A Cuban Death

by David Anderson

  Lori took a sip of her tea. She was still standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. “I really think we need to do it, Nick. Before he kills someone.”

  Drumm looked at her, standing in the doorway casually dressed in black slacks and a bulky white knit sweater. He stood up and went to the window. He spoke while looking outside. “I know you do. But I’m not quite there yet. It’s dangerous. And I don’t like it.”

  “I’m a big girl, Nick.”

  Drumm turned and looked at her. “I know you are. And I know you can handle it. But…” His voice tailed off.

  They had been discussing using a detective as bait for some time. Lori Singh was the obvious choice. Not only was she young, she was attractive and would make an alluring target. She had come up with the idea but Drumm was resisting implementing it. She knew it was out of concern for her welfare but still, it was the logical thing to try unless they could catch the guy with his pants around his ankles.

  “Run it by Drennan. See what he says.” She watched Drumm carefully to see if he was bending at all. When there was no sign from him, she went on. “At least you can get pre-approval. Let him know what we’re planning and see if he objects.”

  “We’re not planning, Lori, we’re proposing. Maybe.” Drumm sat down again. “I’ll think about it.”

  “That’s what you said yesterday. And the day before.”

  “I know what I said.” Drumm’s voice was sharp. “Sorry. I’m not ready to do it yet, that’s all. But I’ll run it by Drennan as you suggest.”

  Lori dropped it. She’d obviously gone too far. “I’ve got some calls to make. Don’t drink too much coffee.” She turned and left his office.

  Drumm watched her retreat and sighed. She was right, he knew. But he didn’t like putting his staff into danger, especially Lori. He was very fond of her, attracted to her even, although he was much older than she was. He sighed and picked up the phone to see if the Staff Inspector was available. Unfortunately for him he was.

  Drennan stared coldly at him while he stood in the Staff Inspector’s office. Damn the man, making him stand there like a guilty schoolboy. Drumm had just presented Lori’s plan and was waiting for Drennan’s reaction. He forced himself to relax and appear unconcerned.

  “Taken your time, haven’t you?” asked Staff Inspector Drennan. He had a strange expression on his face, half smile, half grimace. Drumm had seen it before and knew it wasn’t good news.

  “Not really, sir, no,” said Drumm. He kept his voice even and pleasant. “We’ve been proceeding normally. This is the logical next step.”

  Drennan was sitting straight in his chair, his hands folded in front of him on his tidy desk. He was staring directly at Drumm. “I have a good memory, Drumm. I haven’t forgotten, or forgiven. I’m just waiting for you to screw up. Which I am sure you will do. Teacher boy.” Drennan kept his gaze directly on Drumm’s face.

  Drumm studied the man in front of him, striving to appear unconcerned. He saw an imposing man with a shock of grey hair and piercing blue eyes. Drennan had to be six feet four and weighed maybe two hundred fifty pounds. He used his size to intimidate, Drumm knew, but just now it was his imperial presence behind the desk that he was employing as a weapon.

  “Are you rejecting the plan then, sir?”

  “Rejecting the plan? No. No, I’m not rejecting it. On the contrary. You should have come to me sooner.”

  “I see.” And Drumm did see. If things went wrong, Drennan would have his ass. He would be brought into this office and given a dressing down, and then he would likely be called upstairs for a formal reprimand. Drennan had been known to leak it to the media when he was displeased with an officer, thus ensuring a rather intense public scrutiny that Drumm would rather not experience just now. And if things went well, Drennan would say, “We should have done this weeks ago. I don’t know why Drumm waited so long.” Either way Drumm was not going to get his superior’s full support and he would be held directly responsible for what happened. Fair enough, he thought; it’s what they pay me for.

  “I want to see full details on my desk by the end of the day. Dismissed.” Drennan picked up his pen and began writing.

  Drumm smiled sardonically to himself and left Drennan’s office. Drennan had been trying to get him to jump him again. And that would be the end of Drumm’s career. It was one thing for two officers of equal rank to tussle; it was quite another to assault a superior. Prick, he thought to himself.

  six

  Detective Richard McDonald had done his best. He’d wanted to go snorkeling or lie out in the sun or sit at the swim-up bar and drink Bucaneros and look at pretty women in skimpy bikinis. He had done none of these things. Instead he had wasted much of his Thursday acting like a cop, trying to find out some more about the death of the late, lamented Mike Kennedy and report back.

