“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 seventy-five, 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.
2
“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 officers 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 f
or information, lesser crimes would be ignored—even an arrest warrant.
But Big Nick insisted, “Ain’t knowin’ no fuckin’ names.”
Jorge motioned to the car. “Then we’d all better take a ride to the station.” At Police Headquarters, as Nick and Shorty knew, a full-body search would be obligatory, and the arrest warrant could not be overlooked.
“Hold it!” Shorty offered. “Heard a coupla whores say last night there was a honky shot an’ two dudes took his car.”
Jorge: “Did the girls see it happen?”
Shorty shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Give with their names.”
“Ernestine Smart and one they call Flame.”
“Where can we find them?”
“Ernestine’s sleepin’ at River an’ Three. Dunno ’bout Flame.”
Jorge said, “You’re talking the homeless camp at Third and North River?”
“Yeah.”
“If you’ve given us shit,” Jorge told the pair, “we’ll come back and find you. If it turns out okay, we owe you.”
Jorge and Ainslie returned to their car. Locating one of the prostitutes took another hour.
The Third Street homeless camp was under I–95 and alongside the Miami River. Originally it had been a downtown parking area, and dozens of parking meters, unused, stood incongruously among countless cardboard packing cases and other flimsy shelters assembled from discarded junk—the whole crude, filthy mess resembling a hellhole in some fifth-rate country. Amid it all, human beings lived desperate, degraded lives. In and around the encampment, garbage was everywhere. Jorge and Ainslie left their car cautiously, knowing that at any moment they could step in a pile of excrement.
Ernestine Smart and Flame, they learned, jointly occupied a plywood box that, according to stencil marks, once had contained truck tires. It was now located on the river side of the former parking lot. A door had been cut in the box. It was padlocked on the outside.
Jorge and Ainslie moved on. Driving to “whore country”—Biscayne Boulevard and Northeast Eighth Street, Biscayne and Eleventh, East Flagler and Third Avenue—they questioned a few daytime prostitutes, asking about Ernestine and Flame. Neither had been seen that day, and eventually the detectives returned to the homeless shelters.
This time they found the roughly cut door of Ernestine and Flame’s plywood box unlocked and open. Jorge put his head into the dark interior.
“Hey, Ernestine. It’s your friendly neighborhood cop. How’s tricks?”
A husky voice came back. “If I had more I wouldn’t be livin’ in this pigpen. You wanna fuck, copper? For you it’s bargain day.”
“Damn! Just can’t take the time; got a murder to solve. Word on the street is you and Flame saw it.”
From the interior gloom, Ernestine peered out. Jorge guessed she was about twenty, despite the jaded attitude of a woman twice her age. She was black and once beautiful, but now her face was puffy and etched with lines. Her figure was good, though. A white jumpsuit showed a slim body and firm breasts. Ernestine saw Jorge’s eyes and seemed amused.
“We all see things,” she told him. “Doan’ always remember.”
“But you’ll remember if I help you?”
Ernestine smiled enigmatically. He knew the answer was yes.
That’s the way it was with prostitutes, and it was why detectives cultivated them as friends and allies. Prostitutes were full of information and would reveal it if they liked the cop or liked the deal. But they never volunteered anything; you had to ask the right questions.
Jorge began tentatively. “Were you by any chance working Northwest Third and Twelfth Street last night?”
“I dunno. Maybe.”
“Well, I was wondering if you saw two jitterbugs jump into a car driven by an older white guy, then shoot him and dump him out of the car.”
“No, but I did see a brother an’ this cheap-lookin’ ’fay chick make some old guy stop his car, then do what you said.”
Jorge glanced at Ainslie, who nodded, sensing pay dirt. “Let’s get this clear,” Jorge said. “It was a black male and a white woman?”
“Yeah.” Ernestine eyed him directly. “Before I say any more, you gonna hit my skin, man?”
“If what you tell us isn’t bullshit, it’ll be worth a hundred.”
“That’s cool.” She looked pleased.
“Do you know the names?”
“The black dude is Kermit the Frog. Looks like a frog; has funny bulgin’ eyes. He’s a bad one, always pullin’ his piece.”
“And the woman?”
“Heard her called Maggie, she’s always with Kermit. They hang at the diner over on Eight Street, an’ I saw them both get picked up for havin’ smack.”
“If I brought some photos, would you identify them?”
“Sure, sweetie, anything for you.” Reaching out, Ernestine touched Jorge’s cheek. “You’re kinda cute.”
He smiled, then pressed on. “What about Flame? Will she help us, too?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
Jorge was startled. “Him?”
“Flame’s a he-she,” Ernestine said. “Name’s Jimmy McRae.”
