Detective (20 page)

Meanwhile, Ainslie was still a
sergeant, to some extent penalized
by the fact that he was a white male
at a time when affirmative-action
promotions of minorities and women
were disproportionately and many
thought unfairly large. However, he
had passed the examination for
lieutenant with distinction and
expected to move up soon. From a
practical point of view, a promotion
would increase his annual sergeant's
salary of $52,000 by a welcome
$10,400.

With financial pressures eased, he
and Karen would be able to travel
more, go to more concerts they loved
jazz and chamber music dine out more
often, and generally

162 Arthur Halley

improve the quality of their lives.
Since he'd ended his affair with
Cynthia a belated sense of guilt had
grown, making Ainslie more
determined then ever to be a loyal,
devoted husband.

Then he received a call from
Captain Ralph Leon, who was in
Personnel Management. Ainslie and
Leon had been recruits together, and
in the same police academy class,
where they became friends,
frequently studied in tandem, and
otherwise helped each other. Leon
was black and well qualified and
therefore affirmative action had not
delayed his upward progress.

On the phone Leon merely said,
"Malcolm, meet me for coffee." He
named a day and time and a small
cafe in Little Havana a long way
from Police Headquarters.

Outside the restaurant they smiled
at the sight of each other and shook
hands warmly. Leon, who wore a
sports jacket and slacks instead of
his uniform, opened the door and led
the way to a quiet booth. He was a
trimly built man, studious and
methodical, and becoming serious, he
weighed his words before speaking.
"Malcolm, this conversation is not
taking place."

His eyes posed a question, to
which Ainslie nodded. "Okay. I
understand."

"There are things I hear in
Personnel..." Leon stopped. "Oh,
hell, Malcolm. Here it is. If you
stay a Miami cop, you're never going
anywhere. You'll never make
lieutenant or any rank higher than
you have now. It isn't fair, I hate
it, but out of friendship I had to
let you know."

Ainslie, stunned by what he had
heard, sat in silence.

Leon's voice became more
emotional. "It's Major Ernst. She's
bad-mouthing you everywhere,
blocking your promotion. I don't
know why, Malcolm; maybe you do. But
if you do know, don't tell me."

DETECTIVE 163

"Blocking it on what grounds,
Ralph? My record's clean and
officially . . . well, outstanding."

'`The grounds are trivial, and
everybody knows it. But a major that
one especially has a lot of
influence, and in our shop, if you
have a powerful enemy, you usually
can't win. You know how it is."

Ainslie did know. But curiosity
made him ask, "What am I accused
of?"

"Neglect of duty, laziness, careless
work habits."

In other circumstances, Ainslie
might have laughed.

Leon said, "She must have searched
through every goddam file." He
spelled out some details. There was
an occasion, for example, when
Ainslie had failed to make a
scheduled court appearance.

"I remember that. I was on the way
to court when I got a radio call a
freeway killing. There was a chase,
we got the guy, and afterward a
conviction. Later that day I saw the
judge, explained, and apologized. He
was fine about it and rescheduled."

"Unfortunately the court documents
just show your absence. I checked."
Leon pulled a folded paper from his
pocket. "Several times you were late
for work, missed meetings."

"Jesus! that happens to everybody.
There isn't anyone in the Department
who doesn't get that kind of stuff
emergency calls, so you respond and
let the office wait. I don't even
remember."

"Ernst remembered and found the
records." Leon looked at his paper.
"I said it was trivia. Want more?"

Ainslie shook his head. Quick
changes of plan, fast decisions,
dealing with the unexpected, were a
normal part of police work,
especially in Homicide. Sometimes,
administratively, the results were
messy; it was part of the job.
Everyone, including Cynthia, knew
it.

164 Arthur Halley

But he knew the answer, too; there
was nothing he could do. Cynthia had
the rank and the influence, and held
all the cards. He remembered her
threatening words to him. Well, she
had kept her promise in spades.

"Damn it," Ainslie muttered,
staring through a window at the
street outside.

"I'm sorry, Malcolm. It's really a
bum rap."

