Detective (56 page)

Back in her own office, she
studied and memorized the notes she
had made, then tore out the notebook
pages and flushed them down a
toilet.

In the Homestead restaurant, while
hearing of the brutality of the two
double murders at Coconut Grove and
Fort Lauderdale, Jensen decided that
Virgilio would have no difficulty
fulfilling that demand. The same
applied to binding and gagging the
victims and leaving them facing each
other, which Cynthia specified as
essential.

Weighing it all, Jensen mentally
endorsed Cynthia's idea of imitating
those two earlier crimes; in a
perverted way, he thought, the
concept was brilliant. Then he
checked himself. In the way of life
to which he had become committed, it
was not perverted at all, but bril-
liant . . . period!

"You're doing a lot of thinking,"
Cynthia said from across the table.

He shook his head and lied. "Just
memorizing all those ground rules."

"Add this to the list, then: no
fingerprints."

"That won't be a problem." Jensen
remembered Virgilio slipping on
gloves before helping lift the
wheelchair from the tradesman's van.

"There's one other thing," Cynthia
said, "and this really is the last."

Jensen waited.

"Between the Coconut Grove murders
and Fort Lau

DETECTIVE 471

derdale's, there was a time gap of
four months and twelve days; I
worked it out."

"So?"

"Serial killers often strike pretty
much at regular intervals, which
means whoever did those two could
pull off another, either during the
last few days of September or the
first week of October. I worked that
out, too."

Jensen was puzzled. "How would that
affect us?"

"We'll beat the bastard to it by
setting our date in midAugust. Then,
if there's another of the same type
of killing on one of those other
dates, sure, there'll be an
interval, but no one will think
twice about it because the gaps
won't seem a factor."

Cynthia stopped. "What's wrong? Why
the long face?''

Jensen, who had looked increasingly
doubtful, took a deep breath. "You
want to know what I think?"

"I'm not sure I care, but go ahead
if you want."

"Cyn, I think we're trying to be too
clever."

"Which means?"

"The more we talk, the more I get
the feeling that something can go
wrong, terribly wrong.''

"So what are you suggesting?"
Cynthia's tone was icy.

Jensen hesitated. Then, with
conflicting emotions, knowing the
significance of his own words, he
answered, "That we quit, call the
whole thing off. Here and now."

After a sip of a diet soda beside
her, Cynthia asked softly, "Aren't
you forgetting something?"

"I suppose you mean the money."
Jensen passed his tongue across his
lips as she nodded.

"I brought it with me to give to
you." Cynthia touched the leather
attache case on the seat beside her.
"But never mind, I'll take it back."
Picking up the case, she rose to
leave, then paused, looking down at
Jensen.

"I'll pay our bill on the way out.
After all, you're going

472 Arthur Hailey

to need every last cent you have for
a defense lawyer, and tomorrow I
suggest you look for one. Or if you
really can't afford it, you may have
to take a public defender, though
they're not very good, I'm afraid."

"Don't go!" He reached out to
grasp her arm and said wearily, "Oh,
for Christ's sake, sit down."

Cynthia returned to the bench but
said nothing.

Jensen's voice was resigned.
"Okay, if you want me to spell it
out, I surrender . . . re-surrender.
I know you hold all the aces, and I
know you'd use them and never have
a moment's regret. So let's go back
to where we were."

Cynthia asked, "You're sure of
that?"

He nodded submissively. "Sure."

"Then remember that the date for
it all to happen must be as close as
possible to mid-August." She was all
business once more, as if the past
few minutes had not occurred. "We
won't meet again, not for a long
time. You can phone me at the
apartment, but keep it short and be
careful what you say. And when you
tell me the date, add five days to
the real one and I'll subtract five.
Is that clear?"

"It's clear."

"Now, is anything else on your
mind?"

"One thing," Jensen answered. "All
this conspiracy stuff has given me
a raging hard-on. How about it?"

She smiled. "I can hardly wait.
Let's get the hell out of here and
find a motel."

