Detective

A fast cut revealed a close-up of Felicia's face. It was strikingly beautiful. Ainslie guessed a makeup artist had helped. Her expression was serious.

In the home theater, Mrs. Vazquez gestured to two rows of armchairs. "You can sit down."

"No, thanks," Ainslie said. He and Rodriguez remained standing, the Vazquezes with them.

In a clear and level voice, looking directly into the camera, Felicia began, "I am here, in humility and with remorse, to make a public confession and apology. The confession is that my husband, Byron Maddox-Davanal, was not murdered, as I and others, at my urging claimed. Byron died by his own hand; he committed suicide. He is dead, and neither guilt nor blame can any longer be attached to him.

"Yet both of those things guilt and blame can and must attach to me. Until this moment of truth I have lied about the manner of my husband's death, have deceived friends and family, made untrue statements to the media and police, concealed evidence, and created false evidence. I do not know what penalty I will pay for this. Whatever it is, I shall accept it.

"My friends, fellow citizens of Miami, the police, and TV viewers I apologize to you all. And now, having made this confession and apology, I will tell you why misguidedly I acted as I did."

Ainslie breathed to Rodriguez, "The bitch has outflanked us again."

"She knew Holdsworth would break," Rodriguez murmured, "so she did this before we could get to her.''

Ainslie grimaced. "She'll come out of this smelling like spring flowers."

Karina Vazquez said, "You'd have to get up extra early to outsmart Mrs. Davanal."

Felicia was continuing, her voice more subdued, but clear. "From my earliest youth, sharing the views of others in my family, I have regarded suicide as something shameful an act of cowardice to escape accountability, leaving others to clean up the mess left behind. The exception, of course, is when someone wants to end the terrible pain of terminal illness. But that was not the case in the death of my husband, Byron Maddox-Davanal.

"Our marriage and I must continue to be honest was not, in all its parts, fulfilling. To my great sadness I have no children . . ."

Watching and listening, Ainslie wondered how much advance preparation Felicia had done. Though her words sounded spontaneous, he doubted that they were. She might even be using a TelePrompTer; there had been time for any script to be copied, and she did, after all, control the TV station.

"Something I must make clear," Felicia was now saying, "is that no blame whatever attaches to anyone other than me. A member of my household staff even urged me not to do what I did. Unwisely, I ignored his advice, and I want him especially not to be blamed in any way . . ."

"She's letting Holdsworth off the hook," Rodriguez murmured.

"I do not know," Felicia continued, "what problems real or imagined caused my husband to end his life . . ."

"She knows damn well," Rodriguez gilded.

Ainslie turned away. "We're wasting time here," he said. "Let's go."

Behind them, as they walked away, they could hear Felicia's voice.

* * *

From his desk at Homicide, Ainslie phoned Curzon Knowles.

"Yes, I watched the lady," the lawyer said in response to Ainslie's question. "If there was an Emmy category for 'Real-Life Hypocrisy,' she'd be a shoo-in."

"You think others will agree?"

"Nope. Apart from cynical prosecutors and cops, everyone else will believe she's fine and noble a Davanal royal at work."

"What about any charges?"

"You're joking, of course."

"I am?"

"Malcolm, the only thing you've got on this woman is that she gave false information to a police officer and impeded an investigation both misdemeanors. But as for taking her to court, especially with her being a Davanal and having the best lawyers money can suborn, no prosecutor here would touch it. And in case you're wondering, I went upstairs and talked with Adele Montesino. She agrees."

"So we let Holdsworth go, then?"

"Of course. Let no one suggest American law isn't a level playing field for the rich and the not-quite-so-rich. I'll cancel the arrest warrant."

"You sound skeptical about our systems, counselor."

"It's an ongoing disease I've developed, Malcolm. If you hear of a cure, let me know."

Which appeared to end the Maddox-Davanal case, except for two postscripts. One was a phone message for Ainslie, asking him to call Beth Embry.

As promised, he had kept Beth informed of developments, with the understanding that her source would not be revealed, though so far nothing with her by-line had appeared in print. In returning her call, he asked why.

"Because I've become an old softy instead of what I used to be a let-the-shit-fall-where-it-may reporter," she told him. "If I wrote about why Byron killed himself, I'd have to describe his gambling debt to the mob, which wouldn't matter, but also the name of the girl he got pregnant, and she's a nice kid who doesn't need it. Incidentally, I want you to meet her."

"You know that Felicia lied when she said she didn't know why Byron killed himself."

"Felicia's definition of truth is what portion of it suits her at the moment," Beth acknowledged. "Now, about the girl. She has a lawyer, and I think you know her Lisa Kane."

"Yes, I do." Ainslie liked Kane. She was young and intelligent, and often served as a public defender. The difference with Kane was that despite the small fee public defenders received, she would go the extra mile and work to the limit for her clients.

"Could you meet her tomorrow?"

