Cuba blue

24

With the full horror of Montoya’s death and images of his brutal demise interwoven throughout her dreams, Qui Aguilera’s sleep had been fitful and hardly refreshing. Startled by her cell phone, she grabbed for it hoping against hope that reality was less disturbing than her nightmares. It seemed at this moment, a toss up as to which was worse.

She mumbled sleepily, “Hola?”

“Qui? Is that you?”

“Uncle Estrada? What is it? Why’re you calling at this hour?”

“I was right, the dead’ve cursed us all.”

“Make sense, Uncle-it’s too early to think. What’s happened?”

“That lock Benilo removed from the bodies…it’s back!”

“Back? Back where?”

“Here, on the Sanabela! Like a lost soul, it keeps returning!”

Qui sat bolt upright. “Luis, promise me you’ll tell no one.”

“Of course, but come quickly.”

“I mean it, Uncle! Tell no one, especially Gutierrez!”

“Understood. How soon can you get here? My crew wants to set out now. We lost the weekend, you know.”

“Fishing…now? Has the trawler been released?”

“Yes, Gutierrez.”

She sighed. “I’m on my way from Miramar. Do not leave the marina slip.”

She leapt from bed, grabbed a robe, and rushed to JZ’s room, where she pounded on the door. When he did not immediately answer, Qui stormed in, shouting for him to get up. She snatched the pillow from beneath his head and pummeled him with it, saying, “Wake up! Gotta get to the Sanabela! Right now! It’s the lock!”

JZ awoke to the urgency in her voice and her excitement; with her robe open and revealing, the sight of her body slowed his words as his eyes played over her.

“What are you staring at! Move! Move it, JZ.” Qui colored, only now realizing that her robe had come undone, exhibiting more than appropriate.

With a grin at her discomfort, he said, “Ahhh…sure…but my trousers are behind you, Qui.” He sat in his black silk boxers on the edge of the bed.

“OK,” Qui tossed his trousers at his grin. “I’ll just get myself dressed. Five minutes at your car!”

In a matter of minutes, they were racing toward Havana and the seaport. “Along the way,” Qui said, “we’ll make a stop at Tino’s. This time of morning, he’ll be home.”

“Why this guy Tino? Think he had something to do with the lock?” asked JZ.

“Perhaps…he checked it in. Then came back later according to the sign-in sheet. Why return it to the boat?”

“Couldn’t tell ya… Clueless.”

“God, I can’t believe he’d be involved in evidence tampering.”

“From what I hear of your Secret Police, he mayn’t’ve had much choice. Is it true they threaten a man’s family for leverage?” he rhetorically asked.

“Yeah…just like your FBI and CIA.”

“Touche.”

The area through which they now drove had seen better days; the government housing did little to help the blight-and in fact, only added to it. The featureless lines of the government homes and apartments, devoid of artistic sensitivity, or any humanity, looked like military bunkers so far as Qui was concerned. Even the trees here did little to soften the hard lines. Certainly, the architects had exercised little creative imagination in designing these cookie-cutter, boxy homes, lacking any sense of aesthetic.

She directed him onward to Tino’s place.

Here in Old Havana, shadows stretched with the rising sun cutting sharp swaths of light through the dark city streets. The old recessed Spanish doorways were a black pearl necklace of shadow and sunlight, each playing counterpoint to the other. Within these indigo entrances, the occasional movement of a door opening, a cigarette being lit, a caress between parting lovers could barely be seen.

“Your cop friend Hilito lives here?” asked JZ.

“Government assigned housing. Little choice.”

Heading toward the building Qui had pointed to, JZ drove on. The flashy T-bird, now the focus of early morning eyes made Qui wish they’d come in her Peugeot. As a neighborhood used to seeing Tino’s car parked here, they’d’ve attracted less attention. JZ pulled in next to it.

They made their way up the walk to front the door. In the street, several children played stickball, hide-and-seek, dashing about like so many nervous birds chasing one another, laughing, enjoying the early morning air.

Qui knocked and they awaited an answer that didn’t come. “Strange. It’s so early and no one’s answering. Not his wife, not his son, no one.”

She tried the door, and it relented at her touch, swinging open. She immediately drew her blue gun from its holster, stepping in ahead of JZ. JZ followed her in, pulling forth his well-hidden gun from a shoulder holster. The two of them, weapons extended, eased from darkened room to darkened room. Each area spoke of hasty departure and abandonment. Closets half empty, drawers pulled out, rifled through, and even the space in a corner set aside as a nursery-the crib emptied of bed clothes, stuffed animals, and play toys. Deserted. Forsaken. Forlorn. U noccupied, Qui thought, except for an alarming odor of blood wafting overall.

