Detective (58 page)

"Sure.'' Paige gestured behind
her. "Use the den. When you're
finished, call me. I'll have coffee
ready."

As she and McGowan sat down,
Cynthia said, "You sound serious,
Win. Is something wrong?" Behind the
casual question her mind was
working, replaying Max Cormick's
words at Universal Studios. You
don't think about acting ever. If
you do, it shows . . .

"Yes," McGowan said, answering her
question. "I have some bad news,
very bad news. Cynthia, you've got
to prepare yourself."

"I am prepared. Just tell me!" Her
voice was anxious. Then, as if she
had a sudden thought, "Is it my
parents?"

McGowan nodded slowly. "It is your
parents . . . the worst possible.
.."

"Oh, no! Are they . . ." Cynthia
stopped, as if unwilling to complete
the sentence.

"Yes, my dear. I wish there were
some other way to tell you this, but
. . . I'm afraid they are both
dead."

Cynthia put her hands to her face
and shrieked. Then she cried out,
"Paige! Paige!"

When Paige appeared, running,
Cynthia screamed, "Paige, it's my
mom and dad. . ." As her friend's
arms enfolded her, she turned her
face toward McGowan. "Is it . . .
was it . . . an accident?"

He shook his head. "No accident."
Then he said, "Cynthia, let's take
this slowly. There's just so much a
human being can handle. Right now I
think you've had enough."

Paige nodded agreement, her arms
tightly around Cynthia. "Sweetie, I
beg you! Take it easy. Take your
time."

DETECTIVE 489

It was another fifteen minutes
before Cynthia as her new self in a
new scenario absorbed the few details
known so far about her parents'
murders.

From that point on, she merely let
things happen. Winslow McGowan and
Paige were presuming Cynthia to be in
a state of shock, an assumption she
supported by her dazed, obedient
behavior. McGowan, who had been
joined by two more uniform officers
who were making phone calls, told her
quietly, "We're arranging to get you
home. I've canceled your remaining
lectures, and you're booked on a
nonstop Miami flight early this
afternoon. A department car will take
you to the airport."

Paige chimed in, "And I'm traveling
with you, Cyn. Wouldn't dream of
letting you go alone. I'll go pack
your bags. Is that okay?"

Cynthia nodded compliantly,
murmuring, "Thank you." It would be
useful to have a companion for the
journey, though she wouldn't want
Paige around for long in Miami, she
decided.

Lying full length on a couch to
which she had been steered, Cynthia
closed her eyes, separating herself
from the activity around her.

At last, she reflected, her parents
were dead, and after long years of
waiting, the objective she had
planned so carefully was
accomplished. So why didn't she feel
the euphoria she had anticipated, but
only, instead, a curious flatness?
Perhaps, she thought, it was because
no one other than she and Patrick
Jensen would ever know the truth the
reason for the murders or her
ingenious planning behind it.

Still, she did not for a moment
regret her decision. Such an ending
was necessary, a need that had to be
fulfilled to

490 Arthur Halley

redress the wrong done to her. It
was a suitable retribution for the
loathsome, despicable way in which
Gustav and Eleanor Ernst had treated
her as a child, making Cynthia in so
many ways the person she had become.
A person whom she acknowledged that
at times she didn't like.

Ah! There was a vital question:
Would she have been different, could
she have been, if it were not for
the rage and hatred instilled in her
by her father's perverted abuse and
her mother's hypocritical inaction .
. . those all-consuming hatreds that
had never gone away? Of course!. . .
Yes! . . . She would have been a
different person . . . less strong,
perhaps . . . kinder, maybe. Who
knew? But in any case, the question
was irrelevant half a lifetime too
late! The mold that shaped Cynthia
was broken long ago. She was what
she was now, and would not could
not change...

Her eyes were still closed when
Paige's soft voice filtered through
her ruminations. "Cyn, everything's
taken care of. We leave for the
airport in a few hours. Maybe for a
while you should go back to bed and
sleep."

Gratefully she did. Later, the
eastward journey thanks to
Paige passed uneventfully.

