Hungry Ghosts

by Peggy Blair

  “The IRA? Why would the IRA steal art in the United States?”

  “Why does anyone steal art? For money. There are more stolen Picassos in private collections than there are in museums. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about that heist, though. It was all over the press. That’s the way to do it, you know. You show someone a police uniform, they don’t even notice what else you’re doing.”

  “Tell me,” Ramirez said, tapping the photograph of the spray-painted museum wall, “what does that look like to you?”

  Gunningham slid the photograph towards himself and turned it around. “Honestly?” The Englishman hesitated a moment before he answered. “It looks like a spider.”

  “You’re sure it’s not a depiction of the bombilla in the Guernica mural? You know the Picasso painting, I assume.”

  “You mean that eye at the top? I’ve seen the real Guernica, and this sure as hell doesn’t look like that. There’s a copy at the UN Building in New York. Remember the day Colin Powell accused Iraq on television of having weapons of mass destruction? It was hanging right behind him. They put a curtain over it so it wasn’t visible as the U.S. made their case for going to war, but even covered up, the horse’s arse was directly above his head. I laughed until I cried.

  “I put graffiti up at the United Nations Building once myself, in plain view of all the guards. I was wearing a pair of painter’s overalls. I walked right up to the building with my paint can and my rags. Walked away with a tour when I was done, tossed the overalls in a bin outside. When you have that many security guards, everyone thinks the other guy’s paying attention.”

  Of course, Ramirez thought. The imposter left the museum still wearing the police uniform. Where was it? Ramirez looked at the mirrored glass and inclined his head. He knew Espinoza would understand.

  “You defaced the UN Building? That takes some cojones.”

  The graffiti artist grinned. “Look, it was only a can of spray paint. You can wash latex paint off with water. And even enamel paint can be cleaned off with a little turpentine. I’ll bet those paintings in your museum were cleaned and protected with synthetic resin a long time ago. It’s pretty easy to remove spray paint from anything that’s been heavily varnished. I mean, Guernica wasn’t damaged at all. Honestly, apart from the shock value, it wasn’t much of a crime.”

  Ramirez leaned back and thought for a moment. He lit his cigar. He pulled another from his pocket and offered it to the man, but he shook his head.

  “No thanks. Don’t smoke. Bad for you. I’ll have a beer if you have one, though.” The man was completely at ease now. Which was what Ramirez wanted.

  “Maybe later,” said Ramirez. He put the cigar back in his pocket. “Now tell me, Señor, why did you have a black hood and handcuffs in your backpack?” He had little interest in the sexual proclivities of others, but he needed to know.

  The man almost blushed. “You know the graffiti artist named Banksy? He left one at Disneyworld last fall dressed in orange prisoner overalls and a black hood, with its hands cuffed, like the prisoners at Guantánamo Bay. These days, torture’s a form of entertainment. Problem is that Disneyworld’s an amusement park. The installation was too successful. People were amused instead of outraged. I thought I’d dress one up and leave it in front of the Swiss embassy where that tickertape display criticizes the Cuban government. Have a little fun.”

  Ramirez nodded slowly, piecing this information together with what he knew. Then he stood up. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said. “I’ll see about that beer.”

  He left Gunningham alone with the photographs while he went to the exhibit room to find the man a beer. On his way there, he stopped in the anteroom next door.

  Espinoza looked crestfallen. “I’m sorry,” said the young detective. “It didn’t occur to me to look for the uniform in garbage cans near the museum, Inspector. Anything the vandal left there will be long gone by now. By the way, Customs called while you were interrogating the suspect. He’s telling the truth. He didn’t arrive in Havana until Friday at 6:35 p.m.”

  “No need to apologize, Fernando. I didn’t think of it either. No, I don’t think he’s our man, but I’m glad you brought him in. He has me thinking. Listen, I want you to do something for me. Take a police car to the airport and find out exactly when Señor Testa arrived here: the date and the time. Get the tape of his arrival at Customs from the surveillance cameras. But first, get a copy of his passport from the reception desk at the Hotel Nacional.”