  He started at the front desk because his Spanish was limited and he knew the staff there were bilingual. Multilingual, actually, because they had so many German, French and Canadian guests. He waited until the reception area was quiet and the staff had finished exchanging money, selling internet passes and dealing with all the other requests the tourists made. Then he approached a pretty young woman whom he had chatted up earlier in the week. Her name tag identified her as Rosa.

  “Hola, Rosita,” he said, smiling and holding his hat over his heart. “You look really beautiful today.”

  The young woman laughed and said, “Hola, Dick. Gracias.” Then, because she knew him, she said, “What do you want in here? Why aren’t you out looking for a lady?”

  “Because I can’t find one as pretty as you,” said Dick. He was grinning but then he got down to business. “Or one who knows as much as you about what’s going on around here. What happened today with the young man who died?”

  Rosa looked around the lobby and then behind her at the office. Then she said, “We’re telling anyone who asks that we don’t know anything. That it was just an accident, we think.”

  “But?” said McDonald.

  Rosa looked around again. “I really can’t say, Dick.” Her accent made his name sound like Deeck.

  “I don’t want to get you in trouble, Rosa. But you know I’m a cop. I have some friends and the dead man was with them. They need to know what happened. Who can I talk to, do you think?”

  Rosa looked at him and nodded. “Un momento,” she said. She went into the office at the back and spoke to an older man sitting at a desk. Through the glass wall McDonald could see the man turn and look at him.

  Rosa came back and said, “Lieutenant Colonel Jorge Perez. He’s in charge of the investigation. But you didn’t hear it from us.” She smiled nervously.

  “Gracias, Rosita,” said McDonald. “May I buy you a drink later?”

  “Si,” said Rosa. “And my husband too?” She smiled at him mischievously.

  “Ah. No,” said Dick. He smiled wryly. “Maybe not, love. Thanks again. Gracias.”

  Dick made his way out to the pathway where the body had been found. The screens and covers were still in place. So were the security guards. One of them stepped forward as he approached, putting his hands up in the classic stop signal. “No, no, no,” he said.

  McDonald went up to him and said, ”Lieutenant Colonel Perez, por favor. Es importante.”

  The guard looked at him unsmilingly and then turned and spoke to his companion in rapid, incomprehensible Spanish. The second guard shook his head. The first one spoke to McDonald, “No.”

  McDonald raised his voice and said again, “Lieutenant Colonel Jorge Perez. Por favor. Es importante.”

  The first guard looked annoyed and started to speak when he was interrupted by a voice from behind the screen. “Quien es?” A moment later an older man emerged. He had grey hair, balding at the temples and was dressed in dark pants, a light blue shirt and a dark blue tie. Aside from the tie, he looked rather like one of the resort security guards, McDonald thought.

  “Senor Perez?” asked McDonald.
>
  “Yes,” said the older man. “I am Lieutenant Colonel Jorge Misael Perez. Who are you?”

  When on vacation McDonald did not carry his gun or badge, but he always had a business card or two with him. He took one out of his wallet now and handed it to Perez. “Detective Richard McDonald, Homicide, York Police Services.” He added, “Canada.”

  Perez stared at him and then took the proffered card. He examined it carefully and then slipped it into his shirt pocket. He looked at McDonald unsmilingly. “So you’re a homicide detective. I am with the Criminal Investigations Department, Provincial Section. What do you want?”

  My card back, thought McDonald, but aloud he said, “It’s about the young man who died, Mike Kennedy.”

  “Yes?”

  “His friends were talking to me, and his fiancée. They want to know what is going on. Nobody will tell them anything.”

  Perez had been standing with his arms folded but now he turned and said, “Come.” He moved behind the screen. McDonald followed him.

  “It is more private here,” said Perez.

  There were two other men working in the area. The body had been removed but the pool of blood remained. There wasn’t much else to see.

  “You understand I am on holiday here, Lieutenant Colonel, and the last thing I want to do is police work. I would be much happier sailing right now.”

