Hear No Evil

by James Grippando

  He cleaned up the empty food cartons, then went to his desk to check his mail. It took him an hour to get to the bottom of the inbox. He had other cases, but none seemed quite as important as this one. This evening, however, he didn’t have another late night in him. He packed up his briefcase, switched off the lights, and locked up the office.

  The main lobby was locked, so he left the building through the nighttime exit. His car was parked in the garage across the street. He walked up the ramp to level Red 2. The parking garage catered to a working crowd, so most of the cars had gone already. The lighting was dim, several bulbs burned out. The lonely click of his heels echoed off walls of unfinished concrete. As he reached for his keys, he heard footsteps behind him, but he had no time to react.

  “Don’t turn around,” the man said.

  Jack froze. He started to put his hands in the air, but the man’s gruff voice stopped him. “Don’t make a move. Don’t do anything.”

  “What do you want?” said Jack.

  “I’m not a robber. I’m not going to hurt you. I work for the government of Cuba.”

  A Cuban operative in Miami? Pretty good reason not to let anyone see your face. “What’s this about?”

  “Coronel Jiménez sent me. I have a message for you.”

  It took an extra moment for Jack to process that thought. It almost seemed too bizarre, but if the guy knew about Colonel Jiménez, he had to be for real. “Tell me.”

  “He wants you to know that he has something for you. He says you’ll be pleased.”

  “Fine. How does Colonel Jiménez intend to get this ‘whatever it is’ to me?”

  “He doesn’t. If you want it, you come to Cuba and get it.”

  “When?”

  “Your plane leaves tonight for Cancun. From there you fly to Havana.”

  Jack scoffed. “You expect me to get on a plane and fly illegally to Cuba just because some guy who claims to work for the Cuban government tells me to?”

  “It’s your choice. If you go, it’s your client who benefits. If you don’t go, it’s your relatives back in Cuba who suffer.”

  Jack felt as if he’d been punched in the chest. “How do you know I even have relatives in Cuba?”

  “Your father was the governor of Florida. We have a long file on you, Mr. Swyteck.”

  Jack didn’t want to play into his hands, but his curiosity was getting the best of him. Could this man possibly know about his half sibling? Or was he talking about second and third cousins twice removed? “Exactly what relatives are you talking about?”

  “Get on the plane, and Colonel Jiménez will be glad to tell you. Or don’t get on the plane, and live with the knowledge that every last one of your relatives in Cuba will be treated as gusanos.”

  Gusanos. Worms. It was the label Castro used for the “traitors” who fled to Miami or otherwise betrayed the government. The backlash was never pretty. Food rations were cut. Employment was impossible. Their own neighbors might spit on them in the street.

  Jack swallowed hard, but if this man had planned to hurt him, Jack would have been facedown on the pavement by now. There was a big potential upside in going. Having just visited Cuba and seen its hardships-and with the possibility of a half sibling living there-the downside of not going was too much to bear.

  “All right,” said Jack. “I’ll go.”

  “I’ll leave your plane tickets on the ground behind you. Count to twenty, then turn around and pick them up. I’ll be long gone. You understand?”

  Not even remotely. “Sure,” he said, his head spinning, “I understand perfectly.”

  26

  Morning came quickly. Jack was dressed and ready to go when he answered the knock at the cottage door.

  “Coronel Jiménez will see you now,” said the man, standing in the open doorway.

  Jack checked his watch. A driver had met him at the airport the previous night and told him to be ready at eight o’clock. It was closer to nine now, but Jack had lived in Miami long enough to know all about Cuban time.

  “Right on schedule,” said Jack.

