Hot Schemes (12 page)

Ted shook his head. “Hell, sometimes it seems to me they object to anything that isn’t violently anti-Castro. Who knows what it’s about this time.”

Molly regarded him doubtfully. She didn’t like the way he was evading her gaze. “Come on, Ted. You’re a reporter. Even if you didn’t work for this particular paper, you’d make it your business to know every last detail of any controversy in which the media was targeted. So what’s with the vague generalities?”

He shook his head. “I’m telling you there’s nothing specific I can link this to. I even read the damned Spanish-language edition, which took me hours, I might add, to see if I could figure out why they’re bent out of shape. We’re not supporting some bill on Capitol Hill that’s soft on Castro. We haven’t attacked any of their sacred cows. The most controversial story I saw, from their perspective, was another one of those statistical things showing how many Cuban rafters have been welcomed by Immigration and how many boatloads of Haitian refugees have been turned back at sea. They don’t like being reminded that the difference in policies seems blatantly discriminatory.”

Molly didn’t buy that as the cause of tonight’s incident. She wished she’d read that morning’s edition, but in all the confusion she hadn’t had time. She tried to recall anything else she had read in the paper in recent days that could have set things off. “Wasn’t there a story in the business pages about a couple of companies that have sent people into Cuba to size up economic opportunities?”

“Yes, but so what? The way economic sanctions are, they can’t go in and invest until Castro falls, right?”

Molly sighed. “True. Maybe the protesters are objecting to the fact that these guys spent dollars in Cuba while they were over there scouting things out. You know how violent they get about foreign tourists in Cuba. They feel the money the tourists spend helps to shore up Castro’s regime.”

Ted shook his head. “Then why not protest the companies, rather than the paper that wrote the story?”

Molly didn’t have an argument to counter that. She tried out another thought. “Has the paper backed any cultural events lately?”

“Like what?”

“You know how they’re always giving money to support the ballet, the opera, and all these ethnic festivals. I was just wondering if they’d made a donation to something like that and the group in turn had invited a performer who’d recently performed in Cuba.”

“I doubt it. I think the paper’s gotten real sensitive to that sort of thing. The powers that be may not understand why people get so outraged that a singer or dancer has performed in Havana, but they steer clear of them just the same.”

They fell silent then, watching the activity of the demonstrators, until Ted spotted someone in the crowd and called out to him. The man, wearing khaki slacks, a blue oxford-cloth shirt, and loafers, looked to be no more than forty, though his dark blond hair was already thinning on top. He jogged over to join them.

“Hey, Ted, what’s up?”

Ted regarded the older reporter with something akin to hero worship. “Molly, this is Walt Hazelton. He’s working the story. He’s been with the paper fifteen years. For the last ten he’s been on the foreign desk covering Caribbean affairs, including Cuba, when they’ll grant him a visa to go in. Walt, this is Molly DeWitt. She and O’Hara are friends.”

Walt nodded. “I thought I saw him nosing around in the crowd.” He looked at Molly. “Any word on his uncle?”

Molly shook her head. “How good are your sources inside Cuba?” she asked. She knew from his highly respected reputation for hard-hitting, award-winning coverage that Walt Hazelton wasn’t the sort of journalist who’d rely on rumors, but rather would report only carefully gleaned facts. She suspected he’d made good use of those rarely granted trips to the island to cultivate reliable contacts.

Hazelton’s eyes widened as he immediately grasped her meaning. “You think García tried to go in, maybe as part of some commando raid?”

“It’s one theory. I just wondered if you knew anyone who might know what’s going on on the island?”

The reporter looked thoughtful. “No one else has been reported missing here in town.”

“Maybe because no one else has a nephew like Michael, who jumped on his uncle’s disappearance immediately,” she countered, beginning to warm to the theory. “Maybe that boat was meant to blow up at sea, so there’d be no trace after they’d launched their rafts toward shore. And wouldn’t any family members here be warned to remain silent?”

“Did you get the feeling O’Hara’s aunt was holding back?” Ted asked.

