by Peggy Blair
“That’s very interesting, Señora,” said Delgado, “but we need to ask you some questions for our investigation.” She glanced at Ramirez, afraid she might have overstepped. He nodded, encouraging her to continue. “May I ask what your relationship is with Antifona Conejo?”
“She lives with me when she wants to get off the streets. And me, I know the pain of selling my body to feed my children, from when my own husband walked out on me. I tell her what to do. Make peace with the spirits, I say, or they be angry. Bring you bad luck.”
“She’s not your daughter?” asked Ramirez.
“No. My goddaughter. I adopt her, but no papers.”
Delgado frowned. “How exactly did you tell her to make peace with the spirits, Mama Loa?”
“I tell her, you say goodbye to men, turn your soul over to your lwa. I say you try it; maybe it works. She say she needs the money. I tell her, you trust your lwa. Your lwa brings you what you need, not the same as what you want. When money comes too easy, you say no. Don’t never sell your soul.”
“What is a lwa?” asked Delgado.
“Your lwa guides you when you get lost, helps you find your way home.”
“It’s a spirit guide,” said Ramirez. “In Haitian Voudou. Did Antifona have a boyfriend, Mama Loa?”
The old woman nodded. “She say some foreign man wants to marry her, take her away. He got no children. He wants to get him some.”
“She wanted to leave Cuba?” said Ramirez, not really surprised. Most prostitutes hoped to find a foreign boyfriend. Few could afford to leave Cuba without one. It was six months’ wages for an exit permit, and fifty convertible pesos—more than three months’ wages—for the passport, more for the bribe.
The old woman nodded. “She say she’s not going out with other men no more, only him. And I want to believe her, yes. But she looks sad when she say that. Like someone who wants to tell the truth but knows they can’t.”
“Does she live with you here?” asked Delgado, motioning to the shack.
“No. Back in Cayo Hueso. The city say we got to move. No room here for either of my girls. No roof either.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” Ramirez asked.
“Maybe a week ago. She come to see me. She say, ‘Mama Loa, my heart’s broke. My belly hurts, my boyfriend don’t come.’ I give her some pine oil and honey to make her feel better.”
“The boyfriend, what’s his name?” asked Ramirez.
“I don’t know. I only seen him once. He got an accent, I remember that. And lots of money.” She pointed to her neck. “You can tell by the gold chain.”
“You said ‘girls.’ Do you have another daughter, or goddaughter?” asked Ramirez.
The woman nodded. “She gone now too. She got married last year, on February 14. Lovers’ Day. She used to live with me in Cayo Hueso, but she’s with her husband now. He’s a strong boy, you know? From lifting rocks.”
40
The first time Maria Vasquez had lived with Hector Apiro, she was fifteen and trapped in a body as foreign and uncomfortable to her as Apiro’s was to him. Apiro had transformed her, and in doing so had changed her life. And now that she was back, his was changed too.
Apiro was happy for the first time that he could remember. He no longer felt like the ugly little dwarf that people stared at and whispered about. In Maria’s eyes, he was a man.
And yet every day, he worried about losing her. Not to another man—it wasn’t jealousy Apiro struggled with, but fear.
Maria could be arrested for prostitution and taken away to a rehabilitation camp, and even Ricardo might not be able to find out where she was. That kept Apiro on edge, as much as he tried not to think about it. And now, because of the cruel killer who hunted jineteras and strangled them to death in the woods, he worried even more.
Maria sat in Apiro’s cramped office in the medical tower, sipping a cup of his freshly brewed coffee. Apiro had decided to tell her about the murders. He didn’t wish to frighten her, but she needed to know so she could protect herself, take precautions.
“I have something I need to tell you, Maria, and I’m afraid I’m not quite sure where to start.”
“You’re not breaking up with me, are you?” she said, furrowing her smooth brow.
“No, of course not,” Apiro said. “Never be afraid of that.” He reached for her hand and held it tightly as he told her about the murders. “He seems to be targeting jineteras.”
“My God.” Maria gasped. She pulled her hand away and crossed herself. “Killing my sisters? But why?” Tears welled in her eyes.
“I don’t know,” said Apiro. “There is no accounting for evil.” He reached into one of his pockets and handed her a clean handkerchief.
She accepted it and dabbed at her eyes. “The two girls that died, what are their names? Oh, my God, I hope I didn’t know them.”
“Prima Verrier was the first victim, a year ago. Ricardo is reasonably sure that the second victim was named LaNeva Otero. Once I can get her health records, I can confirm if this is so. There’s a third woman he can’t find. Antifona Conejo. Her histological card was in LaNeva’s purse when her body was found, but Antifona seems to have vanished.”
Maria widened her eyes. “But I saw Antifona a week ago. She was excited. She said she was leaving the country. She was involved with an extranjero she’d met online. He came to Havana once before to meet her in person, and he was returning on business. She was sure they were going to get married. He told her he wanted to have a family. Maybe she went somewhere with him?”
Apiro felt enormously relieved that one potential victim might have been accounted for. “Perhaps. I’ll let Ricardo know. Did you know either of the other girls?”
