“So soon…we’ll have results they can’t ignore.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“Frightening…that they can make three bodies vanish.”
His eyebrows lifted at this, but he said nothing.
“What’s next?” she asked.
“Lunch, I’m hungry.”
14
Thoroughly frustrated with the lack of response on the part of local authorities, Julio Zayas feared the worst. Since his first meeting with those actually charged with locating the missing-a Detective Jorge Pena and an unprofessional oaf of a colonel named Gutierrez-nothing whatsoever had occurred. Not so much as a courtesy call. Believing a face-to-face meeting might shake loose some information, he’d taken a cab from his Miramar headquarters to the Old Havana police station. Actually, the cab was a private car transformed into a cab, a 1957 Ford Thunderbird convertible, painted blindingly yellow with stylized fiery plumes billowing along each side as if emerging from the engine. The ‘cab’ was in beautiful condition, the interior redone to perfection in a blood-orange shade that complemented the hue of fire along its sides.
Arriving at the Capitol Police Headquarters in the flamboyant cab attracted no special attention here as it would in Miami. Zayas paid the driver, waved him off, and started up the steps, through the entryway, and past the too busy desk clerk. He thought the jurisdiction here must suffer badly with such incompetent cops as Pena and Gutierrez at the helm. Still, he’d never known a police department without its share of such people. Gritting his teeth, certain his decision to force another meeting would come to a bad end, Julio nonetheless pressed on. Hell, two American citizens- professionals — continued on the Missing Persons bulletin at the American Interest Section.
As Julio made his way through the maze of desks for Gutierrez’s office, Detective Pena immediately leapt up and intercepted him. “Ahhh, Mr. Zayas, you’re back. How can I help you?”
“I’m here to see your boss.”
“Well…ahhh…I mean he is rather busy at the moment, but I am at your service.”
“Look, I’m concerned about your progress, or rather lack of progress in locating my American doctors. I’ve not heard a single word-have you any leads, anything at all?”
Before Pena could respond, the sound of retching followed by rushing water preceded Gutierrez’s sudden appearance through a door marked BANO.
Gutierrez’s head was tilted downward, his eyes averted, so that when he looked up, he found himself face to face with Zayas, who said, “Colonel Gutierrez, just the man I’m here to see.”
“Ahhh, yes, Mr. Ahhh…Zayas, right? I was just reviewing the case.”
Zayas nodded, acknowledging the man’s words and noting his disheveled appearance.
“Come…my office,” Gutierrez weakly replied. “I’ve new information. Pena, bring your files…come along.”
“Yes, sir.” Pena lifted a thin folder and used it to wave Julio ahead of him.
Gutierrez quickly rounded his desk and put it between them. He dropped heavily into his well-cushioned swivel chair, and it responded with a screech. Julio noticed assorted loose pills, a glass of water, and a bootlegged bottle of Old Spice alongside his blotter. Gutierrez scooped up a handful of pills and downed them with water. “My stomach, you see,” he muttered as he patted his thin middle.
Julio noticed a tossed blanket lying on a leather sofa beneath the window. Masking his distaste for the man, Zayas pretended sympathy. “Ahhh yes, stomach problems can be a curse.”
Gutierrez stared hard into his eyes as if to read the level of his sincerity. “Yes…started with acid and turned into a nasty ulcer. This job doesn’t help. And it doesn’t help that these missing Americans have failed to surface.” Gutierrez paused to let his lie sink in, and as he did so, he tore open a fresh cigar and began sucking on it. “Tell Mr. Zayas, Pena, what you’ve found.”
Pena cleared his throat and preened about the room like a bandy rooster having gobbled a fat worm. He slapped the file onto the table before Julio and announced, “It appears two American fellows purchased a case of rum, rented a car, and went into the hinterlands.”
Julio studied the single page report Pena had developed. It indicated a pair of ‘witnesses’ to this and a copy of two cash receipts stapled to the form-no signatures, no names. “How can you be sure this is my two Americans?”
Pena laughed. “Who else? Few Americans come to Cuba, and they were picked out from a photo array.”