Molly honestly had no answer to that. She didn’t know Tía Pilar well enough to judge when she might be withholding information. Their conversations were conducted in such a halting mix of English and Spanish that they were seldom illuminating anyway. She finally shook her head. “I have no idea.”

“It could take a while to get through, but I’ll do some checking,” Hazelton promised. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a card. “Give me a call tomorrow afternoon.”

When he’d walked away, Molly stared after him. “Bright guy. I’ve read about him. He’s picked up several awards for his reporting, hasn’t he?”

“A Pulitzer and a bunch of others,” Ted agreed. “He deserves every one of them. He’s got an advanced degree in international studies. Had a fellowship to study Cuba.” He gestured toward the crowd, who were now chanting and waving their signs more aggressively. “Hazelton probably knows more about the island today than half of these protesters ever knew about the way it was thirty, thirty-five years ago when they were last there. They hate his guts, though.”

“Why?”

“Do you even have to ask? He’s not one of them. Worse than not being Cuban, he dares to tell it like it is. He’s not keeping the dream alive.”

As if to confirm what Ted was saying, apparently someone recognized Hazelton just then. Before Molly could blink, they had surrounded him, making demands, shouting curses. One angry man waved his picket sign threateningly. Hazelton shoved his way through the crowd and made his way to the building entrance. A police escort saw that he made it.

“I can hardly wait to see the final edition,” Ted said dryly.

“Do you think this demonstration will be broken up in time for anyone to see it?” Molly asked.

“Oh, the paper will be printed and it will go out,” Ted said, regarding the scene with blatant disgust. “In another hour or two the publisher will lose patience, the police will cordon off the road, and the trucks will roll. The paper may be late, but believe me, these bullies won’t be allowed to stop it. It amazes me how people can flee a country with no freedom of the press, then try to stifle it in the country that takes them in.”

“What about freedom of speech and freedom to assemble?” Molly countered quietly.

Ted looked at her. “Hey, I have no problem with them protesting. They’ve got a right to voice their opinions like anyone else. What they don’t have is the right to violently prevent me from voicing mine or the paper from voicing its views editorially.”

Molly figured it wasn’t a debate that was going to be won or lost that night, any more than it was won or lost when opposition sides of the abortion debate clashed on the lawns of abortion clinics. She suspected emotions ran equally high in both controversies.

“You told Michael these protesters were followers of Paredes,” she said finally.

“Some of them. I recognize them from other rallies. The others could be part of his organization or representatives of some other groups.”

“Is Paredes here?”

“Are you kidding? He’s out in Westchester watching it all on TV, happy as a clam at the disruption of the paper’s delivery schedule. No doubt, if questioned, he will decry the harassment of Hazelton.”

“Just as he decried the bombing of Miguel’s boat.”

“Of course. But just because there’s no dirt under a guy’s fingernails doesn’t mean he knows nothing about the seeds being sown in this particular garden of protest.”

Molly grinned. “Interesting line. Can I expect to read it in tomorrow’s paper?”

Ted grinned back at her. “Not in my story. I’m on page one of the Metro section with a fascinating report on two cops whose police car was stolen while they sipped
café Cubano
on
Calle Ocho
. It seems the driver left the keys in the ignition, thinking his partner was going to stay put. Said partner decided he wanted to join his pal at the take-out window. An alert bystander in need of wheels made off with it before either of them could draw their weapons. Needless to say the two were not available for interviews. I suspect they’ve been checked into the county hospital, where they’re dying of embarrassment.”

Molly heard only about half of the story Ted was telling. She’d suddenly noticed the delivery truck drivers who were all gathered around their vehicles in a lot across the street awaiting an end to the protest.

“Ted, thanks again for the tip tonight,” she said distractedly, her attention already focused on the drivers.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“To find Miguel’s route supervisor.”

“I’ll come with you,” he said at once, hurrying after her.

She glanced back at him. “Okay, but I ask the questions.”

He regarded her with clearly feigned indignation. “Hey, who’s the reporter here?”

“You’re off duty, remember?”

“Dammit, Molly, O’Hara will kill me if you get into a bind asking questions of the wrong person.”

