Comrades in Miami

by Jose Latour

  “I won’t leave you and that’s final.”

  “You don’t … have a passport, you don’t …”

  Eighty or so yards away, a Ford Escort ascending the ramp reached the second level. The beam of its headlights momentarily swept over the crouching woman and the fallen men. Startled, Victoria looked up, but they were too far away for the driver to see them and he kept steering his car to the garage’s top floor. She lowered her gaze to Pardo in time to watch him cough, gasp twice, writhe spasmodically, and die.

  She had never seen someone die before her very eyes. After a minute of disbelief staring at the half-open eyelids of the human being she had loved above all others, as she lost his pulse and registered that he was no longer breathing, a new side of Victoria’s personality emerged. “Don’t do this to me, macho,” she implored. Tears were not welling in her eyes, her grief was not incapacitating. Am I in shock? she wondered, baffled by her equanimity. Partly, yes, of course.

  She released his wrist, stood, and surveyed her surroundings. Not a soul. Had anybody heard the shots? She lowered her gaze to Pardo, thinking. The only thing she could do was flee. Having made up her mind, she squatted one final time, turned the body on its back, and retrieved the CD. On its upward trajectory, the bullet that pierced Pardo’s left lung had also perforated the disk, rendering it useless. Victoria smiled sadly before picking up her Tokarev. She put both objects into the tote bag, zipped it shut, and straightened up. From behind the column she recovered her purse. She took a last look at her husband and moved away. Passing near Bonis, she saw the Beretta on the floor and noted that it had a silencer attached. So, the only shots that could possibly have been heard by others were Pardo’s. Victoria bared her teeth in a snarl, lifted the gun, and fired the remaining rounds into the gardener’s head. Then she dropped the Beretta and hurried to the nearest elevator, wondering what to do first.

  …

  The two young men came across as patently gay in their trendy clothing, dyed hair, plucked eyebrows, and effeminate gesticulations, but they were showering Jenny with almost maternal solicitude. The dark-skinned Valerio, a Peruvian with considerable Inca blood in him who spoke impeccable Spanish, held a saucer with a steaming cup of chamomile tea from which Jenny had taken a few sips. The older Chris, New Yorker by birth, fashion photographer by profession, and South Beach resident since 1998, contemplated Jenny adoringly, his hand on her shoulder. All three were sitting on the huge sofa upholstered in striped satin; Elliot was in the club chair he always chose when in the Scheindlins’ living space.

  “It was the first thing the police asked me,” Jenny, answering Steil’s last question. “I hadn’t looked, so I took them all over the house. The safe is closed, the paintings are in place, no jewels or money are missing from my room. There were four hundred and fifteen dollars in Mother’s purse. Her car is in the garage. No, Mr. Steil, robbery wasn’t the motive. The only strange thing I found when I came in was the open gate.”

  Steil rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. Certainly the police had to know that a closed safe could well be empty. Maybe the killer had forced Maria to open it, taken everything, and closed it. He wanted to ask more questions. Did Jenny know if her mother had a lover? Or any known enemy? Had the widow shown signs of sadness, depression, or acted worried recently? Surely the guys from Homicide had already posed those questions. Besides, he had no right to intrude neither into the young woman’s grief nor into family secrets. He lifted his head, turned his gaze to the bloodstains on the floor, then searched Jenny’s eyes. She was dejectedly staring at the rug under the coffee table.

  “Well, Jenny, I don’t know what to say.” She locked gazes with him. “Death is always surprising. Your father’s, for instance. But he was an old man, and he died from natural causes. This is so … unexpected and brutal. I only hope the police get whoever did this as soon as possible.”

  “I hope so, too.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you tonight?”

  “I don’t think so. Thanks. Chris and Valerio will stay with me.”

  “For as long as she wants us to,” Chris added, unasked. “We’re also trying to talk her into spending a few weeks at our place. We’d be delighted.”

