Suspicion of Rage

by Barbara Parker

  Anthony looked around the room once more, avoiding the body. "How did the killer get in? Was the door forced? Are there any broken windows?"

  "No, there are no indications of a break-in. She probably knew him."

  "Perhaps. Or he followed her and forced his way inside when she opened the door. He could have been a stranger."

  "In Cuba, such crimes are rarely committed by strangers," said Sánchez.

  "She knew him, then." Anthony asked if they had examined the statue for fingerprints.

  "Unfortunately, the killer wiped it clean of fingerprints. There are smears on the floor by the desk as well. He obliterated his shoe prints."

  "Where is the cloth he used?"

  "We have not yet found it."

  "Miss Saavedra's hands appear untouched," Anthony said."There are no ... defensive wounds" He said it in English.

  Following in English, Sánchez said, "Yes, yes, we have the same way to describe it. Heridas de defensa. She was probably dead or unconscious at the first blow."

  "Menos mal" Anthony said. At least this small thing. He leaned over the body. Returning to Spanish, he said, "She's wearing a gold necklace. Are there abrasions on her neck?"

  "No. The killer didn't attempt to take her necklace, nor is the money missing from her purse."

  "Then it wasn't a robbery," Anthony said. "She's fully dressed. That would seem to rule out an attempted rape."

  "That was my thought as well," Sánchez replied. "On the other hand, perhaps he did intend such an act and left after realizing she was dead. He could have become frightened that he would be discovered."

  "Frightened? No, he was very cold," Anthony countered. "Not only violent, but intelligent. He took the time to get rid of the evidence."

  "What do you infer from this?" Sánchez asked.

  "That the crime could have been planned in advance."

  "It is impossible to say until we find the person responsible."

  "That is true." Anthony brought his eyes back to the woman on the floor. "Did she have any family? I never asked her."

  "No children. There is a sister in Holguin. Her mother died in prison."

  "In prison? What had she done?"

  "She was profiteering from the black market," Sánchez said. "Her sentence was ten years, but she died of a heart attack after six. That is what we have been told by the CDR. Miss Saavedra has no criminal history, and she attended the block meetings. Not all of them, but enough not to have been marked as uncooperative. There were no unknown visitors coming and going from her apartment."

  "But with the side entrance so near her door, they might not have been seen."

  "Exactly so."

  Anthony accompanied the detective back to the passageway. The buzzing fixture in the low ceiling did little to keep out the encroaching darkness. Lights shone in the other apartments.

  Sánchez said, "Before I reunite you with your wife, I would like to ask an unrelated question, if you would allow me. A police chief from the Bahamas was here last week. He told me about the crime laboratory in Miami. He says they use it for their difficult cases. Even the FBI uses it. Is this so?"

  "He means the laboratory that belongs to the county," Anthony said. "But yes, it is nationally recognized, as is the medical examiner's department. They do death investigation for many of the islands."

  "It would be something to see." Sánchez nodded, then said, "I have a brother in Miami. He left twenty years ago. His daughter is about to graduate from medical school. It won't be easy, all the red tape, but I am thinking of going for a visit. I would be there at least a month."

  "Keep in touch with me," Anthony said. He took one of his cards out of his wallet. "If you come, I'm sure I could arrange a personal tour of the crime laboratory and the morgue."

  "I would like that very much." Sánchez put the card into his shirt pocket. As he did so, his attention went to the courtyard. The people milling around the entrance were being ordered back by one of the police officers. Three men appeared, walking in a V formation of square shoulders and lace-up boots. The Army had arrived. Two other men followed in sport shirts and dark trousers.

  Those two continued into the apartment. The men in uniform stopped just short of the passageway. The officer in the lead, a mulato in his late thirties, had two red stripes and a small star on his epaulets. His eyes fixed on the detective.

  "Inspector Sánchez? I am Major Orlando Valdez. This investigation is now being handled by State Security. You will assist them by giving a full report."

  Sánchez glanced at the door of the apartment, then nodded. "I am at your orders."

