Red Angel

by William Heffernan

  “I am afraid there are too many small roads, and too few people to blockade them. It is exactly why Señor Cipriani and Major Cepedes are now traveling this way.” He shook his head. “No, we must get to Havana and find this sickly man. Then the nganga holding the Red Angel’s bones will come to us.”

  “We’re thinking about going home,” Adrianna said. “It’s just—”

  Devlin cut her off. “No, we’re not.” He reached out and covered her hand again. “I think it might be a good idea if you went home,” he said. “But Ollie and I are going to stay.”

  Adrianna stared at him. “Like hell,” she said. “If you’re staying, so am I.”

  “I think it would be best if you all stayed,” Martínez said. “But not at the Inglaterra. I am presently having some of your clothing removed and taken to a location where Colonel Cabrera will not think to look.”

  “Where?” Devlin asked.

  Martínez smiled again, a bit coyly, Devlin thought.

  “You will stay in the house of the Red Angel. Not the ancestral home her sister now occupies, but the one in Miramar, the one Fidel, himself, has given her.” The smile widened. “We will hide under Cabrera’s nose. His own house, also a gift of Fidel, is only a few blocks away.”

  13

  Devlin put Adrianna to bed. When she was asleep, he entered Pitts’s room through the connecting door.

  “John the Boss?” Pitts asked.

  “Could be. If it is, at least we know who we’re looking for.” He went to the telephone. “I’m gonna call a friend in our organized-crime bureau. He knows everything about Rossi, right down to the size of his dick.”

  “You think there’s a Cuban connection we don’t know about?”

  “If there is, he’ll know about it.”

  Devlin hung up the phone ten minutes later and let out a long breath.

  “You got something?” Pitts asked.

  Devlin nodded. “Back in the fifties, Rossi worked here with Meyer Lansky. He was small potatoes, just a button doing odd jobs, but apparently he made an impression. When Castro tossed them out, he went back to New York and started to move up in the organization. And that’s when the NYPD started paying attention.”

  “So you think it’s him.” There was no hint of a question in Pitts’s voice. He obviously thought so, too.

  “It fits,” Devlin said. “The old Cuban connection. The sick, old man, who maybe got introduced to Palo Monte back in the old days. The flight from the Bahamas, where Rossi and his goon, Mattie the Knife, just happened to be. The phony passports that used the same first names: John and Matthew.” Devlin shook his head. “This thing walks like a duck and says quack, Ollie. Plus, you’re forgettin’ a few other things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like it was the body of Adrianna’s aunt that got snatched. And that was something that just might bring me, here.” Devlin tapped the side of his nose. “Like the fact that this sick old man waited around to see somebody get iced, and only took off when that didn’t happen. And sending me to the boneyard has been somethin’ John the Boss has wanted to do for a long time. He tried once, and it didn’t work. But he’s not the kind of guy who changes his mind. He just knew he couldn’t try again in New York.”

  “And you think he set it up here?” Pitts’s voice was incredulous. He shook his head. “That would mean he had Adrianna’s aunt killed just to get you down here. That doesn’t make sense. He can’t have that kind of clout here.”

  “No, but maybe he has friends who do.” Devlin waved his hand, as if dismissing his own argument. “Look, I think he knows everything about me. And everything about anybody I’m close to. It’s the kind of mean old bastard he is.” He waved his hand again. “But no, I don’t think he set it up that way. That’s too Byzantine even for an old Mafia bastard like him. I wouldn’t put it past him, but I think he fell into this. I think he and his gumbas had something else going, and the situation just presented itself. And the old Bathrobe jumped on it with both feet. Look, if he believes in this crazy voodoo nonsense, and is looking for a cure, what better than the body of Cuba’s most famous doctor. If Martínez is right, Cuba’s Red Angel got rubbed out by Cabrera. And what a nice little bonus that she happens to be Adrianna’s aunt. Because that just about guarantees that my ass is headed for Cuba. And that’s something that will put me right in his sights. Right where everybody’s been leading us, ever since we got here. And you know what else that means. That means Martínez could be involved right up to his rumba-shaking little ass.”

