Cuba Blue (13 page)
Authors: Robert W. Walker
“Trust me, Quiana—”
“Lieutenant Aguilera….” She set her jaw and glared.
His hands rose in the air, either as a gesture of defense or defeat. “I had nothing whatever to do with it, and I am as filled with questions as you, and the short answer is
Secret Police
.”
“So you do know
something
, Doctor?”
“If I were a part of this outrage-think! Would I be standing here telling you I suspect the SP of stealing bodies?”
“Imagine if this gets out to the Canadian consulate or the press, or worse, the American Interest Session?”
“Exactly,” he agreed. “How will it play in the International media?”
She paced like an angry lioness. “You realize that without the bodies, there can be no final results. Everyone will blame me.”
“Ahhh, so this is about you and your career?”
“Yes, among other things, yes! Hell, we can’t even prove there are three murders now, can we?”
Benilo went about his morgue straightening all the sheets she’d torn away. “If you’ll curb your impatience and just listen, I’ll answer you.”
She stopped pacing and turned to him. “Go ahead.”
“While the bodies were hijacked, the evidence was not.”
“Then we do have a case, after all?” She followed him from body to body as he re-arranged sheets over disturbed corpses.
“What pisses me off,” said Benilo, “is the thought of those two imbeciles—Enrique and Pedro. They left to go dancing without even reporting to me! Not a damn word! So they’re fired.”
“With the Secret Police involved, they probably had little choice.”
“Cowards. They’re fired. End of story.”
“Perhaps they were ordered to keep their mouths shut?”
““Munoz and Torres know which way the wind blows,” muttered Benilo. “Still, cowards!”
“No…not cowards, cautious men—acting no differently than Estrada’s crewmen or anyone in the face of the SP.”
“They work for me and I expect loyalty. They have more to fear from me than the SP!”
She could not help but laugh at this. “At least they are smart enough to avoid going the way of the
vanished ones.
”
“True.”
From somewhere deep in the autopsy room, a dripping faucet created a staccato beat that echoed Qui’s growing headache. “Got any aspirin?”
“Here, my secret stash,” Benilo handed her a green container and a glass of water.
“Thank you Doctor.”
“Remember, Quiana, for all we know, the bodies could be below a hundred feet of ocean, and this time permanently, or incinerated in some old cathedral basement, or even turned into sausages at a meat-packing company.” Benilo realized what he was saying caused her to wince. “Sorry, but it’s so.”
Qui replied, gulping, “Please, tell me you don’t believe their bodies are being sold as sausage.”
Benilo shrugged in response. He then stretched and complained, “I must look every bit as old as I feel this morning.” He gulped down the last of his coffee. If last night on the dock with Jesus went horribly awry, trying to explain it today proved even worse.
She held his gaze, studying, sizing him up, trying to find some chink.
Was he holding back or telling an outright lie?
Benilo stared back, his deep eyes resolute. She wondered if he were among that small percentage who, without a doubt, could beat a lie detector.
“Come, I’ll tell you what I think happened. The coffee’s good; have some. Got no sleep last night—half-asleep now. Need more caffeine.”
Together, the old coroner for the state and the Havana detective left the morgue, each contemplating the strange twist of events, in so short a span of time.
“Christ,” Qui muttered as she slowed her pace alongside an obviously fatigued Benilo. Much as she wanted to hurry him up, she knew there was no rushing him.
“We’ve got the photos, Qui, and the fingerprint evidence.” They left the morgue, going to his office.
“Ahhh…yes, the fingerprints pocketed at the scene? You anticipated problems from the beginning.”
“Call it a hunch. But hijacking bodies? No predicting that! Someone’s interested in a major cover-up.”
“Cover-up? Are you serious?” She asked as they entered his office. “That’s an understatement, Doctor.”
Instead of answering her, he went to a file and unlocked a drawer. “I want to show you something.”
This man’s so slow! Why doesn’t he just tell me!
She decided to calm down and pour a cup of coffee. She sat and sipped at the hot thick brew, the taste telling her that Benilo was right about one thing. Smiling, she raised her cup in a toast, “Good coffee—a rarity in a government facility.”
“The one last thing I have control over—the coffee,” Benilo grimaced as he spoke. “At least it doesn’t just disappear.” He dropped three files on the desk between them. “Missing persons reports on our three victims.”
Instantly excited, she opened the reports and three photos of bright-looking, smiling faces beamed up at her—the same three faces she’d seen in death grimaces aboard the Sanabela. “Damn,” she muttered, “and look who was assigned this missing persons case—” Her finger led his eye to the name:
Jorge Peña
“Gutierrez’s fair-haired boy,” said Benilo.
“Who is this Dr. Cortez who filed the missing persons report?” Qui asked, still scanning the files.
“He’s some sort of medical researcher and the conference coordinator, handles arrangements for conferences; coincidently married to my senior pathologist, Dr. Vasquez.”
“Yes, I’ve seen her name on pathology logs in the past.”