  The major shifted his attention to Anthony. "Mr. Quintana, you and your wife will come with me."

  "May I ask where?"

  "To the Ministry of the Interior to answer some questions. General Vega has been notified. It's completely a matter of routine."

  He motioned in the direction of the officer across the courtyard, who leaned down to Gail's chair and spoke to her. She picked up her purse and started walking toward them. Even in the diminished gray light of late afternoon, Anthony could see the apprehension in her eyes.

  26

  The face of Che Guevara looked out from the smooth stone facade of the Ministry building. This was not a photograph but a line drawing made of steel, amazingly accurate: the firm mouth and flowing hair; the piercing eyes fixed on the inevitable, glorious future; the beret with its star. Under the face, Che's words were written as if scrawled by an immense hand: Hasta la Victoria Siempre. Onward to victory forever.

  Che presided over several acres of cracked asphalt in the Plaza de la Revolución. A seated José Martí gazed back at him from the low hill across the plaza. Dozens of utility poles with floodlights and speakers had been erected between them to carry the speeches and music at the rallies and mass demonstrations, a million Cubans waving flags and carrying banners, screaming, "Fidel, Fidel, ¡estamos contigo!” We are with you, Fidel.

  On one or another Dia de los Trabajadores, a Workers' Day celebration several years ago, Anthony Quintana had marched with the crowd to the plaza to find out what it was like in that sea of bodies and emotion. From his own pocket of silence he had seen an old man with tears of love pouring down his face, a girl fainting from the heat, a teenager listening to his Walkman, and a man taken away by undercover police after he had cupped a hand at his mouth and shouted, "Palabras, no. Pan, si. " Words, no. Bread, yes. Dripping sweat, Anthony had gone back to his hotel room, turned the AC to its lowest setting, and opened a beer.

  The face of Che Guevara grew larger as the driver sped across the plaza. Anthony was in the back of a small white Renault. The army major who had come for him sat in the front passenger seat. There wasn't much conversation. Turning around, he could see the other car following close behind. They had separated him from Gail. It was procedure, the major had said. So far Anthony had kept a grip on his anger. Gail would be afraid, and he hated to think of it. But she was more intelligent than they knew. She had run across the courtyard, the distraught wife, throwing herself into his arms too fast for the soldiers to stop her. She had clung to him, hiding her face against his neck. Her lips were at his ear long enough to whisper, I didn't say anything.

  The car turned under the portico past the main entrance, then went around back and stopped with a slight squeal of tires on the damp concrete driveway. Soldiers came to attention. The driver opened the rear door.

  Getting out, Anthony looked back to see one of Valdez's men extending a hand to help Gail from the other car. Her eyes connected with Anthony's. She was all right.

  "This way," the major said. "Your wife will wait for you downstairs."

  Two soldiers fell in behind them. They went up some steps and through a door, where a guard saluted. As they walked, the tap of their heels went into and out of cadence.

  Anthony was aware of what he had to do: protect Ramiro Vega. Sometime between his conversation with the CIA spook this morning and staring down at the body of Olg
a Saavedra, the answer had come into focus. He knew what Céspedes had said. No, better to call it a theory. Anthony needed a couple of details from José Leiva. Another phone call to Hector. He wanted to toss his theory at Bookhouser and see if fireworks went off.

  They entered an elevator and avoided looking at themselves in the polished metal doors. No one spoke. The elevator opened onto a terrazzo-floored hall lined with flags and photographs. Through a set of glass double doors across the hall, a thin figure appeared. Abdel Garcia.

  His off-center jaw shifted when he spoke. "Thank you, Major Valdez. I will take Mr. Quintana from here."

  Valdez hesitated, then said, "Yes, general." He motioned to one of his men, who pressed the elevator button. The doors slid open. Valdez and his men entered and were gone. At the end of the long corridor a group of officers walked out of one office and into another.

  As the voices faded, Garcia said quietly, "You were brought here because of your family relationship with General Vega. That was explained to you?"

  "Yes. My wife discovered a murder victim. Am I here to talk to you about it?"