  Pitts thought about it. “I don’t buy it. It doesn’t play.” He hesitated, forming his reasons. “Martínez is the one who tipped us that it might be John the Boss. If he was part of it, he would have known we’d tumble to that. It would have been a dumb move, and Martínez is too sharp for that.”

  Devlin nodded, acknowledging the point. “He is sharp. No question about it. But it’s either that, or he’s being played for a stooge, too. Or maybe he’s got his own little game. And we just haven’t figured it out yet.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy that. But if you’re right, we better find out what it is.” Pitts hesitated, then asked, “So whadda we do now?”

  Devlin walked back toward the connecting door that led to his room. He looked back at Pitts. “Now we stop being tourists, and we start being cops,” he said.

  14

  The Red Angel’s house was on Fortieth Street, two doors in from Avenue Five in a seemingly prosperous area of Havana known as Miramar. It was a neighborhood dotted with foreign embassies and the occasional upscale restaurant. There were several small hotels catering to visiting foreign officials and businessmen, and along the nearby coast there were discreet private clubs—once a bastion of Batista’s oligarchy—that now served high-ranking Cuban officials who had modified their brand of socialism.

  Mixed in were ordinary Cubans, just as poor and struggling as compatriots in more meager neighborhoods, many living on inadequate government pensions that forced them to seek out dollars wherever they could find them. Yet the homes of those in power showed none of that financial strain. They were large and well tended, with no battered automobiles parked out front awaiting repair. They were like the homes one would find in any affluent American neighborhood, and they seemed just as removed from everyday life.

  “Your aunt lived well,” Devlin said as they looked up at the large modern stucco home that sat behind a high hedge. Devlin thought about José Tamayo, the “successful” writer they had visited only days ago. This was a far cry from the impoverished, firetrap apartment that housed his extended family.

  “You are thinking, perhaps, there are contradictions in our socialism,” Martínez said.

  “You read my mind, Major,” Devlin said.

  Martínez made a helpless gesture with his hands. “You are right. Cuba has become a nation of contradictions. The government is dedicated to serving the people, but some in the government—those at its highest levels—live much better than the people they serve.” He removed a key from his pocket and opened a locked iron gate. “This was not always so, and it is something our Red Angel argued against. But come, I will show you.”

  They entered the first floor and found themselves in a well-equipped clinic. The main rooms had been divided into a waiting room and four small examination cubicles. The large kitchen, in addition to a stove, refrigerator, and sink, also housed a laboratory.

  Martínez turned to Adrianna and smiled. “Your aunt lived on the second floor, where you will find her private office, a sitting room, and two bedrooms. I have had blackout curtains installed over the louvered windows. It will be hot, but if you keep the curtains drawn, no one will know you are here. When the lights are out, you may open the curtains.”

  “What about the neighborhood CDR man?” Devlin asked.

  “He has been alerted,” Martínez said. “He will not mention your presence. Like many of our CDR officers, he was a close friend of our Red Angel, and is pleased to serve her visiting
niece.”

  “Why was my aunt close to the CDR?” Adrianna asked.

  Martínez waved his hand, taking in the makeshift clinic. “Some in our government did not approve of her private activities. They felt it was critical of the overall system.” He raised his eyebrows, indicating another contradiction. “Many in our poorer neighborhoods are neglectful about the need to have their children inoculated against illness. And our hospitals are too large to keep track of them. Some of these people are simply suspicious, and others prefer to seek help from the Afro-Cuban religions. The Red Angel worked with Santeria priests and Palo Monte paleros to convince them this was unwise, but she also worked with the CDR to identify those who had neglected these inoculations. Those, she ordered to come to her home in the evenings, and she personally made sure their children were cared for.” A twinkle came to his eye. “The nightly line of people, coming to her home, did not please some others who live in this neighborhood.”

  “And when she was told to stop?” Adrianna asked.

  “She laughed at them,” Martínez answered. “It is said Fidel, himself, questioned these activities, and was told to mind his own business.” Amusement came to his eyes. “There are not many in our government who do this, and in recent years their friendship became very strained. Mainly because of the embargo, and its effect on needed medical supplies.”

