The Beggar's Opera

by Peggy Blair

“Speaking hypothetically, that may be true, Maria. My reality has always been a little different.”

  “Mine, too,” Maria agreed. “But you, of all people, ought to know better than to judge someone by their appearance. You transform people’s looks all the time.”

  “I used to,” Apiro said slowly. That much was true. Or at least had been, before she ran away from the hospital in the middle of the night and broke his heart.

  “If you don’t have any plans, Hector, I wondered if we could perhaps have dinner together,” she said tentatively. “I have a friend who owns a paladar where we could go. It is intimate and quite romantic and the food is wonderful. He accepts American dollars; I have some to spend. I want to explain to you why I left so suddenly, but I would rather do it over a glass of wine. I am afraid I may become emotional, talking about it.”

  “A paladar? You and me?” he said, afraid he’d misheard her. “You mean on a date?”

  He stiffened, waited for her to laugh at the word that had escaped his lips, for the hot wave of shame to pass through him when she did. A ridiculous idea. Romantic? He must have misunderstood her.

  “Yes,” she said, smiling. “Just the two of us, Hector. That’s exactly what I had in mind.”

  “But you were my patient,” he protested, hardly able to believe what she was saying. That she was attracted to him, too. “There are rules.”

  “I was your patient almost nine years ago. I think the ethical issues are behind us now, don’t you?”

  Apiro saw the warmth in her eyes. His face creased into a smile as he realized that whatever she’d fled all those years ago, it wasn’t him.

  “Maria, of course we can go out for dinner, a hundred of them, if that’s what you’d like. But you need to understand that I’ve never had a date with a woman before. I am not exactly sure what I’m supposed to do.”

  “I am sure you will figure it out,” she said, laughing. “As long as you understand that you won’t be my first.”

  “I would feel proud to be among the first hundred,” said Apiro, smiling.

  “You see, Hector? That was entirely the right answer, even if your numbers are a little low.”

  A moment later, Hector Apiro became the first man Maria Vasquez had ever kissed.

  FIFTY - NINE

  Mike Ellis wasn’t sure of the time, but he knew what was coming. His legs began to shake when he heard the footsteps in the corridor. The guards opened the heavy iron door. One watched him cautiously, his hand placed on his baton protectively.

  Ellis said goodbye to his cellmates. Victor Chavez wished him a happy capitalist New Year; Ernest Zedillo wished him a full stomach. They shook hands, then Ellis was led into the corridor.

  The guard wearing Ellis’s shoes took his leg shackles off and Ellis rubbed his swollen ankles. He followed the men down the hall, dragging his feet.

  He was going to die in a Cuban jail, he was sure of it. The other prisoners would find out what he was. He would never see trial. He was terrified but tried hard not to show it. Ellis had never expected to die in jail. He always considered suicide more likely.

  Detective Rodriguez Sanchez stood in the hallway, holding a pair of running shoes. “Your lawyer wanted you to have these. You’re free to leave.”

  “You’re letting me go?” Ellis didn’t believe it. He suspected a trick. Sanchez could shoot him in the back as he walked away and claim he had tried to escape.

  “Yes,” Sanchez confirmed. “As of this moment, you are not under arrest. Your lawyer will explain why. You will receive back all of your property.” Sanchez glanced at the guard and said something to him in Spanish. “Except your shoes. I understand you gave them away.”

  Sanchez handed Ellis his wallet and ring and the other items taken from his pockets.

  “Inspector Ramirez has your passport. He has asked that you stop by his office to retrieve it tomorrow. By the way, I put the money we found in your pants in your wallet, all of it. There will be no charges deducted by the Ministry of the Interior for your stay with us, at Inspector Ramirez’s request.”

  Ellis’s tailbone was sore, and he was stiff from days of sitting and sleeping on the hard cell floor. He was confused, trying to process the fact of his release. “That’s it? How will I get back to my hotel? Will someone take me there?”

  “Your hotel is within walking distance, but yes, we can find you a taxi if you wish.”

  “I’m really not under arrest anymore?”

