by Lia Matera
As if the drive weren’t grim enough—bumper to bumper in eye-stinging smog—Agosto kept exclaiming over the murdered maid, harping on the likeliest possibility: The poor woman must have been murdered because someone thought we’d pointed the way to Lidia Gomez.
Agosto worried that Pirí, the customs official, had sold us out (“And yet I offered the precise mordida.”), telling a higher bidder we’d requested Myra Wilson’s file. And I worried—though I kept my mouth shut—that it might have been someone closer. That it might have been Agosto’s friend and mentor, also linked to the Cuban Yum King. Given the circumstances, it was hard not to suspect the only person in whom we’d confided, the person who’d booked our flights, Martin Marules.
He knew Lidia Gomez had managed to get out of Cuba, and that she might be living in Myra Wilson’s house. He’d tried to discourage Agosto from pursuing the passport angle, then tried to contact Pirí before him. He’d been reluctant to send Agosto here, relenting only when Agosto vowed to come on his own. With just a phone call, he could have arranged to make sure Gomez wouldn’t talk to us.
Except that she wasn’t in the house. A Hispanic maid was there instead.
I worried and drove for four rotten hours, but we made it to Santa Barbara’s harbor before the dive boat pulled in. We stood in the chilly wind, looking over an ocean that would have been lovely but for a row of oil derricks spoiling the shoreline.
“There it is—Scuba Do.” A motorboat was coming in slowly, a row of people at the front rail watching the dock. With such a corny name, that had to be it.
We watched it get closer. I could see that some passengers wore polar fleece while others still wore wet suits. I could almost make out their facial expressions.
All of a sudden, a passenger in a wet suit turned, hurrying toward the back of the boat. Whatever he did there caused a big commotion. Other passengers ran back. The boat honked its horn. I could hear shouting.
When it finally docked, passengers were gesturing and shaking their heads, taking their time getting off.
We all but pounced on the first couple off the boat. “What happened?” I asked.
“One of the people in the group dived into the harbor.”
“Fell overboard?”
“No.” The woman looked confused. “Tumbled off like he was going for a regular dive.”
The man added, “He strapped on a B.C. and a tank, all that, before he went over.” He looked angry. “What a dummy! This is no place to dive—all these boats. Jeez. He seemed like a smart enough guy before this. I don’t know what the hell he’s thinking.”
“Was it Dr. Hemingway?”
They nodded. “How did you know?”
“I recognized him,” I lied. I’d had a fleeting impression of a man with brown hair.
“Why would he do such a thing?” she demanded. “It’s ridiculous.”
“Believe me,” I said, “I have no idea.”
Unless he knew me or Agosto by sight. Unless it was very important to him that we not see him and identify him.
Other passengers came off the boat. Many were talking about Hemingway, and the consensus seemed to be that he was a crazy fool. More than one person commented that it didn’t seem like him.
“He flashed the okay sign after he hit the water,” a woman reassured us. “So there was no reason to cut the engine and go in after him—he wasn’t drunk or anything like that. And it would have been too hard to turn the boat around. It was his choice, and stupid as it was, he was competent to make it.”
“But you have no idea why he did it?”
“We heard he made a call from the boat’s phone a while ago. And he’s been pointing his binoculars at the dock ever since.”
As if he were watching for us. As if he’d recognized us. Or one of us. “What did he look like? I thought I saw someone get out of the water.”
“Dark hair, brown eyes, Cuban,” the woman said. “He told us he came over on the Mariel boatlift back in nineteen eighty, when he was a college student. A nice man.”
“An idiot,” her partner contradicted her.
More to the point, a gusano.
18
I’d booked a room (with two beds) in Agosto’s name so that he could expense-account my portion to help offset the bribes he’d paid. Unfortunately, we’d booked the room right off the bat and were now constrained to drive back to San Diego. Besides, my father’s faxed phone record should be waiting there.
While I picked up the fax, Agosto went up to the room. I followed a few minutes later, a mass of aches and fatigue from all the driving. I got off the hotel elevator, surprised to see him still standing in the open doorway of the room. I approached with some trepidation. He was just standing there, arms dangling, head tilted.
When he heard me coming, he turned. He looked weary, a little cynical, maybe sad. I didn’t know what to make of the expression.
He said, “Our baggage is gone.”
I stood beside him. It was a typical hotel room, too much beige, ugly bedspreads, every inch of the place visible from the door. My bag had been near the closet. I’d opened it to change my T-shirt, leaving it gaping and rummaged. Agosto’s bag had been on his bed, a few toiletries removed and scattered.
Now, without our bit of clutter, the room looked pristine.
I sat on my bed, sighing. I was too tired to go downstairs in search of a still-open shop selling toothbrushes and sleepwear. “What’s the point?” I wondered. “Why take our stuff? Why not just look through it?”
Agosto remained in the doorway. “Perhaps he was sent after our things. A hireling. Such a person would not know what to look for.”
I dropped my handbag. “This is what they should have gone for. My purse is where I’ve got my passport and credit cards and plane ticket.”
