“Wait a second,” she told him. Gathering the three barking Pekingese into her arms, she took them to a back room and closed the door.
Returning, Beth said, “I read that you went to Elroy Doil’s execution. Were you making sure he got his just deserts?”
Ainslie shook his head. “Wasn’t my choice. Doil wanted to talk to me.”
She raised her eyebrows. “A pre-death confession? Do I smell a story?”
“Maybe someday. But not yet.”
“I’m still writing occasionally. Do I get a promise?”
Ainslie considered, then said, “Okay, if I’m involved, I promise you’ll be the first to know any outcome. But deep throat.”
“Of course. Have I ever let you down?”
“No.” Though, as always with Beth Embry, there were maneuvers and trade-offs.
The mention of Doil reminded him that by now Ruby Bowe would have begun her inquiry. Ainslie hoped he could quickly resolve this new case. Meanwhile he asked Beth, “Are we off the record now, about the Davanals?”
She answered, “Non-attributable, okay? Like I said, I’m not writing much—the kids on the crime beat are pretty good—but once in a while I get antsy, and I especially might about the Davanals.”
“You know a lot about them? And okay, non-attrib.”
“The Davanals are part of our history. And Byron Maddox-Davanal, as they made him call himself, was a sad sack. Doesn’t surprise me he’s been killed; wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d killed himself. Do you have a suspect?”
“Not yet. Superficially it looks like an outside job. Why was Byron a sad sack?”
“Because he found out the hard way that ‘Man doth not live by bread alone,’ even when it’s thickly buttered.” Beth chuckled. “Any of that familiar to you?”
“Sure. Except you’ve a couple of different sources in there—started out with Deuteronomy, then finished with Matthew and Luke.”
“Hey, I’m impressed! That seminary put its brand on you for life. Any chance you’ll flip again and be reborn?” Beth, a churchgoer, rarely failed to needle Ainslie about his past.
“For you,” he told her, “I’m turning the other cheek. That’s from Matthew and Luke, too. Now tell me about Byron.”
“Okay. At first he was the family’s great white hope for a new generation of Davanals; that’s why they made him change his name when he married Felicia. She’s an only child, and unless she conceives, which isn’t likely now, the Davanal dynasty will die with her. Well, there was never a shortage of Byron’s sperm around town, and presumably he put some in Felicia, but it didn’t take.”
“I hear he wasn’t successful in the family businesses, either.”
“He was a disaster. I suppose Felicia told you that, and about his allowance for not working.”
“Yes.”
“She tells everybody. She had such contempt for him, which made his life even emptier than it was.”
“Do you think Felicia might have killed her husband?”
“Do you?”
“At the moment, no.”
Beth shook her head decisively. “She wouldn’t kill him. First, Felicia’s too smart to do anything so stupid. Second, Byron was useful to her.”
Ainslie remembered Felicia’s words: The arrangement we had suited us both … it provided a kind of freedom.
It was not hard to guess what her “freedom” meant.
Beth was looking at him shrewdly. “You’ve figured it out? With Byron in her life, she never had to worry about one of her many men coming on too strong and wanting to marry her.”
“Many men?”
Beth put her head back and laughed. “You couldn’t count them! Felicia eats men. But she tires quickly, then discards them. If any got serious, all she had to say was ‘I’m already married.’”
Again, Beth looked searchingly at Ainslie. “Did Felicia come on to you? … She did! My God, Malcolm, you’re blushing!”
He shook his head. “It was momentary, and probably my imagination.”
“It wasn’t, my friend, and if she fancies the taste of you, she’ll try again. Be warned, though—Felicia’s honey may be sweet, but she’s a queen bee with a sting.”
“You mentioned the Davanal dynasty. How far back does it go?”
Beth considered. “To the end of the last century—1898, I’m pretty sure. There was a book written; I remember a lot of it. Silas Davanal and his wife, Maria, came here as immigrants from Upper Silesia; that’s between Germany and Poland. He had a little money, not much, and opened a general store. By the end of his life it was Davanal’s Department Store, and had made the first fortune. Silas and Maria had a son—Wilhelm.”
