by Alex Segura
“All of the art hanging on the walls is Cuban,” Rosen said in a hushed, reverential tone. “All before the revolution. As you probably know, Don Mujica was part of the invading army at the Bay of Pigs.”
“He must have been very young,” Kathy said.
“He was barely sixteen,” Rosen said. He pointed to a picture of a teenage Mujica standing near a group of older men. “He lied about his age to get into the training program in Guatemala, and by the time they realized he wasn’t even eighteen, it was too late. When he was captured, the Castro regime treated him like anyone else.”
“That’ll make you grow up fast,” Pete said.
Rosen nodded.
Eugenio bowed slightly and opened two oak doors that revealed a wide, expansive dining room. A long, dark wood table stretched through the middle of the room. Seated at the far head was an older man in a dark suit and navy blue tie, with closely cropped gray hair and a full, well-trimmed beard. The man was sturdy, but not chubby—he had the look of a former baseball slugger who’d managed to stay in shape despite the temptations of retirement. He nodded in their direction.
Rosen stepped into the dining room and sidestepped to face Mujica and Pete. “Kathy Bentley and Pete Fernandez, this is Don Alvaro Mujica,” Rosen said, waving a hand toward the older man, who did not move.
Pete walked toward Mujica, his hand extended.
The older man didn’t stand up to meet Pete. He took Pete’s hand, his grip strong but not forced. He brought his face close to Pete’s, his voice soft and low.
“Welcome to my home,” Mujica said to Pete before shifting toward Kathy. He took her proffered hand and kissed it gently. “We have much to discuss, I am told. Please, sit down.”
Pete and Kathy sat across from Rosen, with Mujica at the head of the table. They waited as the older man situated his silverware, positioning the cutlery in a formation only he seemed to know. After a few moments, he cleared his throat.
“My colleague, Mr. Rosen, tells me it was quite difficult to bring you here, to my home,” Mujica said, his words rolling out languidly and soaked with regret, his accent strong but not indecipherable. “That’s unfortunate. But I am happy to see you, regardless.”
Pete fought back the urge to push the conversation. Alvaro Mujica didn’t seem like the type who was pressed into talking when he didn’t want to.
“I just ask that you take whatever preconceived notions you have about me and put them on the shelf,” Mujica said before taking a sip of water. “What you read in the papers is not always the truth.”
“Don Mujica has heard great things about you,” Rosen said, looking at Pete and Kathy. “And we need help from people who can be discreet but effective.”
“Your names are always around,” Mujica said, waving his hand over his plate. “That cop, Varela, owes his life to you. The nasty business with that cult, too. You have a reputation. I respect that.”
“The suspense is killing me,” Kathy said.
Mujica shot Kathy a look—a motion that felt out-of-place, so quick and in contrast to the thoughtful, sedate demeanor he’d presented thus far. The viper could snap.
Eugenio walked in, a tray in his hand. He placed plates of food in front of Pete, Rosen, and Kathy—arroz con pollo and a small side salad. Before leaving, he filled Kathy’s wine and Pete’s water. As the butler bowed and exited, Rosen spoke.
“Don Mujica’s son, Javier, was murdered a few weeks ago,” Rosen said, his expression solemn. “Gunned down outside of a jazz club downtown. The police have no suspects. No motive. And, because of my client’s reputation, no desire to pursue the case beyond the basics.”
“My son was a good boy—a good man,” Mujica said, clearing his throat. “We had our disagreements, like all children and parents do. But there was a strong love between us. I had high hopes for him and his life. Now those hopes are gone forever. To think he was taken out like some kind of street animal … it brings me great pain.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Pete said. “And while I’d love to be of help, doing a private investigation of an open murder—whether the police are working it or not—is going to be very hard. The Miami police don’t like me much, and I doubt they’d be open to me riding along with them.”
“Be patient,” Mujica said, raising a hand slightly. “There is more to this story.”