“Americans come to Cuba…they do careless things,” said Gutierrez, “but after they’re finished sleeping it off, you will see…they will turn up.”
“Then you don’t think we at the American Interest Section should worry or let the relatives know that their sons are missing?”
Gutierrez carefully snipped off the end of his cigar, his eyes riveted to the task. “That would be premature, Mr. Zayas.”
Julio knew that the captain’s attention to his Corona- a ritual — was either a delaying or a concealing tactic. “And the Canadian woman?”
His eyes still averted, the colonel fumbled with his lighter and finally lit his cigar, sending up a cloud of smoke to a dark circle overhead. “Our suspicion is that the woman actually initiated this foolish adventure, telling no one of their plans.” He leaned back in his chair, which squeaked in protest, and spread his hands wide before adding, “You know how women can be, how easily men are led.”
Pena added, “There is so much to see and do outside Havana that invites exploration. Cuba is, after all, a tropical paradise.”
“Like a beautiful exotic woman, Cuba is mesmerizing,” added Gutierrez, “so one must accept that young people succumb to her allure.”
So much bullshit, Julio thought. It became increasingly clear that these two were not going to find the missing doctors, nor was this meeting going anywhere, just as he’d predicted.
Julio leaned back in his chair, steepling his hands beneath his chin. He inhaled deeply and was immediately sorry. The acrid combination of men’s cologne, stale cigars, overflowing ashtray, and just a hint of alcohol on Pena’s breath stung Julio’s eyes, nose, and throat. “I came to learn what you know of the missing Americans, but I see you still have no idea where they are.”
“We are doing all we can to locate dos hombres Americanos.”
“You leave me no choice but to contact authorities in America. I don’t think their relatives will treat this so lightly,” he paused for effect, before adding, “gentlemen.”
“Do what you must…but you’ll just look foolish in the end,” warned Gutierrez. “They’ll surface soon.”
Puppet-like, Pena added, “You know, Mr. Zayas, if you take premature steps, it can only harm everyone involved, from the missing young people to the unnecessary heartache you’ll cause their relatives back home. Trust us. We’ll continue our search both here and throughout the provinces. Rest assured, we’ll keep you informed.”
“Yes,” added Gutierrez, “the moment we learn where they are, you’ll be the first person we call. I like you, Zayas, your style, your enthusiasm for your work. Believe me, we have seen this sort of thing before. It’s not uncommon in Cuba for tourists to wander off only to resurface in a day or two. Give it time is all we ask.” Gutierrez reached a cigar-filled hand to his throbbing head, and for just a moment Julio fleetingly hoped his hair would catch fire.
Pena leaned in close to Zayas and said, “Our poor country roads here…they get washed out, cars, you know, they break down.”
Gutierrez piped in. “Any number of things happen here that you Americans cannot appreciate, given all that you have.”
“A phone and TV in every home,” complained Pena.
“Triple-A towing,” added Gutierrez.
“Convenience marts-“
“-ample petroleum everywhere-“
“-and a NAPA auto parts place on every corner.”
Julio shook his head in consternation. “So why hasn’t any one of these three professional people-doctors, r
esponsible for people’s lives, made a single attempt to contact Dr. Cortez? Why?”
“Ahhh… but once again, you’re making an assumption that this is America with phones everywhere. It’s not the same here; we’re a poor country with few resources.”
“Have you contacted provincial authorities across the island?”
“Of course, we’ve canvassed the entire country,” replied Gutierrez.
Pena added, “This’s why we suspect they’re in an inaccessible area.”
“All right… I think I’ve heard enough.” Zayas stood to leave, knowing he could not take another breath in the stifling office.
“So what will you do now, Mr. Zayas?” asked Gutierrez.
“I’ll do my duty, sir. I will do my duty. Now…good day.”
15
Carrying their hospital cafeteria trays, Dr. Benilo led Qui to his favorite patio corner and lunchtime retreat. “Watch.” He crumbled and tossed bits of bread and crackers saved for him by the cafeteria staff, who enjoyed his daily routine nearly as much as he did. A flock of small birds immediately swooped down and attacked the gift. Surprising to those who didn’t see past his arrogant gruffness, Arturo took a childlike delight in seeing the birds squabble over the offering, the corners of his eyes creasing with his smile. Qui, too, delighted in their antics and began tossing bits of her sandwich to the visitors.