Before arriving in Miami, Cynthia
discreetly rubbed a few grains of
salt into her eyes. It was a
subterfuge she had learned years ago
during the same school dramatics she
had spoken of to Max Cormick, and
the effect was to produce tears and
red-rimmed eyes. During the days
that followed Cynthia shed no
genuine tears, but more salt and
residual red eyes helped.

Apart from that pretense of grief,
from her moment of arrival onward,
Cynthia let it be known that her
strength and composure had returned,
and set out to learn whatever

DETECTIVE 491

was known about her parents'
murders. Her own police status,
providing immediate access to all
units of the Police Department, made
that simple.

On her second day back, Cynthia
visited her parents' mansion in Bay
Point, now encircled by yellow
police tape. Inside a main-floor
drawing room she talked with
Sergeant Brewmaster, in charge of
the Homicide investigation.

His first words on seeing her were,
"Major, I want to say how terrible
we all feel . . ." but she stopped
him with a gesture.

"Hank, I appreciate that, and I'm
grateful. But if I hear too much of
it, especially from an old friend
like you, I might break down. Please
understand."

Brewmaster said, "Yes, I do, ma'am.
And I promise we'll do every last
thing we can to nail the bastard who
. . ." His own voice, choking too,
trailed off.

"I want to hear everything you
know," Cynthia told him. "From what
I've heard already, I gather you see
my parents' deaths as some kind of
serial killings."

Brewmaster nodded. "It does look
that way, a definite pattern, though
there are slight differences." That
jackass Patrick, she thought.
"First, though, have you heard about
the Homicide conference two days
ago just before your parents'
deaths when Malcolm Ainslie linked
four earlier double murders with the
Bible and the book of Revelation?"

She shook her head, a slight anxiety
stirring.

"When we started looking at those
four cases," Brewmaster continued,
"laying the details out, there were
what you'd call symbols left at each
scene. It was Malcolm because he
knows about that stuff from being a
priest who recognized what they
meant."

Cynthia looked confused. "You keep
saying four double

492 Arthur Halley

murders. I thought there were only
two previous ones that seemed to
match."

"Well, there was another one the
Urbinas in Pine Terrace also like
those others, and only three days
before your parents' deaths. And
even before that, there turned out
to be one more we hadn't heard
about." Brewmaster described Ruby
Bowe's revelation, at the Homicide
conference, of the overlooked BOLO
from Clearwater and the similar
slayings there of Hal and Mabel
Larsen. "Those Clearwater killings
happened about midway between the
Frost and Hennenfeld cases."

Alarm bells rang in Cynthia's
head. Clearly, in the short time she
had been away a great deal had
changed changes unforeseen. Her
mind was in turmoil. She had to
update quickly.

"You said there were differences
about my parents' murders. What did
you mean?"

"First thing, whoever the perp
was, he left a dead rabbit behind.
Malcolm thinks it doesn't fit,
though I'm not sure I agree."

Cynthia waited.

Brewmaster continued, "At those
other crime scenes, everything
fitted in with Revelation and the
theory that the killer is some kind
of religious freak. But according to
Malcolm, the rabbit isn't specific,
the way the other symbols were. But
as I said, I'm not so sure."

Leaving a rabbit, Cynthia thought
bleakly, had been her own idea. At
the time no one, even in Homicide,
had the slightest notion what any of
those earlier symbols meant, and it
was still that way when she left for
Los Angeles.

"Something else really different
is the time frame," Brewmaster went
on. "Between each of the other
serial killings there was a gap of
about two months never less than
two. But between the Urbinas and the
Ernsts sorry,

DETECTIVE 493

your folks just three days." He
shrugged. "Of course, it may mean
nothing. Serial killers don't
operate on logic."

No. Cynthia thought, but even
serial killers had to plan, and as
little as three days from one double
killing to the next was not
convincing . . . Goddam! Of all the
wrong timing and bad luck! Her
careful calculations had been
totally thrown off by the extra
Clearwater case. She remembered
Patrick's words at Homestead: Cyn, I
think we're trying to be too clever.

"Those fourth killings," she asked
Brewmaster. "What did you say the
names were?"

