Cuba blue Page 6

  “Reyna is making arrangements as we speak.”

  “Good! I hope you two give me grandchildren before I depart this world. It’s the bull who makes the calf.”

  Alejandro understood the insult to the childless Gutierrez who was married to Humberto’s older daughter, Angelique. “I plan to do all in my power to ensure that happens.”

  Each man now leaned back in his chair, a sense of comfort pervading the study as, together, they enjoyed their smokes.

  10

  Aboard the Sanabela

  Qui asked a series of questions where she and Benilo stood over the bodies. “What about the bruising on the bodies? The burn marks. What do you make of it?”

  Instead of giving her a direct answer, he pointed to Denise’s lifeless eyes. “The woman’s green eyes tell a story.”

  “Read it to me then.”

  He continued, “She was repeatedly strangled if you go by the bruises about her throat and the near microscopic splotches of blood in the corneas- petechical hemorrhaging. Look closer.”

  Qui kneeled and stared for a moment at the minute flecks of copper-colored spots. “Repeatedly? I don’t understand.”

  “Brought to asphyxiation again and again, made to black out. To quickly create disorientation, wears the victim down, oxygen deprivation- hypoxia. Most people exhibit symptoms similar to intoxication: euphoria, intellectual impairment, finally a loss of consciousness.”

  “The men weren’t tortured in the same fashion?”

  “No, their bodies were riddled with injection marks.”

  “I didn’t see any injection marks.”

  “Here, shine your light on this.” He leaned over and held up one man’s arm, handing her a small magnifying lens like those used by a jeweler. He added, “See the marks about the armpits?”

  Qui kneeled, examined the marks, and said, “Yes, I see.”

  “I found the same about the genitals and within the recessed area about the naval.”

  “Addicts?”

  “Who shoots up within a few hours all over the body? Someone wants us to think addiction is the root of this evil.”

  “Then my instincts are accurate. The two Americans died a kinder death than the Canadian.”

  “Yes. Without a doubt.”

  “So cruel.”

  “But quite effective.”

  “Then you’ve seen this kind of thing before?”

  “Not in a long, long time.”

  “Where?”

  He paused, “Damn, you’re persistent.” Finally, he added, “Remember, I fought and served at the side of the revolutionary leaders.”

  She stared into his eyes. Was the old doctor pointing a finger at Fidel himself or his henchmen? Why kill a trio of young tourists, especially Americans? An icy finger of fear scraped along her spine. “How far up does this go?”

  “Who can say if it even goes there? Who can say whether they were killed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time or for political reasons? Who knows? Perhaps taken for assassins targeting Fidel himself?”

  “Yeah, they really look like assassins,” she sarcastically replied. “I’ll ask again, does it reach into the regime…if so, how deep?”

  “Careful. Except for the rantings of one tired medical examiner called away from his dinner, you have no evidence it even goes in that direction.”

  “True,” she replied, standing, stretching, and inhaling the odor of sweet tobacco curling about her head; Benilo had lit a pipe, now clenched between his teeth. The ME said, “There are advantages to an outdoor crime scene. For one, you get a view.” He brandished his pipe like a pointer, indicating the horizon. “She was alive when she went in the water.” He said it so calmly that she had to replay it in her head for the significance.

  “How can you tell this with the naked eye?”

  “Educated eye,” he said, index finger to temple. “Come, I’ll show you.” He tamped out his pipe before pocketing it.

  After leading her back to Denise’s body, Benilo had her lean in close and with his gloved hand over Qui’s, said, “Now press hard against the chest wall.” Their hands together, they pressed. “Hard as rock.”

  “Now let go,” he instructed.

  When she did so, Qui found no hand impression, no return of the flesh. “Like touching a wall.”

  “Now do the same with the two men.”

  She followed his suggestion. Qui applied minimal pressure against the male victim’s chest; it was pliable, spongy-just the opposite of Denise’s. The other male’s chest reacted the same, moving eerily, sinking with her touch, then slowly rising as if moved by the breath of life. Fascinated, Qui asked, “Is this always the case?”

