The two laughed at this. They’d known Gutierrez for a long time, and each had always thought him a fool.
They walked easily, comfortably into the courtyard. The afternoon sun drenched them with rays filtered through the Royal Palm and lemon trees, where Tomaso poured each a glass of lemonade.
Benilo lifted his glass for a toast. “To Quiana and Rafaela’s spirit.”
Tomaso clinked glass against glass, adding, “Yes, to two beautiful Cuban women.”
This was the image that Maria Elena saw through the kitchen window. She smiled at the sight. She’d never met Dr. Benilo, but she’d heard so much from Tomaso, stories he’d shared with his daughter, Qui.
Yuri, too, had looked up from his work to see the reunion of two old friends. He thought, At least something good has come of Quiana’s case.
JZ drove lazily along the ocean front highway, listening to The Buena Vista Social Club as it blared from the car radio. On a lark, he’d signed a one-month lease on a cherry red ’57 Ford T-Bird convertible from the Havana Rent-a-Classic. The salesman had tried to push a huge pink-winged Cadillac on him that went for twice the money and twice the gas, which was scarce at the best of times and cost a fortune. While attractive for an oversize fifties car, it reminded him of something a Miami pimp would drive, so he’d passed on it, renting the smaller car instead. Having wanted to drive the classic T-Bird for years, the expense and difficulty of finding fuel seemed a small price to pay. No joke, Cubanos proved the best mechanics on the planet, attested to by the T-bird. The vintage ‘relic’ drove like a dream come true.
As JZ cruised the coastal highway in Miramar, he saw a black Peugeot parked along a peninsula overlooking blue sea and sky. As he approached, he thought how serendipitous it’d be to run into Qui Aguilera here, but he knew every Cuban cop drove the same model that she sported around in. He recalled how she’d so easily manipulated her car through the narrow side streets of Havana to arrive at the Varelas the night before. Seeing a figure in a light-colored dress that swayed in the breeze made him even more hopeful that it could be her; in the next instant, he saw that it was Qui. She pushed off from her car moving toward the water, her walk like her dance movements, rhythmic and seductive. JZ guessed she had no idea the effect her every step had on a man.
He pulled off the road and slowed to a stop, sending up gravel, the noise alerting Qui to his sudden appearance. She turned to see him as JZ hoisted himself to a high position atop the driver’s seat. He waved at her from the convertible.
Her features went from despondency to surprise, all in a moment. She smiled warmly, sauntering toward the car, admiring the classic auto as he admired her. “JZ, what are you doing here? Not stalking me, I hope!”
“Not at all. I was taking this beauty out for a spin. I just took the highway and wound up here. Running into an even greater beauty- you — is just an additional perk. The gods’re no doubt making up for my disappointing Saturday.”
“Disappointing… gods?” She gave him a curious look as she ran her hand over the perfect sheen of the red paint. “I love T-Birds.”
“Then hop in and let’s go for a ride up the coast.”
Frowning, she hesitated, backing from the car.
“Come on, my tarot reading this morning said I’m ’sposed to get everything I desire today. You wouldn’t want to defy fate, would you?”
“Hmmm… tarot cards. I’m not even convinced you believe in that sort of thing. Sounds like a line to me.”
“Are you kidding? I majored in magic.” He slid down into the seat, a smile on his face. “Come on, it’s just a drive.”
Qui came around the car to the driver’s side, leaned in close to him, and in a sultry Lauren Bacall imitation said, “Sure…you got me, but only if I can drive.”
Pretending annoyance, he awkwardly inched over the gearshift and into the passenger seat. “Ahhh…all right, if it makes you happy.”
She slipped in behind the wheel, shooed his hand from the gearshift and said, “It’s nice to meet a man capable of giving me what I want-even if it is just to humor me.”
“Hey, I want the wheel back sometime. This is temporary.”
She pulled away in a rain of pebbles. They sped down the coast without speaking, enjoying the wind, the freedom, and the car.
“I like it, JZ, being given what I want, treated well. I don’t always get that. But I have to tell you, I’m skeptical.”
