Cuba Blue (10 page)

“Hey, Lieutenant Aguilera,” said Pedro. “Bet you do a mean tango! Why don’t you join us at the
Palacio
later?”

Qui felt the sudden heavy silence of that ambulance interior—how effectively it’d ended all laughter and the night music filling the Havana streets. It made her think of the old Spanish proverb:
Only the dead know peace.
But did they know music, laughter, and the coolness of a breeze in the night? She spent a silent moment in prayer for Denise and her two friends, whoever they were.

11

Officer Sergio Latoya drove Quiana toward Old Havana and the police station where she’d early that morning parked on a side street held for official vehicles.

“Hey, Sergio, this is not a formula one car and you’re not in a race! Slow down or we’re gonna end up on Benilo’s slab.”

“Oh, sorry Lieutenant. Forgot you’re so fragile,” he retorted, slowing a bit. Sergio spoke of baseball, a passion, and he spoke of Carmela, his very pregnant wife, and his anticipation of the birth of his second child, but he seemed as nervous as if it were his first. “You should get married, Lieutenant. A family is a good thing.”

“I have a family, my father. Remember?”

“Hey, he’s your father! Not the same thing! I mean a husband, children. Makes a big difference in your life. Sure, we need a bigger place, but show me working folks who don’t?” A characteristic lighthearted laugh chased his words.

“Have you been talking to Montoya? Has he bribed you?”

He expertly wheeled the car around a stalled vehicle. “But really, you should think about it. Time is getting on for you, and
Time
…that fellow? He doesn’t slow down for anyone, not even for the famous investigator Quiana Magdalena Aguilera!”

“In a month,” he replied. “Too soon, we’re not ready for the little one yet. Well…she is, but I’m not!” He drove with great élan and abandon, enjoying himself.

“Thank God we’re here,” she gasped. “Drop me at the door, and I’ll make out a report before driving home.”

He turned and drove past a series of dark little courtyards and a bar to arrive at the PNR station. He pulled up too fast for her liking, and with a sudden controlled halt, they’d finally stopped.

“Sergio, we shouldn’t’ve let you take that driving course! You’re a menace now! This isn’t the cinema!”

“Hey, I saw
Bullet
twenty four times! Lieutenant, you need help with the paperwork?”

“Got it covered.” She recalled Benilo’s admonition:
fill in the blanks.
“Go home to your wife, drive slower!” Qui chided him, laughing. They made a good team, she thought as she got out, bid him good-bye and made for the steps. She turned in time to see Sergio speed off, leaving a trail of dust in the air kicked up by his spinning tires, leaving her wondering how many sets of tires and brakes he’d cost the department.

She found the stationhouse at this hour a morgue, only a handful of people on duty and these moved like zombies, but she thanked the gods that neither the annoying Peña nor Gutierrez were on hand. She quickly made out her police report on the triple-murder and placed it into the colonel’s in box and was outside again, climbing into her car, fatigue setting in when she saw Tino Hilito rushing to get home as well. He’d obviously taken care of the matter of the chain and lock, as he’d come out of the back door near the evidence cages. He didn’t notice her as she was too far away and too tired to shout.

However, as her car engine kicked over, he drove by and waved, not slowing. She waved back, before seeing a strange note on her passenger seat.
How did it get into her locked car? Had someone slipped it through a crack in the window?
She checked. Not so much as a slit in any of the four windows.
So how had it gotten here, and should she read it here and now on this darkened street where the shadows cut clear to China?
She swallowed and glanced around, checking the back seat as she did so. She was alone. Utterly and completely alone. Hilito’s taillights long gone.

The street stood deserted and silent save for music spilling out through the threshold of a nearby bar with a buzzing neon sign spelling out
Bebida Calienta
. She knew it to be a local hangout for unsavory types and street snitches, even as it thrived near the stationhouse. A number of places reputed to be untouchable criminal dens lined the narrow streets of Old Havana. Under the best of conditions, she didn’t care for this side street, but she felt confident no one would bother a woman driving a police-issue vehicle and packing a Walther PPK 380.
This is ridiculous! Read the note now, here, or take it into the station to read it. Sitting here isn’t helping.
She opted to read it. Carefully unfolding the unusually thick paper that spoke of expensive stationery, she tilted it into the light from the café and read…

Come home soon! I have a present for you. Found it in your favorite color—

something for my special girl to model. I’ll wait up! —Montoya

Aha, Montoya. Must’ve found a moment…came down to fetch me only to learn I was gone. Must’ve smooth-talked the vehicle dispatcher into letting him drop the note inside.

