The Beggar's Opera (24 page)

“I have a deadline, Señora Jones,” Ramirez said curtly, looking at his watch. “I am truly sorry, but I have to go. I need to get this information to the Attorney General’s Office in less than half an hour.”

“Please. I have a medical report that proves my client didn’t rape the boy, he couldn’t have. Your forensic evidence points to someone else. Please look at what I’ve found before you do this. I’m in the business centre at my hotel. As soon as I hang up, I’ll fax you the report. It’s only one page. I’m begging you. Please.”

Ramirez hesitated a moment. “I can wait for a few minutes, no more.”

He gave her the fax number and hung up the phone, irritated. If this was a delaying tactic, he would have her arrested. He walked over to the unit’s fax machine, but kept his eye on the clock.

The fax rang within seconds and a page curled through. He pulled it off, scanned its contents. A blood test. Michael Ellis had Type A blood. Why was this woman so insistent that he read information that actually strengthened his case?

Annoyed, Ramirez made a quick call to Apiro, but the doctor was out. He left a message on the doctor’s answering machine to say he was heading over to the Attorney General’s Office with his case file but would leave a report on the desk in his office for Apiro to examine. The Canadian lawyer seemed to think it was important. It could be added to the other reports and statements later. But Ramirez confirmed he was leaving to file materials for the indictment
now
.

The dead boy sat in Ramirez’s office, swinging his legs back and forth on the wooden chair. He’s already bored being dead, thought Ramirez. He wants to play.

Ramirez quick-stepped back down the hallway, then jogged down the stairs taking two at a time. He pushed through the iron gates and sprinted to the Attorney General’s Office. He pulled open the heavy wooden door, nodded at the security guard, and ran up the stairs to the prosecutor’s office on the third floor. Breathing hard, he was just about to hand the documents to Luis Perez for formal registration when Perez’s phone rang.

“It is for you, Ricardo,” the prosecutor said. “Hector Apiro.”

Perez handed Ramirez the phone, raising his eyebrows quizzically. It was 1:51
P.M
.

“What is it, Hector?” Ramirez asked. He gripped the receiver
tightly and turned away so Perez couldn’t see that his hand was shaking. He tried to catch his breath.

“I looked at the report that the Canadian lawyer sent you and it is very interesting,” said Apiro. “Señor Ellis was treated with anxiolytic drugs last June. But before he took the drugs, he was given a pre-treatment hematological baseline test. To establish his baseline for liver function before he started treatment so that possible damage to his liver could be monitored. The drugs are very hard on the liver.”

“Hector, I’m afraid I don’t understand what it is you are trying to tell me,” Ramirez interrupted, his breath still ragged. He had only minutes left and no time for lengthy explanations.

“Sorry, I am getting to it. These tests establish that Ellis has a Lewis blood antigen and that he is a Type A non-secretor. That is important.”

“Hector, you’re losing me. What does all this mean?”

“It means that Señor Ellis does not secrete his blood type antigens into his bodily fluids the way other people do. So his seminal fluid, even his saliva, cannot reveal his blood type. Only his blood can do so. If the semen samples on his sheets and in the boy were his, we would not have found any blood group in them. That is what being a non-secretor means.”

“But you
did
find a blood group. Type A,” Ramirez protested. He was confused.

“Exactly, Ricardo. Which means that those samples came from someone else.”

Ramirez felt his rape charge collapsing, along with the air in his lungs. “You mean he’s innocent?”

“I cannot say he was not involved. But the seminal fluid I found in this boy’s body came from an assailant who was, by definition, a secretor. So, yes, someone else raped the boy.”

“But who?”

“Ah, Ricardo, we do not yet have the science for me to look at a DNA sample and tell you whether it belongs to a dark man, or a short man, or a hairy one. I can only compare other samples to the ones I have. But if you can provide me with such comparatives, I can quickly tell you if they are from the same man. Within 99.999 percent probability. Provided, of course, I have the supplies I need.”

One minute left. Ramirez was far from convinced that the Canadian was uninvolved. What about those photographs from the hotel room? The empty capsule? And Sanchez, whose instincts were solid even if his methods weren’t always, was as convinced of the man’s guilt as Ramirez.

