Devil in a Black Suit: A Shelby Nichols Adventure

by Colleen Helme

  “I don’t have a lot of details. All I know is that it happened in the nineties after the collapse of the Soviet Union and the horrible economic conditions it placed on the Cubans. It was bad enough that people were starving. Rafael was in the Cuban military, and he began to speak out against the Cuban government. He must have been somewhat successful, because he got the attention of some Cuban-Americans in the states, and they alerted our government.

  “Apparently, we sent him funds to help his cause and bring down the regime. But the wrong people must have found out, and they tried to stop him. Luckily, he managed to get out of Cuba with your family before that happened. I guess he thought he was safe in the states, because he kept speaking out and making plans with some of the Cubans who’d immigrated with him.

  “Sometime after that, their group was attacked, and Rafael was taken. One of the men witnessed his kidnapping and barely escaped with his life. He asked the U.S. government to intervene, but when our people inquired about the incident, the Cuban government denied any such thing, and there was nothing else they could do.”

  “Do you know who this man was?” Ramos asked.

  “No. I’m afraid not. Why? Do you remember something?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think I may have met him. In fact, it wasn’t long after my father disappeared that a man came to see us. He arranged and paid for our move from Miami to Orlando. I’ll bet anything that it was the same man.”

  Ramos didn’t remember much about that time, but he did remember getting help from an older man whose face was a mask of bruises. “I think he came to see us in Orlando a couple of times after that, but then we never saw him again.”

  Sloan nodded. “I guess it could have been him.”

  Ramos didn’t know if the man was still alive, but it would be nice to talk to him if he was. There was so much he could learn from him about his father. “How did you find out about all this?”

  Sloan glanced away. “There was an opening for some covert assignments here in Cuba, and I applied. It was right up my alley because I’m Latino, and I speak fluent Spanish. It puts me in high demand for this sort of thing. Anyway, while I was prepping, I managed to get my hands on some files of the Cubans who had fled the country during that time.”

  Ramos glanced sharply at her, and he knew the only reason she’d gone to all that work was because he’d told her a little about his past. “But how did you connect the names? I never told you my real name was Ramirez.”

  She shrugged. “I may have looked you up in our database.”

  Ramos tensed. After he’d left Orlando, he’d hired an attorney to legally change his name. But he didn’t know he could be found on a government database. “What do you mean?”

  Sloan let out a breath and stood, pacing to the windows overlooking the square. “It’s all there for anyone working in the government to see. You have a juvie record under Alejandro Ramirez. That’s the file you found in my apartment, but it’s sealed, so I don’t know what happened to you, or why you left Orlando. But later on it shows that you legally changed your last name to Ramos.”

  He wasn’t sure he believed her. “Is there more?”

  “Not officially,” she said, then turned to face him. “You may have been a person of interest in a few outstanding cases, but that doesn’t mean you’re guilty of anything.”

  “That’s good to know.” He wouldn’t be surprised if he was flagged for possible criminal activity, and he sure as hell didn’t want anyone taking a closer look. Of course, they had to have some intel on him since Sloan had involved him with her deal in Mexico. Did that mean they might try to build a case against him in the future? His stomach tightened. Why had he ever helped Sloan?

  “Don’t worry,” Sloan said. “You earned some points for helping me in Mexico, so I don’t think anyone will come after you…as long as you keep your nose clean.”

  As reassuring as she tried to make that sound, it didn’t help much.

  She came back to the couch and sat down. “Anyway, back to your father. After searching through the Cuban files, I happened upon one with the name ‘Rafael Ramirez’ on it. All of your family’s names were listed there, along with the day you came through immigration and were granted asylum. That’s when I put it together and told you about it at Christmas.”

  Ramos nodded and glanced at Sloan. There was nothing he could do about her involvement in his life now, so he might as well see where this went. “So, where do we go from here? How would I find out what happened to him?”