He sat up straight at this. “Skeptical?”
“Come on, stumbling on me out at my favorite getaway? Did Liliana put you up to this? You can tell me the truth.”
“Do you always suspect ulterior motives and conspiracies?”
“Hey, I know how Liliana thinks.”
“She thinks we’re good together, but she didn’t have anything to do with this coincidence.”
“As for being paranoid, I’m a cop. Whataya expect?”
“But you can’t be a cop twenty-four seven, nobody can.”
“I’m not! You saw me at the Palacio.”
“Yes, we had a great time at the Varelas too.”
“Yes, we did, didn’t we.” Secretly, she enjoyed their banter but feared it might lead to a repeat of the night before when she’d had to reject his advances. “Liliana’s never liked my boyfriend, and she’s always trying to set me up with someone she approves of.”
“Ahhh, so you think Liliana approves of me?”
“She likes you a lot. That was apparent last-”
Qui’s phone rang. She hesitated, slowing the car, unsure whether she wanted to answer or not.
JZ moaned. “Oh shit. Is that mine?”
“No…wish it were. It’s mine,” she countered, taking the call.
JZ only half heard the voice coming in, but it sounded vaguely familiar.
Qui erupted, “Oh, my God, no!” Her face had turned white, and JZ noticed her single-handed death grip on the steering wheel. “Where? When?”
JZ became agitated alongside her, curious. What was she hearing?
“I’m on my way.” She dropped the phone into her purse. “That was Lieutenant Pena.” Tears welled up in Qui’s eyes.
“What’s happened?”
“It’s Montoya, my boyfriend…he’s dead. Another death.”
“Another death?”
“Three on Friday…and now my…my boyfriend.”
“Wait a minute. Three on Friday? Would that be my missing Americans?”
“Yes…maybe…I don’t know…likely…God, Montoya dead? How can it be? I just saw him yesterday.” She ran the car onto the shoulder.
“Stop the car,” he insisted. “Let me drive.”
She pulled over, relenting. They changed places and again sped away.
“Get me back to my car,” she muttered.
“No, you’re in no shape to drive, and besides, I can get you there safely. Let me do this for you.”
She swallowed hard, realizing JZ was right. This was one time she needed to relinquish control.
20
Every cop’s nightmare is walking into a crime scene where a loved one lays waiting, dead, but this proved beyond anything anyone on the force could have ever imagined. Due to the horror of the scene, Jorge Pena, first detective on site, stood like a gatekeeper, preventing Qui and JZ from entering the death room. “What’s this American doing here?” he demanded of Qui.
“He’s with me. I asked him here.”
“This is official police business, Mr. Zayas. You’ll have to wait outside. In fact, take Detective Aguilera with you. My calling her was a mistake.”
“But I’m here now, so get out of my way, Pena.”
Pena muttered, “Damn it…I shoulda waited ’til this was cleaned up.” Turning to Qui, he continued, “You don’t want to see this. Believe me.” He remained a veritable wall to her progress. “Zayas, take her out. Now!”
“Outta my way, dammit.”
Smelling blood in the air, and sensing this was one colleague trying to protect another, JZ placed a hand on her sho
ulder and suggested, “Perhaps Pena’s right.”
She shrugged away from JZ’s touch and began shoving Pena.
Grabbing her more roughly than intended, Pena said, “Qui, for once, trust me! You don’t wanna remember Estaban this way.”
“Let me go!” She struggled to free herself from Pena, but he held firm.
Looking over her shoulder at Zayas, Pena repeated, “Get her out of here!” Then Pena froze, a sharp pain in his gut made him look down. It was that damned blue gun of hers.
Seething with anger, she hissed, “For the last time, move!”
He immediately stepped aside, no longer barring her entrance.
Unable to see the weapon, JZ was unaware of the unfolding drama between the two. When Pena stepped aside, JZ saw the horrifying scene at the same moment Qui did. Appalled, he could only imagine Qui’s shock.
Qui, having taken a step into the bedroom, sank to the floor. Her mind recoiled from the gruesome sight.
Dead prostitute.
Bloody foam around mouth.
