Detective (38 page)

The dispatcher reacted promptly,
knowing that the address given was
in Zone 74. Her own computer already
displayed a list of patrol cars
available, with their numbers and
locales. Making a selection, she
called by radio, "Oneseven-four."

When Unit 174 responded, the
dispatcher sent a loud "beep,''
prefacing an urgent message. Then by
voice, "Take a three-thirty at 2801
Brickell Avenue, east of Viscaya."
The "three" was for "emergency with
lights and siren," the "thirty"
notified a reported firearm
discharge.

"QSL. I am at Alice Wainwright Park,
close by."

While the dispatcher was speaking,
she signaled Harry Clemente, the
Communications sergeant in charge of
dispatch and radio traffic, who left
his central desk and joined her. She
pointed to the address on her
screen. "That's familiar. Is it who
I think it is?"

Clemente leaned forward, then said,
"If you mean the Davanals, you're
goddam right!"

"It's a three-thirty."

318 Arthur Halley

"Holy shit!" The sergeant read the
other information. "They got
trouble. Thanks, I'll stay close."

The original complaints clerk was
still speaking with the 911 caller.
"A police unit is on the way to you.
Please let me verify your last name.
Is the spelling D-a-v-a-n-a-l?"

Impatiently: "Yes, yes. It's my
father's name. Mine is
Maddox-Davanal.''

The clerk was tempted to ask, Are
you the famous Davanal family?
Instead she requested, "Ma'am,
please stay on the phone until the
police unit arrives."

"I can't. I have other things to
do." A click as the caller's phone
connection ended.

At 7:39 A.M. the dispatcher received
a radio call from Unit 174. "We have
a shooting here. Request a Homicide
unit to Tac One."

"QRX" shorthand for "stand by."

Malcolm Ainslie was at his desk in
Homicide, with his portable radio
switched on, when he heard Unit
174's message. Still sorting papers,
he motioned to Jorge. ''You take
it."

"Okay, Sarge." Reaching for his
own radio, Rodriguez told the
dispatcher, "Thirteen-eleven going
to Tac One for Unit one-seven-four."
Then, selecting the Tac One chan-
nel exclusive to Homicide:
"One-seven-four, this is
thirteen-eleven. QSK?"

"Thirteen-eleven, we have a DOA at
2801 Brickell Avenue. A possible
thirty-one."

On hearing the address, followed
by 31 for "homicide," Ainslie looked
up sharply. Abandoning files and
papers, he pushed his chair back
from the desk and stood. He nodded
to Jorge, who transmitted,
"One-seven-four, we're en route to
you. Secure the scene. Call for more
help if needed." Pocketing the
radio, he asked, "Is that the home
of that rich family?"

DETECTIVE 319

"Damn right. The Davanals. I know
the address; everyone does." In
Miami there was no escaping the
family name and its fame. Davanal's
department stores were a huge
Florida-wide chain. There was also a
Davanal-owned TV station which
Felicia Maddox-Davanal managed per-
sonally. But more than that, the
family originally mid-European but
American-Floridian since World War
I was prestigious and powerful,
both politically and financially.
The Davanals were constantly in the
news, sometimes referred to as
"Miami's royalty." A less kindly
commentator once added, "And they
behave that way."

A telephone rang. Rodriguez
answered, then passed the phone to
Ainslie. "It's Sergeant Clemente in
Communications."

"We're on to it, Harry," Ainslie
said. "The uniforms called. We're
leaving now."

"The DOA is Byron Maddox-Davanal,
the son-in-law. His wife made the
nine-one-one. You know about the
name?"

"Remind me."

"He was plain Maddox when he
married Felicia. Family insisted on
his name change. Couldn't bear the
thought of the Davanal name someday
disappearing."

"Thanks. Every bit of info helps."

As he replaced the phone, Ainslie
told Rodriguez, "A lot of power
people will be watching this one,
Jorge, so we can't screw up a thing.
You go ahead, get a car and wait
downstairs. I'll tell the
lieutenant."

Newbold, who had just arrived in
his office, looked up as Ainslie
strode in. "What's up?"

"A possible thirty-one on Byron
Maddox-Davanal at the family home.
I'm just leaving."

Newbold looked startled. "Jesus!
Isn't he the one who married
Felicia?"

320 Arthur Bailey

"He is. Or was."

