She motioned to a chair that faced the desk and said, unsmiling, “You may sit down.”
Ainslie allowed himself the slightest smile. “Thank you, Major.”
He sat, realizing that already with their brief exchange, Cynthia had made their relationship clear—a matter of relative ranks, with hers now much senior to his own. Well, fair enough. There was nothing wrong with knowing where you stood. He wished, though, that she would allow him to express his genuine sympathy over her parents’ ghastly deaths. But Cynthia returned her gaze to the paper she had been reading, then, taking her time, she put it down and faced him.
“I understand you are in charge of the investigation of my parents’ murder.”
“Yes, I am.” He began explaining the special task force and its reasons, but she cut him off.
“I know all that.”
Ainslie stopped and waited, wondering what Cynthia was after. One thing he was sure of: she was deeply and genuinely grieving. Her red eyes proclaimed it and, to his personal knowledge, the relationship between Gustav and Eleanor Ernst and Cynthia, their only child, had been exceptionally close.
In different circumstances he would have reached out and put his arms around her, or simply touched her hand, but knew better than to do so now. Apart from their having gone their separate ways for four years, he knew Cynthia would instantly raise the inviolable, protective barrier she used so often, eliminating the personal while she became the impatient, hard-driving professional he had known so well.
Cynthia had also exhibited some less admirable traits while Ainslie was working with her. Her hard-line directness made her reject subtlety, even though subtlety could sometimes be a useful investigative tool. She favored shortcuts in police inquiries, even if it meant crossing a line to illegality—making deals with criminals outside of official plea bargaining, or planting evidence to “prove” some known offense. While he was her Homicide supervisor, Ainslie occasionally questioned Cynthia’s methods, though no one could quarrel with her results, which, at the time, reflected favorably on him as well.
Then there was the wholly unprofessional, intimate, abandoned, wildly sensual Cynthia—the side of her he would not see today, or ever again. He pushed the thought away.
She leaned forward on the desk and said, “Get to the point. I want to hear what you’re really doing, and don’t hold anything back.”
This scene, Ainslie thought, was a replay of so much that had gone before.
Cynthia Ernst had joined the Miami Police Force when she was twenty-seven, one year before Malcolm Ainslie. She had progressed rapidly—some said because her father was a city commissioner, and certainly that connection did her no harm, nor did the fact that minorities’ and women’s rights were creating new priorities and opportunities. But the real reasons for Cynthia’s success, as all who knew her well conceded, were her innate abilities and drive, coupled with hard work for as long as needed.
Right from the beginning, during the obligatory ten-week police academy course, Cynthia excelled, demonstrating a retentive memory and a quick mind when confronting problems. She was outstanding at weapons performance, described by the course firearms instructor as “remarkable.” After four weeks, during which she fired with the proficiency of a marksman and was able to strip and reassemble her weapon at lightning speed, her score was never below 298 out of a possible 300.
Following the academy course, Cynthia proved herself a highly competent police officer, becoming valued by superiors for her initiative and ingenuity, and for her speed in making decisions—the last an essential talent when enforcing law, and notable especially in a woman. All of those talents, plus a flair for getting noticed, prompted Cynthia’s transfer to Homicide after only two years on uniform patrol.
In Homicide her record of success continued, and it was there she encountered Malcolm Ainslie, also a detective, with a growing reputation as an outstanding investigator.
Cynthia was assigned to the same Homicide team as Ainslie, then headed by a long-service detective-sergeant, Felix Foster. Soon after Cynthia’s arrival, Foster was made a lieutenant and moved to another department. Ainslie, promoted to sergeant, took his place.
But even before that, Ainslie and Cynthia had worked together and were mutually attracted—an attraction that simmered briefly, then exploded.
Cynthia was lead investigator in a triple murder, aided at times by Ainslie. While following several promising leads, the two of them flew to Atlanta for two days. The leads promised to pay off, and at the end of the first grueling but successful day, they checked into a suburban motel.
