interviews in both English and Spanish. Ainslie especially was in demand and remained an extra forty minutes. Even then, reporters followed him to his car, still filming and asking questions.

* * *

That same evening, and during the days that followed, Malcolm Ainslie was a prominent figure on television as his statements were featured, then repeated, interlaced with new developments. National network news reports carried the Cynthia Ernst story, with most depicting Ainslie as police spokesman. ABC's "Nightline" reported at length the mysterious murder-scene symbols and their biblical interpretation, once more with Ainslie as the star.

The print press covered the Ernst stories, too, showing interest in Ainslie's former priesthood. One probing reporter found a record of his doctoral degree and reputation as a scholar, mentioning Ainslie's joint authorship of Civilization's Evolving Beliefs, and that, too, was repeated around the country. His name appeared prominently in Newsweek and Time reports, and the national Sunday newspaper magazine, Parade, ran a cover story with the headline SCHOLARLY EX-PRIEST DETECTIVE LAUDED AS CRIME-SOLVING STAR.

The switchboard at Miami Police Headquarters received many calls from inquiring film and TV producers, all of it defying Assistant Chief Serrano's prediction that no one would emerge from the Ernst debacle smelling sweet. Quite clearly, Ainslie did.

"I really wish all this would stop," Ainslie confided to Leo Newbold.

"The way I hear, the guys up above us have the same feeling," Newbold replied.

Whatever their unease, everyone in authority was clearly relieved that there would be no harrowing trial of Cynthia Ernst.

* * *

A few days after the news conference, Ainslie relayed to Leo Newbold his wish to leave Homicide. Newbold was understanding and sympathetic. Many other detectives had traveled the same route, and it was accepted that longtime Homicide duty imposed emotional strains that eventually could be disabling. While Ainslie was awaiting word about new duty, Newbold removed him from current Homicide assignments and placed him in charge of "cold cases" old homicides being investigated with the aid of new technologies a productive but "low emotion" area.

After three weeks, Newbold stopped by Ainslie's desk and said, "Figueras wants to see you now."

* * *

"Hi, Sergeant Ainslie!" Major Figueras's secretary, Teodora Hernandez, greeted him as he entered the Criminal Investigations chief's outer office. "Before you go in," she asked, "would you do me a favor?"

"If I can, Teo."

"Well, my kids keep seeing you on the tube and reading about you. Then when I said I knew you, they got all excited, asked if I could get your autograph." She produced two white cards and held out a pen. "Would you mind?"

Embarrassed, he protested, "I'm not a celebrity."

"Oh yes, you are! Write 'For Petra' on one card and 'For gusto' on the other."

Taking the pen and cards, Ainslie scribbled the names and two signatures. He handed them back.

"I'll be a hero at home tonight," Teodora said as she led him toward the inner-office doorway, which, he noticed, was ajar.

Mark Figueras stood up as Ainslie came in, and he was grinning. "So, our celebrity! How does it feel?"

"Out of place, totally." Ainslie grimaced.

"Well, it won't stop soon. Can you live with it?"

"I suppose. But how about the Department, sir?"

"There might be a problem." Figueras gestured dismissively. "Anyway, forget the formality, Malcolm. This is a talk I've been instructed to have with you man-toman stuff. Oh, but first there is one piece of formality. You are Lieutenant Ainslie, as of this moment." He extended his hand. "Congratulations. A little late, maybe, but in the right direction."

Ainslie wondered what was coming. The promotion pleased him, and he wanted more than anything to phone Karen and share it with her. But he waited for Figueras.

"Career-wise, you're in good shape right now, Malcolm, and there are severe! routes you can go most of your own choosing. The first is to command Homicide." As Ainslie looked surprised, Figueras continued, "Leo Newbold is being made captain, and he'll move to a new assignment. In your case you'd normally move, too, but your record in Homicide is outstanding, and an exception could be made if that's your wish."

"It isn't." Ainslie shook his head. "I already told Leo why I want out."

"I'd heard that unofficially, and I understand it. We simply wanted you to know all the options."

The "we" was significant. Whatever Figueras was relaying had come from the top.

"Okay, let's weigh your future in the Department," the Criminal Investigations chief went on. "You've made lieutenant at age forty-one. In another three years you could be captain, and after that, at the chief's discretion, a major, though nothing's certain, and all of it a little late compared with others, because you were older than most when you started. So maybe at forty-six you'd be a major after fifteen years of service, and above that,-as you know, there are fewer jobs and the competition's tough. So you might go higher, but major could be your limit before retirement. I'm being frank with you, Malcolm."

"I prefer it that way."

"There's one other thing to be looked at, and I'm really leveling with you here. Recently you've had more public attention than probably anyone in the Department ever had before. One reason is that you've done spectacular work, especially in Homicide. But it was your old background as a~priest and scholar that the media jumped on, which brings me to a point."

