Arthur Hailey: Detective

He understood exactly what Karen meant. And he sympathized. But nothing was ever as simple as it seemed.

"Sergeant, are you still there?" Uxbridge's voice was demanding.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Well, are you coming or not?"

Ainslie hesitated. "Father, this confession by Doil would it be a confession in a general sense?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"I'm looking for a compromise not to have to come to Raiford. Would you agree to have Doil confess to you in the presence of a prison officer? That way it would be official, on the record."

A long shot, Ainslie knew, and the explosive reply didn't surprise him. "In God's name, no! The suggestion is outrageous! Our confession is sacred and private. You, especially, should know that."

"I suppose so. I apologize." At least he owed Uxbridge that. It had simply been a last-ditch attempt to avoid the journey. Now it seemed there was no alternative.

The fastest way to the State Prison was by air to Jacksonville or Gainesville, with the prison a short drive from either one. But the commercial flights all left during the day. Now the only way to reach Raiford before Doil's execution was to drive. Ainslie glanced at his watch. Eight hours. Allowing for time he'd need there, it was barely enough.

He beckoned to Rodriguez, who had been listening intently. Covering the receiver with his hand, Ainslie said quietly, "I need you to drive me to Raiford now. Check out a marked car. Make sure it has a full tank, then wait for me at the motor pool. And get a cell phone."

"Right, Sergeant." Briskly, Jorge disappeared through the outer door.

The priest continued, his anger sharper now, "I'll make this clear, Ainslie. I find communicating with you distasteful. I am doing it, against my conscience, because I was asked by this pathetic man, who is about to die. The fact is, Doil knows you were once a priest. He will not confess to me; he has told me so. In his warped, misguided mind he wishes to confess to you. The thought is thoroughly repugnant to me, but I must respect the man's wishes."

Well, there it was, out in the open.

From the moment he heard Ray Uxbridge's voice on the phone, Ainslie had expected it. Experience had taught him two things. One, that his own past had a habit of surfacing unexpectedly, and clearly Uxbridge knew of it. Also, no one was more bitter or prejudiced toward an ex-Catholic priest than an incumbent priest. Most others were tolerant, even Catholic laity, and clergy of other denominations. But never priests. In his jaded moments, Ainslie attributed it to envy the fourth deadly sin.

It had been ten years since Ainslie quit the priesthood. Now he said into the phone, "Look, Father, as a police officer the only kind of confession I'm interested in concerns the crime or crimes Animal committed. If he wants to tell me the truth about that before he dies, I'll listen, and of course I'll have some questions."

"An interrogation?" Uxbridge asked. "Why, at this stage, is that needed?"

Ainslie could not contain himself. "Don't you ever watch TV? Haven't you seen those little windowless rooms where we sit with suspects and ask a lot of questions?"

"Mr. Doil is not a suspect anymore."

"He was a suspect in some other crimes; anyway, it's in the public interest to find out all we can."

Uxbridge asked skeptically, "The public interest, or to satisfy your own personal ambition, Sergeant?"

"As far as Animal Doil is concerned, my ambition was satisfied when he was found guilty and sentenced. But I have an official duty to learn all the facts I can."

"And I am more concerned with this man's soul."

Ainslie smiled slightly. ''Fair enough. Facts are my business, souls are yours. Why don't you work on Doil's soul while I'm on my way, and I'll take over when I get there?"

Uxbridge's voice deepened. "I insist on a commitment from you right now, Ainslie, that in any exchange you have with Doil, there will be no pretense that you possess any pastoral authority whatever. Furthermore "

"Father, you have no authority over me."

"I have the authority of God!" Uxbridge boomed.

Ainslie ignored the theatrics. "Look, we're wasting time. Just tell Animal I'll be at the prison before he checks out. And I assure you there will be no pretenses about my role there."

"Do I have your word on that?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, of course you have my word. If I wanted to parade as a priest, I wouldn't have left the priesthood, would I?"

Ainslie hung up.

* * *

Quickly picking up the phone again, he punched out the number of Lieutenant Leo Newbold, commander of Homicide, who was off duty and at home. A pleasant woman's voice, tinged with a Jamaican accent, answered, "Newbold residence."

"Hello, Devina. This is Malcolm. May I speak to the boss?"

"He's sleeping, Malcolm. Do you want me to wake him?"

" 'Fraid so, Devina. Sorry."

Ainslie waited impatiently, checking his watch, calculating the distance, the drive, and the time. If nothing got in their way they could make it. But with no time to spare.

He heard a click as an extension phone was lifted, then a sleepy voice. "Hi, Malcolm. What the hell is this? Aren't you supposed to be on vacation?" Leo Newbold had the same distinctive Jamaican accent as his wife.

"I thought so, too, sir. But something's come up."

"Doesn't it always? Tell me."

Ainslie summarized his conversation with Father Uxbridge, and the urgency to leave at once. "I called for your okay."

"You have it. Who's driving you?"

"I'm taking Rodriguez."

"That's good. But watch him, Malcolm. The guy drives like a mad Cuban."

Ainslie smiled. "Right now that's exactly what I need."

"Will this mess up your family vacation?"

"Probably. I haven't called Karen yet. I'll do it on the way."

"Oh shit! I'm really sorry."

Ainslie had told Newbold of their special plans for tomorrow, which would mark both the eighth birthday of their son, Jason, and the seventy-fifth birthday of Jason's maternal grandfather, Brigadier-General George Grundy, ax-Canadian Army. The Grundys lived in a suburb of Toronto. For the dual celebration an elaborate family reunion was planned.

Newbold queried, "What time does that Toronto flight leave here?"

"Five after nine."

"And what time are they burning Animal?"

"Seven."

"Which means you'll be away by eight. Too late to get back to Miami. Have you checked Toronto flights from Jacksonville or Gainesville?"

"Not yet." "Let me work on that, Malcolm. Call me from the car in about an hour."

"Thanks. Will do."

On the way out of Homicide, Ainslie gathered up a tape recorder and the equipment to conceal it under his clothing. Whatever Doil's last statement, his words would live beyond him.

* * *

On the Police Building main floor, Jorge Rodriguez was waiting at the Patrol Office.

"Car's signed out. Slot thirty-six. And I got the cell phone." Jorge was the youngest Homicide detective, in many ways a protege of Ainslie's, and his eagerness was an asset now.

"Let's move it."

They exited the building at a jog, feeling at once the oppressive humidity that had blanketed Miami for days. Ainslie glanced at the sky, which, apart from a few small cumulus clouds, was clear, with stars and a half moon.

Minutes later, with Jorge at the wheel, they left the Police Department parking lot, making a fast turn onto Northwest Third Avenue. Two blocks later they were on the Interstate 95 northbound ramp, from where they would continue north for ten miles, then switch to Florida's Turnpike, with three hundred miles ahead.

It was 11:10 P.M,

The marked car for which Ainslie had asked was a fully equipped, air-conditioned Miami Police blue-and-white Chevrolet Impala, unmistakably official.