Then, over dinner that night in a small, surprisingly good trattoria, Ainslie looked at Cynthia across the table and, with instinct telling him what was coming, he asked, “Are you very tired?”
“Tired as hell,” she answered. Then, reaching for his hand, “But not too tired for what you and I want most—and it’s not dessert.”
In the car, as they drove back to their motel, Cynthia leaned over and brushed her tongue across his ear. “I’m not sure I can wait,” she breathed. “Can you?” Then she teased him with her hand, causing him to groan and swerve.
At the door to his room, he leaned over and kissed her gently. “I gather you want to come in.”
“Just as badly as you want me to,” she answered playfully.
It was all Ainslie needed. Opening the door, he pushed her inside. The door slammed and the room was dark. Easing Cynthia against a wall, he let his weight press into her. He felt her breathing quicken, her body pulsate with eagerness. Breathing into her hair, kissing the back of her neck, Ainslie slipped his hand around her waist and into her pants.
“Oh Jesus,” Cynthia whispered, “I want you now.”
“Shhh,” Ainslie said, his finger wet and tantalizing. “Don’t say anything. Not a word.”
She turned then—quickly and without warning—so she faced him but was still flattened against the wall. “Screw you, Sergeant,” she said, breathless, then smothered him with her lips.
They struggled out of their clothes as the kissing grew more desperate. “You’re beautiful,” Ainslie muttered several times. “Christ, you’re beautiful.”
Finally Cynthia pushed him onto the bed and crawled on top of him. “I need you now, my love. Don’t you dare make me wait one more second.”
Afterward they rested, then made love again, continuing all through the night. Amid the chaos of his thoughts, it came to Malcolm that Cynthia had become their sexual leader and, surprising him, he had a sense of being dominated and possessed, though he didn’t mind.
In the months to come, with Ainslie’s promotion from detective to detective-sergeant, he was able to arrange duty schedules so that he and Cynthia were frequently together—both in Miami and on occasional overnight assignments outside the city. Either way their affair continued.
There were many moments when Ainslie reminded himself, with a semblance of guilt, of his marriage to Karen. But Cynthia’s explosive hunger and his own wild pleasure in satisfying her seemed to eclipse all else.
Like their first sexual encounter, each subsequent romp began with the long, continuous kiss as they undressed and, as time went by, their magical, exhilarating game continued.
It was during one of their disrobings that Ainslie discovered a second gun Cynthia carried in an ankle holster beneath the trousers that, like most women detectives, she wore on duty. The usual police weapon both Ainslie and Cynthia carried was a 9mm Glock automatic with a fifteen-shot clip and hollow-point bullets. But this small one Cynthia had purchased herself—a tiny, chrome-plated Smith & Wesson five-shot pistol.
She murmured, “It’s for anyone other than you who attacks me, darling.” Then, inserting the tip of her tongue in his ear, “Right now yours is the only weapon I’m interested in.”
The extra gun—known on the force as a “throw-down”—was legal for a police officer, providing it was registered and the owner had qualified in its use at the shooting range. In bot
h cases Cynthia fulfilled the requirements.
Her extra gun, in fact, would be put to use in a way that Malcolm Ainslie remembered gratefully.
Cynthia Ernst was lead detective, Ainslie her supervising sergeant, in a complex whodunit investigation in which a male employee of a Miami bank was believed to have witnessed a murder, but had not come forward voluntarily. Cynthia and Ainslie had gone together to the bank—a large downtown branch—to question the potential witness and, upon entering, found a robbery in progress.
The time was near noon; the bank was crowded.
Barely three minutes earlier the robber, a tall, muscular white man armed with an Uzi automatic machine pistol, had confronted a woman teller and ordered her to put all the cash from her till into the cloth bag he pushed toward her. Few people knew what was happening until a bank guard noticed the man and rushed forward. With his pistol drawn, the guard commanded, “You at the counter! Drop that gun!”