Ainslie had a notion of what was coming.

"The thing is, Malcolm, because of all that attention, whatever you do in the Police Department now will be noticed by the media and probably magnified. Nothing really wrong in that, but to be truthful, the Department could be uncomfortable. As you know, few people here get consistent public attention, and that even includes the chief most of Miami's population probably don't know his name. That's how it's always been, and most of us would like to see it stay that way."

"Let's be clear about this," Ainslie said. "Are you telling me that despite all that's happened my promotion and the rest you'd really like me out of the force?"

"If it seems that way to you," Figueras said, "then I've done a lousy job, because that's the last thing I wanted to convey. But what most of us here do feel, Malcolm, is that what's left for you in the Department simply doesn't measure up to your abilities. What we'd like to see happen is for you to move on to something more advantageous to you, and that would make better use of your special talents."

"Trouble is," Ainslie said, "I haven't done much reading of the want ads lately. Looks as though I should."

Figueras laughed. " 'Want' is an appropriate word. The fact is and this is mostly what this talk is about an organization outside the Police Department has been in touch with the chief, the mayor, and maybe others, and wants you very much on highly favorable terms, I understand."

Ainslie was confused. "Is this organization something, or someone, that I know?"

"I don't think so. The person most concerned is the chairman of the board of trustees of South Florida University." Figueras consulted a paper on his desk. "His name is Dr. Hartley Allardyce. Would you be agreeable to a meeting?"

Life was full of unexpected twists and turns, Ainslie reflected. He answered, "What can I say but yes?"

6

"This may surprise you, Dr. Ainslie," Hartley Allardyce said, "but we've been talking about you a lot at our university ever since your talents and background became so widely known."

"Yes, it surprises me," Ainslie said. "Lately, almost everything surprises me."

It was three days after his conversation with Major Mark Figueras. Now Ainslie and Allardyce were at dinner together at Miami's downtown City Club. Ainslie found it strange to be called "Doctor." Though it was valid scholastically, he had not heard it spoken aloud for years, and even as a priest he hadn't used it. In these present circumstances, though.. .

Dr. Allardyce, who seemed to enjoy talking, continued, "The public loves a local hero, always has, and you became one when you solved those hideous crimes. The bonus was that you did it intellectually, using scholarly knowledge, which is why you're so admired by educators, myself included."

Ainslie smiled self-consciously and murmured thanks.

Waving the interruption aside, Allardyce went on, "What has happened to you, in terms of becoming a public figure, could not have occurred at a more opportune time both for me and for others whom I represent. And, I hope, for you."

Hartley Allardyce was as impressive an individual as his name implied. He was silver-haired, handsome, and deeply tanned, with a confident manner and a buoyant smile. He had been born to wealth, then had enlarged it as the head of an international investment fund, enriching others also. At the same time he was passionately interested in higher education, hence the South Florida University connection.

"I've been chairman of the SFU trustees for six years," he explained, "and in all that time have wanted to develop a lecture program on comparative religions. We have a Department of Religion and Philosophy, of course, but it doesn't deal with comparatives to the extent I'd like."

Allardyce paused as a waiter served their main course, filet mignon with bearnaise sauce. "By the way, I hope you like this wine. It's an Opus One, originated by two of the world's great vintners Robert Mondavi in the Napa Valley and the late Philippe de Rothschild in Bordeaux. Do try it."

"It's superb," Ainslie reported, and it was. He had heard of the famous wine, though on a detective-sergeant's pay he could never have afforded it.

"Let me get to the point," Allardyce said, "as to why you're here. Most university students these days are opting for the hot-action areas of education: business, medicine, law, and engineering. But I'd like to show our young people the value of studying comparative religions.

"Diverse religions say so much far more than conventional history about the times in which people live, and their state of mind in every age and society; their fears, hopes, and pleasures; what they dread, consciously and subconsciously, with death always high on the list; and whether there's anything beyond death, or merely oblivion no doubt the greatest fear of all. Do have more wine, Dr. Ainslie."

"Thank you, no. I'm doing fine. But before we go any further, there's something I want to say."

"The. last thing I wish is to monopolize. Please go ahead."

"Something you ought to know, Dr. Allardyce, is that while I'm fascinated by comparative religions and always have been, I do not believe in any of them. Haven't for a long time."

"I already knew that," Allardyce said, "and it makes no difference. It may even make you more objective. You're sure about no more wine?"

"Quite sure, thank you."

'So the reason I've brought you here is that I have, just recently, raised enough money to build a new Religion and Philosophy Center on campus. A good deal of it comes from a personal friend who is on the point of pledging several million Dollars. However, since reading about you and your unique qualifications, my friend has added a condition to the gift. In addition to the building, there'll be an endowment for a professor in comparative religions, to be described as a distinguished scholar. The point is, Dr. Ainslie, my friend wants you."