  Espinoza raised his eyebrows but nodded. He inclined his head towards the mirrored glass. “Are you going to let him go?” He sounded disappointed. “I thought maybe he was Banksy.”

  “He could be, for all I know. But being a famous graffiti artist isn’t a crime. I think El Comandante will be amused if he carries out his plans in front of the Swiss embassy. Although perhaps a little less so if he uses those stencils.”

  Ramirez released the Englishman from custody with a can of warm Cristol beer and a warning about painting graffiti on buildings that could fall down on him at any time.

  Then he returned to his office. He checked the light, his desk, and his telephone again but found no more bugs.

  56

  Inspector Ramirez sighed when he thought about the chase he’d been led on. Rappers, traceurs, terrorists, Guernica, Basques. He agreed with Picasso—the art world was full of criminals. And when one’s only tool was a hammer, everything was a nail. But he blamed himself for missing the obvious, for allowing himself to be distracted. For seeing only what he expected to see.

  He glanced at his watch. It was eleven forty-five. He had no reason not to release the paintings now that he knew, or at least thought he knew, what was going on.

  He dialed the number for the Hotel Nacional and gave the operator the room number for Dominique Gatti.

  The dead man sat across from him, anxiously drumming his fingers on the surface of Ramirez’s desk. “I know who you are,” Ramirez told the ghost while he waited for the operator to connect him. “Me. Not just my subconscious. And I think I know who killed you.”

  The dead man raised his eyebrows.

  “Patience,” said Ramirez. “I could be wrong. After all, I thought Antifona Conejo was dead and she wasn’t.” The dead man shook his head, his brown eyes sad.

  Dominique Gatti answered on the third ring.

  “I have good news, Señora Gatti. You can take your paintings back to Italy today. Our investigation is over.”

  “Oh, thank God,” she said, her voice lifting. “The paintings have been crated; there’s a flight this afternoon. Did you find the culprit?”

  “It looks as if a visiting graffiti artist was responsible,” Ramirez lied. “Someone trying to make his mark in the art world. What time does the flight leave?”

  “At two thirty.”

  Ramirez looked at his watch again. If Espinoza moved quickly, they would have just enough time. “Have a good trip back to Italy, Señora. I sincerely hope your paintings can be restored.”

  Ramirez pushed papers around while he waited, hoping his instincts were right.

  Detective Espinoza called him back just after one o’clock. He sounded surprised. “I have the surveillance tapes in my hand, Inspector. Señor Testa isn’t the man we met at the museum. In fact, other than his weight and height, he hardly resembles him at all.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Ramirez. “Where are you now?”

  “I’m still at the airport.”

  “Good.” Ramirez breathed out. He gave the detective further instructions. “I’ll join you there later.”

  A moment later, the phone on his desk trilled. It was Dispatch.

  “Inspector, we have another homicide. Dr. Apiro is at the crime scene. He says it appears to be the real Antifona Conejo this time. She hasn’t been dead for long, only hours.”

  “Where was the bod
y found?” Ramirez asked, his heart sinking.

  “A few hundred yards from the one earlier in the week, in the woods beside the highway. Dr. Apiro’s technicians were excavating the site, as you had directed when they discovered it. The technicians from the Centre for Legal Medicine are there now. He says they’ve taken over the investigation.”

  “Why?” asked Ramirez, but he already knew the answer.

  “Dr. Flores wants you to drop by his apartment this afternoon so he can explain.” She gave him the address. “He suggested you come around two thirty.”

  Of course he did, thought Ramirez. That, and Antifona’s murder, made Ramirez unspeakably angry. There was no need for it, none at all.

  57

  The psychiatrist was staying in an apartment in a skyscraper known by locals as the Edificio Coño, the “Oh My Fucking God Building,” because of its extraordinary height.

