“Best sangria in all of Tampa,” Machado said. With our glasses full, he raised his in a toast. “Here’s to you two,” he said. “Not often I get to have dinner with a famous author.”
“I wish we’d met for a different reason,” I said, touching my glass to his.
“That’s the problem with being a homicide detective,” he said, grinning. “I get to meet interesting people, but only because somebody’s been murdered.”
“I don’t always get to meet people under the best of circumstances either,” Seth said. “Too many times it’s because someone got sick and is dying.”
Their comparison of the grimmer aspects of their professions was interrupted when a man came to the table. “I see that our favorite detective is taking good care of you,” he said. “I’m Richard Gonzmart, manager of the Columbia.”
“It’s a spectacularly beautiful restaurant,” I said.
“Thank you. It’s been in my family for more than a hundred years. Casimiro Hernandez, my great-grandfather, opened the room you’re sitting in back in 1905 to serve fellow immigrants who worked in the cigar factories. He kept adding rooms, including the first air-conditioned dining room in Tampa.”
“Do you have time to join us?” I asked.
“Only for a moment. Carlos told me that he was having dinner with the famous writer Jessica Fletcher. I am honored to have you here this evening. We’ve had many celebrities dine with us,” he said. “We had a strip steak on the menu, ‘The Bambino,’ named after Mr. Babe Ruth, who came here often back in the twenties and thirties.” He laughed. “I’ve been told that he would eat two fourteen-ounce steaks at a single sitting.”
Seth made a face. “Hate to see his arteries,” he said.
“So many of your baseball greats made the Columbia their home when in Tampa,” he continued proudly. “Baseball is the Cuban national pastime, just as it is in America. Joe DiMaggio and his wife, the beautiful Marilyn Monroe, also used to come here.” He became conspiratorial. “One night they had quite a row at the table, and Ms. Monroe went to the restroom and confided in the attendant there. Word has it that she returned to the table a much happier woman.”
He went on like that for another ten minutes, telling tales of the famous who’d dined at the Columbia. I was impressed with the obvious pride he demonstrated, not only in the restaurant, but in his family as well.
“Enjoy your dinners,” he said as he stood to leave. “I have reserved a special place for you in the Patio Room. Nalda will show you to your table when you are ready to eat. ¡Buen provecho!”
“What a charming man,” I said.
“I’ve been coming here for years,” Machado said. “I feel like a member of the family.” He sat back, a satisfied smile on his face. “So, how has your stay in Tampa been so far?”
“Frustrating, to say the least,” Seth answered. “We’re leaving in the morning.”
“So you said when you called. A last-minute decision?”
“Yes,” I replied without elaborating. “We understand that you stopped by the Vasquez house today.”
“That’s right.”
“Maritza Vasquez said that you told her that you were continuing the investigation into her father’s death.”
Machado sighed and slowly shook his head. “It seemed to be the right thing to say,” he said.
Seth and I looked at him quizzically.
“I’ll be honest with you,” Machado said, “because you’ve been honest with me. You didn’t have to bring me that letter the doctor wrote to you, or the flash drives you gave me. To put it simply, the investigation is out of my hands now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Someone new has taken over?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“You might say that,” Machado said.
“The FBI,” Seth said flatly.
“That’s right,” Machado said, shaking his head. “We’re not completely out of the picture,” he added. “Whether they admit it or not, they still need our local expertise. But I’d say there are several more layers of authority above us, and I don’t see wasting the department’s money and the time of our detectives investigating a murder if the federal government is pushing us out of the way.”
Seth looked at me questioningly, and I knew what he was thinking. “We’d like to give you something else we found,” I said in a low voice. “We’re not sure if it’s relevant to Dr. Vasquez’s death, but since we can’t follow up on it, perhaps you’ll find it useful.”
Machado looked from me to Seth. “What’s that?”
Seth pulled out the lined paper on which he’d written the list of names we’d found on Al’s thumb drive. “We think these people may have invested money with Dr. Vasquez without the knowledge of K-Dex and Bernard Peters,” he told Machado as he handed over the page.
“It’s just a hunch we have,” I added. “We know that Carlos Cespedes gave Al a considerable sum in expectation of sharing in the profits when Al’s research bore fruit. His name is on this list. The others here may have done the same thing.”
Machado scanned the list and smiled. “I recognize some of these names. They’re among our wealthier citizens.” He pocketed the paper Seth had given him. “Thanks. I’ll check it out. It’ll be nice to have another piece of information the feds don’t know about. By the way, how did you know they’d taken over the case?”
“That’s why we’re leaving Tampa,” Seth said.
That got Machado’s attention. “Can you talk about it?” he asked.
“I suppose I’m not telling tales out of school,” Seth said, “when I say that we’ve been asked to leave Tampa by the FBI.”
“Is that so? They tell you why?”
“National security,” Seth said disgustedly.
“I’m not sure that’s what it is, although that’s the excuse they used,” I said. “I think they feel that our being here gets in their way. Since Dr. Vasquez’s death seems to have moved from a local homicide to something with international consequences involving our government and the Castro regime, I also wonder whether they feel that we might be in some sort of danger.”
