Friday, Late Afternoon Aboard the Sanabela II
Flowing across the sea-green coastal waters of Canal del Entrada, the mechanical cry of screeching gears aboard the shrimper, Sanabela II, trawling a few miles north of Havana, formed an oddly musical counterpoint to the shrieks of hungry seagulls hunting food along the shore. When the ship’s gears shuddered to a sudden standstill, the absence of that sound shocked the gulls into momentary stillness. Aboard the shrimper, all activity stopped. The men froze in place, afraid to breathe, afraid to hope. They stared first at the choked-off wench and then at one another. Fishing had been wretchedly poor all season; not once had the nets filled with so heavy a prize as the one promised by the old equipment groaning as the ship rocked in the waves. In the pilothouse, bearded and white-haired Captain Luis Estrada gasped. As another enormous groan choked from the wooden moorings and metal hoist, he rushed down to the main deck.
Everyone aboard knew what the subsequent silence meant.
Still, Estrada, like his crew, feared giving a moment’s vent to any jubilation. Not until a man stood knee-deep in the catch did he dare celebrate—an unwritten rule that all seamen knew only too well.
Pearls of small Christmas lights, strung from the tops of masts and the crow’s nest, created a colorful necklace for the busted-up old tub, Estrada’ cheap, efficient answer to the lighting problem whenever they worked into the night, or like today, under a dark sky threatening rain. The crew joked mercilessly about Estrada’s low-tech solutions.
The captain watched the net being slowly pulled up. Too slowly for his or anyone’s liking. He exploded, ordering, “Crank it up!”
The pulley operator shouted back, “She’s at full-throttle now!”
“It’s a full net!” shouted Adondo, his young eyes expectant.
Big Giraldo added, “Net’s heavier than my wife’s ass!”
“That’s damn heavy!” replied Adondo, laughing and adding, “but such a sweet one, that Miranda. You don’t deserve her, Giraldo!”
The jest made them all laugh, touching off their pent-up jubilation. Shouting, dancing, and singing erupted, with Adondo happily beating on oil drums with a knife in one hand and a huge tenterhook in the other.
With a burst of black oily smoke belching from the old machinery, the net lurched upward. Inside the rough-hewn many times mended net, hung a tangled web of bodies. Bloated skin mottled with dark bruises stretched over a grotesque catalogue of swollen body parts: eyes, ears, noses, limbs, torsos pressed tightly against the net, as if searching escape. The appalling package wore a ribbon of heavy chains with decorations of sea life.
The noisy celebration instantly turned into stunned silence.
Estrada exclaimed, “Madre de Dios!” Shaking his head, he muttered, “God just doesn’t like me, does he?”
TWO
Police Headquarters, Old Havana
“There is no cause for angry words, Mr. Zayas! After all, we’re a small police department.”
“I understand that but—”
“We’re doing everything in our power as quickly as we can.”
Lieutenant Detective Quiana Magdalena Aguilera looked up from a file she’d been poring over, both curious and annoyed at the sound of raised voices here in the Old Capitol Police Force building. Detective Jorge Peña was escorting a tall dark-haired man out of Colonel Gutierrez’s office. “These things take time.”
As the two men passed her desk, the stranger glanced her way, seeing a slim, dark eyed, black haired woman beneath the poor lighting of the old stationhouse. Her café au lait skin had the sheen of faint perspiration, ever present in this tropical climate. She noticed his blue-green eyes widen at her as if in greeting, and she smiled in reply.
The rest of the man’s conversation with Peña trailed off, lost in the sound of office noise and humming fans.
Anything to break up the tedium of her latest and most boring assignment—preparing monthly reports. Sighing, she turned her attention back to the papers on her desk. Damn, lost my place again. They do this sort of thing on computers in other countries, why not here? Castro’s celebrated full employment—that’s why a lieutenant detective is saddled with such chores. The oft repeated thought provided a backdrop to the irritating squeaking of old worn-out chairs and tired fans that did little more than move hot air from one place to another. She promised herself that this weekend, she’d go diving off the coast of Miramar. Glancing up, the clock said she could shortly escape the drab office, but knowing the Colonel, not before she finished this report. To this end, Qui—as her friends called her—took up her pencil once again and vowed to ignore any further distractions.
But a few moments later, her attention was again diverted, when Peña, returning to his desk, complained about the officious security guard from the American Interest Section poking his nose into Peña’s missing persons case.
“Peña, wanna trade? I’m sure with your experience, you’d be better suited to analyzing last month’s figures,” she called out, knowing he hated preparing reports.
Peña caustically replied, “Not done with your paperwork yet, Aguilera? With your skills, it shoulda been done hours ago! You’ve got nothing else to do.”
The insult, regardless of how true, rankled and Quiana wanted to be anywhere but here. Those still left in the squad room listened with relish, hoping for a replay of last month’s noisy confrontation.
“At least I’m making progress, Peña! How long’s it been since you’ve cleared a case?”