Ainslie nodded. "I appreciate your
telling me, Ralph. And no one will
ever know we talked."

Leon looked down at the table in
front of him. "That doesn't seem so
important now." He raised his eyes.
"Will you stay on?"

"I think so." Mainly, he reasoned,
because there were few alternatives.

And in the end he did.

Following the exchange with Ralph
Leon, one other thought came back to
Malcolm: the memory of a brief,
unexpected conversation several
months earlier with Mrs. Eleanor
Ernst, Cynthia's mother.

Police sergeants normally do not
meet city leaders or their spouses
socially, but this happened at a
small retirement dinner given for a
senior officer with whom Ainslie had
worked, and Commissioner and Mrs.
Ernst attended. Ainslie knew Mrs.
Ernst by sight; she had always
seemed a demure woman, expensively
dressed but slightly shy. Therefore
he was surprised when, holding a
wineglass, she approached him during
the reception preceding the dinner.

Speaking softly, she asked,
"You're Sergeant Ainslie, aren't
you?"

"Yes, I am."

"I believe that you and my
daughter are no longer how shall I
put it? meeting each other. Is that
correct?"

DETECTIVE 165

Seeing Ainslie hesitate, she added,
"Oh, don't worry, I won't tell
anyone. But sometimes Cynthia isn't
the most discreet person."

He answered uncertainly. "I rarely
see Cynthia at all these days."

"This may seem strange, coming from
a mother, Sergeant, but I was sorry
to hear that. I think you were a
good influence on her. Tell me, was
the ending friendly or otherwise?"

"Otherwise."

"A pity." Mrs. Ernst lowered her
voice still more. "I shouldn't do
this, I suppose, but I want to tell
you something, Sergeant Ainslie. If
Cynthia thinks she's been wronged,
she never forgets, never forgives.
Just a warning you should bear in
mind. Good evening.''

Still holding her wineglass, Mrs.
Ernst melted away.

Thus, in due course, the predictive
words of Eleanor Ernst were
confirmed. Captain Ralph Leon had
become the messenger, and
Ainslie permanently it seemed had
paid Cynthia's price.

Now, long after so many events, so
much maneuvering, and so many
changes for them both, Malcolm
Ainslie and Cynthia Ernst faced each
other in Leo Newbold's office.

"Get to the point," Cynthia had
said about her parents' murders. "I
want to hear what you're really
doing, and don't hold anything
back."

"We've compiled a list of suspects
for surveillance. I'll have a copy
sent "

"I already have it." Cynthia
touched a file folder in front of
her. "Is there anyone on that list
who's number one?''

"Robinson seems a probability.
Several things fit, but

166 Arthur Halley

it's too early to tell. Surveillance
should give us more information."

"Are you convinced the same person
did all of the murders?"

"Just about everybody is." His own
doubts, Ainslie thought, were
unimportant.

More questions followed, and as
far as he could, Ainslie tried to
convey sympathy with his answers,
despite Cynthia's coldness. At the
same time he was very much on guard.
Cynthia had that effect on him,
knowing from experience that she
would make use of any information in
any way she chose.

Toward the end she said, "I
understand you associated some
things found at the murder scenes
with Biblical references."

"Yes, mostly Revelation."

"Mostly?"

"Nothing is exact. As you know,
it's impossible to be sure of a
source, or of a criminal's
reasoning, which can be
inconsistent. What those references
did was point us toward the group of
people we're now watching."

"I want you to inform me of every
new development. Daily reports by
phone."

"Excuse me, Major, but you should
clear that with Lieutenant Newbold."

"I already have. He has my
instructions. Now I'm giving them to
you. Please see that you follow
them."

Well, he thought, Major Cynthia
Ernst had the rank to get away with
such instructions, even though,
strictly speaking, they were outside
her own departmental field. It
didn't follow, though, that she
should receive every last scrap of
information, even about her parents'
murders.

Standing, Ainslie moved closer to
the desk and looked down at Cynthia.
"Major, I will do my best to keep
you

DETECTIVE 167

informed, but as head of this task
force my first duty is to solve the
case." He waited until she looked
up, then continued. "Nothing will
come before that."