Machado’s smile was small but telling. “Who’ve you been talking to?” he asked. “An agent named Guterez?”
I looked at Seth before saying, “Yes.”
Machado lowered his voice. “You know,” he said, “the CIA’s involved, too.”
I didn’t hesitate to say what immediately came to mind. “Would that be Karl Westerkoch?”
Another smile from the detective. “Our resident spook,” he said. “He’s hardly the sort of invisible spy who stays undercover.”
Seth chimed in. “I still don’t understand why they’re sending us home to Cabot Cove,” he said. “Seems to me that . . . Wait a minute, you say that Westerkoch works for the CIA?”
Machado leaned close to Seth and said sarcastically, and with mirth in his voice, “Not so loud. You’ll blow his cover. More sangria?”
For dinner we were seated in the absolutely spectacular Patio Dining Room. A huge glass ceiling that could be opened covered the large space patterned after classic outdoor patios found in Andalucía in the south of Spain. Machado ordered a wide variety of tapas for us, including scallops, lobster, crab cakes, shrimp, stuffed peppers, and chicken. It was a veritable feast, accompanied by another pitcher of sangria.
“This was wonderful,” I said as one of two attentive waiters cleared our table. “I don’t think I’ll eat another thing for a week.”
“You must have dessert,” Machado insisted, and so he ordered a flan and key lime pie and three spoons. It was over cups of powerful Cuban coffee that the conversation came back to the death of Dr. Alvaro Vasquez and the multiple law enforcement agencies that were now involved.
“What have you done with those thumb drives we gave you?” Seth asked.
“They’re
under lock and key,” said Machado.
Seth’s doubtful expression prompted the detective to add, “And I mean locked away. You’re aware of the leaks from our department, but I assure you that those devices will be handed over to the appropriate people.”
“Other medical researchers?” Seth asked. “Al—Dr. Vasquez specifically asked me to show his notes to other physicians engaged in Alzheimer’s research, and that’s what I intend to do.”
“Then I assume you made a copy before giving the originals to me.”
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
“And you will carry out the doctor’s wishes?”
“You bet I will. I know some top-flight researchers in Boston who’ll make good use of what’s on those thumb drives.”
I understood why Seth didn’t want to share with Machado his belief that what was on the thumb drives wasn’t especially promising. As he’d told me, he didn’t feel it was his place to make such judgments. But I wasn’t sure it was wise not only to have copied evidence, but also to admit his actions to a police detective.
It was an evening for candid exchanges, however. I was surprised at how forthcoming Detective Machado had been. Perhaps our pending departure made him feel free to discuss the Vasquez case and others. Up until that point, he had dominated the conversation, telling amusing, interesting stories about fighting crime in Tampa. “Actually,” he’d said, “we have a pretty solid record in lowering the crime rate. Of course there’s always drugs and gangs, but Tampa is a relatively safe city.” Then he shifted the conversation to what I assumed he had been planning to talk about all evening. “We do have occasional problems with some of the zealots in the Cuban American Freedom Foundation.”
“I’ve heard they’re a group of Cuban exiles who are against the Cuban government,” I said.
“Right you are. On the other side are Castro loyalists in Tampa and Miami who get their marching orders from the Cuban Comités de Defensa de la Revolución. That’s the organization inside Cuba that recruits and runs the CDRs, neighborhood spies. It’s a very active and wide-sweeping organization that reports to the Cuban national police, who work for the Ministry of the Interior. We know that they have agents in Florida who report back on what the members of the Freedom Foundation are up to. That’s why we work with the CIA and FBI on occasion. Real cloak-and-dagger stuff. I was wondering if you two have learned anything about the Cuban exile group while you’ve been in Tampa.”
“I don’t think we can help you there,” I said. “The closest we’ve come to cloak-and-dagger stuff, as you put it, is that we’ve been followed almost every day. I thought it might be one of your men.”
Machado laughed. “No, not us. We’d have no reason to follow you. Maybe it was Westerkoch. I get the feeling that he enjoys following people. Makes him feel like James Bond.”
We parted on the sidewalk outside the Columbia.
“Travel safe tomorrow,” Machado said.
“We intend to,” I said, checking Seth’s reaction, which was noncommittal.
In the car on the way back to the hotel, I caught Seth smiling.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“I’m thinking that what we need in Cabot Cove is good Cuban food. What do you think if I ask Ed Kim whether he’d be interested in opening a Cuban restaurant?”
Kim was a Chinese American entrepreneur who’d recently opened two small eating places in Cabot Cove, one specializing in Thai food, and the other a Spanish tapas place.
I hesitated before saying, “The problem, Seth, is that we don’t have a Cuban population in Cabot Cove to support it.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Not sure we have many Thai or Spanish people there either.”
“True.”
“Once people taste authentic Cuban cuisine, they’ll flock to it. Besides, it’s healthier than lobster chowder and whoopie pies.”
I laughed. “What made you think of whoopie pies?”
“You can’t be a true Down-Easter and not think of whoopie pies every now and then,” he said. “I could go for one right now.”
