Standing, Ainslie moved closer to the desk and looked down at Cynthia. "Major, I will do my best to keep you informed, but as head of this task force my first duty is to solve the case." He waited until she looked up, then continued. "Nothing will come before that."
She seemed about to say something, then evidently thought better of it. Ainslie moved back, his gaze fixed on hers. Yes, she outranked him and could order him to do virtually anything in the line of duty. But on a personal level, he decided, he would not be pushed around by her. Ever.
The plain fact was, he didn't trust Cynthia and scarcely liked her anymore. He knew there were things she was not revealing, though what they were and how they might relate to the serial murder investigations, he had no idea. What he did know from his own sources in the Department was that Cynthia Ernst continued to cut corners, and to keep dubious company, especially with the author Patrick Jensen.
Jensen was still being watched by Miami police. There had been rumors of a connection between Jensen and a drug distribution gang, the same gang that was suspect in a Homicide investigation by Metro-Dade Police into what had become known as the Wheelchair Murder. The victim, a paraplegic and a valued police informant, had been wheeled at night, bound and gagged, into tidewater in a remote area south of Homestead. His wheelchair had been secured by a chain and weights to a lonely offshore islet, and the man left to drown as the tide rose.
Of course, it was all a long way from Major Cynthia Ernst . . .
She nodded slightly. "That will be all, Sergeant. You may go."
8
"Of all the jobs cops are asked to do," Detective Charlie Thurston said, "surveillance has to be the shittiest."
"It sure ain't my favorite," Bradford Andrews acknowledged. "And this damn rain's not helping, either."
Thurston from Homicide and Andrews from Robbery were sitting in a Florida Power & Light van, their temporary undercover vehicle. They were assigned to keep track of Carlos Quinones, one of the six computer generated suspects in the serial killings.
The Police Department owned a variety of vehicles for surveillance use. They included taxis, phone, gas, and electrical service trucks, store delivery vehicles, and even postal vans. Some were given or sold to police by the organizations that owned them. Others, confiscated during drug raids, were awarded through the courts. The type of vehicle used to watch any particular subject, such as Quinones, was changed from day to day.
The two detectives, both in their early thirties, had been parked for nearly two hours outside Quinones's apartment one of a series of squalid residences in the unofficially named Liberty City area.
The time was approaching 7:00 P.M., and Brad Andrews yawned with boredom. Andrews liked action. All detectives did, which is why many had become detectives. Yet, much of the time, surveillance was the reverse. It involved sitting in a vehicle for several hours, peering out the windows, with nothing happening. Even in good weather it was hard to concentrate on an assignment without thoughts turning to that night's dinner, sports, sex, an overdue mortgage payment. . .
The heavy rain had persisted for an hour, making it impossible for the detectives to see clearly what was going on outside, but to turn on the wipers would only advertise that someone was being watched. The patter of water droplets didn't help, either; it was like a soporific drumbeat, lulling the men to sleep.
Thurston, seeing Andrews yawn, cautioned, "Wake up, man! "
"I'm trying," Brad Andrews said, sitting up straight. A seasoned officer, he was one of the detectives borrowed from Robbery for surveillance duty. Andrews was formerly with Homicide, but in an effort to stabilize his family life, he had transferred to Robbery, where the hours were more reasonable. Now, temporarily, he was back.
The special surveillance force comprised twenty-four people: the two sergeants from Homicide, Ainslie and Greene, their two teams of four detectives, plus twelve other detectives from Robbery. Two investigators from the state attorney's office were also sharing the surveillance duty.
"Hey!" Andrews said. "Here's our guy, and would you believe he's combing his hair again?"
Quifiones, an olive-complexioned Hispanic, was tall and lean, with a narrow face and thick, wavy hair that he must have combed two dozen times during the two and a half days Thurston and Andrews had been observing him. Quinones's extensive criminal career included assault, rape, and armed robbery with violence.
Now, accompanied by an unknown bearded male, he entered a yellow, beat-up '78 Chevrolet and drove away. The two detectives, in their Florida P&L van, followed, with Andrews at the wheel.
Quinones went directly to Highway 836, a busy expressway. There, after heading west toward Miami International Airport, he began driving erratically, bumping several cars in the rear an obvious attempt to stop and rob them.
Watching, Thurston griped, "Shit! I'd love to arrest those two bastards."
Andrews nodded. "Yeah, well, maybe we'll have to."
They faced a dilemma, both detectives knew. Their mission was to observe Quinones as a possible serial killer, but if any of the bumped cars stopped, the detectives had a duty to protect their occupants from danger. None of the cars did stop, however, undoubtedly because of the many police and media warnings about that specific danger.
After a while, to the detectives' relief, the bumping ceased and Quinones appeared to have given up.
The yellow Chevy left the expressway at Northwest 57th Avenue, turned south into the western end of Little Havana, and stopped at a 7-Eleven store, where the bearded man got out. Quinones then drove on alone to the south campus of Miami-Dade Community College, at Southwest 107th Avenue and 104th Street. It was a long, tedious ride, taking most of an hour, and Andrews, still driving the undercover van, dropped back as much as possible without losing sight of the Chevy.
By now it was 8:30 P.M., and Quinones stopped in the college parking lot within sight of students walking to and from evening classes. The detectives saw some women students abruptly turn their heads as they passed Quinones's car. Apparently he had called out, though none of the women stopped.
Thurston leaned forward and muttered, "This dude has assaults and a rape on his sheet. You don't think . . ."
As he spoke, Quifloneslefthis car and began following a young blond woman to another portion of the parking lot.
"Let's go!" Thurston jumped from the van, with Andrews behind.
Quifiones was within twenty feet of the young woman when she reached her car a red Honda jumped in, started the engine, and pulled away. Quifiones ran to his own car, still unaware of the detectives, who were also darting back to their van.
As the blond woman's car passed Quifiones's, he drove out behind it. The detectives were now following both cars.
"Don't let that son of a bitch out of your sight," Thurston warned. "If this is our guy, we don't want another corpse."
Andrews nodded. He was staying closer to the yellow Chevy now, reasoning that Quinones's attention was focused on the red Honda ahead. The three vehicles moved north on Southwest 107th Avenue amid light traffic until, without warning, the Honda swung abruptly right onto Southwest Eighth Street, the Tamiami Trail. Quifiones, clearly not ready for a turn, braked, skidded well into the wide intersection, then turned sharply to follow.
"She's on to the bastard," Thurston said.
Quifiones's pursuit of the Honda was further delayed by another car about to turn out of Eighth Street. He reversed a few feet more, then, with tires squealing, made the right turn. Andrews, who had held back through the last block, followed. Then, as traffic cleared, the detectives saw the blond woman leave her car, which was now in a parking area of a high-rise apartment complex. She walked quickly to the lobby, using a key to open a main doorway. Almost at once she was inside, the door closed behind her.