“I appreciate your telling me such things.”
Sanchez shrugged and played with a pencil in front of him.
“I am trying to save you time and effort. I will speak even more frankly if you do not mind,” said Sanchez.
“By all means.”
Sanchez rose, put his hands behind his back, and strode to the window. There was something of the Gray Wolfhound in the move, a certain calculation for effect that alerted Rostnikov.
“There are dangers in Havana as there are in any city,” said Sanchez. “If you remain within the protection of my office, we will see to it that such dangers are avoided. I can offer no such guarantees if you choose to … you understand?”
“Perfectly,” said Rostnikov. “Consider yourself absolved.”
“Unfortunately,” sighed Sanchez, “absolution is not within your power. It is my own superiors to whom I would have to answer should something happen to you or your charming assistant.”
Rostnikov nodded.
“I understand,” said Rostnikov, rising with remarkably little protest from his leg. “The rain seems to be stopping.”
“And its protection fading,” said Sanchez. “Cuidado, amigo.”
“I will be careful,” said Rostnikov, moving toward the door. “A request.”
“Yes.”
“I would like Igor Shemenkov to survive at least until I have completed my investigation, however pointless that investigation might be.”
“He has been moved to a cell with a video camera. He will be watched constantly. There will be no more suicide attempts.”
“Gracias,” said Rostnikov.
“Nyeh zah shto,” replied Major Sanchez.
“Right there,” Angelica Carerra said. She pointed to a wooden-legged tan lounge chair that Elena Timofeyeva thought would be better suited to the waiting room of a medical clinic than an apartment.
Sheets of rain slapped against the windows and roof of the Carerra apartment. The place smelled of must and mildew.
Elena examined the lounge chair. Its recently cleaned pillows still showed the stains of whatever had been used to remove the blood of Maria Fernandez.
“We didn’t want to keep it,” said Carlos Carerra, “but what could we do? Even if we could afford new furniture, where could we buy it?”
The large room was remarkably bare, as if someone were moving in or out. The floor was gray tile. In addition to the lounge chair, there were three white wicker chairs. All faced a low, dark wooden coffee table that matched none of the other furniture. Against a wall stood a heavy, black mock-Chinese serving table on which sat a Chinese-made LP record player. The only decoration on the wall was a crude oil painting of Castro as he might have looked two decades before.
The Carerras had been solicitous. They had welcomed Elena and offered her a towel to dry herself after her dash from the taxi to the apartment building. They had given her a tall glass of lemonade as she apologized for being late. The taxi driver had been unable to find the house. He had been unable, in fact, to find the housing complex or the street. He had lived in Havana his entire life, but he had needed to call his dispatcher for instructions and the dispatcher had not known for sure.
“Havana is a maze of high-rise houses and renamed streets,” Angelica Carerra told Elena.
The rain came down so loudly they had to raise their voices. The wind rattled the windows.
“We are lucky to have this apartment,” said Carlos. “When the rain stops, look around out there. There are only four floors in this building, only eight apartments. It was built before the revolution. The walls are thick. It stays cool. We are lucky.”
The Carerras were standing side by side, concerned, grateful that Elena could speak Spanish, anxious to cooperate.
Carlos was in his late thirties, perhaps forty. He was thin and good-looking, with a broken nose and thinning black hair that he brushed back. He wore faded white slacks and a pale blue cotton shirt with the top button unfastened to reveal a stand of hair on his chest. His wife, Angelica, was of a similar age. She had blond curly hair, wore a lot of makeup, and was quite pretty. Her dress was a pale blue that almost matched her husband’s shirt. Angelica’s body, only slightly fuller than that of Victoria Oliveras, once again made Elena acutely aware of the body she had inherited from generations of Timofeyevas and Lipinovs.
Angelica glanced at the shaking windows.
“When the hurricane came through years ago,” Carlos said, “it took out those windows. Even then it was difficult to get glass. Now, if the windows go, we’ll probably have to board them up.”
“But that is a sacrifice we will make gladly if it will help the revolution,” Angelica added, looking at the painting of Fidel on the wall.
“Please sit,” said Carlos with a sad smile.
Elena sat in approximately the same place where she was sure Maria Fernandez had died. Sitting made Elena acutely aware of how wet she had gotten in her dash from the cab. Angelica sat in one of the wicker chairs.
Carlos asked Elena if she wanted more lemonade. When she declined, he sat in another wicker chair, adjusted the crease in his trousers, and looked at Elena, who put her lemonade down on the coffee table and took out her notebook.
“What do you do for a living?” Elena asked.
“Tours,” said Carlos quickly. “We arrange tours of entertainers throughout Cuba and, when we are lucky, we arrange for Cuban entertainers to travel to other countries. We sent a folk band to the Soviet Union three years ago. Great success.”
“Until a few years ago,” Angelica said, “Carlos and I performed. Dancers. My parents were ballroom dancers before the revolution. They appeared all over the world—Miami, New York, Rio, Madrid. Santos and Anita.”
“I was a great admirer of Angelica’s parents,” said Carlos as lightning cracked outside again. “I wanted to be a dancer. I became a soldier.”
