"It was a girl," Ruby said. "I found that out early, at the adoption center." But the center had not been helpful beyond that, denying access to old records, claiming that confidentiality barred the way. Ruby had not persisted, she explained, because the information was not crucial. The child's existence was already known, and finding out more would not aid the investigation into the Ernsts' deaths.
"I wanted to know, though," Ruby said. "A couple of times I dropped in at the center, and there was an older social worker who I thought might bend the rules and help, but she was scared. Two days ago she phoned. She's retiring in a week. I went to her home last night and she gave me a paper."
The paper, as described by Ruby, showed that the adoption of Cynthia's child had lasted less than two years. The adoptive parents were convicted of abuse and neglect, and the child was taken away. There followed a long series of foster homes until the girl was thirteen, when the record stopped. "It's a sad story of indifference and cruelty," Ruby said, adding, "I was going to check with the last home listed, then didn't need to, when I saw the name the baby was given. And still uses."
"Which is?"
"Maggie Thorne."
It was familiar, Ainslie thought. He just couldn't place it.
Ruby prompted, "It was Jorge Rodriguez's case the German tourist, Nichaus, shot and killed. I think you were . . ."
"Yes . . . I was."
It sprang back in memory: the wanton, needless killing . . . an international furor and the hapless guilty pair a young black male, Kermit Kaprum; a white female, Maggie Thorne . . . tests showed shots were fired by both accused, two fatal shots by Thorne . . . under questioning, both confessed.
At the time, Ainslie recalled, there had been something familiar about the young woman's face. He had tried using flash recognition, but it hadn't worked. Now he knew why. It wasn't the accused girl whom he had seen before, but her mother, Cynthia. Even now, in memory, Thorne's resemblance to her was uncanny.
"There's something else," Ruby said as she turned the car onto Bayshore Drive. "The woman from the adoption center who gave me the report tried to cover herself. If they break confidentiality for any reason, they're supposed to notify the child's original parent, and my woman did. She sent a form letter addressed to Cynthia about her daughter, Maggie Thorne Cynthia probably never knew that name before saying the police had asked for the information and been given it. The letter was mailed on Friday and went to the Ernsts' old home address in Bay Point. Cynthia may have it now."
"The Niehaus case." Ainslie's mind was swirling, his voice barely under control. "In the end, what happened?" There were so many cases. He half remembered, but wanted to be sure.
"Kaprum and Thorne both got death sentences. They're on death row, going through appeals."
Everything else left Ainslie's mind. He could think only of Cynthia, receiving a form letter . . . Cynthia was sharp, she followed cases, would connect the name at once and put everything else in place, including the current interest of the police . . . A form letter to let her know that her only child, the child she never knew, would soon be executed. He thought despairingly, Was there no end to the unfair, dreadful hand that life had dealt to Cynthia? Compassion and the profoundest pity for her overwhelmed him, momentarily eclipsing all else. In the front seat Malcolm leaned forward, putting his head in his hands. His body shook convulsively. He wept.
* * *
"I'm sorry," Ainslie said to Ruby. "There are times when you lose a sense of proportion." He was remembering the protesters outside Raiford Prison, who appeared to have forgotten a murderer's victims. "It all got to me at once."
"I cried last night. This job sometimes..." Ruby's voice trailed off.
"When we go in," he told her, "I'd like to go to Cynthia first alone."
"You can't. It's against "
"I know, I know! It's against regulations, but Cynthia would never pull sexual harassment stuff; she's too proud for that. Look, you said the letter to her was mailed Friday to the old Bay Point address; she may not have it yet. If she doesn't, I can break the news more gently, and even if she does "
"Malcolm, I have to remind you of something." Ruby's voice was low and caring. "You're not a priest anymore."
"But I'm a human being. And I'm the one who'll be going against orders, though I need your okay."
She protested, "I have a duty; too." Both of them knew that if something went wrong, Ruby could pay a penalty with her career.
"Look, I'll cover you whatever happens, say I made it an order. Please."
They were at the Dinner Key waterfront and had arrived at City Hall. Ruby stopped their car at the main doorway. The blue-and-white was immediately behind.
She hesitated, still uncertain. "I don't know, Malcolm." Then, "Will you tell Sergeant Braynen?"
"No. The uniforms'll remain outside anyway. You come inside with me, but wait in the auditorium while I go to Cynthia's office. Give me fifteen minutes."
Ruby shook her head. "Ten. Max."
"Agreed."
They entered the main door of Miami's unique and anachronistic City Hall.
* * *
In an age when government opulence was the norm and cathedral-style official buildings proclaimed politicians' self-importance, the City Hall of Miami one of America's major cities expressed the reverse. Located on a promontory and with Biscayne Bay on two sides, it was a relatively small two-story building painted white, with its name and some minor art deco relief in bright blue. People were often surprised at the overall simplicity, even though the building housed Miami's elected mayor, vicemayor, three commissioners, and an appointed city manager. Others, usually old-timers, often said the building looked more like a seaplane base not surprisingly, since it had been a Pan American Airways base from 1934 through 1951, built to serve Clipper flying boats that carried passengers from Miami to thirty-two countries. Then, when flying boats went the way of dinosaurs, Pan Am closed the base and it became Miami City Hall in 1954.
History had been made here. Perhaps more history, Ainslie thought, would be made today.
In the main lobby, Ainslie and Bowe walked to a desk where they showed their police badges to an elderly security guard. The man waved them past. Knowing the location of Cynthia's office on the main floor, Ainslie turned left and gestured to Ruby to take an interior corridor to the right, which led to the auditorium where she would wait. Reluctantly, Ruby left him, pointedly checking her watch.
Before entering the building, Ainslie had instructed Braynen and his partner to hold their present position outside, listen to their radios, and respond immediately if called.
Ainslie continued down the hall until a door confronted him:
OFFICE OF THE
COMMISSIONER
CYNTHIA ERNST
A young male aide sat at a desk in a windowless room immediately inside. In a separate small office a woman secretary was working at a computer. Between the two was a substantial door, dark green, and closed.
Again, Ainslie showed his badge. "I'm here to see the commissioner on police business. Don't announce me."
"Wouldn't anyway." The young man gestured to the green door. "Go right in." Ainslie opened the door and entered, closing it behind him.
Cynthia faced him. She was seated at an ornate desk, her face expressionless. The of lice was spacious and pleasantly functional, though not luxurious. A window in the rear wall provided a view of the harbor and moored pleasure boats. A plain door to the right probably opened to a cupboard or a small powder room.
A silence hung between them. After several seconds he began, "I wanted to say "
"Save it!" Cynthia's lips scarcely moved. Her eyes were cold.