  “You can not get that sort of lifelike response from a person whose lungs are filled with sea water. Can’t absolutely prove it, but it’s the obvious guess.”

  Qui swallowed hard, shaken. She’d learned in training that any substance used to excess became poison, and here the poison was her beloved blue sea. “You’ve seen this before?”

  “Yes…during the revolution.” As if confessing for crimes in his own past, Benilo added, “Something struck me as familiar about this scenario from the beginning, actually. Still, can’t prove a thing without an autopsy.”

  “But what did her killers want? What could three tourists possibly know that would result in their being tortured and killed for it?”

  “Tourists generally have one thing desperados are interested in.”

  “Money?”

  “What could they have, these foreigners, but money? But I agree…this elaborate torture and disposal of the bodies doesn’t fit the typical street-thug profile.”

  “I’ll need your autopsy findings as soon as possible to better my aim when I go to point a finger.”

  “Or that blue gun of yours,” he countered. “A Walther PPK 380 isn’t it? Fine weapon. I’m something of a collector.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” No one aboard had missed her blue steel Walther in the gloom of twilight, as it proved the only metal on the old hulk free of grime or rust, and therefore capable of reflecting light.

  “I’ll need a full report and soon,” she reiterated.

  “Hey, Detective, tests take time in a laboratory with too little equipment, outdated materials, and overworked people, but for you, I’ll make it my priority.”

  Even as he grumbled, she knew he ran the best-equipped, most-efficient police lab in all of Cuba, but Qui didn’t challenge him, allowing him instead to itemize his litany of complaints.

  “Thank you, Dr. Benilo, for putting this at the top of your agenda.” Hesitating, Qui added, “And my colonel thanks you.”

  “Yes, I know your colonel well.”

  She suspected that a single word from Benilo could get her removed from this case. “Frankly, I’m convinced that Colonel Gutierrez wants to see me fail,” she confided, “but I’ll prove him wrong, especially now…with your help.”

  “A distinct possibility.” He paused before adding, “How like your mother you are.”

  This silenced her. She knew few people who’d known her mother. Part of her wanted to know all that he held in his memory of Rafaela, the great unknown in Qui’s life. A voice from deep within whispered, Listen now to Arturo…he means you well. The ghost of her mother insisted she pay attention; odd, Qui thought, after all these years of telling her father to stop talking to ghosts, to hear one herself.

  “A warning, Quiana,” Benilo said. “You understand this case will either make your career or put you into the uniform of a tourist cop? Grief will come at you from all directions. This moment decide: fold or play your hand.”

  “I’m going nowhere, Doctor, so just tell me what you need from me.”

  “Allow me to do my job.”

  “I won’t stand in your way.”

  “No matter where the evidence leads-no lies, no evasions, no euphemisms, no cha-cha-cha around the truth?”

  “That’s for politicians.”

  “The
n it’ll be up to us, Quiana, to uncover the truth of these three deaths.”

  “God willing, yes.”

  “If we can do so before we’re made invisible-two more ‘ disappeareds’ just for doing our jobs.”

  “You think you can shock me, don’t you, Doctor?” She ripped away her glove and extended a hand to him.

  Refusing her hand, Benilo instead looked about. “Too many eyes,” he whispered.

  She nodded, instantly realizing that it’d be best that no one think them closer than two professionals.

  No paranoia in Cuba, she thought sadly. It’s just a way of life.

  Music wafted over the marina from other boats, from radios in windows, all the music competing with wild African rhythms and jumping musical notes like hard rain. But one melody came clearer, overpowering, pointed: the haunting sounds of music from the nearby Hotel Valencia street cafe and bar, a familiar tune all over Cuba — ‘I got it bad, and that ain’t good’- a strangely evocative leftover from the big band era before the revolution, a tune that made her imagine moments of peace and passion and warmth and love even as the lyrics proved ironic-in sharp contrast to her case.

  The last time I heard that tune, she recalled, I lay in the arms of Montoya.