“Who’s just barely alive, right?”
“That sounds like Felicia again. Wilhelm’s wife died many years ago, but he’s still sharp, even at ninety-seven. I’ve heard there isn’t much that goes on in that old house that he misses. You should talk to him.”
Senile, Felicia had told him. “Yes, I will.”
“Anyway,” Beth continued, “with each Davanal generation the family got richer and more powerful, and that includes Theodore and Eugenia—both of them tyrants.”
“Frankly, they all sound like tyrants.”
“Not necessarily. It’s just that they’re all driven by intense pride.”
“Pride about what?”
“Everything. They’ve always cared hugely about appearances. Their public persona must be impeccable, making them superior, even perfect, people. And any dirty little secrets are buried so deep that even you, Detective-Sergeant, might have trouble finding them.”
“From what you’ve told me,” Ainslie said, “Felicia isn’t always impeccable.”
“That’s because she’s more tuned in to her times. All the same, she’s pretty intense about pride and in any case has to conform because Theodore and Eugenia still control the family fortunes. She had trouble with her parents over Byron. They never wanted outsiders to know the marriage failed; that’s why Byron got his allowance—to keep it all quiet. And again, they don’t much care what kind of life Felicia leads, as long as it’s well concealed.”
“Is it really concealed?”
“Not as much as Theodore and Eugenia would like. The way I heard, there was a big family row and an ultimatum: If Felicia brought disgrace in any way on the family name, she’d be cut off from running that TV station she loves so much.”
They talked on, Ainslie relating in return some additional details of the Maddox-Davanal case. At the end, as they both rose, he said, “Thank you, Beth. As always, you’ve given me a lot to think about.”
Able, Baker, and Charlie, released from their confinement, leaped and barked excitedly as he left.
As Malcolm Ainslie returned to the Davanal house, the remains of Byron Maddox-Davanal were being removed in a body bag—destination the Dade County morgue, for autopsy. Sandra Sanchez had already left, leaving behind an opinion that the victim’s death occurred somewhere between 5:00 and 6:00 A.M., roughly two hours before Felicia Maddox-Davanal’s reported discovery.
In the study and exercise room, the earlier activity had tapered off, though the lead technician, Julio Verona, was still recording evidence. He told Ainslie, “There’s something I’d like to show you, when you have a minute.”
“Okay, Julio.” But first Ainslie went to Detectives Jorge Rodriguez and José Garcia and asked, “What’s new?”
Jorge grinned and motioned to Garcia. “He thinks the butler did it.”
Garcia said sourly, “Very funny!” Then, to Ainslie, “I don’t believe that Holdsworth guy, is all. I questioned him, and all my instincts say he’s lying.”
“About what?”
“Everything—not hearing a shot or any disturbance, when he lives on this floor, and not being on the scene until he was called by the dead man’s wife, after she’d called nine-one-one. He knows more than he’s telling; I’d stake my life on it.”
“Have you checked his background?” A
inslie asked.
“Sure have. He’s still a British citizen; has been in the States fifteen years on a green card, and never in trouble. I called U.S. Immigration in Miami; they have a file on Holdsworth.”
“Anything helpful?”
“Well, this is funny in a way, but Holdsworth does have a criminal record in England and was smart enough to declare it when he made his green card application. Would have been discovered if he hadn’t, but it’s peanuts.”
“Let’s hear.”
“When he was eighteen—thirty-three years ago—he snatched a pair of binoculars from the backseat of a parked car. A cop saw, and arrested him; he pleaded guilty, got two years’ probation, no record since. The Immigration guy I talked to says that when someone applies for a green, they don’t take something minor and that long ago seriously, as long as the applicant’s declared it. Guess I wasted my time.”
Ainslie shook his head. “It’s never wasted. Save your notes, Pop. Did anything come from other interviews?”
“Not much,” Jorge answered. “Two people—the chauffeur’s wife and a gardener—now believe they heard the shot, but thought it was traffic. They have no idea about time, except it was still very dark.”
