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  “I need to check on something.”

  “Right now in your-”

  “Now, yes! Get me there!”

  He threw up his hands, the T-Bird’s wheel momentarily abandoned. “All right, if you’ll tell me what you’re up to.”

  “The lock in the photo.”

  “What photo? The one we took?”

  “Yes. The lock. It may be the same one we found with the bodies aboard the Sanabela.”

  “This is all news to me.”

  She explained in detail. When she finished, JZ asked, “How could it be the same lock? Maybe a duplicate. Isn’t that photo old?”

  “Try fifty years.”

  “Then it can’t be the same lock.”

  “That’s why I want to see them side by side before I make up my mind.”

  “And if they are identical? What then? How does that solve our mystery?”

  “I know the man who shot the photo. He’s got to know something. Now turn this car around.”

  JZ reacted by immediately slowing and turning onto the shoulder. Kicking up dust, he threw the T-bird into reverse, executing a perfect three-point turn. They drove in silence for the Old City and Capitol headquarters.

  At the stationhouse, Qui grabbed the photo and rushed in past the sergeant’s desk. JZ shadowed her every step. They descended a stone stairwell that ended in a narrow dungeon-like passageway leading to a door designated Evidence Lockup.

  Like a booth in the back in the corner in the dark, JZ thought. Odd place to keep evidence. Entering the room, JZ took note of the armed uniformed officer behind a cage and the ever-present obligatory sign-in sheet with dangling pen on the counter.

  Qui quickly logged in. “Carlos, I want to see the evidence collected from the Sanabela-my case.”

  Carlos sleepily replied, “You got it, Lieutenant.” Yawning, he opened a thick logbook. Staring curiously at the photo under her arm, he continued, “checking that in?”

  “Maybe. First I want to check something.”

  Carlos scanned the log pages, then went in search of the evidence box labeled with the case number.

  From the officer’s reaction, or his lack of reaction, JZ assumed that word of Esteban’s death hadn’t yet traveled this far. It would. Speculation and rumor spread like wildfire within security organizations, or at least that’d been his experience. He didn’t think Cuba’s being a communist state would change that. In fact, this sort of event, affecting one of their own, likely would produce more gossip.

  While they waited on Carlos, Qui placed the photo on one of the tables scattered about the room. Here, she closely examined the photo. For the first time in all the years that she’d seen this depiction of a church in a wooded area with an ornate, elaborately detailed lock on its front doors, she questioned why a church would be locked. It wasn’t a church located in Havana. That much she knew, but where was this mysterious church? And how did this lock-or its twin-find its way onto Luis’s ill-fated Sanabela?

  JZ, looking over her shoulder, squeezed her arm, and asked, “How’re you holding up?”

  “With all that’s happened tonight? When it does hit me, I hope I’m not here.”

  “You know, anything I can do…” JZ began but was interrupted by Carlos’s noisily kicking through the cage door and dropping the evidence box onto a nearby metal table. “Ay Dios, that is a heavy box!” said Carlos, catching his breath.

  Regardless of Carlos’s remarks, there was very little inside the box. Three coiled modern chains, which may’ve come from anywhere, and atop the chains, the suspect lock. She took the lock and carefully laid it alongside the photo. She stood quietly looking from photo to lock.

  JZ immediately said, “Identical. You were right.”

  Softly for his ears only, Qui leaned in close and said, “I was right, yes.” She paused, “But this is not the same lock we took off the bodies on the Sanabela. That lock’s not here; it’s been replaced with this one.” She tapped the lock alongside the photo.

  Alerted by her conspiratorial tone, JZ quietly protested, “But it’s identical to the one in the photo.” His tone matched his confusion.

  “Yes, but the lock we took into evidence was removed with bolt cutters. Benilo was right. We’re dealing with cutthroats but stupid ones. They switched the locks but didn’t bolt cut the shackle. Dumb mistake.”

  “Aha! So they come and go as they please in this place that passes for an evidence lockup in Havana? Great system you’ve got here.” He shook his head in disgust.