Ainslie agreed he would.

* * *

Lisa Kane was thirty-three, looked ten years younger, and some days as if she were still in high school. She had short red hair, a cherubic face with no makeup, and was dressed, when she met Ainslie, in jeans and a cotton T-shirt.

Their rendezvous was a small, dilapidated apartment block, three stories high, in Miami's crime-notorious Liberty City. Ainslie had come alone in an unmarked police car, Lisa in a vintage Volkswagen bug.

"I'm not sure why I'm here," he said. In fact, curiosity had brought him.

"My client and I need some advice, Sergeant," Lisa answered. "Beth said you'd be able to give it." She moved to a stairway and they climbed to the third floor, avoiding garbage and animal droppings, and emerged on a balcony with crumbling cement and rusty railings. Lisa stopped at a door halfway along and knocked. It was opened by a young woman, probably in her early twenties. Taking in her two visitors, she said, "Please come in."

Inside, Lisa announced, "This is Serafine . . . Sergeant Ainslie."

"Thank you for coming." The girl put out her hand, which Ainslie took, at the same time looking around him.

In contrast to the squalid exterior, the small apartment was spotless and gleaming. The furniture was a mixture. Several pieces a bookcase, twin side tables, a reclining chair looked expensive; the rest was of poorer quality, but all well cared for. A glimpse into another room revealed the same. And then there was Serafine attractive, poised, dressed in a flowered T-shirt and blue leggings, her brown eyes regarding Ainslie gravely. She was black and, it was evident, several months pregnant.

"I'm sorry about the way things are outside," she said, her voice deep and soft. "Byron wanted me to..." Abruptly, shaking her head, she stopped.

Lisa Kane took over. "Byron wanted to find a better place for Serafine, but other things got in the way." Then, gesturing, "Let's sit down."

When they were seated, Serafine spoke again, looking directly at Ainslie. "I'm carrying Byron's children. You probably know that."

"Children ? "

"My doctor told me yesterday. It's twins." She smiled.

"There's some background," Lisa said. "Byron Maddox-Davanal and Serafine met because she was supplying him with drugs. She and I met when I got her off a drug-trafficking charge with probation. She's clean now, the probation's over, and Byron was off drugs months before he died; he was never a heavy user."

"I'm ashamed, though," Serafine said. She glanced toward Ainslie, then turned her eyes away. "When it happened, I was desperate. . ."

"Serafine has a four-year-old son, Dana," Lisa continued. "She was an unmarried mother, without support, couldn't find a job, and around here there aren't many ways to get money for food . . ."

"I see it all the time." Ainslie's tone was understanding. "So how does Maddox-Davanal fit in?"

"Well, I guess you could say that he and Serafine responded to each other; somehow they filled each other's needs. Anyway, Byron started coming here to get away from his other life, and Serafine weaned him off drugs; she never did any herself. Maybe it wasn't love, but whatever it was worked. Byron had some money, apparently not much, but enough to help. He bought some things" Lisa motioned around her "gave Serafine money for food and rent, and she quit selling drugs."

Sure, Byron had money, Ainsliethought. You can't imagine how much.

"And of course they had sex," Lisa added.

Serafine broke in. "I didn't plan to get pregnant, but something went wrong. When I told Byron, he didn't seem to mind, said he'd take care of things. He was worried about something else, though, really worried, and one time he talked about being caught in a rat trap. It was right after that he stopped coming."

"We're talking about a month ago, and the money stopped, too," Lisa said. "That's when Serafine called me for help. I tried phoning the Davanal house, but couldn't get Byron and he didn't return my calls. I thought okay, so I went to see Haversham and . . . you know, 'We the People.' "

Ainslie did know. The prestigious Haversham law firm had so many important partners that its full title on a letterhead occupied two lines. It was also well known that the firm represented most of the Davanal interests. "Did you get some result?'' he asked.

"Yes," Lisa answered, "and it's why we need your advice."

* * *

The Haversham law firm, it emerged from Lisa's recounting, was smart enough to take an unknown young lawyer seriously, treating her with respect. She met with a partner named Jaffrus, who listened to her story, then promised to investigate her client's complaint. A few days later, Jaffrus called Lisa and arranged another meeting, which, as it turned out, took place about a week before Byron MaddoxDavanal's suicide.

"They didn't futz around," Lisa now told Ainslie. "It was obviously confirmed that Byron was responsible, so Haversham's agreed to financial support for Serafine, but under one condition: the Davanal name must never, ever, be used in connection with her child, and there'd be a means to guarantee that."

"What kind of means? What guarantee?" Ainslie asked.

Serafine, Lisa explained, would have to certify under oath, in a legal document, that her pregnancy resulted from fertilization in a sperm bank, with an anonymous donor. Documentation would then be obtained from a genuine sperm bank to confirm the arrangement.

"Probably after a big donation," Ainslie said. "And how much money would there be for Serafine?"