“Perhaps they are not looking for credit cards and passports.” He closed the door. “To have stolen everything … it must be something subtle. Something which they believe you have taken from Cuba, perhaps? Something from Cindy and Dennis?” He rubbed his forehead. “It makes my head ache. We have accomplished so little and yet, I think, caused so much damage.”
“Yes.” I assumed he referred to the murdered housemaid.
I reached for the phone and called the desk, asking the person who answered to send security up.
It took almost half an hour to explain the situation, fill out the paperwork, and receive the assurances and apologies to which management felt we were entitled. But the gist of the conversation was that they would not be held accountable for items not placed in the hotel’s safe.
I insisted that we be moved to a different room, and asked that the registration records disguise it. This seemed to confuse the manager, but he agreed anyway. He gave us “a significant upgrade,” which meant the new room had a love seat, a couple of ugly end chairs, and a faux-marble table.
Housekeeping sent up toiletry kits including toothbrushes and hair combs.
When everybody finally left, I dropped onto one of the two king-sized beds. I was still holding the hotel envelope with the fax of my mother’s phone bill. I opened it, unfolding the sheets of paper it contained. I looked at the long list of calls, almost two hundred dollars’ worth. She’d made calls all over the country, no doubt organizing the Cuba convoy and other protest actions. The words “San Diego” leaped off the page.
There were three calls to the same local number. All were about five minutes in length. They took place on March 16 and 17, the two days before her convoy set out for the Mexican border with its load of computers. I reached for the phone and dialed the number.
A musically accented Latina voice said, “You have reached the answering machine of Dr. Hemingway’s residence. In case of an emergency, please call …” A phone number followed, then the usual instruction to leave a message after the tone.
I hung up. “It�
��s Hemingway’s answering machine. At his house. Which is odd, because back then, it was still Myra Wilson’s house.”
“He has kept the same phone number, perhaps, when he has moved to Wilson’s house.”
“Unless he lived there before. He might be Wilson’s boyfriend. She said she’d cooked for him.”
Agosto sat on the edge of the other bed. “And so when she is arrested, he buys her house and banks the money so that she can … what? Why would she need money? She is after all in a Cuban prison.”
“Lidia Gomez isn’t. Maybe Wilson had to bribe some officials. Who knows what else she might have done with a bundle of money?” I was struck by a sudden worry. “We keep assuming Wilson helped smuggle Gomez out, that that’s why she’s in prison. But maybe it’s because she was bringing cash in. The Cubans would have to be afraid of what a person could do with thousands of dollars, how much they could buy and who they could buy.”
Agosto nodded. “Myra Wilson’s boyfriend hates the Cuban government, which we can assume if he came to this country on the Mariel boats. Castro did not often allow gusanos to flee. And with Mariel, people threw stones and garbage at them as they boarded the boats. They were so desperate to leave they gave up everything and everyone and left with only their shirts, knowing they would never be allowed back.” He lay down, crossing his arms beneath his head. “So Hemingway—can this be his real name?”
“Maybe his mother lived near the Hemingway house. Maybe it’s more of a place name than a family name.”
“In any case, this Dr. Hemingway cannot return to Cuba, so his girlfriend, Myra Wilson, goes instead. But she does not go simply as a tourist.”
“She either smuggled money in or smuggled Gomez out, or both.”
“So it is only reasonable to believe that Hemingway has conspired also to help Gomez.”
“And it’s reasonable to believe someone thought Hemingway’s maid was Gomez.”
“Unless the maid was herself a person of interest or distinction. A Cuban?”
I nodded. “Could be. We’ll have to see if we can get some information about her.”
“This will difficult, will it not? The police will not wish to share information with strangers?”
“I might have a friend …” Oh, Willa, don’t even think it. “A homicide lieutenant in San Francisco, he might be able to get some information for me. As a favor.”
Agosto rolled onto his side, facing me. “Ah,” he said knowingly.
I gave him a sharp glance. What had he heard in my voice?
He was smiling. “A love affair?”
“No. Believe me.”
“You have a lover now?”
I hesitated, but not because I didn’t know the answer. The imp of lawyerliness prompted me to respond, “Why do you ask?”
“Because you are unhappy over the San Francisco policeman.”
“No. I was unhappy, years ago.”
“And in the meantime, you have had many lovers?”
In the meantime, I’d had many jobs. I had many hassles. I’d had many cases. And I’d had exactly one more sexual encounter than Mother Teresa. But I didn’t really want to say so.
“And yet you are very lovely.” Agosto smiled. “When you know me better, perhaps…?”
I felt myself flush. Was he suggesting that, when I knew him better, I’d want him for a lover?
I looked at the handsome, intelligent young Mexican. No perhaps about it.
19
My first order of business the next morning was a trip to the store. I bought some shorts, a pair of jeans, some underwear, T-shirts, a sweatshirt. I wondered if Ernesto in Cuba would find them as “fine” as the ones they replaced.
I stopped in the hotel lobby to make a couple of phone calls. I told myself I might as well let Agosto sleep in, enjoy some time alone. But I was the one who needed the privacy.
