by Garry Ryan
She walked through the swinging chrome doors of a bar. Lane’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness. A couple sat on stools in the corner. They watched both Lane and Deylis with suspicion. Lane saw the washroom door and went inside. He closed the door and stood facing a toilet without a seat. Next to the toilet was a can containing blood-stained sanitary napkins. He leaned over the toilet and when he was done washed his hands. He walked out only to be confronted by the bartender, who was arguing with Deylis. He pointed at Lane and said, “Peso!”
Lane saw Deylis’s spine straighten with anger. He touched her shoulder, reached into the pocket of his shorts, pulled out a peso, put it on the bar and led the way out.
“I’m trying to solve a murder and that pinche pendejo is worried about his peso! What will happen to his business if the tourists stop coming?” Deylis was walking even faster than before.
“Hey!” Lane stopped in the middle of the street. I hope I don’t get run over. No one stops for pedestrians in this country.
Deylis turned. Her face was red with anger. “A man has been arrested. I believe he is not guilty. There is limited time.”
“I can think more clearly if we can walk a little slower.” He held up his thumb and forefinger with about two millimetres in between.
She threw her hands in the air. “Come this way.” She walked, stopped, waited for him to catch up, then tucked her left arm inside his right elbow. “We will walk together.” She turned down one street, then another. The dome of a cathedral appeared in front of them. It was at least two kilometres away. I have absolutely no idea where we are. The streets got grimier, more congested. The stink of diesel and gasoline exhaust intensified. Deylis ducked into a shop, set down a bill, took two newspapers and waited for her change. The shopkeeper was missing one front tooth at the top and another two at the bottom. He handed her five coins, smiled and lisped, “Gracias, amiga.”
Deylis went back into the street with the newspapers tucked under her arm. She led them back until they found a park with a stylized cubist mural painted on the side of a building. The colours were red, green, yellow and an intense blue. She sat down on a bench, opened the front of the tabloid and pointed at the headline. “The man who was arrested was driving the moto volqueta. He has four children. He says he is innocent. The woman was discovered unconscious in the bottom of the bucket of his machine. She was taken to the hospital and died after two hours. She had a head injury. The autopsy is not yet complete. The papers are saying this man —” she pointed at the face of the accused “— Omar, is innocent. People are saying that he has been arrested so the government will not be embarrassed. The government is worried about tourism dollars. My boss is getting pressure to solve the case quickly. People are afraid that what happened to tourism in Mexico will happen to Cuba. That the tourists will stop coming and the economy will suffer again. Most people think the tourist killed his wife and that Omar will pay the price.”
She pointed at the buildings across the street. One had a fresh coat of yellow paint and stood proud after being restored. Its neighbour was grey and had water stains running down its stone. It was windowless and the cornices at its top were crumbling. Lane could see supporting timbers through the windows. The sun shone through what should have been a roof. “First there was the revolution, then the embargo, then the Soviet Union collapsed. It is our fear that hard economic times will come again and cripple Cuba just when we are getting back on our feet.”
Lane tapped her on the shoulder. “Shouldn’t we take a look at those photos?”
“Of course!” She slapped her hands on her thighs, stood up and walked down the street. Lane rushed to follow.
An hour later, they sat in front of a computer and looked though the downloaded photos from Arthur’s camera. Deylis scrolled through the images until she was able to find the street with the open-mouthed gargoyle. One of Arthur’s photos showed the street, the moto volqueta approaching with its orange bucket, the woman in the white clothing walking down the far side. Lane pointed at the screen. “There they are.” The husband in the black ball cap stood next to his wife. The moto volqueta was in the middle of the street and the woman was leaning away from it. “What does the next picture show?”
Deylis clicked the mouse. The next image showed the street performers on stilts. They looked toward the camera with their painted faces. She went through the rest of the photos. “I would like to keep copies of these.”
Lane nodded, she clicked the mouse and then leaned back to wait. I’m missing something.
