Detective (50 page)

"I skipped ahead," Ruby continued,
"reading just parts of the diary in
the years when Cynthia was growing
up. There's been no time to read it
all; maybe no one ever

DETECTIVE 417

will. But the picture is that Gustav
Ernst stopped molesting Cynthia and
began trying to help her,
hoping according to the diary she'd
'forgive and forget.' He gave her
lots of money and he had plenty. It
was all still happening when he was
a city commissioner and Cynthia
joined the Miami Police. He used his
influence to put pressure on the PD,
first to get her into Homicide, then
to have her promoted fast."

"Cynthia was good at her job,"
Ainslie said. She's probably have
gone ahead anyway."

Ruby shrugged. "Mrs. Ernst thought
it helped. though she didn't believe
Cynthia would ever be gratef' l for
anything she and Gustav did. Here's
something Mrs. Ernst wrote four
years ago:

" 'Gustav is living in a fool's
world. He thinks that all is well
between the two of us and Cynthia,
that the past has been put behind
and left there, and that Cynthia
cares about us now. What nonsense!
Cynthia doesn't love us. Why should
she? We never gave her reason to.
Now, looking back, I wish I had done
some things differently. But it's
too late. All too late.'

"I have one more diary piece to
read, and maybe it's the most
important," Ruby said. "This is Mrs.
Ernst four months before she and
Gustav were killed:

" 'I've caught Cynthia looking at
us sometimes. I believe a fierce
hatred for us both is there. It's
part of Cynthia's nature that she
never forgives. Never! She doesn't
forgive anyone for even the smallest
offense against her. She gets back
at them somehow, makes them pay. I'm
sure we made her that way. Sometimes
I think she's planning something for
us, some kind of revenge, and I'm
afraid. Cynthia is very clever, more
clever than us both.' "

Ruby put her notepad down. "I've
done what you asked me to. There's
just one thing left." She saw
Ainslie's trou

418 Arthur Halley

bled face, and her expression
softened. "This must have been hard
for you, Sergeant."

He said uncertainly, "What do you
mean?"

"Malcolm, we all know why you were
never made lieutenant. By now you
should probably be a captain."

He sighed. "So you know about
Cynthia and me. . ." He let his
words tail off.

"Of course. We all knew it while
it was happening. We're detectives,
aren't we?"

In other circumstances Ainslie
might have laughed. But something
dark and unspoken was hanging in the
air. "So what's left?" he asked.
"You said there was one thing.
What?"

"There's a sealed box in Property
that was brought in with the others
from the Ernst crime scene, but has
Cynthia's name on it. It looks as if
she stored it in her parents' house
and it got caught up with all the
rest."

"Did you check who signed the box
in?"

"Sergeant Brewmaster."

"Then it's official evidence, and
we have the right to open it."

"I'll get it," Ruby said.

The cardboard carton that Ruby
brought was similar to the others,
with the same CRIME SCENE EVIDENCE tape
around it. But when that tape was
removed there was more tape beneath,
colored blue, bearing the initials
"C.E.," and secured by sealing wax
at several points.

"Take that off carefully and save
it,'' Ainslie instructed.

A few minutes later Ruby had
opened the carton flaps and folded
them back. Both peered inside, where
several plastic bags were visible,
each containing an object. One, near
the top, was a gun that looked like
a Smith & Wesson

DETECTIVE 419

.38 revolver. In another bag was an
athletic shoe, with another shoe
beneath. Both shoes bore stains. A
fourth bag contained what appeared
to be a T-shirt with a similar
stain; a portion of a recording tape
was also visible. Each bag had a
label attached, with handwriting
that Ainslie recognized as
Cynthia's.

He could hardly believe what he was
seeing.

Ruby was puzzled. "Why is this
here?"

"It was never intended to be. It
was concealed in the Ernst house
and, just as you said, brought here
by mistake." Ainslie added, "Don't
touch anything, but see if you can
read what's written about the gun."

She leaned closer. "It says, 'The
weapon which P.J. used to shoot his
ex-wife Naomi with her friend
Kilburn Holmes.' There's a date.
'August twenty-first' six years
ago."