Maria shook her head. “Prima Verrier, no. But LaNeva, I often saw her. She worked on the Malecón at night. Sometimes I saw her walking to the highway to hitchhike. If we had time, we always chatted. I can’t believe that she’s dead.” She wiped her eyes again, streaking mascara across her lovely face.
“Did she ever mention receiving gifts from a client?” asked Apiro. “Perhaps nylons? Stockings seem to be this killer’s trademark.”
“No,” said Maria. “But we’re given such things all the time. I have a Canadian friend who gave me condoms yesterday. Good ones too.” She pointed to her tote bag resting on the floor. “A woman,” she smiled. She and Hector never talked about her clients, but she knew he worried for her safety. “The girls don’t often talk about the things they receive; it can be embarrassing. After all, most of them would go out with a man for a bottle of aspirin or nail polish. The younger ones—boys and girls—are even worse. They’ll settle for a few cigarettes or a bottle of pop.”
She paused for a moment. “There is one girl who mentioned something to me about nylons recently, though. Nevara. The last time I saw her, she told me a client promised to bring her some the next time he comes here. She told him not to worry about it; it’s too hot to wear them anyway. I remember it because she said it was just like a man to think she wanted stockings when what she really would have liked was a steak.”
“What is her last name?”
“I’m sorry, Hector. I don’t know.”
“Well, she needs to be careful,” said Apiro. “Her client could be extremely dangerous. Do you think she would be willing to talk to Ricardo about him?”
“I doubt it,” said Maria, shaking her head. “Forget the sex, she could be sent to a rehabilitation camp just for admitting she talked to a foreigner. And they don’t give them new clothes when they go to those camps, not even overalls. They have to go into the barns with whatever they have on when they are arrested. It’s horrible.” She shuddered.
Apiro thought for a moment. Maria had a point. In such circumstances, none of the jineteras were likely to be forthcoming to the police. They would consider the police a far greater threat than
any client.
“Maybe you can ask her more about him when you see her? Any information she could provide would be extremely helpful.”
“Yes, of course,” Maria nodded. “I’ll do whatever I can.” She wiped her eyes again before folding the handkerchief neatly and handing it back to him.
Apiro smiled. “I appreciate it, Maria. Ricardo needs to narrow down the search before more women are killed.”
He thought for a minute. Part of his inability to help Ricardo was that he had so little knowledge of Maria’s world. In part, his ignorance was deliberate. But he could hardly protect Maria if he knew nothing about her business. He took a deep breath. “Forgive me for asking, Maria, but how do these girls meet their clients?”
“Since the crackdown? Mostly online. Some hitchhike, but it’s dangerous. It’s too easy for the police to spot them on the Malecón or the Autopista. The ones who do that are younger, more desperate for money. They take chances. LaNeva is one of those.” Another tear rolled down her face. “Or was. We call girls like that chupa-chupas.”
“Lollipops?” said Apiro, raising his bushy eyebrows.
“Oh, Hector. I keep forgetting how new all this is to you. It’s slang for someone who provides oral sex.”
41
“How are you making out with your investigation?” said Manuel Flores. He had caught up to Fernando Espinoza in the lineup for lunch in the basement cafeteria of police headquarters.
“Dr. Flores,” said Espinoza, surprised. “ I didn’t expect to see you here. Doesn’t your centre have its own cafeteria?” Cubans got a subsidized lunch at work, mainly to deter absenteeism.
“I’m working on another file for the ministry as well as yours. How are things going?”
“We’re making good progress.” Espinoza said. “We know the name of the victim now. LaNeva Otero. Another jinetera.”
“Prostitution is so common these days.” Flores shook his head. He looked at Espinoza’s ring finger. “I see you’re single. My daughter tells me that the girls here think Cuban men should pay for sex too. It must make it hard to find a wife.”
Espinoza nodded sadly. “Most of the girls I’ve gone out with would leave the island in a minute if they could find a foreigner to marry. How old is your daughter?”
“In her thirties. A little old for you, I’m afraid.” Flores smiled. “Although she’s in very good shape. She was a gymnast on the national team when she was twelve. She competed in the World Rhythmic Gymnastics.”
“Is she in Havana?” asked Espinoza. He liked strong women. He might be willing to compromise on age.
“No.” Flores smiled. “She lives in Guantánamo City, not far from the American base. She teaches foreign languages.”
The server on the other side of the counter handed Espinoza a plate of food and passed another to Flores. “I see they’ve changed the menu.” Espinoza frowned. “It’s beans and rice today. Yesterday it was rice and beans.”
Flores chuckled. “I can’t wait to taste the new menu.”
They walked to a table. Espinoza pulled out a plastic chair and Flores sat across from him.
“How do you like working with Inspector Ramirez, Detective?” asked Flores.
“It’s better than standing on street corners watching out for purse snatchers and street hustlers,” said Espinoza. He smiled. “I’m learning a lot. It was hard at first. I just started at Major Crimes in January. Inspector Ramirez had to leave for Canada a day or two after I was transferred from Patrol. I had to find my way around by myself, although Dr. Apiro was very helpful.”
“Ramirez went to Canada?” Flores raised his eyebrows.