As they left the restaurant
together she said, "Oh, by the way,
take good care of this." And passed
him the leather case.

Despite Jensen's commitment to
Cynthia and his acceptance of her
money, doubts still plagued him. AIM
the

DETECTIVE 473

mention of seeking a lawyer kindled
an idea.

Every Tuesday, Jensen played
racquetball at Miami's Downtown
Athletic Club along with another
regular named Stephen Cruz. The two
had met there and after many months
shared an easy camaraderie on the
court. Jensen had learned from other
club members and media reports that
Cruz was a successful criminal
defense lawyer. One afternoon, while
he and Cruz were showering after a
tough, satisfying game, Jensen said
on impulse, "Stephen, if a day ever
came that I was in legal trouble and
needed help, could I call on you?"

Cruz was startled. "Hey, I hope you
haven't been doing anything . . ."

Jensen shook his head. "Nothing at
all. It was only a passing thought."

"Well, of course, the answer's yes."

They left it there.

5

Two hundred thousand dollars in
cash exactly. Jensen had counted it
in the bedroom of his apartment, not
note by note, which would have taken
too long, but by rifting through the
various bundles and keeping a
penciled tally as he progressed. The
notes were all used, he was relieved
to see, with denominations mixed.
Hundred-dollar bills were in the
majority, and all were the new
counterfeitproof hundreds introduced
in 1996 another advantage, Jensen
reasoned, aware that despite U.S.
government propaganda claiming the
old-type hundreds were mainly okay,
many people and businesses declined
to accept them since countless
quantities worldwide were fake, and
those who got stuck with them lost
out.

Fifties were the next largest in
number; no problem there, even
though a new fifty-dollar bill was
due soon. And there were many
bundles of twenties, though those
took more space, but nothing
smaller.

Jensen suspected that Cynthia had
specified precisely the types
of-bills the assortment was typical
of her thoroughness and had brought
them from the Cayman Islands,
probably spread over several
journeys there and back. Bringing
more than ten thousand dollars into
the

DETECTIVE 475

United States without making a
customs declaration was technically
illegal, but Cynthia had once told
him that U.S. Customs in Miami
seldom bothered Miami police
officers, especially senior
officers, if they discreetly showed
an identification badge.

Cynthia, of course, had no idea
that Jensen knew about her Caymans
wealth. Four years ago, however,
when they had been together in her
Grand Cayman hotel room, Cynthia,
complaining of an upset stomach, had
excused herself and gone to the
bathroom. Jensen had seized the
opportunity to open a briefcase she
had left in view. Searching quickly
through the papers inside, he had
come across a Cayman bank statement
showing a credit in Cynthia's name
of more than five million dollars,
at which he whistled softly. There
was also a letter from someone
called Uncle Zack certifying that a
recent deposit was a gift, and some
other papers clipped together
indicated that Cynthia had informed
the IRS about the account and had
paid taxes on the interest. Pretty
smart, Jensen thought.

Without knowing what use he could
make of the information, or if it
would ever have any use, he pulled
out a notebook and swiftly wrote
down basics; he would have liked to
make copies, but there wasn't time.
What he had, though, were
essentials the name of the Cayman
bank, an account number, and the
latest balance; Cynthia's tax
consultant's name, with a Fort
Lauderdale address; an IRS letter
with date and reference, and who had
signed it; and, for what it was
worth, the name "Uncle Zack." Later
Jensen removed the page from his
notebook, dated and signed it, and
preserved it carefully.

Jensen had another thought about
Cynthia's Cayman bounty an instinct,
really which came to him in stages:
she didn't think of it as real money
and would probably never use it for
herself; therefore she would not be
overly

476 Arthur Halley

concerned about how much went out
and who received it. He was sure,
for instance, that she suspected
Jensen had lied to her about the
amount needed to pay Virgilio, and
that he intended to keep some of
that money himself in addition to
the large sum afterward that Cynthia
had agreed to pay him personally.

