The statement about a friend was a lie. Cynthia had no intention of bringing anyone, and she would only retain the boat for as long as it took to reach deep water, throw the box overboard by then inside a metal trunk and return to shore. She would pay for a full-day cruise, however, which would keep the owner quiet. She also knew of an out-of-the-way store where she could buy a suitable trunk, paying with cash the day before.
Having made her decisions, Cynthia drove to Bay Point and went to her room. Remembering exactly where she had left the box, she moved other items to get to it. To her surprise, it wasn't there. Obviously her memory was faulty, she decided. She continued to move everything, finally emptying the entire cupboard, but no question about it the sealed box was gone. Her concern, which she had deliberately suppressed, suddenly escalated.
Don't panic! It's somewhere in the house. . . has to be . . . it's natural not to find it immediately after all this time. . . so stop, think, consider where else to look . . . But after searching through other rooms and cupboards, iricluding what had been her parents' rooms, she was no further ahead.
Eventually she used an intercom and summoned Theo Palacio to the top floor. He appeared quickly.
When she described the missing box, Palacio responded at once. "I remember seeing it, Miss Ernst. The police took it, along with a lot of other things. It was the day after. . ." He stopped and shook his head sadly. "I think it was the second day the police were here."
She said, "You didn't tell me!"
The butler spread his hands helplessly. "So much was happening. And it being the. police, I thought you'd know."
* * *
The facts emerged piecemeal.
As Theo Palacio explained, "The police had a search warrant. One of the detectives showed it to me, said they wanted to go through the house, look at everything."
Cynthia nodded. It was normal procedure, but something else she had not foreseen despite her careful planning.
"Well," Palacio continued, "among what they found were boxes and boxes of papers a lot of it your mother's and from what I understood, the detectives couldn't look at it all here, so they took the whole lot away to go through somewhere else. They went around the house, piling up the boxes and sealing them, and one of the boxes was yours. It was already sealed; I think that's why they took it."
"Didn't you tell anyone the box belonged to me?"
"To tell the truth, Miss Ernst, I didn't think of it. As I said, a lot was going on; Maria and I were so upset. If I did wrong, I'm - "
Cynthia cut him off. "Leave it!" Her mind was calculating swiftly.
A year and two months had passed since her parents' deaths; therefore the crucial box had been removed for that long. So whatever had happened to it, one thing was certain: it had not been opened, or she would have heard. Cynthia was also pretty sure that she knew where the box was.
* * *
Back in her City Commission office, after canceling arrangements for the boat, she willed herself to be objective. There were occasions when ultra-calm was needed, and this was one. For a moment at the Bay Point house she had almost given way to despair provoked by horror at the incredibly foolish thing she had done, or rather had failed to do. One of Ainslie's Aphorisms came back to her: All of us do foolish things - sometimes the most obvious - and we wonder later how we could have been so stupid.
First things first.
Her discovery had raised two vital questions, the first already answered: the box had not been opened. The second: Was it likely to remain unopened? Of course, she could sit back and hope the answer would be yes. But sitting back was not Cynthia's style.
She consulted a phone list and dialed the number of the Miami Police Property Department. An operator answered.
"This is Commissioner Ernst. Captain Iacone, please."
"Yes, ma'am."
A moment later, "Good afternoon, Commissioner. It's Wade Iacone; what can I do for you?"
"I'd like to come to see you, Wade." Each knew the other well from Cynthia's time in Homicide. "When would be convenient?"
"For you, any time."
She arranged to be at Property in an hour.
* * *
The Property Department, within the main Police building, was, as always, bustling, noisy, with active staff sworn and civilian all cataloging, arranging, and safeguarding a jam-packed depository of countless miscellaneous items, ranging from huge to minuscule and, in value, from precious to worthless. The only common denominator was the fact that everything was connected with a crime and might be required as evidence. Within the department a series of large storerooms seemingly were filled to capacity, yet a
relentless stream of new objects was somehow squeezed in each day.
Captain Iacone met Cynthia and escorted her to his tiny office. Space in Property was at a premium, even for its commander.
When they were seated, Cynthia began, "When my parents were killed..." then paused as Iacone, a longtime veteran, shook his head sadly.
"I could hardly believe it at the time. I was so sorry."
"It's still hard to come to terms with.'' Cynthia sighed. "But with the case closed now, and Doil being executed soon . . . Well, there are some things I have to do, and one of them is recover a lot of my parents' papers that were taken from our house over a year ago, and some may be stored here."
"There was something. I don't remember exactly, but I'll check." Iacone swung around, facing a computer terminal on his desk, and typed a name and instruction. Instantly a column of figures appeared on the monitor.
The Property chief nodded. "Yes, we do have some things from your parents quite a lot. It's coming back to me now."
"I know how much flows through here. I'm surprised you remember at all."
"Well, it was an important case; we were all concerned about it. It was all boxes, and the detectives said they'd take them out when they could and search through them." Iacone glanced back at the computer. "I guess they never did. "
Curiosity made Cynthia ask, "Any idea why?"
"The way I heard, there were a lot of pressures at the time. A twenty-four-hour surveillance was on for the serial killer; there was a shortage of working bodies, so no one had time to search through boxes. Then the serial guy was caught."
"Yes."
"Which meant the case was wound up, and no one bothered with the boxes."
Cynthia smiled warmly. "Does it mean I can have them back? There were some personal papers of my parents'."
"I should think so. In fact I'd like to clear the space." Iacone glanced at the numbers on the computer, then rose. "Let's go take a look."
* * *
"If anyone gets lost in here," Iacone said, grinning, "we send out search parties."
They were in one of the warehouse areas, where boxes and packages were piled from the floor to a ceiling high above. Aisles between piles were narrow and meandered like a maze. But everything in sight was numbered. "Whatever we're looking for," Iacone explained, "we can find it in minutes." He stopped and pointed. "Here are the boxes from your parents."
There were two piles, Cynthia saw, a dozen or more stout containers, all sealed with tape bearing the printed words CRIME SCENE EVIDENCE. Then, near the top of the second pile, she caught a glimpse of a box with some blue sealing tape protruding from beneath the official layer. Found it! she thought, recognizing the tape.
Now, how to get that box out.
"So, can I take all this away?" She motioned to the pile. "I'll sign whatever's needed."