“Even after flan and key lime pie?” I asked.
Seth didn’t answer, but he looked a little embarrassed.
I’ve never developed a taste for whoopie pies, but they are a quintessential Maine dessert staple. I teased Seth. “Then I guess you won’t be unhappy about going home tomorrow if you have a package of whoopie pies in your cupboard.”
“I do.”
As Seth and I parted in the hotel lobby, I said, “What a wonderful evening, a perfect final farewell to Tampa. The restaurant is superb.”
“Ayuh, it certainly is. Well, I’d better get some shut-eye before we take off tomorrow, provided I can get visions of a small plane out of my head.”
“The flight will be fine,” I assured him. “I have plenty of faith in Xavier Vasquez.”
Chapter Nineteen
We were up early the following morning and in the dining room by six thirty, our packed bags checked with the concierge. Seth had turned in the rental car at the hotel when we returned from dinner; we would take a taxi to the Vasquez house on Davis Island to meet up with Xavier.
I’d picked up a copy of the Tampa Tribune on my way in to breakfast and showed it to Seth. Peggy Lohman had written an article about the Vasquez case in which she reported that “people inside the investigation who wish to remain anonymous” told her that the FBI was now an active participant in the investigation and that Dr. Vasquez’s death had been officially labeled a homicide, the method of death poison, the cause of death acute respiratory failure.
“Keeping a secret seems to be out of the question with the police here in Tampa,” Seth commented after reading the piece.
“I wouldn’t blame the police,” I said. “With so many agencies involved—the medical examiner’s office, the FBI, and even the CIA—the sources of the leaks could be anyone, even the family.”
Seth pondered that for a few moments before saying, “Dr. San Martín said that the sort of C. botulinum they found in Al’s cigar had to have come from a very sophisticated laboratory. Remember that story about how the CIA developed a virulent strain and used it in cigars to try to assassinate Fidel Castro?”
“I do remember. But it didn’t work. He’d stopped smoking by the time the CIA tried it.”
“The point is, Jessica, Dr. San Martín and Agent Guterez suggested that the laboratory might have been a government-run one.”
“But why would our government want to kill him?” I asked.
“Maybe it wasn’t our government,” Seth replied. “Al told me Mr. Castro and his government were pretty upset when Al defected with all the research he’d conducted there.”
“Do you think those Castro agents here in Florida might be responsible?”
“Could be. Let’s get over to the house before I lose my nerve about flying in that stupid little plane.”
I smiled but didn’t say anything. All I hoped was that Xavier would take into account that he had a white-knuckle flier onboard and would make all his maneuvers slow and easy.
Xavier appeared to be angry when he greeted us at the door.
“Bernard Peters is suing us,” he said without prompting. “I never liked him, never trusted him.”
“He’s basing his suit on having financially supported your father’s research?” I asked.
“That among other things. I don’t know what he’s complaining about. He had some sort of insurance policy that paid him off in the event my father died.”
Which could have provided a strong motive to kill Alvaro Vasquez, I thought, especially if Peters somehow learned that the research had hit a dead end.
“You ready to fly?” Xavier asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Seth said.
Maritza appeared carrying a small suitcase.
; “You’re leaving, too?” I asked.
“I’m going with you,” she said. “I’m spending a few days with Xavier in the Keys before going back to Havana.”
“Will you have trouble going back?” Seth asked as we gathered up our luggage and headed for the taxi that would take us to the Peter O. Knight Airport at the tip of Davis Island, where Xavier housed his plane.
“No,” she answered without elaborating.
Xavier’s Cessna 172 aircraft was a more recent model of the popular aircraft. It sat shiny and bright in the morning sun, its red and white paint glistening.
“It’s a beauty,” I told Xavier.
“My baby, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s the R model, with a Lycoming fuel-injected engine and a Garmin avionics package, top of the line, ADF, GPS, transponder. It’s even got added fuel capacity in the wingtips and extra baggage compartments.
“There are four of us with our luggage,” I said, aware from my days as a student pilot how critical weight was with a smaller aircraft.
Xavier grinned and asked how much Seth and I weighed.
I told him but Seth hesitated, finally admitting his heft. Xavier did a fast mental calculation, taking into account the luggage. “We should be fine,” he said. “It’s got a gross takeoff weight of over twenty-five hundred pounds. We’ll be below limits, though it may slow us down a little.”
Seth, who’d been listening, said, “If there’s a weight problem, I’ll be happy to volunteer to stay back and find another way to Fort Lauderdale.”
“Seth,” I chided.
“Just bein’ generous,” he said.
Xavier carefully loaded our luggage into the baggage holds and wedged a few small pieces behind the two rear seats. “Let’s see,” he said. “Mrs. Fletcher will want to do some of the flying, so she’ll sit up front with me. Maritza, you and Dr. Hazlitt sit in back.”
“I’d love to fly,” I said, “but I think Seth would be more comfortable up front. There’s more leg room.”
Seth eyed the cramped rear seats and said, “If you wouldn’t mind, Jessica.”
Murder, She Wrote: Prescription For Murder Page 18