“What do you think the SP hopes to accomplish in making off with the bodies?” she asked. “Damn it, even here in Cuba, it’s a crime to tamper with evidence in a murder investigation.”
“I suspect the Secret Police will report that they’re conducting their own investigation, using that incompetent lout, Dr. Gomez Trebeca-hardly more than a mortician.”
“I thought such blatant manipulations a thing of the past.” Qui sipped at her soft drink. “I can’t believe this is happening on my first major case.”
A squabble of some sort broke out among the birds, momentarily distracting their discussion.
“Believe it, Quiana. Happens more than you can imagine.”
“That’s madness. We-you and me-the entire crew of the Sanabela, Tino, Sergio…we all saw-”
“I know, I know, but the next time you speak to Estrada and any of his crewmen, you may find them suddenly deaf and dumb-or gone to Miami.”
“Among the vanished, as they feared.”
“This is why we must be cautious; we can’t let anyone know how much evidence we have. I must continue to play the befuddled old man, and you…sorry, but you must continue to play the incompetent woman Gutierrez is convinced you are.”
“That won’t be hard to do,” she replied and chuckled.
Even more noise arose from the birds, demanding their attention. Arturo pointed to the appearance of an orange cat slinking toward the feeding birds. “We must be more sly than that feral cat, or else the SP will soon be onto us too, heh?”
“Aha, this is how you got ahead and have remained on top.”
“Sometimes to succeed, we must assume a persona at odds with our own integrity. It’s a calculated pretense, necessary for survival.”
Suddenly the birds succeeded in driving the cat into hiding. “In nature, those who cooperate will often overcome a much larger foe.”
Long before now, it’d dawned on Qui that what she’d originally thought a bad case of paranoia in an old man, had all along been justified. “Of course, I understand. I’ll do everything by the book, but I’ll also keep my true investigation between us.”
Tossing the final piece of bread to the birds, Benilo calmly said, “Consider yourself initiated into Cuban politics-a dance with this devil.”
“So teach me to dance.”
“The trick is to come away from the dance without being corrupted-no easy thing to do. And this dance so far has been deadly.” He stopped speaking, his eyes telegraphing a new concern as he laid a single finger across his lips, the gesture of silence. He lifted his tray and loudly proclaimed, “I have told you all I know, Lieutenant. Now please, I have a great deal of work to do.” As he stepped around her chair, in a slight whisper, he added, “Behind you…be careful…” Benilo entered the cafeteria and disappeared.
Qui rose and casually turned. Putting her dishes on her tray, she glanced around the patio.
Oh no, it’s Montoya! Damn! Forgot he was coming! And he’s only here because I bullied him into it! Now what?
Montoya had been sitting nearby in the crowded patio area when he heard Benilo call out her title. The moment he realized the old ME was speaking to Qui, Montoya approached her, saying, “What is this, a scavenger hunt? I come to help you out, and I can’t even find you! Don’t you think my time is valuable?”
Her sense of guilt slowly retreated as her frustration with his behavior rose. “Oh…gee…sweetheart, I meant to call you but Dr. Benilo is so…slow, you know, and he kept me.”
“I’m not surprised. I’ve heard he’s slowed down. However, a simple call would’ve have saved me the trip. Who suffers from this? My patients, that’s who.”
“But you have to admit, it’s nice to meet like this at mid-day. Have you had lunch yet? Can I buy you-”
“Never mind that. Take me to the dead woman and let’s get this over with.”
“Ahhh…as it happens, I don’t need you anymore.”
“What? Whataya mean you don’t need me anymore?”
She thought hard about what her reply to this should be. “Some time this morning, Dr. Benilo learned the identity of all three victims, thanks to a missing persons report filed by Pena.”
“See…I told you…Pena is the man for this case.”
