A Cuban Death

by David Anderson

  Cindy nodded. “Okay, no problem.”

  Lori said, “My boss had a visit at his home this morning. From that Susan Benitez at CN24/7. She showed up at his door with a cameraman. We were wondering how she knew where he lived.” She looked around. “You’re saying that no one here would have given her his address. So who did then?”

  Cindy looked doubtful. “Well, maybe nobody did. I mean, it’s possible they followed him from here, isn’t it?” She tossed her hair. “Who is your boss, anyway?”

  “Detective Sergeant Nicholas Drumm. And, yes, it’s possible they followed him home one day except for the other thing.”

  “What other thing?”

  Lori told her about the media scrum where Staff Inspector Drennan had given up Drumm’s name and put him on the spot.

  “I see,” said Cindy. “So you think this Staff Inspector Drennan gave Benitez your Detective Drumm’s address? What an a-hole.”

  Lori decided she liked this intern. “Something like that,” she agreed. “But I’d like to find out for sure.”

  Cindy looked thoughtful. “I can maybe help you with that. Leave it with me.”

  “Discretion is the key thing here, Cindy. We can’t have Drennan knowing we’re checking him out.”

  “Yep, I get it. Don’t worry. I can maybe find something out. Give me some time.” She held up her hand. “And I’ll keep your name out of it. And Detective Drumm’s.” She smiled. “I shall be ever so discreet.”

  “Thank you. I’ll owe you one.”

  “A good dinner? But only if I get somewhere.”

  “Done,” said Lori.

  “And a pint of mild,” said Drumm, completing his order. He sat back and looked at his two companions. He, McDonald and Lori Singh were sitting in Drumm’s usual booth at the Cat and Fiddle, an imitation English pub that Drumm enjoyed for its quiet atmosphere and good beer. He was amused to see the two of them sitting side by side.

  “We’ve contacted three of the victims,” said Lori. “Janice Lange was the first one we talked to, as you wanted. Neither she, nor the other two, had any memory of a ring. None of them recognized it when Dick showed it to them.”

  Drumm nodded. He hadn’t expected much. He was pretty sure the victims would have mentioned such an obvious thing when originally questioned but it was worth pursuing. “You’ll talk to the others?”

  “Of course,” said McDonald. “As soon as possible. But I don’t expect to get anything from them either.”

  Their server returned. Drumm waited until the young man finished putting their drinks in front of them and left. Then he said, “No, I doubt you will. But we have to check.” He took a sip of his beer. “What about the ring itself?”

  “It’s a piece of junk. Probably made in China. It came from some cheapo store somewhere. We’ll never trace it.” McDonald drank some of his coffee. “Or who wore it.”

  “No,” agreed Drumm. “But you know, it’s still possible that our guy was wearing it. He chokes them with his right hand. All the women confirm that. They remember his fingers – well, most of them – no gloves, and hairy. No mention of a ring. He uses his left hand to put the knife to their throat. That hand they can’t see; it’s out of their line of vision. Stand up, Lori.”

  Lori looked startled. Then a look of understanding came over her face. She rose to her feet.

  Drumm looked around the pub, picked up his table knife, stood and moved around behind Lori. Drumm went through the motions of putting his right hand around her neck and his left, holding the knife, to the side of her neck. “A little demonstration. Can you see my ring finger, Lori?”

  “I cannot,” she said. She looked at McDonald, who was grinning broadly. “Don’t say anything,” she warned.

  McDonald help up his hands in mock protest. “Not me.”

  Drumm said to a couple at the next booth, who were staring at him. “Police business. Nothing to worry about. Just a little playacting.” He returned to his seat. “You can sit now, Lori. Sorry about that.”

  “I agree that he might have had it on,” said Lori. “We’ll check with the other three women. Maybe we’ll get lucky and one of them will remember a ring.”

  Their food came and they were busy eating for the next little while. When they were done, Drumm sighed and sat back. “All good things come to an end. Let’s talk about tonight. We’ll use exactly the same routine as last night.”

  “Which was?” asked McDonald.

