“Most killers were once sweet little kiddos, man.”
The bureaucrat shook his head. “Do you know the French phrase ‘Cherchez la femme’? There must be a woman in it somewhere.”
“Forget the French. These folks don’t need any women; they just act like them.”
Padrino scratched his chin. Magdala had mentioned that Victoria had had a crush on Pepito. Maybe the guy in the overalls was right. But then there was that slashed-throat detail, a total fib. As for “Cherchez la femme,” he needed to find out who the woman with the red umbrella was. He fought the temptation to have another drink. It was time to go home and start working the case.
5
Woman with a Red Umbrella
Cell phones had become more popular and affordable (though still available only in CUC) in the last five years, but were still a novelty. After he got home, Padrino inspected Victoria’s. Many of the calls had been made to the same number, marked as “Café Arabia” in the address book. Padrino focused on the last two, placed the morning of her death. One recipient was labeled “Elsa Dieguez.” The other was a number with the area code 00 1 575.
He called the international number first, from his own cell phone. The call went directly to voice mail. “Hi, this is Juan,” said a male voice in English with a heavy Cuban accent. Padrino waited a few minutes and called again. He left a brief message and then dialed Elsa Dieguez’s number. A woman answered right away.
“May I speak to Elsa?”
“Who is this?” She sounded surprised.
“I’m working on a criminal case involving Víctor Pérez Díaz, also known as Victoria Sunrise.” Padrino didn’t add that he was working on his own. “Did you know him?”
There was a short silence.
“Barely,” the woman said.
“I’d like to talk to you about him.”
“Are you a cop?” she asked.
“Not exactly.”
“I don’t have time to talk now,” she said. “I haven’t seen Victoria in ages. I don’t really know her. And as a Spanish citizen, I want a lawyer and a representative from the embassy to be present in any communications I have with the police.”
She hung up. Padrino stared at the phone, speechless. He wasn’t used to this kind of treatment. And was she really Spanish? She’d sounded Cuban to him.
He turned on his computer and Googled her name. He found a Facebook account, which he couldn’t access, and a write-up in the Cuban newspaper Granma: savarria and co. signs contract to sell five hundred computers to the school of medicine in january. “We’re looking forward to a bilateral cooperation,” said Savarria and Co. vice president Elsa Dieguez, a member of the Association of Spanish Entrepreneurs in Cuba.
Savarria and Co. was headquartered in Seville, Spain. The Cuban branch was at 555 Línea Street. Padrino got into his car, a battered VW Beetle, and drove to Unidad 15 in El Vedado. He wanted to talk to Marlene Martínez before he did anything else.
Padrino parked outside the police station and walked through its doors for the first time in years. He and Marlene Martínez had worked together on several cases but hadn’t been in touch since she’d been transferred from Unidad 13 in Centro Habana to Unidad 15 in El Vedado. Padrino didn’t exactly know what to expect when he asked the young clerk to tell Martínez he was there. He was pleasantly surprised when she came out of her small office right away.
“Comrade Instructor, I was just thinking of you!” she said, shaking his hand. “Come on in. We haven’t seen each other in . . . what, two years?”
“Around that long,” he answered. “How are things going with you, mija?”
“Same old, same old. Sit down.”
“I don’t want to bother you if you’re busy.”
“No, no! In fact, I need your professional opinion. I’m dealing with a santera right now.”
Padrino feigned surprise. “Is that so? The religion is taking over!”
“Not so much.” Marlene wrinkled her nose. She’d never been a fan of Santería. “And in this case, I don’t think ‘the religion’ looks too good, considering who’s practicing it. Say, do people who practice mostly wear amulets and stuff when they have things to hide?”
Padrino laughed. “Believers wear their protective ‘amulets’ not only when they want to hide things but rather as a preventive measure. Which means all the time.”
“Ah! Understood. So there’s this old woman . . . Her nephew’s a suspect in one of my murder cases. He had marihuana in his system too. She comes in with a medal this size”—Martínez formed a five-inch circle with her hands—“and keeps kissing it when she thinks I’m not looking. She smells like incense and keeps saying, ‘Siacará,’ which she admits is a Santería word. Should I consider all that a sign of guilt?”
Padrino didn’t answer immediately. Was she talking about Magdala? And why hadn’t his goddaughter mentioned that Pepito was smoking pot? After he’d asked her to tell him everything.
“She may have just been nervous,” he said. “What’s going on with the case?”
“Víctor Pérez Díaz, a transvestite, was found dead.” Martínez retrieved several photos of the crime scene and showed them to Padrino. “In his bathroom, near a wall-mounted cabinet where there were traces of blood. A mirror that used to cover the bathroom cabinet was broken, so we could assume that his head hit the cabinet. But”—she pointed to a picture of the bathroom—“what are the chances of him inadvertently hitting the back of his head against a cabinet that’s been there forever? It’s over the sink, not in the way at all. Someone must have pushed him.”
“Who found him?”
“His lover. He’s not a suspect, though.”
“What about the santera?” Padrino asked, shoulders tensing. “Is she a suspect?”