Carlos laughed. Angelica joined him. Elena did not laugh, but she did manage a small smile.
“How long did you know Maria Fernandez?”
“Well,” said Carlos. “Not very long. A year, perhaps.”
“Yes, a year,” Angelica agreed. “She wanted to be a singer. There are too many singers. Some of them very good, but too many, even too many pretty ones.”
Carlos nodded in agreement.
“But we liked her,” he said. “We hired her to help us. And she was very good.”
“Very good,” Angelica agreed, folding her hands in her lap.
“And Victoria Oliveras?” Elena asked, trying not to think of a quick return to her room at the El Presidente and a change into dry clothes.
“Well,” said Carlos, looking at Angelica and sighing. “To tell the truth, Victoria was a friend of Maria’s. I don’t know how they met. I think Victoria attached herself to Maria. We warned her about Victoria.”
“We had heard some … things about her,” Angelica said, almost too softly for Elena to hear.
“Things?” Elena asked.
The rain suddenly subsided. Within seconds it turned into a light drizzle.
“None of our business,” said Carlos, “but we heard she was into things, perhaps illegal things. And some of the people she knew … Well, sexual preferences can some times …”
“Not that we condemn,” added Angelica.
“What about Shemenkov?” said Elena.
“Ah, the Russian,” said Carlos. “Maria met him at the Russian club. She was there with a show, managing, setting up, you know.”
Elena nodded and wrote in her notebook.
“He approached her,” said Angelica. “That’s what she said. And to give him his due, she encouraged him. She thought he was funny. She called him her Russian bear, said she would train him to do tricks.”
“Were you at the Cosacos bar when the man called Javier threatened to kill Maria and Igor Shemenkov?”
“Who told you that?” asked Carlos.
“Victoria Oliveras.”
“It wasn’t such a
great thing,” Carlos said. “Yes, he got into an argument with Igor. Javier had said some things to Maria. Maria had tried to ignore him. Javier was a little drunk and so …”
“Did Shemenkov strike him?”
“No,” said Carlos. “Push a little, maybe. But strike? No.” He looked at Angelica, who nodded her head in firm agreement.
“Javier is a Santería.” said Elena.
“Perhaps,” said Carlos. “Many blacks are.”
“Whites too,” added Angelica. “More now that Fidel is enlisting the Santería in the revolution. Even Gramma carries articles now on the ‘colorful’ high priests and their support of the revolution.”
Carlos closed his eyes and nodded in assent.
“The Santería can be violent,” Elena went on.
“Yes,” said Carlos.
“The night Maria Fernandez was murdered, did you see anyone nearby?”
“You mean like a witness?” asked Angelica.
Elena nodded.
“I don’t know,” Angelica said. “Who remembers?”
“I don’t remember,” said Carlos, playing with a large silver ring on his finger. “Just Martin, the building maintenance man. He was sweeping the stairs when we came in, I think.”
“Yes,” Angelica confirmed.
“Where does he live?”
“In the basement,” said Carlos. “A room. But he is …” Carlos touched the side of his head with a finger.
“What happened the night Maria Fernandez was murdered?” Elena asked.
“You know we have told this three, four times to the police?” asked Angelica.
“I have seen their report. Please, once more.”
Carlos sighed and said, “We came here for drinks, to talk, and to be sociable. Victoria showed up. There were words, stupid words. Angelica and I wanted them to go. Maria and Igor started to argue. We got Victoria into the hall and tried to get her to leave.”
“No one on the stairs?”
“No,” said Carlos. “No one came up. Our neighbors across the hall, the Hernandezes, are away, on business I think. We were trying to get Victoria to leave, had her halfway down the stairs, when we heard the scream and the noise. We all ran back up. The Russian was standing over Maria. She was covered in blood. I think my wife screamed.”
“I did. And Victoria attacked Igor even though he had a knife in his hand. She kicked him in the face.”
“He didn’t hurt her?” said Elena.
“No, he didn’t,” said Carlos. “He just looked … I don’t know. Stunned.”
“Did he speak?”
“Yes,” said Angelica. “He said, ‘Someone has killed Maria.’ I think that’s what he must have been saying in Russian. It took a while to get him to say it in Spanish.”
The rain had definitely stopped now and a hint of sunlight came through the window. Distant thunder whispered in retreat.
“Was that window open the night of the murder?” asked Elena.
“Yes,” said Carlos. “It is always open at night unless it is raining.”
Elena got up as gracefully as she could and moved to the window, notepad still in hand. She opened the window and felt a rush of warm moist air. She looked four stories down at the empty street and then, holding the side of the window ledge, leaned out to look upward. The roof was two or three feet over her head.
“Can I look at the roof?” she asked, easing back into the room.
Angelica did not join them on the trip to the roof, though the ascent was not particularly difficult. On the interior landing outside the apartment, Carlos stepped back into the shadows and reached up for a metal chain. The chain, sleepy with rust, came down reluctantly. When pulled it released an equally rusty ladder. A sudden clang echoed across the landing as the ladder came down.
“Careful,” Carlos called out as he headed up the ladder.
