Authors: Robert W. Walker
Qui understood precisely what Benilo was driving at and unconsciously stepped closer to whisper. “Perhaps you’re right. In many ways…back to where we started.”
“History repeats. Look, like all half-assed dictatorships Cuba has many security units, mostly arranged according to function: riot control, illegal drugs, counter-intelligence, VIP protection…you name it.”
“I’m aware of this. All these units have fuzzy and overlapping jurisdictions.”
“Yes and disputes are settled according to the gauge of ‘my general can beat up your general’—that is, whichever commander is more buddy-buddy with Castro this week takes precedence.”
“Yeah but this is
my
case—my jurisdiction—until somebody’s general orders me off.”
“Touché!” Not to appear conspicuous, they walked back to the work at hand, where Benilo returned to the previous topic. “Trust me, you should just walk away.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
“I have a detective’s pay and a shield, so I’m afraid I
am
this case.”
“Perhaps, if I were in your position, I’d want this assignment too; it is, after all, fascinating. Life never ceases to surprise me, and it appears that fate has created common ground between us, Detective.”
“Some common ground,” she agreed, nodding, “my father and three dead foreigners!”
He smiled at her jest and took a deep breath. Looking fatigued, he muttered, “You know, Detective, doing well in Cuba means doing well in a minefield.” He continued to organize his things, beginning to pack any items he no longer required. “And if not careful, you and I will be caught in that minefield. Things are not as they seem, not at all.”
She felt a need to distance herself from the cynicism of the old coroner. “Myself…I want things simple and clear, black or white, not all mixed.” Recognizing her own petulance, she became annoyed. Still, I know…nothing in Cuba is simple: not the food nor the music, not the culture, the politics, and certainly not the people. She added, “How’d we arrive at politics anyway?”
“Politics is life. People living in concentrated areas dealing with one another and life as best they can. Quarrels, squabbles, disease, and despots come about as a result of such concentrations of people as what makes up Cuba, Havana especially. And out of heated argument and dictatorial government crawls the snake we call politics.”
They were startled by Tino’s voice, amplified through a police bullhorn, screaming. “Stop! Get that boat outta here! Away from the Sanabela, now! Immediately, or be subject to arrest!”
As the boat veered off, a series of boos and hisses erupted.
“So, Doctor, this?” began Qui, pointing to the retreating boat. “This too is about politics?”
“Curiosity is human nature, and human nature is political. It’s all about politics.”
“I believe there’re areas that are a-political.”
“Hmmm…dreams perhaps.”
She protested, “What about art?”
“Political.”
“Literature?”
“Very political!”
“Music, theatre?”
“All political. It’s the nature of the beast. Politics rules our lives, and ever so often, we have a duty to rebel against it. Read Shakespeare.”
Qui shook here head. “All this talk of secret police and cover-ups and politics is beginning to get on my nerves.”
He glanced at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Nothing in Havana happens without a political tendril. If you don’t know that, your career as a PNR detective is doomed.”
Qui gritted her teeth, holding annoyance at bay. “Doctor, please, can we drop the intrigues and concentrate on solving this case?”
“Sure, we can pretend… no dead foreigners here in
Fidel-land
.”
“OK, it’s political. Still, it’s my case, assigned by my colonel, and I’ll see it through!”
9
In a rich coffee-brown, book-filled stud
y
The elder Cuban business sovereign huddled over his desk, his face half-hidden in the semi-darkness he preferred. A ragged scar ran down his neck from his right cheek, a leftover from the days of the revolution—the result of a machete attack from a subordinate who took issue with his orders. No one’s fool when it came to seizing opportunity, he’d fought on both sides, first with Batista, then later when fortunes changed, with Castro—politics less important than the power that winning conferred. The mutinous soldier had paid with his life along with any peasant who stood in Humberto Arias’s way. All the bodies disposed of not far from the local church. With the remains, he’d also hidden Cuban historical relics. Over the years, he secretly retrieved items that became the foundation of his current lucrative international antiques business.
He offered his visitor a fine cigar from a gold inlaid box.
“Ahhh…my friend, Alejandro,” he warmly began, “This is good news…that we will soon have the bodies in the hands of the SP. That man Benilo is dangerously clever—never underestimate him, never!”
“You can stop worrying about that old fool. Cavuto and I will not let you down.” The tall handsome Alejandro Valdes, known for his ability to ‘fix’ anything, deeply inhaled the full-bodied, rich aroma of the tobacco used to make the Fuentes, a prize the rest of the world hungered for at almost any price.
Alejandro had recently decided that a fundamental conundrum existed in his life: His boss, whom he’d originally intended to kill, had become first his mentor, then in all respects, his father. As a young man, Alejandro had
been
on a quest—in search of the man who’d ordered the brutal murder of his mother and others taking sanctuary in his village’s most sacred place—the cathedral. Surviving only because he’d hidden beneath her body, the memory of that terror still burned within. Often, the cries of those murdered woke him, their spectral voices pleading for vengeance. As a man, he’d tracked down the remnants of the revolutionary unit responsible for the wanton horror of these killings. One by one, Alejandro murdered each member of that wicked rouge unit, until only their leader remained—the man who was now his ‘father’. And all the while, the old man never suspected that his ‘adopted son’ had been a witness to his wartime atrocities. Ironically, with no son of his own, Arias had made it clear he considered the younger man his heir apparent—a twist of fate that the ‘son’ could never have predicted.