  "No, you will speak to Lieutenant General Efraín Prieto. As Vega's superior officer, I was notified. They are waiting for us. We don't have much time." Garcia moved so close that Anthony could feel the other man's breath on his cheek. "Do you have something for me?"

  "You're referring to your friend who took the trip to Brazil?"

  "Quickly."

  "I have some information. I'm not certain how accurate—"

  "Good. We will talk later. Prieto doesn't know you're working for us. For reasons of security, I couldn't tell him. His staff has been infiltrated with traitors. I report to his superiors. Say nothing. Do you understand?"

  Anthony stared down the empty corridor. Efraín Prieto. The name stirred a memory. Prieto was near the top of the Cuban power structure. A member of the Politburo, he thought. There were not many men senior to Prieto. The Interior Minister himself. The commander of the Armed Forces. And the comandante en jefe at the top of the pyramid. Which one—if any—was Abdel Garcia reporting to?

  His mind grabbed at a possibility: Abdel Garcia was reporting to no one but himself.

  "Do you understand?" The words hissed in Garcia's mouth. "Do not speak of this, or you and your wife will never leave Cuba. Answer me."

  "Yes. I understand."

  Garcia moved toward the glass doors. "Come, they're waiting."

  A smaller corridor led to an anteroom with a soldier at a desk. He stood and saluted. Garcia walked past him to a door and knocked lightly before opening it and motioning for Anthony to go first.

  He quickly took in the details: brown carpet, teak furniture, a flag in a small spotlight. Aluminum-framed windows looked out on the plaza, which was quickly fading to darkness. A glow came from the floodlit monument to Marti. Two men in plainclothes sat in chairs along the back wall, pretending to be invisible.

  The general stood behind his desk. He had the shape of a concrete block. His uniform fit so trimly that it could have been stitched into place. There were three stars on each shoulder, gold leaves on the lapels, and a rectangle of campaign ribbons.

  "I am Lieutenant General Efrain Prieto. Please have a seat, Mr. Quintana."

  The width of the desk, or the occasion, prevented a handshake. Among the various files and papers and bound reports on the desk lay a thin folder, dead center.

  Anthony said, "Is this about Olga Saavedra? We've told the police everything we know."

  The light over Prieto's desk glowed on his white hair and deepened the pockmarks on his cheeks. "I will read the reports, but I would like also to have the information directly from you."

  Evidently someone from the DTI team at the apartment had already briefed Prieto. For the next hour Anthony answered the same questions that Detective Sánchez had asked him. How do you know Olga Saavedra? Why did your wife go to her apartment? Why did she want to see you?

  Unlike Sánchez, the general had not much interest in Olga Saavedra's possible desire to leave Cuba. His questions went toward Anthony's relationship with her. Anthony said they had gone to the clubs a few times, but he denied he had slept with her. As he talked, he could see Abdel Garcia out of the corner of his eye. Occasionally Garcia blotted his lower lip. The toe of one polished shoe rotated slowly. Other than that, he remained perfectly still.

  On the wall behind Prieto hung the usual portrait of Fidel in his green uniform and cap. Beside it, a framed black-and-white photograph showed bearded soldiers in open trucks, the jubilant crowds mobbing the procession, throwing flowers. The triumphal entry into Havana, 1959.

  The questioning closed in on Anthony's background. How he had left Cuba. His first marriage, his law practice, his children, his marriage to Gail Connor. Her background, her opinion of Cuba.

  "She was enjoying Cuba a great deal until this afternoon. General Prieto, how much longer is this going to take? My wife has suffered an emotional trauma, and I would like to take her back to my sister's house."

  "Of course." Prieto made a brief smile of apology. "You are a frequent visitor to our country, Mr. Quintana."

  "I like to keep in touch with my family."

  "You are breaking the laws of the United States." When Anthony acknowledged that this was so, Prieto said, "How many times would you say you have been to Cuba in the past ten years?"

  "I'm not sure. Several. I don't keep track."

  Prieto lifted the cover of the folder. There were some sheets of paper inside. Anthony saw what looked like a list.

