Cuba Blue (7 page)

Staring at the photos of the three missing, Zayas honed in on the Canadian doctor, a clinical researcher for Ferris BioChemical in Montreal. Listed as AIDS clinicians associated with Chicago’s Cook County Hospital, the two Americans looked like a pair of baby-faced high schoolers, not doctors. While the information supplied by the medical conference coordinator—a Doctor Cortez—proved sketchy, it revealed all three as energetic, adventurous, and perhaps a bit naïve. Cortez had actually done a better job of learning their movements than had the local police who so far remained useless.

Taking Cortez’s suggestions, Zayas had interviewed hotel staff, learning the trio’s fascination with Havana nightlife, and their habit of dining together far from the conference venue. One staffer at the hotel reported them as coming in late one night intoxicated, boisterously displaying their freshly acquired Cuban curses and dance steps. Further, it was reported that the three of them had apparently been long-term friends.

Doctor Denise Beisiegel proved the most adventurous of the three, not only touring Havana clinics but also visiting a nearby village. Still, Zayas’s investigation revealed that when the three had disappeared, they were more or less, ‘on the town’. The last sighting of the trio had been at the casino bar called King Arthur’s Den within the Excalibre Hotel and Casino.

Zayas now leaned back in his chair, swiveled to look out the office window at the final vestiges of sunset, recalling the curious experience he’d had at the Excalibre when he’d gone searching for answers.

Both the Excalibre’s manager and the Den’s manager were rough-looking fellows trussed up in suits and ties—straight out of a Hollywood mafia film. One was a Cuban national, young for manager of a large hotel, Angel de Sedano; the other, manager of the Den, a Russian named Gregor Kamarovsky. When Zayas had questioned them regarding the missing doctors, the two men held a brief discussion in Russian. With a background in intelligence analysis, Zayas did not let on that he understood every word of their hurried conversation.

“Or worse,
Castillo Atares
!”

“We gotta tell him something.”

“Leave it to me.”

Turning back to Zayas, de Sedano said, “It will take time to check records—determine who worked that night. I assume you want to talk to the staff?”

“Certainly, as soon as possible. I’d like to interview anyone working that night. Right now perhaps?”

“I’ll have to check with the night manager. I don’t know where he keeps records of who worked that night.”

Zayas’s turned to stare at Gregor, whose face was becoming increasingly pale. “Surely among your staff, you know who was worked that night?”

Gregor shrugged and confessed, “I know who was on that night.”

de Sedano became agitated at this and said, “Well, then, Gregor and Mr. Zayas, I leave it to you to sort out.” He nodded at both his bar manager and Zayas.

“Well then…I will leave you to it and good luck in your investigation, Mr. Zayas,” replied Kamarovsky. “Won’t do Cuba any good to lose tourists.”

After some minutes, the coffee and croissants materialized as promised. Next, Kamarovsky began escorting staff members to the table. Zayas spent the following two hours learning nothing in the way of a direct lead, but a picture emerged of three fun-loving, long-term friends acting as if on vacation, embracing all that was Cuban. As Zayas knew, vacationers anywhere could easily become oblivious to dangers around them. Perhaps this had been the case with the three young doctors after leaving Excalibre. But Zayas felt a gnawing undercurrent here. Something Gregor and Angel feared.

Still, staring out his office window at the cooling Havana night, Zayas wondered what frightened the two men. He knew of only one ready answer and it was spelled SP.

Qui had done more than simply listen to Dr. Benilo as she’d originally planned; she engaged him—anxious to learn all she might about forensics, the police science he had near single-handedly imported to Cuba from Europe and Russia. She quietly asked now, “How do you keep current on pathological medicine and forensics from here in Cuba?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, he replied, “Whenever possible, from smuggled copies of
The Journal of the American Forensic Society
and science journals in French and Russian. This
information-running
represents my chief bootlegging operation along with my supply of French wines. Now, are you going to arrest me?” He glanced at her, reading her expression.

“Nahhh…black-market reading material…. Not my department.” She grinned at him, filing away the doctor’s ‘secret’ crime.

Nodding, Benilo continued to work as he spoke. “During my university days in France, I never had to curb my curiosity or appetite—not for wine, not for women, and certainly not for knowledge.”

“Many university students prefer wine, women, and song.”

“Cigarettes and whiskey and wild, wild women, yes, the common pursuits of young men everywhere. But properly appreciating tobacco, music, a good French wine is like the pleasures of being with a woman—that comes with age.” Benilo leaned back and looked up at her, before adding, “None of it to be rushed. Benilo leaned back his eyes unwavering. “None of it to be rushed, Detective.”

Discomfited by his gaze, Qui became aware of the doctor as a man, a sexual man.
Was he flirting or just being Cuban?
While old enough to be her father, he was handsome in a rugged, darkly mysterious way.

He continued speaking. “From enjoying the appearance of the package and its unwrapping, to slowly releasing its anticipation-building aroma, and then the final savored scent, body, and taste. Done slowly and with full concentration, there are few comparable pleasures.” He blinked, then smiled at her. “An indulgence I refuse to give up.”

“The wine or the women, Dr Benilo?”

