Cuba blue

23

JZ stood and began speaking, “OK, let me get this straight. My missing Americans aren’t missing as the Capitola police keep insisting. They’ve been murdered. God only knows why. And, now the bodies really are missing. Qui’s doctor boyfriend has been murdered, and his murder has been made to look like a disreputable accident. An ornate lock was used in the killings, and that same lock or one just like it is a prominent feature in a well-known photo found in Montoya’s apartment-a photo taken by Tomaso here over fifty years ago. Evidence in police headquarters from the crime scene was replaced. If there’s a connection between my murdered Americans and Doctor Montoya, it’s not obvious, but have I got it straight so far?”

“Straight? More like a meandering river,” Qui replied, “but, for all I know, correct.” Turning to look at the two old men, she continued, “Seems to me we need to know about that lock, so who’s gonna talk first?”

Arturo looked at Tomaso who sat absentmindedly pulling at his lower lip. “It may be the oldest cliche, but war is hell,” said Benilo.

“And revolution is war,” added Tomaso. “Make no mistake about that.”

“Things happen-atrocities-that are never spoken of,” continued Benilo, “much less thought of.”

Tomaso added, “That photo is not simply a still life; it’s a silent reminder of something so vile it’s never been mentioned between us-” he paused to indicate Benilo and himself, “-in all these years.”

“What can be so vile, Papa, Dr. Benilo?”

“I’ll not discuss the details except to say that neither Benilo nor I were part of what happened, and it’s best left unspoken.”

“Yes, to die with those few of us who remember.” Benilo stood and paced visibly agitated. “Not a pleasant memory, more like a shared nightmare.”

Tomaso went to Arturo and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, old friend, I know this is hard. The very mention of El Cobre…Santiago de Cuba…”

Benilo sighed so heavily it made a deep guttural sound. He returned Tomaso’s gesture, patting the other man on the back.

Tomaso sat down next to Qui and looked directly into her eyes. “I also wanted the men who knew what happened to see my photo and cringe in memory, to never let that happen again. Such horror. It was brutality at its worst, even for wartime.”

“A terrible travesty and a blight on the revolution,” added Arturo.

Unnerved by their references to something that happened before she was born, Qui pleaded, “Dr. Benilo, four people have been killed, one I profoundly cared about. If you want to keep your secret, fine, just please tell me about the lock.”

“What can I tell you?” asked Benilo. “The second time I ever laid eyes on the cursed thing was aboard the Sanabela two days ago alongside you. I’ve no idea why the lock surfaced.” Turning to Tomaso, he continued, “Anything to add?”

“No. I’ve not seen it since I took the photograph.”

“I repeat, is there any significance in the use of this old lock in these deaths?” Qui persisted.

“I have no idea,” stated Benilo.

Tomaso shrugged. “Look, it can’t be a coincidence that this lock has surfaced in such a bizarre way.”

Benilo agreed. “Someone is sending a message.”

“But what?” asked Tomaso.

“And who?” asked Benilo.

“No coincidence then, agreed?” commented Qui.

JZ stood staring at the photo. “Who else knows what happened in Santiago?”

“It was hushed up and only those who were there knew what happened. Rumors surfaced from time to time, but nothing like this business with the lock,” said Tomaso.

Benilo reminded him, “And that damned photo of yours.”

“Yes…a reminder.”

“It’s almost like someone is exhuming the relics of that horrible incident at Santiago-Cuba’s own Mai Lai.”

“Who is still living who knows what happened?” pursued Qui.

“Only higher ups, officials along the line of command, starting with your boss with his love of revolutionary history.”

“Gutierrez?”

“Likely learned it from his father,” added Benilo. “We must tread lightly, Qui, cautiously and lightly.”

“I smell a jackal behind all this, but I doubt it’s the colonel. A womanizing bastard, yes, but hardly a master of intrigue. Murder? I don’t think so; he hasn’t the stomach for it.”

JZ commented, “It seems the answers lie in Santiago. Qui, perhaps, it’s time for a visit.”

“I think JZ is right. Besides, I’ve never made the pilgrimage to the Black Madonna.”

“Do you really think that our lady of mercy is going to bless you with the answers to your case,” demanded her father. “Answers that not even Benilo, with all his science, can provide?”

Qui defensively replied, “Yes…I think we, JZ and I, will go on holiday there and ask the lady our questions. In fact, the reason you don’t want me to go is, I suspect, because your photograph is a picture of where she resides.” Qui stared at Tomaso, challenging him. “Tell me I’m wrong, Father.” She could see by their body language that she’d hit a nerve in Benilo and her father. “You can’t, can you?” she persisted.

“I forbid your going to Santiago.”

“Forbid me? What is this? It’s not your decision.”

