"Then here's the clincher," Verona announced, producing an audiotape cassette. "This is a copy; the original is resealed and back in the box. Apparently it's a statement by Jensen of how he did the killing. But there are gaps. It looks as if someone else's voice was originally on the tape, but has been wiped out.''
He produced a portable player-recorder, inserted the tape, and pressed PLAY. As the tape ran, there were several seconds of silence, then sounds like objects being moved, followed by a faltering male voice, at moments choking with emotion, though the words were clear.
"I didn't plan it, didn't intend . . . but always hated the thought of Naomi with someone else. . . When I saw those two together, her and that creep, I was blinded, angry. . . I'd been carrying a gun. I pulled it out, without even thinking, fired . . . Suddenly it was over. . . Then I saw what I'd done. Oh God, I'd killed them both!"
A silence followed. "Here's where someone wiped the tape," Verona said. Then, again, the same voice from the player.
". . . Kilburn Holmes. . . He'd been seeing Naomi, was with her all the time. . . People told me.''
Verona stopped the tape. "I'll leave you to listen to the rest. It's bits and pieces, obviously answers to questions that were erased, and all the same voice. Of course, I can't say for sure it's Jensen speaking; I've never met him. But we can run a voice test later."
"Make your test," Ainslie said. "But I can tell you right now, that was Jensen." He was remembering their encounter at Elroy Doil's execution.
* * *
When Julio Verona had left, there was a silence, which Leo Newbold broke. "So, anyone have any doubts?"
One by one the others shook their heads, their expressions somber.
The lieutenant's voice was distressed. "Why? In God's name, why would Cynthia do it?"
Ainslie, his expression anguished, raised his hands helplessly.
"I could make some guesses," Curzon Knowles said. "But we'll know better when we've talked with Jensen. You'd better bring him in."
"How do you want us to handle that, counselor?" Ainslie asked.
Knowles considered, then said, "Arrest him." He gestured to the box that Verona had left. "All the evidence we need to convict is here. I'll prepare an affidavit; one of you can take it quietly to a judge."
"It was Charlie Thurston's case," Newbold pointed out. "He should make the arrest.''
"All right," Knowles agreed. "But let's have as few people involved as possible, and warn Thurston not to talk to anyone. For now, we must continue keeping a lid on this, screwed down tight."
Newbold asked, "So what do we do about Cynthia?"
"Nothing yet; that's why we need a tight lid. First I have to talk to Montesino. Before we arrest a city commissioner, she'll probably want to go before a grand jury, so Ernst mustn't even hear a whisper."
"We'll do our best," Newbold acknowledged. "But this stuff is red hot. If we don't move fast, word will fly.''
* * *
By early afternoon, Detective Charlie Thurston had been called in and given the arrest warrant for Patrick Jensen. Ruby Bowe would accompany him as backup. Newbold told the balding veteran, Thurston, "We don't want anyone else knowing about this. No one!"
"Fine by me,'' Thurston acknowledged, then added, "For a long time I've wanted to collar that prick Jensen."
From Police Headquarters it was only a short distance to Jensen's apartment. Ruby, at the wheel of an unmarked car, said to Thurston on the way, "You got a problem with Jensen, Charlie? You sounded pretty intense back there."
Thurston grimaced. "I guess bad memories got to me. When the case was running, I saw a lot of him, and from the beginning we were positive Jensen killed those two people. But he was arrogant as hell, all the time acting as if he knew we'd never nail him. One day I went to ask a few more questions and he laughed, told me to beat it."
"Do you think he'll be violent?"
"Unfortunately, no." Thurston chuckled. "So we'll have to take him in unmarked. Looks like we're here."
As Ruby stopped the car a few yards from a six-story brick building on Brickell Avenue, Thurston surveyed it. "Guy's come down in the world a bit; had a fancy house when I last knew him." He checked the warrant. "Says here apartment 308. Let's do it."
Moments later, at a push-button panel by the main glass doorway, the third-floor number was confirmed, though neither detective had any intention of alerting Jensen from below. "Someone'll come soon," Thurston said.
Almost at once a slight, elderly woman wearing a tam, tweeds, and high boots appeared in the hallway inside with a small dog on a leash. As she released the door, Thurston held it open and showed his identification badge. "We're police officers, ma'am, on official business."
As Ruby produced her badge, the woman peered at both. "Oh dear, and just as I'm leaving! Is this going to be exciting, Officers?"
Thurston responded, " 'Fraid not. We're just delivering a parking ticket."
The woman shook her head, smiling. "I read your badges. Detectives don't do that." She tugged at the dog's leash. "Come, Felix; it's plain we're not wanted here."
* * *
Thurston rapped twice on the door of apartment 308. They heard movement inside, then a voice. "Who is it?"
"Police officers. Open up, please!"
In the door a small circle of light appeared as a peephole was used, followed a moment later by the sound of a latch, and the door opened. As it did, Thurston pushed it wide open and strode in. Patrick Jensen, wearing an open sport shirt and slacks, stepped two paces back. Ruby, entering behind Thurston, closed the door. Thurston, arrest warrant in hand, spoke crisply. "Patrick Jensen, I have a warrant for your arrest on a charge of murdering Naomi Mary Jensen and Kilburn Owen Holmes . . . I caution you that you have the right to remain silent. You need not talk or answer questions... You have the right to an attorney..." As the Miranda words rolled on, Thurston watched the other man's face, which seemed strangely unperturbed. It was almost, the detective thought, as if this moment had been expected.
At the end, Jensen said quietly, "May I phone him from here?"
"Yes, but I have to check you for a weapon first." While Jensen held up his hands, Thurston patted him down, then announced, "Okay, sir, you can go ahead and use the phone. One call."
Jensen went to it and tapped out what was plainly a familiar number. After a moment he said, "Stephen Cruz, please." A pause, then, "Stephen, it's Patrick. Remember I said a day might come when I'd need your help? That day is here. I've been arrested." Another pause, then, "Murder."
Jensen listened with the phone to his ear; obviously Cruz was giving him instructions. He replied, "I haven't said anything, and I won't." Addressing the detectives: "My lawyer wants to know where I'm being taken."
Thurston replied, "Police Headquarters Homicide."
Jensen repeated the information, said, "Yeah, see you soon," and hung up.
"We'll have to handcuff you, sir," Ruby Bowe said. ''Would you like to put on a jacket first?''
"Actually, I would." Jensen sounded surprised. Going to a bedroom, he buttoned his shirt and slipped on a jacket, after which Ruby swiftly secured his hands behind him. "You guys are being pretty polite about this,-' he said. "Thank you."
"Doesn't cost us anything," Thurston acknowledged. "We can go the rough route when we need. We prefer not to."
Jensen looked at him intently. "Haven't we met before?"
"Yes, sir. We have."
"I remember now. I was pretty obnoxious at the time."
The detective shrugged. "It was a long time ago."
"Not too long for an apology if you'll accept it."
"Sure." Thurston's voice became coolly matter-of-fact. "But I think you've got a lot more than that to worry about right now. Let's get moving."