Hungry Ghosts (28 page)

54

After he hung up, Ramirez thought
more about Hector Apiro's comments. Ramirez didn't like coincidences. If Ramirez hadn't found Antifona, how had she found him?

He recalled the warmth of her lips, her tongue tracing circles around his ear. She was alive, no doubt about that. But she had no twin, and her sister LaNeva was dead. Whose ghost had he seen? And why did that ghost keep putting her finger to her lips? What was it his subconscious wanted him to know?

The dead woman had winked at him and pointed to the interior light in his car. Ramirez swerved across a lane of traffic and pulled to the side of the road, ignoring the blast of angry horns. He got out, leaned inside, and looked carefully around the car interior. He examined the plastic cover over the light above his rearview mirror and saw tiny scratches around the edges. Pry marks.

Embedded inside the light was a small listening device. It wasn't a thief who stole my mirror at all, he realized; it was someone
covering up what they did, making sure that if I noticed any damage, I'd blame it on a thief.

He reattached the cover but left the device intact while he considered what to do. If someone had bugged his car, they might have bugged his home as well. Was it Cuban Intelligence, bugging him the way they bugged Nassara Nobiko? But why?

He started the car again and pulled a U-turn. He parked the car outside his apartment building and slammed the door. He ran up the three flights of stairs and tiptoed inside the apartment. He quietly checked every room, not wanting to alert anyone who might be eavesdropping.

The bug was clipped to the electrical junction box for the kitchen light. He removed it and put it in his jacket pocket, then walked slowly back downstairs and climbed into his car. He looked at the interior light while he considered his options. He finally decided to leave the listening device exactly where it was.

After all, he thought, starting the ignition, as Francesca had said during one of their better fights, good communication was always two-way.

55

It was almost eleven in the
morning and Inspector Ramirez had only an hour before he had to release the paintings to the Italians. He decided to stop by the museum and let the director, Romero Garza, know the artwork could be crated for shipping, that his investigation had run out of time.

He parked his small car in front of the museum and walked up the massive marble stairs to the mezzanine level. He nodded to Carlos Hernandez, who was seated behind the security desk, and asked for directions to Garza's office. He found the museum director shuffling papers.

“
Hola
, Inspector Ramirez, how goes it?” Garza smiled and stood to shake the inspector's hand.

“I'm sorry to say we haven't made much progress. You may have heard. The Italians want their paintings back today. The government has agreed to release them.”

“Yes, they've been kicking up quite a fuss. Well, it won't take long to pack up the paintings as soon as you give the go-ahead.”

“Before I do, can you answer a few questions for my report?”

“Of course. Please, sit down.”

Ramirez removed his hat and seated himself.

“I was wondering. Señor Testa told me that the paintings are insured for quite a lot of money. Could that form any part of the motive for the damage?”

“So that someone could recover the insurance proceeds? I hope you're not suggesting that Señor Testa would be involved in something like that, Inspector. He is a highly regarded curator from one of the top museums in the world.”

“Not at all,” said Ramirez. “I'm just trying to understand who might profit by damaging the paintings.”

“It was a political protest, Inspector, nothing more. Besides, the ownership of these paintings is disputed. It would be very hard to recover on a claim. That's why they can be exhibited in Cuba but not in certain parts of Europe or the United States.”

“I'm not sure I understand,” said Ramirez.

“If the paintings were ever shown in those places, they could be seized,” said Garza. “All of them were once owned by wealthy Cuban families. They were expropriated by the revolutionary government and sold during the Special Period at auction. It's the reason we wanted to display them. They are part of our cultural heritage.”

“How could they be seized?”

“Claims have been filed alleging wrongful expropriation. A state can confiscate property from its own citizens; it's perfectly legal. The problem here is that the actual owners of the paintings may not have been the families themselves, but their companies, which were incorporated in the United States. Because of this, there is a legal issue as to whether Cuba had the right to expropriate them at all. American laws allow the original owners to recover a property in such circumstances. The Fanjul family sued Sotheby's auction
house following the sale of one such painting in England, the
Castillo de Málaga
. And the De la Torre family recently settled a similar claim for a Mariano. The American courts will claim jurisdiction over any disputed painting as soon as it touches American soil.”