  When it was constructed in 1956, the thirty-five-storey structure was considered one of the tallest concrete buildings in the world. It was engineered using what was then brand-new computer technology. But it had been left in shambles when its mostly Russian tenants fled after the collapse of the Soviet Union. For years, turkey vultures nested in its crevices. And in 2000, a cable supporting an elevator snapped, killing everyone inside.

  The tower was being renovated. La Torre, the restaurant on the top floor, was supposed to be fantastic. But few Cubans would risk eating there, even if they could, for fear of plunging to their deaths.

  Ramirez walked up the stairs to the eighth floor. He knocked on the psychiatrist’s door after taking a moment to catch his breath. Manuel Flores opened the door. He appeared thinner and even more stooped, as if he was wasting away.

  “Thank you for coming, Inspector. I gather you’ve heard that Antifona Conejo’s body was found. I thought it would be best to have an essentially unpleasant conversation here instead of at your office, where so many people have ears.”

  “I am quite sure that applies to all of them,” said Ramirez, trying to suppress his anger. “And yes, I heard about Señora Conejo. I’ve also heard that the Centre is taking over what should be our investigation.”

  “Ah, yes, Ramirez. Well, I can explain.” The psychiatrist walked stiffly to a worn sofa and seated himself. “Please, sit down.” He patted the faded cushion beside him.

  The profiler had lined up a series of photographs on the wooden coffee table. Next to them rested a typed report and a small tape recorder.

  “Is this really necessary?” said Ramirez, sitting down.

  The profiler shrugged his shoulders. “We always use a tape recorder in felony investigations, Ramirez. You know that. The pictures are from this morning’s crime scene. She was a lovely girl.” He leaned forward and picked one up. He handed it to Ramirez. “It certainly looks like the same killer, doesn’t it? But of course, it can’t be Juan Otero. After all, he’s in jail.”

  Ramirez took the photograph but put it down quickly. There was no mistaking the protruding tongue, the bulging eyes, the nylon stocking tied tightly around Antifona’s neck. He thought of her energy and spirit and felt immeasurably sad.

  Flores picked up the report. “This is my profile of the serial killer for the Ministry of the Interior. I’ve concluded that he is highly organized after all. He gives the appearance of being happily married but is having domestic problems. A demanding wife, a difficult job, too little time. Lately, he’s strayed, looking for comfort with prostitutes. He has young children, so he feels trapped.”

  Ramirez raised his eyebrows.

  Flores smiled. “He’s involved in law enforcement, which is why we never find any forensic evidence. His guilt over his infidelity is what causes him to kill these women. He poses them as if they’re sleeping because he can’t cope with the knowledge that he’s committed such terrible crimes. The cigarette butts, the purses, their identification—he leaves those behind because deep down he wants to be caught.” He handed Ramirez the report. “I think you’ll find my conclusions interesting.”

  Ramirez turned to the last page and read aloud: “Subject displays classic symptoms of paranoia and sluggish schizophrenia with visual and auditory hallucinations. The Centre for Legal Medicine confirms that DNA on the cigarette butt found beside the woman’s body matches blood samples kept on record. Listening devices installed in his apartment and private vehicle confirm his prior relationship with the victim. Recommend full psychiatric evaluation and isolation at Mazorra while charges are reviewed by the Attorney General. Consider suspect extremely dangerous.”

  “I think it’s a rather good profile, don’t you?” said Flores.

  “I never cheated on Francesca.”

  “Perhaps. But I doubt she’ll care when she finds out about all of this.” Flores smiled again. He shut off the tape recorder. “The minister wants the distribution list back. He wants things the way they were before you went to Canada. Before you involved yourself in affairs that didn’t concern you.”

  “I didn’t kill Antifona.”

  Flores shrugged. “Who cares? We have photographs of you with her last night. Getting into your car. Kissing. You should never have taken her to the killing ground. And you should have told us you knew her.”

  “I didn’t know her before last night.”

