“So then, you know the circumstances…”
“No…”
“Look, Sole…sorry, Alexis… We don’t want to upset you.”
Maria had intentionally used the name that she went by when she was young. It worked. The young woman burst into tears.
Duquesne and Fernandez let her cry. Maria pushed the glass of water that Alexis had hardly touched closer to her.
“It’s ok. Have some water. She died, and you two loved each other very much. Nothing that you tell us can harm her now.”
“I just don’t want to spoil her memory or tarnish the image I have of her. I assure you that she was a great mother.”
“Did she leave a letter, or any other document to be read after her death?”
Alexis hesitated. A few seconds later, she said:
“Yes, before she died she asked me to forgive her… I assured her that there was nothing to forgive. That’s when she confessed to me that I was adopted, she asked me not to judge her, and she said that she had done it to save my life…”
“And the letter?”
“She said it was in a safe here in Tampa, but she hoped I would wait for five years after her death to read it.”
“And have you read it?”
“I haven’t dared. Besides, it’s just recently been five years. My husband says it’s my decision, but that I should read it, that she wouldn’t have left it if she didn’t want me to know what it says. But it scares me…”
“Why?”
“Because I always sensed that my mother hid many secrets from me, but I never wanted to ask…and now…now I’m afraid.”
That’s when they heard keys in the door, and a tall, handsome man entered. At that second a little voice yelled:
“Daddy’s home!” and a little girl, about five years old, ran to greet him and threw her arms around his neck. The man held her and looked at the detectives, rather unsurprised. Alexis introduced them.
“I knew at some point you would come,” Nicholas Smith said to them.
Maria and Fernandez gave each of them their card and stood up to leave.
“Look, you two talk things over. We’re going to be in Tampa for a short time, and we have to get this cleared up. It would be good if you decided to read the letter. Can we come back at this same time tomorrow or at another time that works for you?”
Mr. Smith walked them out. When he said goodbye, he told them:
“Come back tomorrow night at eight. We will have eaten dinner by then, and our daughter will be asleep. We’ll try to clear everything up then. That will be best thing for my wife.”
Chapter 28
Days 37 and 38—Tuesday and Wednesday,
December 8 and 9, 2015
Maria let Fernandez drive. She was a little nervous driving in unfamiliar cities while also paying attention to the GPS, which indicated the correct lane to be in and where to turn, especially if she wanted to think clearly. She knew that they had finally found the lost child that they had spent over a month looking for and that had consumed her birth mother for decades. In large part, their case was already resolved, but she also wanted to know the story of what had happened during the past twenty-three years and, above all, to try to ease the trauma of their reunion as much as possible.
She was so engrossed in her thoughts that Fernandez had to ask her twice:
“Have you been to Ybor City before?”
“Honestly, no…”
“Then we’ll take advantage of the time we have because there’s a lot to see. How are you on money?”
“The same as always.”
“Would you like to splurge a bit and go to the oldest Spanish restaurant in the city? Don’t even try to object. It’s not like the ones in Miami.”
Maria hesitated.
“Come on, you’ve taught me that when you get some distance from your problems, that’s when things surface and come to light more quickly… Let’s not think about the case tonight. There’s nothing we can do until we go to the Smiths’ house tomorrow.”
They stopped by the hotel so that Maria could change clothes and, a half hour later, they met in the lobby. With his characteristic efficiency, Fernandez had made a reservation at Columbia’s, founded in 1905 by Casimiro, a Cuban. The establishment had stayed in the family for five generations, in good times and bad. Now, it was in a magnificent Spanish-style mansion, with a fountain in a central patio around which were some twenty tables as well as private dining rooms. The temperature was still pleasant outside in early December so they chose a table on the patio.
“Do you prefer a mojito or a daiquiri? They’re both excellent here.”
Maria had thought she would order a glass of wine but the enthusiasm in her partner’s voice made her change her mind.
“Whatever you recommend.”
“Let’s get a pitcher of mojitos. They’re exquisite here with real mint. They’re as good, if not better, than the ones from Bodeguita del Medio. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.”
Maria ended up letting Fernandez choose what they would eat. They brought her the best tasting garbanzo bean soup that she had ever eaten in her life and later they shared three tapas: one of garlic shrimp; another of piquillo peppers stuffed with mushrooms, chorizo, and jamón serrano covered with Manchego cheese; and then chicken croquets that were even better than her grandmother’s. As they savored the delicacies and the second pitcher of mojitos, their conversation became more animated. They talked about Jose Marti and his relationship to the cigar factories in Ybor City, their favorite restaurants in Miami, and their favorite music. Not once did they mention anything about the case or their work. Maria was impressed more and more by Fernandez’s knowledge and expertise. She had never paid much attention to him before he had been randomly chosen to help her. She felt bad about that and promised herself that she would get to know the younger people in the department better.
When they came by with the dessert menu, Maria was certain she couldn’t eat another bite, but Fernandez insisted that she try the mango mousse pastry.
