Arthur Hailey: Detective

"You want lights and siren?" Jorge asked.

"Not yet. Let's see how it goes, but put your foot down and keep it there."

Traffic was light and they were already doing seventyfive, knowing that a marked police car, even out of Miami jurisdiction, would not be stopped for speeding.

Malcolm settled into his seat and gazed out the window. Then he reached for the cellular phone and entered his home number.

"I cannot believe this, Malcolm! I absolutely cannot believe it."

He told Karen unhappily, "I'm afraid it's true."

"You're afraid! Afraid of what?"

A moment earlier, on receiving Malcolm's call, Karen's first question had been, "Darling, when are you coming home?"

When he told her he wouldn't be home that night, the temper that she seldom showed exploded.

He tried to explain and justify what he was doing, but unsuccessfully.

Now she continued, "So you're afraid of offending that piece of human garbage who's about to be electrocuted, as he goddam well should be! Afraid of missing a juicy tidbit to one of your stupid cases? But not afraid, oh no! not afraid at all of disappointing your own son on his birthday. Your son, Malcolm, in case you've forgotten your son who's been looking forward to tomorrow, counting the days, counting on you . . ."

Ainslie thought miserably: everything Karen was saying was true. And yet . . . How could he make Karen understand? Understand that a cop, especially a Homicide detective, was always on duty. That he was obligated to go. That there was no way he could not respond to the call he'd received, no matter what was happening in his personal life.

He said flatly, "I feel terrible about Jason. You must know that."

"Must I? Well, I damn well don't know. Because if you cared at all, you'd be here with us now instead of on the way to that murderer the man you've put ahead of everything, especially your own family."

Ainslie's voice sharpened. "Karen, I have to go. I simply have no choice. None!"

When she didn't answer, he continued, "Look, I'll try to catch a flight out of Jacksonville and Gainesville, so I can join you in Toronto. You can take my suitcase."

"You're supposed to be traveling with us the three of us together! You, Jason, me your family! Or have you totally forgotten?"

"Karen, that's enough!"

"And of course there's the little matter of my father's birthday, the only seventy-fifth birthday he'll ever have, and who knows how many more there'll be. But clearly none of us count not in comparison to that creature 'Animal.' That's what you call him, isn't it? An animal who comes ahead of all of us."

He protested, "That isn't true!"

"Then prove it! Where are you now?"

Ainslie looked out at road signs on I-95. "Karen, I cannot turn around. I'm sorry you don't understand, but the decision's been made."

Briefly his wife was silent. When she resumed, her voice was choked and he knew she was close to tears. "Do you realize what you're doing to us, Malcolm?"

When he didn't answer, he heard a click as she hung up.

Dispirited, he switched off the cellular phone. He remembered guiltily the number of times he had disappointed Karen by putting official duty ahead of his family life. Karen's words of a week ago came back to him: Malcolm, our life simply cannot go on like this. He hoped desperately she didn't mean it.

Within the car a silence followed that Jorge had the good sense not to break. At length Ainslie said glumly, "My wife just loves being married to a cop."

Jorge rejoined warily, "Pretty mad, eh?"

"Can't think why." Ainslie added sourly, "All I did was screw up our vacation, all for the sake of having a chat with a killer who'll be dead by morning. Wouldn't any good husband do the same?"

Jorge shrugged. "You're a Homicide cop. Some things you just gotta do. Can't always explain them to outsiders." He added, "I'm never getting married."

Suddenly Jorge floored the accelerator, pulling out sharply to pass one car and cutting in ahead of another coming up behind. The second car's driver blasted his horn in protest.

Ainslie roared, "For Christ's sake! Cool it!" Then, turning in his seat, he waved to the car behind, hoping the driver would take it as an apology. He fumed, "It's Doil who's supposed to die tonight, not us."

"Sorry, Sergeant." Jorge grinned. "Got carried away with the need for speed."

Ainslie realized Leo Newbold was right. At times Jorge did drive like a madman, but his Cuban charm remained intact. His appeal clearly worked wonders on women as well a series of beautiful, sophisticated women who accompanied Jorge everywhere, seemed to adore him, then, for reasons never explained, were periodically replaced.

"With the kind of arrangements you have, why would you get married?" Ainslie said.

"At my age I need to keep my options open."

"Well, you're certainly doing that. You're a regular prime-time Romeo. You remember yesterday even Ernestine couldn't resist your charms."

"Sergeant, Ernestine's a hooker. Any guy with a wallet in his back pocket could charm her."

"I had forty-five Dollars in my pocket, and she didn't come on to me."

"No. Well, it's just that . . . I don't know . . . people respect you. Those girls would feel like they were propositioning their uncle."

Ainslie smiled and said quietly, "You did well yesterday, Jorge. I was proud of you."

And he leaned back in his seat. . .

* * *

An elderly tourist, Werner Niehaus, was driving a Cadillac rental car when he got lost in Miami's maze of numbered streets many of which had names as well, sometimes even two names. Getting lost happened often, even to locals. Unluckily, the bewildered German strayed into the notorious Overtown area, where he was attacked, robbed, and shot dead, his body then thrown from the rental car, which his attackers subsequently stole. It was a wanton, needless killing. Robbery presumably the objective could have been achieved easily without it.

A statewide BOLO "be on the lookout" was immediately issued for the missing car.

With the killing of foreign tourists already receiving international attention, pressure was building from the mayor, the city commissioners, and the chief of police downward for a speedy resolution. While nothing would undo the adverse publicity for Miami, a swift arrest might soften the negative edge.

The following morning, Jorge, accompanied by Malcolm Ainslie, cruised the Overtown area in an unmarked car in search of evidence or witnesses. Ainslie let Jorge take the lead, and near the corner of Northwest Third Avenue and Fourteenth Street he spotted two drug dealers, known to him by their street names, Big Nick and Shorty Spudman. There was an arrest warrant out for Shorty on an aggravated assault charge, a felony.

Jorge was quickly out of the car, followed by Ainslie. As the detectives approached from either side, cutting off any escape, Nick was stuffing something into his pants. He looked up casually. Jorge set the tone. "Hey, Nick, how's it going?"

The response was wary. "Okay, what it is, man."

The druggies and detectives eyed each other. They all knew that if the police of fleers exercised their right to stop and frisk, they would find drugs, perhaps weapons, in which case the dealers, both with lengthy records, could face long prison terms.

Jorge asked Shorty Spudman, who was five feet two and pockmarked "You hear about that German tourist murdered yesterday?"

"Heard on TV. Them punks doing shit to tourists people, they some real bad dudes."

"So there's talk on the street?"

"Some."

Ainslie picked up the exchange. "You guys can help yourself out if you give us names."

The invitation was clear: Let's make a deal. As Homicide detectives saw it, solving a murder took priority over most everything else. In return for information, lesser crimes would be ignored even an arrest warrant.