"Oh Jesus!" Ainslie said in a
whisper.

Ruby straightened, facing him. "I
don't understand any of this. What
is it?"

He answered grimly, "The artifacts
of an unsolved homicide. Unsolved
until now."

Although the Jensen-Holmes case was
not handled by Ainslie's Homicide
team, he remembered it well because
of Cynthia's long association with
the novelist Patrick Jensen. He
recalled again that Jensen had been
a strong suspect following the
murders of his ex-wife and her young
male friend, killed by .38-caliber
bullets from the same gun. Jensen
was known to have purchased a Smith
& Wesson .38-caliber revolver two
weeks earlier, but claimed to have
lost the gun, and no murder weapon
was found. In the absence of
specific evidence, no charges were
laid.

An obvious question: Was the gun in
the box just unsealed the missing
weapon? Another: If the evidence was
real, why had Cynthia labeled it,
then concealed it for six

420 Arthur Halley

years? Such labeling was routine for
a trained Homicide detective, which
Cynthia was. Concealing evidence was
not.

Ruby broke in. "Does this
'unsolved homicide' fit in somehow
with the Ernst murders?"

It was one more question Ainslie
was already asking himself. The
questions were endless. Was Patrick
Jensen involved in the Ernst
murders? If so, was Cynthia pro-
tecting him from that, as well as
from an earlier crime?

Weighing it all, Ainslie felt a
mood of deep depression sweep over
him. "Right now I'm not sure of
anything," he told Ruby. "What we do
need is an ID crew to go through
this box."

He lifted the tiny office's single
phone.

PART FOUR

Cynthia Ernst could
remember the precise
moment when she
decided that someday
she would kill her
parents. She was
twelve years old,
and two weeks
earlier she had
given birth to her
father's child.

A plainly dressed,
middle-aged woman
had arrived un-
announced at the
family's mansion in
the exclusive,
security-protected
Bay Point community
on Biscayne Bay.
Producing
credentials that
described her as a
child welfare
worker, she had
asked the
housekeeper for Mrs.
Ernst.

When Cynthia heard
the stranger's voice
she moved quietly
into the corridor
outside the
main-floor drawing
room, where her
mother had taken the
woman and closed the
door behind them.
Equally quietly,
Cynthia opened the
door just enough to
peer through and
listen.

"Mrs. Ernst, I'm
here officially to
talk about your
daughter's baby,"
the woman was
saying. She looked
about her, seemingly
impressed by her
surroundings. "I
have to say that in
matters like this,
there's usually
poverty and family
neglect. Clearly
that isn't the case
here;"

"There has been no
neglect, I assure
you. Quite the
contrary." Eleanor
Ernst spoke quietly
and carefully. "My
husband and I have
cared for our
daughter devotedly
ever

424 Arthur Dailey

since she was born, and dearly love
her. As to what has happened, we are
as distressed as any couple can be,
though we tell ourselves that
somehow we've failed miserably as
parents."

"Perhaps it will help if we talk
about the background. How, for
example, did your daughter . . ."
The visitor consulted a notebook.
"Your daughter Cynthia. . . what
were the circumstances under which
she became pregnant? And what about
the father? What do you know of
him especially his age?"

Cynthia moved even closer to the
doorway, not wanting to miss a word.

"The truth is, we know nothing at
all about the child's father, and
Cynthia has refused to tell us."
Eleanor's voice was little more than
a whisper. She dabbed at her eyes
with a small handkerchief, then
continued, "Unfortunately, young as
she is, our daughter has had many
boyfriends. I am sorry to say this,
but I am afraid she is shamefully
promiscuous. My husband and I have
been worried about her for some
time."

"In that case, Mrs. Ernst" the
welfare woman's voice had
sharpened "wouldn't it have been
logical to seek professional advice?
You and your husband are informed
people and must know such facilities
exist."

"In retrospect, perhaps we should
have. But the fact is we didn't."
Eleanor added pointedly, "It's
always easy for others to have
hindsight."