Peña’s face visibly darkened. “Just remember, you gotta finish the Colonel’s report before you can go home to Papa. Speaking of which, what’s for dinner tonight?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she taunted.
“Let me guess: grilled filet mignon with hollandaise sauce, roasted yam wedges seasoned with cumin and freshly ground pepper and sea salt, fresh tomatoes sprinkled with goat cheese served with a vinaigrette delicately flavored with cilantro and lemon zest, a light red wine with hints of raisins and pear, and—”
“Stop it!” shouted another detective. “You’re making my mouth water!”
“—and for dessert, flaming crepes suzette and coffee served in those cute little demitasse cups.”
His mimicking of fancy menu descriptions made the squad room erupt in laughter. No one in Cuba ate well except tourists and the elite.
“Aguilera! Come here. Now!” demanded the Colonel, shouting above the laughter.
“From bad to worse,” Quiana muttered under her breath while grabbing her notebook and pen. She walked to the Colonel’s office, a sense of dread replacing the sting of ongoing chuckles and the smug look on Peña’s face. The dislike between the two detectives paled in comparison to the aversion she felt for her boss. Beyond his dislike of women in general, his inexplicable animosity toward her made Qui regret being under the Colonel’s command.
“We have a problem.” Her superior, Colonel Alfonso Gutierrez, spoke in his familiarly irritating deadpan. “And you, Aguilera, have been requested to investigate.”
Surprised Qui asked, “Requested?”
“By the captain of a shrimp boat.”
“A shrimp boat, sir?”
“Yes, they radioed a problem.”
“So, where is this boat? Which marina?”
“No marina! It’s out on the water, a few miles off the bay. The Sanabela II, a Captain Luis Estrada…says he knows you. Says you are, errr, related. Are you?”
Estrada called himself uncle to her, but he meant it in the loosest way. She knew that in some distant past they might well be related somehow, but no one knew precisely how; he called himself uncle to anyone he had an acquaintance with who happened to be younger than himself. Such an attitude toward the entire community, well that was Old Cuba. Qui thought of people as either Old Cuba or New Cuba, defined more by attitude than age, though she must admit most men tended to act Old Cuba around women.
“No, sirs, we’re not related, Colonel. He just calls himself �
��Uncle’ to almost everyone.”
“How nice for you…well then, take a police boat out. You can get a boat, can’t you?” Gutierrez needled more than asked.
“I’ll find transport.”
“Yes, I am sure you will.”
No love lost here, she thought, seeing Gutierrez’s sour expression. It’d never set well with the older man to have a woman—ranking as a detective-placed under his authority.
“Do your best,” he finished, his words daring her to take offense. “Some sort of death aboard; can’t say for sure exactly what. The man sounded hysterical.”
“A death aboard a shrimp trawler?”
“More than one—if this ‘uncle of yours’ hasn’t exaggerated.”
“Two deaths aboard the Sanabela?” She gave a flash thought to the Sanabela’s hard-luck reputation.
“Three-if Estrada’s report is true.”
“Three?”
“Are you suddenly deaf?” he replied, “Get moving! Take Hilito and Latoya. Three deaths, three investigators, all the support you need. Go. Call in your initial findings.”
Quiana stood, saluted, turned, and made for the door, her mind racing. Finally, a major case—but a huge one, three deaths. What awaited her aboard Estrada’s boat? Must’ve been an accident: old boat, old equipment, young men—bad combination. Three deaths at once? This felt like a gauntlet Gutierrez’s had thrown down. A challenge to her training and skills as an investigator.
Emerging from Gutierrez’s office, Qui walked toward her desk and called over to two detectives sitting nearby. “Hilito, Latoya, come. We’ve got an investigation. Let’s go!”
“Terrific!” Tino Hilito leapt from his squealing desk chair.
“We’re with you, detective!” added Sergio Latoya, stuffing paperwork into a desk drawer.
Their eagerness reflected delight at escaping headquarters. In fact, they’d been clock watching until now, fearful of the last hour before shift’s end, praying for a telephone to ring and pull them out onto the street. Everyone under the colonel’s command hated Friday afternoons when Gutierrez would emerge from his office to give them all a good talking to—a lecture on desk etiquette, filling out forms properly, often haranguing against sloppiness of dress and attitude and lack of military bearing. “After all,” he’d remind them, “this is the Policia Nacional de Revolucion.”
“Investigation?” asked Tino. “Where?”
“On a shrimp trawler off the coast. We need a police cruiser. Tino, you’re good with the water cops. Get us a boat.”
“Aye, aye, Lieutenant,” he said a bit too loudly.
Qui checked for signs of amusement but his wink was one of camaraderie. Leaning close, he whispered, “For effect,” nodding toward the watching eyes.
She glanced around, annoyed at still being the center of attention. “Sergio, go check out an evidence kit—gloves included this time!” She grabbed her gun, strapped it onto her hip.
“So Aguilera, got a real case now?” taunted Peña. “Want my notes from school?”