  “Perhaps not in the carnal sense. But I’m sure you’ll understand, Ramirez, if I don’t believe you.” Flores turned on the tape recorder. He inserted a new tape and pushed a button.

  Ramirez heard the metallic sound of his own voice: “I’m sorry, Antifona. You really need to leave. I can’t have you hanging around my apartment. My wife and children will be back soon, and believe me Francesca wouldn’t appreciate you being here when she’s not home. Besides, you’re far too attractive. It’s distracting.”

  “There’s another part on that tape where you can’t find your pants,” said Flores. “And then, of course, there’s the conversation in your car. I admit, the lesbian sex sounded hot. It was a nice surprise, finding out that you knew who Antifona Conejo was throughout the entire investigation and didn’t tell anyone. It certainly feeds into my theory of your schizophrenic paranoia.”

  “You planted the bugs?”

  “Not personally. But good for you for finding them. I’ve always said you were a brilliant detective.”

  “I should have known the minister didn’t assign you to our unit to investigate a serial killer.”

  “Let’s just say he wanted a profile that fit the crime he was most concerned with, which was blackmail. He told you he didn’t care about jineteras. He’s a man of his word.”

  “How did you find Antifona when we weren’t able to?”

  “There aren’t too many jineteras with that name,” said Flores. “After a few days cleaning up after pigs, believe me, she was happy to work with us.”

  Ramirez nodded slowly. “You put her in a rehabilitation camp.”

  Flores smiled. “For obvious reasons, our office is handling the investigation into her death. Imagine, a police inspector who’s also a serial killer. The FBI could write an entire study about it. Who knows? Maybe they will.” Flores tapped on a photograph. “Look. See the cigarette lying beside the body? It’s the one you lit for her last night. It has your DNA all over it. Señora Conejo was prudent enough to keep it before she gave us a statement about your attempted rape.”

  Apiro had it right, Ramirez realized. He should have listened to his friend instead of his ego. “She was a honey-pot.”

  “Well she was very beautiful, Ramirez. Your loyalty to your wife was the only surprise. After almost a week alone, I could have sworn you’d take the opportunity to have sex.” Flores shrugged. “Of course, it would have been better for us if you had, but we have enough evidence to proceed with charges without it. Señora Conejo signed the complaint of lascivious assault just before she, shall we say, gave up her permanent address. That gives
us motive. And her statement is admissible in court even if she can no longer testify in person, poor girl.”

  Ramirez shook his head. “I still don’t understand why you felt you had to kill her.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Ramirez. She was naïve. She really believed that she could leave the country. We could hardly have her recanting her statement after she found out she wasn’t going anywhere.”

  Once the listening device in his apartment picked up her name, Ramirez realized, Antifona was as good as dead. “She was only nineteen.”

  “I had orders,” said Flores. “I simply executed them.”

  “Bullshit,” said Ramirez, standing up. He was furious. They had used and murdered an innocent woman for political gamesmanship. He grabbed the older man by his jacket lapels. “You’re part of the inner circle.”

  “If you really believe that, don’t you think you should take your hands off me?”

  Ramirez reluctantly let go. Flores brushed himself off and smoothed his rumpled clothes.

  “How much did you pay her?” But Ramirez already knew the answer. Some new clothes. The promise of an exit permit.

  A bad policeman, Dr. Yeung said. Manuel Flores.

  58

  “Once you turn the distribution list over, Ramirez, this profile will be destroyed. Juan Otero will be charged with murdering his sister-in-law as well as his wife. Of course, I’ll have to revise a few facts here and there in my report to fit him instead of you, and the police holding-cell records will need to be altered by a day or two, but you know how things work.”

  Flores straightened his shirt collar. “You’ve always misunderstood the minister, you know. He’s not interested in child pornography. He’s only trying to protect the people who are. Rumours are one thing; it’s proof that makes them dangerous. You’re far more dangerous to this government than any dissident. What did you expect him to do?”