"And she's old man Davanal's
granddaughter, right?"

"You got it. She made the
nine-one-one. Thought you'd want to
know." As Ainslie left hurriedly,
the lieutenant reached for his
phone.

"It looks like some feudal castle,"
Jorge observed as they approached
the imposing Davanal residence in an
unmarked car.

The turreted, multi-roofed house
and its grounds sprawled over three
and a half acres. Surrounded by a
high, fortress-like wall of quarried
stone with buttressed corners, the
entire place had a medieval flavor.

"I wonder why they didn't include
a moat and drawbridge," Ainslie
said.

Beyond the whole complex was
Biscayne Bay and, farther out, the
Atlantic Ocean.

The massive, rambling house, only
partly seen from outside, was
accessible through a pair of
handsome wroughtiron gates bearing
decorative heraldry. At the moment
the gates were closed, but on the
far side of them a long winding
driveway was visible.

"Oh, goddam, not already!''
Ainslie exclaimed. He saw a mobile
TV van immediately ahead and
realized that the Miami media
people, monitoring police radio,
must have recognized the Davanal
address. The van bore the insignia
of WBEQ, the Davanal-owned TV
station. Perhaps someone inside had
tipped them off to be here first, he
thought.

Three police blue-and-whites were
near the entrance gates, roof lights
flashing. Either Unit 174 had asked
for help or more units had responded
anyway probably the latter. Nothing
like a nosy cop, Ainslie reflected.
An argument appeared to be taking
place at the gate between

DETECTIVE 321

two uniforms and the TV crew, among
them an attractive black reporter,
Ursula Felix, whom Ainslie knew.
Already, yellow POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape
was in place across the entranceway,
though a uniform officer,
recognizing Ainslie and Rodriguez,
opened a gap, leaving room for their
car to pass.

Jorge slowed, but the reporter
rushed forward, blocking them.
Ainslie lowered his window. "Hey,
Malcolm," she pleaded, "talk some
sense into these guys! The boss
lady, Mrs. Davanal, wants us inside;
she phoned to say so. WBEQ is the
Davanals' station, and whatever's
going on, we want to catch the
morning news." As she spoke, Ursula
Felix pressed herself against the
side of the car. Her ample breasts,
made more prominent by a tight silk
blouse, were so close that Ainslie
could have touched them. Her jet
black hair.was tightly braided, and
a heady perfume wafted into the car.

So there had been a call from
inside, Ainslie thought and not
from just anyone. Felicia
Maddox-Davanal had made the call, a
woman who had reportedly become a
widow only minutes before.

"Look, Ursula," he said, "right now
this is a crime scene, and you know
the rules. We'll have a PIO here
soon, and he'll let you know
whatever we can release."

A cameraman behind the reporter cut
in, "Mrs. Davanal doesn't recognize
rules when there's Davanal property
involved, and it's theirs both sides
of the gate." He gestured to the TV
van and the house.

"And the lady runs a tight ship,"
Ursula added. "If we don't get
through, we could be out on our
asses."

"I'll keep that in mind." Ainslie
motioned to Jorge to drive forward
through the heavy gates.

"You'll be lead detective," he told
Jorge, "though I'll work closely
with you."

322 A r t h u r H a i I e y

"Yes, Sergeant."

Gravel crunched beneath their
tires as they negotiated the
driveway, passing high palms and
fruit trees, then a parked white
Bentley near the house. They stopped
at an impressive main entrance where
one of a pair of ponderous double
doors was ajar. As Ainslie and Jorge
alighted, the door opened fully and
a tall, dignified, middle-aged man
appeared, impeccably groomed and
clearly a butler. He glanced at both
detectives' ID badges, then spoke
with a British accent.

"Good morning, Officers. Please
come inside." In the spacious,
grandly furnished hallway he turned.
"Mrs. Maddox-Davanal is telephoning.
She asked that you wait for her
here."

"No," Ainslie said. "There's been
a report of a shooting. We'll go to
the scene immediately." A wide
carpeted corridor branched off to
the right; near the end was a uni-
formed officer who called out, "The
body's this way."

As Ainslie moved, the butler
insisted, "Mrs. MaddoxDavanal
particularly asked "

Ainslie paused. "What is your name?"

"I'm Mr. Holdsworth."

Jorge, already making notes, added,
"First name?"