  “Well, you’re in luck. I have a copy of your father’s file in my room. I brought it with me in case I had time to look into it while I was here. There are a few addresses in it, and I think one is an address of where you lived here in Havana. There’s also another one for some relatives, possibly your grandparents. Who knows, maybe they’re still there?”

  Ramos found it hard to take a breath. He had grandparents that could still be alive? He’d spent most of his life alone. It was hard to believe he had family at all. When he’d found his brother, it had changed him, but this? Could he even hope they’d be there?

  “I’ll get it and be right back.”

  He barely heard her leave. Knowing he had relatives who might know what had happened to his father sent shock waves through him. Could his father be alive after all? If he’d been in prison, Ramos hated to think he was still there, but if he’d ever been released and gone looking for his family, he never would have found them. With his mother dead, and both he and his brother changing their names, it would have been impossible.

  Could it really happen after all this time? As much as he didn’t want to be disappointed, he couldn’t stop the small sliver of hope that blossomed in his chest. He let out his breath and stepped to the window to look out over the city.

  He inspected the buildings and streets for anything that seemed familiar, but came up empty. He was only seven or eight when he left, and he barely remembered anything from that time. This city was just as foreign to him as any other new place although, he had to admit, it was a lot more colorful.

  Still, he felt no kinship or feeling that he was home. Of course, that might have something to do with what had happened to his father. If Rafael had been kidnapped and killed because of his ties to Cuba, then Ramos wanted nothing to do with this place.

  He picked up his duffel bag and emptied the contents, hanging the dress jacket and a couple of shirts in the closet, and slipping the rest of his clothes into the dresser drawers. That task completed, he made sure his passport was safely tucked into his jacket pocket, along with the cash he’d brought.

  A light knock sounded at the door, and Sloan came back inside carrying a folder. “Here it is.” She handed him the folder, and he could hardly tear his gaze away from the sight of his father’s name typed across the tab.

  “I’ve got to go,” Sloan said. “And I probably won’t get back until late, but we can spend some time on it tomorrow.”

  “Sure.” He glanced at her. “Thanks for this.”

  “Of course.” She caught his gaze and stepped close. The light scent of her perfume brought unbidden memories of the short time they’d spent together all those months ago. Her eyes darkened with desire, and he dipped his head close enough to catch her lips with a teasing kiss.

  She reached up and caressed his cheek before dropping her hand and pulling away. “You’re making it hard to leave.”

  He smiled, hoping she couldn’t see the effort it took for him to let her go. “That’s the idea.”

  She shook her head, then gave him a saucy smile before leaving the room.

  Chapter 10

  After the door closed, Ramos let out a breath. She tempted him more than he let on, but that wasn’t why he was here. Maybe they could spend a day or two together after this was over. Wait, that was stupid. He couldn’t fall into a relationship with Sloan. It wasn’t a good idea, even here in Cuba where she couldn’t arrest him.

  Too bad he couldn’t turn off the de
sire that tugged at him every time he was with her. Grateful for the distraction, he took the folder to the small desk in the corner beside the billowing curtains, and pulled it open. The first thing that met his gaze was a photo of his father, probably taken the day they’d arrived in the states.

  A shiver ran down his spine. Ramos had forgotten what his father looked like, but the similarities between them caught his breath. It also struck him that, in this photo, his dad was probably the same age as Ramos was right now.

  He set the picture down and glanced through the paperwork, finding the form with his family’s names and dates of birth. The next few pages consisted of copies of legal documents. The last page stated that his father had been a high-ranking officer in the Cuban military.

  There was also a contact name listed of a Cuban-American in the states. The name was Geraldo Perez, and it stated that he had alerted the authorities to Rafael’s kidnapping. He must have been the man who had helped his family after his father had disappeared. So why hadn’t Geraldo told them the truth about his father’s kidnapping? Maybe he’d told his mother and she’d kept it from him?

