Jensen nodded. “I used it once in a story. Not hard to get. Next.”
“Again at both murders a radio was playing loud. Hard rock.”
“No sweat.” Jensen was concentrating, memorizing; he would write none of this down, either now or later.
“Every bit of money that’s there should be taken,” Cynthia said. “My father always carries plenty and leaves it beside his bed. But my mother’s jewelry must not be touched. That’s how it was with those other scenes. Make that very clear.”
“Shouldn’t be difficult. Jewelry’s identifiable and can be traced; I guess the other guy knew it, too.”
“Now about the house,” Cynthia said. “You may need this.”
She passed a folded real-estate brochure across the table. It featured the Bay Point community, and as Jensen opened it, he saw a page displaying the layout of streets and lots. On one of them a house site was marked with an X.
“This is the …?”
“Yes,” Cynthia said, “and something else you should know is that there’s a staff of three—a butler and his wife, the Palacios; she also works and they both live in. A day maid comes in early and leaves at about four in the afternoon.”
“So at night there are four people in the house?”
“Except on Thursdays. That’s when the Palacios always go to West Palm Beach to visit Mrs. Palacio’s sister. They leave by late afternoon and are never back before midnight, sometimes later.”
Jensen’s memory was loaded. “I might forget that. Let me get it right.” He reached for the brochure and fumbled in his pocket for a pencil.
Cynthia clucked impatiently. “Give that to me.” On the brochure she wrote:
D.maid—in early, leaves 4p.
P’s—Thurs out late afternoon, back midnite
Pocketing the brochure, Jensen asked, “Anything else I should know about those other killings?”
“Yeah, they were messy.” Cynthia grimaced as she described the knife slashes and body mutilations accompanying the Frost and Hennenfeld killings—information she had obtained from Miami Homicide’s files.
A few days earlier, during a weekday evening, Cynthia had walked from her own department to the Homicide offices. Senior officers from other departments often dropped into Homicide to chat and pick up stories about important cases; also, the coffee there was always good. Cynthia, as a former Homicide detective, frequently came and went, sometimes on Community Relations business.
She had chosen a time when the offices were quiet. Only two detectives were at their desks, along with Sergeant Pablo Greene, the senior officer present. After friendly greetings she told him, “I’d like to look at a file.”
“Be my guest, Major.” Greene waved airily to the file room. “You know where everything is, but call if you need help.”
“I will,” Cynthia said.
Alone inside the file room, she worked swiftly. Knowing where to look, she located the files for the Frost and Hennenfeld murders and took them to a table. The first file was large, but Cynthia quickly extracted two sets of notes, one by Bernard Quinn, who had been lead investigator, the other by Malcolm Ainslie as supervisor. Skimming both, she paused at usable information and transferred it to her own small notebook. Within minutes she closed the Frosts’ file and opened the other. This was slim because it was not a Miami case, but had resulted from the visit of Sheriff-Detective Benito Montes of Fort Lauderdale. He had, however, supplied a copy of the original Offense-Incident Report and supplementary notes that gave details.
After replacing both files, she returned to the main office and bid a friendly good night to Sergeant Greene and the other two detectives. Checking her watch, she saw she had been in Homicide barely twelve minutes, and no one knew which files she had reviewed.
Back in her own office, she studied and memorized the notes she had made, then tore out the notebook pages and flushed them down a toilet.
In the Homestead restaurant, while hearing of the brutality of the two double murders at Coconut Grove and Fort Lauderdale, Jensen decided that Virgilio would have no difficulty fulfilling that demand. The same applied to binding and gagging the victims and leaving them facing each other, which Cynthia specified as essential.
Weighing it all, Jensen mentally endorsed Cynthia’s idea of imitating those two earlier crimes; in a perverted way, he thought, the concept was brilliant. Then he checked himself. In the way of life to which he had become committed, it was not perverted at all, but brilliant … period!