"Urbinas."

"Did the case get much attention?''

"The usual. Front pages of the
newspapers, plenty on TV.'7 It was
Brewmaster's turn to be curious.
"What makes you ask?"

"Oh, I didn't hear anything in L.A.
Guess I was too busy." It was a weak
response, Cynthia knew, and realized
she must be wary when dealing with
super-sharp Homicide detectives.
Brewmaster's answer, though,
suggested Patrick must have known
about the Urbina murders; therefore,
somehow, he ought to have postponed
the Ernst killings. But most likely
Patrick had no way to get in touch
with the Colombian, and the die was
cast. . .

Brewmaster broke in on her
thoughts. "There were other things
right in line with the serial
killings, ma'am." His tone was
respectful, as if half apologizing
for his query moments ago. "All of
your father's cash was taken, but
your mother's jewelry was untouched;
I checked that carefully. And
something else, though I don't like
mentioning this . . ."

"Go on," Cynthia said. "I think I
know what's coming."

"Well, the wounds inflicted were
pretty much like the

494 Arthur Halley

ones in the earlier cases . . . are
you sure you want to hear this?"

"I have to know sometime. It might
as well be now."

"The wounds were real bad; the MO
says a bowie knife was used again.
And the victims. . ." Again
Brewmaster hesitated. "They were
bound and gagged and facing each
other."

Cynthia turned away and applied a
handkerchief to her eyes. On it were
still a few grains of salt from a
previous application; she used them
before turning back, coughing
slightly.

"One more thing that was like
those other cases," Brewmaster
added, "is that a radio was left
on loud."

Cynthia nodded. "I remember that.
At those two first scenes, wasn't it
rock?"

"Yes." Brewmaster consulted a
notebook. "This time it was
WTMI classical and show-biz music.
The butler said it was your mother's
favorite station."

"Yes, it was." Silently, Cynthia
cursed. Despite her precise
instructions to Patrick, his
Colombian killer had turned the
radio on, but failed to change the
station to rock music. Maybe he
didn't get the full instructions;
either way, it was too late. At this
moment, Brewmaster didn't seem to
think the difference was important,
though others in Homicide might when
making a thorough study; Cynthia
knew how the system worked.

Goddam! Suddenly, unexpectedly,
she felt a shiver of fear run
through her.

-
Cynthia did not sleep well during
her third night back in Miami, still
nervous after learning of
developments unexpected yet
significant during her brief
absence. Now, she wondered, what
else could go wrong?

Also on her mind was the fact that
she needed to meet with Malcolm
Ainslie especially since Ainslie was
head of a special task force set up
to deal with the current series of
serial murders, in which her
parents' deaths were included. Thus,
while Hank Brewmaster remained in
immediate charge of the Ernst
investigation, the overall
responsibility was Ainslie's.

Though uneasy about a meeting with
Ainslie at this point, she knew it
had to happen. Otherwise it might
appear as if she was avoiding him,
leaving her motives open to
question, particularly by Ainslie
himself.

What it came down to, Cynthia
realized in a moment of private
honesty, was that Ainslie was the
Homicide investigator she feared the
most. Despite her bitter anger when
he broke off their affair, and her
determination to keep the promise
she had made You'll regret this,
Malcolm, for the rest of your
miserable life she had never for one
moment changed her view that, of all
the detectives she had known,
Ainslie was the best.

496 Arthur Dailey

She was never sure exactly why.
Somehow, though, Malcolm had an
ability to look beyond the immediate
aspects of any investigation and put
his own mind inside the minds of
both the victims and suspects. The
result was and Cynthia had seen it
happen he often reached the right
conclusions about Homicide cases,
either alone or ahead of everyone
else.

The other detectives in Homicide,
particularly the younger ones, had
sometimes looked on Malcolm as an
oracle and sought his advice, not
only about crimes but about their
own personal lives. Detective
Bernard Quinn, now retired, had made
a collection of what he called "Ain-
slie Aphorisms" and tacked them up
on a notice board. Cynthia
remembered a few. One or two seemed
appropriate now: