Throughout the entire recital, Patrick Jensen scarcely moved. But his face was a mirror of successive emotions—incredulity at first, then disgust, anger, horror, and concern. At one point his eyes even brimmed with tears. At another he reached out as if to take Cynthia’s hand, but she withdrew it.
At the end he shook his head in anguish. “Unbelievable.” His voice was barely audible. “I can hardly believe—”
“Goddam! You’d better believe it,” Cynthia cut in sharply, combatively.
“I didn’t mean that … Give me a minute.” After a pause, “I do believe you. Every single thing. But it’s so—”
Impatiently, “So what?”
“So hard to find words to fit. In my life I’ve done bad things, but this kind of sick—”
“Oh, Patrick, get off it. You murdered two people.”
“Yeah, I know.” He grimaced. “I’m a shit, okay. Yes, I did kill—out of passion, or impulse, or whatever. But what I’m saying is that your parents, over a long period, with lots of time to think about what they were doing … well, the way I see it, your parents are the stinking scum of the earth.”
Cynthia said, “Good. So maybe you understand why I want to kill them.”
After the briefest hesitation, Jensen nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“So you will help me.”
For two hours Cynthia and Patrick Jensen talked—sometimes heatedly, occasionally calmly, at moments persuasively, but never lightly. Their thoughts, arguments, doubts, discussions, denials, threats, persuasions, were all arranged, discarded, and rearranged, like jumbled dominoes.
At one point Patrick tried: “And suppose I don’t say yes to your insane proposition, if I tell you the hell with it, go screw yourself. Then would you really open up that box of snakes that could put me in the chair? If you did that, you’d accomplish nothing.”
“Yes, I’d do it,” Cynthia answered. “I wouldn’t make the threat if I didn’t mean it. Besides, you deserve to be punished, if not by me, then for Naomi.”
“Then what would you do, Lady Noble Avenger?” Jensen’s voice was contemptuous. “Without me, how would you plow the killing fields?”
“I’d find someone else.”
And he knew she would.
Much later, Jensen argued, “I told you that what I did was a crime of passion; I admitted that, and wish I could undo it. But I couldn’t—simply know I couldn’t—do a cold-blooded, premeditated murder.” He threw up his hands. “Like it or not, that’s the way it is.”
“I know all that,” Cynthia said. “I’ve known it all along.”
Jensen sputtered, “Then for God’s sake, why in hell—”
“I want you to arrange for someone else to do it,” she said calmly. “And pay them.”
Jensen inhaled a deep breath, held it, then let it out. Both his body and his brain felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Then, a moment later, he wondered: Why?
He already knew the answer. Cynthia, adroitly and with cynical psychology, had maneuvered him to a point where what she now proposed was the better of two choices: Go to prison for life, or perhaps pay the ultimate penalty of death for the murders of Naomi and her friend, or take a chance in arranging for someone else to do another killing for which he, Patrick, had no stomach. He might not even have to be present when it happened. There would be a chance of discovery and exposure, of course, with a penalty for that, too. But that had been the case since the night he killed Naomi.
Cynthia was smiling slightly as she watched him. “You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?”
“You’re a witch and a bitch!”
“But you’ll do it. You don’t really have a choice.”
Strangely, in his storyteller’s mind, Jensen was already thinking of it as a game. He supposed it was perverse, undoubtedly despicable. Just the same, it was a game that he could play and win.
“I know you’ve been hanging out with a pretty scummy crowd lately,” Cynthia prompted. “All you have to do is find the right guy.”
In fact, Jensen had been slowly immersing himself in the criminal underworld, beginning more than two years earlier when he decided to write a novel about drug trafficking. In the course of researching the story he had sought out some small-time drug dealers—not difficult because of his own occasional cocaine use—who, in turn, had referred him to bigger sharks.
Two or three of those bigger operators, while agreeing to meet him out of curiosity, were slow to relax, but finally decided that a real, live author, “a smart guy with his name on books,” could be trusted. The inherent vanity of most career criminals and the compulsion to be noticed also opened doors for Jensen. In bars and nightclubs, with drinks and confidences flowing, a question he often encountered was “You gonna put me in a book?” His stock answer was “Maybe.” Thus, in time, Jensen’s criminal acquaintanceships widened, beyond what he needed for research, and he began doing some occasional drug deals and drug transporting himself, surprised to find how easy it was, and how pleasantly profitable.
The profit was helpful because his crime novel did not do well, nor did another that followed, and it appeared that Patrick’s high-flying best-seller days might be over. At the same time he had made some bad investments, based on poor advice, and his accumulated money was diminishing alarmingly.
The combined factors made Cynthia’s bizarre objective at least more feasible, not entirely unthinkable, perhaps even interesting.
“You know we’ll have to pay someone a lot for this job,” he said to Cynthia. “And I don’t have that kind of money.”
“I know,” she said. “But I have plenty.” And she did.
Gustav Ernst, as part of his attempts to make peace with his daughter after the long years of abuse, had given Cynthia a generous monthly allowance, which supplemented her salary and enabled her to live well. For her part, she accepted it as her due.
In addition, Gustav also arranged for substantial sums of money to be placed in a Cayman Islands bank account in Cynthia’s name. But Cynthia had not acknowledged the Caymans money or used any of it, though the accumulated amount, she knew, was now in excess of five million dollars.
For many years Gustav Ernst had been a successful financial entrepreneur; his specialty was buying major interests in small, innovative companies in need of venture capital. His instincts were uncanny. Most companies he chose would burgeon in a short time, their stock soaring, at which point Gustav sold out. His net worth reputedly was sixty million dollars.
Gustav’s younger brother, Zachary, had shed his United States citizenship as increasing numbers of wealthy Americans were doing to avoid punitive taxation. Now Zachary divided his residency between the Caymans and the Bahamas, both congenial, sunny tax havens. It was Zachary who opened Cynthia’s Cayman account and put money in it periodically, always as a tax-free “gift.” On each occasion Cynthia received a confirming letter along the following lines:
My dear Cynthia:
I do hope you will accept the latest gift I have placed in your account. These days I seem to have more money than I need, and since I have no wife, children, or other relatives, it gives me pleasure to pass these sums along to you. I trust you are able to make use of them.
From your affectionate
Uncle Zack
Cynthia knew the money was, in fact, from Gustav, who had his own arrangements with Zachary involving tax avoidance—or was it evasion? Cynthia neither knew nor cared, except for being aware that avoidance was legal, evasion illegal.
She did care, however, about her own legal position and, while not acknowledging the letters, saved them and sought a tax consultant’s advice.
He reported back, “The letters are fine. Keep them in case you ever need to prove the deposits were gifts and nontaxable. About your Cayman account and your receiving gifts there, all of that is perfectly in order. But each year on your U.S. tax return you must report having that account, and declare any interest earned as income. Then you’ll be in the clear.”
Subsequently one of Cynthia’s tax returns was audited and approved, with the consultant’s advice confirmed, so she never had to worry about breaking the law. Even so, she kept her Cayman wealth a secret from everyone except the consultant and the U.S. Internal Revenue Service. She had no intention of telling Jensen, either.
For a few minutes he had been silent, thinking.
“Plenty of money will be a help,” he resumed. “To do what you have in mind, making sure the killings stay unsolved and no one talks … the price will be steep—maybe two hundred thousand dollars.”
“I can pay that,” Cynthia said.
“How?”
“Cash.”
“Okay. So what’s our time frame?”
“There isn’t one—not yet. You can take however long you need to find the right person—someone who’s clever, tough, brutal, discreet, and totally reliable.”
“It won’t be easy.”
“That’s why you’ll have plenty of time.” She would savor the waiting, Cynthia thought, knowing that eventually her revenge, which she had planned so long ago, would be fulfilled.
“While you’re at it,” Patrick said, “figure on a lot of money for me, too.”