“Has anyone talked to the old man—Wilhelm Davanal?”
“No.”
“I’ll do that,” Ainslie finished.
He, Jorge, and Garcia then joined Julio Verona across the room.
“Take a look at this,” Verona said. From a plastic bag, using rubber gloves, the ID chief produced a small gold clock, which he placed on the desk formerly used by Byron Maddox-Davanal. He explained, “Where I just put the clock is exactly where ID found it. Here’s a photo confirming that.” Verona produced a Polaroid print.
“Look on the back of the clock,” Verona continued, “and you’ll see there’s blood—quite a lot for such a small surface. But”—he paused for emphasis—“assuming it’s the victim’s blood, and remembering the distance from the body, there is no way blood could have got on the back of that clock where it is now.”
“So what’s your theory?” Ainslie asked.
“During the killing, or immediately after, the clock got knocked off the desk into some blood on the floor. Later, some person—maybe the killer—saw the clock, picked it up, and put it back on the desk, where it sat until our crew took this photo.”
“Any fingerprints?”
“Sure are—a good set. What’s more, two of the prints were bloody, and there were no other prints at all.”
“So if you find a match,” José Garcia said excitedly, “we’ll have the killer.”
Verona shrugged. “That’ll be for you guys to decide, though I’d say whoever matches those prints will face tough questions. Anyway, they’re being checked against records, and we’ll have an ID, if any, tomorrow. Matching the blood with the victim’s will take another day. And there’s something else. Over here.”
The ID chief led the way, stopping at a polished oak cabinet in the exercise area. “This was locked; we found some keys in a desk drawer.” Opening the cabinet, he revealed an interior lined with red felt and containing firearms. A Browning automatic shotgun, a Winchester semiautomatic deer rifle, and a Grossman .22 automatic rifle were all upright and held in place by metal clips. Alongside, resting on several metal hooks, was a Glock 9mm automatic pistol. Beyond it were a few more empty hooks, shaped to contain another handgun.
The cabinet had several interior drawers. Verona opened two and announced, “It’s obvious that Maddox-Davanal liked to shoot, and there’s plenty of ammunition here for the shotgun, both rifles, and the Glock handgun, which also has a fully loaded clip. As well, there’s a box of .357 Magnum hollow-points.”
“Bullets for which there’s no handgun,” Ainslie said.
“Right. Obviously a handgun’s missing, and it could have been a .357 Magnum pistol.”
Ainslie considered. “Chances are Maddox-Davanal had permits for his guns. Has anyone checked?”
“Not yet,” Verona said.
“Let’s do it.” Using his police radio, Ainslie placed a phone call to the Homicide offices. Sergeant Pablo Greene answered.
“Pablo, will you do me a favor and go to a computer?” Ainslie asked. “I need a check of Dade County Firearms Registration.” A few minutes’ pause, then, “The name’s Maddox-Davanal, first name Byron … Yeah, we’re still at the house … We’d like to see if anything’s registered to him.”
While waiting, Ainslie asked Verona, “Were any bullets found here at the scene?”
The ID chief nodded. “Yes, one. It was against the baseboard behind the desk, and must have gone through the victim’s head, hit the wall, then fell. It was pretty distorted and we won’t be sure until the lab’s examined it, but it might have come from a .357 round.”
Ainslie spoke into his radio. “Okay, Pablo, go ahead.” He listened while making notes. “Got it! … Yeah … It fits … We have that one, too … And that … Ah! Give me that again … Yes, I have it now … And that’s everything, right? … Thanks, Pablo.”
Putting away the radio, he told the others, “All these guns are registered to Maddox-Davanal. He also registered a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver, which isn’t here.”
The four men stood thoughtfully, silent, weighing the implications.
“Are you guys having the same feeling I am,” Garcia said, “that if the missing gun was the murder weapon, this is starting to look like an inside job?”
“It’s possible,” Jorge agreed. “Except whoever made those footprints outside, then forced open the French doors, could have got the gun before hiding.”
