Cuba Blue (11 page)

“Don’t you understand, Qui, I don’t want to be involved, especially if it turns out to be the foreign doctors. It’s not good politically for a man in my position to…to attract attention.”

“Damn you, Estaban, it’s the right thing to do. Help me out here!” Fear of Peña’s possibly getting her case made her edgier than usual—fueling her anger at Esteban’s indifference.

Tiring of the heated exchange, Tomaso cleared his throat, and with a flourish of his hand, suggested, “Estaban, my boy, go look at the body. It may not even be the same woman, and that will end your involvement. Be done with it…”

“I’ll think about it,” Montoya spoke to Tomaso now while eyeing Qui, “but your daughter, she should think long and hard about what’s best for her and me, because—”

Qui put a hand up to him, the universal gesture of ‘don’t go there’ and he stopped short. From between thinned lips, she pleaded, “Just tell me what you know of this lady doctor from Canada.”

Montoya looked uneasy. Shaking his head, he replied, “She was just another researcher for a Canadian pharmaceutical company interested in our success with monolaurin and the vaccine.”

Qui reached down and removed her shoes. Tomaso handed her a glass of rum. She looked at it with distaste, setting it down and saying, “Thanks anyway, Papa.” The last thing she needed was alcohol.

“Qui, this whole thing is horrible!” Then with a sideways glance at her father, Montoya stood, paced, and went on a non-stop tirade. “You must give this over to someone else! You cannot hope to uncover the truth of their deaths—this is your first major case, and as much as I love you, you’re hardly experienced enough to get to the—”

“Hey, Montoya, calm down,” she interrupted, but he only continued, a locomotive out of control.

“—cause of these brutal murders. They’re foreigners, well-connected doctors from America and Canada if indeed she is the same one I met! Nothing good can come of this. Murdered? Mother of God! This is bad, Qui. Get rid of it! For all of us who love you, give this case to someone else!”

At this, she noticed a look her father shot her, a look she could not identify. Qui felt certain he’d most certainly have something to say about her case, because everything in her life seemed open to comment, even interference, from Tomaso Manuel Aguilera, a man used to getting his own way.

“Look, I want you both to understand something,” she said in a firm voice. “It’s my case and will remain my case until Gutierrez re-assigns it. Got it!”

“But, Qui, he won’t, don’t you see?” Montoya stammered. “He’s happy to watch you fail and—”

“Who says I will fail?” Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared. “I need your support on this, Estaban. If we were married, is this how you’d treat me? Undermining me?”

“If we were married, you wouldn’t
be
a cop. You’d have no need of work. You could just learn to cook and—”

Qui replied, “I got it. I got it already. You don’t either of you want me on the case, because you expect me to fail. You want me to drop the case, and I want you to drop this discussion,” she demanded. “Now I’m going to shower and to sleep.” She hugged her father as she passed by, “Goodnight, Papa. I’ll see you in the morning. Good-bye, Montoya.”

Montoya shrugged at Tomaso, who advised, “She’s angry; give her a moment. Let her cool down.”

Montoya, a look of defeat in his eyes, sat down and lifted his rum. The two men sat quietly, each lost in contemplation at the disturbing news Qui had brought home.

His drink gone, Montoya stood and said, “Good night Tomaso.”

Tomaso advised, “A warning, Montoya, she’s like her mother, spirited, easy to anger—like a scorpion. Best not provoke her any further.”

Not a man to take advice, Montoya nodded and left in pursuit of Qui. Tomaso stared at his retreating figure, a gift-wrapped package now in Estaban’s hands. The older man shook his head, thinking that once again the doctor was assuming Qui could be distracted from her convictions with material things. Qui’s attention might be temporarily distracted; however, her loyalty and affection could not be bought. The younger man couldn’t be further from understanding her, so how would Montoya ever win her?

In a moment, Estaban stood knocking at Qui’s door, the pretty package in hand. He caught her undressing, a sight he relished.

“Baby, sweetheart, you should listen,” he began, holding the present behind his back. “A thing like this case of yours…just being involved as a secondary, could bring you harm.”

“We’re not talking simple murder! This is an international incident—three foreigners dying on Cuban soil while attending a medical conference? This can only make Cuba look bad. Fidel will be involved, and you’ll be the focus of everyone’s attention.”

“Come on, Qui, bodies tossed in the sea like trash?” He paused to enjoy the sight of her, then attempted to drive home his point. “This is a dangerous game, Qui! Whoever’s behind this isn’t gonna stop at a badge, a uniform, a Walther PPK, or a beautiful woman.”

“I got it before all this started,” he protested. “Go shower and model it for me. I’ll go read a journal unless you want me to join you—wash your back maybe?” he cajoled.

“Showering I can do for myself without anyone’s help. Right now, I need to be alone, period.” Grimacing, she stalked off to shower, taking the pale blue, beautifully wrapped box with her.
Damn him to hell,
she sourly thought.

After several minutes under hot water and finishing with cool, her anger as well as the stench of death had vanished. Toweling her hair, she glanced with distaste at her choice of plainclothes detective wear amid her underwear in a heap on the floor. How many washings would it take to get the smell out, she wondered. The odors clinging to her couldn’t be pleasant for Estaban, or were they? He’d never made a single complaint.

She reached for the package and undid the careful wrapping, wondering anew how Montoya afforded this sort of indulgence. She reached in and lifted out the most beautiful nightgown and negligee she’d ever seen. The gown, made of soft smooth blue satin, felt cool to the touch. She pulled it over her head, adjusted straps to fit, and gazed at her reflection. It seemed made for her alone, her nipples showing clearly, the fabric curving snugly over her breasts, just tight enough over her hips to outline her derriere.
Too much sitting. Need to get more exercise
. The high leg opening revealed plenty of skin. The delicate pattern along its edge drew the eye to the line of the leg. She smiled at her mirror image, enjoying this look, all of her earlier frustration morphing into something akin to a grudging acceptance of Montoya’s concerns, her displeasure buried, but not entirely vanished. Faintly patterned and nearly transparent, the sheer silk negligee caressed her skin—this final sensation burying the last vestiges of her annoyance.
The thing must have cost a fortune.
He knew she’d disapprove of his extravagance but love it all the same.

Oh Montoya, if only my misgivings about us would dissolve as easily as my annoyance with you.
She vowed that for the rest of the night, there would not be a single serious word between them. This would be a night he’d remember for a long, long time. She smiled as she turned off the light, extinguishing all thought of the outside world, to join him where he awaited her in bed.

12

Earlier, receiving dock, Benilo’s morgue

“What do you mean, the bodies are not here?” shouted Arturo Benilo at the morgue assistant. “I watched them leave the marina! Two Americans, and a Canadian woman! Bloated, white as milk. Lost? Who the fuck lost them?” He was not used to working with this new young man, Jesus del Campo, and Benilo’s palpable anger over the absurd absence of not one but three bodies threatened to burst a vein in his neck.