“I have one more diary piece to read, and maybe it’s the most important,” Ruby said. “This is Mrs. Ernst four months before she and Gustav were killed:
“‘I’ve caught Cynthia looking at us sometimes. I believe a fierce hatred for us both is there. It’s part of Cynthia’s nature that she never forgives. Never! She doesn’t forgive anyone for even the smallest offense against her. She gets back at them somehow, makes them pay. I’m sure we made her that way. Sometimes I think she’s planning something for us, some kind of revenge, and I’m afraid. Cynthia is very clever, more clever than us both.’”
Ruby put her notepad down. “I’ve done what you asked me to. There’s just one thing left.” She saw Ainslie’s troubled face, and her expression softened. “This must have been hard for you, Sergeant.”
He said uncertainly, “What do you mean?”
“Malcolm, we all know why you were never made lieutenant. By now you should probably be a captain.”
He sighed. “So you know about Cynthia and me …” He let his words tail off.
“Of course. We all knew it while it was happening. We’re detectives, aren’t we?”
In other circumstances Ainslie might have laughed. But something dark and unspoken was hanging in the air. “So what’s left?” he asked. “You said there was one thing. What?”
“There’s a sealed box in Property that was brought in with the others from the Ernst crime scene, but has Cynthia’s name on it. It looks as if she stored it in her parents’ house and it got caught up with all the rest.”
“Did you check who signed the box in?”
“Sergeant Brewmaster.”
“Then it’s official evidence, and we have the right to open it.”
“I’ll get it,” Ruby said.
The cardboard carton that Ruby brought was similar to the others, with the same CRIME SCENE EVIDENCE tape around it. But when that tape was removed there was more tape beneath, colored blue, bearing the initials “C.E.,” and secured by sealing wax at several points.
“Take that off carefully and save it,” Ainslie instructed.
A few minutes later Ruby had opened the carton flaps and folded them back. Both peered inside, where several plastic bags were visible, each containing an object. One, near the top, was a gun that looked like a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. In another bag was an athletic shoe, with another shoe beneath. Both shoes bore stains. A fourth bag contained what appeared to be a T-shirt with a similar stain. There were other plastic bags below; in one, a portion of a recording tape was visible. Each bag had a label attached, with handwriting that Ainslie recognized as Cynthia’s.
He could hardly believe what he was seeing.
Ruby was puzzled. “Why is this here?”
“It was never intended to be. It was concealed in the Ernst house and, just as you said, brought here by mistake.” Ainslie added, “Don’t touch anything, but see if you can read what’s written about the gun.”
She leaned closer. “It says, ‘The weapon which P.J. used to shoot his ex-wife Naomi with her friend Kilburn Holmes.’ There’s a date. ‘August twenty-first’—six years ago.”
“Oh Jesus!” Ainslie said in a whisper.
Ruby straightened, facing him. “I don’t understand any of this. What is it?”
He answered grimly, “The artifacts of an unsolved homicide. Unsolved until now.”
Although the Jensen-Holmes case was not handled by Ainslie’s Homicide team, he remembered it well because of Cynthia’s long association with the novelist Patrick Jensen. He recalled again that Jensen had been a strong suspect following the murders of his ex-wife and her young male friend, killed by .38-caliber bullets from the same gun. Jensen was known to have purchased a Smith & Wesson .38-caliber revolver two weeks earlier, but claimed to have lost the gun, and no murder weapon was found. In the absence of specific evidence, no charges were laid.
An obvious question: Was the gun in the box just unsealed the missing weapon? Another: If the evidence was real, why had Cynthia labeled it, then concealed it for six years? Such labeling was routine for a trained Homicide detective, which Cynthia was. Concealing evidence was not.
Ruby broke in. “Does this ‘unsolved homicide’ fit in somehow with the Ernst murders?”
It was one more question Ainslie was already asking himself. The questions were endless. Was Patrick Jensen involved in the Ernst murders? If so, was Cynthia protecting him from that, as well as from an earlier crime?