Benilo observed, “He’s afraid for your safety. Any father would be.”

“But Santiago is a popular tourist and vacation spot, home of the great copper mines, and the gravesite of Jose Marti. With JZ escorting me on my pilgrimage…a woman in grief, what better cover? I can hardly threaten anyone.”

“Yes, our going to Santiago could be explained several ways,” added JZ. “Vacation, pilgrimage. Take your pick. No one has to know the truth. I’m sure her boss’ll understand her need for some time away.”

“Who will believe you?” replied Tomaso. “Not even your friend Liliana would! Not you, not while in the middle of an investigation. Stubborn child.”

“People will accept that I need time to deal with Montoya’s death, and I do. This has been awful, a nightmare that’s not over yet. Hasn’t sunk in.”

“I agree it’ll take time,” JZ added, “and you’re wrestling with the tendrils of quite a large octopus here.”

“Cuban government, hmmm…octopus,” said Benilo. “Quite apt for a newcomer.”

Tomaso stood and stretched, yawning. “It’s late. We can discuss this notion of trekking off to Santiago in the morning,” suggested Tomaso.

“It is late,” agreed JZ. “And I need to get some sleep.” He knew arrangements must be made in order to join a PNR officer on her trek to Santiago. It’d have to be explained as part of his investigation into the disappearance of the missing Americans. The American Interest Section head must know of his movements outside Havana.

“I’m sorry, JZ!” Qui replied. “I kept you late last night, and now this. Stay here tonight, I know we have extra room.”

“Yes, stay,” Tomaso added. “Time we turned in. Benilo, you too, stay the night. Too late to drive home on that treacherous road, old man.”

“Given current events and the condition of the roads, it’s safer to stay.” Benilo smiled and added, “You may have just saved my life.”

“Saved your life?” Tomaso pointed to the photo of the lock and said, “None of us is safe anymore. This thing somehow brought down Montoya. Not until we know what’s behind the reappearance of that lock, will any of us be safe again.”

Predawn darkness the following day aboard the Sanabela

Captain Luis Estrada breathed deeply of the sea air, enjoying its salty tang as much as his morning coffee and his beloved Mirta’s smooth caramel-colored skin and hair so black it glowed indigo. To Estrada, the sea was a woman. He’d lecture his crew on her virtues and vices, how one moment she comforted, like a cocoon, providing bounty and succor, and the next moment she destroyed, luring you to disaster, even death. After a third Bucanero Fuerte beer at the harbor cafe, Estrada would hold court on the topic, often saying, “What man can resist the dangerous call of the ocean or that of a beautiful woman? It is the way of nature.”

Luis now yawned and sipped at his coffee. At the same time, Giraldo-his body below deck and his head above-bellowed, “Captain, engine’s purring like a hungry cat with a jack fish.”

Adondo sang out and beat a syncopated rhythm on a washtub counterpoint to his words. “ Where blue sky meets blue sea, it’s the place for me. Come little shrimp, come make us rich.”

Luis shouted, drowning out the young crewman’s spontaneous song, “Now we can get back to the nets!”

“Any time now,” added Giraldo his smile as wide as his shoulders.

At the same instant, cheers erupted from the crew. The police impound had cost them three day’s catch. Along with his crew, Luis enjoyed high spirits this beautiful dawn, the promise of a sparkling day ahead. His boat had been returned. The engine was cooperating. As icing on the cake, Gutierrez had paid him under the table for ‘continued cooperation’.

The crew began preparing for sea, when Luis spied something unusual tucked deep below the pilot’s wheel. Curious, he knelt and reached in to pull forth a small bag, something ungainly inside. For a moment, he feared what he might find. Curiosity overcoming reticence, he opened the bag. His breath caught as he stared uncomprehendingly at the lock from last Friday’s nightmare. “Mother of God! This cannot be, they took the lock. I saw it go!” Luis realized immediately that not only did he need to report the re-appearance of the lock to his ‘connection’ smack in the middle of the six levels of the police hierarchy-Alfonso. Luis dared not use the Sanabela’s radio to try to reach Gutierrez; it may well be bugged and in need of de-lousing. Luis must take no risks. The lock here again this way…a magician’s trick-like an ill-wind out of Jamaica- not good. Not a superstitious man, Luis shuddered as he quickly shoved the ancient lock back into its dark sleeve. He dared not let his crew in on this strange development. He pushed the black bag deep into his coffee cabinet placing items in front of it.

“Adondo, come up. I need you,” he called to the young man.

Adondo, who loved talking, had a cell phone, an expensive luxury as far as Luis was concerned. But now, that luxury might be the only safe way to reach Alfonso Gutierrez.

When the colonel failed to answer Luis’s call, without hesitation, he called the next logical person, Quiana Aguilera, lead investigator on the case.