  Adrianna wandered about the first floor, picking up various items—a stethoscope, a blood-pressure cuff, an occasional medical book—holding them as though they might impart something of her aunt, then returning them to their proper places, as if her aunt might need them when she returned.

  Devlin took Martínez aside. “We need two cars,” he said. “Inconspicuous ones, nothing shiny and new that will attract attention. Rentals are fine, but I’ll want to rent them under phony names so Cabrera can’t trace them.”

  “I can arrange this,” Martínez said. “Many individuals rent their cars. Some even serve as drivers. I will find two that are reliable.”

  “I don’t want drivers,” Devlin said.

  “I understand. There is a small park across from my headquarters. If you meet me there at three, I will have them for you.” He paused and gave Devlin a steady look. “You have something you are planning?” he asked.

  Devlin inclined his head to one side. “We’re detectives. We’re going to detect.”

  Martínez’s headquarters was located on Calle Zapata, only a few blocks from the cluster of government buildings that surrounded Fidel’s compound and the towering monument to José Martí. It was a large white two-story building that resembled a small castle, with four turrets, battlements along its flat roof, and a high arched entrance that lacked only a portcullis. Pitts had described the interior as “a typical cop shop” with an elevated front desk and waiting area, off which lay a rabbit warren of smaller squad rooms and offices. The basement housed individual cells and a large holding pen.

  Devlin and Pitts found Martínez seated on a small bench, reading a battered paperback novel. There was a paper lunch bag next to him. He smiled as they approached and held up the cover of the book.

  “One of Tamayo’s mysteries,” he said. He raised his chin toward his headquarters. “His detective is much smarter than any who work for me.”

  “It’s the same with our mystery novels,” Devlin said. “Writers don’t like cops who wander around trying to figure out which end is up.”

  Martínez laughed and tossed Devlin two sets of car keys. He raised his chin again, indicating two dust-covered cars parked in tandem, a tan Russian Lada, at least ten years old, and a dull blue Nissan Sentra of the same vintage.

  “Good surveillance cars, no?” he said. “Very inconspicuous, very Cuban. Unfortunately, neither have air-conditioning. But all the windows open, which is not true of many Cuban cars.” He shrugged. “Used parts and the embargo do not accommodate each other.”

  Devlin tossed the keys for the Lada to Pitts, who grimaced at the idea of driving a Russian car.

  “Make believe you are a good socialist,” Martínez said. “The Lada belongs to one of my men, and he has assured me it is reliable. Then there is the Russian engineering. If the car fails to start at first, you need only to beat it with a large stick.”

  Pitts reached into a pocket and withdrew a leather-covered sap. “I’ll use this,” he said. “Customs never found it in my suitcase.”

  Martínez arched his brows. “It is not legal here. Even for police.” He let out a long breath. “Is this what you used on the Abakua outside Plante Firme’s house?”

  “Nah. I didn’t have it with me then. Everybody kept telling me what a gentle city this is. I used that lead pipe I found in Plante Firme’s yard.”

  “Promise me you will use it only on the Abakua,” Martínez said. A small smile flickered across his lips. “Or Cabrera’s men.”

  Pitts winked at him.

  Devlin rolled his eyes. “Keep it in your pocket,” he said. “Use that ham hock you call a fist.”

  “I’d still like some heat,” Pitts said. “Just in case.”

  Martínez turned back to the bench and picked up a paper bag that Devlin had assumed was his lunch. He handed it to Devlin. “If you are found with these, I cannot help you,” he said.

  Devlin looked inside. The bag held two snub-nosed .38 revolvers. He slipped one into his waistband under his shirt and handed the bag to Pitts.

  “They are loaded, but there are no extra cartridges,” Martínez said. “I do not propose warfare, only self-defense.”

  “It’s like fucking Mayberry,” Pitts said. “Maybe I should keep my bullet in my pocket like Don Knotts.”

