Hot Schemes (6 page)

Ken Marshall shook his head in disgust. “Exactly how many parts of that bomb do you expect to be recovered from the goddamn bay?”

“One would be enough, if it’s the right one, one we can trace.”

Domínguez shot him a grin. “Man, you watch too many cop shows on TV. Either that or you’ve got the soul of some romantic Cuban poet living in a dream world.”

Michael grinned back. “I just know what fine, dedicated police officers can come up with when they put their minds to it.”

“Oh, man, the pressure,” Marshall groaned, but he, too, was grinning now, clearly relieved that Michael was back to his usual bossy behavior, acting as if that explosion had never happened. “You know, O’Hara, one of these days you’re going to run the whole damned department.You know exactly how to motivate people.”

“Right, pizza and beer at my place at the end of your long, productive days. See you tonight about seven thirty?”

“Tonight?” Domínguez said. “You expect answers tonight?”

“Let’s face it, some group out there is going to be very proud of what it did. Most likely they won’t be quiet about their accomplishment. My guess is there will be some trumped-up story about Miguel’s loyalty to the cause. As for the evidence, if it isn’t in the lab today, chances are Kenny’s right and it’s buried in the muck at the bottom of Biscayne Bay.”

•   •   •

To Molly’s astonishment, Michael didn’t wage a struggle for the keys to his car. After being eased protectively through the crowd of reporters by Marshall and Domínguez, he kidded with the security guard for a moment, then hauled himself into the passenger seat, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

Worried by his ashen complexion, Molly hesitated before turning on the ignition. “You all right?”

“Let’s just say I’m glad the kids don’t have soccer practice today,” he said, referring to the team he coached and on which Molly’s son played. “I’m not exactly up to running wind sprints.”

“It’s not too late to check you in here,” she said.

“Not a chance. Most of the people I know who check into this place wind up dead.”

“You’re a homicide detective,” she reminded him as she reluctantly turned on the engine. “You don’t come here with folks who are hale and hearty.”

“Just drive. I’ll be fine.” As he said it, he flipped on Spanish-language radio, known for the feverish, generally one-sided, anti-Fidel pitch of its political commentary. It was the first place a terrorist might turn to claim credit for a politically motivated bombing. Molly tried valiantly to pick out distinguishable words from the rapid-fire clip of the newscast. Unfortunately she was lost, even though Spanish classes had left her with at least a serviceable vocabulary.

“Anything?” she asked finally in frustration.

Michael shook his head. “There’s mention of the boat blowing up, but no more than that. Perhaps I should go to see Luis myself.”

The Luis in question was undoubtedly the controversial news director, Luis Díaz-Nuñez. If Michael was thinking of dropping by the studio, it could only mean he intended to go on the air to stir things up a bit. She could just envision the ensuing on-air shouting match.

“Now?” she asked incredulously. “It is five thirty in the morning. You’ve just left a hospital … you will note that I did not mention that you were not even officially released from said hospital … and you’re wearing clothes that should have hit the laundry at least a month ago.”

“It’s radio,
amiga
, not TV.”

Molly prayed for patience. “Michael, has it occurred to you that perhaps after the disappearance of your uncle, the bombing of his boat, and a concussion, you might not be thinking too clearly?”

“No,” he replied matter-of-factly. He looked at her and grinned. “Okay, I will not go to the radio station now.” He glanced out the window for the first time as she turned from Twelfth Avenue onto Seventh Street and headed west into the heart of Little Havana. “Where are you taking me?”

“Where do you think?” she said dryly. “To Tío Miguel’s, where everyone has gathered for an all-night vigil. If I don’t put you on view in front of the family immediately, they’ll just come chasing down to Kendall after you the minute they discover that you’re out of the hospital.”

She regarded him hopefully. “Maybe we can just do a drive-by-and-wave sort of thing.”

He laughed at that. “And Felipe accused me of being a dreamer. You don’t think I have the energy to do a radio broadcast, but you figure I can undergo an inspection by my relatives? Wait and see,
amiga
. An hour with Luis would have been child’s play by comparison.”

