by Peggy Blair
“Bad luck,” Ramirez said, thinking of the conditions Apiro would have to work in once the afternoon heated up.
The pathologist grinned. “Bring your cigar.”
TWELVE
A giant Christmas tree sparkled in the lobby. It was decorated with long strings of flashing blue and green lights that lit up at different times so the entire tree changed colour as if by magic. The twinkling lights hurt Mike Ellis’s eyes. He took the elevator up to his room and undressed, took his time showering for the second time that day. His eyes stung from the water, but at least his legs felt like they were his own again.
Ellis dried himself off and walked naked across the room, pulled the curtains tightly to keep out the light. He found a pair of chinos in one of the drawers. He put on a clean pair of briefs, a golf shirt, slid on socks, shoes, grabbed his sunglasses, and rode the elevator down to the lobby.
The skylight over the restaurant below him dripped with the residue of early morning rain, but the open sky above was pure blue. Another beautiful, ruined day.
It was just after eight, but the currency exchange desk was open. He cashed his travellers cheques, folded the money, and put it in his back pocket.
As he entered the lobby, Ellis looked over at the concierge desk and saw Miguel. The doorman moved towards the door as Ellis approached, ready as always to let him out, his white gloves immaculate, his hat set exactly straight. A handsome young man.
“Merry Christmas, Señor Ellis,” Miguel said, smiling, and pushed the revolving glass door. But instead of walking through it as he usually did, Ellis stopped.
“Merry Christmas to you, Miguel,” he said and tried to smile back, but his lip no longer moved on the side where the knife had snagged. “Listen, I lost my wallet somewhere last night. Probably somewhere around El Bar. You know, Hemingway’s bar. Any idea what I can do about it?”
“I will call the police for you, Señor, and let someone know to contact you here so you can file a report. I am not sure what office handles it. Do not worry, I will take care of it for you.”
“Thanks. I don’t imagine they can do too much, but it had my passport in it.” He gave Miguel the details and a ten-peso note. “This is to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. And also because it’s Christmas.”
“Thank you,” Miguel said and quickly slipped the money into his own pocket. He gave Ellis a huge smile and a handshake so hard it hurt.
Five pesos was almost a month’s wage in Cuba. Ten CUCs, the tourist currency in pesos, was a great deal of money. But Miguel had been helpful to Ellis and his wife throughout their stay. He arranged their tour for them, cautioned them about jineteros, the street hustlers who would try to scam them, even taught them a little Spanish.
“You are too generous, Señor Ellis. I am truly sorry about your wallet. But our police are very efficient. Do not worry, I am sure they will find it for you.”
“Is there somewhere nearby that I can get breakfast?”
“The Hotel Machado is quite good, Señor. Through the park, on the right-hand side.”
Outside, a cluster of horse-drawn carts sheltered in the cool shade of the Parque Ciudad, City Park, trees. The browbeaten, blinkered horses flicked their manes in the heat, shaking their large heads back and forth. They looked as miserable as Ellis felt.
A row of taxis lined the street. Three or four drivers called out, asking if he wanted a ride. He declined.
The Hotel Machado was easily identified by the distinctive large blue letters on the second level that announced its name. The outdoor café faced away from the sun, fronting the park.
Ellis ordered black coffee and gulped it down. It went down smoothly and helped to soothe his jangled nerves. He caught the waiter’s eye and ordered brown rice, eggs, and beans.
It was getting hot out already. He watched some boys play in the park. They had a plastic bottle and kicked it around like a soccer ball. One boy wore running shoes without laces that were far too big for him. The others were barefoot.
Despite being in Havana for a week, Ellis was still startled by the poverty.
The taxi driver explained to them on the ride in from the airport how anxious the Cuban people were for Fidel Castro’s death, how tired they were of living in Third World conditions. Thanks to free public education, most of the service workers, even the prostitutes, had graduate degrees. Some were doctors, engineers. They wanted more from their lives than this.
