The driving surveillance was short-lived. Bancroft’s sleek convertible pulled into a convenience store/service station at the corner of Kirby Drive and NASA Parkway, just blocks from where he’d spotted the astronaut leaving home. Ainsworth parked beside the convertible and waited for its driver to exit the store. When he returned, the detective approached Bancroft, identified himself, and asked if they could talk. His request was immediately rejected with language that clearly expressed the astronaut’s displeasure. The diatribe ended with a threatening demand that the detective stay away from Bancroft’s neighborhood and family.
Donovan Ainsworth returned to his office, not shaken in the least by the astronaut’s aggressive behavior. He poured a half glass of Scotch and pondered the murder of Jennifer Simon. He was certain that the focus of the investigation needed to be redirected toward Brodie Bancroft. That would require another visit with his client.
“So why do you suspect that Bancroft and your wife were having an affair?” Ainsworth asked as soon as Curtis was seated.
“Two days before she was murdered, I saw them drinking coffee at the La Madeleine Café on Bay Area Boulevard, just down the street from where she was killed,” Curtis murmured.
“And... is that it?” the detective asked. “Nothing else?”
Curtis looked uncomfortable. “She has a history. I told you that. I just know her. I thought you were on my side.”
“Here’s the deal, Curtis. There’s nothing about Bancroft that has piqued the interest of the police so far. If you want me to try to get them interested in him, I’ll have to set up a surveillance on his activities. If I do that, we’ll blow through your retainer in a day or two. I’ll need another five thousand if you want a surveillance. Even then, I’m not promising you anything.” Ainsworth suspected he’d be off the case momentarily, but the retainer he’d already received would keep the rent paid and the Scotch flowing for a month or two. To his surprise, Curtis Simon reached for his checkbook.
“No problem, Mr. Ainsworth. Have you been to the scene of the crime? Would there be any reason to take a look at where it happened? I’m happy to increase the amount if you believe it will help your investigation to examine the parking lot where she was killed. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure I’m not the suspect.” Curtis paused with pen in hand, which hovered over the checkbook.
Before he responded, Donovan Ainsworth pondered just how low he’d fallen. His head ached from too much Scotch. Though he was relatively sure there was nothing in the parking lot the cops had overlooked, especially several days after the murder, Ainsworth knew the words with which he would reply. “Well, if you want an in-depth look at the crime, rather than just trying to get the focus off you as a suspect, that will require more money. Let’s say $7,500 additional. That should get us close. I’ll let you know if there’s more needed.”
Curtis Simon wrote the check without comment. As he handed it over, he took a deep breath. “When do you think you’ll be able to survey the crime scene, Mr. Ainsworth?”
The detective said, “I’ll be out there first thing in the morning, probably before ten. Why do you ask?”
Curtis retreated with slumped shoulders and diverted eyes. “Oh, no real reason. I just feel like I can’t get on with my life as long as the police think I was involved.”
Ainsworth stood, anxious to get the tortured little man out of his office. He had considered offering him a drink, but decided a quick exit was the better plan. Once Curtis was gone, he could nurse the Scotch bottle the rest of the afternoon.
Curtis didn’t need encouragement. He jumped from his chair.
“I’ll let you know if there’s any progress tomorrow,” Ainsworth said, following his client to the door.
The next morning, Ainsworth slept late. After Curtis had left his office the previous evening, he’d finished a fifth of Scotch. He slept until after nine and only woke then because the garbage truck in the alley made a lot of noise emptying the giant container there for his office and other nonexistent tenants.
He prepared a cup of black coffee, topped it with a splash of Scotch, and drove to the hotel identified in the police report, where Jennifer Simon was shot in the parking lot. On the way, Ainsworth thought over his last few years, how he’d gotten to this point. He’d been a young cop in Houston for eight years when he was dispatched to the call that ended his career. The call was made by a mother, concerning the rape of her daughter. When he arrived at the scene, Ainsworth found a mother waiting at the curb with that five-year-old girl. The girl had blood on her legs; her dress was ripped. She stared at him with eyes that said no one was home inside her pretty head. She’d been viciously raped and sexually abused by the mother’s boyfriend. He was still inside the house.
Without waiting for backup, Ainsworth had walked into the house, pistol in hand. He found the boyfriend in the little girl’s room, beside the bed. A butcher knife lay on the bed, within the man’s reach. This memory triggered Ainsworth’s hands to clench into fists, and a bitter taste of bile burned his throat. He had raised his pistol and shot the man twice. As the body crumpled onto the floor, Ainsworth used the barrel of his pistol to push the knife off the bed, to the floor beside the man’s still body.
The inquiry was over quickly. An older child, the brother of the little girl, had heard Ainsworth enter the house and followed him to the door of the bedroom. Once the boy gave his statement, Ainsworth was suspended from the department. Luckily, there was quite a lot of support for him when the shooting made the evening news.
He made a deal with the district attorney, who didn’t want to try a case against a police officer who had shot a pedophile only minutes after the man had raped a child. Ainsworth pled guilty to manslaughter. The little girl didn’t have to testify. He received a six-month jail sentence and a short probation. The district attorney was elected to another term without opposition.
After the conviction, Ainsworth couldn’t get a private investigator’s license, so he worked under the auspices of an attorney who was an old friend. Even so, since leaving police work, he’d been on a spiral toward self-destruction, pulling himself out of the bottle just enough to survive whenever he lucked into a case. This time, it was one that would pay well. After that, he would drown himself in whiskey until another case came along. Or... well, who knew what turns life might take?
He parked in the hotel’s lot. Although the shooting had occurred early in the evening, the police had shown a photo of Jennifer Simon to all three desk clerks on shift that day and night. None of them admitted to having seen her before. Ainsworth wasn’t sure he would accomplish anything more than adding to the billable hours on his client’s tab, but Curtis had nearly begged him to take more of his money, so he’d walk the parking lot and interview the desk clerks again.
According to the diagram attached to the report, Jennifer’s car was parked in the middle of the parking area behind the hotel. Ainsworth walked the entire lot and found a quarter on the ground next to a minivan loaded with fishing equipment. But he discovered nothing of interest to the case. He made a pass around the lot’s perimeter, which was separated by a thick hedge from another, larger parking area for commercial businesses along the boulevard. The hedge was not well-trimmed; wind had blown newspapers and fast food wrappers against the line of vegetation.