  Below that, two addresses were listed. One was his family’s former residence in Havana, and another was a contact for their next-of-kin. As Ramos read the names of his grandparents, a brief memory of sitting beside his grandmother came to his mind. He could almost hear her telling him to quit running off and be a good boy. He seemed to remember that she was always getting after him for something.

  He closed his eyes and tried to remember more, but nothing else came. Maybe, once he found the house, it would all come back.

  With growing excitement, he entered both addresses into his phone and used the app to find out how far away they were. He realized that the address of his home wasn’t too far away from his hotel. Bursting with anticipation, he grabbed his black leather jacket and left the room.

  It was close to six o’clock, and people jammed the streets, looking for places to eat and drink. The breezes coming off the ocean had turned cool, but pleasant. Most people wore the clothes and hats of tourists, so it was easy for him to differentiate between them and the native Cubans.

  Slipping on his leather jacket, and wearing his jeans and a t-shirt, he fit in more with the Cubans. That brought a smile to his lips, and he decided to walk rather than take a taxi. The cobblestone streets in Old Havana were narrow anyway, and he wanted to get a feel for the place.

  The sounds of a rumba-riff came from the side of the street, and he stopped to watch a man play his guitar. The strum-beat had a great rhythm, and he got caught up in it, moving his head to the tempo. The smells of tobacco were strong, and he could hardly keep up with the rapid Spanish that the natives spoke.

  A few minutes later, he moved down the road and came upon a large open plaza filled with people and a small fountain bubbling in the center. The buildings surrounding the plaza were colorful and combined a baroque architecture with columns of blues, reds and yellows.

  He continued through the center of this plaza and exited on the west side. The neighborhood he was looking for was called The Vedado, which meant “forbidden” in Spanish. As he got further away from Old Havana, he could see that this area was rich in historical relics of the past.

  While many of these mansions had been turned into state offices and embassies, there were still several that were single-family homes. From the looks of them, they were on the more privileged side of the spectrum, even though everyone here was supposed to be treated equally.

  He found the home he was looking for halfway down the street from a fenced-in “Casa Particular” which housed several families on different floors. The home he stood in front of was easily the most well-kept in the neighborhood, and looked like it had been recently updated.

  What kind of family could afford to live in a place like this? Certainly it couldn’t have belonged to his family? Nothing about the place brought memories to him of living there. Of course, if it had been re-done, that could explain it. Still, nothing about it seemed familiar. Wouldn’t he have some memory if he’d lived there?

  He stood in front of the house for several minutes, trying to decide if he should knock at the door. Then the door opened. A woman came out and stood on the broad porch.

  She started toward the low gate between him and the house. “Are you lost?” she asked. Her kind face showed a few wrinkles, and her short, curly hair was streaked with silver. His breath caught to think that she could have easily been his own mother. She spoke in English, so Ramos knew he looked more American than he’d thought.

  “I don’t know. I think this is the house I’m looking for, but I’m not sure.”

  Her brows drew together. “What do you mean?”

  Ramos smiled and shook his head apologetically. “I’m sorry. I had information that this home once belonged to a man by the name of Rafael Ramirez. Have you ever heard of him?”

  Her smile faded, and her sharp gaze took in his features. Then she shook her head. “No. I don’t know that name.”

  Ramos knew she was lying. But why? “He was an officer in the Cuban military, does that help?”

  She took a deep breath and cocked her head. “Why are you looking for him?”

  “Oh, I’m not looking for him. He died a long time ago. I was just wondering if any of his family was still here.”

  His explanation satisfied her, and her smile returned. “Now that you mention it, the name does sound familiar. He may have served with my husband at some point. Vincente served for many years before he transferred to an office job. Perhaps that is the connection.”

  Hope flared through Ramos’s chest. “If he knew Rafael, I would like to speak with him. Is that possible?”

  “Maybe. But first, you must tell me who you are, and why you want to know.” She smiled and waited for his reply.