Elena followed him up and through the trapdoor to the roof, which was covered with pebbles. Water from the rain could be heard trickling down a metal drain. There were five bent television antennas lashed to the stone balustrade that fenced in the roof at hip level.
“Did the police come up here?” Elena asked.
“Up here? I think so, but maybe not. Why?”
Carlos had somehow managed to make the climb without creasing or soiling his white trousers. He carefully removed a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned his hands.
Elena looked outward at the expanse of high-rise white-block apartments, trees, and departing clouds. Then she moved to the edge of the roof. The next apartment building, about eight feet away, seemed to be a duplicate of the one on which she stood, except that it had only three antennas. On the opposite side there was only an empty lot.
“Your window?” she asked, and Carlos led the way to the edge of the roof facing the street.
“Just below, here I think,” he said.
Elena moved past him, leaned over to be, sure he was right, and felt along the stone wall above the window. The cement was chipped away, but most of the chipped cement was dark with dirt. There was one small chip that looked more recent. At the base of the wall, she searched and pushed away small stones.
“What are you looking for?” Carlos asked.
Elena said nothing. Almost instantly she found two holes. She pressed the tip of her finger into one of the holes and brought it back out with the dust of clean moist cement.
“What did you find?” Carlos asked as Elena rose.
“I would like two things, Señor Carerra,” she said.
“Of course.”
“First, I would like to have the use of your handkerchief so that I may clean my palms as you have. Second, I would like to get on the roof of the apartment building next door.”
Carlos nodded, fished out his handkerchief, and handed it to her.
“Some people are joining us for dinner tonight,” Rostnikov said when Elena reported to him at the table near the pool of the El Presidente Hotel. The table was fast becoming Porfiry Petrovich’s unofficial office.
He was dressed in dark slacks and a yellow guayabera shirt. His forehead was slightly sunburned and he sipped on a tall drink.
Elena sat down and placed her notebook in front of her. Rostnikov was looking at a pair of children, a boy and a girl, splashing in the pool and arguing in what might have been Portuguese over an inflated toy that looked like a cross-eyed pink pony.
“Would you like to know who is joining us?”
“Yes,” said Elena.
“Major Sanchez and Povlevich of the KGB. At breakfast this morning he looked so lonely I took pity on him. We will meet at eight, have some drinks, perhaps see some of the town. When we return I will excuse myself for a well-earned night of sleep while you entertain Major Sanchez, who has a decided interest in you, and Povlevich, who is decidedly glum and in need of as much of the Russian language as he can get.”
The waiter reached over Elena’s shoulder and placed a duplicate of Rostnikov’s drink before her.
“And the reason for this merriment and revelry, Inspector?” she asked.
“Ah,” he said, shifting in his chair to look at the group of American and Cuban writers, who were making an early start at drinking and arguing. “I will slip away with our nearsighted journalist Antonio Rodriguez in search of our Santería.
“But have we not concluded that Rodriguez is probably in the employ of Major Sanchez?”
“We have so concluded,” said Rostnikov. “Our conclusion is tentative, but … given our options and the fact that our Major Sanchez has suggested that the Cuban judicial system is likely to move swiftly in this case …”
“Perhaps I have some information that will make your search more promising.” Elena opened her notebook.
“It was my impression that you were filled with revelations.”
“Am I so obvious?”
“You are very wet, very tired, and glowing with life. Speak.”
“The Carerras pretend to be what they are not,” she said. “Th
eir furnishings are spare but there are marks on the floor which indicate that other furniture has been moved. There was one painting on the wall, but clear outlines from the sun indicate that the walls had been covered with pictures or photographs. Carlos Carerra suggested that they had little money for food and drink and gave me only lemonade, but there was a distinct smell of meat recently cooked. I was not shown the kitchen. The table in the living room was filled with bottles. I heard them when I touched the surface.”
“Good,” said Rostnikov. “But that is not the news with which you are bursting.”
“There are signs that something, perhaps a rope or metal ladder, was recently lowered from the roof to the window of the Carerras’ apartment. On the adjacent roof, perhaps eight feet away, I found a wooden painters’ platform leaning against the wall where it could not be seen from the roof of the Carerra apartment building. It was too heavy to move but it is sturdy and about ten feet long.”
“Major Sanchez’s report indicates that the police found no sign of possible entry to the Carerra apartment from the roof,” said Rostnikov.
“Perhaps they did not look carefully enough,” said Elena Timofeyeva. She put her hand to her hair and realized with horror that it was a wild mop. It had probably been just so from the moment she entered the Carerra apartment.
“Or perhaps they did not wish to look carefully enough,” said Rostnikov. “You’ve done well. Go to your room. Take a bath if there is any hot water. Take a nap, prepare to have a good time.”
Elena rose, closed her notebook, and nodded.
“In a little while I am going to the stadium across the avenue where I have been told there exists a passable collection of weights. I order you to enjoy yourself, Elena Timofeyeva.”
“I’m not sure that enjoyment is something that one can be ordered to engage in.”
“Perhaps not, but my doing so gives you leave to make me responsible for allowing you to abandon your post.”
“May I say that I find your reasoning convoluted,” she said.
“It is a skill which I have nurtured and in which I take some pride.”
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