  “And that is where you should be, not here where you have no business.”

  McDonald started to speak but Perez cut him off. “Never mind. You can save me some time, perhaps. What are the names of these concerned friends?”

  He was right, McDonald knew, and if the situation were reversed, he would feel exactly the same as the Cuban. He wouldn’t want some foreign detective interfering with one of his investigations. He gave Perez the names of Kennedy’s fiancée and the other Canadians.

  Perez wrote it all down and then used his cellphone. He spoke in rapid Spanish and all that McDonald understood were the names that he had just given to the Cuban detective.

  When the call was finished, McDonald said, “Your English is very good. Way better than my Spanish.”

  “Thank you. We learn it in school. And working in a tourist district, it is useful to speak English.”

  McDonald nodded. “I understand exactly how you feel, Lieutenant Colonel, believe me. Back home, if this was my investigation, I’d probably tell you to get lost.”

  Perez looked at him, unsmilingly.

  McDonald went on. “But look at it from the young lady’s point of view. She came here for a holiday with her fiancé and he’s dead on a sidewalk in a pool of blood. She doesn’t understand, can’t speak the language and nobody will tell her diddly-squat.”

  Perez looked puzzled. “Diddly-squat?”

  “It means nothing. She doesn’t know what’s going on.”

  Perez nodded. “I understand. I am not completely heartless, Detective. You can tell her that Michael Kennedy died from a fall. He died instantly. He did not suffer.” Perez was once again standing with his arms crossed.

  McDonald knew Perez wasn’t lying but he also knew he wasn’t getting the whole story. He said, “I see. And you’re from the Criminal Investigations Department. So someone thinks a crime was committed?”

  Perez lifted one hand and said, “No, no, not necessarily. We investigate all manner of suspicious and unusual deaths, even traffic accidents. When a tourist falls off a balcony and dies, it is a matter of some interest to the government.”

  “Because…?”

  “Because Cuba earns a lot of money from tourism, especially from Canada.” Perez smiled. “We would like to keep it that way.”

  “So you think this fall was an accident? Why would he fall off a balcony?”

  Perez looked at him for a few seconds and then he turned on his heel and went out the back side of the screened-off area. He gestured for McDonald to follow. Perez stopped and pointed up at the balcony. “Mr. Michael Kennedy was staying in a unit on the seventh floor. That is his balcony right up there where you can see one of my men.”

  McDonald shaded his eyes against the sun and could just make out a figure, dressed similarly to Perez, inspecting the balcony. He realized that Kennedy’s room was directly above his own.

  “Mr. Kennedy had a lot to drink yesterday. A lot. We believe he was quite drunk for most of the day. We have eyewitness statements already attesting to that fact. We have more people to interview, however.” Perez was looking at him directly, his arms folded again. It seemed to be a favourite position of his. “You can tell his fiancée we think he was drunk and lost his balance and fell off the balcony.”

  McDonald pondered this. “That’s the official story?”

  Perez said, “That’s the official story, for the moment. It is what I want you to tell this Kathy Walters. We will be talking to her also, of course, and it is what we shall say.”

  McDonald stroked his chin and thought. Then he asked, “And off the record? As a courtesy to a fellow detective?”

  Perez paused briefly and then he smiled again. “Have you ever seen the inside of a Cuban prison, Detective McDonald? No? Well then, allow me to say that our jails are not like yours. I will tell you something, off the record, as a courtesy, because you have been of some small service to me. But if I find that you have told this to anyone else here, you will not be leaving Cuba as scheduled. I will hold you as a witness, and you will get to see what a Cuban prison looks like. Understood?”

  This is a nasty bugger, thought McDonald. I wouldn’t want him chasing me. “Understood,” he said.

  “Bueno,” said Perez. “Then I will tell you this for your ears only. Your Mr. Michael Kennedy was not only drunk, he got into an altercation – is that the right word, altercation? – with three Cuban men in the disco last night. He was trying to pick up a couple of local girls. They didn’t like it. One of the men hit him.”

  “Hit him? You mean punched him?”

  Perez nodded his head. “In the stomach. And they say they threw him out of the disco and that’s the last they saw of him.”