Deylis said, “I believe the husband lied. He told me that he had no idea what happened to his wife. The driver of the moto volqueta is recognizable in the photo. The husband is recognizable and so is the wife.”
“But you will need more evidence to clear the driver.”
Deylis nodded. “Yes, I will need more.”
“What is the husband’s name?”
“Brett Mara.”
“And the wife?”
“Camille Mara.”
“Both from Calgary?”
“Yes. Calgary, Canada.”
Lane got out of the passenger seat of the Gilly and waited for the white subcompact to drive out the front gate. Hector had said three words during the two hours it took to drive Lane back to his hotel. It was a half hour after sunset and he headed for the bar, where he ordered a mojito and waited at a table by himself. He looked at his watch. I wonder what happened here today? He took ten minutes to finish the minty drink and watched as other tourists passed by the door. A man with a mustache and green-and-white striped shorts came in, stepped up to the bar and said, “Beer!”
The bartender looked at the man then turned, opened the fridge door and pulled out a can of beer. “Glass?”
“No.” The man took the can of beer and left.
Lane studied the bartender and the blank expression on her face. He finished his drink, got up, set the empty glass on the bar and said, “Thank you.” The bartender smiled at him. Lane walked outside into the tropical night and headed for his room. When he reached the door, he swiped the lock with his key card and went inside. The bed was made and the room empty. He found a note near the TV. “Gone to supper.”
He looked for them at the buffet, saw that swordfish was on the grill and plenty of fresh bread and vegetables were nearby. I’m starved. He grabbed a plate, got into line at the grill, then found a table near the window. The peace of the meal went uninterrupted for three minutes.
“You were supposed to meet us for supper!”
Lane looked up as he savoured a morsel of swordfish. Christine stood next to him. Indiana was on her hip with one hand clutching her pink-and-white-striped sleeve. Lane smiled.
“We left you a note.”
Adriana the waitress walked up with a pitcher of water. “Hola, baby!” She filled Lane’s water glass, shook hands with Indy and left.
Lane waited.
“We came here for my wedding. My wedding.” Christine pointed at her chest with her free hand. Indiana got his free hand into her black hair and pulled. She disentangled his hand and held it.
“Please sit down.” Lane waited while she considered the invitation.
She took a deep breath and sighed. “Okay, explain.”
“A woman was killed. The wrong person may be accused. There are political and economic implications.” He cut off another piece of swordfish and put it in his mouth, avoiding the temptation to close his eyes and enjoy the gentle flavours of meat, garlic and butter.
“And Cuba doesn’t have any police to solve this crime?” Indiana began to squirm; she sat him on her lap. He stuck his fist in his mouth. Drool began to wet the front of his shirt.
Lane shrugged and chewed. This fish is fabulous.
“I want my family to be there. I need you to tell me that you will be there.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Indy looked up at his mother, pulled hi
s fist from his mouth and studied the long string of drool running from fingers to gums. Christine stuck her finger in his mouth, “Have you got any teeth yet?”
Indy clamped down on her finger.
“Ouch!” She cringed and pulled her finger out of his mouth. “You!” Then she started to laugh.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 19
chapter 5
Lane and Arthur walked side by side along the beach. The breeze made their shirts flap, and the spray from the ocean tasted salty on the lips.
Two joggers splashed up alongside on the right. Both women wore bikinis. As they passed Lane saw they were both wearing thongs. Their glutes went concave, then convex as they planted and lifted each foot. Lane looked left and saw some male admirers smiling as the two women continued down the beach.
“Are those what are called badonkadonks?” Arthur asked.
“Or are they called booties?”
“We’re really out of touch. If we ask the kids, they’ll probably laugh. When did we get old?”
Lane shrugged. “It must have happened all of a sudden.”
Arthur frowned. “I still wonder why we turned out the way we did.”
“Why some people find that attractive, yet you and I are simply puzzled because it’s kind of grotesque?” Lane shook his head.