“Castro! I live for the day when I can spit on his grave,” Tío Pedro said angrily over the weeping of the three Huerta sisters in Tío Miguel’s living room several hours later. It was midmorning and the entire family had been gathered there all through the endless night of waiting.

When Michael and Molly had arrived at dawn, his mother had rushed from the house in her too-large, flowered housedress and matching hot-pink flats. Standing on tiptoe, she had kissed him soundly on both cheeks, then held him at arm’s length while she examined him visually from head to toe, clucking at every scratch. There were plenty to cluck over.

Rosa Conchita Huerta was a lovely, petite woman with curling black hair, whose lined face still showed the strain of the years she had stayed behind in Cuba after sending her son to be reared by her sisters in Miami. Her nut-brown eyes followed Michael avidly whenever he was in a room, as if even after all this time, she couldn’t make up for the years when he had been out of sight.

Rosa at fifty-five was the youngest of the sisters. Elena, Tío Pedro’s wife, was the middle sister. Her round, cheerful face bore none of the lines that kept her younger sister from being truly beautiful. She, too, dressed in bright, flattering colors, even though her figure was no longer girlish. She made no excuses for the fact that she dressed to please her adoring husband and that her abundant figure was the result of sampling too many of the excellent dishes they served in their
Calle Ocho
restaurant.

As for Pilar, the oldest of the Huerta sisters, even on happier occasions she tended to be dressed in somber fabrics and wore her luxuriant black hair pulled back into a well-tamed bun. Her thin, aristocratic face, usually so lovely in repose, had a pinched, haunted look this morning that made her look every one of her sixty-two years. She had managed a watery smile at the sight of Michael, but it was clear she was overcome with grief and worry. Her gaze was fixed on the door and each time it opened, a heartbreaking instant of hope flickered in her eyes, then died at the appearance of each new arrival who was not Miguel.

A half dozen or more of Michael’s cousins and as many neighbors were crowded into the minuscule living room. After so many hours on a muggy summer night, the air was stale. Even the chugging air conditioner in the window couldn’t seem to cool the room.

Worse from Molly’s perspective, the cramped space was filled with so many religious paintings and statues she felt as if she’d wandered into a church rectory. A half-dozen candles were lit in front of a cheap plaster statue of the
La Caridad del Cobre
, the patron saint of Cuba. The candles, each emitting a different perfumed scent, added to the oppressive atmosphere.

Even after Michael had spoken quietly with his aunt for some time, Tía Pilar remained inconsolable, though Molly knew that Michael had kept the two worst-case scenarios to himself. He had told his aunt only that they had found the fishing boat and that his uncle had not been aboard. Molly, too, had tried to reassure the woman that Tío Miguel had no doubt joined another fishing party after his own boat broke down. Tía Pilar had accepted her consoling words with murmured gratitude, but the desolate expression in her eyes never wavered. With the arrival of each neighbor, whether from this Little Havana neighborhood just south of
Calle Ocho
or from her native Cuba, her grief erupted into heartrending sobs.

After a while, feeling like an intruder in the midst of such openly displayed anguish, Molly had asked to use the phone and gratefully left the cluster of women. In her own family, everyone had been taught to suffer in silence. There would have been no outpouring of grief and, as a result, little comfort offered, since no one ever knew how deeply anyone was affected by loss or illness. As uncomfortable as it made her, she envied Michael’s family the ability to let their emotions show. Still, she was glad to have a moment to herself.

The old-fashioned black phone sat on a wobbly table in the hallway, affording Molly little privacy. The sobbing of the women and the passionate arguing of the men provided convenient sound effects for her conversation with her boss. Vince Gates was not going to be overjoyed to be hearing from her two hours after she had been due to arrive at the office. Maybe the background hysteria would convince him that the emergency was real.

“Molly?” he said with an exaggerated air of amazement. “Molly DeWitt? Didn’t you used to work here?”

“I thought I still did.”

“Then why the hell aren’t you here?” he demanded irritably.

“Do you want the short version or the two-hour action-adventure version?”

“I’ll take the one that includes your estimated arrival time. I’ve got Jeannette meeting with a producer who showed up thinking he had an appointment with you.”