“You’re doing a lot of thinking,” Cynthia said from across the table.
He shook his head and lied. “Just memorizing all those ground rules.”
“Add this to the list, then: no fingerprints.”
“That won’t be a problem.” Jensen remembered Virgilio slipping on gloves before helping lift the wheelchair from the tradesman’s van.
“There’s one other thing,” Cynthia said, “and this really is the last.”
Jensen waited.
“Between the Coconut Grove murders and Fort Lauderdale’s, there was a time gap of four months and twelve days; I worked it out.”
“So?”
“Serial killers often strike pretty much at regular intervals, which means whoever did those two could pull off another, either during the last few days of September or the first week of October. I worked that out, too.”
Jensen was puzzled. “How would that affect us?”
“We’ll beat the bastard to it by setting our date in mid-August. Then, if there’s another of the same type of killing on one of those other dates, sure, there’ll be an interval, but no one will think twice about it because the gaps won’t seem a factor.”
Cynthia stopped. “What’s wrong? Why the long face?”
Jensen, who had looked increasingly doubtful, took a deep breath. “You want to know what I think?”
“I’m not sure I care, but go ahead if you want.”
“Cyn, I think we’re trying to be too clever.”
“Which means?”
“The more we talk, the more I get the feeling that something can go wrong, terribly wrong.”
“So what are you suggesting?” Cynthia’s tone was icy.
Jensen hesitated. Then, with conflicting emotions, knowing the significance of his own words, he answered, “That we quit, call the whole thing off. Here and now.”
After a sip of a diet soda beside her, Cynthia asked softly, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“I suppose you mean the money.” Jensen passed his tongue across his lips as she nodded.
“I brought it with me to give to you.” Cynthia touched the leather attaché case on the seat beside her. “But never mind, I’ll take it back.” Picking up the case, she rose to leave, then paused, looking down at Jensen.
“I’ll pay our bill on the way out. After all, you’re going to need every last cent you have for a defense lawyer, and tomorrow I suggest you look for one. Or if you really can’t afford it, you may have to take a public defender, though they’re not very good, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t go!” He reached out to grasp her arm and said wearily, “Oh, for Christ’s sake, sit down.”
Cynthia returned to the bench but said nothing.
Jensen’s voice was resigned. “Okay, if you want me to spell it out, I surrender … re-surrender. I know you hold all the aces, and I know you’d use them and never have a moment’s regret. So let’s go back to where we were.”
Cynthia asked, “You’re sure of that?”
He nodded submissively. “Sure.”
“Then remember that the date for it all to happen must be as close as possible to mid-August.” She was all business once more, as if the past few minutes had not occurred. “We won’t meet again, not for a long time. You can phone me at the apartment, but keep it short and be careful what you say. And when you tell me the date, add five days to the real one and I’ll subtract five. Is that clear?”
“It’s clear.”
�
�Now, is anything else on your mind?”
“One thing,” Jensen answered. “All this conspiracy stuff has given me a raging hard-on. How about it?”
She smiled. “I can hardly wait. Let’s get the hell out of here and find a motel.”
As they left the restaurant together she said, “Oh, by the way, take good care of this.” And passed him the leather case.
Despite Jensen’s commitment to Cynthia and his acceptance of her money, doubts still plagued him. Also, the mention of seeking a lawyer kindled an idea.
Every Tuesday, Jensen played racquetball at Miami’s Downtown Athletic Club along with another regular named Stephen Cruz. The two had met there and after many months shared an easy camaraderie on the court. Jensen had learned from other club members and media reports that Cruz was a successful criminal defense lawyer. One afternoon, while he and Cruz were showering after a tough, satisfying game, Jensen said on impulse, “Stephen, if a day ever came that I was in legal trouble and needed help, could I call on you?”
Cruz was startled. “Hey, I hope you haven’t been doing anything …”
Jensen shook his head. “Nothing at all. It was only a passing thought.”
