Detective

"For you," he told her, "I'm turning the other cheek. That's from Matthew and Luke, too. Now tell me about Byron."

"Okay. At first he was the family's great white hope for a new generation of Davanals; that's why they made him change his name when he married Felicia. She's an only child, and unless she conceives, which isn't likely now, the Davanal dynasty will die with her. Well, there was never a shortage of Byron's sperm around town, and presumably he put some in Felicia, but it didn't take."

"I hear he wasn't successful in the family businesses, either."

"He was a disaster. I suppose Felicia told you that, and about his allowance for not working."

"Yes."

"She tells everybody. She had such contempt for him, which made his life even emptier than it was."

"Do you think Felicia might have killed her husband?"

"Do you?"

"At the moment, no."

Beth shook her head decisively. "She wouldn't kill him. First, Felicia's too smart to do anything so stupid. Second, Byron was useful to her."

Ainslie remembered Felicia's words: The arrangement we had suited us both . . . it provided a kind of freedom.

It was not hard to guess what her "freedom" meant.

Beth was looking at him shrewdly. "You've figured it out? With Byron in her life, she never had to worry about one of her many men coming on too strong and wanting to marry her."

"Many men?"

Beth put her head back and laughed. "You couldn't count thern! Felicia eats men. But she tires quickly, then discards them. If any got serious, all she had to say was 'I'm already married.' "

Again, Beth looked searchingly at Ainslie. "Did Felicia come on to you? . . . She did! My God, Malcolm, you're blushing!"

He shook his head. "It was momentary, and probably my imagination."

"It wasn't, my friend, and if she fancies the taste of you, she'll try again. Be warned, though Felicia's honey may be sweet, but she's a queen bee with a sting."

"You mentioned the Davanal dynasty. How far back does it go?"

Beth considered. "To the end of the last century 1898, I'm pretty sure. There was a book written; I remember a lot of it. Silas Davanal and his wife, Maria, came here as immigrants from Upper Silesia; that's between Germany and Poland. He had a little money, not much, and opened a general store. By the end of his life it was Davanal's Department Store, and had made the first fortune. Silas and Maria had a son Wilhelm."

"Who's just barely alive, right?"

"That sounds like Felicia again. Wilhelm's wife died many years ago, but he's still sharp, even at ninety-seven. I've heard there isn't much that goes on in that old house that he misses. You should talk to him."

Senile, Felicia had told him. "Yes, I will."

"Anyway," Beth continued, "with each Davanal generation the family got richer and more powerful, and that includes Theodore and Eugenia both of them tyrants."

"Frankly, they all sound like tyrants."

"Not necessarily. It's just that they're all driven by intense pride."

"Pride about what?"

"Everything. They've always cared hugely about appearances. Their public persona must be impeccable, making them superior, even perfect, people. And any dirty little secrets are buried so deep that even you, DetectiveSergeant, might have trouble finding them."

"From what you've told me," Ainslie said, "Felicia isn't always impeccable."

"That's because she's more tuned in to her times. All the same, she's pretty intense about pride and in any case has to conform because Theodore and Eugenia still control the family fortunes. She had trouble with her parents over Byron. They never wanted outsiders to know the marriage failed; that's why Byron got his allowance to keep it all quiet. And again, they don't much care what kind of life Felicia leads, as long as it's well concealed."

"Is it really concealed?"

"Not as much as Theodore and Eugenia would like. The way I heard, there was a big family row and an ultimatum: If Felicia brought disgrace in any way on the family name, she'd be cut off from running that TV station she loves so much."

They talked on, Ainslie relating in return some additional details of the Maddox-Davanal case. At the end, as they both rose, he said, "Thank you, Beth. As always, you've given me a lot to think about."

Able, Baker, and Charlie, released from their confinement, leaped and barked excitedly as he left.

* * *

As Malcolm Ainslie returned to the Davanal house, the remains of Byron Maddox-Davanal were being removed in a body bag destination the Dade County morgue, for autopsy. Sandra Sanchez had already left, leaving behind an opinion that the victim's death occurred somewhere between 5:00 and 6:00 A.M., roughly two hours before Felicia Maddox-Davanal's reported discovery.

In the study and exercise room, the earlier activity had tapered off, though the lead technician, Julio Verona, was still recording evidence. He told Ainslie, "There's something I'd like to show you, when you have a minute."

"Okay, Julio." But first Ainslie went to Detectives Jorge Rodriguez and Jose Garcia and asked, "What's new?"

Jorge grinned and motioned to Garcia. "He thinks the butler did it."

Garcia said sourly, ''Very funny!" Then, to Ainslie, "I don't believe that Holdsworth guy, is all. I questioned him, and all my instincts say he's lying."

"About what?"

"Everything not hearing a shot or any disturbance, when he lives on this floor, and not being on the scene until he was called by the dead man's wife, after she'd called nine-one-one. He knows more than he's telling; I'd stake my life on it."