  “No. A foreigner, a man named Nasim, killed the boy with the help of a doorman at your hotel. Miguel Artez. The doorman probably put the evidence in your room, although he denies it. Or let Nasim in to do so.”

  Ellis nodded, at once shocked and relieved.

  “It looks as if I was mistaken about you, Detective Ellis.” Sanchez shook Ellis’s hand. “I apologize, sincerely. It is quite an ordeal we put you through.” Ellis couldn’t help but notice that Sanchez had used his title for the first time.

  “Accepted,” said Ellis. “No real harm done. I needed new shoes anyway. I’m just glad you found the people responsible.”

  “You must be anxious to get back to Canada. It seems Havana has not been much of a holiday for you.”

  “I am. I have some things I need to attend to.”

  “You may want to leave Havana sooner than originally planned, then.” The implication was clear: before Detective Sanchez changed his mind.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” said Ellis.

  “Enjoy the rest of your vacation, Señor. But don’t stay too long.”

  Detective Sanchez left and the guards returned Ellis’s clothes. Ellis changed out of his prison overalls in a nearby bathroom. He put his watch back on. He held his wedding ring in the palm of his hand for a long time, but finally put it back on his ring finger. He slid his wallet into his back pocket and tied up his running shoes.

  He walked out of the police station. He expected someone to run after him, tell him it was a mistake, and slap handcuffs on him again.

  But it was as Sanchez had agreed: a taxi waited. It was just after 7:30 P.M. He opened the car door and got in, asked the driver to take him to his hotel. There, still bewildered at the turn of events, he paid the cab driver from the money in his wallet and walked up the sidewalk to the grand revolving doors of the Parque Ciudad Hotel.

  The concierge pushed the doors open for him. Miguel Artez, Ellis realized, was likely in jail.

  “Did you find your wallet, Señor Ellis? I haven’t seen you for a while.”

  “Yes,” Ellis acknowledged. He realized the concierge had no idea what had happened or where he’d been for the last three days. “Yes, I did get it back. Thanks.” There was no point in explaining.

  The first thing he did when he got to his hotel room was to call Hillary, but if she was at home, she wasn’t answering. Her parents’ number was unlisted and he couldn’t remember what it was, but he wasn’t sure they’d accept his call anyway. He called Celia Jones, but there was no answer there, either. He left a message on her voice mail to say he would try again later.

  Ellis ate in the hotel restaurant, his first decent meal in days. Ropa vieja, a kind of shredded steak. Black beans and yellow rice. He didn’t even order an alcoholic drink, just water. He realized he’d made it through two whole days without a single panic attack.

  When he got back to his room, he tried to call Jones, but once again there was no answer. That night, with a real mattress beneath him, he slept like the proverbial lamb.

  Mike Ellis was still dead to the world on Friday morning when the phone rang. It was Jones.

  “I’m sorry for not calling you back before now, Mike. I had to report to O’Malley last night. And catch up with my husband.” She quickly went over the details of Miguel Artez’s arrest. “You must be thrilled to be out of that jail.”

  “You can’t imagine how good it feels. I plan to wander around Old Havana today and enjoy myself for the first time in months. Maybe longer.”

  “I’
m going to take a tour bus to Viñales myself,” Jones said. “It’s leaving in half an hour. I want to see the countryside and visit the people I dealt with at that veterinary clinic. The clinic manager just called me and confirmed what we suspected. They’ve been losing Rohypnol from their deliveries for years. I’m going to call Inspector Ramirez’s office when I get off the phone with you and let him know what I found out. I’d like to do some fundraising for the clinic when I get back home. That woman went well out of her way to help us.”

  “I’m sure they’ll appreciate it. Count on me for a big donation. When do you leave for Canada?”

  “Tomorrow. I really want to be home for New Year’s Eve. Plus, I have to prepare a lengthy report to O’Malley about this whole experience. And figure out my expenses. Just trying to explain them to Accounting will be a challenge, given these two blasted currencies and the fact that I don’t have proper receipts for anything.”