  His sarcasm didn’t sit well with her; she felt moved to defend their procedures and her fellow PNR officers, but she knew his comment was all too accurate. Nothing to defend; nothing in Cuba was exempt from theft-not even crime scene evidence. Since the withdrawal of Communist support, Cubanos had made a sport and an art of petty theft to supplement meager paychecks; in fact, people who got away with such thievery drew pride from the practice. Anytime a common man outwitted his employer, it was considered a personal triumph and a private coup. So common was this practice that people no longer asked ‘Where do you work?’, but rather, ‘Where do you rob?’. She responded to his sarcasm. “Some of us do the right thing, JZ, despite the facts of life in Cuba. Others, well…” She shrugged, “Poverty breeds desperation, and desperation breeds theft. What can I say?”

  SJZ nodded. “A universal truth.”

  Returning to her own thoughts, Qui tried to puzzle out why someone might switch the lock. As it was an uncommon lock, somebody had gone to a great trouble to find a duplicate. And if that were so, what might this mean? What was so special about this lock? The more she thought about it, the less sense it made. It seemed almost as if someone had anticipated this entire scenario, holding the duplicate lock in abeyance for the right moment to use it. She glanced at Carlos, wondering if he knew the evidence had been tampered with, and if he’d tell her even if he did. He’d likely only been on duty for a few hours; no certainty he’d have even been here when the locks were switched.

  “At this point,” she whispered to JZ, “how can I rely on anything?”

  “Frankly, except for you, I’ve not found anything reliable or efficient within these walls. It’s been one put-off after another. Lies on top of lies.”

  She nodded. “I know. I heard Pena spouting off Friday how you were sticking your nose into his missing persons case.”

  “Now, he’s a piece of work.” JZ gave her a serious look, “What about the reports? Think they’ve been doctored?”

  “Before today, I’d have said records were inviolate… sacrosanct. But now, who knows?” Qui returned to the sign-in sheet. Tino Hilito proved the only person on record to’ve handled the evidence until now, but clearly this was not the case. Someone had switched the locks. Money had to’ve changed hands somewhere along the chain of evidence, further contaminating her case. If she were Arturo Benilo, she’d instantly cry conspiracy.

  “Let’s get out of here, JZ. You’re right about this place.”

  “Yeah, we need to see someone about the photograph, you said?”

  She signed out. “We’re through here.” She then grabbed her things, and marched out ahead of JZ, who gave a fleeting last look at Carlos’s narrowed eyes.

  From behind his cage, Carlos waited until they’d left the room before he lifted the phone at his side. He dialed a number jotted on a scrap of paper. “Hey, Tino, this is Carlos. Detective Aguilera and some American came sniffing around.”

  On the other end, Tino replied, “What were they looking for?”

  “I dunno, but she had a framed photograph with her.”

  “Photograph?”

  “Yeah, of a door.”

  “A door?”

  “Just a door.”

  “Damn, what else can you tell me?”

  “Sorted through the evidence you checked in.”

  Tino sighed heavily into the phone. “Thanks, Carlos, you’re a friend.”

  “I hope things are better with that boy of yours, Tino.”
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  “About the same.”

  “Just thought you’d wanna know about that Aguilera woman’s snooping around behind you.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  At the other end, Tino hung up with a soft curse. Standing beside his son’s bed here in the living room, he again sighed. The boy, a hemophiliac, had become too excited that morning, not that Tino himself hadn’t cause for excitement. Since Friday’s discovery of the triple-murder, he had been approached by the shadowy SP figure General Cavuto Ruiz. At about the time of Ruiz’s visit, Tino’s son, Carlito had fallen during a baseball game in the park; ironically, Tino had fallen as well, but Tino’s fall came from the ultimate temptation in Cuba: necessary goods. Any cut or minor scrape causing bleeding became an emergency for Carlito, caused an emotional tsunami that rippled through the family. The financial toll of protective clothing and American-made, high-tech bandages and coagulate powders rivaled the unrelenting worry and constant dread of another episode. Even with Montoya’s generosity at the clinic, the burden of Carlito’s condition was never-ending. There was no way to prevent the boy from being a boy-one who loved sports, especially baseball-the national passion. How could he keep his son, too young to understand his condition, safe? It had seemed a harmless thing, to switch the lock. But now Tino felt trapped.

