Midnight in Havana

by Peggy Blair

  The dead boy sat in Ramirez’s office, swinging his legs back and forth on the wooden chair. He’s already bored being dead, thought Ramirez. He wants to play.

  Ramirez quick-stepped back down the hallway, then jogged down the stairs taking two at a time. He pushed through the iron gates and sprinted to the Attorney General’s Office. He pulled open the heavy wooden door, nodded at the security guard, and ran up the stairs to the prosecutor’s office on the third floor. Breathing hard, he was just about to hand the documents to Luis Perez for formal registration when Perez’s phone rang.

  “It is for you, Ricardo,” the prosecutor said. “Hector Apiro.”

  Perez handed Ramirez the phone, raising his eyebrows quizzically. It was 1:51 P.M.

  “What is it, Hector?” Ramirez asked. He gripped the receiver tightly and turned away so Perez couldn’t see that his hand was shaking. He tried to catch his breath.

  “I looked at the report that the Canadian lawyer sent you and it is very interesting,” said Apiro. “Señor Ellis was treated with anxiolytic drugs last June. But before he took the drugs, he was given a pre-treatment hematological baseline test. To establish his baseline for liver function before he started treatment so that possible damage to his liver could be monitored. The drugs are very hard on the liver.”

  “Hector, I’m afraid I don’t understand what it is you are trying to tell me,” Ramirez interrupted, his breath still ragged. He had only minutes left and no time for lengthy explanations.

  “Sorry, I am getting to it. These tests establish that Ellis has a Lewis blood antigen and that he is a Type A non-secretor. That is important.”

  “Hector, you’re losing me. What does all this mean?”

  “It means that Señor Ellis does not secrete his blood type antigens into his bodily fluids the way other people do. So his seminal fluid, even his saliva, cannot reveal his blood type. Only his blood can do so. If the semen samples on his sheets and in the boy were his, we would not have found any blood group in them. That is what being a non-secretor means.”

  “But you did find a blood group. Type A,” Ramirez protested. He was confused.

  “Exactly, Ricardo. Which means that those samples came from someone else.”

  Ramirez felt his rape charge collapsing, along with the air in his lungs. “You mean he’s innocent?”

  “I cannot say he was not involved. But the seminal fluid I found in this boy’s body came from an assailant who was, by definition, a secretor. So, yes, someone else raped the boy.”

  “But who?”

  “Ah, Ricardo, we do not yet have the science for me to look at a DNA sample and tell you whether it belongs to a dark man, or a short man, or a hairy one. I can only compare other samples to the ones I have. But if you can provide me with such comparatives, I can quickly tell you if they are from the same man. Within 99.999 percent probability. Provided, of course, I have the supplies I need.”

  One minute left. Ramirez was far from convinced that the Canadian was uninvolved. What about those photographs from the hotel room? The empty capsule? And Sanchez, whose instincts were solid even if his methods weren’t always, was as convinced of the man’s guilt as Ramirez.

  Did he still have enough evidence to file? Apiro’s expert opinion had changed. If Ramirez tried to keep the Canadian in custody while he searched for more evidence, he needed a plan for the juridical panel. But he had no plan and no time to develop one.

  The photographs did not show the man’s face. Ramirez could not prove that Señor Ellis was the man in them, or that Ellis concealed them under the mattress himself. The Rohypnol capsule was empty; it could not be directly traced to the boy. As for the murder, Ramirez had no place of death, no weapon, not even motive with this new evidence. It would be hard to explain to a juridical panel why someone would kill a child that someone else had raped.

  Should he file his materials anyway and hope to fill in the holes in his investigation later, try to come up with some excuse as to why he needed more time? Would the prosecutor accept them, having just overheard his side of the conversation with Apiro? Luis Perez was corrupt, but not stupid.

  Or should he let his only suspect go? Less than ten seconds to make up his mind.

  Luis Perez waited patiently, also eyeing the clock. “Are you going to file those papers, Ricardo?” he asked. “You are almost out of time.”