“But how’d they know the gun was there, and where the keys were kept?” Garcia asked.
“Maddox-Davanal could have had friends who knew all that,” Ainslie said. “Gun owners are big talkers, and they like to show their guns off. Another thing—Julio says the Glock pistol has a loaded clip, so the Smith & Wesson .357 was probably loaded, too.”
“And ready to shoot,” Garcia added.
“I’m wondering about ‘inside,’ too, José,” Ainslie said, “though let’s not lock our minds up yet.”
“There’s one thing we need,” Julio Verona told the others. “We’ve got a fair number of fingerprints from this room, and we should get voluntary prints from any of the house people who normally come here.”
“I’ll arrange that,” Jorge Rodriguez said.
“Be sure you include Holdsworth,” Ainslie told him. “And I guess Mrs. Davanal.”
That night and the next morning, the “Super-Rich Davanals’ Bloody Murder,” as one newspaper headline described it, was the dominant story carried by local TV, press, and radio, and there was national coverage, too. Most reports quoted an interview with Felicia Maddox-Davanal on the Davanals’ own WBEQ-TV, where she referred to “the savage murder of my husband.” Asked if she knew whether police had any suspect in mind, she had answered, “I’m not sure they have anything in their minds. They seem totally lost.” She promised that a reward would be posted by the family for information leading to the arrest and conviction of Byron Maddox-Davanal’s killer, after—as she put it—“my father returns from Italy, where he is still confined to his hotel in a state of shock.”
An AP reporter in Milan, however, who had tried unsuccessfully to interview Theodore Davanal the day after his son-in-law’s death, reported that Theodore and Eugenia were observed lunching at the exclusive Ristorante L’Albereta di Gualtiero Marchesi and, in the presence of friends, were laughing uproariously.
Meanwhile, at the Brickell Avenue house, Miami Homicide continued its investigation. During the second day, Malcolm Ainslie, Jorge Rodriguez, and José Garcia met at midmorning in the exercise room and study.
Jorge reported that two housemaids and a male houseman had agreed to voluntary fingerprinting. “But when I asked Mrs. Davanal, she said absolutely no; she wasn’t going to be fingerprinted in her own home.” The butler, Holdsworth, had also refused.
/> “That’s their privilege,” Ainslie mused. “Though I wanted Holdsworth’s prints.”
“I can try for them without his knowing,” Jorge suggested. Police detectives often obtained fingerprints surreptitiously, though officially the practice was frowned on.
“Too risky in this house.” Then Ainslie asked Garcia, “That old British police record of Holdsworth’s—did you say he was convicted?”
“Pleaded guilty, got probation.”
“Then they’ll have his prints on record.”
Garcia said doubtfully, “After thirty-three years?”
“The Brits are thorough; they’ll have them. So call your U.S. Immigration contact again and have them get those old prints sent here—by computer, fast.”
“I’ll do it now.” Garcia nodded eagerly and went to a corner of the room and used his police radio.
Julio Verona, who had arrived a few minutes earlier, said, “Let’s hope you find something. Those prints from the clock were a dead end. Nothing comparable either in our records or the FBI’s. Oh, and by the way, Dr. Sanchez would like to talk to one of you two at the morgue.”
Jorge glanced at Ainslie, who said, “We’ll go together.”
“There’s something funny about this Maddox-Davanal death, something that doesn’t fit.” Sandra Sanchez sat behind a desk in her second-floor office at the Dade County morgue on Northwest Tenth Avenue. Files and papers were spread around. The ME was holding some handwritten notes.
“Doesn’t fit in what way, Doctor?” Jorge asked.
Sanchez hesitated, then said, “The murder scenario I heard all of you discussing. Not my business, really. All I’m supposed to do is give you the cause of death …”
“You do a lot more than that, and we all know it,” Ainslie assured her.
“Well, it’s the bullet trajectory, Malcolm—difficult to follow exactly because so much of the head was blown away. But from what remains, and after X-rays, the bullet appears to have entered the dead man’s right cheek, gone upward through his right eye into the brain, then out through the top of the head.”
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