Have a Nice Night (15 page)

'Anita.'

'What does she do, Pedro? Where does she work?'

'She works. . .' Pedro gave gasping sighs, closed his eyes and his face went slack.

'Get the nurse!' Lepski said sharply. 'Looks like he's going to croak.'

As Jacoby jumped to his feet, the nurse came in. 'Time's up,' she said briskly.

'He's in a state,' Lepski said.

The nurse came to the bed, took Pedro's pulse, then shrugged. 'He'll last a little longer,' she said, indifferently. 'Off you two go. I've things to do to him.'

Out in the passage, Jacoby said, 'That shark con was pretty rough, wasn't it?'

'It worked, didn't it? Now for Fish Road.'

Ten minutes later, the two detectives were talking to the Cuban janitor in charge of the shabby block of apartments where the Certes lived. The janitor was a short, fat man with a black moustache and small cunning eyes.

'Pedro Certes? Sure, he lives here. Top floor, left.'

'Is his wife at home?'

'No. She works.'

'Where does she work?'

The janitor liked Anita. He had no time for Pedro, but Anita always passed the time of day with him. He wasn't giving out any information about Anita to a cop. His face went blank. 'I don't know.'

Lepski snorted. 'We want to find her fast. This is an emergency. Her husband is dying. We want to take her to him.'

The janitor sneered. 'One of our people is dying so two cops come for his wife. That's a big deal.'

'Do you or don't you know where she works?' Lepski barked.

'I told you. I don't.'

'What time does she get back from work?'

The janitor knew Anita's hours, but this he wasn't going to tell a cop. He shrugged. 'How do I know? Late, sometimes. I don't know.'

'What's she look like?'

So these two smart cops hadn't a description of Anita, the janitor thought. That was good news. 'Look like? Like any Cuban woman: dark, very fat, wears her hair on the top of her head.' That was as far as he could think of to mis-describe Anita.

'What age?'

'How do I know? Any age. Twenty, thirty, something like that.'

Lepski grunted, knowing he wasn't going to get any useful information from this Cuban. He jerked his head at Jacoby, then walked into the street.

'These goddamn Cubans all stick together,' he said. 'We'll have to stake out the place. You stick around, Max. I'll get two boys down here to relieve you. Check the papers of every Cuban woman, fat or thin, who goes into the building.'

'Nice job,' Jacoby said bitterly.

Lepski grunted, got in his car and headed fast for headquarters.

A few minutes later, the janitor came out onto the street, carrying a trash can which he dumped on the sidewalk. He spotted Jacoby, trying to interest himself in a display of fishing tackle in a shop window nearby. The janitor returned to his apartment. He stood for a long moment in thought, then he called for his son, a dark eyed, bright looking boy of twelve years of age.

'You know Manuel Torres's boat?' his father asked him.

'Course I do! I know all the boats.'

'Right. Go there, fast. Tell Mr. Torres that the cops have been here, asking for Mrs. Certes. Tell him they are watching our place. Understand?'

The boy nodded and leaving the building, passing Jacoby with a sly grin, he ran towards the waterfront.

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Maria Warrenton had left her bathroom in such a mess, Anita was late leaving the hotel. As she began the long walk back to Seacomb, Manuel's battered Lincoln pulled up beside her. 'Get in, Anita,' he said.

Anita opened the passenger door and scrambled in. 'It's not Pedro? He's not worse?' she asked, her voice trembling.

'No, he is okay.' Manuel shifted into gear and drove down a side road that led to the waterfront. 'You mustn't go home. The cops are asking for you.'

Anita gasped, covering her face with her hands. 'The cops?'

'Yes. Now don't get upset,' Manuel said. 'You must stay on my boat until it is time for you to go to the hotel to work. You must keep off the streets. I understand the cops haven't a description of you. They questioned your janitor and he told them nothing, but it will be safer for you to stay on my boat a little while, then we can arrange what we have to do tonight.'

'But how did they find my address?' Anita asked. 'Pedro would never have given it to them.'

This Manuel didn't believe. He felt sure the cops had talked to Pedro, and although he was dying, they had got his name and address out of him.

'Pedro? No, certainly not! Some informer. Even with our people, there are informers,' Manuel said. 'Don't worry about it. All will be well.' He pulled up near his fishing vessel. 'Now, we will make final plans.'