Ainslie groaned audibly. “Not as a witness. No way!”
Jorge nodded. A he-she, a male who wanted to undergo a sex change and meanwhile dressed and lived as a woman, was common in the libidinous underworld. On top of that, it seemed, Flame paraded as a female prostitute. There was no way such a kink could be produced in court; the jury would be turned off, so forget Flame. Ernestine would be a good witness, and they might find others.
Jorge told Ernestine, “If what you’ve told us checks out, we’ll stop by with your money in the next couple of days.”
That kind of payoff—an informer’s fee—was available from an expense account to which detectives had access.
At that moment Ainslie’s portable police radio announced his unit number, 1910.
He responded, “QSK,” meaning “Proceed with transmission.”
“Call your lieutenant.”
Using the same portable, which doubled as a phone, Ainslie gave Leo Newbold’s number.
“We have a break in the Niehaus case,” Newbold said. “State Police found the missing car with two suspects. They’re being brought here now.”
“Don’t tell me, sir,” Ainslie said, checking notes. “One black guy named Kermit, and a white girl, Maggie?”
“Right on! That’s them. How’d you know?”
“Jorge Rodriguez has a witness. A prostitute. Said she’ll make an ID.”
“Tell Jorge, nice going. Better get over here. Let’s wrap this up fast.”
The facts slowly emerged. A sharp-eyed Florida state trooper, who had memorized the previous day’s Miami Police BOLO, had spotted and stopped the wanted car and arrested its occupants—a black male, Kermit Kaprum, age nineteen, and Maggie Thorne, white female, twenty-three. They were carrying .38-caliber revolvers, which were sent for ballistics analysis.
They told uniform police that an hour or so earlier they had found the car abandoned, with the keys in the ignition, and had taken it for a joyride. It was a patently false story, though not contested by the uniforms, who knew that Homicide detectives would do the important questioning.
When Ainslie and Jorge reached Homicide, Kaprum and Thorne had already arrived and were being detained in separate interview rooms. A computer check revealed that both had criminal records, beginning at age eighteen. The young woman, Thorne, had served prison time for thefts and had misdemeanor convictions for prostitution. Kaprum had two convictions, for larceny and disorderly conduct. It was likely that both had records also as juvenile offenders.
Miami’s Homicide department was totally unlike the noisy, frenetic detective divisions seen on TV, with their easy public access and anything-goes behavior. Located on the fifth floor of the fortresslike downtown Miami Police Headquarters building, Homicide was reached by elevator from the main lobby. However, the fifth-floor doors would open only
with a special key-card. No one but Homicide detectives, civilian Homicide staff, and a few senior officers had key-cards. All other police personnel and the occasional visitor needed advance approval, and even then were accompanied by a key-card holder.
Prisoners and suspects brought to Homicide arrived via a guarded basement entrance and a secure elevator running directly up to the Homicide office. The result was a normally quiet, controlled environment.
Jorge Rodriguez and Malcolm Ainslie peered through one-way glass at the suspects seated in separate interview rooms.
“We need at least one confession,” Ainslie said.
“Leave it to me,” Jorge told him.
“You want to question both?”
“Yeah. I’ll take the girl first. Mind if I do it alone?”
Normally, two detectives would interview a murder suspect together, but Jorge’s previous successes solo were a persuasive argument, especially now.
Ainslie nodded. “Go ahead.”
As the session with the twenty-three-year-old Maggie Thorne began, Ainslie watched and listened through the observation window. The suspect looked pale and younger than her years, wearing stained, torn jeans and a dirty sweatshirt. If she put on a dress and washed her face, Ainslie thought, she’d be pretty. As it was, she seemed hard and edgy, rocking nervously in the metal chair to which she was handcuffed. When Jorge appeared she yanked on the cuffs, clanging them against the chair, and shouted, “Why the fuck do I have to wear these?”
Jorge smiled easily and moved to take them off. “How ya’ doin’, anyway? I’m Detective Rodriguez. Would you like some coffee or a cigarette?”
Thorne rubbed her wrists and muttered something about milk and sugar. She seemed a shade more relaxed, though her wariness persisted. A hard nut, Ainslie thought.
As usual, Jorge had brought a thermos, two Styrofoam cups, and cigarettes. He poured coffee for them both, talking at the same time. So you don’t smoke, eh? Me neither. Dangerous stuff, tobacco … (Not as dangerous as the girl’s .38, Ainslie thought.) … Sorry, you’ll have to drink it black … Hey, mind if I call you Maggie? I’m Jorge … See, I want to help you if I can. In fact, I think we can help each other … No, it’s not a load of horseshit. The truth is, Maggie, you’re in a lot of trouble and I’m trying to make things as easy for you as I can …