Scarlet dog choker.
Straps connected to chains over the canopy.
Montoya hanging lifeless.
All against the black satin bed sheets she’d given him on his birthday.
The blood-red choker made it look like his throat’d been cut, but the twisted, awkward angle of the neck said otherwise. A broken neck. She saw the evidence of it. He was on his knees, hands tied to heels by a network of chains and pulleys-items she’d never seen in Estaban’s possession. So out of character for the man she knew. His body arched in a pained C where his knees bent, toes touching a broken down bed. It appeared that the bed had caved in, snapping his neck and instantly killing him. Her only solace came in that he’d died without suffering. Still, the entire scenario rang false, impossible in fact.
Montoya was murdered.
Pena lifted her gun off the floor, automatically checking the weapon. “The damn safety was on. I fell for her bluff!” he said to JZ. He then returned the Walther to her. Numb with horror, she holstered the weapon zombie-fashion, unaware she’d dropped it.
Closing her eyes to the scene and swaying to a silent dirge playing in her head, she whispered, “No accident. This is murder!”
JZ took her by the shoulders and faced her away from the bodies. “Tell me…why?” he demanded, knowing that in shock she’d talk freely without analyzing her thoughts.
“We don’t know that, Qui,” countered Pena, surprised she hadn’t fallen apart, giving up a grudging respect for her.
“Without a doubt, it’s murder. I trust my instincts.”
“Qui, tell us why? How is it murder?” JZ persisted.
“Back off, Zayas,” Pena said officiously. “You two just got here. She’s not thinking straight. The medical examiner-Vasquez-already ruled accidental asphyxiation by autoerotica.”
“Fuck her findings!” Qui erupted. “Get Benilo in here!”
“It’s my call, Qui.”
“You don’t understand, Pena! This was staged!”
JZ echoed her words. “Staged?”
“Murder, pure and simple.”
“Qui,” soothed Pena, “maybe you didn’t know Estaban as well as you thought. A lotta men take pleasure in bizarre sexual fetishes. Perhaps he hid that side from you.”
“No way! He was murdered.” She ticked off the reasons, “One, he’s… was a doctor, terrified of getting AIDS, so throw out the prostitute. Two, surgeons prize their hands, so he’d never let them be bound. Three, toss out all the sadomasochism crap ‘cause he didn’t like rough sex, and as for drugs-no way!”
“And the girl?” asked Pena, pointing to the dead woman. “Do you have any idea who-”
“Never saw her before. She’s just a prop for whoever’s behind this!”
JZ and Pena exchanged an enigmatic look. JZ said, “Maybe she’s right. Don’t you think she, of all people, would know the doctor’s ahhh…habits?”
Pena frowned and shrugged. “Maybe…maybe not. Both of you come with me.” He led them away from the death room, talking as they went. “Who would want to kill Montoya? A nice guy and a good doctor who just runs a neighborhood clinic? Look, Qui…I know you’re upset, but I have to ask you questions. Please, sit.”
“I don’t want to sit. I want answers.”
They’d moved to Montoya’s elegantly put together dining-living area, all rich woods and native designs, reflecting his Cuban pride. The walls were adorned with Cuban art and framed photographs.
After pacing before the windows, Qui calmed a bit and sat on a nearby sofa occupied by JZ.
Pena cautiously asked her for details regarding Montoya’s activities during the last twenty-four hours. “When did you last see Estaban?”
“Yesterday.”
“When yesterday?”
“I’ve not seen him since I…we met at Santa Isabella just after lunch.”
Pena’s brow lifted at this. Everyone in Cuba knew the reputation of the Santa Isabella, known as one of Havana Vieja’s most romantic getaways. Normally, the hotel was off limits to locals; however, Pena decided that with her family name the usual restrictions didn’t apply.
After a series of routine questions that Qui had little or no answer for, Pena gave up. JZ suggested she be allowed to make a formal statement the next day, so that he could take her home. As JZ bartered on her behalf with the somewhat understanding Pena, she felt a need to focus on something, anything, besides this traumatic turn of events. As a result, her eyes scanned the opposite wall-a mosaic of her father’s framed black and white landscape photos. Learning of his appreciation for her father’s work, Qui’d given him framed photos on special occasions. He called them an excellent investment.