Ainslie's eyes widened. "Are you serious?"

"Totally."

"May I ask who your friend is?"

Allardyce shook his head. "Sorry! Sometimes wealthy donors prefer to stay anonymous; nowadays there are good reasons. Anyway, the commitment on the university's part would initially be for three years, and the annual stipend would be one hundred thousand Dollars. Forgive me for bringing up money, but it's necessary sometimes."

There were several seconds of silence before Ainslie said, "I can forgive you for that, Doctor. And perhaps, after all, I will have more wine."

"There'll be a few formalities," Allardyce said momerits later. "Though nothing you can't handle."

* * *

Karen was thrilled about the pending appointment. "Oh, honey go for it! It's so right for you. You're an authority on the subject, and you're so good at teaching. I haven't told you this, but after what happened at City Hall, I phoned Ruby Bowe to say thank you for me, and for Jason. Among other things, she told me how the younger detectives appreciate what you've taught them, and how they all respect you."

He reminded Karen, "There are some more interviews I have to go through before the offer's firm."

"You'll sail through them."

* * *

A succession of interviews took place, the most important with the university's provost, Dr. Gavin Lawrence~uiet spoken and small in stature, but with a firm no-nonsense presence. The provost, with a file open in front of him, looked up from it and commented, "You're certainly academically prepared to go this route."

"There's one thing I have to make sure you know." Ainslie repeated the nonbelief declaration he had made to Allardyce.

"That's in here, too." The provost touched the file. "Hartley wrote a report, saying he appreciated your honesty. So do I, and I agree it's not a barrier." Lawrence leaned back, bringing his fingertips together as he spoke. "Actually, I hear rumors that some of our religion and philosophy professors have discovered their faith waning as they've accumulated more knowledge, of which in religion there's been a great deal these past two decades. That happens sometimes, don't you think?"

"It happened to me."

"Well, it makes no difference here, because we simply don't ask about the religious leanings of our faculty. What we do care about, of course, is scholarship and honest teaching. I trust that's clear."

Ainslie nodded. "Perfectly."

"There's something else we'd ask of you. From time to time we would like you to give public lectures on your subject. I think, with your name, you'd draw quite a crowd, and since we charge admission..." The provost smiled benignly.

As to Ainslie's three-year commitment, "At the end, if everything has worked well, there might be a faculty opening, or some other institution might want you. It's always a help if students like you, and I have a feeling they will. The students really are the key.

"There's one final thing," the provost said. "Tell me a bit about how you would teach comparative religions."

Ainslie was startled. "I've done no preparation . . ."

"Never mind, just off the cuff."

Ainslie thought briefly. "What I would teach is fact whatever fact is known. As you said earlier, so much fresh knowledge about religions has emerged in the past twenty years and needs examining. What I'd avoid is judgments. Students, if they choose, can make those on their own. Above all, I wouldn't proselytize; that and the study of religions don't go together."

Lawrence nodded thoughtfully. "And in the larger educational scheme the university's purpose as a whole how do you see comparative religions?"

"Oh, without question, as important history human history over roughly five thousand years. And throughout that time, religions have caused countless changes innovation and destruction, wars and peace, justice and tyranny. Most religions have had their share of saints and scoundrels. Those in high places have used religions emperors, politicians, armies, mercenaries usually to gain power."

"Religions, of course, abound with positives and negatives. How do you balance those? Which are greater? Isn't that a judgment call?"

"If it is, I'm not up to making it; I doubt that anyone is. What I do know is that no matter how we view the record of religions in history, no other facet of human behavior through the ages has been so all-pervasive or longlasting." Ainslie chuckled. "I guess that alone shows the importance of comparative religions in present-day life and education."

There was a silence, then the provost said, "Well done! Thank you, Dr. Ainslie, and you may count on me as an early attendee when your lectures begin."

Their parting was cordial. "I understand that Hartley is planning a reception at his house for you and your wife a chance to meet others. I look forward to seeing you both there."

* * *

When his post at South Florida University was confirmed, Ainslie submitted his resignation to the Police Department, and during his final few days in Homicide, many who knew him, including senior officers, dropped in to wish him well. For his slightly more than ten years' service he would receive a pension not large, but, as he put it to Karen, "enough to buy us a bottle of Opus One occasionally."

One thing Ainslie did not do was retain his Glock automatic pistol, as was his privilege as a retiring police officer. Instead he returned it to the armory. He had had enough of firearms to last him the rest of his life, and he did not want a gun in his home, especially with children.

Karen was ecstatic at the final news. She looked forward to having more of Malcolm's time, to be shared with Jason, and their second child, now due in four months. Recently they had learned through ultrasound tests that the baby was a girl. They planned to name her Ruby.