by Garry Ryan
“Citizenship?” the officer in charge asked.
“Canadian. Your name, por favor?” Lane watched the other woman scribble her notes.
“Deylis Sanchez. A woman is missing. What is your occupation?”
Lane said, “Homicide detective with the Calgary Police Service.”
The other officer stopped writing and looked at Deylis, who studied Lane for at least thirty seconds. “What can you tell us about the missing woman?”
“The woman with the chestnut hair who sat in front of us on the bus? She was about thirty-five. She wore a red dress and her hair was held at the back with a clip.” He mimed placing a spring-loaded clip at the back of his head.
“Clip?” Deylis looked puzzled.
“A plastic clip with teeth to hold her hair at the back.” He mimed again.
Deylis nodded and waited.
Lane did the same. Don’t piss her off. Wait for her lead. You’re in Cuba. You don’t know the rules here. Besides, you’re on her turf.
“You did notice her then?”
Lane nodded. “She sat in front of me on the bus and complained.”
“What did she complain about?” Deylis crossed one leg over the other, leaned back and studied him again.
“Having to tip the attendant at the washroom where we stopped about midway between Havana and Varadero. The food, the heat, the road, the socialist government of Cuba . . .”
“You did not like this woman?” Deylis leaned forward.
You walked right into that one. “No, I did not. She was rude, loud, arrogant and she treated other people — especially Cubans — with contempt.”
“She was from the same city as you.”
“That is correct.” Lane waited.
“Did you know her from before?”
Lane shook his head.
Deylis glanced at the door. “What did you notice about her husband?”
“The man in the black ball cap?”
“Yes.” Deylis glanced at Adelsie, who continued to write without lifting her head.
“When the tour guide asked who was missing, he remained silent. His wife treated him with disrespect from the beginning of the tour until the end.”
“What do you mean by the end?”
“The last time I remember seeing her was when the construction machine passed us.”
Deylis leaned forward. “Describe this machine.”
“It was like a small dump truck with four wheels and a driver at the back.”
Deylis nodded. “Anything else?”
“They were angry with one another.”
“About what?”
Lane shook his head. “I’m not sure. All I know is that there was tension between them.”
Deylis nodded and looked at the door. Her phone rang. She took it from the pouch on her belt, looked at the number, pressed a button and held the phone to her ear. There were rapid words in Spanish. Lane saw Adelsie raise her head. Deylis said, “Gracias,” then pressed a button and replaced the phone in its holster.
Lane waited for Deylis.
“Which hotel are you staying at?” Deylis stood up.
“Iberostar. Playa Alemeda.”
“Room number?”
“One four one nine.”
Deylis reached into her breast pocket and handed Lane a card. “If you think of anything else, I would like you to call this number and ask for me.” She pointed at him. “I want the phone number and name of your superior to verify your identity.”
Lane gave her the name and number, took the card and nodded.
“You may go.” She pointed at a door to the right. As Lane opened the door she said, “You and all of the other passengers may not be allowed to leave Cuba until this situation is resolved. You will be asked to relinquish your passports.”
Lane turned to say something, thought better of it and left.
Matt and Christine were waiting in the Iberostar’s octagonal lobby with its eight pillars when the tour bus dropped Lane, Arthur, Jamey and his parents off.
“It’s three in the morning. Where have you been?” Christine got up from the red couch and walked toward them.
Lane smiled.
Matt caught up to his cousin. “What’s so funny? No one would tell us where you were.”
“The staff won’t say a word. It’s like they’ve all been told to keep quiet,” Christine said.
“Where are Indy and Dan?” Arthur asked.
“Asleep.” Christine tucked her arm inside Lane’s elbow. “Do you know what’s going on?”
“A woman on our tour went missing.” He began to walk toward the back of the lobby. “We need to get some sleep.”
“Did they find her?” Matt asked.
“Is she okay?” Christine asked.
“She’s dead,” Arthur said.
Lane looked at Arthur, who winked and shrugged. “Doesn’t take a detective to figure out that they wouldn’t go to all of this trouble over a person who was missing for less than twelve hours.”
TUESDAY, JUNE 18
chapter 4
Lane walked the relatively solid sand. He tried to follow the constantly shifting edge where the ocean and beach met and the sand was firm under the feet. When he looked left, the ocean went from light green to more emerald deep-water shades. On the beach, people sunbathed and drank rum in a variety of flavoured combinations. A few smoked cigars. Lane caught a whiff of smoke. It carried a memory: his father smoking in the car in winter despite the chorus of complaints from his children in the back seat.
Lane wore a white shirt and black shorts. He carried his sandals in his right hand. Out in the ocean, wind riders cut the waves on solo boards as they manoeuvred their kites in the stiff wind, transforming them into hybrid creatures. Equal parts wind, water and flesh skipping, carving and flying the waves.
He walked and deliberated. Christine’s wedding, the disappearance of the woman from the bus and the man he had killed all washed in and out of his consciousness. The waves ran up his calves as he tried to make sense of the undercurrents of thoughts swimming at and under the surface.
