Cuba blue

2

Police Headquarters, Old Havana

“There is no cause for angry words, Mr. Zayas! After all, we’re a small police department.”

“I understand that but-”

“We’re doing everything in our power as quickly as we can.”

Lieutenant Detective Quiana Magdalena Aguilera looked up from a file she’d been poring over, both curious and annoyed at the sound of raised voices here in the Old Capitol Police Force building. Detective Jorge Pena was escorting a tall dark-haired man out of Colonel Gutierrez’s office. “These things take time.”

As the two men passed her desk, the stranger glanced her way, seeing a slim, dark eyed, black haired woman beneath the poor lighting of the old stationhouse. Her cafe au lait skin had the sheen of faint perspiration, ever present in this tropical climate. She noticed his blue-green eyes widen at her as if in greeting, and she smiled in reply.

The rest of the man’s conversation with Pena trailed off, lost in the sound of office noise and humming fans.

Anything to break up the tedium of her latest and most boring assignment-preparing monthly reports. Sighing, she turned her attention back to the papers on her desk. Damn, lost my place again. They do this sort of thing on computers in other countries, why not here? Castro’s celebrated full employment-that’s why a lieutenant detective is saddled with such chores. The oft repeated thought provided a backdrop to the irritating squeaking of old worn-out chairs and tired fans that did little more than move hot air from one place to another. She promised herself that this weekend, she’d go diving off the coast of Miramar. Glancing up, the clock said she could shortly escape the drab office, but knowing the Colonel, not before she finished this report. To this end, Qui-as her friends called her-took up her pencil once again and vowed to ignore any further distractions.

But a few moments later, her attention was again diverted, when Pena, returning to his desk, complained about the officious security guard from the American Interest Section poking his nose into Pena’s missing persons case.

“Pena, wanna trade? I’m sure with your experience, you’d be better suited to analyzing last month’s figures,” she called out, knowing he hated preparing reports.

Pena caustically replied, “Not done with your paperwork yet, Aguilera? With your skills, it shoulda been done hours ago! You’ve got nothing else to do.”

The insult, regardless of how true, rankled and Quiana wanted to be anywhere but here. Those still left in the squad room listened with relish, hoping for a replay of last month’s noisy confrontation.

“At least I’m making progress, Pena! How long’s it been since you’ve cleared a case?”

Pena’s face visibly darkened. “Just remember, you gotta finish the Colonel’s report before you can go home to Papa. Speaking of which, what’s for dinner tonight?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she taunted.

“Let me guess: grilled filet mignon with hollandaise sauce, roasted yam wedges seasoned with cumin and freshly ground pepper and sea salt, fresh tomatoes sprinkled with goat cheese served with a vinaigrette delicately flavored with cilantro and lemon zest, a light red wine with hints of raisins and pear, and-”

“Stop it!” shouted another detective. “You’re making my mouth water!”

“-and for dessert, flaming crepes suzette and coffee served in those cute little demitasse cups.”

His mimicking of fancy menu descriptions made the squad room erupt in laughter. No one in Cuba ate well except tourists and the elite.

“Aguilera! Come here. Now!” demanded the Colonel, shouting above the laughter.

“From bad to worse,” Quiana muttered under her breath while grabbing her notebook and pen. She walked to the Colonel’s office, a sense of dread replacing the sting of ongoing chuckles and the smug look on Pena’s face. The dislike between the two detectives paled in comparison to the aversion she felt for her boss. Beyond his dislike of women in general, his inexplicable animosity toward her made Qui regret being under the Colonel’s command.

“We have a problem.” Her superior, Colonel Alfonso Gutierrez, spoke in his familiarly irritating deadpan. “And you, Aguilera, have been requested to investigate.”

Surprised Qui asked, “Requested?”

“By the captain of a shrimp boat.”

“A shrimp boat, sir?”

“Yes, they radioed a problem.”

“So, where is this boat? Which marina?”

“No marina! It’s out on the water, a few miles off the bay. The Sanabela II, a Captain Luis Estrada…says he knows you. Says you are, errr, related. Are you?”