The first taste took her back to her childhood; her parents would take her to the beach on Sundays in the summer and her mother would always pack mangos with their lunch. She loved to eat them and let the juice drip down her chin before wading into the water to rinse it off. One time she saw her father slurp up the golden juice with a kiss, just at the point where her mother’s bathing suit covered her breasts. She had felt a little bit of embarrassment mixed with jealousy. Afterwards, whenever her mother offered her a mango, she gladly accepted it and, years later, as she had learned from her mother, she continued to savor the sweet tropical fruit by the sea.
The whole thing brought back such a vivid memory of her mother that she thought she might break down with one of those unexpected crying fits, but it soon occurred to her that she was in the process of returning a lost daughter to her family, and her mother would be glad to know that she had solved the case.
Fernandez asked for the check. They both took out their credit cards and split the bill. They left in silence. Maria suddenly felt a chill. She had the strange feeling that something important was about to happen. She knew that her work as a detective was based on thorough investigation more than anything else, but there was also a part that was pure intuition. And something was up.
Instinctively, she looked at her phone even though she hadn’t heard it ring during dinner. In fact, she had a short message.
“Let me know where I can meet you two tomorrow at eight in the morning.”
It was from Nicholas Smith, the husband of Gladys Mercedes/Soledad Alexandra/Alexis.
Maria replied and asked him if he would like to eat breakfast with them in the hotel. He accepted immediately.
Detective Duquesne couldn’t fall asleep. Between having eaten a larger dinner than she was used to and the curiosity about w
hat Smith was going to tell them in the morning, she tossed and turned in the bed, but never managed to drift off. She tried to read, play Solitaire on her phone, and watch TV. She wanted to call her dad, but didn’t want to wake him and startle him at that hour. It wasn’t until after three o’clock in the morning that she finally managed to fall asleep.
Although she barely got any rest, the next morning she felt refreshed after a shower, a cup of coffee, and with the expectation of their upcoming visit. Before eight o’clock, Fernandez and Maria were waiting anxiously in the lobby.
They finally saw Smith arrive. After exchanging the obligatory greetings, they sat down at the most private table they could find in the hotel restaurant.
“I’d rather order à la carte than eat from the buffet,” Maria said with the hope that the rest would do the same to avoid everyone getting up for food repeatedly from the buffet.
All three chose the continental breakfast of orange juice, coffee, and a small basket of rolls.
The detectives didn’t want to pressure their visitor although they were both anxious to hear what he had to say.
After his first cup of coffee, he finally began to speak.
“So, I wanted to see you before tonight because I want this issue to be as painless for my wife as possible. She’s already suffered enough.”
“We want the same for her,” Maria assured him.
“You’ve found her parents?”
Maria hesitated, but was frank.
“We think so, but we can’t confirm it without a DNA test. Do you have any information that might help us?”
“Alexis and I both lived in Tampa, but ironically we didn’t meet until the summer before she left for Notre Dame. I was in my second year there, and I was back in Tampa on break. We fell madly in love. Not long afterwards, her mother became ill. It was pancreatic cancer, and we knew from the start that it was terminal and, in fact, she barely lived for a couple of more months. Soledad and I got along well, and it comforted her to know that she wasn’t leaving her daughter behind and alone. One day, she whispered to me that she wanted to talk to me, that she needed to see me by myself. They had already decided to take her to hospice, but she asked them to wait until I got there, and she had even refused the morphine that would have helped with the discomfort. The cancer had spread to her bones, and she was in a great deal of pain.”
Smith paused to finish his coffee.
“She struggled to speak, but she told me what she loved most in her life was her daughter. I nodded and told her not to worry about trying to say anything, and that I promised I’d take good care of her, but she needed to tell me something. She told me that Sole—that’s what she always called her in private—was not her daughter. Two days before, right in front of me, she had told her that she was adopted. My wife didn’t seem too surprised by that, and she assured her that she had been the best mother in the world and that she had no other mother besides her. But her mother told more of the story.”
Smith refilled his coffee cup, added cream to it, and stirred it slowly as if buying time to choose the right words.
“She told me that she had stolen her daughter when she was a baby. ‘It was to save her life’ she repeated over and over. I couldn’t get over my astonishment. I knew that the woman was dying and didn’t want to go to her grave with such a secret. She then told me that she had written a letter to her daughter a couple of months before when she had been diagnosed with cancer. She entrusted me with where she had hidden it, and asked me to give it to Alexis once I felt that she could grasp what she had confessed and forgive her. I told her that in order to be able to do that, I would need to read the letter first. She gave me permission to do so, but not before I swore to her that I wouldn’t share its contents with anyone.”
Maria and Fernandez hung on every word that the man uttered. She knew that the letter held the answers to their investigation. Smith continued.