  Drumm looked at him. “You want to come?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” said McDonald. “Seeing Lori dressed like a hooker. Gotta be there.”

  Drumm glanced at Lori who was obviously refusing to rise to McDonald’s bait, sitting frostily with her arms folded. “Not exactly, Dick. She’s a working girl, but not that kind of working girl. Okay, you’re in. Here’s how we do it.”

  sixteen

  McDonald had the Monday morning blues. He was tired from the operation the night before which had gone exactly as planned. Lori had gotten on the bus, done the trip, got off and walked along the dark street past the park, and into her “home”, all without incident. The Riverwood Rapist had not shown up. McDonald’s part had been to be on the bus with Lori. He had boarded at the stop before hers and watched her get on. She avoided looking at him. He spent his time trying to spot suspicious characters on the street or on the bus. On a cold, wintry Sunday night this had proved to be a particularly fruitless occupation; there hadn’t been many people out and about. She got off the bus, he stayed on for another stop, and then he too had gotten off. All went as planned, all useless. Nothing happened.

  He got up from his desk and went to get some coffee. He passed by Drumm’s office and saw the backs of a couple of heads; two women were sitting talking to his superior officer. McDonald continued on, got his coffee, and went over to the window. He stood morosely looking out at the park, made bleak by the leaden skies and bare trees; more snow was expected. Where were the palm trees? The beach?

  McDonald was passing Drumm’s office on his way back, when Drumm called out to him, “Dick. Come in for a minute.”

  McDonald stopped and looked in. The two women were still there, their heads craned around to look at him. He was surprised to recognize them: Charlotte Gill and Kathy Walters. Carrying his coffee mug, he entered Drumm’s office. “Ladies. How nice to see you again.” He gave them his best smile.

  “We were just talking about you, Dick,” said Drumm. “Mrs. Gill and Ms. Walters were telling me about the unfortunate death of Mr. Kennedy. And your involvement.” Drumm looked at the two women. “Detective McDonald told me a little about it already.” He turned to McDonald. “When was that? Saturday night?”

  “Yes, it was,” said McDonald. He was feeling a little disoriented, partly from fatigue, and partly from meeting these two in Drumm’s office. They were out of context; he associated them with Cuba, not York. What were they doing here?

  Drumm could sense the other detective’s surprise. “I’m not sure yet why they’re here,” he said. “Ladies? Who wants to explain?” He waved McDonald to a spot along the wall; there weren’t enough chairs for all of them.

  “Well, obviously, it’s about Mike’s death,” said Charlotte Gill.

  McDonald sipped from his mug and inspected the two women. The last time he had seen them, they had been dressed for the tropics. Now they were bundled up. Charlotte was wearing an expensive-looking coat; she had on a light green, woolen toque with matching scarf and gloves of a darker green. She looked very smart; McDonald remembered she worked in retail. Maybe a fancy women’s apparel shop? Kathy Walters’ clothing was more ordinary: a grey ski jacket and what looked like snow pants. She had bright pink earmuffs and mittens on her lap. She was a florist, he recalled. Her eyes were still red-rimmed, he noticed. Charlotte Gill did not look like she had been crying. If anything, she looked determined.

  “It’s not obvious to me,” said Drumm. “Mr. Kennedy died in Cuba of an accident. He fell from a balcony, I believe. How do
es that concern the York Police Services? And especially the Homicide Department?’

  McDonald was wondering the same thing.

  “We’ve been talking about it,” said Charlotte Gill. “And we’re not satisfied.”

  “Who’s we?” interrupted McDonald. “You two? Or you and your husband? Or the Whitesides? All five of you together?”

  “Mostly Kathy, and me,” said Mrs. Gill. McDonald had been right about the determined look. She was definitely in charge here. “And Deb too, a little bit. The men, not so much.”

  “Back to the point,” said Drumm, giving McDonald a sideways glance. “Not satisfied with what?”

  Charlotte Gill nudged her friend, who sat up a little straighter, and said, “I’m not satisfied with the explanation of Mike’s death. I don’t believe it. Something’s not right.”