Molly swallowed hard. “Sorry. Jeannette will do just fine,” she reassured him, probably in vain. Vince refused to acknowledge that the Haitian-born clerk was thoroughly overqualified for her entry-level job. He was too worried that she was going to cast some voodoo spell over him, a concern that Jeannette herself did nothing to dispel. In fact, she thoroughly enjoyed taunting him in Creole, managing to inject an ominous note into the most innocuous of words.

“Vince, you know perfectly well Jeannette has worked with me on the last half-dozen projects. She probably knows as much as I do about what production companies need and what resources are available.”

“I suppose,” he conceded with obvious reluctance. “So when can we expect you?”

“Next week,” she blurted, figuring it was better to get the bad news over with in a hurry.

“No wonder you’re so anxious to tout Jeannette’s virtues,” he remarked dryly. “So what’s the story? Have you had major surgery over the weekend? Did you wrap your car around a tree?”

Molly noted he asked the questions with more sarcasm than concern. “Actually, Michael’s uncle’s boat blew up with Michael on board,” she retorted casually.

“Yeah, right.”

“It did. Don’t you ever read those papers that stack up on your desk? Try today’s front page. I’m sure Ted Ryan has a full account.”

She heard the rustle of paper, then Vince’s “Holy shit!”

“So, do I get the week off?”

“Is O’Hara okay?”

“Yes, but as you can tell from the commotion in the background, all is not well with the family. His uncle is missing.” She held the phone out for Vince’s benefit, allowing him to pick up on the upper decibels of hysteria. Satisfied that her point was made, she asked, “Get the picture?”

“Okay. O’Hara’s family is noticeably distraught,” he conceded. “Has something changed? Are you about to marry into this family?”

Did middle-of-the-night fantasies count? Probably not. “No,” she admitted.

“Then what does this have to do with you, besides the obvious, of course, that you can’t keep your nose out of trouble?”

“Let me explain the concept,” she said very slowly. “Michael has stuck by me during bad times. He has been a good friend.”

She ignored Vince’s sarcastic
hrrmph
and plowed on. “It’s my turn to return the favor. Besides, it’s about time you gave Jeannette a break. The only way you’ll do that is if I take off on an unscheduled vacation and she has to handle my appointments.”

“Maybe I’ll find out she’s even better than you. Then where will you be?”

“Sitting in clover with a work load that’s the size it’s supposed to be,” she retorted. “So what’s it going to be? Do I get the time off?”

“If I say no, what will you do?”

“Take off anyway, which means you’d probably have to fire me and then hunt for a replacement. Could take weeks, maybe even months if I appeal the firing.” She obviously had picked up some negotiating skills while watching Michael go at it with Public Safety Director Lucas Petty earlier at the hospital. She had an advantage, though. Vince Gates was a pushover compared to Petty. He was also pragmatic. He wanted to be on a golf course, not fighting her in some personnel dispute. Granting an unscheduled week of leave was the pragmatic answer. She waited for him to figure that out. It didn’t take long.

“Okay, fine,” he said grudgingly. “As long as you’ll check in once a day in case there are any emergencies, I’ll okay the leave. Don’t get any ideas about next week, though.”

Molly didn’t even want to think about what would happen if they didn’t find Tío Miguel long before that. “Thanks, Vince. I owe you one.” It was not a balance of power she adored, but just this once there was no way around it.

When she’d hung up, she skirted the gathering of women and went to Michael’s side. She found him in the midst of a quieter but no less emotional exchange between him, his uncle, and the other men from the neighborhood.

“I tell Miguel again and again that all of the plotting and scheming is no good,” Tío Pedro said. “If the Bay of Pigs failed, what can one old man do?”

Molly knew a mention of the Bay of Pigs would stir the wrath of those who felt the United States had betrayed them, leaving a brigade of commandos to fight alone in a losing attack on Cuba. As expected there were immediate, passionate comments about the Cuban heroes of that 1961 attempt to reclaim their homeland and the Democratic politicians who had abandoned them. Only recently had she come to understand that more than anything else that moment in history had been responsible for turning the exile community into such passionate Republicans. Likewise, they had turned conservative because the more liberal Democrats frequently advocated a softer line with Castro.