  "Ramiro Vega must obtain clearance before you are permitted to stay at his house. It is unusual that an American would stay with anyone in the armed forces. He vouches for you. As does your father, Luis Quintana Rodríguez, a hero of the Revolution." The general's finger moved down the page. "Nine visas in ten years."

  The list should have been twice as long. Anthony guessed that it failed to pick up the routine tourist visas he had acquired at the Cuban airline counters in Mexico, when he had flown to Havana or Camagüey without telling his sister about it.

  Prieto turned a page. Anthony saw some photographs. "You have friends in Cuba."

  "Yes."

  "Some of them are dissidents. José Leiva?"

  "His wife is a friend from childhood. She takes care of my father. I have already explained this to General Garcia."

  "Do you agree with their demands?"

  "Most of them, yes."

  He turned another page. "Do you bring them money from the United States?"

  "Not from the United States, from friends. If your government allowed José Leiva to work in his profession, he could earn his own money."

  "What is General Vega's opinion?"

  "We don't discuss it. We share views on some issues. Not this one."

  Prieto lifted his eyes. They had the warmth of ice cubes. Anthony glanced again at the picture of the soldiers in the back of the truck and wondered if Prieto had been among them. Too young. Maybe he'd been that kid hanging onto the running board.

  "You come into our country, you stay in the home of one of our generals, and you support the opposition."

  "Ramiro Vega is my brother-in-law. Leiva is my friend. Politics doesn't interest me. I don't let it interfere with my personal life."

  "Politics does not interest you." Prieto drummed a slow beat on the pages. "You are a man with no defined loyalties, is that it? A foot in each camp. As a soldier, I couldn't do it. If I were a lawyer ... maybe. You are trained to hold more than one position at the same time. No, I couldn't do it." The cadence of his fingers slowed.

  "When was the last time you saw your grandfather, Ernesto Pedrosa?"

  Even expecting this didn't prevent Anthony's pulse rate from picking up. "Why do you ask me that?"

  "Was it the night before you left Miami?"

  "Did you have spies among the caterers? My grandparents gave my wife and me a party to celebrate our marriage."

  "There was a guest at the party. Guil
lermo Navarro, the congressman."

  Anthony momentarily lifted his hands from the arms of his chair. "Yes. He was there."

  "Are you a friend of Mr. Navarro, that he was invited to celebrate your marriage?"

  "Navarro isn't a friend. My grandfather invited him."

  "Did he and Ernesto Pedrosa have a meeting that night?"

  "I don't know if they did or not," Anthony said. "Please don't expect me to discuss my grandfather with officials of the Cuban government. He wouldn't like it."

  "Did you speak to Navarro?" Prieto asked.

  "Yes. He gave me his congratulations, and that was the last I saw of him."

  Prieto's gaze went to his two guests at the back of the room, hung there a moment, then shifted to Anthony. "I will give you a name. Omar Céspedes. Do you recognize it?"

  "No. Who is he?"

  "He was a major in our armed forces. He is now in Washington testifying before the House Intelligence Committee. Navarro is a member of the Committee." Prieto waited as though Anthony might reply. When he did not, Prieto said, "You are aware of this?"

  “I know that Navarro is on the Committee. I didn't know about Céspedes. What are you trying to say, general?"

  "Tell me again why you came to Cuba."

  "To visit my family. It's my niece's birthday." Anthony smiled. "Ah. I see. You think I was sent here because of Céspedes. The Committee wants to know if he's lying. How likely is it that Guillermo Navarro would trust me to find out?"

  Again Prieto's gaze shifted toward the other side of the room. Anthony felt a tightness in the back of his neck. Disdain flickered across Prieto's face before he said, "If you wish to remain on good terms with Cuba, I suggest you maintain this exemplary lack of interest in politics." His chair rotated slightly before Prieto followed its motion with his head, then his eyes. "General Garcia? Do you have anything you wish to add?"

  He touched a knuckle to the corner of his mouth. "No, general."

  Prieto closed the folder and shoved it aside. "When is your return flight to Miami, Mr. Quintana?"