Cuba Blue (27 page)

“Bullet through the mouth,” said JZ. “Lotta cops end it that way, and we’re thinking this is why they set it up as they did. Make him look like just another statistic.” JZ then asked if he might help himself to a cup of coffee. Estrada assured him there was plenty. “And you, Qui?” added JZ, now holding up the half empty pot.

“Yes-please! With sugar.”

“Mugs here and sugar in the canister,” grunted Estrada uneasily. The news of Hilito’s death atop Montoya’s hadn’t set well. “What’s gonna happen to my crew when they hear about Tino?” he mused aloud. “They’re gonna disappear.”

Silence settled over the pilothouse. Following a run on the coffeepot, Estrada busied himself making a fresh pot, and soon there wafted about them the enticing scent of fresh coffee in sharp contrast to the sense of tension hanging unspoken in the air.

“Uncle Estrada, I am sorry to tell you this, but I am commandeering your trawler.”

“What? What?” Estrada’s face bled white. “No-no-no! You can’t do this! I forbid it! Does Gutierrez know this? I can’t—we can’t—lose another day of fishing!”

“The state will make recompense.”

“So now you treat me like some insignificant peasant on my own boat—
again
?”

That seemed to sum it up entirely—he’d recognized the lock and guessed that Quiana’d need more answers than the best of detectives could possibly uncover in Havana. Sighing heavily, Estrada replied, “I know, Lieutenant, I know. The Sanabela, she is yours.”

Always one to take action when under pressure, Qui asked Giraldo, an ex-diving instructor whom she’d known for some years, about his latest dives. Soon she had him pinpoint his favorite dive sites around Cuba. As they talked over the nautical charts, she asked, “What is the distance and fastest sea route to the dive sites at Santiago de Cuba?”

Quick to note the tension in her voice, Giraldo paused and pointedly stared at her, “There is good diving off the coast near Santiago,” Giraldo said as he worked, “but there’re also treacherous waters there.”

It sounded like a forewarning to Qui. She shuddered inwardly.
Take an old shrimper all the way to Santiago de Cuba? What am I thinking?

Giraldo turned back to the chart and pointed out the two nautical paths, mentioning the pros and cons of each route, one on the northeast Cuban coast, the other on the southwest side, windward as opposed to leeward.

“Damn, she thinks so, too? We
are
cursed then! Those three dead foreigners will be the death of us all.” Luis rubbed his face, looking even more tired and agitated.

“Do you have weapons aboard?”

Estrada hesitated.

Noting Luis’s reluctance, JZ encouraged with, “Look whether legal or not, we might need those weapons. Qui and I only have our handguns, not much use at a distance. So please, if you carry arms, show me where they are.”

Turning to Giraldo, he continued, “Show JZ where they’re stowed.” Shaking his head at Qui, Zayas turned and followed the two men out of the pilothouse.

Well out at sea now and having overheard the conversations, Adondo had headed the Sanabela southwest in the direction of Pinar del Rio. He smiled in satisfaction that he’d guessed correctly what was going to happen next. “Lieutenant, I’ve turned our heading for Santiago, the southern route.”

“Adondo, thank you,” Qui commented, deciding she needed as many friends among the crew as possible, given the situation.

Meanwhile, Estrada stood before his crew, who were as angry as they were confused by the events of the day. Between the Captain’s long stay in the pilothouse and the Sanabela’s unusual course, the crew had become increasingly restless and now demanded answers. Scattered about the boat only moments before, the men had magically assembled en masse when the pilothouse door finally opened. One man who displayed grit, Alfredo, Giraldo’s younger brother, shouted, “Captain, where are we going?” The rest remained silent, wanting to hear the Captain’s reply.

Estrada addressed them. “We are, as of this moment, a PNR boat, and unofficially, you are now all deputies of Detective Quiana Aguilera.”

A collective groan welled up from the crew. “Ahhh…shit,” someone added.

Estrada pushed on. “Today, all that happened at the marina, and all that lies before us, gentlemen, will be written in song, and—”

The crew gave no sign they’d agreed with Estrada, nor to their mandatory participation in this ill-defined quest, but then they’d not overtly protested either. As men used to taking orders, they nonetheless returned to work, some checking the nets and mending holes, others preparing the block and tackle, still others oiling the mechanical works aboard. A general grumbling resumed on the deck.

Estrada turned to Qui and whispered, “I fear we’ve not seen the last of the devils chasing you.”