  “You are from Ottawa, aren’t you?” Ellis said. Ottawa was one of the most bureaucratic cities in the world. Or at least he’d thought so, until he came to Cuba.

  “I guess I am,” she laughed, but he could tell she had already moved on, was already thinking about something else.

  “Thanks again, Celia, for all your help. I mean that. If you hadn’t come to Cuba, I’d still be in custody, maybe even dead. I feel like I owe you my life.”

  Ellis was changed by the events that had taken place. He had been given a second chance at a new life and he wasn’t about to lose it.

  “Let’s not do that whole Chinese thing where I’m responsible for the rest of your life now, too, okay?” she said, laughing. “When are you going home?”

  “Tomorrow too, I think, if I can change my flight. I have some things to work out with my wife. About the divorce. It’s time I faced up to some things.”

  “Well, I hope it all works out the way you want it to. Listen, if I don’t see you before you leave Cuba, the best of luck. And Happy New Year.”

  “You, too. But I’ll see you at work.”

  “Of course,” she quickly agreed. But he noticed that she said “goodbye” when she hung up, as if she wasn’t sure. As if she feared that she might not.

  SIXTY

  Inspector Ramirez was at an autopsy, the switchboard informed Celia Jones. The inspector would be tied up for hours. Jones left a message and asked if Detective Sanchez was in. The operator put her through, and he picked up the phone.

  “Nasim Rubinder committed suicide yesterday,” Sanchez told her. “He never showed up at the Campanario address, although we kept it under surveillance. Artez told us he was registered in a room in the Plaza Martí Hotel under the name Daljit Pradesh. We went there to interview him, but there was no answer at his door. We found him lying on the floor inside. An overdose of Rohypnol, it appears. Dr. Apiro says he died sometime in the afternoon. We matched his fingerprints through Interpol. He was wanted in England on over a dozen rape and child pornography charges from 2005.”

  Rubinder had owned a modelling business in London, Sanchez explained, but his models were teenage girls. He used date-rape drugs on at least fourteen of them that the British authorities knew of. He made pornographic tapes of himself having sex with them, then posted these on the internet. Following an international sting operation, he and a number of others in the child pornography ring were arrested. He was released from custody on a high cash bail but managed to flee the country.

  “Where he went after that is not clear,” Sanchez said. “He arrived in Cuba only two weeks ago. We have informed the British authorities. Needless to say, they are quite happy: his death closes a number of files. And soon our own file can be closed on the death of Arturo Montenegro, once we tidy up some loose ends.”

  “You must be very pleased, Detective Sanchez.”

  “That Nasim Rubinder killed himself, instead of being killed by the state? Less paperwork, certainly. But I think Inspector Ramirez would have liked to see him stand trial. I am happy, however, that we finally found the right man.”

  “What will happen to Miguel Artez?”

  “I have arrested him for illegal use of the internet, allowing Cuban nationals into a state-run hotel, procuring, and child pornography. Those are very serious charges. Others will follow as our investigation proceeds. We are still looking for the car that transported the child’s body to the Malecón. Miguel Artez’s cousin has also been questioned, but so far she appears to be unconnected. At the moment, it looks like the boy’s death involved just those two men, Rubinder and Artez. Artez denies it, of course. But the prosecutors will file their indictment against him on Saturday. Unfortunately for them, but good for us, Saturday is a working day in Cuba for the prosecutors as well.”

  “Your charges sound pretty solid to me.”

  “I am sure Artez will be convicted,” Sanchez agreed. “As long as he has no Canadian lawyer helping him.” Jones wasn’t sure if he was complimenting her or not.

  “Now, can I help you with something, Señora? Is there a reason you wanted to speak to Inspector Ramirez?”

  “Perhaps you can let him know I received a call from the Viñales veterinary clinic earlier this morning. The manager says there have been thefts of Rohypnol going back several years. I’m going to take a bus tour to Viñales today, to pick up the manifests for the deliveries.”

  The clinic had no working fax machine, but Teresa Diaz, the office manager, had promised to make Jones copies, provided their copier had enough toner.