“Have you heard the joke?” the cab driver said. “A Cuban woman is happy that her new boyfriend is a taxi driver, but heartbroken when she finds out he is only a neurologist.” He laughed, hit his steering wheel with his hand. “Look at me. I have a degree in particle physics and I drive a taxi because we have no laboratories in Cuba. Nothing is simple here, believe me. Nothing.”
“How safe is it in Havana?” Hillary asked. “Can we walk around at night?”
“Of course, but be careful to keep your hands on your purse, Señora. There are pickpockets everywhere. But don’t worry,” the cabbie assured her. “Apart from that, this is the safest country on earth. Look at all the police. They come here to work from all over the island. We call them palestinos, because they never leave. They have the most boring job in Cuba. Believe me, they have to invent crimes just to have something to do.”
The taxi driver was right, Ellis realized, as the waiter refilled his cup. There were young policemen with blue pants and berets on every corner, sometimes more than one. They looked like restless children carrying guns. It wasn’t reassuring.
THIRTEEN
Inspector Ramirez and his apparition watched sadly as the small remains were loaded into the white van that carried bodies to the morgue.
Ramirez sighed. Cases involving children were the hardest. The file would be difficult for everyone in the unit, especially those with children. Including himself. His son, Edel, was around the same age as the boy.
Sometime later that day, Ramirez would have to explain to grieving parents that their son had died. He wanted to be able to tell them he had a suspect under arrest and en route to the firing squad. He glanced at the dead man, surprised to see him wipe away tears.
A patrol car pulled up. Detective Rodriguez Sanchez stepped out. He looked tired; his complexion rougher than usual. He handed Ramirez the surveillance tapes he had requested. As the two men spoke, the technicians began to brush the sidewalk for evidence using tiny combs.
Ramirez and the dead man stepped to the other side of the barrier tape, making sure to get out of their way. Ramirez opened the plastic exhibit bag Espinoza had turned over and removed the passport. He flipped gingerly through the wet pages. He winced at the man’s scars, magnified in the unsmiling black-and-white photograph. It looked like Michael Ellis had been in a serious accident. His face was cut up like a jigsaw puzzle.
“Not so pretty,” said Ramirez, showing the picture to Sanchez. “Did you find out where he’s staying?”
“The Parque Ciudad Hotel. But listen to this, Inspector. Dispatch called me a few minutes ago, on my way here. She received an anonymous call that a man with a scarred face approached some young boys in the Parque Ciudad yesterday demanding sex for money. It must be the man in the passport. I think we should go to the hotel and interview him now, before he goes out for the day.”
“How convenient that we have a complaint this early in our investigation,” Ramirez commented dryly.
Under Cuban law, the police had only three days to complete their investigation into a felony offence. The legislature had imposed this requirement most likely because flights left the island several times daily. Otherwise, suspects could flee the country before investigations were completed. Cuba had very few extradition treaties with other countries, only a few informal agreements.
Because of this, the Major Crimes Unit had to move rapidly when outsiders were suspected of criminal acts. His men usually met the timeline, despite the department’s continual lack of resources, like the fuel Sanchez had run out of and t
he forensic supplies Apiro somehow managed to do without.
Once they arrested a suspect, Ramirez had to turn his case file over to a prosecutor within seventy-two hours, along with a draft indictment. If he couldn’t meet those timelines, he was required to let the suspect go, guilty or not. Most turistas were unaware of the law, allowing many Cuban officials to line their own pockets by accepting money from foreign suspects in lieu of uncertain charges. “Win-win,” as they said in America.
If Ramirez needed more time, he was required to develop a plan that outlined what was left to do. The prosecutor then had to persuade a sometimes reluctant juridical panel to deny bail based on that plan. Panels could be skittish when tourists were involved.
Life was considerably easier for Ramirez if he could work within the three-day time frame. He preferred to keep things informal at first, to stop the clock and make sure they had enough time.