  Martínez glanced at Devlin. “It is very hard to make this man happy,” he said.

  “Indeed,” Devlin said. “You should talk to his sergeant someday. She has some very strong opinions about his level of gratitude.”

  Devlin took a step toward his car, but Martínez held up a hand. He gave Devlin a no-nonsense look. “I want to know what you are planning.”

  Devlin drew a long breath. He had known this was coming. “I’m going to check some of the hotels to see if I can kick up anything on our sick old man. I assume your CDR men are keeping watch in their neighborhoods.”

  Martínez nodded. “And Detective Pitts?”

  “Ollie is going to run a tail on Cabrera.”

  Martínez raised his eyebrows.

  “Cabrera’s never seen Ollie, so I think he has a shot at tailing him. If Cabrera meets with anyone suspicious, he’ll drop off Cabrera and follow that person. If that proves productive, we’ll run a second tail tomorrow. Ollie will stay with the colonel, and I’ll pick up on the new target.”

  “And Señorita Adrianna?”

  “She’s going through her aunt’s papers to see if there are any leads there. They’re in Spanish, and she’s the only Spanish speaker I have.”

  Martínez stared at Devlin, letting him know his rather blatant exclusion had been noted. He held Devlin’s eyes. “Today, I will go with you, my friend.” There was no question about refusal in his voice. He turned to Pitts. “We shall meet outside El Floridita at ten. It is a restaurant not far from your old hotel. Very famous. If you park in the area, anyone can direct you there.”

  * * *

  Cabrera’s car pulled out of the Villa Marista compound shortly after five. Pitts’s Lada was tucked into a side street and he dropped in behind, fifty yards back.

  The colonel’s car moved slowly through the city streets, past the ferry terminal and onto Avenida del Puerto, which ran along the edge of the harbor at the tip of Old Havana. As they approached the Castillo de San Salvador fortress, the car entered the tunnel that ran under the harbor to Casablanca. Emerging on the opposite shore, it turned onto a winding drive that circled the Castillo del Morro, the sister fortress that together with the Castillo de San Salvador had guarded Havana harbor for more than two centuries. At a sign marked LOS 12 APOSTOLES, Cabrera’s car entered a steep drive that led back to the water
.

  Pitts dropped back, waited, then followed Cabrera’s car down the drive.

  Los 12 Apostoles turned out to be an ancient gun emplacement, twelve two-hundred-year-old cannons, set in a long line and pointed toward the entrance of the harbor, each one bearing the name of one of Christ’s apostles. Behind the gun battery stood the very tony Restaurant of the Twelve Apostles.

  Pitts spotted Cabrera’s car in the large dirt parking lot. The driver was leaning against a fender, smoking a cigarette, as he stared out at a passing car ferry. Pitts drove by unnoticed, and parked as far away as he could. Then he sauntered toward the restaurant, just another tourist looking for an expensive meal.

  Cabrera was seated alone at an outside terrace table, facing the city. Pitts asked the maître d’ for a similar table and was seated no more than twenty feet away. A few minutes later Cabrera was joined by another man. He was average height, about forty, Pitts guessed, with dark hair and dark eyes and a heavy five-o’clock shadow. He was dressed in black slacks, a pale blue shirt with the top two buttons undone, and a tan sport jacket. There was a gold Rolex on his wrist and a gold crucifix hanging from his neck. He looked like a flashy European businessman on vacation. Except he greeted Cabrera in American-accented English. The sound of his voice made Pitts smile.

  “There is a problem,” Cabrera said.

  DeForio’s eyes hardened. “This is a bad time for problems. We’ve already transferred a sizable amount of money to the bank in Panama. We’re ready to move ahead quickly.”

  Cabrera nodded. “This difficulty will not stop our plans.”

  Mickey D stared at him. “You let me be the judge of that. Tell me about your problem.”

  The waiter came, gave them menus, and took their drink orders. When he had left, Cabrera leaned forward and lowered his voice.

  “Robert Cipriani has disappeared,” he began. “I sent him to Santiago de Cuba to meet with our friend, together with one of my men. Neither has returned.”