“Well, of course, the answer’s yes.”
They left it there.
5
Two hundred thousand dollars in cash—exactly. Jensen had counted it in the bedroom of his apartment, not note by note, which would have taken too long, but by riffling through the various bundles and keeping a penciled tally as he progressed. The notes were all used, he was relieved to see, with denominations mixed. Hundred-dollar bills were in the majority, and all were the new counterfeit-proof hundreds introduced in 1996—another advantage, Jensen reasoned, aware that despite U.S. government propaganda claiming the old-type hundreds were mainly okay, many people and businesses declined to accept them since countless quantities worldwide were fake, and those who got stuck with them lost out.
Fifties were the next largest in number; no problem there, even though a new fifty-dollar bill was due soon. And there were many bundles of twenties, though those took more space, but nothing smaller.
Jensen suspected that Cynthia had specified precisely the types of bills—the assortment was typical of her thoroughness—and had brought them from the Cayman Islands, probably spread over several journeys there and back. Bringing more than ten thousand dollars into the United States without making a customs declaration was technically illegal, but Cynthia had once told him that U.S. Customs in Miami seldom bothered Miami police officers, especially senior officers, if they discreetly showed an identification badge.
Cynthia, of course, had no idea that Jensen knew about her Caymans wealth. Four years ago, however, when they had been together in her Grand Cayman hotel room, Cynthia, complaining of an upset stomach, had excused herself and gone to the bathroom. Jensen had seized the opportunity to open a briefcase she had left in view. Searching quickly through the papers inside, he had come across a Cayman bank statement showing a credit in Cynthia’s name of more than five million dollars, at which he whistled softly. There was also a letter from someone called Uncle Zack certifying that a recent deposit was a gift, and some other papers clipped together indicated that Cynthia had informed the IRS about the account and had paid taxes on the interest. Pretty smart, Jensen thought.
Without knowing what use he could make of the information, or if it would ever have any use, he pulled out a notebook and swiftly wrote down basics; he would have liked to make copies, but there wasn’t time. What he had, though, were essentials—the name of the Cayman bank, an account number, and the latest balance; Cynthia’s tax consultant’s name, with a Fort Lauderdale address; an IRS letter with date and reference, and who had signed it; and, for what it was worth, the name “Uncle Zack.” Later Jensen removed the page from his notebook, dated and signed it, and preserved it carefully.
Jensen had another thought about Cynthia’s Cayman bounty—an instinct, really—which came to him in stages: she didn’t think of it as real money and would probably never use it for herself; therefore she would not be overly concerned about how much went out and who received it. He was sure, for instance, that she suspected Jensen had lied to her about the amount needed to pay Virgilio, and that he intended to keep some of that money himself in addition to the large sum afterward that Cynthia had agreed to pay him personally.
Jensen was cheating, of course, and had no intention of offering Virgilio more than eighty thousand dollars to do the Ernst killings, though he might go to a hundred thousand if he had to. As he thought about it all while putting the bills back in the attaché case, Jensen smiled. And his upbeat feeling continued, effectively banishing the doubts and fears he had felt at the Homestead restaurant.
Five days later, shortly after 7:00 P.M., a buzzer sounded in Jensen’s third-floor apartment on Brickell Avenue. The buzzer was actuated from a pushbutton panel outside the main entrance below. Using an intercom system, he responded, “Yes, who is it?” There was no answer, and he repeated the question. After a second silence, he shrugged and turned away.
A few minutes later the same process was repeated. Jensen was irritated but thought nothing of it; sometimes neighborhood kids played with the buzzer system. A third time, though, it occurred to him that someone was sending a message, so it was with slight unease that he left the apartment and went downstairs. But apart from a fellow tenant who was entering the main door, no one was in sight.
