Detective

"It's all yours," he told her finally. "I know you'll get it right."

Ruby Bowe left, and Ainslie returned to the accumulated paper that confronted him though unaware he would have only a few fleeting minutes in which to work on it.. . .

* * *

The 911 call came through to the Miami Police Communication Center at 7:32 A.M.

A complaint clerk responded. "Nine-one-one Emergency, may I help you?" Simultaneously the caller's phone number and a name, T. DAVANAL, appeared on an ID box above the clerk's computer.

A woman's breathless voice: "Send the police to 2801 Brickell Avenue, just east of Viscaya. My husband has been shot."

As the caller spoke, the complaint clerk typed the information, then pressed a computer "F" function key, sending the data to a woman dispatcher in another section of the spacious room.

The dispatcher reacted promptly, knowing that the address given was in Zone 74. Her own computer already displayed a list of patrol cars available, with their numbers and locales. Making a selection, she called by radio, "Oneseven-four."

When Unit 174 responded, the dispatcher sent a loud "beep,'' prefacing an urgent message. Then by voice, "Take a three-thirty at 2801 Brickell Avenue, east of Viscaya." The "three" was for "emergency with lights and siren," the "thirty" notified a reported firearm discharge.

"QSL. I am at Alice Wainwright Park, close by."

While the dispatcher was speaking, she signaled Harry Clemente, the Communications sergeant in charge of dispatch and radio traffic, who left his central desk and joined her. She pointed to the address on her screen. "That's familiar. Is it who I think it is?"

Clemente leaned forward, then said, "If you mean the Davanals, you're goddam right!"

"It's a three-thirty."

"Holy shit!" The sergeant read the other information. "They got trouble. Thanks, I'll stay close."

The original complaints clerk was still speaking with the 911 caller. "A police unit is on the way to you. Please let me verify your last name. Is the spelling D-a-v-a-n-a-l?"

Impatiently: "Yes, yes. It's my father's name. Mine is Maddox-Davanal.''

The clerk was tempted to ask, Are you the famous Davanal family? Instead she requested, "Ma'am, please stay on the phone until the police unit arrives."

"I can't. I have other things to do." A click as the caller's phone connection ended.

At 7:39 A.M. the dispatcher received a radio call from Unit 174. "We have a shooting here. Request a Homicide unit to Tac One."

"QRX" shorthand for "stand by."

Malcolm Ainslie was at his desk in Homicide, with his portable radio switched on, when he heard Unit 174's message. Still sorting papers, he motioned to Jorge. ''You take it."

"Okay, Sarge." Reaching for his own radio, Rodriguez told the dispatcher, "Thirteen-eleven going to Tac One for Unit one-seven-four." Then, selecting the Tac One channel exclusive to Homicide: "One-seven-four, this is thirteen-eleven. QSK?"

"Thirteen-eleven, we have a DOA at 2801 Brickell Avenue. A possible thirty-one."

On hearing the address, followed by 31 for "homicide," Ainslie looked up sharply. Abandoning files and papers, he pushed his chair back from the desk and stood. He nodded to Jorge, who transmitted, "One-seven-four, we're en route to you. Secure the scene. Call for more help if needed." Pocketing the radio, he asked, "Is that the home of that rich family?"

"Damn right. The Davanals. I know the address; everyone does." In Miami there was no escaping the family name and its fame. Davanal's department stores were a huge Florida-wide chain. There was also a Davanal-owned TV station which Felicia Maddox-Davanal managed personally. But more than that, the family originally mid-European but American-Floridian since World War I was prestigious and powerful, both politically and financially. The Davanals were constantly in the news, sometimes referred to as "Miami's royalty." A less kindly commentator once added, "And they behave that way."

A telephone rang. Rodriguez answered, then passed the phone to Ainslie. "It's Sergeant Clemente in Communications."

"We're on to it, Harry," Ainslie said. "The uniforms called. We're leaving now."

"The DOA is Byron Maddox-Davanal, the son-in-law. His wife made the nine-one-one. You know about the name?"

"Remind me."

"He was plain Maddox when he married Felicia. Family insisted on his name change. Couldn't bear the thought of the Davanal name someday disappearing."

"Thanks. Every bit of info helps."

As he replaced the phone, Ainslie told Rodriguez, "A lot of power people will be watching this one, Jorge, so we can't screw up a thing. You go ahead, get a car and wait downstairs. I'll tell the lieutenant."

Newbold, who had just arrived in his office, looked up as Ainslie strode in. "What's up?"

"A possible thirty-one on Byron Maddox-Davanal at the family home. I'm just leaving."

Newbold looked startled. "Jesus! Isn't he the one who married Felicia?"

"He is. Or was."

"And she's old man Davanal's granddaughter, right?"

"You got it. She made the nine-one-one. Thought you'd want to know." As Ainslie left hurriedly, the lieutenant reached for his phone.

* * *

"It looks like some feudal castle," Jorge observed as they approached the imposing Davanal residence in an unmarked car.

The turreted, multi-roofed house and its grounds sprawled over three and a half acres. Surrounded by a high, fortress-like wall of quarried stone with buttressed corners, the entire place had a medieval flavor. "I wonder why they didn't include a moat and drawbridge," Ainslie said.

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.