“Funny,” said Ramirez, “that they will assert jurisdiction over paintings that reach their shores but won't accept any Cubans who manage to get there.”

Garza laughed bitterly. “You don't have to feed a painting.”

Detective Espinoza stopped Ramirez as soon as he walked into the Major Crimes Unit. “We may have a suspect, Inspector. In the museum investigation. We still have time to make an arrest; it's not noon yet. Patrol picked him up spray-painting a wall in Varadero about thirty minutes ago. He claims he didn't arrive in Cuba until Friday, but he doesn't have his airplane ticket with him. We're checking with Customs. He had these in his backpack, along with a few other very interesting items.” Espinoza handed some stencils to Ramirez.

The stencils depicted Fidel Castro urinating on a computer. Despite himself, Ramirez smiled. “What were the other items?”

“Orange coveralls, still in their package. A black hood and plastic handcuffs. And a life-size inflatable doll. A male. Not the type we use here. The handcuffs, I mean.” Espinoza blushed. “But no police uniform. He's in the interview room. I thought you might want these too.”

Espinoza handed Ramirez an exhibit envelope containing photographs of the damaged paintings at the museum and the image spray-painted above them.

They walked down the narrow hall to the room adjoining the interview room. Ramirez looked through the mirrored glass. A man sat at the Formica table on the red plastic chair. He was short-haired and wore glasses and a hooded jacket. There was nothing remarkable about him.

But that was the problem, thought Ramirez. Most criminals didn't look like criminals.

“Was he carrying identification?”

“A passport. He's English. Robin Gunningham,” said Espinoza, handing it over. “He was born in July 1973, which makes him thirty-­three.”

Ramirez took the passport and stepped into the hall. He walked the few paces to the interrogation room and opened the metal door. When it swung shut, it clanged. The prisoner jumped.

Ramirez recalled Dr. Flores's advice about the organized and disorganized criminal. If this man was responsible for the vandalism in the museum, he was certainly organized. But why would he have an inflatable doll with him? As a diversion of some kind? He remembered the profiler's instructions: appeal to his ego.

“My name is Inspector Ramirez, Señor Gunningham. It appears that you've been gracing our buildings with your art.” Ramirez put the photographs on the table. “In Cuba, unfortunately, expressing political sentiments of this type can land you in prison for quite a long time.”

Not completely true. A foreigner was more likely to be expelled from the country. But the Englishman had no need to know that. Ramirez pointed to a photograph of the image sprayed on the museum wall. “Is this your work?”

The artist leaned forward and squinted at it, then sat back. “Never seen it before.”

“It was sprayed on a wall in our National Museum on Thursday afternoon.”

“I didn't even get here until Friday evening. Never even been to any Cuban museums; wouldn't bother. I spend all my free time at the hip-hop festival. Besides, this is clumsy technique. Nothing like mine.”

“You sound like you don't think much of museums.”

The Englishman snorted. “They're just retirement homes for
old paintings, protected by a bunch of bored punters who don't know anything about art. They can't tell a fake from the real thing.”

“And how would you know this?”

“Aren't you supposed to read me my rights or something?”

“I have no interest in whatever crimes you may have committed elsewhere, Señor. The only reason you're here is because of the vandalism in our museum. We're checking out when you arrived; if it's as you say, you'll be released with our apologies.”

The man visibly relaxed. “Then I should be out of here in no time. I used to hang my paintings inside museums, right beside the real ones. Takes about two seconds and a dab of glue to hang up a painting. Amazing what a cheap gold frame can do. Most people don't notice for weeks that a painting doesn't belong there. I've had one in the Louvre for years. I go in every now and then with a paintbrush to touch it up.”

“You're obviously a perfectionist.” Ramirez smiled. He leaned back in his chair. “Do you only enter these museums when they are open to the public?”

“I haven't had to break into one, if that's what you mean. Not that it would be all that hard.”

Ramirez fumbled in his pocket for a cigar. “Really? They're heavily guarded.”

“You know, you read an art review and the critics talk about how skilfully an artist uses his paint or his palette knife, or about his use of light and colour. But in my kind of work, it's all about access. Besides, it's a whole lot easier to get inside a museum than a bank. Someone broke into one in Dublin last year after some idiot left a ladder leaning on an exterior wall. The IRA pulled off an art heist in Boston a few years ago too. They put on fake police uniforms and tied up the guards. In and out in less than five minutes. They got away with quite a few expensive paintings. Never recovered any of them.”