Quiana turned, paused, and replied, “You keep ‘em. Try using ‘em on that missing persons case you’ve got! Perhaps then, you might be able to close it.”
Turning back, she grinned at the catcalls and laughter.
Walking alongside her, Sergio watched the grin fade as her lips thinned. He assumed it a sign of frustration. “He’s just jealous, Lieutenant. Ignore him. You got your shield faster and made higher scores in training—we all know that. Besides, you got that ‘thank you’ note last week. He’s still fuming about that.”
Quiana chuckled at the image of Peña fuming over a letter of appreciation detailing her perfect scores. This from a high-ranking training officer who happened to be Peña’s role model. Tino had made sure that Peña had seen the letter, posting it on the bulletin board. “Still fuming?” she replied. “Serves him right. Payback for rudeness.”
“You get your own licks in too,” Sergio reminded her.
“True enough.”
“I’ll bring my car around to the front,” he said.
They headed in separate directions, Qui’s shoes tapping out a quick rhythm. Before she cleared the door, Colonel Gutierrez shouted from his desk, “Detective Aguilera! Why’re you still here? I gave you an order five minutes ago! Now, go, go!”
THREE
Aboard Police Cutter PNR-48, Havana Bay
Here on the water, the air smelled more like rain than it did from onshore, and the sky seemed even darker, more threatening. Quiana expertly piloted the police cruiser, pushing it to maximum speed across the choppy waters of the bay. She wanted to reach the Sanabela before daylight faded or rain fell. The ponderous government boat rocked and bucked over the surface. Sergio, never one for boats, had turned slightly green from the bouncing and the foul smell of polluted water. The sound of wind and motor had become a constant barrage of noise, making conversation impossible.
Outside the bay, in smoother waters, Quiana reduced their speed as they cruised in search of the trawler.
“Gutierrez sure seems to have it in for you,” Sergio shouted to be heard.
“Yeah,” agreed Tino. “That wily old, card-playing poker-faced bit of nastiness, our beloved Colonel, is a hungry dog, and he bites.”
“Even when you throw him scraps,” added Sergio.
Quiana laughed at the apt comparison. “Hey, are you two playing suck up?”
“Nahhh…we’re your main guys!”
“How’s your family, Tino?” she asked.
“Wife’s pregnant again. Kid’s doing better.”
“That’s good, yes?”
“Only if you got money.”
“Hey, don’t listen to him. Carmela’s having our second, too,” said Sergio, smiling. “Tino’s always complaining.”
“What’s a cop got to complain about,” she facetiously asked. “Low pay, long hours. Nobody listens anyway.”
Sergio replied, “The weight of the job can kill a man—or a woman in your case.”
Qui considered Sergio’s last remarks, although flippant, a serious matter. Other than Tino and Sergio, she had no one to confide in about the job, certainly no one in her personal life. Few people outside law enforcement understood the pressures. Still, Qui wished she had one friend or relative to whom she could openly and easily discuss such matters, but who? Her longtime friend Liliana concerned herself with her dancing career, dreams of one day making a splash on a real stage—somewhere in America maybe, and she simply did not care to understand what Qui faced on the job. Qui’s father did not want her on this job period, wishing she’d pursue any other career, something safe, perhaps photography as he had. As for her boyfriend, Dr. Estaban Montoya, he could hardly be bothered with such trivialities as her problems with Gutierrez or the department.
“I just thank God, that I have you guys to talk to once in awhile,” she confided.
“In that case, beer’s on you tonight, boss lady,” responded Sergio.
Tino, looking a bit despondent with his own thoughts, added, “I could damn sure use a beer.”
In smoother waters now, outside the bay, Qui was first to spot the Sanabela II. “There she is!”
Sergio asked, “How do you know that’s the one?”
“See the Christmas tree lights?” she replied.
“Yeah, so?”
“I recognize them. Only on the Sanabela.” Quiana went on to explain the meaning of the lights.
As she turned the boat toward the shrimper, Qui’s thoughts turned to her pending assignment aboard the Sanabela. Wanting this case to be by the book perfect, she reminded herself of each step in a successful investigation. In training, each lesson was learned in the company of other recruits, but now, although Tino and Sergio were here, she was the primary investigator, and any and all results depended on her competence. She steeled herself to deal with whatever lay ahead.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shouting. “Finally, somebody in authority,” bellowed Estr
ada. “I radioed when it was still daylight!”
Noting the rebuke, Qui waved at him before aligning the cruiser with trawler, gently bumping alongside the Sanabela.
“Help us tie off, Uncle!” Qui called to Estrada, who nodded to someone outside her line of vision.
Lines were tossed and Tino and Sergio coordinated with Estrada’s crew to lash the boats together.
From the side of the cruiser, Quiana looked up into the piercing eyes and the inscrutable face of Luis Estrada where he stood aboard the Sanabela. He looked older than the last time she’d seen him, still robust but pale and uncharacteristically grim.
Sub-Zero Page 17