Did he still have enough evidence to file? Apiro’s expert opinion had changed. If Ramirez tried to keep the Canadian in custody while he searched for more evidence, he needed a plan for the juridical panel. But he had no plan and no time to develop one.

The photographs did not show the man’s face. Ramirez could not prove that Señor Ellis was the man in them, or that Ellis concealed them under the mattress himself. The Rohypnol capsule was empty; it could not be directly traced to the boy. As for the murder, Ramirez had no place of death, no weapon, not even motive with this new evidence. It would be hard to explain to a juridical panel why someone would kill a child that someone else had raped.

Should he file his materials anyway and hope to fill in the holes in his investigation later, try to come up with some excuse as to why he needed more time? Would the prosecutor accept them, having just overheard his side of the conversation with Apiro? Luis Perez was corrupt, but not stupid.

Or should he let his only suspect go? Less than ten seconds to make up his mind.

Luis Perez waited patiently, also eyeing the clock. “Are you going to file those papers, Ricardo?” he asked. “You are almost out of time.”

Maybe Sanchez is right, thought Ramirez. Maybe it
is
easier to frame the guilty. He handed his papers to the prosecutor.

“Thank you for letting me use your phone, Luis.”

“Problems with the case?”

“A misunderstanding with Dr. Apiro. I’ll straighten it out.” Ramirez left the building. He walked past the guard at police headquarters and up the stairs, too distracted to return the guard’s salute.

The Canadian authorities would be furious. But he had made the only choice he could; he just hoped it was the right one. If Señor Ellis was proven innocent, he could always be released later.
If
he survived jail.

Ramirez would keep him in the holding cells and delay his transfer to prison by another day. That would force the Canadian lawyer to move quickly. It might even help her client beat the odds.

FIFTY

Celia Jones hung up the phone, disconnecting her long-distance call.
Shit. Shit. Shit
. O’Malley was livid. Mike was going to be transferred later that night to a prison. And after that? She didn’t know.

She could almost see Inspector Ramirez’s argument: that Mike’s involvement couldn’t be negated just because he hadn’t raped the boy himself. There was still that capsule, those photographs. As for the argument that the CD and the Polaroids could have been put there by a previous hotel guest, well, Ramirez wasn’t buying it.

Jones showered. She tried to scrub the smell of failure from her skin before she put on fresh clothes.

She went back over her notes, the file, the transcripts. It was almost six o’clock when she finished rereading everything. She ordered a salad from room service and went over the outline of her lawyer’s brief. Something in this file nagged at her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Something didn’t fit.

She had to find the woman from the bar. That was all she had left. If Mike Ellis was convicted of something he didn’t do, if he was executed and he was innocent … she imagined the soldiers
lined up with rifles, the shots. Mike collapsing, blindfolded, bloodied. Dead. She thought again of the man who had jumped, who had died, broken, in the snow.

She would never forgive herself.

Jones passed Miguel Artez in the lobby with a brief nod and made her way through the revolving door without his help. She walked quickly to El Bar, planning to leave more money with the bartender to secure his interest.

When she got there, she was astonished to find a blonde woman who looked a lot like Hillary Ellis sitting primly at the counter.

The woman’s hand rested lightly on the knee of a tourist. Sunglasses with pink frames shaped like hearts were pushed on top of her streaked hair. The man beside her was large and sweaty and seemed pleased with her attention. He wore a Toronto Maple Leafs T-shirt and mopped his damp forehead with a paper napkin.

The bartender caught the woman’s eye and nodded towards Celia Jones. The woman withdrew her hand from the man’s knee.

Jones sat beside the heavy man and said quietly, under her breath, “This woman is involved in a police investigation. I suggest you leave quietly, while you still can.”

“Christ,” the man said. He threw a few pesos on the bar, disgusted, and fled. He didn’t look back.

The woman was annoyed rather than angry. “Why did you do that? What did you say to him?”

Jones ignored her question. “My name is Celia Jones. I’m Mike Ellis’s lawyer.”

“I do not know who Mike Ellis is. I am very sorry, Señora. I think you have the wrong person.” The woman turned away.