Responding, Benilo looked up again, and shook a gloved finger at her. “At my age Detective? The music. What else?” He smiled at her, this time, it seemed to her with a look of amusement.

She returned an innocent, amused smile. Her father’s estranged friend was not what she expected.

Being thorough, Benilo pulled out a digital micro-camera from his bag and began taking close-up photos of the victims—scars, the tattoo, marks made by the chain, and a final image of the lock. “If only technology could keep pace with our needs, I’d take dental X-rays here and now. However, for the time being, that much will have to wait for the lab.”

She wondered what other high-tech gadgets he might have in that bag of his. To others who knew little of forensics, Benilo likely appeared grotesque—a curious sniffing fiend picking over the dead, examining the result of some demented mischief. However, Qui knew better. Far from a ghoul, he represented Cuba’s best, a professional who’d threaded his way through the landmine of Cuban politics to become a major player in the network—
or rather the web
—of officialdom.

The old ME now studied each victim’s eyes. “Please, more light here.” He pointed with a pen.

Qui kneeled and flashed her
LaserTec
to the eyes in question. She surmised because the soft tissues of the eyes had not been completely damaged that the victims had not been in the warm seawater as long as she’d first imagined. To verify her impression, she asked, “How long in the water? Best guess.”

“Estimating in the field under poor lighting conditions, not a good idea,” muttered the doctor, not wanting to make a judgment call. “Then again light in the darkness is a wonderful thing.” He eyed her flashlight possessively and took it from her, examining it. “Damn sure could’ve used a light like this at Santa Clara. Lost a lot of lives there to darkness, ineptness, lack of sutures, and infection.”

Finishing his close examination of the eyes, he reluctantly returned the gun-handled flashlight. Complaining about his knees, he pushed off the deck, stood, and stretched. Qui straightened and the flash in her hand bobbed, creating a crazy light show that danced across the deck and superstructure.

Benilo quietly asked, “How is your father these days?”

With a furrowed brow, Qui replied, “Papa is well….” She shrugged. “But you know my father—perhaps better than I.”

Benilo raised his eyebrows. “You think I know him better than you? That may’ve been true once, but we’ve lost touch. Fine man…strong, robust when I knew him. In his prime, but then so was I.” He threw up his hands in a gesture of mock humor.

“If you’d visit him, you’d find out firsthand how he is. He’s spoken of you on occasion.” Having reached the stern, Qui leaned against the railing.

“Really? I imagine the occasion was not so pleasant then.”

She frowned, “I think he’d like to see you.” She added, “He has no one to reminisce with, and me…well, ancient history holds no appeal. In some ways, he’s stuck in the past.”

“Too many old men are still living in the days of the
Revolucion de Cuba
.”

“So he’s still managing the bed and breakfast and the garden after all this time?” Arturo asked, recalling the lovely house in Miramar, where he’d last seen Tomaso after Rafaela’s funeral. They’d argued then, both men in tears amid Rafaela’s Mariposa garden. From all reports, Tomaso had tended her garden ever since—now his only battlefield.

“Yes, and he still enjoys art, food, and a good game of chess.”

“Ahhh, chess…he was a formidable opponent.” Benilo’s eyes crinkled in amused thought. “Tomaso had such dreams for you, Quiana. You were his angel, and now what have you become? A cop in Old Havana.” He looked anew at her, as if sizing her up all over again. She stood in disarray, her slacks stained with fish gore and smelling of death. “Your father hoped you’d become a doctor, teacher, artist, musician maybe…perhaps even a great dancer in the Cuban National Ballet.”

As she’d listened to Benilo, she recalled how, as a child, she’d danced for her father. “Doctor, I am proud of what I’ve become, a Lieutenant Detective, and one day I’ll make my father proud, so don’t go judging me.”

Reading between her words and recalling Tomaso’s arrogance, Benilo surmised that things between father and daughter were strained, at least on this issue. “I know of your promotion. I commend you, if it comes without strings.”

“Strings?”

“Then the Secret Police have not approached you?”

Popular opinion held that all police were corrupt and most influenced by the SP. Qui considered his unmasked question in silence. Everyone in Cuba feared the secret police, which openly and defiantly operated throughout Cuba. They did so with impunity, answering only to Fidel’s highest—and by extension most corrupt—generals who ran the Internal Affairs of State and Department of Presidential Security. She suspected that the American Secret Service operated with similar brashness. “No, Doctor, the SP has no hooks in me.”

“I suspect your father’s reputation has shielded you from some aspects of police life.” He sighed and in a softer voice for her ears only continued. “The days of Batista we once thought over, are not over. Look…out there.” He pointed to a well-lit pleasure craft.

In the distance, Qui watched the slow movement of the boat he referred to, doubtless filled with tourists having dinner and drinks, enjoying the best of what Cuba had to offer…in real estate, food, hotels, services, goods, nightclubs, all off limits to Cubanos. One country, several societies: the rich, the politicos, the tourists, and the people—once again victims of the economy. An economy once driven by greed and now by ideology. This time victimized by the very regime that’d promised sweeping changes, only to end up like a cardboard house after a hurricane, flat and useless.