I called him back only to be connected to his message center. “I’m back in the hotel,” I said. A minute later my phone rang.
“Hello, Seth.”
“Jessica. You called?”
“Yes. I’m sorry my phone was off earlier. You’re with Bernie Peters? I’m disappointed I missed you.”
“Just about to leave. Should be back at the hotel in fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be here,” I said; then, as an afterthought, I added, “Seth, on your way back, please pay attention to your surroundings.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I think we’re being followed.”
Chapter Twelve
“What’s this about us being followed?” Seth asked after we’d been seated at a table in Bern’s Steak House. We’d decided to treat ourselves to a leisurely early dinner, and the concierge had recommended Bern’s, although he did caution that we’d have to dress up, which we did.
“That same silver sedan I noticed when we left the medical examiner’s office was parked near where I was this afternoon in Ybor City,” I explained. “There was a man in the front seat, and another lounging on the street, who I’m sure was observing me. When I looked his way, he got into the car and they drove off.”
Seth looked at me over the top of his menu and raised his eyebrows. Actually, the menu was called the programme du jour, all eighteen pages of it.
“I know,” I said, “you think I’m being paranoid.”
“Not at all, Jessica,” he said. “You know the old saying.”
“Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean I’m not being followed.”
He smiled and returned to reading the bill of fare.
“Seth,” I said, “I have this feeling of unease that I can’t shake.”
He lowered the menu to the table and placed a hand on mine. “We were witness to a shocking event, Jessica.”
“It isn’t Vasquez’s sudden death that has me upset,” I said, “although I know it must be a terrible time for you, grappling with the loss of a good friend.”
“Thank you for understanding,” he said. “I’ve been working hard to get on with life in a normal fashion. As a doctor, I should be accustomed to death—I’ve certainly been exposed to it enough times—but when it’s someone you felt close to”—he paused for a moment to rein in his emotions—“well, then it’s another story.” Seth’s eyes were moist. He coughed to clear his throat and took a sip of water before asking, “So if it’s not Al’s death upsetting you, what is it?”
“It’s the people who are alive that concern me. Today, Oona Mendez kept pressing me about the research and how much you knew about it.”
“What did you say?”
“I said she should ask you directly.”
“Good for you. Not that I would necessarily share any information with her. Why would it be her business?”
“She said she’s looking at it from a government standpoint and told me that there are members of the Cuban American community here who are agents for the Castro regime.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Al felt the same way. That’s why security was so tight at the lab. I’m a little annoyed that Peters and Sardina haven’t kept that up. Careless of them. Probably why the laptop went missing. If Castro comes up with the research results, I blame those two.”
“Even before Dr. Vasquez’s death, Karl Westerkoch questioned me at the party, asking me how much you knew about the research. Bernard Peters, who was kept in the dark despite his and his company’s support of Vasquez and the laboratory, is frantic to find the laptop to ensure the value of his investment. Pedro Sardina has nothing but bad things to say about Vasquez. And now we know that Al wasn’t hit by a lightning strike. You say the way he died is highly unusual, almost medically impossible. I may be making too much of this, but it seems to me that all these things add up to good reason for me to be ill at ease.”
“And there’s that mysterious silver car you say is following you.”
“Yes, that, too.”
“Well,” he said, “it’s not as though I haven’t been havin’ some of the same feelings. I had an interesting time with Bernie Peters.”
“That’s right. I forgot to ask about it. I’ve been so busy with my own thoughts that everything else gets lost.”
“It seems that Bernie and his lawyers are going to bring a suit against Al and the lab.”
“Can they do that? He’s dead. And what do they base the suit on?”
“They’re demanding an accounting of the research and taking possession of it. Bernie leveled with me. He says he’s invested every cent he has in Al’s research, has almost bankrupted K-Dex, and has even mortgaged his home to keep the money flowing. He’s a desperate man, Jessica.”
“Then Sardina must be wrong about Peters covering his bets with insurance.”
“Bernie says Sardina is not to be trusted. I’m of the same mind. I don’t believe he told us the truth at lunch. I think he lied to us about Al to cover mistakes he made himself or to get back at a boss he didn’t like. Bad-mouthing a man who’s dead is pretty low.”
“In that case, I can’t imagine K-Dex would have any problem prevailing with a suit. Peters’s company paid for the research. It belongs to them.”
“Depends on how the agreement between Bernie and Al reads. Of course, chances are that the laptop is at the Vasquez house. Bernie says he’s being stonewalled by Al’s son, Xavier.”
“Have you tried to arrange a visit? I have a feeling that because you were close to Alvaro, they might treat you differently.”
“No, not yet, but I think it’s time that I did. I’ll call first thing in the morning.”
• • •
“Any luck?” I asked when Seth joined me at breakfast.
“I got hold of Al’s daughter, Maritza. She says her mother still isn’t up to seeing visitors but that it was okay for you and me to come by.”
“Both of us?”