  Ramos didn’t think telling her his given name, along with his relationship to Rafael was a good idea, so he stuck with the truth as it was now. “My name is Alejandro Ramos. I was born here in Cuba, but my parents took me to America when I was just a kid. They’re both dead now, but Rafael was my father’s cousin.” He smiled. “They told me he disappeared a long time ago, and I was curious about what happened to him.”

  From her frown, he wasn’t sure using the word “disappeared” had been a good idea. Probably because that was the word they used to explain what happened to people who criticized the regime. “Is your husband at home?”

  As she considered it, her lips thinned. Then she said, “Wait here. I will ask if he will see you, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

  “Thank you.” Ramos watched her enter the house. With a sigh, he turned and paced along the sidewalk in front of the house, his nerves on edge. Talking to this man shouldn’t get him in trouble, and from the way the woman had spoken, he was pretty sure this man had known his father. Maybe they both had.

  Ramos had almost given up when the door opened, and an older man stepped onto the porch. He glanced at Ramos and stopped short, then proceeded down the steps and toward the gate. He wore long, khaki pants and a button-up, short-sleeved shirt of nearly the identical color. If Ramos were to guess, he’d think it was a uniform of some kind.

  His dark hair had more gray in it than his wife’s, but he stood tall and walked toward Ramos like someone holding a great deal of authority. Stopping at the gate, he nodded and, although his lips tilted up, it was more of a grimace than a smile. It didn’t surprise Ramos. This man’s stony face gave the impression that he’d rather chew nails than crack a smile.

  “Hello,” he said. “When my wife told me you were asking about my old friend, Rafael Ramirez, I had to come and see you for myself. I haven’t heard that name for a long time. Yanara said you were related?”

  “Yes,” Ramos answered. “I’m Alejandro Ramos. Rafael Ramirez was my father’s cousin. So you knew him well?”

  “Yes. We were in the military together.” He swung the gate open and motioned to Ramos. “Come in and we’ll
talk. Let me introduce myself, I am Vincente Garcia.” He held out his hand for Ramos to shake.

  Ramos shook his hand, noting his firm grip and penetrating gaze. Vincente was nearly as tall as Ramos, but not quite as broad or strong. Still, his gaze left Ramos in no doubt that he commanded the situation and only spoke to Ramos because he wanted to.

  “We will sit here on the porch, and I’ll have Yanara bring us something to drink.”

  Ramos murmured his thanks and sat down in an old, comfortable chair. Vincente went inside and returned a moment later with Yanara following. She held a tray with two glasses, along with a bottle of rum, and set them on the small, round table between the chairs, then went back inside.

  As she left, Vincente thanked her and poured the liquor into their glasses, then he raised his glass in a toast. “To Rafael.”

  Surprised, Ramos raised his glass as well. After clinking them together, he took a small swallow of the amber liquid, noting how smoothly it went down. Then he held the glass in his hand and waited for Vincente to start the conversation.

  “So, tell me about yourself,” Vincente began. “My wife said you were born in Cuba?”

  “That’s right, but I was young, and I don’t remember much.” Ramos didn’t want to talk about himself, so he changed the subject. “So you were in the military with Rafael? What was he like?”

  Vincente swirled the amber liquid around in his glass before taking another sip of his drink. Then he pulled a famous Cuban cigar from his pocket and lit it up. He offered one to Ramos, who politely declined. After taking a few puffs, he sent Ramos a quick glance and then continued the conversation.

  “Rafael was a good soldier. We were in the same class and came up through the ranks together. He was a stubborn man. Some would say he was full of pride.” Vincente shrugged. “But I think he was full of ideas. He was a thinker…but his ideas got him into trouble. I suppose that’s why he left. After that, I never saw him again.”

  “And was this where he lived?” Ramos asked. Vincente glanced at Ramos like he was waiting for an accusation of some kind. Ramos kept silent, and Vincente’s lips tightened before he nodded.