Jones leaned in but kept her voice low. “Listen to me. I know
who you are, and I know what you are. I’m no threat to you. You have to trust me. I’m not with the police.” Not a complete lie. She didn’t work for the
Cuban
police. “I’m trying to find out how to get Rohypnol around here. I heard you had some with you on Christmas Eve when you met my client.”

“I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Rohypnol. A date-rape drug.”

“And you think I would have such a thing? I do not use such drugs,” the woman stated indignantly. “I have no need to. You can check my bag if you like. I keep very little in it, except a few condoms. They are hard to find here — do you have any by chance?” She smiled, teasing. Trying to use her charm, but it wasn’t working. Jones shook her head.

“My loss,” the woman said.

“What about this drink?” Jones pointed to the fat man’s abandoned mojito. “If I have someone check this, will they find Rohypnol in it? You’d better tell me. Because the police are looking for you. Right now, I’m the only thing keeping you out of jail.”

“I truly do not know what you are talking about, Señora Jones.”

“Let’s not be clever,” Jones said. “Mike Ellis has spent three long, uncomfortable days in a jail cell at police headquarters for something he didn’t do.”

“In jail? For what?” the woman asked, shocked.

Jones lowered her voice.
Jinetera
or not, the bartender was watching them closely, and she wasn’t sure exactly who else he was taking money from. “For the death of a little boy who was connected to you somehow.”

The woman sat up straight then. “A little boy? Which little boy? Tell me quickly. Which boy? Was it Arturo?”

“You knew him? Who was he to you?”

The woman didn’t answer. Tears welled in her eyes. Jones threw some money on the bar to cover her drink. “Let’s find somewhere else to talk. I need to know what happened here on Christmas Eve.”

The woman got clumsily to her feet and reached for her tote bag. She put her hand on Jones’s shoulder to help stabilize herself as she climbed off the high stool, almost collapsing as she did. She was almost six feet tall in her high heels, and bottle-thin. She fumbled to put on her sunglasses. “What’s your name?” asked Jones.

“Maria. Where do you want to go?” the woman asked, choking back tears.

“Somewhere safe. Where we won’t be overheard.”

FIFTY - ONE

“So, Inspector, did Luis Perez accept the file? Will he issue the indictment?” asked Detective Sanchez.

“Yes, but we have a problem.” Ramirez quickly explained the new evidence. “I have to meet with the minister in a few minutes to make sure that our acting president understands the situation. There could be a problem if anything happens to Señor Ellis in jail before his conviction. Disruption of our trading relationship with Canada.”

Why did Señor Ellis have to be a police detective? thought Ramirez. And why did they send a good lawyer when there were so many poor ones? This woman, Celia Jones, was complicating his life.

“I want you to put Señora Jones under surveillance. We have to find Señor Ellis’s accomplice, and the source of those drugs. I think she will lead us to one or the other. She’ll act quickly; she knows she has very little time. I let her think her client is being transferred to a prison tonight.”

“And he isn’t?”

“Tomorrow. I don’t want him harmed before we can prove his guilt. Too risky. Perez accepted the indictment only because
he thinks there will be something in it for him; he overheard my end of the conversation with Apiro. He knows there’s something wrong with the case, just not what. He doesn’t have the report Señora Jones gave me; Apiro still has it. But he will probably ask her for money once he goes through our materials and puts it together with what he heard.”

“He’ll withdraw the charges,” said Sanchez, clearly unhappy.

“For a price? Of course. It all comes down to those drugs, Rodriguez. If Señor Ellis did not bring Rohypnol into Cuba himself, then the capsule we found in his room links him to the person who did. That drug is the key. We need to find out where it came from. So does Señora Jones. To save her client’s life. She doesn’t yet know that Luis Perez takes bribes.”

“She’ll find out soon enough.” Sanchez stomped off, frustrated.

The dead boy stopped spinning in his chair and looked at Ramirez. He held out his empty palms.

FIFTY - TWO

They walked out into the late afternoon sun, through the semishade of the square, then up the Paseo de Martí to Trocadero and west to the Avenue de Italia, another wide, tree-lined boulevard. Celia Jones looked around. No one followed them except a few stray dogs.