“Ayuh. I said we’d be there in an hour. I think it’s time we rented a car. It’s being delivered here at the hotel.” He looked at the menu. “Too bad they don’t have blueberry pancakes. I could go for a stack about now.”
“They’d never be as good as Mara’s,” I said, referring to our favorite luncheonette in Cabot Cove, where the blueberry pancakes were a specialty.
“True. So I guess I’ll go for an omelet. I’m hungry—always am after I have a big meal the night before. Let’s eat and get moving.”
Before getting into our rental car, I surveyed the parking lot in search of the silver sedan. Seth noticed what I was doing and asked, “Any sign of our tail? That’s what they call it, don’t they, a tail?”
“No sign of it, and yes, they call it a tail. Maybe I’ve been imagining things.”
“Mebbe,” he muttered as he got behind the wheel of our bright yellow Toyota and fumbled while looking for the ignition. “But you’re usually pretty observant.”
“If someone is following us,” I said, “he’ll never lose this car. Couldn’t you find one a little less colorful?”
“Took what they gave me,” he replied as he found where the key went and started the engine, and we headed off for the Vasquez house on Davis Island.
“I feel awkward coming to the house,” I said.
“Why?”
“It’s so soon after his death. You’re sure his daughter said it was all right?”
“Not only said it was all right—she seemed to welcome a visit from us.”
I sat back and took in the sights as we crossed the Hillsborough River on Kennedy Boulevard and eventually came to Davis Boulevard, which took us back across the water, Hillsborough Bay this time, and onto the island. As we pulled into the circular gravel driveway, I saw that one of the black-suited security men stood at the front door, arms folded across his
large chest, a formidable gatekeeper. He grunted as we walked past, but he didn’t stop us and looked on placidly as Seth rang the bell. We heard movement inside the house, and a few moments later a pretty young woman dressed in jeans and a pink T-shirt with sequins at the neckline opened the door.
“Dr. Hazlitt,” she said without smiling. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Hello, Maritza,” he said. “I’m sorry we get to meet again under such circumstances.”
“Yes,” she said solemnly and stepped back inside to allow us to enter. Although it was another unusually chilly day in Tampa, the air-conditioning was going full blast, the way it had been in the limo the other day. I had the macabre thought that a body could be preserved in the house for a very long time, but Maritza seemed comfortable in her T-shirt. I was glad that I’d worn a sweater.
We followed her into the living room, where I was surprised to see Ivelisse Vasquez sitting by a window, a red blanket wrapped around her, her attention directed at the outdoors.
“Mami, it’s Dr. Hazlitt and his friend,” Maritza said.
“Jessica Fletcher,” I provided.
“And Jessica Fletcher,” Maritza said.
Mrs. Vasquez turned slowly and appeared to be trying to focus on us. We approached, and Seth extended his hand, which she took.
“Hello, Mrs. Vasquez,” I said, also taking her hand, which felt like holding a delicate bird.
“Thank you for coming,” Ivelisse said, her voice weak. “Did you know my husband?”
Seth and I glanced at each other before Seth said, “Yes, we met in Cuba, and I’ve spent time with him here in Tampa.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, returning her gaze out the window.
Seth gestured to a footstool next to Ivelisse, but I indicated that he should sit instead. I stood behind him, acutely aware that I was not a close family friend.
“He’s gone, isn’t he?” Ivelisse said absently.
“Al?” Seth said. “Yes, he’s gone. Jessica and I are sorry for your loss.”
Maritza, who’d remained at a distance, approached and said, “Time for some rest, Mami. You need to rest.” She gently helped her mother stand. Seth stood, too, and secured the blanket, which had started to fall from Ivelisse’s shoulders. Maritza led her mother from the room. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said.
“I wonder if Xavier is here, too,” Seth said, looking around.
“I don’t suppose he’s making funeral arrangements yet,” I said. “The medical examiner will want to hold the body until the lab results come back.”
Seth muttered something in response and pursed his lips.
“Do you think that the ME’s finding that he wasn’t killed by lightning has been reported to the family?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Under ordinary circumstances, it would be, but since the ME doesn’t have a definitive cause of death yet, he might hold up informing the family until he does.”
Maritza reappeared.
“I don’t think that my mother has accepted the reality of my father’s death,” she said.
“Sometimes it takes a very long time for that sort of reality to set in,” I said. “I know it did when my husband, Frank, died.”
“Has Mr. Peters come by?” Seth asked.
She made a sour face. “No, he hasn’t,” she said sharply.
“Is your brother here?” Seth asked.
“No. Xavier flew to Key West this morning. He had business to attend to there. He said he’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Would it be okay with you, Maritza, if I spent some time in your father’s office?” Seth asked.
I wondered what her reaction would be to his directness. Would she find it an untoward request?
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll show you where it is.”
“You don’t have to bother,” Seth said. “Your dad and I spent some time there together.”
“No, I’ll go with you,” she said as she led us down a hallway past bedrooms to the rear of the house. “Papi thought so highly of you, Dr. Hazlitt.”