Jensen was cheating, of course, and
had no intention of offering
Virgilio more than eighty thousand
dollars to do the Ernst killings,
though he might go to a hundred
thousand if he had to. As he thought
about it all while putting the bills
back in the attache case, Jensen
smiled. And his upbeat feeling
continued, effectively banishing the
doubts and fears he had felt at the
Homestead restaurant.

Five days later, shortly after 7:00
P.M., a buzzer sounded in Jensen's
third-floor apartment on Brickell
Avenue. The buzzer was actuated from
a push-button panel outside the main
entrance below. Using an intercom
system, he responded, "Yes, who is
it?" There was no answer, and he
repeated the question. After a
second silence, he shrugged and
turned away.

A few minutes later the same
process was repeated. Jensen was
irritated but thought nothing of it;
sometimes neighborhood kids played
with the buzzer system. A third
time, though, it occurred to him
that someone was sending a message,
so it was with slight unease that he
left the apartment and went
downstairs. But apart from a fellow
tenant who was entering the main
door, no one was in sight.

Jensen had parked his Volvo on the
street outside, and on impulse he
left the building and walked toward
it. As he did so, he was startled to
see a figure filling the front
passenger seat; moments later he
realized it was Virgilio.

DETECTIVE 477

Jensen had locked the car before
leaving it, and now, using a key to
open the driver-side door, he was
about to ask, "How the hell did you
get in?" then changed his mind.
Virgilio had already demonstrated he
was a person of apt talents.

Motioning with an enormous hand,
the Colombian instructed, "Drive."

Behind the wheel, and with the
motor running, Jensen asked,
"Anywhere special?"

"Someplace quiet."

For about ten minutes Jensen drove
aimlessly, then turned into the
parking area of a closed hardware
store, turned off the engine and
lights, and waited.

"You talk," Virgilio ordered. "You
have job for me?"

"Yes." Patrick saw no reason not to
come directly to the point. "I have
friends who want two people killed."
~

"Who your friends?"

"You will not know. That way, it is
safer for everyone."

"Okay." Virgilio nodded. "The ones
to die important people?"

"Yes. One is a city commissioner."

"Then cost much money."

"I will pay you eighty thousand
dollars," Jensen said.

"No good." The Colombian shook his
head vigorously. "Much more. One
hunnert fifty."

"I don't have that much. I could
maybe get one hundred thousand, but
no more."

"Then no deal." Virgilio put his
hand on the car door as if to leave,
then stopped. "One hunnert twenty.
Half now, half when job done."

The haggling had gone far enough,
Jensen thought, regretting that he
hadn't started at a lower figure,
like fifty thousand. Still, even a
hundred and twenty left eighty thou

478 Arthur HoHey

sand for himself, plus the
subsequent payment Cynthia had
promised, and he knew she would keep
her word.

"I'll have the sixty thousand
ready in two days," he said. "You
can call me the same way you did
tonight."

The big man grunted his agreement,
then gestured to the car's steering
wheel. "Where those people live? You
show me."

Why not? Jensen reasoned. Starting
the engine again, he drove to
Biscayne Boulevard and Bay Point,
stopping short of the exclusive
community's security checkpoint.

"The house is inside that fenced
area," he reported. "You can be sure
the fence has an alarm system, and
there are security guards."

"I find way in. You have map showing
house?"

Jensen opened the car's glove
compartment, where he had placed a
copy of the real-estate brochure
Cynthia had given him five days
earlier. The original he had kept
himself, storing it in a safe
location. He pointed to the page
that showed the Bay Point streets,
the lot marked X, and bearing
Cynthia's handwritten note:

D.maid in early, leaves 4p.
P's Thurs out late afternoon, back midnite

"That's important," Jensen said,
and explained the maid's working
hours and the once-a-week absences
of the butler and his wife.

"Good!" Virgilio pocketed the
brochure. He had screwed up his face
while listening, clearly
concentrating to memorize
everything, and twice had asked for
information to be repeated, nodding
his understanding when it was.
Jensen reminded himself that
whatever else Virgilio might be, he
was intelligent.