“Montoya, why are you being mean when all I’m trying to do is be nice? To make up for not calling you.”
“Oh…well, I guess it couldn’t be helped, but you really did pull me away from important matters.” He pulled out his cell phone and began punching numbers. “I’ll just call my clinic, let them know I’m on my way back.”
She stopped his hand and smiled suggestively. “If lunch doesn’t interest you, Estaban…perhaps I can?”
Back in his office, Dr. Arturo Benilo listened to his favorite Maurice Jarre composition. He stared into a folder at the stapled photo of the mangled remains of the dead Canadian girl-photos he’d taken aboard the Sanabela. She looked so slight, so small, so sad, and so innocent here on the computer monitor. In the missing persons photo, the open smile and animation in her face reminded him of Quiana. He’d already placed her age near Quiana’s, and he wondered what else the two might have in common when a knock at his open door announced Qui Aguilera’s return.
“Ahhh…you’re back! Come take a look,” he said from his desk, as he swiveled the monitor.
She leaned in over his desk, facing the computer monitor, taking in the sounds of Jarre as she studied the images taken with his digital camera. Benilo clicked through image after image of the dead. As the photo array continued, Qui considered the depth of grief awaiting Denise’s parents. “The parents’ll want details, you know. The kind of mischief that brought Denise to this end.”
“Yes, one of my hardest duties…dealing with the loved ones.”
With the music still wafting through the office, the two sat lost in private thought.
Qui had earlier left the hotel where she and Montoya had made an attempt at a passionate afternoon tryst that turned rather languorous instead. In fact, Montoya, worn out by her exuberance from the night before, had fallen into what seemed a coma right about the time he’d climaxed. She’d left him back at the hotel slumbering like some Iguana in the sun. As usual, he’d come first, leaving her wondering if this man would ever satisfy her needs before his own. The disappointing afternoon rendezvous created a desire to rush back and bury herself in her work. Naturally, she’d returned to Benilo’s morgue.
The ME sat watching her sad features. “I saw you go off with Montoya. So are you seeing him, you know, personally?”
“Well actually…Estaban thinks we ought to be married.�
��
“Really…he thinks so, heh? What do you think?”
“I think I really should call him and maybe talk,” she muttered.
“But why? You just left him, no?”
“Well…ahhh…you see, ahhh it’s like, you know, I left him asleep and maybe I shouldn’t’ve.”
“Shouldn’t’ve left him asleep…or shouldn’t’ve left him? Which is it?”
“He’s bound to be angry, just leaving him that way. He spoke of dinner tonight and mentioned something special, a gift. Perhaps a ring…”
“He has a steady income, position. He’s reasonably attractive. A woman could do far worse than to marry him.”
“You couldn’t possibly understand-you’re a man.”
Benilo laughed at this. “I think the real question here, Quiana, is do love him?”
She immediately and emphatically replied, “Short answer? No.”
“And the long answer?”
“We’re good friends, but right now, that’s all we are.”
“Hmmm…I myself…I was never able to settle for friendship either. From an outsider’s viewpoint, I can only say, time is often the best path to follow.”
She began walking in a small circle, reminding him once again of her mother, Rafaela, muttering to herself, “I don’t want to hurt him, but…I don’t want to be anyone’s little woman or even a doctor’s wife. I’m a detective. I have a right to my own career.”
Benilo stood, put his coffee cup aside, and walked to where she paced. He stretched out a hand to her and softly patted her shoulder. “Just call him, cancel dinner. Give yourself all the time you need.”
“Sure and while I’m at it, I’ll say I solved the whole damn case, so he can stop worrying,” she joked.
“How can such a retiring woman as you be so worrisome to Dr. Montoya?” he teased. “In the meantime, we do have a case to solve.”
She gritted her teeth in response as she pulled out her cell phone. The Jarre composition ended, replaced by Hans Zimmer’s score for the film Blackhawk Down. The title amused Qui as it reminded her of the spluttering relationship with the black-haired Montoya still asleep at the hotel. The title also recalled her father’s latest photography project, black and white images of the hawks of Cuba.
Cuba blue Page 9