  Jack wasn’t sure of his exact location, except that he knew he was in Havana and that this wasn’t a hotel. His driver had taken him to a relatively quiet neighborhood in the Vedado section, west of central Havana, and Jack spent the night in a one-room cottage behind a main house. His room had no television, no radio, and no telephone. He’d had no time to pack before leaving Miami, just time enough to grab his passport and go. But the cottage came with a toiletry kit and a clean pair of socks and underwear, compliments of the Cuban government. He assumed he was staying in another casa particular, undoubtedly owned by someone loyal to the regime. He’d conducted himself under the assumption that he was under constant surveillance, which basically meant that he went to the bathroom in the dark.

  His escort this morning was dressed in the civilian clothes of a house servant. He led Jack down a cobblestone walkway to the main house. It was an old neoclassical mansion, not so grand in design as old Havana’s decaying three-story gems, but undoubtedly one of the many prerevolution homes that had been taken from Havana’s wealthy, its owner either shot dead on the front steps or sent fleeing to Miami-perhaps someone Jack had even met. The grounds were small but well maintained. Tiny pink and purple flowers gathered like butterflies on the tangled vines of bougainvillea, and tall hibiscus hedges bore larger blossoms of bright red and yellow. The walkway led to a central courtyard, a traditional nineteenth-century layout where all rooms exited to the outdoors. Some windows still had original stained glass, which was not only beautiful but helped to filter the punishing tropical sun. It had been well after midnight when Jack arrived from Havana airport, so he hadn’t noticed how charming the place was. He also hadn’t noticed the armed soldiers posted at each corner of the walled-in property.

  “Who lives here?” Jack asked in Spanish.

  “Coronel Jiménez, of course.”

  A guest of the colonel, himself. Communism suited him well, Jack thought.

  Jack followed the man along a covered walkway, then upstairs to the second floor. At the end of the hall was a pair of massive wooden doors, each one carved elaborately and adorned with large brass knockers. The grand entrance seemed to trumpet the fact that someone important was waiting inside, an impression that was reinforced by the armed soldiers standing like pillars on either side of the doorway. Without a word, and with all the personality of the Queen’s Guard at Buckingham Palace, the soldier on the left turned, knocked, and announced Jack’s arrival.

  “Send him in,” came the reply. Jack recognized the voice as the colonel’s.

  The soldier opened the door and escorted Jack into a spacious, dark-paneled library. With a click of his heels the soldier retreated, leaving Jack alone with the colonel, who rose, smiled pleasantly, and offered Jack a seat. The colonel seemed to have learned from their previous meeting that Jack had no interest in shaking his hand.

  “Café?” asked the colonel.

  “No, gracias.”

  The colonel shifted to English, which was exactly what most Spanish speakers did as soon as they heard Jack massacre their language.

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

  “Sure. Thanks for threatening my Cuban relatives.”

  The colonel offered a strained show of sympathy. “Aye, did he really do that to you? I swear, I send my men to Miami, and they become so rude. What is it about that city?”

  Jack dodged the small talk. “Your messenger said you have something for me.”

  “Yes, I do. I think you are going to be very pleased.”

  “That’s what I used to tell my clients when their execution date got moved from Monday to Thursday.”

  “You’re a very funny man,” he said, but his smile seemed insincere.

  “Whattaya got, Colonel?”

  The colonel picked up the phone, punched a few buttons, then spoke in very abrupt Spanish. Just seconds after he hung up, a side door opened, one
that Jack hadn’t even noticed because of the way it blended into the paneled walls. Two soldiers entered, only one of them armed. The one without a gun took a seat facing the colonel, his body angled toward Jack. The armed soldier left the room.

  The colonel said, “This is Private Felipe Castillo.”

  Castillo nodded once toward Jack, who returned the gesture.

  The colonel said, “Private Castillo is part of the surveillance team at Guantánamo Bay. He is one of many soldiers on Cuban soil whose primary responsibility is to monitor activity at the U.S. naval base. We have towers posted all along-well, I’m not going to tell you how many or where they are. Not that it’s a secret. Both sides are constantly watching each other down there.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that Private Castillo saw the intruder enter my client’s house?”