  Maybe Sanchez is right, thought Ramirez. Maybe it is easier to frame the guilty. He handed his papers to the prosecutor.

  “Thank you for letting me use your phone, Luis.”

  “Problems with the case?”

  “A misunderstanding with Dr. Apiro. I’ll straighten it out.”

  Ramirez left the building. He walked past the guard at police headquarters and up the stairs, too distracted to return the guard’s salute.

  The Canadian authorities would be furious. But he had made the only choice he could; he just hoped it was the right one. If Señor Ellis was proven innocent, he could always be released later. If he survived jail.

  Ramirez would keep him in the holding cells and delay his transfer to prison by another day. That would force the Canadian lawyer to move quickly. It might even help her client beat the odds.

  FIFTY

  Celia Jones hung up the phone, disconnecting her long-distance call. Shit. Shit. Shit. O’Malley was livid. Mike was going to be transferred later that night to a prison. And after that? She didn’t know.

  She could almost see Inspector Ramirez’s argument: that Mike’s involvement couldn’t be negated just because he hadn’t raped the boy himself. There was still that capsule, those photographs. As for the argument that the CD and the Polaroids could have been put there by a previous hotel guest, well, Ramirez wasn’t buying it.

  Jones showered. She tried to scrub the smell of failure from her skin before she put on fresh clothes.

  She went back over her notes, the file, the transcripts. It was almost six o’clock when she finished rereading everything. She ordered a salad from room service and went over the outline of her lawyer’s brief. Something in this file nagged at her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Something didn’t fit.

  She had to find the woman from the bar. That was all she had left. If Mike Ellis was convicted of something he didn’t do, if he was executed and he was innocent ... she imagined the soldiers lined up with rifles, the shots. Mike collapsing, blindfolded, bloodied. Dead. She thought again of the man who had jumped, who had died, broken, in the snow.

  She would never forgive herself.

  Jones passed Miguel Artez in the lobby with a brief nod and made her way through the revolving door without his help. She walked quickly to El Bar, planning to leave more money with the bartender to secure his interest.

  When she got there, she was astonished to find a blonde woman who looked a lot like Hillary Ellis sitting primly at the counter.

  The woman’s hand rested lightly on the knee of a tourist. Sunglasses with pink frames shaped like hearts were pushed on top of her streaked hair. The man beside her was large and sweaty and seemed pleased with her attention. He wore a Toronto Maple Leafs T-shirt and mopped his damp forehead with a paper napkin.

  The bartender caught the woman’s eye and nodded towards Celia Jones. The woman withdrew her hand from the man’s knee.

  Jones sat beside the heavy man and said quietly, under her breath, “This woman is involved in a police investigation. I suggest you leave quietly, while you still can.”

  “Christ,” the man said. He threw a few pesos on the bar, disgusted, and fled. He didn’t look back.

  The woman was annoyed rather than angry. “Why did you do that? What did you say to him?”

  Jones ignored her question. “My name is Celia Jones. I’m Mike Ellis’s lawyer.”

  “I do not know who Mike Ellis is. I am very sorry, Señora. I think you have the wrong person.” The woman turned away.

  Jones leaned in but kept her voice low. “Listen to me. I know who you are, and I know wha
t you are. I’m no threat to you. You have to trust me. I’m not with the police.” Not a complete lie. She didn’t work for the Cuban police. “I’m trying to find out how to get Rohypnol around here. I heard you had some with you on Christmas Eve when you met my client.”

  “I do not know what you are talking about.”

  “Rohypnol. A date-rape drug.”

  “And you think I would have such a thing? I do not use such drugs,” the woman stated indignantly. “I have no need to. You can check my bag if you like. I keep very little in it, except a few condoms. They are hard to find here—do you have any by chance?” She smiled, teasing. Trying to use her charm, but it wasn’t working. Jones shook her head.

  “My loss,” the woman said.