Jensen had parked his Volvo on the street outside, and on impulse he left the building and walked toward it. As he did so, he was startled to see a figure filling the front passenger seat; moments later he realized it was Virgilio. Jensen had locked the car before leaving it, and now, using a key to open the driver-side door, he was about to ask, “How the hell did you get in?” then changed his mind. Virgilio had already demonstrated he was a person of apt talents.
Motioning with an enormous hand, the Colombian instructed, “Drive.”
Behind the wheel, and with the motor running, Jensen asked, “Anywhere special?”
“Someplace quiet.”
For about ten minutes Jensen drove aimlessly, then turned into the parking area of a closed hardware store, turned off the engine and lights, and waited.
“You talk,” Virgilio ordered. “You have job for me?”
“Yes.” Patrick saw no reason not to come directly to the point. “I have friends who want two people killed.”
“Who your friends?”
“You will not know. That way, it is safer for everyone.”
“Okay.” Virgilio nodded. “The ones to die—important people?”
“Yes. One is a city commissioner.”
“Then cost much money.”
“I will pay you eighty thousand dollars,” Jensen said.
“No good.” The Colombian shook his head vigorously. “Much more. One hunnert fifty.”
“I don’t have that much. I could maybe get one hundred thousand, but no more.”
“Then no deal.” Virgilio put his hand on the car door as if to leave, then stopped. “One hunnert twenty. Half now, half when job done.”
The haggling had gone far enough, Jensen thought, regretting that he hadn’t started at a lower figure, like fifty thousand. Still, even a hundred and twenty left eighty thousand for himself, plus the subsequent payment Cynthia had promised, and he knew she would keep her word.
“I’ll have the sixty thousand ready in two days,” he said. “You can call me the same way you did tonight.”
The big man grunted his agreement, then gestured to the car’s steering wheel. “Where those people live? You show me.”
Why not? Jensen reasoned. Starting the engine again, he drove to Biscayne Boulevard and Bay Point, stopping short of the exclusive community’s security checkpoint.
“The house is inside that fenced area,” he reported. “You can be sure the fence has an alarm system, and there are security guards.”
“I find way in. You have map sh
owing house?”
Jensen opened the car’s glove compartment, where he had placed a copy of the real-estate brochure Cynthia had given him five days earlier. The original he had kept himself, storing it in a safe location. He pointed to the page that showed the Bay Point streets, the lot marked X, and bearing Cynthia’s handwritten note:
D.maid—in early, leaves 4p.
P’s—Thurs out late afternoon, back midnite
“That’s important,” Jensen said, and explained the maid’s working hours and the once-a-week absences of the butler and his wife.
“Good!” Virgilio pocketed the brochure. He had screwed up his face while listening, clearly concentrating to memorize everything, and twice had asked for information to be repeated, nodding his understanding when it was. Jensen reminded himself that whatever else Virgilio might be, he was intelligent.
Now Jensen went on to discuss the needed similarity to two other recent murder scenes and explained why. “It’s to your advantage also,” he pointed out, and Virgilio nodded agreement. Jensen described the required features: a dead animal must be left, perhaps a rabbit; a radio had to be playing loud hard rock—the local station HOT 105 … “Know it,” Virgilio interjected … Positively no fingerprints … Virgilio nodded forcefully … All money on or near the victims to be taken, but jewelry not touched … There, too, a gesture of agreement … A knife to do the killing. “A bowie knife, do you understand? Can you get one?” … Virgilio: “Ya.” … Jensen repeated Cynthia’s report of the earlier murder scenes—the victims bound, gagged, facing each other, and the ugly brutality … While he could not be certain in the car’s semidarkness, at that point Jensen believed Virgilio smiled.
“That’s a lot to remember. Do you have it all?”
The Colombian touched his forehead with a finger. “Okay, is all here.”
Next they discussed a date, Jensen remembering Cynthia’s insistence that it should be as close as possible to mid-August.
“I go away, then come,” Virgilio said, and Jensen suspected he would take his sixty thousand dollars’ down payment to deposit in Colombia.
Detective Page 40
