Detective (2 page)

It had been ten years since Ainslie
quit the priesthood. Now he said
into the phone, "Look, Father, as a
police officer the only kind of
confession I'm interested in con-
cerns the crime or crimes Animal
committed. If he wants to tell me
the truth about that before he dies,
I'll listen, and of course I'll have
some questions."

"An interrogation?" Uxbridge asked.
"Why, at this stage, is that
needed?"

Ainslie could not contain himself.
"Don't you ever watch TV? Haven't
you seen those little windowless
rooms where we sit with suspects and
ask a lot of questions?"

"Mr. Doll is not a suspect anymore."

10 Arthur Halley

"He was a suspect in some other
crimes; anyway, it's in the public
interest to find out all we can."

Uxbridge asked skeptically, "The
public interest, or to satisfy your
own personal ambition, Sergeant?"

"As far as Animal Doil is
concerned, my ambition was satisfied
when he was found guilty and
sentenced. But I have an official
duty to learn all the facts I can."

"And I am more concerned with this
man's soul."

Ainslie smiled slightly. ''Fair
enough. Facts are my business, souls
are yours. Why don't you work on
Doil's soul while I'm on my way, and
I'll take over when I get there?"

Uxbridge's voice deepened. "I
insist on a commitment from you
right now, Ainslie, that in any
exchange you have with Doil, there
will be no pretense that you possess
any pastoral authority whatever.
Furthermore "

"Father, you have no authority over
me."

"I have the authority of God!"
Uxbridge boomed.

Ainslie ignored the theatrics.
"Look, we're wasting time. Just tell
Animal I'll be at the prison before
he checks out. And I assure you
there will be no pretenses about my
role there."

"Do I have your word on that?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, of course
you have my word. If I wanted to
parade as a priest, I wouldn't have
left the priesthood, would I?"

Ainslie hung up.

Quickly picking up the phone again,
he punched out the number of
Lieutenant Leo Newbold, commander of
Homicide, who was off duty and at
home. A pleasant woman's voice,
tinged with a Jamaican accent,
answered, "Newbold residence."

DETECTIVE 11

"Hello, Devina. This is Malcolm.
May I speak to the boss?"

"He's sleeping, Malcolm. Do you
want me to wake him?"

" 'Fraid so, Devina. Sorry."

Ainslie waited impatiently,
checking his watch, calculating the
distance, the drive, and the time.
If nothing got in their way they
could make it. But with no time to
spare.

He heard a click as an extension
phone was lifted, then a sleepy
voice. "Hi, Malcolm. What the hell
is this? Aren't you supposed to be
on vacation?" Leo Newbold had the
same distinctive Jamaican accent as
his wife.

"I thought so, too, sir. But
something's come up."

"Doesn't it always? Tell me."

Ainslie summarized his conversation
with Father Uxbridge, and the
urgency to leave at once. "I called
for your okay."

"You have it. Who's driving you?"

"I'm taking Rodriguez."

"That's good. But watch him,
Malcolm. The guy drives like a mad
Cuban."

Ainslie smiled. "Right now that's
exactly what I need."

"Will this mess up your family
vacation?"

"Probably. I haven't called Karen
yet. I'll do it on the way."

"Oh shit! I'm really sorry."

Ainslie had told Newbold of their
special plans for tomorrow, which
would mark both the eighth birthday
of their son, Jason, and the
seventy-fifth birthday of Jason's
maternal grandfather,
Brigadier-General George Grundy,
ax-Canadian Army. The Grundys lived
in a suburb of Toronto. For the dual
celebration an elaborate family
reunion was planned.

12 Arthur Halley

Newbold queried, "What time does
that Toronto flight leave here?"

"Five after nine."

"And what time are they burning
Animal?"

"Seven."

"Which means you'll be away by
eight. Too late to get back to
Miami. Have you checked Toronto
flights from Jacksonville or
Gainesville?"

"Not yet."

"Let me work on that, Malcolm.
Call me from the car in about an
hour."

"Thanks. Will do."

On the way out of Homicide,
Ainslie gathered up a tape recorder
and the equipment to conceal it
under his clothing. Whatever Doil's
last statement, his words would live
beyond him.

