Cuba Blue (9 page)

“Here, shine your light on this.” He leaned over and held up one man’s arm, handing her a small magnifying lens like those used by a jeweler. He added, “See the marks about the armpits?”

He paused, “Damn, you’re persistent.” Finally, he added, “Remember, I fought and served at the side of the revolutionary leaders.”

She stared into his eyes. Was the old doctor pointing a finger at Fidel himself or his henchmen? Why kill a trio of young tourists, especially Americans? An icy finger of fear scraped along her spine. “How far up does this go?”

“Who can say if it even goes there? Who can say whether they were killed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time or for political reasons? Who knows? Perhaps taken for assassins targeting Fidel himself?”

“Yeah, they really look like assassins,” she sarcastically replied. “I’ll ask again, does it reach into the regime…if so, how deep?”

“Careful. Except for the rantings of one tired medical examiner called away from his dinner, you have no evidence it even goes in that direction.”

“True,” she replied, standing, stretching, and inhaling the odor of sweet tobacco curling about her head; Benilo had lit a pipe, now clenched between his teeth. The ME said, “There are advantages to an outdoor crime scene. For one, you get a view.” He brandished his pipe like a pointer, indicating the horizon. “She was alive when she went in the water.” He said it so calmly that she had to replay it in her head for the significance.

“How can you tell this with the naked eye?”

“Educated eye,” he said, index finger to temple. “Come, I’ll show you.” He tamped out his pipe before pocketing it.

After leading her back to Denise’s body, Benilo had her lean in close and with his gloved hand over Qui’s, said, “Now press hard against the chest wall.” Their hands together, they pressed. “Hard as rock.”

She followed his suggestion. Qui applied minimal pressure against the male victim’s chest; it was pliable, spongy—just the opposite of Denise’s. The other male’s chest reacted the same, moving eerily, sinking with her touch, then slowly rising as if moved by the breath of life. Fascinated, Qui asked, “Is this always the case?”

“You can not get that sort of lifelike response from a person whose lungs are filled with sea water. Can’t absolutely prove it, but it’s the obvious guess.”

Qui swallowed hard, shaken. She’d learned in training that any substance used to excess became poison, and here the poison was her beloved blue sea. “You’ve seen this before?”

“Yes…during the revolution.” As if confessing for crimes in his own past, Benilo added, “Something struck me as familiar about this scenario from the beginning, actually. Still, can’t prove a thing without an autopsy.”

“But what did her killers want? What could three tourists possibly know that would result in their being tortured and killed for it?”

“Tourists generally have one thing desperados are interested in.”

“Money?”

“What could they have, these foreigners, but money? But I agree…this elaborate torture and disposal of the bodies doesn’t fit the typical street-thug profile.”

“I’ll need your autopsy findings as soon as possible to better my aim when I go to point a finger.”

“Or that blue gun of yours,” he countered. “A Walther PPK 380 isn’t it? Fine weapon. I’m something of a collector.”

“Why am I not surprised?” No one aboard had missed her blue steel Walther in the gloom of twilight, as it proved the only metal on the old hulk free of grime or rust, and therefore capable of reflecting light.

“I’ll need a full report and soon,” she reiterated.

“Hey, Detective, tests take time in a laboratory with too little equipment, outdated materials, and overworked people, but for you, I’ll make it my priority.”

Even as he grumbled, she knew he ran the best-equipped, most-efficient police lab in all of Cuba, but Qui didn’t challenge him, allowing him instead to itemize his litany of complaints.

“Thank you, Dr. Benilo, for putting this at the top of your agenda.” Hesitating, Qui added, “And my colonel thanks you.”

“Yes, I know your colonel well.”

She suspected that a single word from Benilo could get her removed from this case. “Frankly, I’m convinced that Colonel Gutierrez wants to see me fail,” she confided, “but I’ll prove him wrong, especially now…with your help.”

“A distinct possibility.” He paused before adding, “How like your mother you are.”

This silenced her. She knew few people who’d known her mother. Part of her wanted to know all that he held in his memory of Rafaela, the great unknown in Qui’s life. A voice from deep within whispered,
Listen now to Arturo…he means you well.
The ghost of her mother insisted she pay attention; odd, Qui thought, after all these years of telling her father to stop talking to ghosts, to hear one herself.