Sanchez, on the other hand, thought it was more efficient to frame the guilty, that it allowed for a speedier investigation, given their tight deadlines. Ramirez had never really believed that he was joking. He half-suspected Sanchez of calling in the complaint himself.
“Too bad the call was anonymous. Did Dispatch get a number?”
“A cellphone, no display.”
“Anything distinctive about the voice? Male or female?”
“I asked. She forgot to make a note of it.”
“That is unfortunate,” Ramirez said. “But there are cederistas everywhere.”
It was not uncommon for members of citizen watch groups to call about crimes without identifying themselves. The use of a cellphone was unusual, however. It was illegal for unauthorized Cubans to have one, and very few had authorizations. But Sanchez had no cellphone either, just the phone at his apartment and his police radio, which meant the complaint must have originated elsewhere.
“Then perhaps this Michael Ellis is our man,” said Ramirez, although he did not like the idea of accusing a foreign police officer of a serious crime based only on an anonymous call. “Let’s go see what he has to say.”
FOURTEEN
Inspector Ramirez parked across from the new hotel that sat on prime real estate at the edge of Old Havana on the north side of the beautiful, well-treed Parque Ciudad. He and Detective Sanchez crossed the street. A uniformed doorman let them in through the revolving front door.
The dead man hesitated. It was illegal for Cubans to enter tourist hotels unless they worked there. But there were no laws prohibiting dead or imaginary Cubans from doing anything. Ramirez believed it was one of the few legal restrictions the Cuban government had failed to implement. He expected the amendment any day.
Given that legislative gap, the dead man accompanied the two policemen inside. He stopped to admire the giant Christmas tree that dominated the entry as the two investigators walked to the reception desk.
Ramirez and Sanchez identified themselves to the young woman working at the counter, although it was obvious they were police: Ramirez still wore his uniform. He asked the woman, barely out of her teens, in what room Señor Michael Ellis was staying.
She checked. “Room 612, sir.”
The doorman approached them as they were about to take the elevator up to the sixth floor.
“I overheard you asking about Señor Ellis,” he said. “I was just about to call you. Señor Ellis told me this morning that he lost his wallet last night. He asked me to report it to the police. He has just left the hotel — you’ve missed him by only minutes.”
“Has he checked out?” Ramirez asked and pulled out his notebook.
“Oh, no, sir, he will be back soon, I expect. I recommended the Hotel Machado to him. I think he plans to eat breakfast there.”
“Were you here when he came in last night?” A suggestive question, Ramirez knew. In court, only the judges and lay members on the panel could ask leading questions. As the investigator now, however, he had full freedom as to how he gathered evidence.
“I am always here,” said Miguel Artez sadly, with a small smile. “Yes. I was here when Señor Ellis returned, although he did not mention his wallet to me then. He was quite drunk when he came in. He may not have realized it was lost until this morning.”
“What time was that?” Sanchez asked. “When he came in.”
“Around eleven, I think. Perhaps eleven-thirty. I ended my shift at midnight. Not long before then.”
“Was he alone?” Ramirez inquired.
“I think so.” Artez reflected for a minute. “Yes, definitely. His wife left during my shift yesterday. In the evening. I called a taxi to take her to the airport. I helped her with her luggage.”
“No child with him?”
“No,” said the doorman, surprised. “They were here on their own.”
“Is he staying by himself now?” Sanchez asked.
“Yes, of course. Señora Ellis was a very nice woman,” the doorman emphasized. “Very beautiful. I was sorry when she left Cuba so early, by herself.”
Sanchez took the doorman’s name, address, and date of birth, and recorded them in his notebook. He stepped aside to speak to Ramirez privately.
“I think we should search Señor Ellis’s room before we talk to him. We have enough evidence, with his wallet on the body and that complaint about the children in the park.”
Ramirez considered this. Sanchez was right. Once they had grounds to suspect a crime had been committed, the police could search a state-owned hotel without a warrant. The grounds were not particularly strong but enough to meet the legal test.
