Hot Schemes

by Sherryl Woods

  “Don’t you suppose she’d rather be checking out a coral reef?” Michael asked.

  Ken grinned. “I’ll explain that this is more challenging.”

  “Are you sure you want to spend your time off this way?” Michael asked again, his voice filled with doubt. For the first time, though, it also held a wavering hint of hope.

  “A boat, a sunny day, my wife in a bikini, a couple of beers,” Ken replied. “Does life get any better than that?”

  “No, I suppose not,” Michael agreed. He held out his hand and clasped Ken’s. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem. I’ll give you a call as soon as I work out the details.”

  “So what can I do?” Felipe asked. “I’d take leave time, too, but you know I use it as fast as I accumulate it.”

  Ken rolled his eyes. “He means that every time he gets a hot date, he can’t drag himself out of bed to leave her. The time sheets tell the story of his love life.”

  Felipe muttered something in Spanish that definitely didn’t sound complimentary, but both Ken and Michael were laughing. Felipe glanced at Molly. “Excuse them. Neither of them understand how demanding it is to be both single and sexy,” he said, his eyes glinting with pure mischief.

  “I’m single,” Michael reminded him.

  Felipe shrugged. “But sexy? That is a matter of opinion.”

  Michael turned toward Molly. She held up her hands. “No comment.”

  “Et tu, Brute?” he said. “You will pay for that, amiga.”

  “I didn’t realize my role here was to stroke your ego,” Molly retorted.

  “Perhaps we should discuss precisely what your role here is,” Michael replied, his eyes flashing dangerously.

  “Uh-oh,” Ken said, standing up. “Come on, Felipe. Let some other cop get called to deal with this domestic disturbance. I want no part of it.”

  “No disturbance,” Michael said mildly.

  “And it’s not domestic,” Molly chimed in, her cheeks flaming.

  The two cops exchanged glances. Felipe held a hand over his stomach. “My very reliable gut thinks we’ve got two people here who are protesting too much.”

  Molly suddenly wondered if it might not be a very good idea to ask if she could hitch a ride home. The gleam in Michael’s eyes stopped her before the words could form.

  When both men had beat a hasty exit, Michael strolled back into the living room. He reached out and clasped Molly’s hand, hauling her to her feet. He didn’t let go until she was mere inches away, so close, in fact, that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. His gaze clashed with hers.

  “So, amiga, you think I am not sexy?”

  “I didn’t say that.” “Oh?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then you think I am sexy?”

  “I think you are deliberately trying to intimidate a witness.”

  “You’re no witness. You’re the perpetrator here.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s the crime?”

  “Lying under oath.”

  Molly glanced around. “No judge. No jury. No Bible. I’d say you have no case, mister.”

  He gave her a wry look and laced his fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck. Very slowly he drew her toward him. Only when Molly thought she would never catch her breath again did he slant his mouth over hers.

  She had to admit, as she tried to prevent herself from swaying straight into his arms, that it was a very expert kiss. One of the best, in fact. She was also determined that Michael would never, not in a million years, badger that admission out of her. It was, of course, okay with her if he wanted to kiss her from now until doomsday in an attempt to torture the words from her.

  The shrill sound of the phone finally forced them apart. From her perspective, it was probably a very timely interruption.

  “Yes, what?” Michael demanded gruffly, one arm still looped around her waist as he talked to the caller.

  Molly couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away. That was probably why she was so quick to note the sudden alertness in his eyes and the tightening of his jaw.

  “I’m on my way,” he said, already reaching for his gun and jacket as he hung up.

  Molly grabbed her purse and raced out the door after him. Apparently he’d expected her to follow automatically, because he never said a single thing to encourage or protest it. Not until they were in his car and pulling out of the driveway into the traffic on Kendall did she ask where they were going.

  “To the paper.”

  “Why?”

  “That was your pal Ted Ryan. He says there are about fifty protesters in front of the building, trying to prevent the delivery trucks from going out.

  “Why did he call you?” “Because someone down there said these guys are all followers of Paredes.”

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  Even at eleven at night there was still plenty of traffic to contend with between Kendall and downtown. Though Michael drove like a cop after a speeding suspect, it took them close to thirty minutes before they squealed around a corner and screeched to a stop a half block away from the paper.

  Just as Ted Ryan had told Michael, protesters blocked the streets leading into and away from the loading dock. The paper’s trucks, parked in solid rows along the street and in an adjacent lot, were effectively prevented from leaving the area. The signs carried by the relatively small group of protesters were in Spanish and in English. Those Molly could read protested the unfairness of the paper’s coverage. It was a fairly general and oft-repeated charge.

  As they left the car, Michael glanced at her. “Why don’t you see if you can hook up with Ryan and see what this is all about? I’m going to try to blend in and see what I can learn from the protesters.”

  Molly didn’t think there was much chance that Michael, still wearing his usual designer suit and expensive shirt, could actually blend in with what at first glance looked to be a ragtag band of aging male picketers, many of whom were wearing military fatigues and waving Cuban flags. Still, with his dark complexion, brown eyes, and dark hair, there was no mistaking that Hispanic blood ran in his veins. Maybe that would be enough to loosen tongues.