“To put it gently, Javier and his father had some issues,” Rosen said, folding his napkin onto his lap. “Javier had no interest in carrying on his father’s business. He wasn’t suited for that kind of thing, he thought. He wanted to pursue music. He was a fairly accomplished jazz pianist. I don’t know how familiar you are with jazz, but if I had to describe his style, it’d be a mix of Bill Evans and Lennie Tristano, with a Latin flair. He was a rising star on the scene, for what it’s worth.”
Mujica continued: “The problem with me and my son is a common one, I believe. Javier wanted to run off and play his music and I wanted him to work, to make a living, to be a man. Start a family. But he had problems, too. Drugs. Drink. And that woman. That woman is why you’re here.”
“Cherchez la femme?” Kathy asked.
“Excuse me?” Mujica said, squinting at her.
“Look for the woman,” she said.
“Yes, he was married,” Mujica said. “His wife is the one who interests me in this.”
“Javier got married a month or so ago to a woman we know very little about, beyond her name,” Rosen said, forming a steeple with his fingers over his now cold food. “We don’t even have a photo of her. But we know she exists, and we know she’s on the run. We need to find her.”
“Allow me to ask a dumb question, but … why?” Pete asked. “Javier is dead. I mean, aside from a desire to get to know the daughter-in-law you’ve never met, why track her down?”
“She has something that belongs to me,” Mujica said, his voice growing hoarse and gravelly. “Something she should not have. Something that has been in this family for some time.”
“What does she have?” Pete asked. “Money?”
“Javier had no will, but he was wealthy, thanks to his father,” Rosen said. “So all of that now goes to his wife—even if she is only just recently his wife. Are you familiar with the painter, Armando Garcia Menocal?”
“Cuban painter, yes?” Pete asked. “I’ve seen some of his work.”
“Si, ese es. He was a freedom fighter in my country—against Spain, before Castro was even a thought in our minds.” Mujica said. “‘Death of Maceo’ is one of his most famous pieces. But what many people do not understand is that Menocal also did variations on this piece. One of which was complete—and in my possession. My son was very fond of this painting. He would sit and stare at it for hours as a child. He wanted to hang it in his home, he said. Promised to keep it safe. So, I agreed. Who am I to refuse my only son? I thought the responsibility might even help him. But now he is dead, the painting is missing, and this woman has disappeared in a cloud of smoke. You see what my problem is?”
“I get it,” Kathy said. “You want the painting back. But let’s not dance around this. The press makes it pretty clear that you’re someone who is not scared of—how do I say this?—putting people down if they defy you. And by ‘down,’ I mean ‘dead.’ So, if we find this woman, what can you guarantee in terms of her safety?”
“Right,” Pete said. “We aren’t going to be party to murder.”
Mujica’s eyes flared. He turned to Rosen, an imperceptible exchange happening between them.
“My client is a very successful mamey farmer,” Rosen said, a wry grin on his face. “There will be no repercussions beyond getting the painting—and Javier’s money—back. Because they rightfully belong to my client.”
“Not according to the law,” Pete said. “They belong to his wife.”
“She is a wife on paper only,” Mujica said, his tone still serene and glacial. The older man’s demeanor sent a chill through Pete. “What kind of wife is a stranger to her husban
d’s family? What kind of wife doesn’t attend her own husband’s funeral?”
Mujica took a slow sip from his wineglass and turned to Rosen.
“I’m glad you brought these people here, Eddie, I think they’ll do a fine job. They’re smart. They’ll know what to do next,” Mujica said, nodding to himself. “Please show them to the car and explain the terms before Cunningham takes them home.”
With that, Mujica returned his attention to his meal, as if he were the only person in the room.
THEY DIDN’T GET to finish dinner.
Rosen, following a skittish Eugenio, led them out of the dining room. Their goodbyes with Mujica were brief and perfunctory. He was done with them.
By the time Pete and Kathy piled back into the car, Cunningham was behind the wheel, and Rosen was ready to speak, leaning over the roof and peering into the car’s dark back seat.
“Javier’s wife was named Beatriz de Armas,” Rosen said. “That’s all I know. A name. No social, no picture, no birthdate. Just the name on the marriage license.”
“Do you have any info on Javier?” Pete asked. “The clubs he played in, people he knew, photos, anything? I didn’t get much time with the big man in there.”