Estrada called himself uncle to her, but he meant it in the loosest way. She knew that in some distant past they might well be related somehow, but no one knew precisely how; he called himself uncle to anyone he had an acquaintance with who happened to be younger than himself. Such an attitude toward the entire community, well that was Old Cuba. Qui thought of people as either Old Cuba or New Cuba, defined more by attitude than age, though she must admit most men tended to act Old Cuba around women.

“No, sirs, we’re not related, Colonel. He just calls himself ‘Uncle’ to almost everyone.”

“How nice for you…well then, take a police boat out. You can get a boat, can’t you?” Gutierrez needled more than asked.

“I’ll find transport.”

“Yes, I am sure you will.”

No love lost here, she thought, seeing Gutierrez’s sour expression. It’d never set well with the older man to have a woman-ranking as a detective-placed under his authority.

“Do your best,” he finished, his words daring her to take offense. “Some sort of death aboard; can’t say for sure exactly what. The man sounded hysterical.”

“A death aboard a shrimp trawler?”

“More than one-if this ‘uncle of yours’ hasn’t exaggerated.”

“Two deaths aboard the Sanabela?” She gave a flash thought to the Sanabela’s hard-luck reputation.

“Three-if Estrada’s report is true.”

“Three?”

“Are you suddenly deaf?” he replied, “Get moving! Take Hilito and Latoya. Three deaths, three investigators, all the support you need. Go. Call in your initial findings.”

Quiana stood, saluted, turned, and made for the door, her mind racing. Finally, a major case-but a huge one, three deaths. What awaited her aboard Estrada’s boat? Must’ve been an accident: old boat, old equipment, young men-bad combination. Three deaths at once? This felt like a gauntlet Gutierrez’s had thrown down. A challenge to her training and skills as an investigator.

Emerging from Gutierrez’s office, Qui walked toward her desk and called over to two detectives sitting nearby. “Hilito, Latoya, come. We’ve got an investigation. Let’s go!”

“Terrific!” Tino Hilito leapt from his squealing desk chair.

“We’re with you, detective!” added Sergio Latoya, stuffing paperwork into a desk drawer.

Their eagerness reflected delight at escaping headquarters. In fact, they’d been clock watching until now, fearful of the last hour before shift’s end, praying for a telephone to ring and pull them out onto the street. Everyone under the colonel’s command hated Friday afternoons when Gutierrez would emerge from his office to give them all a good talking to-a lecture on desk etiquette, filling out forms properly, often haranguing against sloppiness of dress and attitude and lack of military bearing. “After all,” he’d remind them, “this is the Policia Nacional de Revolucion.”

“Investigation?” asked Tino. “Where?”

“On a shrimp trawler off the coast. We need a police cruiser. Tino, you’re good with the water cops. Get us a boat.”

“Aye, aye, Lieutenant,” he said a bit too loudly.

Qui checked for signs of amusement but his wink was one of camaraderie. Leaning close, he whispered, “For effect,” nodding toward the watching eyes.

She glanced around, annoyed at still being the center of attention. “Sergio, go check out an evidence kit-gloves included this time!” She grabbed her gun, strapped it onto her hip.

“So Aguilera, got a real case now?” taunted Pena. “Want my notes from school?”

Quiana turned, paused, and replied, “You keep ‘em. Try using ‘em on that missing persons case you’ve got! Perhaps then, you might be able to close it.”

Turning back, she grinned at the catcalls and laughter.

Walking alongside her, Sergio watched the grin fade as her lips thinned. He assumed it a sign of frustration. “He’s just jealous, Lieutenant. Ignore him. You got your shield faster and made higher scores in training-we all know that. Besides, you got that ‘thank you’ note last week. He’s still fuming about that.”

Quiana chuckled at the image of Pena fuming over a letter of appreciation detailing her perfect scores. This from a high-ranking training officer who happened to be Pena’s role model. Tino had made sure that Pena had seen the letter, posting it on the bulletin board. “Still fuming?” she replied. “Serves him right. Payback for rudeness.”

“You get your own licks in too,” Sergio reminded her.

“True enough.”

“I’ll bring my car around to the front,” he said.

They headed in separate directions, Qui’s shoes tapping out a quick rhythm. Before she cleared the door, Colonel Gutierrez shouted from his desk, “Detective Aguilera! Why’re you still here? I gave you an order five minutes ago! Now, go, go!”