“Thanks, Walt.” When she’d hung up, Molly relayed what he’d said to Michael.
“A simple businessman? Sure doesn’t sound like the man who took an assault weapon to Paredes’s house today, does it?” he said. “I’ll give Felipe a call and fill him in.”
Molly paced while Michael was on the phone. His expression turned more and more grim as the mostly one-sided conversation went on. Since she had no idea what Felipe was saying, she had to assume it was more bad news.
“Well?” she asked when he’d hung up.
“Ken went by on his way home and took a look at the rental car. He couldn’t find so much as a trace of evidence that it had been used in that shooting incident. He thinks we should turn it over to the investigating officers and let them do a more thorough check, but he doubts they’ll come up with any more than he did. He said it looked to him like the damn thing had been gone over by a detail crew. The carpet had been shampooed, the seats cleaned, the whole nine yards.”
“Which seems like a lot of trouble to go to before returning a rental car, unless a kid threw up all over the upholstery,” Molly commented.
“Or unless someone is trying to cover up something,” he added. “Unfortunately, I can’t think of a court anywhere who’d take clean carpet and upholstery as evidence of a crime.”
• • •
Molly awoke in the morning to the sound of glass breaking and a string of expletives in English and Spanish that would have made a sailor blush. She grabbed one of Michael’s shirts and buttoned it as she ran down the stairs.
“What on earth?” she said as she skidded to a stop at the kitchen door. The radio was on the floor in pieces, along with a shattered coffee cup and bits of a juice glass. Coffee and orange juice were splattered all over the wall and the carpet. Michael was sitting down, staring at the mess, a dazed expression on his face. He looked as if he weren’t quite sure how it had happened.
Molly picked her way through the shards of glass and hunkered down in front of him, her hands on his thighs. “What happened? What did you hear on the radio?”
“What makes you think I heard something on the radio?”
She gestured toward the bits of plastic, batteries and knobs scattered every which way. “People have a way of taking out their frustrations over the message on the messenger.”
He sighed. “True. If Díaz-Nuñez had been in the vicinity, I might very well have treated him the exact same way.”
“Ah, I see. And what did our favorite newscaster have to say this morning?”
“To hear him tell it, Paredes’s organization is a hotbed of traitors and spies who have infiltrated at Castro’s behest. Death, he says, is not good enough for those who commit these crimes against the Cuban patriots. What happened to Miguel García, he says, was only a warning to the others.”
Molly regarded him in shock. “Luis Díaz-Nuñez called your uncle a traitor? Why?”
“Do you think he felt a need to explain?” he said bitterly. “It also sounds to me as if he believes he is dead.” His eyes blazed with fury as he reached for the phone.
“You aren’t calling him?” Molly said.
“Why not? I will not have him slander my family in this way.”
“Do you honestly think what you say will matter to a man like Díaz-Nuñez?”
“But my uncle should be defended.”
“And in due time, he will be. For now, though, shouldn’t you be thinking of Pilar? What will she think when she hears on the radio any hint that Miguel might be dead?”
“Dear God, I never thought of that. Let’s go. We have to get over there.”
When they arrived at the house, already there were a handful of protesters marching on the front lawn, people spurred on by the rhetoric of Díaz-Nuñez. Molly wondered if she would be able to get Michael to pass them by without his responding to the jeers. A brawl would do nothing to help Pilar, though at the moment it might help Michael to release his pent-up outrage. Come to think of it, she wouldn’t mind belting a few of them herself. She recognized them from earlier visits. These same people had been by to express their sympathy and concern for a man they had respected. Now Díaz-Nuñez and his unexplained labeling of Miguel as a traitor had turned them against their friend.
Michael displayed admirable restraint as he passed by. Inside, they found Pilar being comforted by Michael’s mother and Tía Elena. Pedro was trying to keep Michael’s cousins from going outside to run off the band of protesters.
“They will only come back,” he told them.
“But they are telling lies about Miguel. They say he has betrayed Cuba. He would never do that. How can they turn on him this way?” one of the youngest cousins asked.
“It is easy to stir up old fears,” Pedro told them. “Logic and truth are no match for the rhetoric of hatred, given in the guise of patriotism. We know how deeply Miguel believed in Cuba. We know that the words spoken on the radio are lies, that Díaz-Nuñez has offered no facts, just allegations, but to say that we know those things will not be enough. Time will prove us right.”
The younger men all looked to Michael. “Do you agree that we should do nothing?”
Michael glanced out the window, his jaw tense with anger. Finally he nodded with obvious reluctance. “Tío Pedro is right. We will not change their minds. It is more important that we keep Pilar’s spirits high and that I find Miguel. We cannot lose our focus over this.”
When Michael went to speak quietly with his aunt, Pedro pulled Molly aside. “I am worried about him. I can see his anger and his pain, but he keeps it inside.”
“He is strong,” Molly reassured him. “Stronger than any of us. And he is motivated by love for his uncle.”
“You will see that he rests, that he does not drive himself too hard?”
“I will try,” she promised. “But Michael knows his own limits, or thinks he does. I have little influence.”