“No, just her nephew. A screwdriver with his fingerprints was on the kitchen counter. The medical examiner said a blow between the temporal and occipital bones caused Pérez Díaz’s instant death. He could’ve been hit with the tip of the screwdriver, but then the killer tried to make it look like an accident? That santera acted nervous the entire time, and so did the mariguano. Like they were hiding something.”
Padrino had been tempted to mention the stolen cell phone and the pork leg earlier, but now it would only make Pepito look even worse.
“I’m not sure the guy’s guilty, to tell you the truth, but I don’t totally trust his story. Or his aunt’s,” Martínez concluded.
“Is there any way I can help you with this case, mija?”
“You could talk to the santera, find out what she really knows. I’ll give you her address. These people would rather talk to you than me!”
Padrino relaxed. “I can do that. Are there any other suspects?”
“Suspects as such, not really, but there’s some woman who came into the building carrying a red umbrella. It looks like she visited Pérez Díaz, and I want to find out who she is and why she was there. It shouldn’t be too difficult to ask the other neighbors, but people there are tight-lipped, at least with us.”
“Anyone else?” Padrino asked.
“Well, there’s also a Cuban American,” Martínez wrinkled her nose. “Or rather, a Cuban who now lives in the United States. He was going to have lunch with Pérez Díaz, but when he arrived, Pérez Díaz was already dead. He isn’t a suspect either.”
When Padrino left Unidad 15, he had formed a plan. No matter what, Pepito would be locked up for at least a few months because of the maría. It was Padrino’s task to find out if he could shield the boy from a worse fate, though the twerp was a mariguano and a petty thief. If it turned out the woman with the red umbrella was Elsa, he would have something of substance to present to Martínez.
If he was sure the boy didn’t do it, Padrino corrected himself.
He would track Elsa down, visit her office, that Savarria and Co. Since he was
working with the police now, albeit unofficially, she might be more inclined to cooperate. But he still had a bad feeling about this case.
6
Savarria and Co.
When they got back to their room at the Meliá Cohiba, Sharon seemed exhausted. Juan, on the other hand, felt more wired than wiped out. He had gotten some sleep at Unidad 15 and just needed to eat.
He told her the truth, or most of it. He recounted to her his meeting with Víctor, their run-in with Lázaro, his visit to the nursing home, and how he had returned to his friend’s apartment for lunch only to find him dead. Basically the same story he had told the police. As he had when he talked to the police, however, he omitted a few facts. One was Víctor’s admission of his old crush on Juan. After all, he reasoned, it was indeed “water under the bridge” and a private matter. He also left out that Elsa was supposed to have lunch with them that day. At Unidad 15, he’d thought he simply hadn’t wanted to offer extraneous information or involve anyone else in this awful mess. Now, as he talked to his wife, he could see he’d been trying to protect Elsa all along.
“They didn’t accuse me of anything,” he finished. “The lieutenant didn’t even give me a hard time. Guess I don’t look suspicious enough? Or Cuban enough. But I don’t think I can leave the country until they say so.”
“At least you’re free now,” Sharon said. “It could have been worse.”
“You’re right. I still can’t believe—I mean, poor Víctor,” he stuttered, wavering between the relief he felt for himself and sadness about his friend’s death. “If it wasn’t an accident, then his lover must have killed him. But he didn’t have the time, unless he went in earlier or it all happened very, very fast.”
Sharon curled up in bed.
“Was he that mad at Víctor?” she asked.
“It looked like he was mad at me.”
“It’s horrible,” she whispered.
Juan sat on the edge of the bed and hung his head. “If Lázaro did do it, then it was my fault for going back to the apartment. If I’d stayed away—”
“Oh, don’t say that!” She took one of his hands in hers. “You only wanted to see an old friend.”
An old friend who once loved me, Juan thought. He held his wife’s hand tightly. His Sharon, so concerned for him, so sweet and understanding. He didn’t deserve her.
“I should have told you all this yesterday,” he said. “It was just such a shock when I went in asking for Víctor and found—Victoria. And that pride march was something I never expected to see in Cuba, much less take part in. It was surreal. But I should have explained it to you instead of clamming up.”
“I understand, sweetheart. But how come you never heard about your friend’s change? Your community’s not exactly the best at keeping secrets.”
“If I had stayed in Miami, with so many people coming and going, I’d have found out sooner or later. But when I moved to Albuquerque, I lost contact with everyone. And Víctor and I weren’t really on speaking terms until I called him to tell him I was coming.”
She kissed him, her small auburn eyes full of compassion, and he was once again reminded of how much she resembled Rosita. Their bodies were quite different—in fact, Sharon looked far better at forty-nine than Rosita had in her twenties—but there was something eerily similar about their faces. It was the shape of their mouths, which lent them a sense of softness and vulnerability. Juan loved Sharon. He was sorry he had caused her so much trouble with his trip, this special Cuban vacation she had expected to be fun. But in his heart, he realized with a jolt, he still pined for Elsa.
“Why don’t you try to sleep, amor?” he asked.
“I will. But I’m sorry about your friend. I wish I could do something.”
“There’s nothing we can do. I’m going to go back to the nursing home,” he added. “I promised the woman who’s taking care of Abuela that I would come back in a few hours, but—well, obviously, I couldn’t. But she might’ve told Abuela about it, and I don’t want to keep her waiting. Do you want to come?”