Weighing it all, Ainslie felt a mood of deep depression sweep over him. “Right now I’m not sure of anything,” he told Ruby. “What we do need is an ID crew to go through this box.”
He lifted the tiny office’s single phone.
Part Four
THE PAST
1
Cynthia Ernst could remember the precise moment when she decided that someday she would kill her parents. She was twelve years old, and two weeks earlier she had given birth to her father’s child.
A plainly dressed, middle-aged woman had arrived unannounced at the family’s mansion in the exclusive, security-protected Bay Point community on Biscayne Bay. Producing credentials that described her as a child welfare worker, she had asked the housekeeper for Mrs. Ernst.
When Cynthia heard the stranger’s voice she moved quietly into the corridor outside the main-floor drawing room, where her mother had taken the woman and closed the door behind them. Equally quietly, Cynthia opened the door just enough to peer through and listen.
“Mrs. Ernst, I’m here officially to talk about your daughter’s baby,” the woman was saying. She looked about her, seemingly impressed by her surroundings. “I have to say that in matters like this, there’s usually poverty and family neglect. Clearly that isn’t the case here.”
“There has been no neglect, I assure you. Quite the contrary.” Eleanor Ernst spoke quietly and carefully. “My husband and I have cared for our daughter devotedly ever since she was born, and dearly love her. As to what has happened, we are as distressed as any couple can be, though we tell ourselves that somehow we’ve failed miserably as parents.”
“Perhaps it will help if we talk about the background. How, for example, did your daughter …” The visitor consulted a notebook. “Your daughter Cynthia … what were the circumstances under which she became pregnant? And what about the father? What do you know of him—especially his age?”
Cynthia moved even closer to the doorway, not wanting to miss a word.
“The truth is, we know nothing at all about the child’s father, and Cynthia has refused to tell us.” Eleanor’s voice was little more than a whisper. She dabbed at her eyes with a small handkerchief, then continued, “Unfortunately, young as she is, our daughter has had many boyfriends. I am sorry to say this, but I am afraid she is shamefully promiscuous. My husband and I have been worried about her for some time.”
“In that case, Mrs. Ernst”—the welfare woman’s voice had sharpened—“wouldn’t it have been logical to seek professional advice? You and your husband are informed people and must know such facilities exist.”
“In retrospect, perhaps we should have. But the fact is we didn’t.” Eleanor added pointedly, “It’s always easy for others to have hindsight.”
“Do you plan to have counseling now? And to include your daughter?”
“Gustav and I may well consider that. Until now the preparations we’ve had to make have preoccupied us. After the awful event, the child was put up for adoption—we’d made prearrangements.” Eleanor paused. “Do I really have to answer these questions? My husband and I have been hoping for total privacy.”
The visitor had been making entries in her notebook. “The welfare of a child overrides privacy, Mrs. Ernst. But if you doubt our agency’s right of inquiry, you can always ask your lawyer.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Eleanor had become placating. “I will tell you that my husband and I, and also Cynthia, have learned a great deal from what has occurred. In a way it has drawn the thr
ee of us closer. We have had long talks, and Cynthia has given her solemn word that from now on she will mend her ways.”
“Perhaps I should talk with your daughter.”
“I’d much prefer you didn’t. In fact, I beg of you not to. Something like that would almost certainly undo all the progress we have made.”
“Are you really sure?”
“I truly am.”
Nowadays, as an adult, Cynthia sometimes wondered why she hadn’t barged in at that moment and blurted out the truth. Then she realized that while such an action would have embarrassed her parents and prompted questions, in the long run she most likely would not have been believed. She had read of notorious child-abuse cases in which adults who denied such charges were believed, and children weren’t. The accused adults could hire fee-hungry practitioners who skillfully demolished children’s statements, while the children—even if they understood—had no such recourse.
In any case, Cynthia—perhaps with instinctive insight—did not burst in, and the two women’s voices faded as, having heard enough, she moved away.
Ten minutes later her mother and the welfare worker emerged, Eleanor accompanying the visitor to the front door and closing it after her. As she turned, Cynthia stepped into view and faced her mother.