  “I think I’ll let Private Castillo speak for himself. He speaks no English, so I will translate for him.”

  “That’s not necessary,” said Jack. “I’ll let you know if I miss something.”

  “Fine.” The colonel addressed the soldier in Spanish. “Private Castillo, I’ve already explained to Mr. Swtyeck that you are part of our surveillance team at Guantánamo Bay. In general terms, explain what you do and when you do it.”

  “I’m part of the third eight-hour shift. I work midnight to eight A.M.”

  “So, you work both nighttime and daylight hours?”

  “Yes. Mostly night, obviously. Which means I use infrared binoculars. After sunrise, I use regular binoculars.”

  “What portion of the base do you watch?”

  “The permanent housing section of the main base. Mainly the officers.”

  The colonel said, “Private Castillo, you know why Mr. Swyteck is here, correct?

  “Yes.”

  “You know the nature of the charges against his client?”

  “Yes, that was explained to me.”

  “Do you have any information that might be of help to Mr. Swyteck’s client?

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Would you please tell that information to Mr. Swyteck now?”

  “Yes, of course.” He drew a breath, and he seemed to be fighting a bad case of dry mouth. The colonel poured him a glass of water, and the young man’s hand shook as he drank, causing a trickle to run from the corner of his mouth. Jack didn’t take it as a sign of deception. Any soldier of his rank would have been nervous in front of the colonel.

  Castillo said, “Most of my nights are uneventful, but the most unusual thing that occurred on this particular night was somewhere between five-thirty and six A.M.”

  “What happened?”

  “Part of the area I watch includes the housing for U.S. Marine officers. I noticed a soldier arrive at one of the houses.”

  “What made this event at all memorable?”

  “Because it wasn’t his house. But he walked straight in, no knock or anything.”

  “Before six o’clock in the morning?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “What house did you see him enter?”

  “The house of Captain Oscar Pintado.”

  Jack’s heart was pounding. “I’m sorry. What date are you talking about?”

  “The seventeenth of June.”

  That was day Oscar Pintado was shot. Jack was almost afraid to ask the next question, as if testimony this good just had to unravel. “Did you see who the man was who entered the house?”

  “Please,” said the colonel, “allow me to ask the questions. Your Spanish is not-”

  “I think he understands me fine,” said Jack.

  The colonel considered it, then acquiesced. “Fine. You may ask your questions.”

  Jack was unaware of it, but he’d instinctively scooted to the edge of his seat. He didn’t want to be combative, but he did have some serious probing to do. “Did you get a good look at the man who entered the house?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Lieutenant Damont Johnson, United States Coast Guard.”

  “How can you be sure it was Lieutenant Johnson?”

  “Because I’ve seen him at the Pintado house many times before.”

  “And how is it that you’ve seen him go to that house on so many different occasions?”

  “This was my quadrant. I have a map and a chart that lists all the buildings, all the occupants.”

  “So it’s part of your job to survey certain areas of the base.”

  “Yes,” he said, then shrugged. “But, to be honest, everyone on the surveillance team had an eye on the Pintado house.”

  “Because of who his father was?”

  “No.” He smiled a little, as if embarrassed. “It was our entertainment.”

  “Your entertainment?”

  “Yes. We spend long hours looking at nothing. When we got bored, we would always scan over to the Pintado house and see what was going on.”

  Jack watched his expression closely, searching for innuendo. “What kind of things went on there?”

  “Well, like I said, I saw Mr. Johnson there many times.”

  “And you found him entertaining?”

  “Oh, yes. Very.”

  “You mean when he went over to visit Captain Pintado?”

  “Not so much then. I’d say he was most entertaining when he went over there to visit Captain Pintado’s wife.”

  Jack tried not to show his surprise. “You mean Lindsey Hart?”

  “Yes.”

  “How often did you see Lieutenant Johnson and Mrs. Hart together at the Pintado house?”

  “Many times.”

