Detective

by Arthur Hailey

  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-dollar 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 half-smile. “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—now.”

  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 w
as 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 officers 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 ha
rsh 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.”