“Actually, I was wondering about the little switch in the brain that makes one thing attractive and another distasteful.”
A wave ran up the beach and splashed their calves. “At least we can agree that the water is warm.”
“Yes, there is that.”
A black-haired woman ran to the water. She stood over six feet, weighed close to two hundred pounds, had a muscular physique and wore a neon-pink bikini. Another wave rolled in and ran up to her knees. She squealed. “It’s so cold!” She danced back out of the water to reveal pink toenails.
“Or maybe we can’t agree about the water.” Arthur nodded up the beach. “Your friend is looking for you.”
Lane looked and spotted Deylis, who held one hand shading her eyes. She waved with her free hand.
Arthur grabbed Lane’s elbow. “The wedding is tomorrow. You will be at Christine’s wedding. You will notice that was not a question.” He walked up the beach alongside Lane.
When they reached Deylis, Arthur held out his hand. “Arthur.”
“Deylis Sanchez. A pleasure.” She shook his hand, then pulled him close to kiss his cheek. “Your niece is getting married tomorrow at five. Correct?”
Arthur nodded and looked sideways at Lane. “How did you know?”
“It is my business to know.” She leaned her head to one side. “My boss promised his boss that your Lane would be at the wedding. And I am promising you that he will be there.”
Arthur smiled. “I will hold both of you to that.”
Deylis turned to Lane. “You will come with me to Matanzas?”
Deylis sat in the passenger seat again as Hector drove the four-lane highway into Matanzas. They could see across the harbour where tankers docked next to the massive fuel storage tanks. Deylis turned to face Lane and asked, “Did you know that this city is named after a massacre?”
Lane looked at the deeper water in the middle of the harbour. “No, I didn’t.”
“In the early sixteenth century, the local Indians offered to help Spaniards who were stranded on the far side of the bay. The Indians were aware of the Spaniards’ brutality by then, so they loaded about thirty into their canoes, then tipped them over in the middle of the bay where it is very deep.” She pointed at the dark green water in the middle. “The men were wearing armour and sank. But two of the women survived.” Deylis pointed left and Hector turned.
They arrived in the town square of Matanzas, where pink and fuchsia blossoms adorned the top of a trellis. “Brett Mara left his resort and was spotted here in the city. I want you to listen while I question him. Apparently he is here with another woman. We believe she is Cuban.” She pointed at a road leading from the square. “There is an apartment above that building. Will you follow us up the stairs and then join us when we question him? My English is good, but not as good as yours. I need your impressions of the story he tells us.” Hector parked the car and they got out. Deylis looked at Lane. “I need to understand his nuances. Is that the right word?”
“It is.” Lane nodded as he leaned back and pressed his hands at the base of his spine.
They walked along the street. Lane looked left at a white building with stained glass and the word FRANCESA set in the middle of one pane. A red motorcycle with a sidecar pumped out black smoke as it rattled past. A heavy green Russian truck followed. More black smoke. Lane turned away from the cloud of diesel exhaust. Hector turned right into a doorway and went up a steep set of stairs. Deylis followed him and drew her handgun. Lane followed as they topped the stairs and went down a hallway. Hector had his gun in his right hand and pounded the door with his left. “Policia!”
They were greeted by silence. Hector tried three more times. He waited while Deylis knocked on a door across the hallway. A white-haired woman answered and a conversation in Spanish followed. The old woman closed her door. Deylis looked at Lane. “They left early this morning.” She walked down the hallway and knocked on another door. A one-legged man on crutches gave her a key, and she handed it to Hector, who opened the door. The room had no curtains on the windows. The double bed was unmade and the wardrobe door hung open to reveal it was empty.
Lane went down the hall, down the stairs, back out onto the street, and headed for the square where he sat on a bench and waited. There is something I need to remember. He watched a tour bus arrive and about fifteen people came out of the building with the stained-glass windows. They followed a tour guide with long dark hair tied in a ponytail. She wore a white blouse and blue pants. She crossed the street with her gaggle behind. As they reached the sidewalk next to the park, a man with a camera bag, a yellow T-shirt and khaki shorts tapped the woman on the shoulder. “Oda?”