  With all this preying on his mind, Tino’d had next to no sleep since the curse of those three bodies had come his way. Now this. Detective Aguilera knew about the locks. She was no one’s fool; by now, she surely suspected him. He muttered to himself, “As the Americans say, ‘between a rock and a hard place’, between Cavuto and Quiana.”

  Regardless, whatever happened to him, the funds set up for his son’s needs would always be there. That much was unchangeable. He might go to prison; he might be killed, but Carlito would be protected now as never before-as Tino had previously failed to do. But no more.

  A tear welled up and snaked its way down Tino’s face and dropped on his sleeping son.

  22

  On their drive to Miramar, Qui and JZ decided to retrieve her Peugeot at some other time. Qui could not get home fast enough. At the Bed and Breakfast, they found Tomaso and Benilo still drinking wine, a third glass telling Qui that Yuri, an early riser, had abandoned the party. Cleaning away the last of the birthday cake, Maria Elena on the way to the kitchen with her hands full, quietly commented to Qui, “Those two men’ve had a hearty reunion all right, and way too much to drink.”

  When they saw Qui approaching with JZ at her side, the men attempted to stand, the result more comical than effective.

  “See, I told you she’d be back,” Tomaso slurred. He slapped Benilo on the back and added, “And with a friend…someone new.”

  Benilo squinted at JZ, as if trying to recognize him. “Montoya? Dr. Montoya?”

  Tomaso leapt in suggesting, “You need glasses, old man! This is not Montoya.”

  The two men laughed, hearing a joke that was lost on the younger couple. “Ahhh…then your daughter took my advice.” Benilo looked at his newfound old friend and smiled.

  With glazed eyes staring at Qui, Tomaso demanded, “What advice?”

  Qui ignored her father’s demand. “Papa, Dr. Benilo, this is Julio Zayas. He works security at the American Interest Section.”

  “Ahhh…deep in the bowels of the Swiss Embassy,” Benilo said. “The American Mission in Cuba.”

  “JZ, this is our foremost medical examiner, Dr. Arturo Benilo. And this is my father, Tomaso Aguilera, the photographer.”

  JZ hardly had time to shake hands or pick up on her not so subtle emphasis, when Qui lifted the framed photo, balancing it atop the table, saying, “I want to know about this photo, Papa, now.”

  Tomaso fell back into his chair. Benilo deliberately catching Tomaso’s eye, found his seat. Their revelry suddenly at an end, both men stared into Qui’s unwavering gaze. Neither man willing to speak first, each turned his attention back to the photo, studying its every detail as if seeing the artistic composition of black and white shot for the first time. The photo’s impact on the two suggested there was more here than a beautiful still life of a locked church door.

  Turning to Tomaso, Benilo said, “I knew this would come back to haunt us. Should’ve destroyed that negative.”

  Qui turned to her father. “Tell me about the photo.”

  “What has this to do with anything, daughter?”

  Breaking his silence, JZ announced, “There’s been another murder. Qui’s friend, Dr. Montoya.”

  “Montoya!” gasped Tomaso.

  “Murdered?” cried Maria Elena, who’d returned for more dishes. On hearing JZ’s words, she froze, shocked. Tears gathered in her eyes. She’d always liked the doctor, who’d been unfailingly kind to her and her children.

  “Montoya, murdered?” echoed Benilo. “I just saw him yesterday at lunch.”

  “We just came from the murder scene,” JZ explained.

  Tomaso stood and took Qui in his arms, saying, “I’m so sorry. This is terrible news… But why? What happened?”

  “Why? Exactly my question,” she replied. “How could Estaban be a target for murder?”

  “He was a good man…a kind man,” Maria Elena added, dabbing her eyes, dinner dishes forgotten.

  “Not the way my department sees it.” Qui blinked back tears. “They’re going to paint his death as some ridiculous autoerotic adventure gone awry. They’re going to destroy his character, his reputation.”

  Tomaso groaned. “Yes, the thing most important to him, his reputation.”

  “Bastards! Demeaning the dead!” muttered Benilo.

  “Who’s behind this?” Tomaso demanded. “I’ll go see Fidel himself!”

  “Why wasn’t I called?” Benilo joined in Tomaso’s indignation. “Who’s the ME on the case?”