“You’ll get it, and part will be for protecting me. You are not to mention my name to whoever you hire. Don’t even hint of my involvement at any time, to anyone. Also, the fewer details I know, the better—except I must be told a date at least two weeks ahead.”
“So you can have an alibi?”
Cynthia nodded. “So I can be three thousand miles away.”
3
“Take however long you need,” Cynthia had told Patrick Jensen. But it was almost four years—certainly longer than Cynthia had intended—before the irrevocable steps were taken.
The intervening time passed quickly, however—particularly for Cynthia, who was climbing the promotion ladder at the Miami Police Department with exceptional speed. Yet neither Cynthia’s successes nor the passage of time tempered the hatred she felt toward her parents. Nor did it diminish her need for revenge. From time to time she reminded Jensen of his commitment to her, which he acknowledged, insisting that he was still looking for the right guy—someone resourceful, ruthless, brutal, and dependable. He had not, so far, appeared.
At times, in Jensen’s mind, the whole concept seemed eerie and unreal. As a novelist he had often written about criminals, but all of it was abstract—no more than words on a computer screen. The true darkness of crime, as he saw it then, was in a world that belonged to others—a whole different brand of people. Yet now he had become one of them. Through a single crazy act he had committed a capital crime and, in that instant, his formerly law-abiding life was gone. Did others enter the underworld in that same headlong, unplanned way? He supposed many did.
As time passed, he sometimes asked himself, What have you become, Patrick Jensen? And answered objectively, Whatever it is, you’ve gone too far; there can be no turning back … Virtue’s a luxury you can’t afford anymore … There was once a time for conscience, but that time has gone … If someone ever discovers and discloses what you’ve done, nothing—nothing at all—will be forgotten or forgiven … So survival is all that matters—survival at any cost … even at the cost of other lives …
All the same, Jensen was still haunted by that sense of unreality.
In contrast, he was sure, Cynthia had no such illusions. She possessed an inflexibility that never abandoned a target. He had seen that trait at work, knew that because of it he would not escape his mission as Cynthia Ernst’s surrogate executioner, and that if he failed her, she would keep her promise and destroy him.
In essence, Jensen came to realize, he was no longer the same person he had once been. Instead he had become a self-protective, ruthless stranger.
Despite the delay in her primary objective, Cynthia had taken care of a secondary one by using her senior rank, plus some biased research and use of old records, to thwart Malcolm Ainslie’s promotion to lieutenant. Her motives were clear enough, even to Cynthia. After a childhood of what amounted to complete and utter rejection, she was determined that no one—no one—would ever reject her again. But Malcolm had, and for that, she would never forget, never forgive.
Eventually, after the long delay in her final reckoning with Gustav and Eleanor Ernst, Cynthia decided she had waited long enough. She conveyed her impatience to Patrick during a weekend in Nassau, Bahamas, where again they were registered at separate hotels, Cynthia at the luxurious Paradise Island Ocean Club.
After a long and satisfying morning of sex, Cynthia suddenly sat up in her bed. “You’ve had more than enough time. I want some action, or I’ll take some.” She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “And trust me, sweetheart, you won’t like the kind of action I have in mind.”
“I know.” Jensen had been expecting this kind of ultimatum for some time and asked, “How long do I have?”
“Three months.”
“Make it six.”
“Four, beginning tomorrow.”
He sighed, knowing that she meant it, aware also that for reasons of his own the time had come.
Jensen had produced one more book, which, like the two preceding it, was a failure compared with his earlier best-sellers. As a result, the publishers’ advances Patrick received for all three books, which he had spent long ago, were not earned out and no more royalty payments were forthcoming. The next step was predictable. His American publishing house, which during his successful years paid him handsome advances against books not yet written, declined to do so anymore, insisting instead that he submit a finished manuscript before any contract was signed and money changed hands.