“The IRA? Why would the IRA steal art in the United States?”

“Why does anyone steal art? For money. There are more stolen Picassos in private collections than there are in museums. I'm surprised you didn't hear about that heist, though. It was all over the press. That's the way to do it, you know. You show someone a police uniform, they don't even notice what else you're doing.”

“Tell me,” Ramirez said, tapping the photograph of the spray-painted museum wall, “what does that look like to you?”

Gunningham slid the photograph towards himself and turned it around. “Honestly?” The Englishman hesitated a moment before he answered. “It looks like a spider.”

“You're sure it's not a depiction of the
bombilla
in the
Guernica
mural? You know the Picasso painting, I assume.”

“You mean that eye at the top? I've seen the real
Guernica
, and this sure as hell doesn't look like that. There's a copy at the UN Building in New York. Remember the day Colin Powell accused Iraq on television of having weapons of mass destruction? It was hanging right behind him. They put a curtain over it so it wasn't visible as the U.S. made their case for going to war, but even covered up, the horse's arse was directly above his head. I laughed until I cried.

“I put graffiti up at the United Nations Building once myself, in plain view of all the guards. I was wearing a pair of painter's overalls. I walked right up to the building with my paint can and my rags. Walked away with a tour when I was done, tossed the overalls in a bin outside. When you have that many security guards, everyone thinks the other guy's paying attention.”

Of course, Ramirez thought. The imposter left the museum still wearing the police uniform. Where was it? Ramirez looked at the mirrored glass and inclined his head. He knew Espinoza would understand.

“You defaced the UN Building? That takes some
cojones
.”

The graffiti artist grinned. “Look, it was only a can of spray paint. You can wash latex paint off with water. And even enamel paint can be cleaned off with a little turpentine. I'll bet those paintings in your
museum were cleaned and protected with synthetic resin a long time ago. It's pretty easy to remove spray paint from anything that's been heavily varnished. I mean,
Guernica
wasn't damaged at all. Honestly, apart from the shock value, it wasn't much of a crime.”

Ramirez leaned back and thought for a moment. He lit his cigar. He pulled another from his pocket and offered it to the man, but he shook his head.

“No thanks. Don't smoke. Bad for you. I'll have a beer if you have one, though.” The man was completely at ease now. Which was what Ramirez wanted.

“Maybe later,” said Ramirez. He put the cigar back in his pocket. “Now tell me, Señor, why did you have a black hood and handcuffs in your backpack?” He had little interest in the sexual proclivities of others, but he needed to know.

The man almost blushed. “You know the graffiti artist named Banksy? He left one at Disneyworld last fall dressed in orange prisoner overalls and a black hood, with its hands cuffed, like the prisoners at Guantánamo Bay. These days, torture's a form of entertainment. Problem is that Disneyworld's an amusement park. The installation was too successful. People were amused instead of outraged. I thought I'd dress one up and leave it in front of the Swiss embassy where that tickertape display criticizes the Cuban government. Have a little fun.”

Ramirez nodded slowly, piecing this information together with what he knew. Then he stood up. “I'll be back shortly,” he said. “I'll see about that beer.”

He left Gunningham alone with the photographs while he went to the exhibit room to find the man a beer. On his way there, he stopped in the anteroom next door.

Espinoza looked crestfallen. “I'm sorry,” said the young detective. “It didn't occur to me to look for the uniform in garbage cans near the museum, Inspector. Anything the vandal left there will be long gone by now. By the way, Customs called while you were
interrogating the suspect. He's telling the truth. He didn't arrive in Havana until Friday at 6:35 p.m.”

“No need to apologize, Fernando. I didn't think of it either. No, I don't think he's our man, but I'm glad you brought him in. He has me thinking. Listen, I want you to do something for me. Take a police car to the airport and find out exactly when Señor Testa arrived here: the date and the time. Get the tape of his arrival at Customs from the surveillance cameras. But first, get a copy of his passport from the reception desk at the Hotel Nacional.”