“I’m flattered that he did. And he was very proud that you are following in his footsteps. Are your studies going well?”
Maritza stiffened. “I’m not following in his footsteps,” she said. “My studies are in a completely different area.” As we entered the office she asked, “Is there anything in particular you are looking for, Dr. Hazlitt?”
“No,” Seth said, “I just wanted to think about your dad in this setting. He always seemed especially comfortable here.”
“He always needed a retreat, as he called it, a place to escape, to get away from everything and everyone.”
“Aside from your mother’s shock at his death,” Seth asked, “has she been all right otherwise?”
Maritza’s raised eyebrows, and the stream of air that came from her lips, answered the question.
“Lately, she’s seemed to be, well, a little forgetful,” Seth said.
Maritza shook her head and straightened her shoulders, “Mami is fine, just fine,” she said. “She has what you call ‘senior moments,’ that’s all.” She forced a laugh. “I guess it comes with getting older.”
I knew what Seth was thinking—that in Ivelisse’s case, age in itself didn’t account for her slippages in memory, and that as a medical student Maritza would likely be attuned to her mother’s symptoms. However, it was clear that she didn’t want to believe her mother was failing, or in any case talk about it. “Was it difficult for you to get permission to leave Cuba?” I asked her.
“No. Despite what too many people think, the Cuban government respects when a family member dies, even when it’s in another country. No, I got my card right away; I didn’t have any trouble at all.”
“I’m pleased to hear that,” I said, a little surprised that it had been so easy for her to obtain a white card, allowing her to leave the country. From what I’d read, permission was routinely denied most people, no matter how valid their reasons for traveling out of Cuba.
“I have some things to do,” Maritza said. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be back in a moment.”
“I didn’t think she’d be so defensive about the Cuban government,” I said after she was gone.
“I suppose she’s right about what other people assume about Cuba,” Seth said as he went behind Vasquez’s massive desk, its edges inlaid with small, colorful tiles, and opened a drawer.
“Seth,” I said, “I don’t think you should be—”
He put his finger to his lips. “Just stand by the door and wave if you see her coming back.”
It ran through my mind that I was aiding and abetting something, if not illegal, then certainly questionable. But I did as Seth suggested while he quickly opened and closed drawers in the desk. The last one he opened was the middle drawer. “What’s this?” he said.
“What’s what?”
“This envelope. It’s addressed to me.”
I went to him and looked at the envelope. The handwriting said, “Dr. Seth Hazlitt.”
“It’s Al’s handwriting,” he said as he slipped it into the inside pocket of his tweed sport jacket.
“Seth, I don’t think you should do that.”
“Why not? It’s addressed to me, in Al’s own hand. He obviously meant it for me, so I’ll take it.”
Seth got up from behind the desk and opened a closet, scanned what was in it, shook his head, closed it, and said, “Nothing.” He returned to the desk and slumped in the large leather swivel chair behind it.
“What were you looking for?” I asked.
“Al’s laptop, of course,” he snapped.
“It’s obviously not here,” I said, “at least not in this office, but I’m not surprised. It’s silly to think we could just come in here and find it waiting for us. We don’t even know if he brought it h
ere the day he died. Dr. Sardina said he took it home with him every night, but maybe he’s exaggerating. Besides—and I don’t mean to be critical, Seth—even if we do find the laptop, it doesn’t belong to us. It would be the property of his estate, or belong to Bernie Peters.”
Seth heaved a big sigh. “I know, I know. You’re right, Jessica, and I wasn’t intending to keep it. But if Al achieved some sorta breakthrough with his research, it has to be put in the right hands, people who can carry it further and put an end to Alzheimer’s. Bernie Peters should have the results in his hands. He financed it. What bothers me is that if Al did bring the laptop here every night, then where is it?”
“One of his family members may have taken it,” I offered.
“Makes sense,” he said, “but what do they intend to do with it?”
Our conversation was interrupted when Maritza returned.
“I have a question, Maritza,” Seth said.
“If I can answer it, I will.”
“Your father used to bring his laptop home with him from the lab.”
“Yes?”
“He showed me entries he’d made the last time I was here in Tampa.”
“I don’t understand the question,” Maritza said.
“Well,” Seth continued, “I was wondering whether you know where it is.”
“Where what is?”
“His laptop computer.”
“How would I know? I live in Cuba. I have no idea what my father did or how he ran his research. A laptop? I never heard anything about it.”
Her denial of knowing anything about the laptop didn’t ring true to me.
“Maybe Xavier would know where it is,” Seth said.
She shrugged.
I was about to suggest that we leave when the doorbell sounded. Maritza jumped up to answer it. In her absence, I walked to a small table in a corner of the office where something had caught my attention. Idly, I picked up a thick brochure and unfolded it.
“What are you looking at?” Seth asked.
“This is an aeronautical chart,” I said, “a sectional chart, actually.”
Seth looked over my shoulder at the paper I held. “Pilots use these?” he asked.
Murder, She Wrote: Prescription For Murder Page 11