  “Now, you told me earlier that you were part of the midnight to eight A.M. shift. So, I want you to think about this carefully. Are you sure you saw Lindsey Hart together with Lieutenant Johnson many times between midnight and eight o’clock?”

  “Oh, yes. I saw them. Usually more like between two A.M. and five A.M.”

  “You actually saw them together inside the house?”

  “Sure. We have sophisticated equipment. A tiny slit in the blinds is all we need to see into the bedroom.”

  “The bedroom,” said Jack, his words almost involuntary.

  “Yes. The bedroom.”

  “I hate to sound stupid, but what was Lieutenant Johnson doing in the bedroom with Captain Pintado’s wife in the middle of the night?”

  He smiled and said, “What do you think they were doing?”

  “Nobody cares what you or I think they were doing. I want to know what you actually saw them doing.”

  Castillo glanced at the colonel, uttering a few words and expressions that Jack didn’t understand. The colonel looked at Jack and said in English, “They were going at it like a couple of porn stars.”

  Jack was silent, his eyes momentarily unable to focus. “How often did you see them together?”

  “Maybe once a week.”

  “When was the first time you saw them together?”

  “I’d say about two months before Captain Pintado’s death.”

  “When was the last time you saw them together?”

  “The night Captain Pintado died.”

  “They were together the night Captain Pintado was shot?”

  “Yes. Lieutenant Johnson left the Pintado house around three A.M. Mrs. Hart left the house for work around five-thirty. Then about twenty minutes later, Lieutenant Johnson came back to the house and entered through the back door. He left about ten minutes later, and then the police arrived about sunrise. You know the rest.”

  Again, Jack fell silent. He’d expected to hear about an intruder, and instead he’d been whacked between the eyes with a sex scandal.

  The colonel said, “Thank you, Private Castillo. That will be all for now.”

  “I have a few more questions,” said Jack.

  “That will be all for now,” the colonel said, speaking as much to Jack as to the soldier.

  The private rose and left the room. As the door closed, the colonel looked at
Jack and said, “Surprised?”

  Jack nodded, as if nothing came as a surprise any longer. “What do you expect me to do with this information from Private Castillo?”

  “That’s what I’m here to discuss. First, do you like what he had to say, or do you not like it?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Jack.

  “It is one of those two-edged swords, isn’t it? You have the lieutenant headed over to the Pintado residence right around the time of the murder. Or at least the time of the murder as established in the NCIS report, which I’ve seen, by the way.”

  “Naturally.”

  “So, you have the lieutenant at the Pintado house at the time of the murder. But you also have him involved in an affair with the victim’s wife. They both have motive. They both have opportunity.”

  “You talk like a lawyer,” said Jack.

  “I watch a lot of Law and Order. American television is my one capitalist indulgence.”

  The opulent surroundings offered Jack plenty of opportunity to argue about the extent of the colonel’s “capitalist indulgences,” but he let it drop. Jack said, “Are you still offering to make Private Castillo available to testify at Lindsey Hart’s trial in Miami?”

  “That depends,” said Colonel Jiménez. “If you like what he has to say, then yes: I am offering to make him available to you.”

  “No strings attached?”

  “No strings.”

  Jack narrowed his eyes. “Why don’t I believe you?”

  The colonel took a cigar from the humidor on his desk, rolled it between his thumb and index finger. “I said it before, and I say it again. You are such a skeptic, Mr. Swyteck.”

  “I told you the last time we met: I’m not cutting any deals with the Cuban government.”

  “We are not after any deals.”

  “Then what’s in this for you?”

  “We have decided that it is delightful enough for us to show the world that Alejandro Pintado’s son was married to a slut and was murdered by his best friend.”

  “And what if I decide to deny you that pleasure?”

  “Meaning what?”

  “What if I simply decline to call your soldier as a witness?”

  “I suggest you think very hard about that. Or it’s Lindsey Hart who suffers.”