Beyond the whole complex was Biscayne Bay and, farther out, the Atlantic Ocean.
The massive, rambling house, only partly seen from outside, was accessible through a pair of handsome wrought iron gates bearing decorative heraldry. At the moment the gates were closed, but on the far side of them a long winding driveway was visible.
"Oh, goddam, not already!'' Ainslie exclaimed. He saw a mobile TV van immediately ahead and realized that the Miami media people, monitoring police radio, must have recognized the Davanal address. The van bore the insignia of WBEQ, the Davanal-owned TV station. Perhaps someone inside had tipped them off to be here first, he thought.
Three police blue-and-whites were near the entrance gates, roof lights flashing. Either Unit 174 had asked for help or more units had responded anyway probably the latter. Nothing like a nosy cop, Ainslie reflected. An argument appeared to be taking place at the gate between two uniforms and the TV crew, among them an attractive black reporter, Ursula Felix, whom Ainslie knew. Already, yellow POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape was in place across the entranceway, though a uniform officer, recognizing Ainslie and Rodriguez, opened a gap, leaving room for their car to pass.
Jorge slowed, but the reporter rushed forward, blocking them. Ainslie lowered his window. "Hey, Malcolm," she pleaded, "talk some sense into these guys! The boss lady, Mrs. Davanal, wants us inside; she phoned to say so. WBEQ is the Davanals' station, and whatever's going on, we want to catch the morning news." As she spoke, Ursula Felix pressed herself against the side of the car. Her ample breasts, made more prominent by a tight silk blouse, were so close that Ainslie could have touched them. Her jet black hair was tightly braided, and a heady perfume wafted into the car.
So there had been a call from inside, Ainslie thought and not from just anyone. Felicia Maddox-Davanal had made the call, a woman who had reportedly become a widow only minutes before.
"Look, Ursula," he said, "right now this is a crime scene, and you know the rules. We'll have a PIO here soon, and he'll let you know whatever we can release."
A cameraman behind the reporter cut in, "Mrs. Davanal doesn't recognize rules when there's Davanal property involved, and it's theirs both sides of the gate." He gestured to the TV van and the house.
"And the lady runs a tight ship," Ursula added. "If we don't get through, we could be out on our asses."
"I'll keep that in mind." Ainslie motioned to Jorge to drive forward through the heavy gates.
"You'll be lead detective," he told Jorge, "though I'll work closely with you."
"Yes, Sergeant."
Gravel crunched beneath their tires as they negotiated the driveway, passing high palms and fruit trees, then a parked white Bentley near the house. They stopped at an impressive main entrance where one of a pair of ponderous double doors was ajar. As Ainslie and Jorge alighted, the door opened fully and a tall, dignified, middle-aged man appeared, impeccably groomed and clearly a butler. He glanced at both detectives' ID badges, then spoke with a British accent.
"Good morning, Officers. Please come inside." In the spacious, grandly furnished hallway he turned. "Mrs. Maddox-Davanal is telephoning. She asked that you wait for her here."
"No," Ainslie said. "There's been a report of a shooting. We'll go to the scene immediately." A wide carpeted corridor branched off to the right; near the end was a uniformed officer who called out, "The body's this way."
As Ainslie moved, the butler insisted, "Mrs. MaddoxDavanal particularly asked "
Ainslie paused. "What is your name?"
"I'm Mr. Holdsworth."
Jorge, already making notes, added, "First name?"
"Humphrey. But please realize that this house is "
"No, Holdsworth," Ainslie said. "You realize. This house is now a crime scene, and the police are in charge. A lot of our people will be coming and going. Do not get in their way, but don't leave; we'll need to question you. Also, do not disturb anything in the house from the way it is now. Is that clear?"
"I suppose so," Holdsworth said grudgingly.
"And tell Mrs. Maddox-Davanal we would like to see her soon."
Ainslie walked the length of the corridor, Jorge follow ing. The waiting uniform, whose name tag read NAVARRO, announced, "In here, Sergeant," and led the way through an open door into what appeared to be a combined exercise room and study. Ainslie and Jorge, both with notebooks in hand, stood in the doorway, taking in the scene before them.
The room was large and sunny, with early-morning sunlight coming through open French doors. Beyond the doors was an ornate patio providing a spectacular view of the surrounding bay and distant ocean. Within the room and nearest the detectives, a half-dozen black-and-chrome exercise machines were lined up like spartan sentries. An elaborate weightlifting machine dominated, then a rowing simulator, a program treadmill, a climbing device, and two machines of unclear purpose. Easily thirty thousand Dollars' worth, Ainslie guessed.
In the same room, facing the exercise area, was the study elegant and luxurious, with lounge chairs, several tables and cabinets, oak bookshelves filled with leatherbound volumes, and a handsome modern desk with a reclining chair pushed back some distance from the desk.
On the floor between desk and chair was a dead white male. The body was lying on its right side, with the top left side of the head missing, and around the head and shoulders was a melange of blood, bone splinters, and brains. The bloody mess, beginning to coagulate, extended beyond the body and onto the floor at front and sides. The dead man was dressed in tan slacks and a white shirt, now drenched with blood.
Though no weapon was visible, all signs pointed to death by gunshot.
"Since you arrived," Rodriguez asked Navarro, "has anything been touched or changed?"
The young of fleer shook his head. "Nothing. I know the drill." A thought struck him. "The dead man's wife was in the room when I got here. She could have moved something. You'll have to ask her."
"We will," Jorge said. "But let me ask you this for the record. There's no weapon in sight. Have you seen one here or anywhere else?"
"I've been looking since I got here, but haven't seen one yet.''
Ainslie asked, "When you found Mrs. Maddox-Davanal here, how did she seem?"
Navarro hesitated, then gestured to the body. "Considering the way everything was, and this being her husband and all, she seemed pretty calm; you could even say poised. I wondered about it. The other thing . . ."
Ainslie prompted, "Go ahead."
"She told me there was a TV crew coming from WBEQ. That's the "
"Yes, the Davanals' station. What about it?"
"She wanted me pretty much ordered me to make sure they were let in. I told her she'd have to wait for Homicide. She didn't like that." The young policeman hesitated again. "If there's something else on your mind, let's hear it," Jorge said.
"Well, it's only an impression, but I think the lady's used to being in control of everything and everybody and she doesn't like things any other way."
Ainslie asked, "And all that was happening while her husband was lying there" he pointed to the body "like that?"
"Just like that." Navarro shrugged. "I guess the rest is for you guys to figure out."
"We'll try," Jorge said, scribbling notes. "Always helps, though, when we draw an observant cop."
Jorge then made the routine calls on his portable radio, summoning an ID crew, a medical examiner, and a state attorney. Soon this room and other parts of the house would be crowded and busy.
"I'll take a look around," Ainslie said. Stepping carefully, he approached the open French doors. He had already noticed that one door seemed to be out of line with the other; inspecting closely, he observed what looked like fresh pry marks on the outside of both doors, around the knobs and lock. Outside he saw several brown footprints on the patio, as if someone had stepped in loose dirt or mud. Beyond the footprints he saw a flower bed fronting a four-foot wall, with more prints in the soil, as if the same person had come over the wall, then approached the house. The prints appeared to be from some kind of athletic shoes.