In the forward cabin, they found Fuentes lying on the bunk. He sat up, staring at Anita. 'What's she doing here?' he demanded.

'It is unfortunate,' Manuel said quietly, sitting at the table. 'The cops are looking for her. She will stay here until she goes to work.'

Fuentes began to speak, but Manuel silenced him with a wave of his hand.

'Sit down, Anita.' When she sat at the table, he went on, 'What time tonight should we begin the operation?'

'Twelve thirty,' Anita said without hesitation. 'Everyone will be away from the suites. The hotel detective begins patrolling the corridors at one o'clock. The staff will be busy finishing in the kitchens. That is the time.'

'What time do you finish your work?'

'Just after ten o'clock. Give me a piece of paper and a pencil. I'll draw you a plan how to get to the staff entrance.' Manuel produced paper and pencil and watched Anita draw the plan. While she was doing this, he glanced at Fuentes and gave him a nod to tell him Anita knew what she was about.

She passed him the paper. 'You see?'

Manuel studied the plan for some moments, then he nodded. 'So we come by the back, that is Ranch Road. We come down by the golf course, then down a little path leading to the staff entrance?'

'Yes.'

'Are there any problems?'

'No, but be careful not to be seen.'

'Then what happens?'

'At exactly twelve thirty, I will open the staff door. You must be there to come in immediately. There will be no one about. I will take you to the basement elevator and we go up to the top floor. The penthouse suite where the Warrentons are has a private elevator. We walk up the stairs and I will unlock their door.'

'Suppose they are in?'

'They are never there until well after one thirty. I will relock the door and we will go out onto the terrace and wait for them. The rest I leave to you.'

Manuel thought about this, aware that Fuentes was watching him. Finally, he said, 'It sounds good.'

'Manuel,' Anita said quietly. 'It is understood that my husband comes with us.'

There was a long pause. Fuentes ran his fingers through his long, greasy hair. Manuel stared down at the scarred table, then he looked up and stared directly at Anita.

'Yes,' he said. 'That has always been understood. Pedro is recovering, but, Anita, by coming with us on my boat, he could have a relapse. He is still very sick.'

Anita stiffened. 'If you don't promise that he comes with us, I do not open the staff door,' she said firmly.

'I understand your feelings. You are a fine woman, but let us look more closely at the problem,' Manuel said, giving her a forced sympathetic smile. 'We have all we need to put on the pressure: two bombs and the Warrentons, but your husband is still very sick, In two weeks, he could travel without causing a relapse, but now that the cops are looking for you, we can't wait two weeks. Our plan must begin tonight. I will now go to the hospital and talk to my friend and find out if Pedro can be moved. If he says he can, then there is no problem, but if he tells me it would be dangerous for Pedro to take a sea voyage, then I have another suggestion to make to you.'

Anita sat motionless, staring at Manuel. He felt uneasiness run through him. Her big black eyes were probing and hard. 'What other suggestion?' Her voice was low and harsh.

'That we need not discuss for the moment.' Manuel got to his feet. 'I will now go to the hospital and talk to my friend. I am hoping there will be no alternative. I will be back in an hour.'

'I will wait,' Anita said, 'but it is understood that unless Pedro comes with us, I open no doors.'

'It is understood,' and Manuel left the cabin, crossed the gang plank, got in his car and drove away.

Fuentes stared at Anita, his eyes glistening with hate. He longed to pull out his knife and slit her throat. A million dollars, if he was lucky, was within his reach, but this woman could foul up the whole operation.

Anita didn't look at him. She stared down at her clenched fists.

'Manuel is a man of truth,' Fuentes said. 'You must do what he says. You must be reasonable.'

Anita looked up. The expression in her eyes made Fuentes flinch. 'You did this! It was you who persuaded my husband to do this dreadful thing! You gave him the gun! Don't speak to me! May God punish you!'

Fuentes had nothing to say. He lay back on the bunk and stared up at the roof of the cabin. This woman was dangerous, he thought. What lie would Manuel find to tell her?

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When Lepski told Sergeant Joe Beigler that he now had the name of the rent killer and it was important to locate the killer's wife, Beigler, sipping coffee, said Lepski had done a smart job. However, when Lepski said he wanted two men down to Fish Road to stake out the apartment block and to relieve Jacoby, Beigler stared at Lepski as if he had asked for a ton of gold.