She seemed about to say something,
then evidently thought better of it.
Ainslie moved back, his gaze fixed
on hers. Yes, she outranked him and
could order him to do virtually
anything in the line of duty. But on
a personal level, he decided, he
would not be pushed around by her.
Ever.

The plain fact was, he didn't trust
Cynthia and scarcely liked her
anymore. He knew there were things
she was not revealing, though what
they were and how they might relate
to the serial murder investigations,
he had no idea. What he did know
from his own sources in the
Department was that Cynthia Ernst
continued to cut corners, and to
keep dubious company, especially
with the author Patrick Jensen.

Jensen was still being watched by
Miami police. There had been rumors
of a connection between Jensen and a
drug distribution gang, the same
gang that was suspect in a Homicide
investigation by Metro-Dade Police
into what had become known as the
Wheelchair Murder. The victim, a
paraplegic and a valued police
informant, had been wheeled at
night, bound and gagged, into
tidewater in a remote area south of
Homestead. His wheelchair had been
secured by a chain and weights to a
lonely offshore islet, and the man
left to drown as the tide rose.

Of course, it was all a long way
from Major Cynthia Ernst . . .

She nodded slightly. "That will be
all, Sergeant. You may go."

8

"Of all the jobs cops are asked to
do," Detective Charlie Thurston
said, "surveillance has to be the
shittiest."

"It sure ain't my favorite,"
Bradford Andrews acknowledged. "And
this damn rain's not helping,
either."

Thurston from Homicide and Andrews
from Robbery were sitting in a
Florida Power & Light van, their
temporary undercover vehicle. They
were assigned to keep track of
Carlos Quinones, one of the six
computergenerated suspects in the
serial killings.

The Police Department owned a
variety of vehicles for surveillance
use. They included taxis, phone,
gas, and electrical service trucks,
store delivery vehicles, and even
postal vans. Some were given or sold
to police by the organizations that
owned them. Others, confiscated
during drug raids, were awarded
through the courts. The type of
vehicle used to watch any particular
subject, such as Quinones, was
changed from day to day.

The two detectives, both in their
early thirties, had been parked for
nearly two hours outside Quinones's
apartment one of a series of squalid
residences in the unofficially named
Liberty City area.

The time was approaching 7:00 P.M.,
and Brad Andrews

DETECTIVE 169

yawned with boredom. Andrews liked
action. All detectives did, which is
why many had become detectives. Yet,
much of the time, surveillance was
the reverse. It involved sitting in
a vehicle for several hours, peering
out the windows, with nothing
happening. Even in good weather it
was hard to concentrate on an
assignment without thoughts turning
to that night's dinner, sports, sex,
an overdue mortgage payment. . .

The heavy rain had persisted for an
hour, making it impossible for the
detectives to see clearly what was
going on outside, but to turn on the
wipers would only advertise that
someone was being watched. The patter
of water droplets didn't help,
either; it was like a soporific
drumbeat, lulling the men to sleep.

Thurston, seeing Andrews yawn,
cautioned, "Wake up, man! "

"I'm trying," Brad Andrews said,
sitting up straight. A seasoned
officer, he was one of the detectives
borrowed from Robbery for
surveillance duty. Andrews was for-
merly with Homicide, but in an effort
to stabilize his family life, he had
transferred to Robbery, where the
hours were more reasonable. Now,
temporarily, he was back.

The special surveillance force
comprised twenty-four people: the two
sergeants from Homicide, Ainslie and
Greene, their two teams of four
detectives, plus twelve other
detectives from Robbery. Two
investigators from the state
attorney's office were also sharing
the surveillance duty.

"Hey!" Andrews said. "Here's our
guy, and would you believe he's
combing his hair again?"

Quifiones, an olive-complexioned
Hispanic, was tall and lean, with a
narrow face and thick, wavy hair that
he must have combed two dozen times
during the two and a half days
Thurston and Andrews had been
observing him. Qui