On the Police Building main floor,
Jorge Rodriguez was waiting at the
Patrol Office.

"Car's signed out. Slot
thirty-six. And I got the cell
phone." Jorge was the youngest
Homicide detective, in many ways a
protege of Ainslie's, and his
eagerness was an asset now.

"Let's move it."

They exited the building at a jog,
feeling at once the oppressive
humidity that had blanketed Miami
for days. Ainslie glanced at the
sky, which, apart from a few small
cumulus clouds, was clear, with
stars and a half moon.

Minutes later, with Jorge at the
wheel, they left the Police
Department parking lot, making a
fast turn onto Northwest Third
Avenue. Two blocks later they were
on the Interstate 95 northbound
ramp, from where they would

DETECTIVE 13

continue north for ten miles, then
switch to Florida's Turnpike, with
three hundred miles ahead.

It was 11:10 P.M,

The marked car for which Ainslie
had asked was a fully equipped,
air-conditioned Miami Police
blue-and-white Chevrolet Impala,
unmistakably official.

"You want lights and siren?" Jorge
asked.

"Not yet. Let's see how it goes,
but put your foot down and keep it
there."

Traffic was light and they were
already doing seventyfive, knowing
that a marked police car, even out
of Miami jurisdiction, would not be
stopped for speeding.

Malcolm settled into his seat and
gazed out the window. Then he
reached for the cellular phone and
entered his home number.

2

"I cannot believe this, Malcolm! I
absolutely cannot believe it."

He told Karen unhappily, "I'm afraid
it's true."

"You're afraid! Afraid of what?"

A moment earlier, on receiving
Malcolm's call, Karen's first
question had been, "Darling, when
are you coming home?"

When he told her he wouldn't be
home that night, the temper that she
seldom showed exploded.

He tried to explain and justify
what he was doing, but
unsuccessfully.

Now she continued, "So you're
afraid of offending that piece of
human garbage who's about to be
electrocuted, as he goddam well
should be! Afraid of missing a juicy
tidbit to one of your stupid cases?
But not afraid, oh no! not afraid
at all of disappointing your own son
on his birthday. Your son, Malcolm,
in case you've forgotten your son
who's been looking forward to
tomorrow, counting the days,
counting on you . . ."

Ainslie thought miserably:
everything Karen was saying was
true. And yet . . . How could he
make Karen understand? Understand
that a cop, especially a Homicide
de

DETECTIVE 15

tective, was always on duty. That he
was obligated to go. That there was
no way he could not respond to the
call he'd received, no matter what
was happening in his personal life.

He said flatly, "I feel terrible
about Jason. You must know that."

"Must I? Well, I damn well don't
know. Because if you cared at all,
you'd be here with us now instead of
on the way to that murderer the man
you've put ahead of everything,
especially your own family."

Ainslie's voice sharpened. "Karen,
I have to go. I simply have no
choice. None!"

When she didn't answer, he
continued, "Look, I'll try to catch
a flight out of Jacksonville and
Gainesville, so I can join you in
Toronto. You can take my suitcase."

"You're supposed to be traveling
with us the three of us together!
You, Jason, me your family! Or have
you totally forgotten?"

"Karen, that's enough!"

"And of course there's the little
matter of my father's birthday, the
only seventy-fifth birthday he'll
ever have, and who knows how many
more there'll be. But clearly none of
us count not in comparison to that
creature 'Animal.' That's what you
call him, isn't it? An animal who
comes ahead of all of us."

He protested, "That isn't true!"

"Then prove it! Where are you now?"

Ainslie looked out at road signs on
I-95. "Karen, I cannot turn around.
I'm sorry you don't understand, but
the decision's been made."

Briefly his wife was silent. When
she resumed, her voice was choked and
he knew she was close to tears. "Do
you realize what you're doing to us,
Malcolm?"

16 Arthur Halley

When he didn't answer, he heard a
click as she hung up.

Dispirited, he switched off the
cellular phone. He remembered
guiltily the number of times he had
disappointed Karen by putting
official duty ahead of his family
life. Karen's words of a week ago
came back to him: Malcolm, our life
simply cannot go on like this. He
hoped desperately she didn't mean
it.