With a here-goes sigh, I punched my credit card number into a pay phone and dialed San Francisco Homicide. It took me over five minutes of being transferred and remaining on hold before I heard his voice. Luckily there was a little settee next to the phone.
Judging from the rapidity of my heartbeats, my viscera hadn’t quite gotten the message that I was over Homicide Lieutenant Don Surgelato. After an affair consisting of a couple of near-kisses and his returning to his ex-wife, I was long since back on my feet. (Getting onto my back had been the problem.)
“Surgelato here.”
Hearing his voice reminded me of being a law student, then a newbie lawyer. It reminded me of a lot of things that were even less fun to recall.
“It’s Willa Jansson.” I let it hang there like the bad news he probably considered it.
“Willa? Where are you?” His tone of voice implied I’d run away to join some cult.
“Right now, I’m in San Diego. I was hoping you could do me a favor.”
“Go on.” His voice promised nothing. In fact, that about summed up our relationship.
“A woman here was murdered yesterday, probably in the early morning, before noon for sure. I need to find out her name and nationality—anything about her. But I know the police won’t want to tell me.”
“Is this for a case you’re working on?” His tone was guarded. He wasn’t going to feed the civil litigation machine, not if he could help it. “What firm are you with now?”
“It’s not for a case. And I’m in solo practice now. Down in Santa Cruz.”
“I heard about your UFO case.”
“Yeah, well, you know how the news distorts things,” I said lamely. “Anyway, this has nothing to do with work.”
“I think you’d better tell me what it does have to do with. You know I can’t be passing information to civilians.”
“It gets a little complicated. It involves my mother.”
He snorted. My mother had picketed the building he worked in, leading an entourage whose signs demanded his immediate resignation. She’d gone after him for killing, in the line of duty, someone she’d known rather well. For a lot of reasons, most of them that she’s a big blabbermouth, I’d never told her the whole story behind that shooting. Only Surgelato and I really knew what happened. And because of it, he’d been suspended, investigated, and nearly fired. And then, when he’d finally been cleared of wrongdoing, my mother had staked out the sidewalk beneath his window.
“Oh yeah,” he said, “anything for your mother.”
“I know, but this is …” I took a few deep breaths. “It’s very important. I won’t use the information in any way. I’ll just know, okay? I won’t tell anyone. And no one will know you told me. But it’s life and death, it really is.”
“Life and death?”
“Yes.” To the maid, maybe to my mother.
“Then you better fill me in.”
Oh, right. Like we were so close. “I can’t. But I … Look, I’m afraid this woman was killed because someone knew I was here to ask her some questions. About my mother, about where my mother is.” I touched my cheek. It felt hot. He always did that to me. “I’m looking for my mother, okay? I’m afraid she could be in a lot of trouble. And I came here to ask—”
“Looking for her where? What kind of trouble?”
“I can’t say.”
“Something illegal, I gather?”
“Nothing immoral, nothing you wouldn’t expect from a bleeding heart who’s trying to do the right thing.” He’d seen only her implacable opposition to him, her harsh manner, her on-a-roll ranting. He’d never looked deeper to see the altruistic sweetheart, the naive plunger-ahead, that she really was.
I started crying, thinking of her. Poor Mother, I hoped she was okay.
“Willa?”
I pulled myself together. “Yes?”
“Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“It’ll stop here. You k
now my word is good.”
I did know that. I also knew that if I waited a couple of days, long enough for the San Diego police to notify next of kin, I would learn the identity of the slain maid without him.
A couple of days. Would it make a difference? Would something bad happen to Mother in the interim?
Waffling, I looked up to find a man in a hotel security blazer standing in front of me.
“Just a second,” I said to Surgelato. I covered the mouthpiece. “Yes?”
“You’re in Room 412?”
I was startled. No one was supposed to know we’d changed rooms.
He looked over his shoulder to a man behind the desk. The man nodded to him.
He said, “Room 412? Ms. Jansson? Is that right?”
“Yes.”
He took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I need to have a few words with you. It’s rather urgent. Can I accompany you to the office, please?”
My hand dropped from the mouthpiece. I was too scared to care what Surgelato overheard. “What’s wrong?” I asked the man.
“I think it’s better if we go into the office.”
Through the glass lobby doors, I saw two police cruisers pull up. I could hear an ambulance close by and coming closer.
“Just tell me what’s happened,” I pleaded.
When the officers walked into the lobby, the desk clerk pointed at me.
“Am I being arrested?” I asked him. But I could see the ambulance pulling up. “Agosto! Is he okay?”
I stood, hanging up the phone.
The police flanked me, while the security guard said, “The office is right through here.”
I watched two more officers meet a man in a gray suit and walk to a key-operated elevator with him.
“What happened to Agosto?” I asked the cop beside me. He was a baby-faced man with a sunburn.
As I was hustled into an office, I saw medics walking hurriedly to the desk.
We were in a room filled with television sets showing surveillance camera images of various parts of the lobby, parking garage, and hallways.