Pedro smiled wearily. “You have more than you know, Molly. He cares for you a great deal, I believe. And right now he needs you, whether he admits that to you or not.”
The concept of Michael O’Hara’s needing anyone was something Michael himself would have rejected out of hand, but Molly believed in her heart that Tío Pedro was right. The tough, stubborn cop needed someone he could rely on, and she intended to do everything in her power to be that person, not just now, but in the future as well.
She gave Tío Pedro a hug. “I’ll watch out for him. I promise.”
“Then perhaps you’d better hurry,” he said dryly. “He appears to be sneaking out the front door without you.”
Molly whirled around just in time to see Michael closing the door behind him. “Michael O’Hara,” she shouted as she took off after him. “Don’t you dare try to leave me behind.”
The rare sound of laughter followed her out the door. She caught up with Michael at his car. “Exactly what did you think you were doing?” she demanded.
“Leaving.”
“Without me?”
He pressed his hand to her cheek. “Amiga, I knew you would not be far behind.”
“You counted on me following?”
“Yes.”
“Then why not just tell me it was time to go?”
“Because then I would have had to explain to everyone that we are going to see Díaz-Nuñez and I knew that such an announcement would create a furor. Pedro would have wished to come along. My cousins would have insisted on joining us. Soon we would have had a goddamned parade.”
“Haven’t you ever heard the expression ‘there’s strength in numbers’?”
“Yes, but just this once I believe I can make my point more effectively alone. I do not want the others around when I tear that man limb from limb.”
“You will not do that,” Molly said.
He regarded her with obvious skepticism. “Oh? How can you be so certain?”
“Because you are a policeman and, for better or worse, you believe in the judicial system.”
&nb
sp; “Then what would you suggest I do to deal with the man who slandered my uncle and brought shame upon my family?”
Molly grinned. “Let me tear him limb from limb.”
Michael’s burst of laughter momentarily silenced the ragtag band of protesters on the lawn. He pulled Molly into his arms and held her tightly. “Ah, querida, have I mentioned that I adore you?”
“No, but I’m glad to hear it.”
“Oh?”
“It makes it so much nicer, since I adore you.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
En route to the radio station, Molly tried to keep Michael focused on a plan of attack that did not involve bloodshed.
“It’s possible that Díaz-Nuñez is being fed false information about Miguel. With his strong political sentiments, he would be an easy pawn if someone wanted to start a conspiracy of lies. The merest hint that someone is a traitor or a spy would bring him out swinging. He doesn’t strike me as someone who requires facts before going on the air.”
Michael considered her suggestion thoughtfully. “You could be right. But why would someone do that?”
“To stir up trouble, perhaps. To divert attention from some other scheme. That will become clearer when you find out who his source is, don’t you think?”
“I suppose.”
“So you’ll ask questions about where he got his information, right? You’ll stay calm and listen to the answers?”
“You ask a lot of a man, amiga.”
“Yes,” she agreed cheerfully. “But I know you can easily live up to my expectations.”
“And if I do not, if I suddenly feel the need to put my fist down the man’s throat?”
“Then I’ll forgive you,” she said generously.
He looked at her. The mirrored sunglasses kept her from detecting the emotion in his eyes, but she guessed she would find tolerant amusement there.
“I do not need your permission or your forgiveness,” he pointed out.
“Of course not,” she responded dutifully.
He sighed at the too-ready agreement. “I’ll do my best not to disappoint you.”
“I never doubted it.”
Molly had not counted on the fact that she would be the one who wanted very badly to put a fist down the newscaster’s throat. She took one look into those smug eyes and felt her civilized veneer being stripped away. Michael, however, suddenly seemed icily calm. If anything, it was more frightening than his hotheaded anger.
“In your office,” he said to Díaz-Nuñez when they came face-to-face during a commercial break. The newscaster had stepped into the hallway outside the studio from which he’d been broadcasting.
“I have another hour left on the air,” Díaz-Nuñez protested.
“Someone will cover for you, I’m sure.” Michael regarded him speculatively. “Or we could play our discussion over the airwaves. Would you prefer that?”
“That will not be necessary,” he replied stiffly. “I will make arrangements.”
Moments later they heard Latin music pouring from the speakers that lined the hallway. Díaz-Nuñez joined them again, then preceded them into his office. He settled himself behind his desk and reached for one of his cigars.
“I have questions,” Michael informed him. “Quite a lot of them, as a matter of fact.”
“And if I am not inclined to answer?”
“Then perhaps you would prefer to answer them at police headquarters,” Michael said indifferently. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
“This is an official interrogation, then?”
“Official enough, but I am not charging you with my uncle’s death just yet,” he said with a magnanimous air.
There was a fleeting hint of panic in Díaz-Nuñez’s eyes before he banked it. “Why would you think I know anything of Miguel García’s death?”
“Because you are the only one to say he is dead,” Michael replied. “The police have not said it. The Coast Guard has not said it. The rescuers flying over the Florida Straits have not said it. So, then, I have to ask how you would know this with such certainty, if you are not involved.”
“I don’t know anything,” Díaz-Nuñez protested. “He disappeared days ago. There has been no trace. I assume he is dead.”