“Don Mujica does not like to waste time. He does not like to debate things he feels are defined in his mind,” Rosen said.
“You really know how to make these things easy, Eddie,” Pete said.
“You’re the detective, right?” Rosen said, tapping on the hood. “Earn your money.”
“We’ll send you our billing info and rates, don’t you worry,” Kathy said.
“And we’ll send you the proof that the photos are gone when you find Beatriz,” Rosen said. “No sooner. Cunningham, see that these two get home safely. We need them fresh and ready to work.”
“You got it, boss,” Cunningham said.
“Before we go,” Pete said. “One question.”
“Sure,” Rosen said, waving at Cunningham to hold off.
“Why us? Mujica doesn’t strike me as down on his luck. He could afford any kind of investigator. And, well, I haven’t exactly been active in the field since I got hurt—”
“Died,” Kathy said. “Like, was literally dead for a short while.”
“You have a way of getting entangled in these kind of cases,” Rosen said with a smirk. “Figured it made sense to come to you first, this time.”
“One more question, Eddie,” Pete said. “What was your relationship with Javier like?”
Rosen stiffened.
“Relationship?” Rosen said. “I’ve worked for Don Mujica for almost twenty-five years. I saw Javi grow up. I took him to baseball games and soccer practice. He was like a son to me. I helped raise him, basically.”
Pete was surprised by the emotion in Rosen’s voice. The man’s jaw was clenched, as if trying to stave off tears.
“I could care less about that stupid painting—and art is my business. But I work for Don Mujica, and he wants it back,” Rosen said, his teeth gritted. “What I do care about is finding out who took Javi away. If that means sending you on a wild hunt for a piece of art, in the hopes that finding his mysterious wife will lead us to his killer, then I’m all for it. Does that answer your question?”
“Sure does,” Kathy said.
“Then get to work,” Rosen said, as he backed up. Rosen waved at them as they pulled away from the house and down the winding driveway.
Pete’s sense of dread increased with every mile of distance between them and the gigantic, solitary house, like a fading vision that still managed to haunt him.
KATHY AND PETE parted ways after Cunningham dropped them off in front of Pete’s house. Her look was distant and preoccupied, as if she had somewhere to be, but wasn’t sure where. They agreed to circle back to Javier Mujica’s favorite haunts to get a sense of the man before diving into things in earnest. Kathy said she’d do a few basic record searches to see if she picked anything up on Javier—and, more importantly, on the mystery woman known as Beatriz de Armas.
But Pete hadn’t been able to sleep, and he was even less adept at being patient. He didn’t want to wait until Rosen sent over a list of venues where Javier Mujica had played. He could figure that out for himself.
The rest of the night—at least until dawn—was spent scouring the web for any kernel of video or audio involving Javier Mujica. Pete had started simply: with the music. He dug around and downloaded a few of Mujica’s records—one solo, the rest with his band, the Javier Mujica Quintet, a tight, traditional jazz unit that resembled the first Miles Davis Quintet with a healthy dose of Latin flair. The horns were hot, the piano grooved, and the drums propelled the songs.
Pete wasn’t a jazz person. At least not until the last year or so. Even then, he was still just intermediate when it came to jazz knowledge. But he knew enough to know what he liked—Coltrane, pre-fusion Miles, Dexter Gordon, Bill Evans, Charlie Parker, Ahmad Jamal. From what he’d heard of Javier Mujica, Pete felt like he’d like his music, too.
Mujica’s piano was silky-smooth, his mastery of the keys fluid and nuanced, like a polished painter laying down the foundation for a beautiful landscape. He managed to strike the rare balance of impressive instrumental proficiency with a swing that often eluded jazz players who dabbled in the classics. Javier Mujica couldn’t just play—he could play hot, the keys coming alive at the right moments to inject life into his solos and kick the songs up to another level.