Within the car a silence followed
that Jorge had the good sense not to
break. At length Ainslie said
glumly, "My wife just loves being
married to a cop."

Jorge rejoined warily, "Pretty mad,
eh?"

"Can't think why." Ainslie added
sourly, "All I did was screw up our
vacation, all for the sake of having
a chat with a killer who'll be dead
by morning. Wouldn't any good
husband do the same?"

Jorge shrugged. "You're a Homicide
cop. Some things you just gotta do.
Can't always explain them to
outsiders." He added, "I'm never
getting married."

Suddenly Jorge floored the
accelerator, pulling out sharply to
pass one car and cutting in ahead of
another coming up behind. The second
car's driver blasted his horn in
protest.

Ainslie roared, "For Christ's
sake! Cool it!" Then, turning in his
seat, he waved to the car behind,
hoping the driver would take it as
an apology. He fumed, "It's Doll
who's supposed to die tonight, not
us."

"Sorry, Sergeant." Jorge grinned.
"Got carried away with the need for
speed."

Ainslie realized Leo Newbold was
right. At times Jorge did drive like
a madman, but his Cuban charm
remained intact. His appeal clearly
worked wonders on women as well a
series of beautiful, sophisticated
women who accompanied Jorge
everywhere, seemed to adore him,
then,

DETECTIVE 17

for reasons never explained, were
periodically replaced.

"With the kind of arrangements you
have, why would you get married?"
Ainslie said.

"At my age I need to keep my options
open."

"Well, you're certainly doing that.
You're a regular prime-time Romeo.
You remember yesterday even Er-
nestine couldn't resist your
charms."

"Sergeant, Ernestine's a hooker.
Any guy with a wallet in his back
pocket could charm her."

"I had forty-five dollars in my
pocket, and she didn't come on to
me."

"No. Well, it's just that . . . I
don't know . . . people respect you.
Those girls would feel like they
were propositioning their uncle."

Ainslie smiled and said quietly,
"You did well yesterday, Jorge. I
was proud of you."

And he leaned back in his seat. . .

An elderly tourist, Werner Niehaus,
was driving a Cadillac rental car
when he got lost in Miami's maze of
numbered streets many of which had
names as well, sometimes even two
names. Getting lost happened often,
even to locals. Unluckily, the
bewildered German strayed into the
notorious Overtown area, where he
was attacked, robbed, and shot dead,
his body then thrown from the rental
car, which his attackers
subsequently stole. It was a wanton,
needless killing. Robbery presumably
the objective could have been
achieved easily without it.

A statewide BOLO "be on the
lookout" was immediately issued for
the missing car.

With the killing of foreign
tourists already receiving in-
ternational attention, pressure was
building from the mayor, the city
commissioners, and the chief of
police

18 Arthur Halley

downward for a speedy resolution.
While nothing would undo the adverse
publicity for Miami, a swift arrest
might soften the negative edge.

The following morning, Jorge,
accompanied by Malcolm Ainslie,
cruised the Overtown area in an
unmarked car in search of evidence
or witnesses. Ainslie let Jorge take
the lead, and near the corner of
Northwest Third Avenue and
Fourteenth Street he spotted two
drug dealers, known to him by their
street names, Big Nick and Shorty
Spudman. There was an arrest warrant
out for Shorty on an aggravated
assault charge, a felony.

Jorge was quickly out of the car,
followed by Ainslie. As the
detectives approached from either
side, cutting off any escape, Nick
was stuffing something into his
pants. He looked up casually.

Jorge set the tone. "Hey, Nick,
how's it going?"

The response was wary. "Okay, what
it is, man."

The druggies and detectives eyed
each other. They all knew that if
the police of fleers exercised their
right to stop and frisk, they would
find drugs, perhaps weapons, in
which case the dealers, both with
lengthy records, could face long
prison terms.

Jorge asked Shorty Spudman, who
was five feet two and pockmarked
"You hear about that German tourist
murdered yesterday?"

"Heard on TV. Them punks doing
shit to tourists people, they some
real bad dudes."