This left Jensen in a desperate situation. During the preceding few years he had not moderated his expensive living habits, and not only were his current assets nil, but he was deeply in debt. Thus the possibility of receiving two hundred thousand dollars to hire a killer—of which Jensen intended to keep half, plus a similar sum he envisaged for his own services—was now urgent and attractive.
Through a series of coincidences, he moved closer to finding his man. These coincidences, initially unconnected to Patrick, involved the police, a group of disabled veterans from Vietnam and the Gulf War, and drugs. The vets, who had suffered wartime wounds that confined them to wheelchairs, were once mired in a postwar life of drugs, but had kicked the habit and were now anti-drug crusaders. In the uneasy, mixed-race area where they lived—between Grand Avenue and Bird Road in Coconut Grove—they had declared a private war on those who sold drugs and helped ruin the lives of so many, especially young people. The group’s members were aware that others in their community were trying to fight drugs and traffickers, but mostly not succeeding. However, the vets in wheelchairs were succeeding and, in their special way, had become vigilantes and undercover police informers.
Paradoxically, their leader and inspirer was neither a military veteran nor a reformed drug user, but a former athlete and scholar. Stewart Rice, age twenty-three, sometimes known as Stewie, had suffered a fall four years earlier while climbing a sheer mountain face, leaving him permanently paralyzed below the waist and confined to a wheelchair. He, too, felt strongly about young people and drugs, and his alliance with the vets resulted from shared opinions and the camaraderie that people in wheelchairs feel instinctively for each other.
As Rice expressed it to newcomers to the group, which had begun with three Vietnam vets and expanded to a dozen, “Young people, kids, with whole bodies and active lives, are being destroyed by the drug scum who should be in jail. And we’re helping put them there.”
The wheelchair group’s modus operandi was to collect information about who was dealing, where, when, how often, and when new supplies were expected, then pass all that information anonymously to the Police Department’s anti-drug task force.
Rice again, speaking with a trusted friend: “Those of us in chairs can move around where the drug action is, and hardly anyone takes notice. If they think abo
ut us at all, they figure we’re panhandling, like all those guys on Bird Road. They believe that because our legs are paralyzed or our arms don’t work, we’re that way, too, in our heads—especially the druggies and dealers who’ve destroyed the few brain cells they once had.”
At the police end, anti-drug task force members were skeptical when the informational phone calls began—calls Rice always made himself, using a cellular phone to avoid tracing. Immediately after a tip-off, whoever answered would demand the caller’s identification, but “Stewie” was the only name Rice gave before hanging up quickly. But soon, after discovering the information was usable and dependable, a call beginning, “This is Stewie,” was greeted by, “Hi, buddy! What you got for us?” No tracing was attempted. Why spoil a good thing?
As a result, gang drug trafficking was increasingly disrupted by police. Arrests and convictions mounted. Parts of Coconut Grove were becoming cleaner. Then the pattern broke.
Major drug traffickers, aware that some kind of espionage must be occurring, began asking questions. At first there were no answers. Then an arrested dealer overheard one drug cop say to another, “Stewie sure came through this time.”
Within hours a question was buzzing through the Grove: “Who the fuck is Stewie?”
The answer came quickly. Along with it, through neighborhood gossip, the wheelchair group’s tactics were exposed.
Stewart Rice had to die, and in such a way as to warn others like him.
The contract killing was ordered for the next day, which was the point at which—through coincidence—Patrick Jensen became involved.
Jensen had become a regular at the Brass Doubloon, a noisy, smoky bar and lounge well known as a hangout for drug dealers, and that night when he walked in, a voice from a table called across, “Hey, Pat! You writin’ somethin’ new, man? Come tell us!” The voice belonged to a narrow-faced, pockmarked ex-con with a long rap sheet, named Arlie. He was with several others, also part of the scene that Jensen had come to know during his search for a crime story. One in the group whom Jensen had not seen before was a huge, hard-featured man with wide shoulders, powerful arms, close-cropped hair, and a mulatto’s complexion. The stranger, dwarfing the others, was scowling. He growled a question, which another at the table answered.