Instead of obeying, the robber swung around, firing a burst from his Uzi at the guard, who fell to the floor. As panic and screams ensued, the intruder shouted, “This is a robbery! Nobody move, and no one else will get hurt!” Then he reached over, seized the teller by the neck, and, dragging her across the counter, caught her in a choke-hold.
It was during this confusion, then sudden silence, that Cynthia and Ainslie walked into the bank.
Ainslie unhesitatingly reached into the holster beneath his jacket and produced his 9mm Glock. Using both hands, maintaining a steady stance, he aimed it at the robber, shouting in a strong voice, “I’m a police officer. Let the woman go. Put your gun on the counter and raise your hands, or I shoot!”
At the same time, Cynthia eased away from Ainslie, though making no sudden move that might attract the man’s attention. Held casually in her hands was a small, inconspicuous purse.
The robber tightened his grip on the teller and pointed his gun at her head. He snarled at Ainslie, “You drop the gun, scumbag, or the broad gets it first. Do it! Drop it! I’ll count to ten. One, two …”
The teller, her voice thin and stifled, called, “Please do what he says! I don’t want—” Her words were cut off as the choke-hold tightened.
The robber continued, “Three … four …”
Ainslie called out, “I tell you again, put the damn gun down and give up.”
“Bullshit! Five … six … You drop the fucking gun, shitbag, or I nix this bitch at ten!”
Cynthia, off to one side, her mind cool and calculating, weighed the fields of fire. She knew that Ainslie would have guessed what she was doing and was trying to stall and gain time, though without much chance of success. The robber was a loser, knew he would never get away, and therefore didn’t care …
His count continued. “Seven …”
Ainslie, unyielding, held his firing position. Cynthia knew he was relying on her totally now. There was no sound in the bank; everyone was still and tense. By this time, presumably, silent alarms had been tripped. But it would be several minutes before more police arrived, and even then, what could they do?
She could see there was no one immediately behind the robber. He now faced Cynthia almost directly, though seemingly unaware of her as his focus remained on Ainslie. The teller, with the gun still aimed at her head, was dangerously close, too close for safety, but there was no choice. Cynthia would get one shot only, and it had to be dead-on, a killing shot …
“Eight …”
With a single swift movement, Cynthia released a fall-away seam of her specialized purse—a new, efficient substitute for an ankle holster. Letting the purse drop, she grasped the tiny Smith & Wesson pistol from inside, the chrome-plated gun gleaming as she raised it.
“Nine …”
Instantly taking aim, bracing herself, she fired.
The sharp sound of the shot caused heads to turn. Cynthia ignored the stares, her eyes locked on the man who slumped over as a single red hole near the center of his forehead began oozing blood. The woman teller quickly freed herself from the man’s arm, then fell to the ground sobbing.
Ainslie, his gun still trained on the robber, walked toward him, looked carefully at the body, now motionless, then put the gun away. As Cynthia joined him, he said with a grin, “You cut it fine. But thanks.”
Within the bank a buzz of conversation rose; then, as realization dawned, applause broke out, changing almost at once to spontaneous cheers directed at Cynthia. Smiling, she leaned against Malcolm and, sighing with relief, whispered, “I think you owe me a week in the sack for that one.”
Ainslie nodded. “Well have to be careful. You’re going to be famous.” And over the next few days, as a widely acclaimed media heroine, she was.
Long after, when Malcolm Ainslie looked back on his affair with Cynthia, he wondered if his own unbridled lust was a delayed reaction to those long years he had spent in unnatural priestly celibacy. True or not, his priority throughout what he thought of still as Cynthia’s Year was his personal, exquisite carnal satisfaction.
Occasionally during that time he had asked himself, Should my conscience trouble me? Then reminded himself there were aeons of precedents—the year 1000 B.C., or thereabouts, as an example. His scholarly recall (would he ever escape it?) brought back the Bible’s King David and the Second Book of Samuel, chapter 11:
In an eveningtide … David arose from off his bed … and from the roof he saw a woman washing herself; and the woman was very beautiful to look upon.
