“If you mean the spareribs and fried rice, yes. As for what the young Dr. Sardina had to say, I’m still getting over it.”
“He certainly had a litany of negative things to say about Dr. Vasquez. I wonder to what extent his claim that Vasquez made inappropriate advances to his wife colors his view.”
“I wonder the same thing, Jessica.”
“Care to come with me to meet Oona?”
“No, I think I’ll catch me a nap.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” I said. “I’ll check back in with you when I return.”
I left plenty of time between leaving the hotel and meeting Ms. Mendez so I could take the historic Tampa streetcar to Ybor City as Dr. San Martín had suggested. Up to now, my plan for a week of R and R in Tampa following my hectic book tour had involved neither rest nor relaxation, and I was determined to change that. It was a lovely, crystal clear day in the city, and it felt good to be on my own, breathing in the fresh air and feeling the sun’s warmth on my face. I picked up a map from the concierge and figured out where the closest streetcar stop was, only a few blocks from the hotel. I waited with a group of tourists until the next car came along, its bell clanging, the sound of its wheels on the rails and the brake the motorman applied reminding me of San Francisco’s famed cable cars. I took one of the hardwood seats—whoever designed them did not have comfort in mind—and we lurched forward, passing the imposing Tampa Convention Center and the Tampa Bay History Center building, grinding to a halt at the Florida Aquarium, and then up to Ybor City, the Ybor Channel on the right, until reaching Eighth Avenue in the heart of this unique section of Tampa.
A brochure I took from the trolley told me that Ybor City was settled in 1886 by cigar makers Vicente Ybor and Ignacio Haya, who’d moved their thriving cigar-manufacturing business to Tampa from Key West. With a railroad, a port, and a climate that functioned as a natural humidor, cigar manufacturing flourished, turning Tampa and Ybor City into the cigar capital of the world. That lasted until the 1960s, when embargos against Cuban tobacco and declining cigar consumption sent the cigar-manufacturing industry into a steep decline.
Despite the hard benches of the streetcar, I thoroughly enjoyed the ride along the redbrick streets, taking in the large old-fashioned globe streetlamps and the period buildings with their wrought-iron balconies. I got off at a stop near the Don Vicente de Ybor Historic Inn and browsed this former real estate office that was built by Vicente Ybor in 1895. It became a health clinic until a businessman converted it into an inn in 1998. It was like stepping into an earlier era, and I could almost hear the voices of guests speaking Spanish and detect the scent of their cigars.
After that pleasant break, I walked a few blocks to the King Corona, where Oona was already waiting at an outdoor table. She was smoking a cigarette and had a large cup in front of her.
“Hope I’m not late,” I said.
“Right on time,” she said. “Tea? Coffee? A cold drink?”
“What are you having?”
“Tea, creamy vanilla rooibos tea, red tea, from Africa, a specialty here.”
A waitress appeared, and I told her I’d have the same.
“King Corona’s not fancy,” Oona said, “but it’s good, serves the real thing when it comes to simple Cuban food. Hungry? The Cuban cheese toast is always good.”
“Oh, no, thank you, I just came from lunch.”
“A good one?”
“Lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Very good. Asian.”
“You and Dr. Hazlitt?”
“Yes, and Dr. Sardina.”
Uplifted eyebrows accompanied “Oh?”
“He seems like a nice young man,” I said. “Naturally he’s upset at Dr. Vasquez’s sudden death. I think he must also be uncertain of his future.”
“As we all are. Upset at Alvaro’s death, that is. Your friend forged quite a friendship with Alvaro, didn’t he?”
“Seth? Yes, he did. Dr. Vasquez’s death has shaken him, as you can imagine.”
“I find it interesting that Alvaro shared so much of his research with Dr. Hazlitt.”
“Why? Seth is a medical doctor. It seems natural to me that they would be able to discuss complicated scientific investigations easily.”
“It wasn’t like Alvaro to be open about his work with anyone.”
I smiled. “Seth has a way of inspiring trust in people. He’s a wonderful physician and a fine gentleman. He’s held in very high regard back home.”
“Maine.”
“Yes. Cabot Cove, Maine. Have you ever been up north to New England?”
“I can’t say that I have. Jessica, you do know what my job is here in Tampa?”
“Only what you told me at dinner. Something to do with—”
“The Cuban American Freedom Foundation. Because the U.S. doesn’t have formal diplomatic relations with Cuba, we represent Cubans in America and work to foster better Cuban American relations. Our main office is in Miami; there are more than nine hundred thousand Cubans living there. Tampa has the second-largest community. Our organization works closely with all branches of the U.S. government, including the Treasury.”
“Sounds like an exciting job.”
“Boring most of the time,” she said, and laughed.
But her good humor faded quickly and her expression turned serious. “I’m still grappling with Alvaro’s death. All I keep thinking is how ironic it is that he was killed by lightning. It’s almost as though his charismatic personality acted like a target, inviting the lightning to strike him.”
I wasn’t sure that I agreed with her dramatic explanation of her friend’s death but said nothing.
“He was a marvelous human being, Jessica.”