“He informed me that these three didn’t show up for breakfast, then missed their flight, so naturally, he became frantic. Three missing foreign doctors on his hands. I asked for a copy of the report from your boss.”
She recalled Peña ushering out the handsome stranger from the American Interest Section, also curious about a missing persons case. “Gutierrez had these reports
before
assigning me this case. It
was
a set up.”
“Tried to make fools of both of us, Lieutenant, but they have badly underestimated us.”
She liked the tone of this. “Yes, we’ve got the evidence, and evidence never lies.”
“The damn fools can’t even get evil right. And they didn’t count on my being thorough. Think I’m an old fool ready for pasture, ha!”
“So when do we have something
tangible
?”
“Soon, but beware of making this personal lieutenant. No vendettas. Emotions can’t rule us.”
She replied, “I just want to do my job and do it professionally.”
“Tests are already underway.”
“But what’s to prevent the SP from snatching the results?”
“Conducted under aliases. Only I know the fictitious names, and they were requested under Vasquez’s name rather than mine.”
“So soon…we’ll have results they can’t ignore.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“Frightening…that they can make three bodies vanish.”
His eyebrows lifted at this, but he said nothing.
“What’s next?” she asked.
“Lunch, I’m hungry.”
14
Thoroughly frustrated with the
lack
of response on the part of local authorities, Julio Zayas feared the worst. Since his first meeting with those actually charged with locating the missing—a Detective Jorge Peña and an unprofessional oaf of a colonel named Gutierrez—nothing whatsoever had occurred. Not so much as a courtesy call. Believing a face-to-face meeting might shake loose some information, he’d taken a cab from his Miramar headquarters to the Old Havana police station. Actually, the cab was a private car transformed into a cab, a 1957 Ford Thunderbird convertible, painted blindingly yellow with stylized fiery plumes billowing along each side as if emerging from the engine. The ‘cab’ was in beautiful condition, the interior redone to perfection in a blood-orange shade that complemented the hue of fire along its sides.
Arriving at the Capitol Police Headquarters in the flamboyant cab attracted no special attention here as it would in Miami. Zayas paid the driver, waved him off, and started up the steps, through the entryway, and past the too busy desk clerk. He thought the jurisdiction here must suffer badly with such incompetent cops as Peña and Gutierrez at the helm. Still, he’d never known a police department without its share of such people. Gritting his teeth, certain his decision to force another meeting would come to a bad end, Julio
nonetheless pressed on. Hell, two American citizens—
professionals
—continued on the Missing Persons bulletin at the American Interest Section.
As Julio made his way through the maze of desks for Gutierrez’s office, Detective Peña immediately leapt up and intercepted him. “Ahhh, Mr. Zayas, you’re back. How can I help you?”
“I’m here to see your boss.”
“Well…ahhh…I mean he is rather busy at the moment, but I am at your service.”
“Look, I’m concerned about your progress, or rather
lack
of progress in locating my American doctors. I’ve not heard a single word—have you any leads, anything at all?”
Before Peña could respond, the sound of retching followed by rushing water preceded Gutierrez’s sudden appearance through a door marked
BANO
.
Gutierrez’s head was tilted downward, his eyes averted, so that when he looked up, he found himself face to face with Zayas, who said, “Colonel Gutierrez, just the man I’m here to see.”
“Ahhh, yes, Mr. Ahhh…Zayas, right? I was just reviewing the case.”
Zayas nodded, acknowledging the man’s words and noting his disheveled appearance.
“Come…my office,” Gutierrez weakly replied. “I’ve new information. Peña, bring your files…come along.”
“Yes, sir.” Peña lifted a thin folder and used it to wave Julio ahead of him.
Gutierrez quickly rounded his desk and put it between them. He dropped heavily into his well-cushioned swivel chair, and it responded with a screech. Julio noticed assorted loose pills, a glass of water, and a bootlegged bottle of Old Spice alongside his blotter. Gutierrez scooped up a handful of pills and downed them with water. “My stomach, you see,” he muttered as he patted his thin middle.
Julio noticed a tossed blanket lying on a leather sofa beneath the window. Masking his distaste for the man, Zayas pretended sympathy. “Ahhh yes, stomach problems can be a curse.”
Gutierrez stared hard into his eyes as if to read the level of his sincerity. “Yes…started with acid and turned into a nasty ulcer. This job doesn’t help. And it doesn’t help that these missing Americans have failed to surface.” Gutierrez paused to let his lie sink in, and as he did so, he tore open a fresh cigar and began sucking on it. “Tell Mr. Zayas, Peña, what you’ve found.”
Peña cleared his throat and preened about the room like a bandy rooster having gobbled a fat worm. He slapped the file onto the table before Julio and announced, “It appears two American fellows purchased a case of rum, rented a car, and went into the hinterlands.”
Julio studied the single page report Peña had developed. It indicated a pair of ‘witnesses’ to this and a copy of two cash receipts stapled to the form—no signatures, no names. “How can you be sure this is my two Americans?”
Peña laughed. “Who else? Few Americans come to Cuba, and they were picked out from a photo array.”