  McDonald stared at him. “They say...you don’t believe them?”

  “It is too early to say that. We haven’t finished talking to them. When we are done here, we have a lot more interviewing to do. And not just with these three Cubans.”

  McDonald said, “I see. And you don’t want Kathy Walters to know about these three men because…”

  “They are Cuban. It doesn’t concern her. Mr. Kennedy is dead and nothing will bring him back to her. If it turns out that one of these three men threw him off the balcony, well, he is Cuban, and he will face Cuban justice. It doesn’t involve Miss Walters at all. And now I must ask you to go. You have what you came for.”

  McDonald knew his time was up. “Gracias, Lieutenant Colonel. I am very grateful. If you’re ever in Canada, I will do you the same favour.” He performed a half salute and turned to walk away.

  “I will never get to Canada,” said Perez. “And remember what I told you.”

  Talking to Cuban police officers was thirsty work, McDonald decided. It was time for a meal anyway, so he headed down to the beach bar. The little cabana by the ocean was one of his favourite places to have lunch. There were no bad spots at this resort, and the main restaurant with its buffet would have been perfectly adequate. But he liked to sit outside and listen to the surf, drink some Cristal and have a burger and fries. It was a Cuban hamburger, of course, and he definitely didn’t want to know what went into it, but it tasted just fine. McDonald sat down at a table for two and looked out at the ocean while he ate.

  Perez’ information had been interesting and he could see why the Cuban detective didn’t want the other Canadians to know about the possibility of murder. Cuba had a reputation for being a safe place for Canadian tourists to go. All it would take would be for one tourist to be raped by a Cuban or a nightclub brawl or a Canadian to be assaulted by a gang of young Cuban men and the story would be front page news nationwide. Tha
t kind of article would make a lot of people have second thoughts about traveling to the country.

  McDonald looked out at the sparkling blue water and the waves lapping gently on the beach. Even at noon it was already thirty degrees Celsius under a brilliant sun. There were scores of people stretched out on lounge chairs on the beach, baking themselves. There was very little activity on the water, just one small catamaran about a half-mile out. There were some swimmers but not many, even though the sea was calm. McDonald counted eight people strolling along the water’s edge, most with their heads down, looking for shells perhaps.

  His food finished, McDonald got another beer and continued his contemplation of the ocean. Unwillingly, his thoughts turned to York and his colleagues, Drumm and Lori. He had been trying not to think about home but as his week wore on and the time disappeared, like the sand running out of an hourglass, he was aware that he would soon be back to work. It would be fifty degrees colder there, and the only sand would be what the road crews dumped on the streets for traction. It was best not to think about it.

  Some minutes later McDonald drained the last of his beer and went to have a look at the disco that Perez had mentioned. He remembered seeing a sign for it before but he hadn’t been inside. It turned out to be not much of a place, just a smallish room with a bar. At this time of day it was unoccupied, the bar closed up; McDonald guessed it would come to life after dark.

  He was delaying, he realized, putting off the time when he would tell Kathy Walters and the others what he had learned. What had he learned? Not much that he could tell them but he could at least confirm that Mike Kennedy had fallen from his balcony. And that he didn’t suffer. McDonald realized that he hadn’t asked Perez what time this might have happened. He didn’t know the timeline at all, in fact, when Kennedy was in the disco or when he was punched. McDonald shrugged to himself. Perez likely wouldn’t have told him anyway.

  McDonald left the disco and went in search of Mike Kennedy’s fiancée and friends. He couldn’t find them. They weren’t in the main restaurant nor were they in the resort lobby. He looked everywhere he could think of, searching all the bars and checking the swimming pools. He went out onto the main road to see if they were strolling there, and hiked back down to the beach to see if they were occupied down by the water somehow. He checked with the front desk (Rosa was still most helpful) and got the room numbers for the Whitesides and the Gills. There was no answer when he knocked on their doors. At Mike Kennedy’s room, there was a security guard stationed outside and McDonald didn’t even bother trying to talk to him. Kathy Walters wouldn’t have been in there anyway, she was almost certainly with the others, wherever that might be. Maybe they had taken a taxi into town to take Kathy’s mind off the death. McDonald gave up and went to his room for a siesta.