She blinked back tears, and I thought of what Sardina had said, that no woman was safe from Vasquez’s advances. Had Oona fallen for his obvious charms? Had he been her lover?
“I’m so sorry you’ve lost your friend,” I said. “A sudden death is always difficult to comprehend. You have my sympathies.”
“Thank you,” she said, clearing her throat. She was composed when she added, “Alvaro’s death brings with it certain complications.”
I nodded, listening.
“It wouldn’t surprise you, I’m sure, to know that the Cuban government would very much like his research returned to Cuba. His defection wasn’t taken lightly by Castro and his cronies.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Almost no one has been allowed to leave the country since then, certainly not any doctors or other medical personnel. The loss of Alvaro’s research and the glory it would have brought the Cuban government was a terrible blow.”
Did she know what Sardina knew, that Vasquez’s laptop on which he was thought to have kept track of his research’s progress was missing? Or was it?
I was about to ask when an old man, bent and limping, approached carrying a fistful of cigars. “Cigar?” he asked in a weak, singsong voice. “Best cigars. Robustos, Don Diegos. Cheap, too.”
Oona waved him away.
It was my turn to smile. “Ybor City might not be the cigar capital of the world any longer,” I said, “but they seem to be offered everywhere I look.”
She ignored my observation and said, “I know that Dr. Hazlitt—what an absolutely charming man—was taken into Alvaro’s inner circle, so to speak, and was privy to the status of his research.”
I thought back to what Karl Westerkoch had asked me at the party about how much Seth knew. I had a feeling Oona was probing for the same information, and I was sorry Seth had decided not to accompany me.
“I really don’t know the extent to which Seth was taken into Dr. Vasquez’s confidence, Oona. I suppose you’d best ask him.”
“Yes, of course, I should do that. Did Dr. Sardina have anything to say at lunch about Alvaro’s r
esearch and how far he’d progressed in finding a cure?”
I shifted in my chair and finished what was left in my cup. What had begun as a pleasant conversation about an unpleasant subject, Vasquez’s death, was turning into a bit of an interrogation.
I fudged my answer. “He spoke about it, of course, but didn’t say anything specific.”
“What about Bernard Peters at K-Dex? Have you been in contact with him?”
I’m uncomfortable lying, always have been, and hate being put in a position where it might be necessary. Oona’s questions were best answered by the people involved, Dr. Sardina and Bernard Peters among them.
“Seth and I had a brief chat with him this morning,” I said and left it at that.
“He must be beside himself,” Oona said. “It’s my understanding that his company, K-Dex, has sunk millions into Alvaro’s research.”
“I really wouldn’t know about that.”
“But your friend Seth must be aware of it, considering how close he became with Alvaro.”
I said nothing.
She must have sensed my growing unease with the questions, because she shifted subjects. She leaned closer to me and said, “There’s more riding on Alvaro’s research than money.”
“Well, of course,” I said. “If his research was successful, it would have a major impact on the lives of people with Alzheimer’s and their families.”
“That’s not what I mean,” she continued in the same conspiratorial tone. “The disposition of his research could have serious ramifications with regard to the tenuous relationship we have with Castro’s Cuba.”
“I hadn’t thought much about that,” I said, which was true.
“I’m sure I’m not breaching any secrets,” she said, “to tell you that the Castro regime has stepped up its efforts here in Tampa and Miami to sow discontent among Cuban Americans.”
“I wasn’t aware of that happening.”
“Oh, yes. There are Cuban Americans in both cities whose sentiments are still with Castro. Well, that isn’t strictly true. Some of them don’t pledge an allegiance to anyone. They do it for the money. The bottom line is that the Cuban regime will pay almost anything to get its hands on the research. We can’t let that happen.”
“We?”
“Our government.”
“Are steps being taken to ensure that Dr. Vasquez’s research stays here and doesn’t fall into Cuban hands?”
“Let me just say that the key is to find Alvaro’s notes.”
Did she know about the allegedly missing laptop? It seemed to me that she did.
“Is there a problem finding his reports?” I asked, this time doing the probing myself. Had Peters told her what he’d told Seth and me?
She paused before asking, “Do you know of a problem with that, Jessica?”
“How would I?”
“I just thought that your Dr. Hazlitt might have shared something with you.”
The lame street peddler returned offering cigars and lighters. Oona again told him to leave, but I reached in my purse, withdrew a five-dollar bill, and handed it to him. He opened his almost toothless mouth into a smile and allowed me to take a lighter, a red one, from his hand.
“Gracias,” he said.
“De nada,” I replied.
I examined the lighter. It was similar to the one I’d seen Vasquez use to light his cigars, more like a blowtorch than any lighter I was accustomed to seeing.
“For cigars,” Oona said. “It shoots out a flame.”
I tried it and saw that it certainly did.
“Thinking of taking up cigar smoking?” she asked playfully.
“You never know,” I said, dropping the lighter into my purse and getting up from my chair. “I really should be going.”
“I’m glad you found time for me,” she said, rising and shaking my hand.
“I’m sure we’ll see each other again before I return home,” I said.
She handed me a card on which her office contact information was listed. “Please call me if you hear anything that bears on what I’ve said.”