“I am not your responsibility,” she reminded him. “I’m not Michael’s either, for that matter. Last I heard, I had God-given free will.”

“Jesus, we’ve gone from Constitutional rights to the big time,” Ted said. “How are you going to find this guy? You don’t even know his name, do you?”

“No, but I know where Miguel’s route was. He delivered to the houses in the Shenandoah section. That’s why he kept his boat on Key Biscayne. He could drive straight over the causeway when he finished his deliveries and be on the water by dawn.”

Fortunately, all of the route bosses were clustered in one place. It took only one casually asked inquiry to find the man who supervised the Shenandoah area deliveries. He was a cigar-chomping, overweight hulk of a man who identified himself as Jack Miller. He looked at Ted, his gaze narrowed.

“You’re that guy we ran the campaign on a few months back, aren’t you? Had your picture on the trucks. Ryan, right?”

Ted nodded, his expression pleased. The recognition apparently served to overcome his reservations about Molly’s interviewing the guy. He turned downright expansive, in fact, introducing her as if she were his personal protégée.

Miller removed his cigar from his mouth long enough to mutter a greeting. “You looking for me?”

She nodded. “I’m wondering about Miguel Garcia. Are you his supervisor?”

His gaze narrowed suspiciously. “Now why would you want to know something like that? You a TV reporter? I don’t see no camera.”

“I’m not a reporter. I’m a close friend of his family’s, and it occurred to me that you might have been one of the last people to see him before he disappeared.”

Some of his suspicion melted away. “Could be,” he conceded.

She decided she’d better seize that scant opening and run with it. “He worked Sunday morning?”

“Like clockwork. He’s been one of my best employees.”

“Always on time?”

“The man has the constitution of a horse. He’s never missed a day I can think of, not without sending somebody to cover his route anyway.”

“What did you think when he didn’t show up last night?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t think nothing. He wasn’t supposed to work.”

Molly regarded him with surprise. “He wasn’t?”

“No, ma’am. Took vacation. Asked for it a month ago at least.”

“How long was he supposed to be off?”

“Two weeks is what he told me. No matter what’s gone on, I fully expect him to show up. García’s the kind of man I’d rely on if my life depended on it.”

“So there was nothing on Sunday you thought was suspicious, nothing in his demeanor that was out of character?”

Miller hesitated over the question, as if he were chewing it over in his head. “Now that I think back on it, there was one thing. Pardon me for saying it, but anyone else I’d have said they were getting lucky.” He looked at Molly. “You know what I’m talking about?” At her nod, he continued, “I’ve seen that look with guys who have something going on on the side. Not García, though. He loved that wife of his. Talked about her all the time.”

“What was different about him on Sunday?”

“He looked real happy. Never saw him look that way before, you know what I mean?”

“As if he was looking forward to something,” Molly suggested.

Miller bobbed his head. “Exactly. Like he couldn’t wait for something special that was going to happen. Like a kid on Christmas morning, you know?”

“Or maybe a man who was going home to Cuba,” she said softly.

As Ted Ryan had predicted, the Miami police moved the demonstration into a contained area shortly after one
A.M
. and the newspaper’s delivery trucks began to roll. Before long, with their audience dwindling and their effectiveness stymied, the protesters began to pack up and leave themselves. Michael’s expression was grim when he joined Molly and the reporter.

“Did you find out anything?” Molly asked him.

“You mean besides the fact that this paper is run by racist Commies?”

“My boss, the devoted Republican, will be thrilled to know that,” Ted said dryly. “Obviously, his journalistic evenhandedness is paying off. He’s clearly not inflicting his conservative views on the reading public.”

Michael shot a look at the reporter that Molly found troubling. “You did find out what this was all about, didn’t you? I mean beyond the usual rhetoric.”

“You mean Ryan here hasn’t told you?”

“Told me what?”

“It was his story today that set them off. Apparently they felt his portrayal of Miguel made him look like part of some lunatic-fringe organization.”

Ted paled at that. “I didn’t write anything that wasn’t absolutely true,” he argued.