Cuba Blue (22 page)

At the other end, Tino hung up with a soft curse. Standing beside his son’s bed here in the living room, he again sighed. The boy, a hemophiliac, had become too excited that morning, not that Tino himself hadn’t cause for excitement. Since Friday’s discovery of the triple-murder, he had been approached by the shadowy SP figure General Cavuto Ruiz. At about the time of Ruiz’s visit, Tino’s son, Carlito had fallen during a baseball game in the park; ironically, Tino had fallen as well, but Tino’s fall came from the ultimate temptation in Cuba:
necessary goods
. Any cut or minor scrape causing bleeding became an emergency for Carlito, caused an emotional tsunami that rippled through the family. The financial toll of protective clothing and American-made, high-tech bandages and coagulate powders rivaled the unrelenting worry and constant dread of another episode. Even with Montoya’s generosity at the clinic, the burden of Carlito’s condition was never-ending. There was no way to prevent the boy from being a boy—one who loved sports, especially baseball—the national passion. How could he keep his son, too young to understand his condition, safe? It had seemed a harmless thing, to switch the lock. But now Tino felt trapped.

With all this preying on his mind, Tino’d had next to no sleep since the curse of those three bodies had come his way. Now this. Detective Aguilera knew about the locks. She was no one’s fool; by now, she surely suspected him. He muttered to himself, “As the Americans say, ‘between a rock and a hard place’, between Cavuto and Quiana.”

Regardless, whatever happened to him, the funds set up for his son’s needs would always be there. That much was unchangeable. He might go to prison; he might be killed, but Carlito would be protected now as never before—as Tino had previously failed to do. But no more.

A tear welled up and snaked its way down Tino’s face and dropped on his sleeping son.
 

22

On their drive to Miramar, Qui and JZ decided to retrieve her Peugeot at some other time. Qui could not get home fast enough. At the Bed and Breakfast, they found Tomaso and Benilo still drinking wine, a third glass telling Qui that Yuri, an early riser, had abandoned the party. Cleaning away the last of the birthday cake, Maria Elena on the way to the kitchen with her hands full, quietly commented to Qui, “Those two men’ve had a hearty reunion all right, and way too much to drink.”

The two men laughed, hearing a joke that was lost on the younger couple. “Ahhh…then your daughter took my advice.” Benilo looked at his newfound old friend and smiled.

“JZ, this is our foremost medical examiner, Dr. Arturo Benilo. And
this
is my father, Tomaso Aguilera,
the
photographer.”

JZ hardly had time to shake hands or pick up on her not so subtle emphasis, when Qui lifted the framed photo, balancing it atop the table, saying, “I want to know about this photo, Papa, now.”

Tomaso fell back into his chair. Benilo deliberately catching Tomaso’s eye, found his seat. Their revelry suddenly at an end, both men stared into Qui’s unwavering gaze. Neither man willing to speak first, each turned his attention back to the photo, studying its every detail as if seeing the artistic composition of black and white shot for the first time. The photo’s impact on the two suggested there was more here than a beautiful still life of a locked church door.

“Murdered?” cried Maria Elena, who’d returned for more dishes. On hearing JZ’s words, she froze, shocked. Tears gathered in her eyes. She’d always liked the doctor, who’d been unfailingly kind to her and her children.

“Not the way my department sees it.” Qui blinked back tears. “They’re going to paint his death as some ridiculous autoerotic adventure gone awry. They’re going to destroy his character, his reputation.”

“Irina?” Benilo looked puzzled. “Well…she’s as good as they come. Maybe the autopsy will prove you right, after all. If you’d said Dr. Trebeca, I’d worry.”

“Autopsy results are a lot like photographic evidence these days—hard to fake,” JZ began, “but it does happen.”

“Papa, your photograph has something to do with my murder case,” Qui said, pointing to the framed photo, “and Dr. Benilo, you know it, too.”

“Wait…I’m confused,” said Tomaso, approaching the photograph, lifting it with both hands. “Are you two saying the lock in Qui’s murder case is the same as in my photo? Can’t be! I took that shot over fifty years ago in Santiago de Cuba.” He laid the photo flat on the table.

Benilo shook his head in disgust. “Doesn’t surprise me. What’s a stolen lock compared to three stolen bodies? The real question is why?”

“Maria Elena,” Tomaso suddenly asked, “we’ll need some coffee out here. I can’t think straight. Too much of Benilo’s fine wine.” He looked at the younger people and asked, “Have you two eaten?”

Qui lifted the photo and propped it across the arms of a chair facing the others. “Why use a lock from fifty years ago in the murder of three visiting doctors, one of whom we know had contact with Estaban?”
 

The man on the cell phone, unconsciously waved his hands to punctuate each word. Humberto paced from his dimly lit bedroom suite in the Excalibre Hotel and Casino to the balcony. It was here he met his mistress on a regular basis. She slept soundly in their shared four-poster canopy bed. “I don’t trust the situation. Too many loose ends. I want the lock and anyone who saw it to disappear. Do I make myself clear?”

“Absolutely.” Cavuto Ruiz, on the other end of the line, accidentally placed his lit cigar into his
Mai tai
alongside the ashtray. “Fuck,” he muttered.

“What’s that?”

Frowning in disgust at the wasted Fuentes, he replied, “Nothing, just a nuisance.” Cavuto really disliked taking orders from this man. Trapped in the tangled mesh of this spider’s web of corruption, his options were limited to carrying out distasteful orders or giving up his life. Some days, the latter seemed more attractive. This was one of those days.

“OK, do you understand what I want, Cavuto?”

“Ahhh…one question—does your order include Alejandro?”

“No, you idiot! I’ll deal with him myself. Aguilera, her detectives, whoever checked in the evidence, the captain and crew of the boat, and Benilo, especially Benilo—
disappear
all of them.”

Humberto smiled around his cigar and hung up knowing that his control over Cavuto guaranteed his orders would be carried out. He contemplated how simple and pleasant his life would be after the old ME Benilo was gone. For years now, Arturo had been a thorn in his side and a constant threat. The old man knew too much from too many years ago. Perhaps Tomaso Aguilera should follow Benilo to the grave…but one old nemesis at a time.

Momentarily turning his attention back to the sleeping woman, Humberto decided his troubles with this growing, cancerous problem of the dead foreigners was in Cavuto’s efficient hands now. He must trust his lieutenants, but once again, he wondered why Alejandro had used that cursed lock on the bodies. Of course, Alejandro had no idea of the lock’s history, or so he said. Perhaps it was just as he’d insisted. “The lock was conveniently at hand and time was of the essence in cleaning up the mess Cavuto’s people had made.”

Again staring at the shapely beauty lying in his bed, he considered gratifying himself once more, but at his age, sleep had become nearly as important as sex. He climbed back into bed, and as he curled about her form, sleep won out.

At his end, Cavuto sat in dull silence, wondering if he’d ever sleep soundly again. A seething anger bubbled in his mind. He’d been ordered to take care of Montoya, something he felt Alejandro ought to’ve taken care of, but for some reason, the old man was suddenly unsure of
his boy
.