Christine wants Arthur and me to walk her down the aisle. Indiana will be the ring bearer. Matt is Daniel’s best man. Lola wants to control the event and is driving the staff crazy as she nitpicks over the details. Having Daniel change his last name will certainly cause some kind of negative reaction from Lola. I wonder how her husband John became so whipped?
Then a flashback of shooting Professor Pierce.
The woman with the chestnut hair is almost certainly dead. I’m sure that’s what Deylis was told over the phone last night. Right now it looks like the husband killed her. The look on his face. What she said to him. The man with the black hair she was flirting with. A beautiful and unfaithful woman. A jealous husband. Such a cliché. And so often a recipe for violence.
Another flashback of a one-eyed Dr. Pierce hit like a wave. The muzzle flash from the professor’s weapon. The recoil of Lane’s Glock. The smell of burnt gun oil. The rasp of Pierce’s breathing. The empty look in his remaining eye as his blood drained out at the feet of the boy he had been about to kill.
Lane felt the wind tugging at his clothing. The taste of the sea on his tongue. A wave ran frothy white up the beach and splashed up his ankles. Walking usually brings some clarity. A hand touched his shoulder. Lane turned and saw anguish on Daniel’s face. “What’s happened?”
“Christine went to talk with my mother and work things out. They argued. My mother wants the money back for the wedding.”
“Walk with me.” Lane took Dan’s elbow and they walked into the wind. Lane waited until they found a rhythm and after that some clarity of thought.
“What do I do?” Daniel stumbled as a wave rolled far up the beach and pushed at their knees.
“First you let everyone cool down. You and Christine go to Varadero or the Dolphinario. Take Matt with you if you like.” He reached into his shirt pocket and handed Dan four twenties. “Arthur and I will w
atch Indiana. Wait for your mother to come to you. The wedding is two days from now. Lola organized it.” He looked sideways at Daniel, gauging how much more or little to say.
“And?”
“She will want to see it happen.”
“What about paying for it? My mother is known for being ruthless with money. Especially when she doesn’t get what she wants.”
“First off, I’m pretty sure the entire event is prepaid. So it may be an empty threat.” Lane reached into his other shirt pocket and pulled out a gold plastic card. “If not, this is exactly the kind of situation credit cards are for.”
Daniel shook his head. “Christine said you would be calm and you’d have a plan.”
Lane smiled. This is not life or death. This is a problem that can be fixed. “If you and I can keep our cool, things will have a better chance of working themselves out.”
Daniel turned to go back. Lane took him by the arm. “Let’s walk a bit further. Christine needs some time to cool off. You and I need to walk a bit longer to clear our minds.”
They walked fifty metres. A man in a navy-blue Speedo approached. He was over six feet tall with broad shoulders and the beginnings of a tan. As he got closer, they could see that his bathing suit was so low cut in the front that pubic hairs curled out and over the front. He passed.
Dan looked at Lane.
I wonder what he’ll say, Lane thought.
Twenty metres later, Dan asked, “I gotta know. Is that why women first painted on the walls of caves?”
Lane smiled. “Just wait. When you think you’ve seen something really strange, something at least as weird will happen on the beach.”
After walking for at least half a kilometre, they turned and headed back to the resort. They walked up through a gap in the trees, along a wooden sidewalk and onto a concrete pathway leading to a white column. It had running water and they washed their feet. Dan tapped Lane on the shoulder and pointed. “What’s that?”
Lane turned and saw three side-by-side green concrete portals. The structure sat about half a metre above ground. “I’m not sure.”
They walked toward their building. As they approached they saw another flat-topped concrete structure with portals like the last. Lane said, “I think it’s a machine gun emplacement.” He pointed. “It’s aimed at the beach. A waterborne invasion force would be greeted by machine-gun fire.”
Dan frowned and looked up at the second-floor balcony where Christine and Indiana waited. “Weird. Our wedding ceremony will take place by a concrete gun emplacement.” He pointed at the wooden platform where the event was scheduled to take place. “Kind of apropos, wouldn’t you say?”
Lane nodded and smiled. “You’ve got your perspective back.”
Arthur and Indiana napped. Lane listened to Norah Jones on his iPad and sat outside on the patio as he tried to read Prodigal Summer by Barbara Kingsolver. He looked up from the novel and watched as the wind blew at the tops of the coconut trees.
A woman in dark slacks and grey shirt walked on the sidewalk on the other side of the bougainvilleas in front of his room. Lane sat up.
Deylis Sanchez appeared around this side of the bougainvilleas. “Mr. Lane.”
Lane removed the headphones, turned off the music and set down his iPad. “Detective.” Lane saw a slight smile cross her lips.
“Have you remembered any other details about the missing woman?”
He opened his left hand to tell her she could sit, and she did. “Would you like a coffee?”
“A glass of water?” She crossed her right leg over her left knee.
Lane got up, opened the sliding glass door carefully, went into the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. Arthur snored while Indy lay flat on his back in the other bed. Lane backed out of the room. He handed the water to Deylis, who nodded. “Gracias.” She twisted off the cap and began to drink.
Lane said, “How was she murdered?”
Deylis choked. Lane patted her on the back. She caught her breath and took another sip. “How did you know?”