“I didn’t want to read it until after the funeral. I read it several times and kept it in a safe deposit box in a bank. I still didn’t think Maria was ready to know the truth, and, shortly after we got married, she got pregnant with our daughter. We hadn’t planned on it, imagine, with us both studying, but we love her very much and she helped Alexis get through her depression after the death of her mother. Still, sometimes Alexis would complain about how her mother had left her with so many unanswered questions. Finally, I let her know about the letter, but I lied and told her that her mother requested that she wait five years before she read it. I also didn’t tell her that I had read it. Yesterday, when she went to the kitchen to get you water, she called me and told me that you were there. Truthfully, I was waiting for the police to come eventually. So, I ran to the bank before it closed and took out the letter and made three copies of it. Last night, after you left, I gave the original copy to my wife. Alexis hasn’t been able to take it all in yet, and she couldn’t bring herself to go to work. She never misses work… I just left our daughter at daycare and the woman who takes care of her in the afternoons is going to pick her up later. When we’re done here, I’ll go back to Alexis and I’ll call you later to tell you if she is in a state where she can speak to you this evening. However, I’ve brought two copies of the letter so that you can read it, but on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“I want you to read it in front of me and then return it to me. You can’t copy it, photograph it, or take notes. When you see my wife, only she can authorize whether or not you can have a copy of the letter.”
The detectives agreed. They left the restaurant and sat in the comfortable lobby, quite empty at mid-morning. Smith gave them each an envelope, and they both began to read Soledad’s letter written to the daughter she had raised.
Chapter 29
Day 38—Wednesday, December 9, 2015
Beloved Mija:
I don’t know if I have the right to call you mija. The first thing I ask is that you not judge me and that you don’t hate me. You are the person that I’ve loved most in my life, but I have probably hurt you a lot, I don’t know. I’ve wanted to tell you these things many times. I was afraid you’d reject me, that I’d lose you, that you wouldn’t understand me and I always kept putting it off for later. Now that I am sick with cancer and I am going to die, I still don’t have the courage to tell you things face to face so I’m writing them to you, even though I don’t know how to do it so that you will read it at the best moment, or whether it’s even possible for there to be a good moment to learn about so many secrets.
Where to begin? I suppose at the beginning. My mother was a prostitute. I was born in Puerto Rico. I never knew who my father was. I don’t think that she did either, and she didn’t even get me a birth certificate. So legally, I didn’t exist. She wasn’t bad to me. In her own way, she loved me. She was completely uneducated. She didn’t know how to read or write, but I went to a little neighborhood school and I learned. From that point on, I was helpful to her with many things and I think that’s why she was acting better with me. What I mean is, now and then she would give me a peseta for lunch or she would buy me a toy for my birthday or for All King’s Day. I became a woman or rather I got my first period at about twelve years old. I began to develop and the men who visited her would look me up and down. She would immediately send me to some neighbor’s house. She never allowed one of those guys to lay a hand on me. But there was one who wouldn’t give up. One night when she thought I was asleep, I heard them talking. He offered her a large sum of money, I think about five thousand dollars, which at that time—and for my mother—was a fortune, and he promised her that he would marry me and treat me like a queen. I was fifteen years old! I was very scared, but I was sure that the guy was drunk and that my mother wasn’t really going to sell me. I fell asleep. The next morning she was more affectionate than ever with me and I felt happy. I thought that this man’s proposal had made her realize that she lov
ed me…she even came to pick me up from school that afternoon and she bought me a new dress. That evening, for the first time that I ever remember, she kissed me goodnight.
I don’t know what happened next. They must have given me some type of drug, because when I woke up I was in a shitty hotel. I began to scream and yell for my mother. She never came. The truth is, I never saw her again or even heard anything else about her. Instead, the scumbag that had bought me for five thousand dollars was there. That same morning he raped me. I was a virgin and I think that’s what attracted him. He fed me well, he didn’t hit me or say ugly things, but when he had sex with me I was repulsed. In the days that followed, other girls arrived, all young and virgins, and some days he’d leave me alone, although later he took to having us girls fondle each other and kiss each other on the mouth while he watched and masturbated. In short, I don’t want to give you any more details about that period of my life that was so brutal and yet, somehow, managed to get even worse.
When there got to be about five, six, or seven young girls—I don’t remember how many—he took us to New York. It never occurred to me to think about how he got me papers. In order to travel he got me an ID that even had my picture. I didn’t know anything about those things back then. Eventually we got to a house with many rooms, decorated with flashy colors, some red, others violet, with a big lounge and a bar. That’s where the Madame met us, gave us provocative clothing, and a series of lessons and warnings. So basically, that lowlife had purchased us in order to exploit us as prostitutes. At first, I suffered a lot, and I even thought that the guy had stolen me and that my mother would come rescue me, but eventually you get used to it… In the worst moments, I would think about the beaches in Puerto Rico…Luquillo…Isla Verde…so pretty… But not everything was all bad. The girls and I made friends, especially the Hispanics, because there were also Asians who would hang out separately. After sleeping in the mornings, we would talk in the afternoons, and we would cry and laugh together. We even planned how we would escape.
The Miracle of Saint Lazarus Page 15