JZ added, “Feels like something outta the Twilight Zone.”

“Hilito? Tino!” she shouted several times to no avail.

They located a back room, a curtain torn from a window rod, allowing morning light to filter in, creating an oddly shaped silhouette of an upturned chair and its contents-the remains of Tino Hilito. It appeared he’d shot himself through the mouth with his own service revolver-a Makarov. Tino had encircled his head with the curtain as if concerned he not make too great a mess. The scene screamed of suicide; in fact, it looked patently so. Perhaps too pat.

“Christ…oh, Tino, no!” she moaned. “What’ve you done?”

JZ, putting away his weapon, studied the scene with more detachment than she could possibly muster. “Any reason you know of…I mean why he’d kill himself?”

“Nooo…except for the usual.”

“The usual?”

“A pregnant wife and an eight year old in and out of hospitals.”

What’s wrong with the kid?

“Hemophilia.”

He shook his head. “Tough for a kid.”

“Tougher for a parent.”

“And expensive, I should think. Free medical care aside, I’m sure there’s gotta be costs that subsidies don’t cover. Lotta stress there.”

“But Tino lived with that stress for eight years. Why do this awful thing now?”

“Smells to me, whole thing.”

“Me too. First Montoya…now Tino? Like dominoes falling.” She burst into tears and threw herself into JZ’s arms and sobbed on his shoulder. All of her pent-up grief surfaced at once.

“Does seem people around you are having a bad time of it, lately,” he murmured, holding her gently. “Qui…you’ve gotta call this in.”

She straightened and accepted a handkerchief from him, and with a final heave and sniff, Qui wiped the last tear away. A look of resolve replaced her tears. A call to headquarters and dispatch put her through to Pena.

“Stay with the body until I get there with a medical examiner.”

“No way am I staying here, Pena.”

“You gotta! 'Til it’s cleared, it’s gotta be treated as a homicide. And you’re the first on scene. I gotta question you… again.”

“Seeing a pattern here, Pena?” she asked sarcastically.

“You’re being paranoid.”

“Being paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you.”

“Who’re you referring to?”

“I intend to find out, right now.”

“Wait! You can’t leave the scene!”

“Just watch me.”

“Hold on! Colonel Gutierrez wants to speak to you!”

She reckoned that the wily old fox had been listening in all along on a speakerphone. Distrusting both men, she switched on a nearby radio, dialed between stations for static, turned the volume full-blast, and waved her cell phone before it. Screaming static tore at Gutierrez’s ears, as she spoke over it. “I’m…’av…trouble ‘earing you…sir.”

“Detective Aguilera!”

“Can you hear me now? Can you hear me now?” she asked repeatedly through the static. “…not hearing you so good, Colonel!”

JZ smiled to hear Gutierrez’s protests coming over the phone as she cut off communication. “Clearly pissed off.”

“When is he not?” She gave him a smile. “OK, let’s go before Pena shows up with a list of unanswerable questions.”

Same time, atop a sugar warehouse along Havana Bay

An exasperated, frustrated Cavuto Ruiz paced the rooftop, his distinctive Panama hat providing minimal protection against the glare of sunlight and none from the heat. Perspiration ran down his microphone cord, leaving dark splotches on his beige guayabera shirt. He held up both hands, one filled with a smoking cigar, to combat against the bright sunlight reflected off the bay. “Sun is a bitch…and where the fuck is Aguilera?” he muttered, then spoke more loudly for the microphone, “Will you be able to see your targets in this glare?” At the other end were two hand-picked marksmen, veteran secret police officers in fatigues. Loyal men, who knew how to take orders-however unusual or unauthorized. They had taken up carefully selected positions, their high-powered weapons at the ready, simply awaiting two designated targets-Latoya and Aguilera-to join the men of the Sanabela. In unison, the sharpshooters grunted into their throat mics.

“That old bastard, Estrada, called Aguilera an hour ago. Where is she?” Cavuto asked, unaware that he was also being heard and watched from an adjacent rooftop.

Headset firmly in place, Alejandro Valdes wondered what new evil Cavuto Ruiz had in mind this morning. Was he operating on Humberto’s orders? Or, was the sadistic bastard operating independently?