"Have you checked his background?" Ainslie asked.

"Sure have. He's still a British citizen; has been in the States fifteen years on a green card, and never in trouble. I called U.S. Immigration in Miami; they have a file on Holdsworth."

"Anything helpful?"

"Well, this is funny in a way, but Holdsworth does have a criminal record in England and was smart enough to declare it when he made his green card application. Would have been discovered if he hadn't, but it's peanuts."

"Let's hear."

"When he was eighteen thirty-three years ago he snatched a pair of binoculars from the backseat of a parked car. A cop saw, and arrested him; he pleaded guilty, got two years' probation, no record since. The Immigration guy I talked to says that when someone applies for a green, they don't take something minor and that long ago seriously, as long as the applicant's declared it. Guess I wasted my time."

Ainslie shook his head. "It's never wasted. Save your notes, Pop. Did anything come from other interviews?"

"Not much," Jorge answered. "Two people the chauffeur's wife and a gardener now believe they heard the shot, but thought it was traffic. They have no idea about time, except it was still very dark."

"Has anyone talked to the old man Wilhelm Davanal?"

"No."

"I'll do that," Ainslie finished.

He, Jorge, and Garcia then joined Julio Verona across the room.

"Take a look at this," Verona said. From a plastic bag, using rubber gloves, the ID chief produced a small gold clock, which he placed on the desk formerly used by Byron Maddox-Davanal. He explained, "Where I just put the clock is exactly where ID found it. Here's a photo confirming that." Verona produced a Polaroid print.

"Look on the back of the clock," Verona continued, "and you'll see there's blood quite a lot for such a small surface. But" he paused for emphasis "assuming it's the victim's blood, and remembering the distance from the body, there is no way blood could have got on the back of that clock where it is now."

"So what's your theory?" Ainslie asked.

"During the killing, or immediately after, the clock got knocked off the desk into some blood on the floor. Later, some person maybe the killer saw the clock, picked it up, and put it back on the desk, where it sat until our crew took this photo."

"Any fingerprints?"

"Sure are a good set. What's more, two of the prints were bloody, and there were no other prints at all."

"So if you find a match," Jose Garcia said excitedly, "we'll have the killer."

Verona shrugged. "That'll be for you guys to decide, though I'd say whoever matches those prints will face tough questions. Anyway, they're being checked against records, and we'll have an ID, if any, tomorrow. Matching the blood with the victim's will take another day. And there's something else. Over here."

The ID chief led the way, stopping at a polished oak cabinet in the exercise area. "This was locked; we found some keys in a desk drawer." Opening the cabinet, he revealed an interior lined with red felt and containing firearms. A Browning automatic shotgun, a Winchester semiautomatic deer rifle, and a Grossman .22 automatic rifle were all upright and held in place by metal clips. Alongside, resting on several metal hooks. was a Glock 9mm automatic pistol. Beyond it were a few more empty hooks, shaped to contain another handgun.

The cabinet had several interior drawers. Verona opened two and announced' "It's obvious that Maddox-Davanal liked to shoot, and there's plenty of ammunition here for

the shotgun, both rifles, and the Glock handgun, which also has a fully loaded clip. As well, there's a box of .357 Magnum hollow-points."

"Bullets for which there's no handgun.'' Ainslie said.

"Right. Obviously a handgun's missing, and it could have been a .357 Magnum pistol."

Ainslie considered. "Chances are Maddox-Davanal had permits for his guns. Has anyone checked?"

"Not yet," Verona said.

"Let's do it." Using his police radio, Ainslie placed a phone call to the Homicide offices. Sergeant Pablo Greene . answered. "Pablo, will you do me a favor and go to a computer?" Ainslie asked. "I need a check of Dade County Firearms Registration." A few minutes' pause, then, "The name's Maddox-Davanal, first name Byron . . . Yeah, we're still at the house . . . We'd like to see if anything's registered to him."

While waiting, Ainslie asked Verona, "Were any bullets found here at the scene?"

The ID chief nodded. "Yes, one. It was against the baseboard behind the desk, and must have gone through the victim's head, hit the wall, then fell. It was pretty distorted and we won't be sure until the lab's examined it, but it might have come from a .357 round."

Ainslie spoke into his radio. "Okay, Pablo, go ahead." He listened while making notes. "Got it! . . . Yeah . . . It fits . . . We have that one, too . . . And that . . . Ah! Give me that again . . . Yes, I have it now . . . And that's everything, right? . . . Thanks, Pablo."

Putting away the radio, he told the others, "All these guns are registered to Maddox-Davanal. He also registered a Smith & Wesson .357. Magnum revolver, which isn't here."

The four men stood thoughtfully, silent, weighing the implications.

"Are you guys having the same feeling I am," Garcia said, "that if the missing gun was the murder weapon, this is starting to look like an inside job?"

"It's possible," Jorge agreed. "Except whoever made those footprints outside, then forced open the French doors, could have got the gun before hiding."