The Mujica clips on YouTube were scant and of poor quality, shaky phone cameras drunkenly recording Mujica solo sets in and around Miami. Mujica himself seemed to vary from clip to clip—sometimes looking buttoned-up and professional, other times more ragged and gaunt. But the playing remained consistent. Whatever his vices, Mujica was a top-flight piano man. Pete knew that probably hurt more than helped. Addicts often rationalized their problems based on how they survived or worked—and if the work was still getting done, and getting done well, what was the problem? Mixed in with the Miami footage were a few long-distance concert shots from down the East Coast and a few clips from Europe. The one spot that kept cropping up was Le Chat Noir. It seemed like a good enough place to start.
BEFORE PICKING UP Kathy and visiting the bar, Pete needed to make a pit stop. One that he hoped would shed some light on not just Javier Mujica, but on his father—and on the painting in question.
Alina Caldera was retired, living in a quaint if cluttered bungalow in Miami’s chic Coconut Grove neighborhood. She lived her life out of the spotlight: donating to worthy causes anonymously, shopping for antiques and, when the mood struck, buying art. It was the latter that interested Pete.
Before selling her world-renowned Cuban art gallery, Caldera was one of a handful of noted experts on the topic. Since then, she’d stepped back into the shadows, hoping to retire quietly from a bustling, active life lived in the spotlight. From the ’60s until very recently, Caldera had been one of the most vocal and visible advocates for Cuban art in exile—promoting the much-admired vanguardia artists, such as Carlos Enriquez, José Mijares, Daniel Serra Badue, and many more. She, along with other equally passionate gallery owners and connoisseurs, had made it their mission to establish a beachhead for Cuban artists creating works on U.S. soil, away from their homeland, as they waited for its inevitable liberation. Or so they thought—and hoped—at the time.
Pete had reached out to her manager via email, on the off chance that she’d see him. Her rep had been quick to reply and very frank—if he hadn’t been specific about what he wanted to discuss, she would have declined. But her curiosity was high, and she wanted to hear more. She would see him right away. And could he bring some pastelitos de guayaba? She didn’t get out much, and she missed the tasty Cuban pastries.
Pete was happy to oblige.
Before he could knock, the door swung open. On the other side of the doorway was a woman well into her seventies, but looking more like she was on the long side of fifty. Alina Caldera was not one for vices, or s
o Pete had learned while researching her life and work. She didn’t drink, she didn’t do drugs, she rarely had coffee, and couldn’t fathom a day without exercise. No, the only addiction she had was to Cuban art—the images created by fellow Cubans in exile, specifically. Over the years, she’d become a noted speaker and writer on the topic of art created on the island prior to Castro’s takeover.
“You’re Pete Fernandez?”
“That’s me.”
“Come in,” she said. “Susana will get you coffee or whatever you’d like to drink. Let’s meet in my office. I don’t have a lot of time today.”
Pete nodded and followed Caldera into the main foyer and down a winding hallway. The aforementioned Susana intercepted them. Pete declined a drink and entered Caldera’s spacious office, which would have been a bit more spacious if it hadn’t been cluttered by every kind of canvas in every size—some stacked against a wall, some hanging around the large window that looked out onto the bustling neighborhood of Coconut Grove. Books, notepads, and sketch pages took up the rest of the office’s surface area.
“Not a computer person?” Pete asked, taking a seat across from Caldera.
“Not anymore,” she said with a limp smile. “My vision’s basically shot, so I just dictate by phone or record myself, if I ever think of anything worth repeating.”
Pete laughed. He liked this lady.
“Like I said, I don’t chat with reporters or investigators often—I’m retired, I’m done working,” she said, waving a hand toward the clutter in her space. “Or so I say. But you mentioned something that I couldn’t ignore.”
“The lost Menocal painting?”
“Yes,” Caldera said, her sharp features tightening a bit at the thought, like a lost idea she desperately wanted to remember. “Yes, I just can’t wrap my head around that.”
“That it exists?”
“Well, first off—it doesn’t exist,” Caldera said. “At least not to my knowledge. Menocal was one of Cuba’s most beloved painters and had a lush, vibrant style that lent itself to many things, like landscapes and historical scenes—but, I don’t believe he ever did … different versions of his work. Which is to say, the idea that there is another, alternative take on ‘Death of Maceo’—that I find completely baffling. And I’d love to know more.”