“Not now. We could take your grandmother out for dinner, though.”
Almost the exact same thing she had said about Víctor. Juan didn’t want to tell her that, given Abuela’s condition, she wouldn’t be able to leave her bedroom, much less eat at a restaurant. He didn’t want to go over the bleak memory again.
“I’m going to take a nap,” she said with a guilty smile. “I’m fried.”
“Yes, get some rest. Thank you again for coming to get me,” he said, smiling and giving her a quick kiss. “I’ll take a shower to get rid of that unidad smell. That was the first time I’ve stepped inside a police station, and I hope it’s the last!”
Half an hour later, after saying goodbye and tucking Sharon into bed, Juan, freshly showered and shaved, ordered a tall glass of café con leche and two Cuban sandwiches—ham, cheese and pickles—at Cobijo Real and devoured them. How can I be so hungry after everything that’s happened? he berated himself. What kind of insensitive clod was he? He could still see Víctor’s body in Lázaro’s arms—the wound in Víctor’s skull, his fingers curved as if attempting to grasp back the life that had been taken from him.
Poor Víctor, the weakest of the Three Musketeers. Juan hated to think that Lázaro had killed Víctor because he’d been jealous of him, of their friendship. How could Lázaro have misunderstood? But Juan remembered the pained, desperate expression on Lázaro’s face, the way he’d kept repeating “my girl” and sobbing. No calculation or instinct to protect himself from accusation.
It could have been an accident and not a homicide. The lieutenant had acted a bit hesitant, as if she wasn’t too sure herself. The idea that it might have been an accident comforted Juan, made him feel less guilty.
He took a sip of café con leche. What about Elsa? If she’d arrived after the police had gone into the building, seen the cruisers and heard what had happened, she’d probably left. Who could blame her? She might have been looking for him right then! That she had agreed to have lunch with him might mean she still cared for him. Or at least, enough to have a conversation.
Staring at the now-empty dish, Juan had a moment of inspiration. Elsa wouldn’t know where to look for him (unless Víctor had told her Juan was staying at the Meliá Cohiba), but he knew where to find her. He would go by her office. He could both do that and return to the nursing home, he told himself as he flagged down a taxi outside the hotel.
Once he was on Twenty-Third Street, he avoided Coppelia and headed straight for the Art Deco building. He entered the air-conditioned lobby and read the golden nameplates on the doors: cemex, empaques silvert, advanced communications. A rose-scented air freshener tickled the insides of his nose. Canned music filled the hall.
“Can I help you, Señor?” A security guard approached him.
“I’m looking for Elsa Dieguez,” Juan answered, feigning an American accent.
It worked.
“Ah, yes, Savarria and Co.,” the guard said. “Come this way, please.”
The guy led him down a carpeted hall to the door he had been looking for, bearing the same elegant golden nameplate as the rest. Juan had started to sweat, despite the air conditioning. His hands were trembling so much that he had to hide them in his pants pockets.
The two women at the reception desk were in their early twenties. They had long hair, fake gold jewelry and theatrical makeup. The taller one bore a particularly hard expression. She sized him up the moment he came in, making him recall the hotel clerk. Young Cuban women had a certain defiance to them now, an attitude they hadn’t had when he was young.
“How can I help you?” asked the shorter, younger-looking one.
Juan stuttered that he wanted to see Elsa. He forgot to use a foreign accent this time.
“Señora Dieguez isn’t here now,” the older receptionist answered dismissively.
The office was small but clean and well equipped. While he searched for the right words, Juan noticed a computer and a modern landline phone on the desk, along with a framed print with the Savarria and Co. logo (a laptop surrounded by sunrays) hanging on the wall.
“Is there any way I could leave her a message?” he asked.
The women exchanged bored looks.
“Do you have a card?” the older one asked.
He took one out and handed it to her. He hadn’t really expected to use any business cards in Havana when he’d slipped a few inside his wallet before leaving Albuquerque. The receptionist glanced at the address, and her face relaxed.
“I’ll call her personal line and let her know you stopped by,” she said in a more respectful tone.
“Thank you so much,” he said.
She called right away, pronouncing his name and last name carefully and reciting his phone number twice on what seemed to be a voice mail.
“Do you know when she’ll be back?” he asked.
“Possibly after lunch.”
There was nowhere to sit. He wasn’t invited to wait either. He walked to the door, but before closing it, he overheard the taller receptionist saying, “La señora is in high demand today.”
“And by some interesting characters.” The other giggled. “Well, at least this one looks richer than the old mulatto who came by this morning!”
7
Rice Dreams
Rice is a useful grain. The water in which it has been rinsed can destroy bad spells. White rice with guengueré beans is a traditional offering to Oyá.—El Monte
Dear Juan,
You left a long time ago—twenty years and counting—but I’ve never . . .
I’m done. I’m not going to write this stupid letter to Juan. As if he’s the only man in the world! There are others who actually care for me. Last month, my friend Carlota introduced me to her neighbor Armando Bacallao, and she’s been playing matchmaker ever since.
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