Ainslie, his gun still trained on the robber, walked toward him, looked carefully at the body, now motionless, then put the gun away. As Cynthia joined him, he said with a grin, "You cut it fine. But thanks.''
Within the bank a buzz of conversation rose; then, as realization dawned, applause broke out, changing almost at once to spontaneous cheers directed at Cynthia. Smiling, she leaned against Malcolm and, sighing with relief, whispered, "I think you owe me a week in the sack for that one."
Ainslie nodded. "We'll have to be careful. You're going to be famous." And over the next few days, as a widely acclaimed media heroine, she was.
* * *
Long after, when Malcolm Ainslie looked back on his affair with Cynthia, he wondered if his own unbridled lust was a delayed reaction to those long years he had spent in unnatural priestly celibacy. True or not, his priority throughout what he thought of still as Cynthia's Year was his personal, exquisite carnal satisfaction.
Occasionally during that time he had asked himself, Should my conscience trouble me? Then reminded himself there were aeons of precedents the year 1000 B.C., or thereabouts, as an example. His scholarly recall (would he ever escape it?) brought back the Bible's King David and the Second Book of Samuel, chapter 11:
In an eveningtide. . . David arose from off his bed . . . and from the roof he saw a woman washing herself; and the woman was very beautiful to look upon.
It was Bathsheba, of course, the wife of Uriah, who was away fighting as the Old Testament described it one of God's wars.
And David sent messengers, and took her; and she came in unto him, and he lay with her. . . And the woman conceived, and sent and told David, and said, I am with child.
Unfortunately for David, all of that was before condoms, which Ainslie used with Cynthia. Nor did Ainslie have a paramour's husband to contend with like the warrior Uriah, whom King David had ordered killed. . .
Surprisingly, through all of that time with Cynthia, Malcolm Ainslie's love for Karen did not diminish. It was as if he had two private lives: ode, his marriage, representing security and permanence, the other a wild adventure he always knew must one day end. Ainslie never seriously considered leaving Karen and their son Jason, then three and growing up into a delightful little guy.
Occasionally, during that period, there were moments when Ainslie wondered if Karen was aware of, or even suspected, the affair. A word or attitude could leave him believing uneasily that she did.
Meanwhile, as the Year of Cynthia progressed, some aspects of Cynthia's nature began to make Ainslie uncomfortable, at times professionally uneasy. She would periodically switch moods for no discernible reason from free-flowing, amorous warmth to sudden and icy coldness. At such moments Ainslie would wonder what had happened between them, then realize after several experiences that nothing had; it was simply Cynthia's way, a facet of her character, more visible and frequent as time went on.
But that mood shift was manageable, the professional unease less so.
Ainslie, throughout his police career, had believed in ethical behavior, even when dealing with habitual criminals who disregarded ethics totally. Sometimes minor tradeoffs were acceptable in exchange for information, but that was Ainslie's limit. Some in police work, though, held differing views and would make illegal deals with criminals, or lie when making statements, or plant evidence when there seemed no other way to get it. But Ainslie would have no part of such tactics, either for himself or those who worked with him.
Cynthia apparently had no such scruples.
As Cynthia's superior, Ainslie had suspected that some of her investigative successes might be morally questionable. But nothing came to his direct attention, and his questions about her rumored freewheeling methods produced strong denials from Cynthia, and once indignation. One matter did surface, though, in a way he could not overlook.
It concerned a con artist and thief named Val Castellon, recently released from prison on parole. Cynthia was lead investigator in a murder, and while Castellon was in no way a suspect, it was believed he might have information about another ex-con who was. Brought in for interrogation, Castellon denied any such knowledge, and Ainslie was inclined to believe him. Cynthia did not. In a subsequent private session with Castellon, Cynthia threatened to plant drugs on him if he failed to testify for her, then have him arrested, in which case his parole would be revoked and he would go back to prison, as well as face stiff new charges. Planting drugs in a suspect's pocket, then appearing to discover them, was a simple tactic for police and all too frequently used.
Ainslie learned about Cynthia's threat through Sergeant Hank Brewmaster, who had been told of it by one of his regular informants, a crony of Castellon's. When Ainslie asked Cynthia if the report was true, she admitted it was, though the drug plant had not yet been done.
"And it won't be," he told her. "I'm responsible, and I won't allow it."
"Oh, bullshit, Malcolm!" Cynthia said. "That prick will wind up back in jail anyway. I'd just be sending him there sooner."
"Don't you get it?" he asked incredulously. "We're here to enforce the law, which means we have to obey it, too. "
"And you're being as stuffy as this old pillow." Cynthia threw one at him from the bed of a motel where they had rented a room on a rainy afternoon. At the same time she fell back on the bed. She spread her legs wide and asked, "Is what you want legal? After all, we're both on duty." She laughed quietly then, knowing precisely what would happen next.
Ainslie's face changed. He went to her and threw his jacket and tie on the bed. Cynthia said suddenly, sharply, "Hurry, hurry! Slide your lovely big illegal cock inside me!"
As he had at other times, Ainslie felt powerless, melting into her, and yet diffident, even embarrassed by Cynthia's raunchy language. Yet it was part of her sexual aggressiveness, and each time made their coupling more exciting. By then they had abandoned the subject of Val Castellon, which Ainslie intended to bring up later, though he never did. Nor did he learn how the missing information in Cynthia's murder inquiry was supplied, except that she obtained it, resulting in one more investigative triumph for Cynthia and himself.
What Ainslie did make sure of was that Castellon was not charged with drug possession, and his parole was not revoked. In one way or another, it seemed, Ainslie's warning to Cynthia had been heeded.
* * *
Something else bothered Ainslie. Unlike most other police officers, Cynthia seemed comfortable, even happy, in the company of criminals, mingling with them at bars in an easy, friendly way. She and Ainslie also differed in their attitudes to lawbreaking. Ainslie viewed crime-solving, particularly of homicides, as moral high ground. Cynthia didn't, and once told him, "Face reality, Malcolm! It's a contest, with crooks, police, and lawyers elf competing. The winner depends on how clever each lawyer is and how rich the defendant is. Your so-called moral issues don't stand a chance in this game."
Ainslie was not impressed. Nor was he happy to learn eventually that a regular companion of Cynthia's at bars and restaurants was Patrick Jensen, a successful novelist and Miami bon vivant, but with an unsavory reputation, particularly among police.
Jensen, a former TV newsman, had written a succession of best-selling crime novels, published worldwide, and by the age of thirty-nine he had amassed what was rumored to be twelve million Dollars. Some said the success had gone to his head, and Jensen had evolved into a rude and arrogant womanizer with a violent temper. His second wife, Naomi, from whom he was divorced, made several spousal battery complaints to police, then withdrew them before of ficial action could begin. Several times after their divorce, Jensen tried to reconcile with Naomi, but she would have no part of it.