"Do you plan to have counseling
now? And to include your daughter?"

"Gustav and I may well consider
that. Until now the preparations
we've had to make have preoccupied
us. After the awful event, the child
was put up for adoption we'd made
prearrangements." Eleanor paused.
"Do I really

DETECTIVE 425

have to answer these questions? My
husband and I have been hoping for
total privacy."

The visitor had been making entries
in her notebook. "The welfare of a
child overrides privacy, Mrs. Ernst.
But if you doubt our agency's right
of inquiry, you can always ask your
lawyer."

"That won't be necessary." Eleanor
had become placating. "I will tell
you that my husband and I, and also
Cynthia, have learned a great deal
from what has occurred. In a way it
has drawn the three of us closer. We
have had long talks, and Cynthia has
given her solemn word that from now
on she will mend her ways."

"Perhaps I should talk with your
daughter."

"I'd much prefer you didn't. In
fact, I beg of you not to. Something
like that would almost certainly
undo all the progress we have made."

"Are you really sure?"

"I truly am."

Nowadays, as an adult, Cynthia
sometimes wondered why she hadn't
barged in at that moment and blurted
out the truth. Then she realized
that while such an action would have
embarrassed her parents and prompted
questions, in the long run she most
likely would not have been believed.
She had read of notorious
child-abuse cases in which adults
who denied such charges were
believed, and children weren't. The
accused adults could hire fee-hungry
practitioners who skillfully
demolished children's statements,
while the children even if they
understood had no such recourse.

In any case, Cynthia perhaps with
instinctive insight did not burst
in, and the two women's voices faded
as, having heard enough, she moved
away.

Ten minutes later her mother and
the welfare worker emerged, Eleanor
accompanying the visitor to the
front

426 Arthur Halley

door and closing it after her. As
she turned, Cynthia stepped into
view and faced her mother.

Eleanor paled. "Cynthia! My God!
How long have you been there?"

Cynthia glared back, silently, her
gaze fierce and accusing. In most
respects she still looked like a
twelve-yearold girl, with short
brown bangs and freckles, but her
eyes, intensely green and filled
with resolve, belonged to a much
older woman.

Eleanor Ernst's hands were clasped
nervously together, her eyes
shifting. She was elegantly dressed,
with coiffed hair and high heels.
"Cynthia," she said, "I insist you
tell me how long you've been there.
Have you been listening?"

Still no words.

"Stop looking at me like that!" As
Eleanor took a few steps forward,
Cynthia stepped back.

After several moments her mother
drew her hands to her face and
quietly wept. "You heard, didn't
you? Oh, darling, I had no choice;
surely you see that. You know I love
you. Please give Mommy a hug. You
know I'd never hurt you . . . Please
let me hold you."

Cynthia watched with an expression
of utter detachment, then slowly
turned and walked away.

The lying, hypocritical words she
had heard her mother speak were
seared forever in her mind. She
already hated her father for his
physical abuse from the earliest mo-
ments she remembered. In some ways
she despised her mother even more.
Even at twelve, Cynthia knew that
her mother could have, and should
have, sought outside help, and her
failure to do so could never be
forgiven.

But Cynthia, clever and shrewd
even at twelve, swallowed her rage
for the sake of her future. To
realize all her burgeoning plans,
she needed her parents especially

DETECTIVE 427

their contacts and resources.
Therefore, as time went on, in
public she maintained a veneer of
politeness and occasional affection.
In private she rarely spoke to them.

Her father, she knew, accepted the
deception, grateful for the image it
conveyed to outsiders. Her mother
behaved as though not a thing in the
world was wrong.

And if either parent ever disagreed
with her wishes, Cynthia would cross
her arms and look at them with a
cold, steady glare, as if to say, I
know what you did to me, and you
know, too. Wouldn't it be better if
no one else knew? Take your choice.

This unspoken threat, an appeal to
their shame, guilt, and cowardice,
worked unfailingly. After a few
tense, awkward moments, Gustav Ernst
would invariably yield under the
fierceness of his daughter's gaze
and mumble, "I simply don't know
what to do with you."