  Drumm raised his hands and put them in the classic, palms-up position. What gives? “But what has that got to do with me? He died in Cuba. I work in York. I investigate things in York. Like the Riverwood Rapist,” he said pointedly.

  “I know that.” Charlotte Gill was leaning forward, her voice impatient. “But it’s just because of that that we wanted to talk to you. We live in York, and yes, Mike died in Cuba, but something’s not right. We know it isn’t and we need someone to investigate. You’re good at what you do, I know you are. I saw it on TV. You’re about to make an arrest in that rapist case. I saw it on the news. You can help us.”

  Drumm looked at McDonald as if asking for help. McDonald shrugged.

  Kathy Walters spoke in a quiet voice. “Detective McDonald was right there in Cuba. He saw the body, talked to the Cuban police officer. He was practically a witness.”

  “I was no such thing!” McDonald was exasperated. “I was a tourist on holiday, just like you. I saw the body on the walkway, yes, but that was after he was dead. Dozens of people must have seen him like that, hundreds even. That hardly makes me a witness.”

  “But you spoke to the Cuban police.”

  “Yes, I did,” said McDonald. “And so did you. It was an accident, they said.”

  Kathy Walters wouldn’t give up. “I don’t think it was an accident. Fall off a balcony accidentally? How could that happen? Those railings were high. I don’t believe he could have fallen over the way they said he did.” She stared at him fiercely. “I don’t believe it!”

  McDonald shrugged helplessly. “But he was drunk. You know he was. Drunk people do stupid things all the time.”

  Charlotte Gill looked sharply at him and started to speak. “Just –”

  McDonald cut her off. “I’m sorry if it upsets you. But it’s true. Drunks walk in front of cars, they jump off cliffs on a dare. We had a teenager die not so very long ago. He was car surfing – drunk, of course – and fell off and hit his head. He died later in hospital.” He looked over at Drumm as if to say, help me here!

  Drumm gave a hint of a smile and a slight shake of his head.

  “That’s not what happened. I know it,” said Kathy Walters. She turned to Drumm. “Can’t you see? I – we – need your help.”

  Drumm looked at her for a long moment. Then he said, “Let’s assume you are right and he didn’t fall off the balcony accidentally. Let’s further assume that I wasn’t up to my eyeballs trying to catch the Riverwood Rapist, and I had plenty of time on my hands.” He pointed at his bulletin board with all the photos stuck to it. “Those are two huge assumptions, by the way. And that’s not to mention the six other cases I have on the go.” He looked at the two women. “What would you have me do about it?”

  “Well, investigate, of course.” It was Mrs. Gill. “You’re a detective. Detectives investigate.”

  “Where?” asked Drumm.

  “Where?” asked Mrs. Gill. She seemed surprised. “Wherever you have to.”

  “Mrs. Gill, Ms. Walters, I am not an unkind man. But I hope you can see that you are wasting my time. And Detective McDonald’s.” He held up a hand. “Wait, just let me finish. I investigate crime in York. Your friend Mike Kennedy died in Cuba. Even if you are right and something strange happened, no crime was committed in York! There is nothing to investigate here. As for Cuba, I have no jurisdiction. None. And even if I did, do you really think the YPS would pay to send me down there to look into a death that happened so far away from the city? At a time like this? I can’t help you.”

  Kathy Walters said, “But can’t you talk to the Cuban police at least? Find out what they know?”

  Drumm looked at McDonald. “It’s my understanding that Detective McDonald here already did that. And Dick told you what they said.”

  Mrs. Gill said, “But –”

  Drumm stood up. “No, I’m sorry, I can’t give you any more time. Detective McDonald, can you please see these ladies out.” He folded his arms and stared at the women, daring them to speak again.

  Reluctantly they stood up. McDonald tilted his head and extended his hand as if to say, after you. They looked at him and back to Drumm. Charlotte Gill looked like she was going to say something further and then thought better of it. She took Kathy Walters by the arm and the two women quietly left the office.

  When McDonald returned, he found Drumm standing in front of the victim photos. His expression was vacant, as if he was far away. “Sorry about that, Nick. I had no idea they would show up here. I didn’t even know they lived in York. They never told me. I assumed they lived in Toronto.”