Ramirez returned to the reception desk and asked the young woman for a key to Señor Ellis’s hotel room. She handed him a plastic card.
At first, he was not entirely sure what he was supposed to do with it. The only hotels he had stayed in were in Moscow. In those days, a dour key lady had doled out steel keys grudgingly, as if they were cabbages.
Inspector Ramirez and Detective Sanchez walked down the pink hallway with its blue-tiled floor to Room 612. Ramirez rapped on the door; Sanchez drew his gun. When there was no response, Ramirez slid the hotel key up and down in the narrow key slot below the door handle until a green light flashed and the lock clicked.
He opened the door slowly and cautiously let them in, but the room was empty. The dead man followed them inside.
The room was messy; the bed unmade. The drapes were pulled tightly shut. Ramirez turned on the lights and opened the curtains to let the morning light stream through the glass.
Sanchez put his gun away and they both snapped on thin latex gloves. The gloves were made by the same manufacturer in China that produced condoms, with much the same unfortunate effect, given the burgeoning Chinese population. They frequently had holes in them.
“No sign of a wife in this room,” Ramirez commented. The dead man smiled slightly.
Perhaps the ghost was a bachelor, thought Ramirez. The irony of Ramirez’s business was that most murders were domestic. Spouses, lovers, people who cared for each other were most likely to kill each other, but it also meant that someone noticed if a loved one disappeared. A single man could be missing for months before anyone paid attention. Who are you?
“No,” said Sanchez, and it took Ramirez a moment to realize that Sanchez was speaking to him. “I checked when I was at the airport. Michael and Hillary Ellis arrived on December 18. They were supposed to leave on January 2. The airport records show that she flew back to Ottawa last night on the 9 P.M. flight. The doorman is right; she left very early. A week early, in fact.”
“What time did you say her flight out was again?”
“Nine o’clock. Twenty-one hundred hours.”
“Hmmm. That is interesting.”
Ramirez opened the folding door to the closet in the hallway. It contained a stand on which a single green suitcase rested. He opened it. It was empty but for a single piece of paper. A photocopy of the same passport they’d found in the wallet.
A wall-safe above the suitcase was locked. There was not
hing else to see. Ramirez took the photocopy and closed the closet door.
A man’s jacket was slung over a chair beside the wooden desk in the bedroom. A pair of pants lay crumpled on the floor. Ramirez checked the pockets of both, but there was nothing in them.
“Look at this,” Sanchez called out. Ramirez walked over to the opposite side of the room. Sanchez pointed to a broken capsule lying on the carpet near the bed between the wall and the window. The dead man pointed to Sanchez.
“Bag it,” Ramirez instructed.
Sanchez pulled a plastic bag from his pocket, put the capsule inside, and sealed it. He initialled the bag and handed it over. Ramirez put it in his pocket.
He walked into the bathroom and flipped on the light. “Señora Ellis must have left quickly.”
“Why do you say that?” Sanchez asked, puzzled.
Ramirez walked back out. He held up the plastic disk of birth control pills, grinning. “No Cuban woman would go anywhere without these.”
Ramirez saw nothing out of the ordinary in the bathroom. A man’s electric shaver, a small hotel bottle of shampoo, a square of soap.
“So tourists get free soap and shampoo when they stay here,” said Ramirez.
He smelled the soap, thought how much his wife would appreciate scented toiletries instead of the one grey bar of sudless acidic soap she lined up to get once a month as part of their rations.
“Look what I found under the mattress,” Sanchez called from the other room. He flourished several Polaroid photographs along with a CD.
Ramirez looked at the Polaroids and felt sick. They were pictures of a young boy fellating a man; in another, the boy was bent over. The same boy in each shot. He could imagine what was on the CD.
It wasn’t possible to identify the man in any of the pictures; the camera had focused on the boy. But there was no question about the child’s identity: it was the boy Carlos Rivero had pulled from the water that morning.