Detective (51 page)

Eleanor, as usual, would shrug
helplessly.

A disagreement between both sides
emerged a couple of years later when
Cynthia's schooling became an issue.

She had attended elementary and
middle schools in Miami, and her
report cards rated her an
outstanding student. What Gustav and
Eleanor planned next, at age
fourteen, was a highly regarded
private day school in Coral Gables,
called Ransom-Everglades. But
Cynthia, at fourteen, had other
ideas. At the last moment, when the
RansomEverglades arrangements were
virtually complete, she announced
that she would go to Pine Crest, a
boarding school in Fort Lauderdale,
some twenty-five miles north of Mi-
ami. She had applied to the school
herself and agreed to attend when
they accepted her.

Gustav was totally opposed. "You
deliberately went against our
wishes," he said over dinner that
night. "If we had selected Pine
Crest, you would have wanted
Ransom-Everglades. "

428 Arthur Halley

Eleanor watched helplessly,
knowing that Cynthia would
eventually have her way.

And so she did, employing her
usual technique. Sitting at the
dinner table, she did not touch her
food. Instead she stared resolutely
at her father, a glint of absolute
power in her eyes, until he finally
put down his fork and huffed, "Oh,
for heaven's sake, do whatever you
want."

Cynthia nodded, rose from the
table, and went to her room.

Four years later it all happened
again, when Cynthia was poised to
enter college. Now she was eighteen
and possessed the cunning and beauty
of a full-grown woman. Cynthia knew
her mother desperately wanted her to
attend Smith College in Northampton,
Massachusetts, Eleanor's prestigious
alma mater, and for four years had
let Eleanor believe she would.

Cynthia looked to be a strong
candidate; she had a fourpoint grade
average at Pine Crest and was
inducted into the National Honor
Society. Also, Eleanor was a
substantial financial donor to
Smith, which supposedly didn't
count, though possibly did.

The letter of acceptance was sent
to the Ernsts' home and Eleanor
opened it. She immediately called
Cynthia at school to relay the news.

"Yes, I expected they'd take me,"
Cynthia said coolly.

"Darling, I can't tell you how
thrilled I am. I want to have a
celebration. How about dinner on
Saturday? Are you free?"

"Sure, sounds fine."

Already Cynthia was enjoying the
symmetry of events, and the
following Saturday evening the three
of them sat at the same long oak
dining table, her parents at each
end, Cynthia in- the middle. The
table was set with their best Herend
china and English linen. Candles
were lit. Cynthia

DETECTIVE 429

had even put on a formal dress. Her
parents, she could see, were glowing
with happiness.

Then, after pouring the wine, her
father raised his glass and said,
"To another generation of Smith
graduates!"

"Hear, hear!" Eleanor echoed. "Oh,
Cynthia, I'm so proud of you. After
graduating from Smith, the world
will be waiting for you."

Toying with her own wineglass,
Cynthia said, "That might be true,
Mother, if I were going to Smith."
Amused, she watched her mother's
happiness fall away. They had been
through this drill so many times
that every nuance was predictable.

"Whatever do you mean?" her father
asked.

"I applied to Florida State at
Tallahassee," Cynthia answered
brightly. "They accepted me last
week, and I've told them I'm
coming." She raised her wineglass.
"So how about that toast? To
Tallahassee!"

Eleanor was too aghast to speak.

Her husband's brow was suddenly
beaded with perspiration. "You will
not go to that pathetic state school
instead of Smith. I forbid it!"

At the other end of the table,
Eleanor stood up. "Do you have any
idea what a privilege it is to be
accepted at Smith? The tuition there
is more than twenty thousand dollars
a year. Doesn't that tell you how
exclusive "

"At Tallahassee it's three
thousand," Cynthia interrupted.
"Think of the money you'll save."
She regarded her parents placidly.

"Do you think we care . . . Oh!"
Eleanor buried her face in her
hands.

Gustav pounded the table. "That
will not work this time, young
lady!"

Now Cynthia stood, too, and glared
at both parents in turn. The
unspoken words were deafening.