'I haven't two men to spare,' Beigler said, after a long pause.

'That's your headache. I want the joint staked out. I can't find out where this woman works, so the best thing is to catch her when she returns from work,' Lepski said patiently, as if explaining to an idiot child.

Beigler drank more coffee. 'You know what I'd do if I were a smart Detective 1st Grade?' he asked. 'I might add that I am not a smart Detective 1st Grade, but a very smart sergeant. Now, if I wanted to know where some Cuban woman worked, know what I would do?'

Lepski loosened his tie. When Beigler became patronizing, Lepski's blood pressure rushed up. 'I'll buy it,' he snarled.

Beigler sat back, a smug smile on his freckled face. 'Being a very smart sergeant, and being in charge of this cop house while the chief is away, I would go down to the City Hall and inquire at the Aliens and Immigration office, where they keep records of every Cuban working in our city and where they work.'

Lepski gaped at him. 'How the hell should I know that?'

'You wouldn't, but I do know these things being a very smart . . .'

But Lepski had already rushed away. He flung himself into his car and drove to the City Hall. At the back of the City Hall, he found the Alien and Immigration office with a long queue of shabby looking Cuban refugees waiting to register.

Lepski had no time for Cubans. He bulldozed his way into the big office where Cuban men and women were being interviewed. Shoving his way to the head of the queue, he was confronted by a young woman sitting behind a long counter, completing a card. The plaque before her told him she was Miss Hepplewaite.

He regarded her and decided she was a smarty pants, good looking and efficient.

'Miss Hepplewaite?' He flashed his shield. 'Detective Lepski.'

She didn't look up, but continued to complete the card. Lepski wasn't to know that she had had an argument with a cop for a parking infringement that morning and had been given a ticket. Right at this moment, Miss Hepplewaite, a girl of exceptionally strong character, hated all cops.

Lepski waited, drumming his fingers on the counter. When she had completed the card, she looked up, her grey-blue eyes stony. 'I am dealing with Cubans,' she said. 'Who did you say you were?'

Lepski loosened his tie. 'Detective Lepski, City police,' he said in his cop voice and again flashed his shield.

'What am I supposed to do?' she asked. 'Kneel down and worship you?'

A real smarty pants, Lepski thought, controlling himself. 'Police business, Miss Hepplewaite. I want to find out where Anita Certes of twenty seven Fish Road, Seacomb, works.'

She regarded him with hostile eyes. 'Why?'

Lepski's blood pressure rose. He longed to haul her across the counter and smack her bottom. 'Police business,' he repeated. 'You don't have to worry your head about why, baby.'

'Don't call me baby! I could report you for being insulting!'

Lepski had had enough of this. 'Yeah, and I could arrest you for obstruction, baby. I'm dealing with a murder case. Do you want to come down to headquarters so we can sort it all out?'

Miss Hepplewaite regarded Lepski's lean, hard face and decided also enough was enough. He looked as if he would do what he was threatening. The last thing Miss Hepplewaite wanted was to be taken to police headquarters. She surrendered reluctantly. 'What name was it?'

Lepski gave her his hard, cop smile. 'Anita Certes, twenty seven Fish Road, Seacomb.'

'You understand we have many . . .' Miss Hepplewaite began, trying to bolster up her diminishing dignity.

'Anita Certes, twenty seven Fish Road, Seacomb,' Lepski barked.

'I'll see.' Furious with herself for being cowed by this cop, Miss Hepplewaite stamped over to the files. She deliberately took her time, while Lepski drummed on the counter and the Cubans stared and listened. Finally, she returned with a card.

'This woman works part time at the Spanish Bay Hotel,' she said. 'Her hours are from ten o'clock to one o'clock and again at eight o'clock in the evening. She is a cleaner.'

Lepski gave her his leering smile. 'Thanks, baby. Keep your legs crossed,' and he left.

A small, thin Cuban, half way down the queue, whispered to his friend ahead of him, 'Hold my place,' and leaving, he went in search of a public telephone. He was a good friend of Anita Certes. There was only one man who could relay the news that Anita was being hunted by the police. He called Manuel Torres.

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