  Qui replied, “Your assistant, Dr. Vasquez.”

  “Irina?” Benilo looked puzzled. “Well…she’s as good as they come. Maybe the autopsy will prove you right, after all. If you’d said Dr. Trebeca, I’d worry.”

  “Autopsy results are a lot like photographic evidence these days-hard to fake,” JZ began, “but it does happen.”

  “Papa, your photograph has something to do with my murder case,” Qui said, pointing to the framed photo, “and Dr. Benilo, you know it, too.”

  “Hmmm…the lock,” grumbled Benilo.

  JZ commented, “It gets worse. Qui believes the lock from the Sanabela murders is the same as the one in this photo.”

  “But it’s not the same one we examined at Capitol Headquarters an hour ago,” Qui announced. “My evidence has been tampered with.”

  “Wait…I’m confused,” said Tomaso, approaching the photograph, lifting it with both hands. “Are you two saying the lock in Qui’s murder case is the same as in my photo? Can’t be! I took that shot over fifty years ago in Santiago de Cuba.” He laid the photo flat on the table.

  Benilo shook his head in disgust. “Doesn’t surprise me. What’s a stolen lock compared to three stolen bodies? The real question is why?”

  “Hold on,” Qui said to Benilo. “You told Papa about the missing bodies? I thought we had a pact.”

  “I told him, yes. I wanted his council.”

  “Great, as if he wasn’t worried enough about me.”

  “Maria Elena,” Tomaso suddenly asked, “we’ll need some coffee out here. I can’t think straight. Too much of Benilo’s fine wine.” He looked at the younger people and asked, “Have you two eaten?”

  JZ shook his head no.

  Qui grimaced. “I couldn’t eat a thing.

  As she left, Maria Elena said, “I’ll bring something with the coffee.”

  Qui lifted the photo and propped it across the arms of a chair facing the others. “Why use a lock from fifty years ago in the murder of three visiting doctors, one of whom we know had contact with Estaban?”

  The man on the cell phone, unconsciously waved his hands to punctuate each word. Humberto paced from his dimly lit bedroom
suite in the Excalibre Hotel and Casino to the balcony. It was here he met his mistress on a regular basis. She slept soundly in their shared four-poster canopy bed. “I don’t trust the situation. Too many loose ends. I want the lock and anyone who saw it to disappear. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Absolutely.” Cavuto Ruiz, on the other end of the line, accidentally placed his lit cigar into his Mai tai alongside the ashtray. “Fuck,” he muttered.

  “What’s that?”

  Frowning in disgust at the wasted Fuentes, he replied, “Nothing, just a nuisance.” Cavuto really disliked taking orders from this man. Trapped in the tangled mesh of this spider’s web of corruption, his options were limited to carrying out distasteful orders or giving up his life. Some days, the latter seemed more attractive. This was one of those days.

  “OK, do you understand what I want, Cavuto?”

  “Ahhh…one question-does your order include Alejandro?”

  “No, you idiot! I’ll deal with him myself. Aguilera, her detectives, whoever checked in the evidence, the captain and crew of the boat, and Benilo, especially Benilo- disappear all of them.”

  Humberto smiled around his cigar and hung up knowing that his control over Cavuto guaranteed his orders would be carried out. He contemplated how simple and pleasant his life would be after the old ME Benilo was gone. For years now, Arturo had been a thorn in his side and a constant threat. The old man knew too much from too many years ago. Perhaps Tomaso Aguilera should follow Benilo to the grave…but one old nemesis at a time.

  Momentarily turning his attention back to the sleeping woman, Humberto decided his troubles with this growing, cancerous problem of the dead foreigners was in Cavuto’s efficient hands now. He must trust his lieutenants, but once again, he wondered why Alejandro had used that cursed lock on the bodies. Of course, Alejandro had no idea of the lock’s history, or so he said. Perhaps it was just as he’d insisted. “The lock was conveniently at hand and time was of the essence in cleaning up the mess Cavuto’s people had made.”

  Again staring at the shapely beauty lying in his bed, he considered gratifying himself once more, but at his age, sleep had become nearly as important as sex. He climbed back into bed, and as he curled about her form, sleep won out.