Eleanor paled. “Cynthia! My God! How long have you been there?”
Cynthia glared back, silently, her gaze fierce and accusing. In most respects she still looked like a twelve-year-old girl, with short brown bangs and freckles, but her eyes, intensely green and filled with resolve, belonged to a much older woman.
Eleanor Ernst’s hands were clasped nervously together, her eyes shifting. She was elegantly dressed, with coiffed hair and high heels. “Cynthia,” she said, “I insist you tell me how long you’ve been there. Have you been listening?”
Still no words.
“Stop looking at me like that!” As Eleanor took a few steps forward, Cynthia stepped back.
After several moments her mother drew her hands to her face and quietly wept. “You heard, didn’t you? Oh, darling, I had no choice; surely you see that. You know I love you. Please give Mommy a hug. You know I’d never hurt you … Please let me hold you.”
Cynthia watched with an expression of utter detachment, then slowly turned and walked away.
The lying, hypocritical words she had heard her mother speak were seared forever in her mind. She already hated her father for his physical abuse from the earliest moments she remembered. In some ways she despised her mother even more. Even at twelve, Cynthia knew that her mother could have, and should have, sought outside help, and her failure to do so could never be forgiven.
But Cynthia, clever and shrewd even at twelve, swallowed her rage for the sake of her future. To realize all her burgeoning plans, she needed her parents—especially their contacts and resources. Therefore, as time went on, in public she maintained a veneer of politeness and occasional affection. In private she rarely spoke to them.
Her father, she knew, accepted the deception, grateful for the image it conveyed to outsiders. Her mother behaved as though not a thing in the world was wrong.
And if either parent ever disagreed with her wishes, Cynthia would cross her arms and look at them with a cold, steady glare, as if to say, I know what you did to me, and you know, too. Wouldn’t it be better if no one else knew? Take your choice.
This unspoken threat, an appeal to their shame, guilt, and cowardice, worked unfailingly. After a few tense, awkward moments, Gustav Ernst would invariably yield under the fierceness of his daughter’s gaze and mumble, “I simply don’t know what to do with you.”
Eleanor, as usual, would shrug helplessly.
A disagreement between both sides emerged a couple of years later when Cynthia’s schooling became an issue.
She had attended elementary and middle schools in Miami, and her report cards rated her an outstanding student. What Gustav and Eleanor planned next, at age fourteen, was a highly regarded private day school in Coral Gables, called Ransom-Everglades. But Cynthia, at fourteen, had other ideas. At the last moment, when the Ransom-Everglades arrangements were virtually complete, she announced that she would go to Pine Crest, a boarding school in Fort Lauderdale, some twenty-five miles north of Miami. She had applied to the school herself and agreed to attend when they accepted her.
Gustav was totally opposed. “You deliberately went against our wishes,” he said over dinner that night. “If we had selected Pine Crest, you would have wanted Ransom-Everglades.”
Eleanor watched helplessly, knowing that Cynthia would eventually have her way.
And so she did, employing her usual technique. Sitting at the dinner table, she did not touch her food. Instead she stared resolutely at her father, a glint of absolute power in her eyes, until he finally put down his fork and huffed, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, do whatever you want.”
Cynthia nodded, rose from the table, and went to her room.
Four years later it all happened again, when Cynthia was poised to enter college. Now she was eighteen and possessed the cunning and beauty of a full-grown woman. Cynthia knew her mother desperately wanted her to attend Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts, Eleanor’s prestigious alma mater, and for four years had let Eleanor believe she would.
Cynthia looked to be a strong candidate; she had a four-point grade average at Pine Crest and was inducted into the National Honor Society. Also, Eleanor was a substantial financial donor to Smith, which supposedly didn’t count, though possibly did.
The letter of acceptance was sent to the Ernsts’ home and Eleanor opened it. She immediately called Cynthia at school to relay the news.
“Yes, I expected they’d take me,” Cynthia said coolly.
“Darling, I can’t tell you how thrilled I am. I want to have a celebration. How about dinner on Saturday? Are you free?”
