Jorge had returned to his desk next to Ainslie's. ''How about the suicide notion? Are you taking it seriously?"
"I take Sandra Sanchez seriously. And the notion just got more plausible." Ainslie described his conversation with Beth Embry.
Jorge whistled softly. "If it is true, it means the Davanal woman lied. I saw her on TV she talked about 'the savage murder of my husband.' So what's she hiding?"
Ainslie already had a possible answer. It hinged on something Beth Embry had said the first time around, and consisted of one word: pride. And Beth had said of the family, Their public persona must be impeccable, making them superior, even perfect, people.
"Do we question Mrs. Davanal again?" Jorge asked.
"Yes, but not yet. Let's turn a few more stones over first."
That same day, Wednesday, the Dade County Coroner's Department released the body of Byron Maddox-Davanal to his wife, Felicia, who announced that a funeral service and burial of her late husband would take place on Friday.
* * *
Through most of Thursday the Davanal household was occupied with funeral arrangements and, considerately, the Homicide detectives made themselves inconspicuous. Malcolm Ainslie, however, did ride an elevator in the mansion, two floors up, to meet the Vazquezes husband and wife who looked after the patriarch Wilhelm Davanal. He found the couple in their third-floor apartment. They were friendly and helpful and clearly caring of their charge. Yes, they had learned early about the murder of Byron, and were shocked. And yes, "Mr. Wilhelm" knew of it, too, though he would not attend the funeral, owing to the strain involved. Nor would it be possible for Ainslie to meet Mr. Wilhelm during this visit, since he was asleep.
Karina Vazquez, a registered nurse and a responsible, maternal figure in her mid-fifties, explained, "The old gentleman doesn't have much energy and sleeps a lot, especially during the day. But when he's awake contrary to what you may hear from his family he's as sharp as a tack."
Her husband, Francesco, added, "Sometimes I think of Mr. Wilhelm as a fine old watch. It will eventually stop, but until it does, its movement works as well as ever.''
"I can only hope," Ainslie said, "that someone will speak that way about me someday." He continued, "Do you think the old gentleman can tell me anything about the death?"
"I wouldn't be surprised," Karina Vazquez answered. "He's very tuned in to family affairs, but keeps a lot to himself, and Francesco and I don't ask questions. I know Mr. Wilhelm often wakes up in the night, so maybe he heard something. But we haven't discussed it, so you'll have to ask him yourself."
Ainslie thanked them and agreed to return.
* * *
Though there hadn't been much time, Felicia did her best to arrange a grand funeral for her late husband. The chosen church, a large one, was St. Paul's Episcopal in Coral Gables. News releases were rushed to the media and announcements made on WBEQ. The Davanal stores in the Miami area were closed for three hours so that employees could attend, word being passed that anyone using the time for some other purpose would have his or her name recorded. A Requiem Eucharist was arranged, with full choir, and a bishop, dean, and canon to officiate. Pallbearers included the city's mayor, two state senators, and a U.S. congressman, all drawn by a Davanal summons like iron filings to a magnet. The church was filled, though conspicuously absent were Theodore and Eugenia Davanal, still in Milan.
Malcolm Ainslie, Jorge Rodriguez, and Jose Garcia were at the funeral, not as mourners but as observers, their eyes scanning the congregation. Despite newly kindled suspicions about suicide, the possibility that Byron Maddox-Davanal had been murdered had not been eliminated, and experience showed that some murderers were morbidly drawn to a victim's funeral.
As well as the detectives, three members of a police ID crew, using concealed cameras, discreetly shot photos of attendees and their car license plates.
* * *
During the late afternoon of that day, while the detectives were back at their desks in Homicide, a uniformed U.S. Immigration officer was escorted in, then taken to Garcia.
The two, who knew each other, shook hands. "Thought I'd bring this over," the Immigration man said. He handed the detective an envelope. "It's those fingerprints you wanted. They just came in by e-mail from London."
"Hey, thanks a lot!" Garcia, enthusiastic as usual, beamed. They chatted briefly, then the detective saw the visitor out. Back at his desk, Garcia waited briefly for Ainslie to finish a phone call, then gave up and headed for the neighboring ID Department to see Julio Verona.
Ten minutes later Garcia was back. Approaching Ainslie, he called out, "Hey, Sergeant, we got a break a hot one!"
Ainslie swung his chair around.
"It's that son of a bitch butler, Holdsworth; I told you he was lying. Those were his prints on that little clock bloodstained prints a perfect match. And ID has the blood report back. The blood on the clock is the same type as the victim's."
"Nice going, Pop..." Ainslie was interrupted by a shout from another desk: "Call on line seven for Sergeant Ainslie."
Motioning the others to wait, Ainslie picked up his phone and identified himself. A voice responded, "It's Karina Vazquez, Sergeant. Mr. Wilhelm is awake and says he'll be glad to see you. I think he knows something. But please come quickly. He could fall asleep anytime."
Replacing the phone, Ainslie sighed. "Great news, Jose; gives us a lot to chew on. But there's something I have to take care of first."
* * *
On the fourth floor of the Davanal mansion, Mrs. Vazquez escorted Ainslie to a spacious bedroom with handsome light-oak paneling and wide windows overlooking Biscayne Bay. Facing the windows was a large four-poster bed with a slight, gaunt figure in it, propped up by pillows Wilhelm Davanal.
"This is Mr. Ainslie," Mrs. Vazquez announced. "He's the policeman you agreed to see, Mr. Wilhelm." While speaking, she moved a chair beside the bed.
The figure in the bed nodded and, motioning to the chair, said softly, "Sit down."
"Thank you, sir." As Ainslie did so, Vazquez murmured from behind, "Do you mind if I stay?"
"No. I'd like you to." If anything significant emerged, a witness would be useful.
Ainslie regarded the old man facing him.
Despite age and frailty, Wilhelm Davanal remained a patrician figure, with hawklike features. His hair, totally white, was thin but neatly combed. He held his head straight and upright. Only pockets of loose skin around his cheeks and neck, watery eyes, and a tremor in his hand betrayed his body's near century of wear and tear.
"Pity about Byron." The old man spoke in a weak voice, which Ainslie strained to hear. "Didn't have much backbone, no damn good in our business, but I liked him. Came to see me often; not many others do, too busy. Byron sometimes read to me. Do you know who killed him?"
Ainslie decided to be direct. "We're not sure anyone did, sir. We're looking into the possibility of suicide."
The old man's expression did not change. He seemed to be considering, then said, "Not surprised. Once told me his life was empty."
While Ainslie made quick notes, Vazquez whispered from behind, "Don't waste time, Detective. If you've got questions, ask them quickly."
Ainslie nodded. "Mr. Davanal, last Monday right, or early Tuesday morning, did you hear any noise that might have been a shot?"
This time the voice was stronger. "I heard the shot. Loud. Knew exactly what it was. Know the time, too."
"What time was that, sir?"
"Few minutes after half past five. Have a luminous clock there." With a shaking hand the old man gestured to a small table on his left.
Ainslie remembered that Sandra Sanchez had estimated Byron Maddox-Davanal's death as having occurred between 5:00 and 6:00 A.M.