  Drumm sat down and pointed at a chair. “Sit. And tell me what it is you haven’t told me.” He put his hands behind his head again.

  McDonald said, “Hah! You’re right, there was a bit more. But you were getting ready to go out with the lovely Ms. Singh and I didn’t have time to tell you the other night.” He gestured with his hand at the doorway behind him. “They’re right, actually, there is more to Kennedy’s death. Possibly, that is. The thing is, the night he died, Kennedy tried to pick up a couple of local girls in the disco.”

  “He and this Kathy Walters were engaged, weren’t they?” asked Drumm.

  “Date set and everything,” agreed McDonald. “Anyway, he’d had a few, I guess, and he hit on them. Three hombres saw it and rode to the rescue. One of the three Cuban lads hit the drunken Mr. Kennedy in the stomach and evicted him from the disco. Forcefully. They threw him out and they said that was the last they saw of him.”

  “But?”

  “But, Lieutenant Colonel Perez – that was the Cuban dude doing the investigating – told me they were suspects. Or at least persons of interest. As we would say up here.”

  “He thought they might have taken it further, and tossed him from up high? Was the timeline right?”

  “I don’t know,” said McDonald. “I didn’t get any further. This Perez wasn’t about to tell me much.”

  “You pressed him?” asked Drumm.

  McDonald said, “You don’t press these guys, Nick. Believe me. He told me a little bit in strictest confidence and assured me he would happily throw my ass in jail if I told anyone. No, I didn’t press him. I had a flight to catch.”

  Drumm looked thoughtful. “You know, I remember seeing on TV a while back about a guy who rented a car in Cuba and got into a minor car accident. They confiscated his passport and he was seven months in the country waiting for the case to come to trial. It cost him a fortune to stay there all that time. And then he was found guilty and had to pay a huge fine. Only then did he get his passport back and they let him leave.”

  “They don’t fool around down there,” agreed McDonald.

  “So you didn’t find out anything more?”

  “All Perez said was that if a crime had been committed, it was by a Cuban and he would face Cuban justice. It didn’t concern Kathy Walters or the Gills or the Whitesides. Or me,” he added.

  Drumm thought. “I suppose if the situation were reversed, we would be saying something similar, wouldn’t we?”

  “I can’t see us cooperating too much with a Cuban detective on holiday up here, no,” said McDona
ld.

  “Why on earth would any Cuban come to Canada for a vacation?” asked Drumm. He looked out the window where it was now snowing gently. “He would need a psych evaluation.”

  “Unless he was a skier,” said McDonald. “But of course, they get paid peanuts down there. He could never afford it.” He stood up. “You’re not really curious about this, are you, Nick?”

  “Not really, no.” He paused. “Well, maybe a little bit. It is interesting, don’t you think?” At McDonald’s quizzical look, Drumm went on, “I mean, the women were right. People don’t usually fall off balconies, drunk or not. It would be interesting to know if the Cubans looked at trajectory and the distance he fell outwards and that sort of thing. I don’t suppose you asked about that and forgot to tell me?”

  McDonald shook his head. “Perez wouldn’t have told me anyway.”

  “No, probably not,” said Drumm. “And also, it doesn’t seem likely to me that these three hombres of yours would have thrown Kennedy out and then some time later gone up to his room. They would have been much more likely to put the boot to him as he lay there, don’t you think? Kick him around a bit, break a few ribs? If you told me Kennedy died from internal injuries, likely as a result of a beating, now that would make sense.”

  McDonald said, “Maybe. Possibly you’re right. Anyway, enough about that stuff already. I need to go and talk to the other victims now.”

  “Make sure you take Lori with you,” said Drumm.

  “If she’s here,” said McDonald. He left Drumm to his thoughts.

  seventeen

  Once again, Drumm found himself standing in front of Staff Inspector Drennan’s desk. It was just like he was in seventh grade and had been caught smoking in the washroom and sent to the principal. That was exactly how he felt, and he knew that was how Drennan wanted him to feel. There had been no offer to sit down, or anything else that would make Drumm feel less uncomfortable. He forced himself to relax and wait.