"Humphrey. But please realize that
this house is "

"No, Holdsworth," Ainslie said.
"You realize. This house is now a
crime scene, and the police are in
charge. A lot of our people will be
coming and going. Do not get in
their way, but don't leave; we'll
need to question you. Also, do not
disturb anything in the house from
the way it is now. Is that clear?"

"I suppose so," Holdsworth said
grudgingly.

"And tell Mrs. Maddox-Davanal we
would like to see her soon."

Ainslie walked the length of the
corridor, Jorge follow

DETECTIVE 323

ing. The waiting uniform, whose name
tag read NAVARRO, announced, "In here,
Sergeant," and led the way through
an open door into what appeared to
be a combined exercise room and
study. Ainslie and Jorge, both with
notebooks in hand, stood in the
doorway, taking in the scene before
them.

The room was large and sunny, with
early-morning sunlight coming
through open French doors. Beyond
the doors was an ornate patio
providing a spectacular view of the
surrounding bay and distant ocean.
Within the room and nearest the
detectives, a half-dozen
black-and-chrome exercise machines
were lined up like spartan sentries.
An elaborate weightlifting machine
dominated, then a rowing simulator,
a program treadmill, a climbing
device, and two machines of unclear
purpose. Easily thirty thousand dol-
lars' worth, Ainslie guessed.

In the same room, facing the
exercise area, was the study elegant
and luxurious, with lounge chairs,
several tables and cabinets, oak
bookshelves filled with leatherbound
volumes, and a handsome modern desk
with a reclining chair pushed back
some distance from the desk.

On the floor between desk and chair
was a dead white male. The body was
lying on its right side, with the
top left side of the head missing,
and around the head and shoulders
was a melange of blood, bone
splinters, and brains. The bloody
mess, beginning to coagulate,
extended beyond the body and onto
the floor at front and sides. The
dead man was dressed in tan slacks
and a white shirt, now drenched with
blood.

Though no weapon was visible, all
signs pointed to death by gunshot.

"Since you arrived," Rodriguez
asked Navarro, "has anything been
touched or changed?"

The young of fleer shook his head.
"Nothing. I know the

324 Arthur Halley

drill." A thought struck him. "The
dead man's wife was in the room when
I got here. She could have moved
something. You'll have to ask her."

"We will," Jorge said. "But let me
ask you this for the record. There's
no weapon in sight. Have you seen
one here or anywhere else?"

"I've been looking since I got
here, but haven't seen one yet.''

Ainslie asked, "When you found
Mrs. Maddox-Davanal here, how did
she seem?"

Navarro hesitated, then gestured
to the body. "Considering the way
everything was, and this being her
husband and all, she seemed pretty
calm; you could even say poised. I
wondered about it. The other thing
. . ."

Ainslie prompted, "Go ahead."

"She told me there was a TV crew
coming from WBEQ. That's the "

"Yes, the Davanals' station. What
about it?"

"She wanted me pretty much ordered
me to make sure they were let in. I
told her she'd have to wait for
Homicide. She didn't like that." The
young policeman hesitated again.

"If there's something else on your
mind, let's hear it," Jorge said.

"Well, it's only an impression,
but I think the lady's used to being
in control of everything and
everybody and she doesn't like
things any other way."

Ainslie asked, "And all that was
happening while her husband was
lying there" he pointed to the
body "like that?"

"Just like that." Navarro
shrugged. "I guess the rest is for
you guys to figure out."

"We'll try," Jorge said,
scribbling notes. "Always helps,
though, when we draw an observant
cop."

DETECTIVE 325

Jorge then made the routine calls
on his portable radio, summoning an
ID crew, a medical examiner, and a
state attorney. Soon this room and
other parts of the house would be
crowded and busy.

"I'll take a look around," Ainslie
said. Stepping carefully, he
approached the open French doors. He
had already noticed that one door
seemed to be out of line with the
other; inspecting closely, he
observed what looked like fresh pry
marks on the outside of both doors,
around the knobs and lock. Outside
he saw several brown footprints on
the patio, as if someone had stepped
in loose dirt or mud. Beyond the
footprints he saw a flower bed
fronting a four-foot wall, with more
prints in the soil, as if the same
person had come over the wall, then
approached the house. The prints
appeared to be from some kind of
athletic shoes.