  “That’s very nice of you, gentlemen.” Then, turning to the emaciated young woman, “Okay, Jenny. You have my home number and you know the company numbers, too. If you need anything, give me a call.”

  “Thank you.”

  Steil placed both hands on his knees, ready to stand up, then hesitated, clearing his throat. “On the way here I considered whether I should tell you what I’m about to tell you now. I know it’s not the right moment to bring this up, but I feel it’s my duty to tell you now. When you feel better, you need to learn some basic facts about IMLATINEX. You’ll have to consult with your lawyers, maybe appoint people to represent you.”

  First Jenny frowned in incomprehension. Then her shoulders fell slightly, as if a physical object had landed on her back. “Yes, I suppose I have to, right?”

  “Yes, you have to, Jenny. There’s no escaping the fact, and the sooner you do it the better. I don’t mean tomorrow or the day after. Sam and I will try to act in your best interests for as long as you need: a week, two, three, whichever. But my advice, unsolicited advice I should say, is that you discuss the situation with your lawyer,” he concluded, getting to his feet.

  Jenny stood, too. Valerio put the saucer and cup on a side table and imitated her. Chris also rose. Steil shook hands all around and Jenny escorted him to the door.

  “I’m really sorry, Jenny. Your mother was quite a woman.”

  “Yes, she was. Thanks, Mr. Steil.”

  Driving to Miami, Elliot reflected on what he ought to do next. He had to call Hart, of course. In the middle of the night? What could Hart do? Nothing. Police dealt with murders. Besides, the FBI had filmed Capdevila and Berta when they went to Bay Harbor, so they had the place under surveillance. No hurry then, he would call Hart in the morning. Sam Plotzher was in New York. Mrs. Plotzher had probably called him right after Jenny gave her the news; no point in calling, him, either.

  He remembered that in a few hours someone would be coming to the Scheindlins’ to pick up a hundred thousand in cash. Carlos Capdevila and Berta Arosamena? What a surprise awaited those two. Wait a minute! flashed in his mind. Had they come a day earlier to claim the cash, argued with Maria, and murdered her? He shook his head. He was of a mind that they were not assassins. Could he be sure they were not? Could he be sure the murderer had nothing to do with them? From that perspective, reporting the murder to Hart ASAP seemed much more urgent. Right now, he decided. He spotted a gas station at the corner of Sixty-sixth Street and Biscayne, across from the American Legion Park. He pulled into it, went past the pumps, killed the lights and the engine, and got out, searching for a pay phone. He looked up the number Hart had given him, dropped in the coins, and punched it.

  “Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “This is an emergency. I need to talk to Special Agent Brent Hart.”

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Elliot Steil.”

  “Hold the line.”

  Elliot figured the call had to be rerouted to Hart’s home. His watch read 12:16. He extracted another quarter from his pocket and dropped it into the slot, just in case. He started to have second thoughts. Making Capdevila and Berta suspects in a murder case was not nice. Although they were no angels, he had no proof. But you never know. About two minutes had gone by and he felt disinclined to finger the Cuban couple as suspects when Hart’s deep bass resounded in Steil’s ear.

  “Steil?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Listen, I know it’s pretty late, but do you know that Maria Scheindlin was murdered tonight? I mean, yesterday. At her home. I just left the place.”

  “No, that’s news to me. Calm down. Begin at the beginning,” Hart said.

  Steil talked uninterrupted for roughl
y three minutes. Hart patiently heard him out. He was in his office, working the case. The spotter had radioed Steil’s plates in when he got to the Scheindlins’ and within ten minutes Hart had learned who the driver was. The special agent also knew about Chris and Valerio. The time when the Cuban departed had already been reported as well. However, other people’s versions were always welcome; they provided confirmation or, less frequently, reported something others had not seen. The call, as all others, was being traced and recorded.

  “Driving home it occurred to me maybe Capdevila and Berta are somehow connected to this. I don’t think they killed her, mind you. Those two don’t look like assassins to me. But I wanted to know if you had told the police about them and how they fit in. I’m calling from this gas station because my …” he hesitated, “friend is at home and you said she should be kept out of this.”