She re-read the note and tossed it back on the seat.
Should’ve recognized the paper he uses, extravagant man! No reason to get scared. Must be catching Benilo’s paranoia.
She took a deep breath that ended with a yawn. As she drove off, she thought of her last duty tonight—the police report
. Too tired to think straight, she hoped what she’d filled in for the colonel would suffice. But even so much as a spelling error or simple mistake of grammar and Gutierrez’d be on her.
Yeah, he’d just love that.

She rolled her windows down and a gust of wind blew Montoya’s note onto her lap.
A sign?
“Home, Montoya, bed, sleep…” she softly chanted into the surrounding darkness.
Another good reason to have polished off the paperwork tonight; tomorrow she might well be sleeping in a bit, running behind.

Qui kept two apartments, one in the Old City, the other at her father’s bed and breakfast. She used the little flat, her government-issue residence, in Old Havana to crash whenever it grew so late she could not see to drive out to Miramar.

Tonight, despite the lateness of the hour and a mix of adrenaline and fatigue filling her mind and body, she welcomed the drive, which always calmed her. At the moment, her deeper need was to be close to those she loved, her father and Montoya. She imagined the two men in jovial banter, drinking rum, and playing dominoes or chess to pass the time until her arrival.

Although her father wanted her to marry and give him grandchildren—a frequently repeated request—he knew that she did not love Montoya unreservedly. She and Montoya were good friends, intimate friends, and while Estaban wanted their relationship to go to another level, she remained unsure. His self-serving expectation was that she, his chosen one, would eventually come around to his thinking, to do as he wanted; he was after all a successful doctor, accustomed to telling people what was in their best interests. In his mind, they were already married, the actual ceremony a mere formality…a matter of time; in fact, he already bossed her about, making demands—none of which sat well with Quiana.

While not quite perfect, for Estaban the situation was more than acceptable. When asked by others about their setting a date, he’d smile tolerantly and reply, “Soon…soon. These things take time,” and smile tolerantly.

Qui, on the other hand, felt uneasy at such a question, because for her, their relationship provided more friendship rather than the passionate partnership for which she had always longed. Perhaps it was a foolish romantic fantasy; however, foolish and romantic is exactly how she believed a person in love should feel. At twenty-nine-years old, she’d had her share of affairs and relationships, but if she were honest with herself, she’d never tasted true love. In her mind—love without judgment, love without restraint, love without chains—either existed or failed to flourish. She wanted the kind of love poets spoke of, and all things beneath that protective, nourishing umbrella. At the end of the day, she remained unsure that what she and Montoya had was enough to last a lifetime.

With the dark Cuban night closing around her like a silk shawl, she drove toward Miramar, following her favorite route paralleling the coast. As the Peugeot wound along, the sea air swirled in, lifting her hair and dissipating the foul mixture of chemicals, fish, and death that’d permeated and clung to hair, skin, and clothing. Driving like this filled her with a quiet contentment, a mystical grace painted by a sapphire sea, an indigo sky, and a hide-and-seek moon that played among deep lavender clouds. The hypnotic sound of the waves, constant and reassuring, calmed and soothed her mind and body.

When she pulled into the parking area, she saw Montoya’s immaculate two-tone baby-blue and white Ford Fairlane. She climbed from her car, her body screaming for a shower and a set of cool sheets. She found the two men just as she’d imagined earlier. Still on a high, she began telling them of her day and the case that Gutierrez had assigned her. As she spoke, her father listened with the solemnity that she’d come to expect whenever the topic turned to police matters. At the same time, Montoya became increasingly agitated, pacing and finally bursting out in a flood of words, “Qui, I think I might know those people. They are the missing doctors—”

“Two officials came to question me at the clinic, because one of the doctors, a Dr. Beisiegel, spent an afternoon at the clinic last week. She was part of a big medical conference that just ended.”

“What two officials?”

“From one of the embassies! The American Interest Section even, a security guy named Zayas, I think was his name. Who knows? Who cares?”

One of the things that annoyed her about Estaban was his apathy, which went hand-in-hand with a kind of smug complacency. It was at odds with Montoya’s professional bearing, competence, and position. If men like him, in leadership roles, failed to give a damn, then what hope had Cuba of progressing?

“If it is a missing persons case,” she ventured, “why didn’t the police question you? Why embassy people? And who’s this security guy with the American Interest Section?” She recalled seeing someone Peña called “Zayas” this morning at the stationhouse, the guy Peña’d given the
brush off
. Was it the same man Quiana wondered.
Peña might break the case before her, she suddenly feared. “Tell me exactly who questioned you? And come to think of it, if you think this could be my murdered victims as you say, then you can help by coming down to Arturo Benilo’s morgue—”