He couldn’t have said anything that would infuriate Michael more. Molly watched the color rise in his cheeks, saw his hands clench until the knuckles turned white.
“And you broadcast this assumption on the air as fact?” Michael said in a low, furious voice. “You dare to distress my aunt in this way, based on assumptions, on guesswork? What sort of journalist are you?”
The newscaster took the criticism without batting an eye. “I rely on a combination of facts, sources, and instincts.”
Visibly fighting to bring his temper in check, Michael stood up, placed his hands on the desk, and leaned forward until he was only inches from the other man’s face. “And which of those told you my uncle was a traitor?”
Díaz-Nuñez nervously twisted the cigar in his hands. He refused to lift his eyes to meet Michael’s gaze. “For that I had a source,” he swore. “A most reliable source.”
Seconds ticked by in silence. The newscaster finally looked up and regarded Michael warily, as did Molly. She wasn’t sure what he would do in the face of such a bold claim of attribution.
“Who?” he demanded finally. “Who told you this?”
“I cannot reveal that. A journalist must protect his sources,” Díaz-Nuñez said piously. “Surely you can understand that.”
Michael’s expression turned lethal. “I understand that if you do not give me a name, then I must assume that you alone are responsible for the slander. And that it will be you I must deal with.”
Suddenly Díaz-Nuñez went on the attack, lifting himself from his chair and leaning toward Michael, who then took a step back. “Why do you defend a man who would betray his brothers?” he asked hotly. “Are you a traitor as well, O’Hara?”
He said the name as disparagingly as he could, emphasizing the fact that it was not Hispanic. There was no question Michael understood the intended insult.
Michael snagged a handful of the newscaster’s perfectly pressed silk-blend shirt and hauled him halfway across the fancy mahogany desk, scattering papers in his wake. “Miguel Garcia is a Cuban patriot. I would stake my life on that. If you have evidence to the contrary, if you have a source who says otherwise, then produce it. Do not be a coward standing behind a false claim of journalistic ethics.”
Molly had managed to stay silent and out of the way until now, but Díaz-Nuñez’s eyes were bulging and his face was turning red. It was doubtful he could have answered Michael if he’d wanted to. She put her hand on Michael’s tensed arm.
“Michael. It’s possible he might be ready to talk,” she said quietly. “First, though, he has to be able to breathe.”
Michael drew in a deep breath and slowly eased his grip. “Well? Is she right? Do you have something to say?”
The newscaster gasped. When he could finally speak, he choked out, “The source was anonymous.”
Michael’s grip tightened again. “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe there was a source.”
Díaz-Nuñez wrenched himself free and rubbed his throat. “All right, I will tell you.” His expression turned smug. “My source was Paredes himself. He is the one who told me that Miguel García betrayed the organization and his people by leaking confidential information to Castro.”
• • •
Back in the car, his expression grim, Michael pulled an address book from his pocket and handed it to Molly. “While I drive, you call Felipe and Ken. Tell them we’re on our way to headquarters. Tell them I want as many men as possible making contact with sources to locate Paredes. If necessary we’ll pull in every known member of his organization.”
“Can you do that?” Molly asked even as she took the address book and picked up his cellular phone to begin calling.
“My uncle has been missing
for forty-eight hours. Based on the broadcast by Díaz-Nuñez, I think we have probable cause to suspect foul play. I’m certain I can make my boss see this my way, if the need arises.”
“If the need arises,” Molly repeated. “Meaning if Lucas Petty catches you pulling these people in unofficially.”
He refused to meet her gaze. “Just make the calls, por favor.”
Though he was scheduled for an afternoon shift, Molly found Felipe already at the station.
“I’ll be here when you arrive,” he promised. “I heard the newscast and anticipated something like this. How is Michael’s mood?”
Molly glanced at the man behind the wheel, whose expression was dark and forbidding. “About what you’d expect.”
“That bad, huh? Tell him I said we’ll solve this. I came in early to speak with a few of those who follow the activities of organizations such as Paredes’s. You have tried to reach Ken?”
“He’s next on my list.”
“You won’t get him. He took the day to go on the dive he promised to make. As we speak, he and Teri are probably searching the bottom of Biscayne Bay. I’ll call a few others and ask them to come in early to assist with the calls.”
“Thanks. We’ll see you soon.” When she’d hung up, Molly turned to Michael. “Felipe’s already checking.”
“And Ken?”
“He’s on that dive.”
“My guess is that it’ll be a waste of his time.”
“He’s trying to help.”
“I know that, amiga,” he said with exaggerated patience.
Molly bit back an exasperated retort. Obviously anyone’s patience would be worn thin after the tension and sleeplessness of the past couple of days. Michael, for all of his other attributes, was no saint. Rather than fuel his irritability, she dialed another number.
“Who are you calling now?”
“Walt Hazelton. Perhaps he’s learned something about Paredes’s whereabouts.”
“I don’t like relying on this correspondent for information,” he said stubbornly.
“You have your sources. I have mine,” Molly said evenly. Unfortunately, hers didn’t know a damned thing.
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