  She wandered closer, finally selecting a car right at the edge of the protest and leaning against the front bumper. From that vantage point, she realized that there was more diversity among those picketing than she had originally thought. She caught sight of at least three younger men, clad in dress pants, shirts, and ties, and several women who also looked like young professionals. The broader cross-section of the exile community surprised her. Maybe Ted Ryan would be able to explain it.

  She figured it would be only a matter of minutes before he spotted her. The reporter tended to zero in on her like a homing pigeon. Usually, though, he was after information. Tonight Molly intended to turn the tables. She found she was actually looking forward to transforming a member of the aggressive media into a source. In her job at the film office she so rarely had a chance to make that happen. Vince insisted on a lot of bowing and scraping.

  As she’d anticipated, she saw Ted Ryan circle the perimeter of the protesters, pause for a minute under a streetlamp to jot down some notes, then gaze up and down the street. The instant he spotted her, he headed in her direction. His boyish grin widened as he reached her. He looked more like an amiable Clark Kent than a determined Mike Wallace, but Molly knew firsthand that in his case looks were deceiving. Ted had the tenacity of a pit bull.

  “I saw O’Hara a minute ago,” he said. “I figured you wouldn’t be far away.” He regarded her intently. “Just how close are you two these days?” he asked with an unusual hint of uncertainty in his voice.

  “I like to think of it as a partnership,” Molly said dryly. “My guess is Michael would call it something else.”

  The reporter seemed even more disconcerted by the comment. “A partnership as in wedding bells?”

  “No, as in investigative colleagues.”

  There was no mista
king the look of relief in Ted’s eyes, which confirmed what Michael had been telling Molly for some time: Ted Ryan might have the teeniest little crush on her. Until this instant, Molly had dismissed it as hogwash. Apparently, though, this was the one thing territorial males were capable of sensing instinctively about other men. Since she wasn’t prepared to deal with whatever personal interest Ted might have in her, she changed the subject quickly.

  “Thanks for calling Michael with the tip about the demonstration. Why did you?”

  The reporter accepted the shift in topic almost gratefully. “Don’t credit me with being too magnanimous. He’s always in the middle of the hottest cases in town. I figured one of these days he’ll return the favor and give me a break on a story. Besides, something tells me this protest and what happened to his uncle can’t be coincidence.”

  “Meaning?”

  “His uncle worked for circulation, delivering the papers. The last time anyone saw him, as far as we know, was when he met his route supervisor to get the Sunday edition. Now, just two nights later, we’ve got the makings of a big-time brouhaha on our front lawn involving what appears to be the same group of exiles in which García was involved.”

  Molly pointed to the picket signs. “What exactly do they think is unfair about the paper’s coverage?”

  Ted shook his head. “Hell, sometimes it seems to me they object to anything that isn’t violently anti-Castro. Who knows what it’s about this time.”

  Molly regarded him doubtfully. She didn’t like the way he was evading her gaze. “Come on, Ted. You’re a reporter. Even if you didn’t work for this particular paper, you’d make it your business to know every last detail of any controversy in which the media was targeted. So what’s with the vague generalities?”

  He shook his head. “I’m telling you there’s nothing specific I can link this to. I even read the damned Spanish-language edition, which took me hours, I might add, to see if I could figure out why they’re bent out of shape. We’re not supporting some bill on Capitol Hill that’s soft on Castro. We haven’t attacked any of their sacred cows. The most controversial story I saw, from their perspective, was another one of those statistical things showing how many Cuban rafters have been welcomed by Immigration and how many boatloads of Haitian refugees have been turned back at sea. They don’t like being reminded that the difference in policies seems blatantly discriminatory.”

  Molly didn’t buy that as the cause of tonight’s incident. She wished she’d read that morning’s edition, but in all the confusion she hadn’t had time. She tried to recall anything else she had read in the paper in recent days that could have set things off. “Wasn’t there a story in the business pages about a couple of companies that have sent people into Cuba to size up economic opportunities?”

  “Yes, but so what? The way economic sanctions are, they can’t go in and invest until Castro falls, right?”

  Molly sighed. “True. Maybe the protesters are objecting to the fact that these guys spent dollars in Cuba while they were over there scouting things out. You know how violent they get about foreign tourists in Cuba. They feel the money the tourists spend helps to shore up Castro’s regime.”

  Ted shook his head. “Then why not protest the companies, rather than the paper that wrote the story?”

  Molly didn’t have an argument to counter that. She tried out another thought. “Has the paper backed any cultural events lately?”

  “Like what?”

  “You know how they’re always giving money to support the ballet, the opera, and all these ethnic festivals. I was just wondering if they’d made a donation to something like that and the group in turn had invited a performer who’d recently performed in Cuba.”

  “I doubt it. I think the paper’s gotten real sensitive to that sort of thing. The powers that be may not understand why people get so outraged that a singer or dancer has performed in Havana, but they steer clear of them just the same.”

  They fell silent then, watching the activity of the demonstrators, until Ted spotted someone in the crowd and called out to him. The man, wearing khaki slacks, a blue oxford-cloth shirt, and loafers, looked to be no more than forty, though his dark blond hair was already thinning on top. He jogged over to join them.