“To help the Canadian authorities with an investigation. There was a Catholic priest charged with possessing child pornography at an airport in Canada. Padre Rey Callendes. We linked him to child abuse at an orphanage in Cuba. But he died of a heart attack on his flight back to Rome. He was never charged. I think the inspector feels robbed.”
“Yes, I’m sure he does,” said Flores, nodding. “That’s the kind of thing that would affect Ramirez deeply. He has a strong sense of fairness. Which isn’t always the same as justice.”
“What was it like, living in the United States?” asked Espinoza. He shovelled a forkful of beans into his mouth.
“When I was first there, back in the sixties, New York wasn’t a good place to be,” said Flores, picking at his food. “There were rental strikes and street riots that started over a lack of affordable housing for blacks. The Black Panthers were involved in the strikes, but the Latinos were behind the riots. The Young Lords, they called themselves. Detroit went up in flames. Dozens died; thousands were arrested.” He shook his head. “Our government is lucky that Cubans are so passive. It’s the heat, I think. It makes us lazy.”
“It doesn’t seem to affect Inspector Ramirez,” said Espinoza. “He’s always working.” He lowered his voice. “I think his wife is angry at him because of all his long hours. She went away for a few days with the children this week.”
“Really,” said Flores, leaning forward. He smiled. “Tell me more.”
42
Celia Jones flipped through the photograph album until she found the picture. It was a faded black-and-white shot of her grandmother in front of a house in London during World War II. Her grandmother leaned against a car, one leg bent, posing in her kitten-heeled shoes. Jones could see the narrow rectangle that extended about six inches above the heel of her seamed stocking.
“Do you know anything about these kinds of nylons, Mom?”
“My goodness, Celia,” her mother said, walking over to the couch and sitting beside her. “I haven’t seen stockings like that since I was a little girl. I remember my mother said they were expensive because they were made out of separate parts, sewed together, and joined at the seam. They were hard to get hold of during the war; they needed all the silk to make parachutes and all the nylon for tires. My mother used to draw a line up the backs of her legs so she looked like she was wearing them. But the ones in that photo were real. She was so proud of them; she used to take very good care of them so they wouldn’t snag.”
“How did she get them, if they were so hard to find?”
“How do women get anything, Celia?” Emma Jones said, laughing. “From men. The American GIs were the only ones who had them. Well, those and chocolates. Although I seem to remember her telling me the Wrens used stockings to recruit women into their ranks as well. I suppose you could say the GIs used stockings to recruit women too. They were a pain in the ass, if I may say so. The stockings, I mean. Not the men, although she said those American soldiers could be persistent. We still had stockings like that when I was young, before pantyhose were invented. You had to attach them to a garter belt, and they were awkward to wear, but my goodness they made you feel sexy.” She winked at her daughter.
Celia Jones kissed her mother’s lined cheek.
She spent the next hour on the Internet looking up factories that made seamed stockings. Then she called Charlie Pike.
“Listen, I may have found something,” she said, when he answered. “That stocking with the square seam, the one you drew the picture of for me? There are only two factories in the entire world that produce them, and they’re both in England. Oh, and Charlie? I don’t know if this means anything or not, but they call it a Havana heel in the trade.”
Charlie Pike sat on the bed in his motel room, going over his files, thinking about Celia’s call. He finally remembered what had been nagging at him—a rental SUV that wasn’t returned on time. There might be only two factories in the world that made that kind of stocking, but there was only one place in White Harbour that rented cars.
“Funny you should call me about that one,” said the Esso station owner. “A woman from Winnipeg leased it last week for a couple of days, but she never did bring it back. The OPP called me this morning to let me know
it was sitting in the parking lot behind the health clinic. Been there all week, I guess. I was just about to send the tow truck out to pick it up. Battery’s probably as dead as a doornail.”
“Who rented it?” Pike asked.
He heard the sound of paper rustling.
“Her name was Maylene Kesler,” said the station owner.
“Got a copy of her driver’s license there in your paperwork?”
“Sure do. We always keep a photocopy for insurance.”
“Maybe you can make a copy for me. I’m on my way over. And maybe wait till I get there before you send out that tow truck.”
Behind the counter at the gas station were magazines, potato chips, bottles of pop, and rows of cigarettes. Players, Export A, Lucky Strike, Kools.
“You sell a pack of Lucky Strikes to anyone recently?” Pike asked the Esso station manager.
“Probably did,” the manager said, “but I’d never be able to tell you who.”
“Got video surveillance?”
“Whatever for?” The manager looked surprised.
Pike nodded, disappointed. He examined the photograph of Maylene Kesler from her driver’s license. No question, it was the woman in the morgue. He tried his cell phone but, as usual, there was no signal. “Okay if I borrow your phone for a local call?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
Pike called the OPP and explained to Bissonnette what he’d found.
“Shit. I had no idea that the person who rented that car was your Jane Doe. I’ll check with Winnipeg City Police, see what they can find out. Meanwhile, we’ll get the SUV towed to our station. Could take us a few days before we can get any techs up here, though. They may want to transport it to Thunder Bay. That could take a while. Fucking snow.”
