Weighing it all, Jensen mentally endorsed Cynthia's idea of imitating those two earlier crimes; in a perverted way, he thought, the concept was brilliant. Then he checked himself. In the way of life to which he had become committed, it was not perverted at all, but brilliant . . . period!
"You're doing a lot of thinking," Cynthia said from across the table.
He shook his head and lied. "Just memorizing all those ground rules."
"Add this to the list, then: no fingerprints."
"That won't be a problem." Jensen remembered Virgilio slipping on gloves before helping lift the wheelchair from the tradesman's van.
"There's one other thing," Cynthia said, "and this really is the last."
Jensen waited.
"Between the Coconut Grove murders and Fort Lauderdale's, there was a time gap of four months and twelve days; I worked it out."
"So?"
"Serial killers often strike pretty much at regular intervals, which means whoever did those two could pull off another, either during the last few days of September or the first week of October. I worked that out, too."
Jensen was puzzled. "How would that affect us?"
"We'll beat the bastard to it by setting our date in mid August. Then, if there's another of the same type of killing on one of those other dates, sure, there'll be an interval, but no one will think twice about it because the gaps won't seem a factor."
Cynthia stopped. "What's wrong? Why the long face?''
Jensen, who had looked increasingly doubtful, took a deep breath. "You want to know what I think?"
"I'm not sure I care, but go ahead if you want."
"Cyn, I think we're trying to be too clever."
"Which means?"
"The more we talk, the more I get the feeling that something can go wrong, terribly wrong.''
"So what are you suggesting?" Cynthia's tone was icy.
Jensen hesitated. Then, with conflicting emotions, knowing the significance of his own words, he answered, "That we quit, call the whole thing off. Here and now."
After a sip of a diet soda beside her, Cynthia asked softly, "Aren't you forgetting something?"
"I suppose you mean the money." Jensen passed his tongue across his lips as she nodded.
"I brought it with me to give to you." Cynthia touched the leather attache case on the seat beside her. "But never mind, I'll take it back." Picking up the case, she rose to leave, then paused, looking down at Jensen.
"I'll pay our bill on the way out. After all, you're going to need every last cent you have for a defense lawyer, and tomorrow I suggest you look for one. Or if you really can't afford it, you may have to take a public defender, though they're not very good, I'm afraid."
"Don't go!" He reached out to grasp her arm and said wearily, "Oh, for Christ's sake, sit down."
Cynthia returned to the bench but said nothing.
Jensen's voice was resigned. "Okay, if you want me to spell it out, I surrender . . . re-surrender. I know you hold all the aces, and I know you'd use them and never have a moment's regret. So let's go back to where we were."
Cynthia asked, "You're sure of that?"
He nodded submissively. "Sure."
"Then remember that the date for it all to happen must be as close as possible to mid-August." She was all business once more, as if the past few minutes had not occurred. "We won't meet again, not for a long time. You can phone me at the apartment, but keep it short and be careful what you say. And when you tell me the date, add five days to the real one and I'll subtract five. Is that clear?"
"It's clear."
"Now, is anything else on your mind?"
"One thing," Jensen answered. "All this conspiracy stuff has given me a raging hard-on. How about it?"
She smiled. "I can hardly wait. Let's get the hell out of here and find a motel."
As they left the restaurant together she said, "Oh, by the way, take good care of this." And passed him the leather case.
* * *
Despite Jensen's commitment to Cynthia and his acceptance of her money, doubts still plagued him. AIM the mention of seeking a lawyer kindled an idea.
Every Tuesday, Jensen played racquetball at Miami's Downtown Athletic Club along with another regular named Stephen Cruz. The two had met there and after many months shared an easy camaraderie on the court. Jensen had learned from other club members and media reports that Cruz was a successful criminal defense lawyer. One afternoon, while he and Cruz were showering after a tough, satisfying game, Jensen said on impulse, "Stephen, if a day ever came that I was in legal trouble and needed help, could I call on you?"
Cruz was startled. "Hey, I hope you haven't been doing anything . . ."
Jensen shook his head. "Nothing at all. It was only a passing thought."
"Well, of course, the answer's yes."
They left it there.
5
Two hundred thousand Dollars in cash exactly. Jensen had counted it in the bedroom of his apartment, not note by note, which would have taken too long, but by rifting through the various bundles and keeping a penciled tally as he progressed. The notes were all used, he was relieved to see, with denominations mixed. Hundred-Dollar bills were in the majority, and all were the new counterfeitproof hundreds introduced in 1996 another advantage, Jensen reasoned, aware that despite U.S. government propaganda claiming the old-type hundreds were mainly okay, many people and businesses declined to accept them since countless quantities worldwide were fake, and those who got stuck with them lost out.
Fifties were the next largest in number; no problem there, even though a new fifty-Doilar bill was due soon. And there were many bundles of twenties, though those took more space, but nothing smaller.
Jensen suspected that Cynthia had specified precisely the types of-bills the assortment was typical of her thoroughness and had brought them from the Cayman Islands, probably spread over several journeys there and back. Bringing more than ten thousand Dollars into the United States without making a customs declaration was technically illegal, but Cynthia had once told him that U.S. Customs in Miami seldom bothered Miami police officers, especially senior officers, if they discreetly showed an identification badge.
Cynthia, of course, had no idea that Jensen knew about her Caymans wealth. Four years ago, however, when they had been together in her Grand Cayman hotel room, Cynthia, complaining of an upset stomach, had excused herself and gone to the bathroom. Jensen had seized the opportunity to open a briefcase she had left in view. Searching quickly through the papers inside, he had come across a Cayman bank statement showing a credit in Cynthia's name of more than five million Dollars, at which he whistled softly. There was also a letter from someone called Uncle Zack certifying that a recent deposit was a gift, and some other papers clipped together indicated that Cynthia had informed the IRS about the account and had paid taxes on the interest. Pretty smart, Jensen thought.
Without knowing what use he could make of the information, or if it would ever have any use, he pulled out a notebook and swiftly wrote down basics; he would have liked to make copies, but there wasn't time. What he had, though, were essentials the name of the Cayman bank, an account number, and the latest balance; Cynthia's tax consultant's name, with a Fort Lauderdale address; an IRS letter with date and reference, and who had signed it; and, for what it was worth, the name "Uncle Zack." Later Jensen removed the page from his notebook, dated and signed it, and preserved it carefully.
Jensen had another thought about Cynthia's Cayman bounty an instinct, really which came to him in stages: she didn't think of it as real money and would probably never use it for herself; therefore she would not be overly concerned about how much went out and who received it. He was sure, for instance, that she suspected Jensen had lied to her about the amount needed to pay Virgilio, and that he intended to keep some of that money himself in addition to the large sum afterward that Cynthia had agreed to pay him personally.