  “There is no need for you to travel to Viñales, Señora. We can follow up on that information ourselves. But we appreciate your efforts. Truly. A very bad man is dead; another is in police custody. There is time, now, for us to write up our reports. No urgency at all.”

  “I’ve already paid for the ticket,” she said. “I’ll be leaving in about a half-hour. I’m looking forward to it. It’s my day to be a tourist. I really would like to meet these people at the clinic, too, you know — they’ve been lovely to me. I want to see if I can do something to help them when I get back to Canada. At the very least, I’ll take them some soap from the hotel. But thank you for everything. I’ll make sure I drop the copies off at your office before I leave for the airport tomorrow morning. And thank you for letting me know about Nasim and the charges. I’m so glad Mike is out of jail. I can’t imagine what would have happened to him if he’d been transferred to a prison.”

  “Señor Ellis was lucky, Señora. Because believe me, I can.”

  SIXTY - ONE

  Inspector Ramirez wanted to see Nasim Rubinder’s autopsy with his own eyes. The file was technically closed. Even so, Ramirez wanted to make sure the man was actually dead, see it for himself.

  He was still shaken by the images Sanchez had found hidden in Rubinder’s hotel room. There were five CDs concealed under the mattress, thousands of images of prepubescent girls being assaulted, most in their early teens.

  Ramirez thought of his own young daughter and shook his head in disgust. He would feel more comfortable, for a change, once he saw Hector Apiro actually slice the brain from this monster as well as his other organs. He wanted no chance of Rubinder’s return in any form.

  Once again, the dead man followed him patiently, but only as far as the door. Ramirez had made no progress on the man’s death, given the events of the week. He still had no idea of his identity.

  Ramirez entered the small morgue, hung up his jacket, and put on a white lab coat. As always, autopsies made him feel uneasy. He coughed lightly to keep his stomach contents down. The room was warm. He ran his finger around his collar to loosen it.

  By contrast, the surgeon seemed completely comfortable in the heat. In fact, he looked happier than Ramirez had seen him for some time. He was humming as he worked. Ramirez tried to put his finger on it. The pathologist seemed taller somehow.

  The first thing Inspector Ramirez noticed about the body stretched out on the metal gurney was the coarse dark fur that covered the man’s chest, arms, and legs. Rubinde
r had been a very hairy man.

  “You know, Hector,” Ramirez said, as he pulled up a stool, “I am almost sorry Rubinder killed himself. He would have had an unpleasant time in custody once we arrested him. A quick death was in many ways too good for him. I can say that out loud, now that I am no longer required to be dispassionate about the evidence.”

  “I would not give up your professional objectivity quite yet, my friend,” Apiro cautioned. He lit a pipe and drew on it. The smell in the morgue was notably worse, the refrigeration unit still out of order.

  Ramirez walked back to his jacket and pulled out his cigar. “And why is that, my friend?”

  “Like you,” the doctor said, reaching for his stepladder, “I do not care much for loose ends. But loose hairs are important. That was something that bothered me, once I saw this man’s body. As you can see, he had a lot of hair. He should have shed everywhere. But the one thing we did not find in Señor Ellis’s room, or on the boy’s body, were any hairs matching his. I would have expected some hair to be transferred to the boy or his clothing in the course of an attack. So I took the liberty of checking Nasim Rubinder’s blood type against the semen samples we had taken.”

  “And?”

  “Rubinder was Type B.”

  “But the semen samples we took from the boy and those sheets were Type A, were they not?”

  “Exactly. There is no match. And Miguel Artez is Type AB. I confirmed that from blood samples on the shirt he was wearing at the time of his arrest. Apparently, he had a bloody nose when he was brought in. Some kind of street justice?”

  “There was some of that, yes. The woman who hit him had quite a right hook,” said Ramirez. “So that rules out Miguel Artez as well?”

  “I’m afraid so. Someone else raped the child.”

  “Dios mio, I have run out of suspects,” Ramirez exclaimed. If it wasn’t Ellis, or Rubinder or Artez, then who was it?

  “Perhaps the maids did it after all,” Apiro said, chuckling.