“You are going to way too much trouble for a person who might have gotten lost and missed the bus.”
“A missing tourist would mean a cold for our economy. A murdered tourist could mean pneumonia. Our country is just getting back on its feet again. There is concern about the way this woman died and what it will do to Cuba’s reputation as a safe place for tourists.” Deylis put the cap on her water bottle, then set it on the coffee table.
“I’ve been thinking about the case and what I saw and heard. They sat in front of us on the bus all of the way to Havana. The husband and wife were angry with one another. She made him look small in front of another man who was her age and had thick black hair. He was not from this resort. I’ve been trying to remember where he got on the bus and am having no luck. The last time I saw the husband and wife together was near the face on the wall with the open mouth — the mailbox.”
“Buzon,” Deylis said.
Lane looked at her with a frown.
“The face with the open mouth for mailing letters. It’s called Buzon.”
Lane nodded. “It was also at the time when a construction vehicle came down the street.”
“The moto volqueta?”
Lane asked, “The noisy orange bucket on four wheels with the driver riding behind?”
“That’s correct.”
“I’ve thought about what happened. That was the time and place where I last saw the woman.”
“Did you have a camera?”
Lane got up, went inside the room and returned with a small camera. He turned it on and handed it to her.
She scrolled through the pictures. “They are very small.” She held up the camera. “Can I take this and return it to you?”
Lane nodded.
“My — how you say?” She thought for a moment, searching for the right word. Her eyes opened and she smiled. “My boss called your boss.”
“Simpson?”
“Yes, that is the name. Your boss said that in your city you are a very good hunter for killers. That you would be a good help to this investigation.”
Hold on! He looked over his shoulder to see if Arthur was there. “My niece is getting married in two days.”
“I know this. I need you to come to Havana with me right now.”
“This is my holiday.” Lane looked at Deylis’s eyes and recognized what he saw. She’s on the hunt. You cannot underestimate this one. She’s done her homework and already knows I will go with her. “I’ll have to talk with Arthur first.”
“We know this as well. Your boss made my boss give his word that you would be protected. Cuban law is a little . . . .”
Lane waited and felt that hidden anxiety rising up from a place he had almost forgotten.
“Old-fashioned.”
Lane waited.
“You have my word and the word of my boss that you and your Arthur, all of your family, will be protected. From this antiquated law and from the killer.”
Lane inhaled, dropped his chin and shook his head. “Shit.”
“It is a curse you and I must face up to. I see it in your eyes as well. We are hunters. We cannot escape this fact.”
Lane lifted his head and smiled. “You’re right about it being a curse.”
“You’ve got be fucking joking.” Arthur’s raspy comment kept playing over in Lane’s mind. I should have gone to the bathroom before I left.
Deylis turned in the front seat of the car to face him. “You are worried about your Arthur?”
Lane nodded. He saw the driver glance at him in the rear-view mirror. It’s pretty clear that Deylis does not trust him. She has said almost nothing in the last two hours. Lane saw the now-familiar outline of the fort looking down onto Havana Harbour. Deylis turned to the driver, pointed to her right and said something in Spanish. The driver shoulder checked, changed lanes, braked and stopped at the side of the road. Deylis opened her door, got out and opened Lane’s door. He squeezed out
of the back seat of the tiny four-door Gilly, a car he’d never seen in Canada. That would have been uncomfortable even when I was ten. He stood up in the humid heat of the afternoon and inhaled the often-overpowering aromas of the city.
“Hector will wait in the car.” Deylis led Lane down a narrow cobblestone street. He hurried to catch up. At this time in the afternoon there were fewer tourists and Lane saw the city more as a resident might see it. Deylis skirted the edge of a courtyard with its yellow, blue and green painted shops and apartments. Lane saw the pigeons had left because the tourists were no longer there. Deylis went down another street. Even the sound of the construction was silenced. A long-legged, white-haired man in tan dress slacks and a tan sports jacket sat in a chair just outside a doorway. His legs stretched out into the street. He nodded as they passed, and puffed on a cigar.
Deylis stopped in front of the open mouth of the gargoyle that no longer accepted letters. She pointed down the street. “This is where you saw the moto volqueta?”
Lane looked at the street and the black 1955 Buick parked at one end. He crossed to the sidewalk where he had been standing. “There was a woman. A beautiful young woman dressed in white. Her skin was about as dark as yours. Every eye in this street was on her as she walked along that sidewalk.” He pointed at the sidewalk on the other side of the street. “The moto volqueta was over there. People were forced to either sidewalk so it could pass. It was so loud that it was impossible to hear anything else. The man and his wife were the last in our tour group.”
Deylis nodded. “That’s very similar to what the driver of the moto volqueta said. He has already been arrested. I don’t think he is the killer.” She turned and looked back the way they had come.
“I need to find a bathroom.”
Deylis frowned.
“Baño, por favor.” I hope that works because it’s about all the Spanish I know.
“Of course.” She swung one hundred eighty degrees, leading the way down the street. Lane followed.
They reached an intersection. She looked left, then took a right. Lane followed. Deylis, for Christ’s sake, slow down! This isn’t an Olympic event!