  “You did right. I’ll get in touch with the police department immediately, find out the details. Thanks, Steil.”

  “It’s okay. I suppose neither of us will sleep tonight. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Elliot hung up, took a deep breath, and got into his car. He drove home feeling he had done the right thing.

  The building where he rented, on Coconut Grove’s Virginia Street, was nothing to be proud of. Although thirty-seven years old and architecturally insipid, the landlord had increased his apartment rent 25 percent in seven years. He had grown accustomed to the place, the building, and the block.

  He parked at his designated space in the lot and headed for the building’s main entrance. The security guard in the foyer buzzed Elliot in the minute he saw him on the other side of the glass door, then turned to say something to a woman sitting on a bench. Steil pushed the swinging door and stepped in. The woman turned to face the newly arrived. Elliot froze. He felt the door’s closing mechanism operating behind his back. Its hiss seemed to come from the snake in the grass coiling up into a straight position.

  “This lady is waiting for you, Mr. Steil,” said the guard, who seemed bemused.

  …

  Elliot watched her come near. The poised, self-assured executive he had confronted in Havana had vanished into thin air. There was little color in her face, and she gave the impression of being uptight and feeling lost. Her relieved expression the minute she caught a glimpse of him indicated she had high hopes. Had this woman gone mad? What was she doing here? He was reluctant to see her. A black purse and a holdall? Planning to spend the night here? In a black halter-neck evening gown, of all things.

  To compound his annoyance, Victoria had the nerve to give him a peck on the cheek.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked gruffly, leery of her.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “You need to talk to me?” curled fingers, thumb pointing at his chest. “Are you out of your mind? When did you get here? How did you find out where I live?”

  She looked over her shoulder, checking on the security guard. “I can explain everything, Elliot. Can we go to your apartment?” trying to keep her voice low, patently struggling to be in control of her emotions.

  “No, I’m not taking you to my apartment. That guy doesn’t understand a word of Spanish. You can talk.”

  “Please help me,” beseechingly. “Pardo was murdered. I don’t have …”

  “Pardo? Who’s Pardo?”

  Victoria realized she had slipped badly. “I’m sorry. Pardo was my husband, Carlos Capdevila. I called him Pardo in private, because … his complexion was a tad dark.”

  Having met the man, Elliot could have argued that Capdevila’s complexion had not been in the least dark, but shaken by the news of another murder, he missed the inconsistency. “Just a minute,” raising both hands to ward her off and lifting his gaze to the ceiling in search of understanding.

  “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. Are you telling me that you were married to Capdevila and that he has been murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he shot?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Two hours ago, more or less.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “We were held up. He resisted. I don’t know the man who did it. Everybody here is a stranger to me.”

  “Where were you?”

  “At the airport.”

  Elliot blew his breath out, looking off toward the bank of elevators. Was she telling the truth or was she playing damsel-in-distress? Curiosity stirred inside him.

  “Did you call the police?”

  “No. I ran away. I’m an illegal here. Listen, Elliot. You are the only person I know in Miami. I need your advice; I need your help. Cut me a little slack. If you won’t let me into your apartment, then, please, hear me out in your car.”

  Elliot vividly remembered that he had extricated himself from quite a serious situation eight years earlier thanks to Scheindlin. Ever since, he had been receptive to other people’s predicaments and willing to help. Berta seemed to be in a very tight spot, with good reason if her boss, friend, lover, husband, or whatever Capdevila was had been murdered. He would not put his hide on the line to help her out, but he ought to hear what she had to say, advise her to turn herself in, call Hart. Apart from that, he was eagerly interested in knowing what was going on. The anger he had felt a minute earlier petered out.

  “My wife is upstairs. She may want to know who you are, why you are visiting at this hour, what the problem is.”

  “It’s her place. I wouldn’t mind.”

  “I’m not going anywhere near this, Berta.”