“Sure, sounds fine.”
Already Cynthia was enjoying the symmetry of events, and the following Saturday evening the three of them sat at the same long oak dining table, her parents at each end, Cynthia in the middle. The table was set with their best Herend china and English linen. Candles were lit. Cynthia had even put on a formal dress. Her parents, she could see, were glowing with happiness.
Then, after pouring the wine, her father raised his glass and said, “To another generation of Smith graduates!”
“Hear, hear!” Eleanor echoed. “Oh, Cynthia, I’m so proud of you. After graduating from Smith, the world will be waiting for you.”
Toying with her own wineglass, Cynthia said, “That might be true, Mother, if I were going to Smith.” Amused, she watched her mother’s happiness fall away. They had been through this drill so many times that every nuance was predictable.
“Whatever do you mean?” her father asked.
“I applied to Florida State at Tallahassee,” Cynthia answered brightly. “They accepted me last week, and I’ve told them I’m coming.” She raised her wineglass. “So how about that toast? To Tallahassee!”
Eleanor was too aghast to speak.
Her husband’s brow was suddenly beaded with perspiration. “You will not go to that pathetic state school instead of Smith. I forbid it!”
At the other end of the table, Eleanor stood up. “Do you have any idea what a privilege it is to be accepted at Smith? The tuition there is more than twenty thousand dollars a year. Doesn’t that tell you how exclusive—”
“At Tallahassee it’s three thousand,” Cynthia interrupted. “Think of the money you’ll save.” She regarded her parents placidly.
“Do you think we care … Oh!” Eleanor buried her face in her hands.
Gustav pounded the table. “That will not work this time, young lady!”
Now Cynthia stood, too, and glared at both parents in turn. The unspoken words were deafening.
Gustav tried to return her stare, but, as had happened before, he looked away and sighed. Finally, shrugging in defeat, he left. Seconds later, Eleanor followed.
> Cynthia sat down and finished her dinner.
Three years later, having completed four years’ worth of courses, Cynthia graduated from Florida State University with highest honors and membership in Phi Beta Kappa.
Cynthia had many male friends in high school and college, and to her surprise, she found she enjoyed sex, despite childhood memories. As she saw it, however, sex was all about power. She would never, ever, again be a docile partner. In every sexual relationship she sought to dominate, no matter what kind of sex was involved, or with whom. A further surprise was that men enjoyed her dominance. Most became more aroused because of it. One partner, a linebacker, said after an intense night of lovemaking, “Jesus, Cyn, you’re sexy as hell, but cruel.”
Still, for all her involvements, Cynthia never fell in love, never allowed herself to. She simply was not prepared to relinquish that much independence.
Much later the same game plan was partially true of her affair with Malcolm Ainslie. Like most of the men who preceded him, he enjoyed her “sexual calisthenics,” as he once labeled them, and responded in kind. But Cynthia never quite possessed Malcolm, or dominated him totally as she had others; there was a strength within him she could never overcome. During their affair she had tried to break up Malcolm’s marriage—with mischief, a close cousin of power, as her sole objective. She had not the slightest intention of marrying him herself—or anyone else, for that matter. To Cynthia, marriage represented little more than surrendering control, something she vowed she would never do.
In direct contrast to Malcolm was the novelist Patrick Jensen, whom Cynthia dominated from the moment they first met. Initially their relationship was about sex, though eventually it became more complex. Her alliances with both men began about the same time, though Cynthia kept the two apart, running—as she thought of it—on parallel tracks.
Patrick had been going through a difficult time when his liaison with Cynthia began, mainly because of the breakup of his marriage. His wife, Naomi, had divorced him and, after a bitter contest, won a handsome settlement. According to friends, during the seven years the Jensen marriage lasted, it was filled with Patrick’s tempestuous rages, prompting Naomi to make three complaints of physical abuse to police. Each time, they were withdrawn after Patrick promised to reform. He never did. Even following the divorce, Patrick publicly exhibited his jealousy of Naomi when she was with another man, and once had to be restrained.