“I can’t imagine what that might be, but I certainly will stay in touch. By the way, I meant to ask you something about your friend Mr. Westerkoch.”
“Yes?”
“He told me he was a consultant. What organization does he consult for?”
“Various agencies,” she said with a small smile. “Thanks again for coming.”
I watched her walk away and disappear around the corner.
Our conversation had raised more questions than it had answered.
That Dr. Vasquez’s research would have political overtones had come as a surprise, although I suppose it shouldn’t have. I could understand that laying claim to his research would be of considerable interest to the Cuban government, but it seemed to me that the ones with the most to lose were Bernard Peters and K-Dex, unless what Dr. Sardina had said about key-man insurance was true.
A chill in the air reminded me that it was time to get back to the hotel. I was eager to find out how Seth’s afternoon had gone, and if other friends and acquaintances of Alvaro Vasquez were quizzing him. I left King Corona and retraced my steps to where I’d gotten off the streetcar. I hadn’t realized how long Oona and I had talked, and it was starting to get dark. I was alone at the streetcar stop in front of the historic inn, except for a man wearing what the young people call a “hoodie.” He leaned against a building a dozen feet from where I stood, trying, in my opinion, to appear casual. When I looked in his direction, he turned away from me, dropped a cigarette he was smoking, crushed it with his sneaker, and walked away. I watched as he crossed Eighth Avenue and got into a car—a small silver sedan that looked like the one I’d noticed earlier in the day. The car quickly pulled away and sped past me, the driver and young man looking straight ahead.
The streetcar arrived and I slipped onto a bench, gripping the back of the seat in front of me. I was on edge. Ever since arriving in Tampa to meet up with Seth, I’d experienced this sort of unease, nothing tangible, no single incident to which I could point. Of course, witnessing Alvaro Vasquez’s sudden death had played a part, but as upsetting as that was, it couldn’t explain the tension I’d felt before that awful event.
I was relieved when I reached the hotel. The first thing I did upon entering my room was to call Seth. There was no answer, so I left a message. Strange, I thought, that he would have gone out without leaving word for me. I waited fifteen minutes and tried his room again. Still no answer. He’d said he was going to take a nap. Was he still asleep? If he was, he would have awakened to the sound of the ringing phone. Seth was used to being called at odd hours by patients or the hospital and was a light sleeper. I made one more attempt before going downstairs. I poked my head in the bar and restaurant looking for him, before I approached the front desk.
“Did Dr. Hazlitt leave any messages for me?” I asked the young man.
“No, Mrs. Fletcher. Nothing here.”
“I’m concerned about him,” I said. “I’ve called his room three times with no response.”
The young clerk smiled. “He probably stepped out for a while.”
I shook my head. “He wouldn’t do that without leaving me a message. Could we possibly go to his room and see if he’s all right?”
A few minutes later the clerk arrived with an assistant manager, who accompanied me to Seth’s room. We knocked, louder each time. No response. The manager looked at me for approval to use his master key to enter. I nodded.
He opened the door and stepped back to allow me to enter. I did so with trepidation. I’d conjured the dreadful scenario of walking into the room to find my dear friend dead of a heart attack or stroke and drew a deep breath of relief once I saw that he wasn’t there.
“Looks like he decided to take a walk,” said the manager.
“Yes,” I said, “it does look that way. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“Not a problem, Mrs. Fletcher. Better safe than sorry.”
He stood at the door, and I realized he expected me to leave with him, which I understood. It wasn’t my room; to have allowed me to stay would have been a breach of hotel security. I rode down the elevator with him, thanked him again, and went to the lounge. Although I’d peeked in there earlier, I was hoping Seth might have gone in while I was upstairs. I’d just come from the lounge when the concierge, who’d been absent from his post when I’d returned from Ybor City, greeted me. “Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Good evening. You haven’t seen Dr. Hazlitt lately, have you?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. He left about a half hour ago.”
Thank goodness, I thought with a sigh. “Was he alone?” I asked.
“No. He was with someone.”
“Do you know the person he was with?”
He shook his head. “Afraid not.”
“A gentleman?”
“Yes.”
“Could you possibly describe him for me?”
“Regular-looking fellow, wore a suit. He was—I suppose you could say chubby.”
“Thank you,” I said, and headed for my room.
It had taken me time to get over the fear I’d felt when entering Seth’s hotel room. I sat by the window in my suite and tried to imagine whom Seth might have left with, and why he didn’t leave any message for me. The concierge’s vague description had been no help. While I don’t usually track down where Seth is—after all, he’s entitled to his privacy and to make his own arrangements—I decided to call him on his cell phone. I retrieved my phone from my purse and discovered that it was turned off. When I activated it, the tinkle of little bells told me that I had a message. It was from Seth.
“You ought to get in the habit of leaving your phone on, Jessica,” he said. “No sense havin’ one if you don’t keep it on. Anyway, I’m on my way out of the hotel, having a drink with Bernie Peters. He called me and said he had something important to talk about. Would have invited you, too, if you had your phone on. Speak with you later.”
Murder, She Wrote: Prescription For Murder Page 10