  “What about this drink?” Jones pointed to the fat man’s abandoned mojito. “If I have someone check this, will they find Rohypnol in it? You’d better tell me. Because the police are looking for you. Right now, I’m the only thing keeping you out of jail.”

  “I truly do not know what you are talking about, Señora Jones.”

  “Let’s not be clever,” Jones said. “Mike Ellis has spent three long, uncomfortable days in a jail cell at police headquarters for something he didn’t do.”

  “In jail? For what?” the woman asked, shocked.

  Jones lowered her voice. Jinetera or not, the bartender was watching them closely, and she wasn’t sure exactly who else he was taking money from. “For the death of a little boy who was connected to you somehow.”

  The woman sat up straight then. “A little boy? Which little boy? Tell me quickly. Which boy? Was it Arturo?”

  “You knew him? Who was he to you?”

  The woman didn’t answer. Tears welled in her eyes. Jones threw some money on the bar to cover her drink. “Let’s find somewhere else to talk. I need to know what happened here on Christmas Eve.”

  The woman got clumsily to her feet and reached for her tote bag. She put her hand on Jones’s shoulder to help stabilize herself as she climbed off the high stool, almost collapsing as she did. She was almost six feet tall in her high heels, and bottle-thin. She fumbled to put on her sunglasses. “What’s your name?” asked Jones.

  “Maria. Where do you want to go?” the woman asked, choking back tears.

  “Somewhere safe. Where we won’t be overheard.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  “So, Inspector, did Luis Perez accept the file? Will he issue the indictment?” asked Detective Sanchez.

  “Yes, but we have a problem.” Ramirez quickly explained the new evidence. “I have to meet with the minister in a few minutes to make sure that our acting president understands the situation. There could be a problem if anything happens to Señor Ellis in jail before his conviction. Disruption of our trading relationship with Canada.”

  Why did Señor Ellis have to be a police detective? thought Ramirez. And why did they send a good lawyer when there were so many poor ones? This woman, Celia Jones, was complicating his life.

  “I want you to put Señora Jones under surveillance. We have to find Señor Ellis’s accomplice, and the source of those drugs. I think she will lead us to one or the other. She’ll act quickly; she knows she has very little time. I let her think her client is being transferred to a prison tonight.”

  “And he isn’t?”

  “Tomorrow. I don’t want him harmed before we can prove his guilt. Too risky. Perez accepted the indictment only because he thinks there will be something in it for him; he overheard my end of the conversation with Apiro. He knows there’s something wrong with the case, just not what. He doesn’t have the report Señora Jones gave me; Apiro still has it. But he will probably ask her for money once he goes through our materials and puts it together with what he heard.”

  “He’ll withdraw the charges,” said Sanchez, clearly unhappy.

  “For a price? Of course. It all comes down to those drugs, Rodriguez. If Señor Ellis did not bring Rohypnol into Cuba himself, then the capsule we found in his room links him to the person who did. That drug is the key. We need to find out where it came from. So does Señora Jones. To save her client’s life. She doesn’t yet know that Luis Perez takes bribes.”

  “She’ll find out soon enough.” Sanchez stomped off, frustrated.

  The dead boy stopped spinning in his chair and looked at Ramirez. He held out his empty palms.

  FIFTY-TWO

  They walked out into the late afternoon sun, through the semi-shade of the square, then up the Paseo de Martí to Trocadero and west to the Avenue de Italia, another wide, tree-lined boulevard. Celia Jones looked around. No one followed them except a few stray dogs.

  “Here,” the woman said and pointed to a wrought-iron bench surrounded by palm trees and flowering bushes. “It is usually private here. I sometimes bring my clients here. Sometimes they only wish to talk, too.”

  She took her sunglasses off and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a trail of mascara across her lovely face. “The man in the bar just now. You knew he was my client?”

  “Yes, I gathered as much.”

  “It’s a shame,” Maria said. “I hate to lose a paying customer.” She wiped her eyes again. “Are you sure it was Arturo who died?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “He was beaten. Sexually assaulted. They found his body in the ocean.”

