Arthur Hailey - Detective

Knowles escorted Cruz out. "If you want to deal, get back to us fast, and by fast I mean today."

* * *

"Oh Jesus! God! The whole of the rest of my life in jail. It's impossible, inconceivable!" Jensen's voice rose to a wail.

"It may be inconceivable," Stephen Cruz said. "But in your case it is not impossible. It's the best deal I could get you, and unless you prefer the electric chair which, in view of all you've told me, is a clear possibility I advise you to take it." In presenting hard facts to a client, as Cruz had learned long ago, there came a time when plain, blunt words were the only ones to use.

They were in an interview room at Dade County Jail. Jensen had been brought here, in restraints, from the cell to which he had been moved from Police Headquarters, a block away. Outside it was dark.

Cruz had had to get special clearance for the late interview, but a phone call from the state attorney's office had cleared the way.

"There is one other possibility, and as your legal counsel I'll point this out. That is, you do not produce the tape, and go to trial solely for the killings of Naomi and her man. In that event, though, you'd always have hanging over you the possibility that proof implicating you and Cynthia in the Ernsts' murders could come out later."

"It will come out," Jensen said glumly. "Now that I've told them, the cops especially Ainslie won't stop digging until they can prove it. Ainslie talked to Doil just before his execution, and afterward started to tell Cynthia something Doil had said about her parents, but she cut him off. I know Cynthia was scared stiff, wondering how much Ainslie had discovered."

"You know that Ainslie was once a priest?"

"Yeah. Maybe that gives him some special insights." Making a decision, Jensen shook his head. "I won't hold the tape and papers back. I want it all to come out now, partly because I've had enough of deceit and lies, and partly because whatever happens to me, I want Cynthia to get hers, too."

"In which case we're back to the plea bargain you've been offered," Cruz said. "I've promised to give an answer yes or no tonight."

It took another half hour, but in the end Jensen conceded tearfully, "I don't want to die in the chair, and if that's the only way not to, I suppose I'll take it." He gave a long, deep sigh. "A few years ago, when I was riding high, with everything I'd ever wanted coming true, I never dreamed that one day I'd be in this position."

"Unfortunately," Cruz acknowledged, "I meet others who say exactly the same thing."

As Cruz left the room, escorted by a guard, he called back, "Early tomorrow I'll make arrangements to get that tape and papers."

* * *

The next morning, at the First Union Bank at Ponce De Leon and Alcazar in Coral Gables, Malcolm Ainslie entered first. The bank had just opened, and he went directly to the manager's office; a secretary seemed ready to stop him, but he flashed his police badge and walked in.

The manager, fortyish and well dressed, saw Ainslie's credentials and smiled. "Well, I guess I was driving a little fast coming in this morning."

"We'll overlook it," Ainslie said, "if you'll help with a small problem."

He explained that a customer of the bank, now a prisoner, was waiting in an unmarked police car outside. He would be escorted to his safe-deposit box, which he would open, and the police would remove whatever the box contained. "This is entirely voluntary on your customer's part you may ask him if you wish so no warrant is needed, but we'd like to do the whole thing quickly and quietly."

"So would I," the manager said. "Do you have . . ."

"Yes, sir." Ainslie handed over a paper on which Jensen had written his name and the safe-deposit box number.

As he saw the name, the manager raised his eyebrows. "This is like a scene from one of Mr. Jensen's books."

"I suppose so," Ainslie said. "Except this isn't fiction. "

Earlier that morning, Friday, Ainslie had gone to where Jensen's personal effects, taken from him immediately after his arrest, were stored at Police Headquarters. Among the effects was a key ring from which Ainslie removed what was obviously a safe-deposit box key.

The process in the bank's safe-deposit vault was brief. Jensen, whose hands were free, though handcuffs secured his left hand to Ruby Bowe's right, went through the usual formality of signing, then opened his box with the key.

With the box removed from its housing, a woman technician from ID staff stepped forward. Wearing rubber gloves, she opened the box lid and took out four items: an apparently old, folded real-estate brochure, a small notebook page filled with handwriting, an airline ticket stub, and a tiny Olympus XB60 audiotape. The technician inserted everything in a plastic container, which she sealed.

The technician would rush the items to ID, where they would be checked for fingerprints, then two copies made of everything, including the tape, regarded as the most important. Ainslie would deliver the original items and one set of copies to the state attorney's office. The second set was for Homicide.

"Okay, that's it. Let's go," Ainslie said.

Only the manager, hovering in the background, had a question. "Mr. Jensen, I notice the box is now empty. Will you be wanting it anymore?"

"Highly unlikely," Jensen told him.

"In that case, may I have the key?"

"Sorry, sir." Ainslie shook his head. "It's evidence; we'll have to retain it."

"But who will pay the box rent?" the manager asked as the visitors filed out.

The rest of Friday was a patchwork of sharing information. Ainslie delivered the original documents and tape, along with a set of copies, to Curzon Knowles at the attorney general's office. Ainslie returned to Homicide and, in the privacy of Leo Newbold's office, he, Newbold, and Bowe listened to their copy of the tape.

The sound quality was excellent, with every word from both Jensen and Cynthia Ernst audible and clear. Part way through, Bowe breathed excitedly, "It's exactly what Jensen promised. Everything is there!"

"You can tell he's steering the conversation," Newbold pointed out. "Cagily, but making sure he gets everything that matters on the tape."

"It's like Cynthia walked into her own mousetrap," Bowe observed.

Malcolm Ainslie, his thoughts in turmoil, said nothing.

* * *

A phone call from the state attorney's office, requesting Ainslie's presence, came in late afternoon. He was shown into Adele Montesino's office. Curzon Knowles was with her.

"We've listened to the tape," Montesino said. "I presume you have as well."

"Yes, ma'am."

She nodded.

"I thought I should tell you this personally, Sergeant Ainslie," Montesino said. "The grand jury has been summoned for next Tuesday morning. We will be seeking three indictments of Commissioner Cynthia Ernst, the most important being for murder in the first degree and we'll require you as a witness."

Knowles added, "That gives us the weekend and Monday for preparation, Malcolm, and we'll need all of it arranging witnesses and evidence, including a statement from you about what Jensen has revealed, and a good deal more. If you don't mind, we'll go right from here to my office and begin."

"Of course," Ainslie murmured automatically.

"Before you go," Montesino said, "let me say this to you, Sergeant. I have learned that while everyone else accepted the Ernst murders as part of the other serial killings, you were the one the only one who didn't believe it and set out, with patience and great diligence, to prove the contrary, which you finally have. I want to thank and congratulate you for that, and in due course I'll convey those thoughts to others." She smiled. "Have a good night's rest. We have four tough days ahead."

* * *

Two hours later, driving home, Ainslie supposed he should feel a sense of triumph. Instead he felt nothing but overwhelming sadness.