  A part of her wished that she were there now, wrapped in the arms of her on-again, off-again lover, Dr. Estaban Montoya. Enraptured by his eyes, his Antonio Banderos voice in her ear, telling her, “All you need is me. We can find bliss as Dr. and Mrs. Montoya. But, only when you abandon this foolish career and make a family.” Another part of her wished for the power to turn back time. She sensed in every fiber that Estrada’s cache of death had already changed her life forever. It could so easily destroy her career as a detective, which in itself frightened her. If Dr. Benilo were right, it could also cause a hailstorm to rain down over all those she loved and cared about, or it could end in her disappearance or death. No one in Cuba was absolutely untouchable except Fidel himself.

  A cool breeze swept in, chilling her, even more than these thoughts. Benilo abruptly interrupted her reverie. “Ehhh, Quiana, time you go do your paperwork.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll finish here. We both have hours of work ahead before sleep.”

  Again, he was right; she’d have reports to complete. “How do you go about describing this on a police report?” She didn’t expect an answer.

  “You fill in the blanks, which is normally all they want of you, Detective.”

  “You’re right, reduce this to simple words on a form. But I am reluctant to shut down the crime scene.”

  “I understand your concern.”

  “Do you really?”

  “Actually, I do,” he fired back. “A good detective is reluctant to give up his…ahhh her crime scene.” He again looked into her eyes. “It’s the poor ones, the ones who only want a paycheck to fill their guts with rum who can’t wait to give up the crime scene. Trust me, you’ve done a far better job than any detective I know.”

  “But is it enough?”

  Together the medical examiner and the detective stood in silence, contemplating one certain fact: the two of them must create a force unto themselves in this complex murder investigation.

  On the dock, Sergio and Tino gossiped with two of the ME’s morgue attendants, who impatiently awaited release of the bodies. While Tino continued swapping stories with the attendants, Sergio’d heard Benilo’s suggestion that they shut down the crime scene.

  When Benilo and Qui finally stopped talking, Sergio abandoned the gossip and asked, “Lieutenant, want a lift back to your car? It’s on my way.”

  “Yes. Give me a minute here.” Qui felt grateful not to have to find transport this late. She turned back toward the now familiar yet still repellant sight of the bodies, “Dr. Benilo, I will call tomorrow to hear what progress you’ve made.”

  “Not likely I will know more until the tests are complete, and trust me, that won’t be tomorrow. But I assure you if something helpful is revealed-” He frowned as if puzzled, then said, “OK, I concede. Call me tomorrow.”

  With this and a quick turn as if to dismiss her, the ME wheeled to talk to his attendants, who’d rushed in with the first stretcher and body bag. The two assistants looked as if dressed for partying, their lively multi-colored shirts surreal-incongruous with this evening’s grisly toil.

  “I will meet you shortly,” said Benilo. “Take extra precautions against bruising and breaking any bones, you fellows. No careless handling. We’re dealing with triple-murder, so gentlemen, fall back on your training.”

  “No Doctor, you needn’t worry with Enrique and me. We know what we’re doing.”

  The one called Enrique scowled at his partner and whispered something that made them both laugh.

  “Do as little harm as possible surgeons and doctors are taught in medical school,” Benilo said to Qui. “They need to teach the same when dealing with the dead. A little respect is all I ask.” Then he again shouted to his men. “Find Dr. Vasquez and tell her it’s going to be a long night. Take the bodies into the autopsy room and leave them.”

  Qui heard Tino ask the attendants, “What else does he think you’re gonna do with three dead bodies?”

  Quick-witted Enrique joked, “Take ‘em to the Palacio de Rio of course.”

  “To the dance floor?” asked Tino.

  “Who else is gonna dance with Pedro?”

  The three laughed raucously at their repartee.

  “I’d rather dance with a real live woman!” said Enrique.

  “Hey, Lieutenant Aguilera,” said Pedro. “Bet you do a mean tango! Why don’t you join us at the Palacio later?”

  Tino waved them off, saying, “She’s too good a dancer for the likes of you guys. Forget it, you haven’t a chance with this lady.”

  Laughter erupted from the men within earshot, even Enrique and Pedro, who’d been the brunt of Tino’s jest.