  “Oh my God,” Maria cried out. “That poor child.” She bent her head down and wept. After a few minutes, Maria lifted her head and searched Jones’s eyes. “When was he killed? On Christmas Eve?”

  “How did you know?”

  Once again, the woman sobbed quietly. Then she put her pink sunglasses on and Jones could see the effort it took for her to compose herself.

  “Tell me about the boy. How do you know him?”

  “How can I be sure you are not working with the Cuban police?”

  “They arrested Mike Ellis. They think he was connected to this.”

  “Was he?”

  “No.”

  “Why should I believe you when you say that?”

  “Because he says he was with you. If he was, he couldn’t have done this.”

  The woman nodded. “Can I trust you?” she asked uncertainly.

  “You have to.”

  Maria considered this for a moment. “Alright. I will tell you everything I know.”

  “Let me write this down, okay? Maria, what’s your last name?” She pulled out her notebook and pencil.

  “My real name is known only to me and my mother. By now, she has likely forgotten it as well. But I go by the name Maria Vasquez. Before I answer your questions, I need to know this: did he suffer, little Arturo?”

  “No. I don’t think so. He died quickly. Around midnight, the pathologist said.”

  “Thank God for that. He should have gone straight home. He was supposed to go straight home.”

  “You knew this boy well enough to care about him. Who was he?”

  “A boy I tried to protect. A good boy. One who deserved better.”

  Maria put her head down and wept again, her shoulders shaking. “Why did they arrest him?” she asked. “Señor Ellis was with me on Christmas Eve. Arturo was alive after I left the hotel. Señor Ellis had passed out when I left. He could not have done this terrible thing.”

  “Someone planted evidence in his room. I need to find out who. And I need you to tell the police that you were with Mike that night so that I can get him out of jail before someone kills him. You’re his only chance.”

  “You understand that if I admit to that, I can be locked away for being a prostitute? I could spend years in jail.”

  “Do you understand that he could be executed by a firing squad for murder? I need to know exactly when you were in his room. What time did you leave?”

  The woman sighed and slowly bobbed her head in assent. “I was not there for long. From around eleven to eleven-thirty, perhaps a little earlier. Just long enough to put him to bed. He fell asleep almost immedi
ately. He could not have moved for hours, I am sure.”

  Maria wiped her eyes. “I still can’t believe Arturo is dead. He was a delightful boy, full of fun. A real boy, you know? Full of mischief. One who liked to play.”

  “How did you know him?”

  Maria hesitated. Jones sensed she was holding something back.

  “I saw him on the Plaza de Armas one day, being harassed by the police. I felt sorry for him. I told the police officer I was his mother. A lie, but it kept him from harm. He was such a good, happy little boy. After that, I gave him food sometimes, when he was hungry. And I knew he was getting into trouble, serious trouble, with the boys he was begging with.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “About a week ago, Arturo told me a man named Nasim was giving the boys money to take their pictures. There was always another man with him, a Cuban. Arturo didn’t know his name. Señor Ellis met him. The foreigner, that is. Nasim. Nasim was at the bar on Christmas Eve at the same time we were. Until Señor Ellis told him to go away.”

  “The man with the straw hat? The British guy? That was Nasim?” Another word completed in the crossword puzzle.

  “Yes, how did you know? He used to take the boys to an abandoned building on Campanario. He asked them to pose for pictures, but I could tell from the way Arturo talked about it that the poses were sexual. Arturo would not tell me much more than that. He was very ashamed. I was certain he was being abused.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I could not stop them from going. They are so desperate, these children. They will do anything to support their families. Nasim had told them to come back to the same building on Christmas Eve for more money, and candy, too. The other boys wanted Arturo to go. But I could see the risks. I had to stop those men. And so I went to the building on Campanario with Arturo. Only Nasim was there. I told him to leave the boys alone, that I was reporting him to the police. And I did. I thought Arturo would be safe.”