Adding to his dilemma, Alejandro had come to realize he loved the lifestyle of the rich and powerful, and he was reluctant to do anything to jeopardize its continuance. But what had become of his original plan? He’d gotten close to Arias, taking on more and more opportunities connected to the old man’s Havana operation as it related to Alejandro’s SP position with the express purpose of creating the appearance of loyalty. At Arias’s direction, many activities went unreported and many lives were ruined by the SP’s frightful attention. Over the years, Alejandro had lost count of the instances of mis-directions and legerdemain that enabled Arias to become a major player in the Cuban underworld.
Alejandro’s cunning plan so far had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams; however, his plan of assassination, rather than being quickly accomplished, had instead permutated into something else, something complex, something tangled. It’d taken years to reach this point—to be this close to his target—and for what? Killing this man was no longer the simple matter it ought to have been.
Rolling the Fuentes between his fingers and lifting it to his lips, Alejandro tasted its sweetness, so like that of his only love—Humberto’s youngest daughter, Reyna—to whom he gave a fleeting thought as the smoke curled about his darkly alluring features. Just the thought of her brought a half-smile to his face. Falling in love with the bastard’s daughter had not been by design, yet their coming marriage ensured his closeness and access to the position and power he’d craved.
With patience grown thin after so many years, he’d begun to plot Arias’s demise. How many times had he killed the old bastard in his mind? So often that when drunk, he’d wax poetic saying, “Let me count the ways.” These thoughts filtered through his mind even as he enjoyed the man’s largesse. Leaning forward, he lifted the rum-filled Waterford crystal snifter and drank. He imagined himself on the other side of the desk, his hands on the controls, his fiancée proudly at his side.
“So tell me,” Humberto began, “do you have this pathologist Gomez…what’s his name? Trebeca in your control?”
“The SP has enough on Trebeca to send him away for two lifetimes. He’ll do whatever I tell him.”
“So when’s this press conference you’re orchestrating for the public? And are you sure this will work?”
“Don’t you see…when the SP announces to the world that these deaths are the result of a drug-smuggling deal gone bad, it will divert attention from us.”
“Clever…but still I see loose ends. That damned lock…and perhaps Montoya.”
Not wanting to pursue the subject of the lock, Alejandro asked, “Are you suggesting that Montoya should take a permanent vacation?”
“Only if he becomes a liability. He says a single word to his lady—this detective Aguilera—even in pillow talk, and we could be tomorrow’s headline.”
“I was against putting the woman on the case from the beginning, but at the time—”
“I know, but neither of us knew she was involved with Montoya.”
“Ahhh…that Montoya wouldn’t jeopardize the money,” replied Alejandro, sipping at his drink. “I know him.”
“Then that only leaves the lock.”
“Stop worrying. It’s already taken care of. The cop, Tino Hilito will be switching your lock so it can’t lead back to you.”
“Then you are telling me, Alejandro—”
“I’m telling you there is no way any of this can be traced. You’re safe.” Alejandro smiled, thinking that the astute Benilo and the equally shrewd woman, Aguilera, would most certainly trace the lock directly to his mother’s murderer. In this way, Alejandro believed he could successfully betray the old man without implicating himself, or destroying his relationship with his fiancée—his guarantee of access to Arias’s fortune. Furthermore, this plan relieved Alejandro of the onus of direct murder while allowing him to slip naturally into the chair he longed for.
“So, Alejandro, my boy, when will you and Reyna set the bans for your marriage?”
“Reyna is making arrangements as we speak.”
“Good! I hope you two give me grandchildren before I depart this world. It’s the bull who makes the calf.”
Alejandro understood the insult to the childless Gutierrez who was married to Humberto’s older daughter, Angelique. “I plan to do all in my power to ensure that happens.”
Each man now leaned back in his chair, a sense of comfort pervading the study as, together, they enjoyed their smokes.
10
Aboard the Sanabela
Qui asked a series of questions where she and Benilo stood over the bodies. “What about the bruising on the bodies? The burn marks. What do you make of it?”
Instead of giving her a direct answer, he pointed to Denise’s lifeless eyes. “The woman’s green eyes tell a story.”
“Read it to me then.”
He continued, “She was repeatedly strangled if you go by the bruises about her throat and the near microscopic splotches of blood in the corneas—
petechical hemorrhaging
. Look closer.”
Qui kneeled and stared for a moment at the minute flecks of copper-colored spots. “Repeatedly? I don’t understand.”
“Brought to asphyxiation again and again, made to black out. To quickly create disorientation, wears the victim down, oxygen deprivation—
hypoxia
. Most people exhibit symptoms similar to intoxication: euphoria, intellectual impairment, finally a loss of consciousness.”
“The men weren’t tortured in the same fashion?”
“No, their bodies were riddled with injection marks.”
“I didn’t see any injection marks.”