It was Bathsheba, of course, the wife of Uriah, who was away fighting—as the Old Testament described it—one of God’s wars.
And David sent messengers, and took her; and she came in unto him, and he lay with her … And the woman conceived, and sent and told David, and said, I am with child.
Unfortunately for David, all of that was before condoms, which Ainslie used with Cynthia. Nor did Ainslie have a paramour’s husband to contend with—like the warrior Uriah, whom King David had ordered killed …
Surprisingly, through all of that time with Cynthia, Malcolm Ainslie’s love for Karen did not diminish. It was as if he had two private lives: one, his marriage, representing security and permanence, the other a wild adventure he always knew must one day end. Ainslie never seriously considered leaving Karen and their son Jason, then three and growing up into a delightful little guy.
Occasionally, during that period, there were moments when Ainslie wondered if Karen was aware of, or even suspected, the affair. A word or attitude could leave him believing uneasily that she did.
Meanwhile, as the Year of Cynthia progressed, some aspects of Cynthia’s nature began to make Ainslie uncomfortable, at times professionally uneasy. She would periodically switch moods—for no discernible reason—from free-flowing, amorous warmth to sudden and icy coldness. At such moments Ainslie would wonder what had happened between them, then realize after several experiences that nothing had; it was simply Cynthia’s way, a facet of her character, more visible and frequent as time went on.
But that mood shift was manageable, the professional unease less so.
Ainslie, throughout his police career, had believed in ethical behavior, even when dealing with habitual criminals who disregarded ethics totally. Sometimes minor tradeoffs were acceptable in exchange for information, but that was Ainslie’s limit. Some in police work, though, held differing views and would make illegal deals with criminals, or lie when making statements, or plant evidence when there seemed no other way to get it. But Ainslie would have no part of such tactics, either for himself or those who worked with him.
Cynthia apparently had no such scruples.
As Cynthia’s superior, Ainslie had suspected that some of her investigative successes might be morally questionable. But nothing came to his direct attention, and his questions about her rumored freewheeling methods produced strong denials from Cynthia, and once indignation. One matter did surface, though, in a way he could not overlook.
It concerned a con artist and thief named Val Castellon, r
ecently released from prison on parole. Cynthia was lead investigator in a murder, and while Castellon was in no way a suspect, it was believed he might have information about another ex-con who was. Brought in for interrogation, Castellon denied any such knowledge, and Ainslie was inclined to believe him. Cynthia did not.
In a subsequent private session with Castellon, Cynthia threatened to plant drugs on him if he failed to testify for her, then have him arrested, in which case his parole would be revoked and he would go back to prison, as well as face stiff new charges. Planting drugs in a suspect’s pocket, then appearing to discover them, was a simple tactic for police and all too frequently used.
Ainslie learned about Cynthia’s threat through Sergeant Hank Brewmaster, who had been told of it by one of his regular informants, a crony of Castellon’s. When Ainslie asked Cynthia if the report was true, she admitted it was, though the drug plant had not yet been done.
“And it won’t be,” he told her. “I’m responsible, and I won’t allow it.”
“Oh, bullshit, Malcolm!” Cynthia said. “That prick will wind up back in jail anyway. I’d just be sending him there sooner.”
“Don’t you get it?” he asked incredulously. “We’re here to enforce the law, which means we have to obey it, too.”
“And you’re being as stuffy as this old pillow.” Cynthia threw one at him from the bed of a motel where they had rented a room on a rainy afternoon. At the same time she fell back on the bed. She spread her legs wide and asked, “Is what you want legal? After all, we’re both on duty.” She laughed quietly then, knowing precisely what would happen next.
Ainslie’s face changed. He went to her and threw his jacket and tie on the bed. Cynthia said suddenly, sharply, “Hurry, hurry! Slide your lovely big illegal cock inside me!”
As he had at other times, Ainslie felt powerless, melting into her, and yet diffident, even embarrassed by Cynthia’s raunchy language. Yet it was part of her sexual aggressiveness, and each time made their coupling more exciting.
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