  Carrying the evidence kit and extra bags, Tino walked over to Qui. “Lieutenant, the evidence is bagged and tagged, ready to go.”

  “Good. Check it in while I start the paperwork, OK?

  “Sure thing. I’m gonna catch a ride with Enrique and Pedro now. They’ll drop me at the station.”

  “Before or after the Palacio?” she kidded.

  Tino laughed in reply just as Pedro slammed the doors, temporarily entombing the bodies.

  Qui felt the sudden heavy silence of that ambulance interior-how effectively it’d ended all laughter and the night music filling the Havana streets. It made her think of the old Spanish proverb: Only the dead know peace. But did they know music, laughter, and the coolness of a breeze in the night? She spent a silent moment in prayer for Denise and her two friends, whoever they were.

  11

  Officer Sergio Latoya drove Quiana toward Old Havana and the police station where she’d early that morning parked on a side street held for official vehicles.

  “Hey, Sergio, this is not a formula one car and you’re not in a race! Slow down or we’re gonna end up on Benilo’s slab.”

  “Oh, sorry Lieutenant. Forgot you’re so fragile,” he retorted, slowing a bit. Sergio spoke of baseball, a passion, and he spoke of Carmela, his very pregnant wife, and his anticipation of the birth of his second child, but he seemed as nervous as if it were his first. “You should get married, Lieutenant. A family is a good thing.”

  “I have a family, my father. Remember?”

  “Hey, he’s your father! Not the same thing! I mean a husband, children. Makes a big difference in your life. Sure, we need a bigger place, but show me working folks who don’t?” A characteristic lighthearted laugh chased his words.

  “Have you been talking to Montoya? Has he bribed you?”

  He expertly wheeled the car around a stalled vehicle. “But really, you should think about it. Time is getting on for you, and Time…that fellow? He doesn’t slow down for anyone, not even for the famous investigator Quiana Magdalena Aguilera!”

  “Stop it, Ser
gio! There is always time! There’re no babies in my immediate future.”

  “Ahhh but kids are fun. They make life interesting.”

  “Somebody else’s kids maybe.”

  “My Carmela, now there’s a woman who loves children.”

  “Me, I’d go crazy having children underfoot all day long.”

  “But the joys of-”

  “Part-time joy suits me just fine.”

  “Part-time?”

  “When a kid gets fussy, hand ’em back to the parents and quickly leave! That’s my policy!”

  Sergio laughed.

  “So how’s Carmela doing anyway? She’s due when?”

  “In a month,” he replied. “Too soon, we’re not ready for the little one yet. Well…she is, but I’m not!” He drove with great elan and abandon, enjoying himself.

  “Thank God we’re here,” she gasped. “Drop me at the door, and I’ll make out a report before driving home.”

  He turned and drove past a series of dark little courtyards and a bar to arrive at the PNR station. He pulled up too fast for her liking, and with a sudden controlled halt, they’d finally stopped.

  “Sergio, we shouldn’t’ve let you take that driving course! You’re a menace now! This isn’t the cinema!”

  “Hey, I saw Bullet twenty four times! Lieutenant, you need help with the paperwork?”

  “Got it covered.” She recalled Benilo’s admonition: fill in the blanks. “Go home to your wife, drive slower!” Qui chided him, laughing. They made a good team, she thought as she got out, bid him good-bye and made for the steps. She turned in time to see Sergio speed off, leaving a trail of dust in the air kicked up by his spinning tires, leaving her wondering how many sets of tires and brakes he’d cost the department.

  She found the stationhouse at this hour a morgue, only a handful of people on duty and these moved like zombies, but she thanked the gods that neither the annoying Pena nor Gutierrez were on hand. She quickly made out her police report on the triple-murder and placed it into the colonel’s in box and was outside again, climbing into her car, fatigue setting in when she saw Tino Hilito rushing to get home as well. He’d obviously taken care of the matter of the chain and lock, as he’d come out of the back door near the evidence cages. He didn’t notice her as she was too far away and too tired to shout.