430 Arthur Halley

Gustav tried to return her stare,
but, as had happened before, he
looked away and sighed. Finally.
shrugging in defeat, he left.
Seconds later, Eleanor followed.

Cynthia sat down and finished her
dinner.

Three years later, having
completed four years' worth of
courses, Cynthia graduated from
Florida State University with
highest honors and membership in Phi
Beta Kappa.

Cynthia had many male friends in
high school and college, and to her
surprise, she found she enjoyed sex,
despite childhood memories. As she
saw it, however, sex was all about
power. She would never, ever, again
be a docile partner. In every sexual
relationship she sought to dominate,
no matter what kind of sex was
involved, or with whom. A further
surprise was that men enjoyed her
dominance. Most became more aroused
because of it. One partner, a
linebacker, said after an intense
night of lovemaking, "Jesus, Cyn,
you're sexy as hell, but cruel."

Still, for all her involvements,
Cynthia never fell in love, never
allowed herself to. She simply was
not prepared to relinquish that much
independence.

Much later the same game plan was
partially true of her affair with
Malcolm Ainslie. Like most of the
men who preceded him, he enjoyed her
"sexual calisthenics," as he once
labeled them, and responded in kind.
But Cynthia never quite possessed
Malcolm, or dominated him totally as
she had others; there was a strength
within him she could never overcome.
During their affair she had tried to
break up Malcolm's marriage with
mischief, a close cousin of power,
as her sole objective. She had not
the slightest intention of marrying
him herself or anyone else, for that
matter. To Cynthia, marriage
represented little

DETECTIVE 431

more than surrendering control,
something she vowed she would never
do.

In direct contrast to Malcolm was
the novelist Patrick Jensen, whom
Cynthia dominated from the moment
they first met. Initially their
relationship was about sex, though
eventually it became more complex.
Her alliances with both men began
about the same time, though Cynthia
kept the two apart, running as she
thought of it on parallel tracks.

Patrick had been going through a
difficult time when his liaison with
Cynthia began, mainly because of the
breakup of his marriage. His wife,
Naomi, had divorced him and, after a
bitter contest, won a handsome
settlement. According to friends,
during the seven years the Jensen
marriage lasted, it was filled with
Patrick's tempestuous rages,
prompting Naomi to make three
complaints of physical abuse to
police. Each time, they were
withdrawn after Patrick promised to
reform. He never did. Even following
the divorce, Patrick publicly
exhibited his jealousy of Naomi when
she was with another man, and once
had to be restrained.

For Patrick, Cynthia Ernst was a
haven in every way. He conceded that
she was far stronger than he was,
and willingly became a compliant
cohort, relying on her guidance more
and more. For her part, Cynthia
believed she had found someone she
could both control and use in ad-
vancing her long-term personal
plans.

That belief was confirmed late one
night when Patrick arrived at
Cynthia's apartment.

From her bed she heard an insistent
pounding on her outer door. Peering
through a peephole, she could see
Patrick glancing up and down the
hall and running his fingers through
his hair.

When she opened the door he rushed
in and said, "Je

432 Arthur Huxley

sus, Cynthia, I've done something
terrible! I've got to get away. Can
I take your car?" He hurried to a
window and looked both ways up and
down the street below. "I've got to
get out of here . . . got to go
somewhere! Cyn, I need your help."
He looked at her imploringly, his
fingers still rifling his hair.

"My God, Patrick, you're dripping
with sweat." Cynthia told him
firmly, "You have to calm down. Sit
down and I'll get you a Scotch."

She joined him on a couch with the
drink, then massaged, his neck. He
started to talk, subsided, then
suddenly blurted out, "Oh God, Cyn,
I killed Naomi! Shot her." His voice
choked.

Cynthia inched away. As a police
officer a Homicide detective,
especially her duty was clear. She
should arrest Patrick, give him a
Miranda warning, and take him into
custody. Thinking fast, weighing
possibilities and opportunities, she
did none of those things. Instead
she went to her bedroom, took a tape
recorder from a bedside drawer,
inserted a new tape and, as she
reentered the living room, pressed
RECORD. Patrick was crying, his head
in his hands. Cynthia put the
machine on a table near him,
shielded from view by a plant.