  “I know. You said so in Havana.”

  Elliot gazed into her eyes and saw despair. “Let’s go.”

  He took her elbow and steered her around. “The lady is coming up with me, Lee.”

  “Fine, Mr. Steil.”

  Inside the elevator cage, Elliot wanted to know how Victoria had learned his home address.

  “The form with your visa application.”

  “Ah.”

  Once in his living room, Victoria arranged herself on a loveseat and surveyed the place. A woman’s hand showed. No markedly masculine man decorates his living quarters with lace window curtains, fine porcelain dishes upon a wall, figurines on the side tables, a wood pedestal with a sheepherder carved in olive green serpentine, beautiful candles on the coffee table. The black, genuine-leather suite seemed opulent to her, the big-screen TV princely, the wooden desk elegant, the glass-fronted china cabinet delicate. A subtle and pleasant perfume filled the room. It helped obliterate the stench of blood, gunpowder, and exhaust fumes lingering in her nostrils. Victoria loosened up somewhat.

  After signaling Victoria to take a seat, Elliot entered the bedroom and woke Fidelia. He gave her a quick overview of Maria Scheindlin’s murder, then explained that a Cuban businesswoman he had met in Havana two weeks earlier had arrived unannounced and was now in the living area. She seemed to be in serious trouble, wanted to confide in him, and would probably ask for help. She would tell her story much more freely if Fidelia was not present. Would she mind? No, she would not, Fidelia said as she got up and slipped into a robe. Nonetheless, out of politeness she should meet her and ask her if she felt like an espresso. Then she would go back to bed.

  But for the gravity of the situation, Elliot would have found Fidelia’s reaction amusing. Beneath the civility with which she greeted the stranger, her scrutiny of a possible rival was noticeable. A spark of curiosity shone in Victoria’s eyes as well, who comprehended the reason that had smoked the wife out. That Steil was married was news to her; the visa form he had filled out said his marital status was divorced. During the exchange of courtesies, she learned that Fidelia was a lawyer and assumed that to practice law in the United States she had to be an American citizen. A possibility she had not considered budded in her mind. Yes, if things went from bad to worse, it might be an alternative.

  Fidelia perceived that this woman wasn’t Elliot’s type and relaxed. For the next fifteen min
utes all three acted as if it were perfectly natural for a stranger to arrive unexpected to a couple’s home in the small hours, accept a demitasse of espresso brewed by the lady of the house, and remain conversing with the husband after the wife went back to bed.

  “Well, let’s have it, Berta,” Elliot said when Fidelia closed the door to the bedroom behind her.

  Victoria concocted a mixture of fact and the version prepared in case the authorities in Key West intercepted them. She and her husband had become disenchanted with the Revolution in the eighties, she began, and dreamed of coming to the United States, but as party members and executives of XEMIC, they could not file applications. They would have been considered traitors, expelled from their jobs, and prevented from emigrating for the rest of their lives.

  “I know how it is,” Elliot interrupted. “Cut to the chase. How did you manage to come here? To the States, I mean.”

  “We paid a smuggler.”

  “You what?”

  The first time they made an inquiry, human traffickers charged two thousand per person, Victoria cooked up, drawing from what she had learned as an Intelligence officer. The only way they could possibly raise that kind of money was by peddling their influence when making XEMIC’s purchasing decisions. She was ashamed to admit it, but believing that the end justifies the means, they had started demanding kickbacks and commissions from suppliers. Over the course of time, prices rose sharply. By 1996 they had three thousand saved, but the price had gone up to four thousand per head. When they had nearly six thousand, a single ticket was worth five thousand. Therefore, they had kept taking under-the-counter money. Last March they finally raised the sixteen thousand two tickets cost in 2002.

  All they had told Elliot about Scheindlin was true. He had a hundred thousand of Cuban money that they planned to keep and use to start a new life. But even if Maria Scheindlin had refused to give back the money, they would have come anyhow. Communism sucked and the Chief had gone over the deep end.