She turned and waited for the last of her tour to step on the sidewalk, then said, “Yes.”
“You said something about Dr. Triolet’s first wife? I missed it. She died unexpectedly when she was twenty and he was over fifty. He said she died of pneumonia, but you said that she didn’t. Two months later, he married her sister.”
Oda looked at the man who was a foot taller and twice her weight.
“Are you saying he killed her?”
She lowered her chin and lifted her eyebrows. “What do you think?”
Lane saw the man holding his camera and its long lens. Lane’s eyes opened wide. “Shit.” He turned to his right and saw Deylis walking toward him. She looked disappointed. He waved at her. “Come on!”
Deylis held her hands out as she crossed the street and gave him a quizzical look.
“Hurry!” Lane walked toward the car.
“Did you see Mara?”
He reached for the back door of the car. “No! I just remembered a kid and a camera.” He climbed in the back seat.
Deylis opened her door. “I don’t understand.”
“There was a kid on the Havana tour. He had a telephoto lens and he was shooting pictures nonstop. He’s staying at my resort. We need to look at his pictures.” Lane reached for his seat belt. “Let’s go! Get on your phone and tell them we need to talk with a ten-year-old boy. He’s from Toronto. His name is Jamey.” I hope he hasn’t left.
It took three calls and twenty minutes before Deylis was able to track down Jamey from Toronto. “He and his family took a tour to the Dolphinario and they leave tomorrow. We are close to where they are supposed to be.” She said a few words in Spanish to Hector. Lane understood only one.
It took ten more minutes to arrive at the Dolphinario. Then there was an argument at the ticket wicket. Lane gathered that the woman behind the window thought Lane should pay before they were allowed inside. He pulled out fifteen pesos. The dispute ended. Lane followed Deylis past the souvenir shops and toward the sta
nds set up on one side of an inlet. On the far side, dense foliage reached to the water’s edge. Music blared from an ancient, overworked sound system. A pair of dolphins raced across the hundred-metre-wide enclosure. Their speed made the crowd gasp. Deylis took a right, went down the back of the stands and headed for the far end. Lane saw a pair of men exchanging money. They ducked around the end of a small building when one spotted her uniform.
Deylis stopped at the end of the stands and waved Lane ahead. He walked down a narrow concrete sidewalk with the stands on his left and mangroves on his right.
Stepping carefully, Lane walked up to the front where a fence and Plexiglas marked the edge of the lake. A pair of dolphins pushed one of the trainers into the corner where mangroves, dock and fence met. The resultant wave washed up over Lane’s shoes. He didn’t notice. Instead he looked at the crowd and spotted Jamey almost immediately. The boy held his left eye to the viewfinder of his camera in anticipation of the dolphins’ next move.
Lane felt Deylis at his elbow. He said, “Jamey is right here. Now’s not the time to interrupt. Let him finish with his pictures. Then we will talk with him.”
Deylis frowned.
“Do you know where Mara is?”
She shook her head.
“Jamey will talk after the show is finished. Not before. The kid is really into photography. If we interrupt, we’ll get attitude. It will take a little time to save us time.”
Deylis raised her eyebrows. Lane waited. Two dolphins launched the trainer into the air. She did a somersault, then jackknifed into the water. One dolphin offered its fin and towed the waving trainer back to the dock. Lane watched dark-haired Jamey, who smiled when he caught a pair of dolphins in mid-air as they flew through two hoops. The detective smiled seeing Jamey held down the shutter so the camera could take multiple frames.
After the show, the detectives waited for the crowd to thin. Jamey sat scrolling through his photos. His father stood up. Lane touched the man’s elbow; he looked like a taller, balder version of his dark-haired son.