Then she said, "Patrick, if you
want me to help you, you have to
tell me exactly what happened."

He looked up, nodded, then began,
his voice still breaking. "I didn't
plan it, didn't intend . . . but
always hated the thought of Naomi
with someone else . . . When I saw
those two together, her and that
creep, I was blinded, angry . . .
I'd been carrying a gun. I pulled it
out, without even thinking, fired .
. . Suddenly it was over . . . Then
I saw what I'd done. Oh God, I'd
killed them both!"

Cynthia was aghast. "You killed
ova people? Who was the other?"

DETECTIVE 433

"Kilburn Holmes." He said abjectly,
"He'd been seeing Naomi, was with her
all the time. People told me."

"You stupid ducking idiot!" For the
first time, Cynthia felt cold fear.
It was a double murder in which
Patrick was certain to be a suspect,
and what she was doing assuming she
continued could cost her own career
and freedom.

"Did anyone see you?" she asked.
"Was there any witness?"

Patrick shook his head. "No one,
I'm sure of that. It was dark and
late. Even the shots didn't draw
attention."

"Did you leave anything, anything
whatever, at the scene?"

"I'm sure I didn't."

"As you were leaving, did you hear
noise? Was there an alarm, voices?"

"No."

"Where is the gun?"

"Here." From a pocket he produced a
Smith & Wesson .38.

"Put it on that table," she told him.

Cynthia paused, calculating the
risks she might be taking, weighing
them against the leverage they would
give her over Patrick. She saw her
duty clearly, but she also saw him as
a useful tool.

Making a decision, she went to her
kitchenette and returned with several
plastic bags and kitchen tongs.
Without touching the gun, which would
have Patrick's fingerprints on it,
she placed it in a plastic bag and
sealed it. Then she pointed to a
T-shirt he was wearing. "Take that
off; those sneakers, too." Both were
bloodstained.

Again, using the tongs, she put the
T-shirt and shoes in other bags. "Now
give me your house keys and take off
the rest of your clothes."

When Patrick hesitated, Cynthia
snapped, "Do exactly

434 Arthur Halley

what I say! Now, where was it that
you killed them?"

"In the driveway of Naomi's
house." He shook his head and
sighed.

With her back to Patrick and
blocking his view, Cynthia turned
off the tape recorder. In any case,
she realized, he was still too dazed
to notice.

Patrick had now shed all his
clothes and was naked. He stood
nervously, his shoulders slouched,
eyes to the floor. Again Cynthia
went to the kitchenette, and brought
back a large brown bag, into which
she stuffed Patrick's remaining
clothes.

"I'm going to your house," she
said. "I'll dump these somewhere and
bring you back fresh clothes. While
I'm gone, take a very hot shower and
scrub yourself use a nail brush all
over, and especially your hand that
held the gun. Where did you get the
gun?"

"I bought it two months ago." He
added gloomily, "My name's on
record."

"If the gun isn't found and
there's no other evidence, you're
safe. So you lost it a week after
you bought it. Remember that, and
don't change that story."

"I won't," Patrick mumbled.

As Cynthia left, he was entering her
bathroom.

On the way to Patrick's house,
taking a roundabout route, Cynthia
disposed of his clothes in separate
garbage cans and a Dumpster. At the
house, she quickly put together
fresh clothes for him to wear.

At 5:30 A.M., Cynthia returned to her
apartment and upon opening the door
saw Patrick sitting on the couch,
hunched over the glass coffee table
with a rolled-up dollar bill in his
nose.

"How dare you do that here!" she
screamed.

DETECTIVE 435

His head shot up, revealing four
lines of cocaine on the tabletop,
which he had not yet inhaled.

Patrick wiped his nose and sniffed.
"Jesus, Cynthia, no big deal. I just
thought it would help me through
this."

"Flush it down the toilet and any
more you have. Now!"

Patrick started to object, then
headed for the bathroom, muttering,
"It's not like I'm an addict."

Cynthia silently acknowledged that
Patrick was not, in fact, an addict.
Like others whom she knew, he used
the drug intermittently. She herself
never used drugs, or anything else
that might diminish her control.