“A warning, Quiana,” Benilo said. “You understand this case will either make your career or put you into the uniform of a tourist cop? Grief will come at you from all directions. This moment decide: fold or play your hand.”

“No matter where the evidence leads—no lies, no evasions, no euphemisms, no
cha-cha-cha
around the truth?”

“If we can do so before we’re made invisible—two more ‘
disappeareds’
just for doing our jobs.”

No paranoia in Cuba
, she thought sadly
. It’s just a way of life.

Music wafted over the marina from other boats, from radios in windows, all the music competing with wild African rhythms and jumping musical notes like hard rain. But one melody came clearer, overpowering, pointed: the haunting sounds of music from the nearby Hotel Valencia street café and bar, a familiar tune all over Cuba
—‘I got it bad, and that ain’t good’—
a strangely evocative leftover from the big band era before the revolution, a tune that made her imagine moments of peace and passion and warmth and love even as the lyrics proved ironic—in sharp contrast to her case.

The last time I heard that tune,
she recalled
, I lay in the arms of Montoya.

A part of her wished that she were there now, wrapped in the arms of her on-again, off-again lover, Dr. Estaban Montoya. Enraptured by his eyes, his Antonio Banderos voice in her ear, telling her, “All you need is me. We can find bliss as Dr. and Mrs. Montoya. But, only when you abandon this foolish career and make a family.” Another part of her wished for the power to turn back time. She sensed in every fiber that Estrada’s cache of death had already changed her life forever. It could so easily destroy her career as a detective, which in itself frightened her. If Dr. Benilo were right, it could also cause a hailstorm to rain down over all those she loved and cared about, or it could end in her disappearance or death. No one in Cuba was absolutely untouchable except Fidel himself.

A cool breeze swept in, chilling her, even more than these thoughts. Benilo abruptly interrupted her reverie. “Ehhh, Quiana, time you go do your paperwork.”

“What?”

“I’ll finish here. We both have hours of work ahead before sleep.”

Again, he was right; she’d have reports to complete. “How do you go about describing this on a police report?” She didn’t expect an answer.

“Actually, I do,” he fired back. “A good detective is reluctant to give up his…ahhh her crime scene.” He again looked into her eyes. “It’s the poor ones, the ones who only want a paycheck to fill their guts with rum who can’t wait to give up the crime scene. Trust me, you’ve done a far better job than any detective I know.”

“But is it enough?”

Together the medical examiner and the detective stood in silence, contemplating one certain fact: the two of them must create a force unto themselves in this complex murder investigation.

On the dock, Sergio and Tino gossiped with two of the ME’s morgue attendants, who impatiently awaited release of the bodies. While Tino continued swapping stories with the attendants, Sergio’d heard Benilo’s suggestion that they shut down the crime scene.

When Benilo and Qui finally stopped talking, Sergio abandoned the gossip and asked, “Lieutenant, want a lift back to your car? It’s on my way.”

“Yes. Give me a minute here.” Qui felt grateful not to have to find transport this late. She turned back toward the now familiar yet still repellant sight of the bodies, “Dr. Benilo, I will call tomorrow to hear what progress you’ve made.”

“Not likely I will know more until the tests are complete, and trust me, that won’t be tomorrow. But I assure you if something helpful is revealed—” He frowned as if puzzled, then said, “OK, I concede. Call me tomorrow.”

With this and a quick turn as if to dismiss her, the ME wheeled to talk to his attendants, who’d rushed in with the first stretcher and body bag. The two assistants looked as if dressed for partying, their lively multi-colored shirts surreal—incongruous with this evening’s grisly toil.

“I will meet you shortly,” said Benilo. “Take extra precautions against bruising and breaking any bones, you fellows. No careless handling. We’re dealing with triple-murder, so gentlemen, fall back on your training.”

“No Doctor, you needn’t worry with Enrique and me. We know what we’re doing.”

The one called Enrique scowled at his partner and whispered something that made them both laugh.

“Do as little harm as possible surgeons and doctors are taught in medical school,” Benilo said to Qui. “They need to teach the same when dealing with the dead. A little respect is all I ask.” Then he again shouted to his men. “Find Dr. Vasquez and tell her it’s going to be a long night. Take the bodies into the autopsy room and leave them.”

Qui heard Tino ask the attendants, “What else does he think you’re gonna do with
three dead bodies
?”

Quick-witted Enrique joked, “Take ‘em to the
Palacio de Rio
of course.”