Detective (18 page)

146 Arthur Halley

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
faith "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 tenweek 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

DETECTIVE 147

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 en-
forcing 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

148 Arthur Halley

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 to

DETECTIVE 149

"ether 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 in-
terested in."

The extra gun known on the force as
a "throwdown" was legal for a police
officer, providing it was registered
and the owner had qualified in its
use at the shooting range. In both
cases Cynthia fulfilled the require-
ments.

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

150 Arthur Halley

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

DETECTIVE 151

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 fallaway seam of
her specialized purse a new,
efficient sub

152 Arthur Halley

stitute 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. "We'll 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

DETECTIVE 153

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:
ode, 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.