27

Cavuto, disguised as a sport fisherman in a speed boat, maneuvered to within sight of the Sanabela. Alone now, he made his way toward the fishing grounds where he expected that old fool Estrada meant to take his boat. As he did so, he searched for any sign of the trawler from behind his dark glasses. He imagined that Aguilera, and the man he took for her partner, Sergio Latoya, might insist on being taken ashore at some point. For this reason, he’d raced along the shoreline, reassuring himself that the trawler hadn’t made landfall anywhere. Assured this hadn’t occurred, Cavuto finally headed his Norwegian built speedboat out to sea to hunt down the trawler in open waters.

Cavuto believed everything in place to end all of Humberto’s problems in a single instant. He’d taken care of Hilito, no difficult matter, and now he’d managed to herd the remaining problem onto what would soon become an inferno. The triggering device on the seat beside him assured him of success. He could be assured of detonating the bomb within visual sight of the boat, perhaps half a mile. Hastily thrown together, the explosive device had been secretly placed on the shrimper while in impound.

Silently, he cursed his boss’s luck and considered the ironic nature of chance and irony in all of life’s lotteries. Who could’ve guessed that the Sanabela’s nets would scoop up those three dead doctors? Dead from the stupidity and excesses of a bungled interrogation by his own men, who were now among the
disappeareds
. He also gave thought to how much he hated Alejandro, who had come in on Humberto’s orders to clean up Cavuto’s mess that night. Alejandro had made him look like a fool that night, currying a great deal of favor with the boss. It looked then as if over, as if the SP’s mistake would remain at the bottom of the ocean forever. It’d been he who’d explained to Humberto how the lock came to be on the chain in the first place—that it’d materialized when Alejandro arrived. Oddly, Humberto, who’d never demonstrated a single religious inclination, had gone ashen and mysteriously muttered, “The hand of God at work.”

Cavuto now shouted over the sound of the motor, “Damn the lock, and damn Alejandro, too!” The ocean responded, immediately slapping him full in the face with a spray of salt water, dousing his recently lit cigar. Lighting a new cigar, Cavuto contemplated how he’d arranged to get control of the lock after it’d been checked into the PNR evidence room. To retrieve it from official custody had been no easy matter. He’d first offered a bribe to Hilito. When that failed, he made the cop an offer he couldn’t refuse. “You have a choice between two doors, Tino,” he’d said over between sips of his rum. “Either way, you are on my fishhook, a double-barbed one.”

“—as all his escalating extra expenses will be paid. For instance, your son will never want again for those black market, military-style coagulant powders and bandages.”

Tino failed to touch the drink placed before him. Cavuto went on, “Or, you can dangle on the second barb, Officer Hilito, one that is not so pleasant.”

Their eyes had met and Hilito was first to break the stare.

“On this second hook, you needn’t ever worry again about Carlito or
anyone
in your family—including the little one on the way—as the SP knows how to end a miserable existence.”

Hilito’s eyes grew large and his face blanched, his hand inching toward his weapon. One of Cavuto’s nearby henchmen coughed, reminding Tino of how close he was to death just as a salsa band began playing a raucous tune that spoke of gaiety and newfound love. Tino silently cursed his current situation.

“I leave you only one choice.” Cavuto laughed heartily before adding, “It’s our Cuban way.”

“It’s your Cuban way, not mine.”

“Live with it, Officer, or die with it. Don’t be a fool! Now take this—” he handed over a black bag— “down to PNR headquarters and retrieve that lock. Replace it with the one in the bag. This is all your country asks of you. How easy is that? This little thing and all your worries end. And Tino, no one will ever know we’ve spoken.”

His back to the wall, teeth grinding, Tino snatched the bag, knocking over his drink. This drew the attention of some patrons, among them an old acquaintance or two who knew something was up. But everyone in the place knew Cavuto and what he represented, so all eyes instantly looked away, people pretending not to see, not to hear. In such an oppressive political climate, pretense became an art form. No one wanted to be arrested by Cavuto Ruiz; no one wanted to become a tourist at the
Castillo Atares
.

Cavuto’s plan had been simple: Retrieve the lock, replace it with the phony, and return the original to the Sanabela but in a place where Luis Estrada would find it. Predictably, he would call Gutierrez, who had orders to send Aguilera to the boat to retrieve the thing. Tino had followed instructions well, likely rationalizing his actions, knowing that the SP took precedence over the PNR. As for Estrada, Cavuto guessed correctly. The fool had acted on cue as well.

Now it was time to put down Sergio Latoya and this woman, Aguilera, despite her father’s far-reaching influence and connections. Earlier from the rooftop, he’d watched the two of them climb from the car, race for the boat, and board her. Now these little pigeons all sat cozily together in a warren atop a deadly explosive.