This mix of thought and emotion was abruptly ended when, in astonishment, she focused on the photo of a charred church door with a large ornate lock hanging from it, effectively an anti-religious statement- no one in and no one out. The symbol loomed large in her mind for a reason never posited there before by this image. Growing up around her father’s collection of wartime photos, Qui had seen this fascinating image all her life. But the charred church door and the lock were just point-counter-point in an artistic composition. Nothing special in and of itself, but rather a stylized symbol. But now it seemed a symbol of murder-the same or near identical lock she’d seen strapped to the bodies dredged up by the Sanabela.
Still reeling from Montoya’s awful death, she hadn’t time to puzzle out the tendrils of these now three inexplicable conundrums in her life: the lock, Montoya’s obvious murder, and the killings at sea. Were the American and Canadian deaths somehow connected to Montoya’s? Or was this cruel coincidence? What had the lock to do with the deaths of the foreign doctors, and what had Montoya told her about meeting the Canadian woman? Was there some terrible ripple effect that’d engulfed Estaban?
None of it made sense, but she was reminded of an old Cuban proverb, one that said the best ficciones — lies-are woven on a loom of truth. Somewhere in all of this madness there was a storyteller, someone in charge, pulling at the chain…setting the lock.
JZ gently touched her shoulder. “Qui, I really think you need to get out of here.”
“Just a moment. That photo,” she pointed, and he followed her finger. “It’s mine. I gave it to Montoya years ago. I want it. I need something of his to take away with me.”
JZ looked at Pena and got a slight nod. Pena then disappeared into the bedroom, the scene of the crime.
For the time being, Qui wanted to keep the information about the lock to herself. It looked so much like the lock she’d seen aboard the Sanabela just two days before.
“I’ll get the picture.” JZ paused a moment to study the composition.
She abruptly stood and paced to the window. “Thank you, JZ.”
“This has to be a horrible, horrible shock. Com’on,” he added as he cradled the framed photo. “Let’s get you outta here.”
She felt weak and vulnerable, while simultan
eously livid and incensed, a mix that proved dizzying. She let JZ guide her toward the door where she balked. “I should stay…find out what I can from the crime scene. Help Pena get to the bottom of this. They…they’re going to cover up his murder, call it accidental death. I just know it. It’s like the three deaths on the Sanabela, meant to stay undetected.”
“The three on the boat…they’re my two Americans and the Canadian, aren’t they?”
“Yes…I fear so.”
“Then all this nonsense about their having ‘gone local’ was some kind of cover up?”
“They’re trying to buy time. Yes…there is some kind of conspiracy at work.”
“Are you certain of this?”
“JZ…” she hesitated then stared at him before continuing, “I have good reason to believe as I do.”
“Whoa…you’re saying the four deaths are somehow related? Montoya’s death…the two Americans, the Canadian doctor?”
“No proof, but I’m beginning to think so.”
“We’re out of here, now. It’s Pena’s crime scene. No way are they going to let you near the case; you’re too emotionally involved.”
“Yeah…I know you’re right.” Still, she hesitated at the door for a final glance at Montoya’s well-appointed home, where she’d spent so many hours. It felt so familiar and yet her detective’s eye caught nuances that proved unfamiliar. A home of someone with expensive tastes. Yet he drew only a civil servant’s pay. What else about the man had she turned a blind eye to?
21
JZ drove Quiana back toward her abandoned Peugeot on the coastal highway. Fidgeting with the radio dial, JZ searched for something soothing, thinking of Qui’s comfort. Instead, the only station he could find was a political broadcast of Fidel Castro’s voice interrupted by cheers. “The economy is showing excellent signs of improvement.” More cheers.
“Yeah, right,” muttered JZ. With 30 % of the country going hungry every day. Usual political spin.
Qui suddenly grabbed his arm saying, “JZ, turn the car around! Take me to police headquarters, now!”
He stared across at her. “What? Why?”
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