  “Hey, Ted, what’s up?”

  Ted regarded the older reporter with something akin to hero worship. “Molly, this is Walt Hazelton. He’s working the story. He’s been with the paper fifteen years. For the last ten he’s been on the foreign desk covering Caribbean affairs, including Cuba, when they’ll grant him a visa to go in. Walt, this is Molly DeWitt. She and O’Hara are friends.”

  Walt nodded. “I thought I saw him nosing around in the crowd.” He looked at Molly. “Any word on his uncle?”

  Molly shook her head. “How good are your sources inside Cuba?” she asked. She knew from his highly respected reputation for hard-hitting, award-winning coverage that Walt Hazelton wasn’t the sort of journalist who’d rely on rumors, but rather would report only carefully gleaned facts. She suspected he’d made good use of those rarely granted trips to the island to cultivate reliable contacts.

  Hazelton’s eyes widened as he immediately grasped her meaning. “You think García tried to go in, maybe as part of some commando raid?”

  “It’s one theory. I just wondered if you knew anyone who might know what’s going on on the island?”

  The reporter looked thoughtful. “No one else has been reported missing here in town.”

  “Maybe because no one else has a nephew like Michael, who jumped on his uncle’s disappearance immediately,” she countered, beginning to warm to the theory. “Maybe that boat was meant to blow up at sea, so there’d be no trace after they’d launched their rafts toward shore. And wouldn’t any family members here be warned to remain silent?”

  “Did you get the feeling O’Hara’s aunt was holding back?” Ted asked.

  Molly honestly had no answer to that. She didn’t know Tía Pilar well enough to judge when she might be withholding information. Their conversations were conducted in such a halting mix of English and Spanish that they were seldom illuminating anyway. She finally shook her head. “I have no idea.”

  “It could take a while to get through, but I’ll do some checking,” Hazelton promised. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a card. “Give me a call tomorrow afternoon.”

  When he’d walked away, Molly stared after him. “Bright guy. I’ve read about him. He’s picked up several awards for his reporting, hasn’t he?”

  “A Pulitzer and a bunch of others,” Ted agreed. “He deserves every one of them. He’s got an advanced degree in international studies. Had a fellowship to study Cuba.” He gestured toward the crowd, who were now chanting and waving their signs more aggressively. “Hazelton probably knows more about the island today than half of these protesters ever knew about the way it was thirty, thirty-five years ago when they were last there. They hate his guts, though.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you even have to ask? He’s not one of them. Worse than not being Cuban, he dares to tell it like it is. He’s not keeping the dream alive.”

  As if to confirm what Ted was saying, apparently someone recognized Hazelton just then. Before Molly could blink, they had surrounded him, making demands, shouting curses. One angry man waved his picket sign threateningly. Hazelton shoved his way through the crowd and made his way to the building entrance. A police escort saw that he made it.

  “I can hardly wait to see the final edition,” Ted said dryly.

  “Do you think this demonstration will be broken up in time for anyone to see it?” Molly asked.

  “Oh, the paper will be printed and it will go out,” Ted said, regarding the scene with blatant disgust. “In another hour or two the publisher will lose patience, the police will cordon off the road, and the trucks will roll. The paper may be late, but believe me, these bullies won’t be allowed to stop it. It amazes me how people can flee a country with no freedom of the pres
s, then try to stifle it in the country that takes them in.”

  “What about freedom of speech and freedom to assemble?” Molly countered quietly.

  Ted looked at her. “Hey, I have no problem with them protesting. They’ve got a right to voice their opinions like anyone else. What they don’t have is the right to violently prevent me from voicing mine or the paper from voicing its views editorially.”

  Molly figured it wasn’t a debate that was going to be won or lost that night, any more than it was won or lost when opposition sides of the abortion debate clashed on the lawns of abortion clinics. She suspected emotions ran equally high in both controversies.

  “You told Michael these protesters were followers of Paredes,” she said finally.

  “Some of them. I recognize them from other rallies. The others could be part of his organization or representatives of some other groups.”

  “Is Paredes here?”

  “Are you kidding? He’s out in Westchester watching it all on TV, happy as a clam at the disruption of the paper’s delivery schedule. No doubt, if questioned, he will decry the harassment of Hazelton.”

  “Just as he decried the bombing of Miguel’s boat.”

  “Of course. But just because there’s no dirt under a guy’s fingernails doesn’t mean he knows nothing about the seeds being sown in this particular garden of protest.”

  Molly grinned. “Interesting line. Can I expect to read it in tomorrow’s paper?”

  Ted grinned back at her. “Not in my story. I’m on page one of the Metro section with a fascinating report on two cops whose police car was stolen while they sipped café Cubano on Calle Ocho. It seems the driver left the keys in the ignition, thinking his partner was going to stay put. Said partner decided he wanted to join his pal at the take-out window. An alert bystander in need of wheels made off with it before either of them could draw their weapons. Needless to say the two were not available for interviews. I suspect they’ve been checked into the county hospital, where they’re dying of embarrassment.”