Authors: Robert W. Walker
Cuba Blue (26 page)
She nodded and turned from the view of the smoke still rising from the marina.
From his pilothouse, a distraught Estrada appeared to survey his world which had been turned upside down—JZ and Qui at the railing and his crew huddled in small groups about the deck. Still upset, the crew sent accusatory glances at JZ and Qui.
The cause of this latest assault, Qui well understood the evil looks directed their way. “Things come full circle,” she muttered, standing only a few yards from where all this terror had begun two and a half days earlier.
“Yes, we’ve broadcast the announcement about the doctor’s and we’ve driven them aboard the boat.” Cavuto spoke into his cell phone as he and his men calmly made their way from the rooftop.
“As I requested?” replied Humberto.
“Yes, sir, Aguilera and Latoya’re on board with the entire crew. Unharmed, as you asked.”
“Good, good. Not a word of this to anyone, and especially not to Alejandro! Now go. Quickly. Don’t be seen. And Ruiz, good work is always rewarded in our organization.”
“Thank you, sir. One more thing to do.”
“When you finish your final task, a prize awaits you.” On that note, Humberto ended the call.
Cavuto smiled, his thin lips stretched serpentine, revealing small tobacco-stained yellow teeth. Keying his microphone on, he said, “You men had your fun with the T-Bird, eh?”
The sharpshooters laughed as one. “Seems a shame to kill such a sweet car.”
“Woulda been fun to drive her first.”
“Go now!” Cavuto cautioned, “And don’t be seen.”
He left the old building muttering, “Step one, complete. Now for the icing.”
Step Two was for his eyes only.
26
On the other roof, Alejandro Valdes remained shocked by the sudden outburst of violence, but his mind raced even more with what Ruiz had planned for those aboard the Sanabela.
His morning had begun with overhearing Humberto on the phone, the discussion obviously with Ruiz—a last minute reminder before some deadly action on Cavuto’s part, he guessed. Something to do with the Sanabela and detectives Aguilera and Latoya. Alejandro made it his business to be at the dock equipped with listening devices and non-reflective binoculars.
What he heard in the cell phone conversation confirmed his worst fears—he’d lost Humberto’s full trust. This was neither healthy nor auspicious for Valdes. In fact, if he weren’t careful, Humberto’s prized chair and fortune would slip from his grasp along with any hope of vengeance. He also knew that Cavuto had made a huge error in mistaking Zayas for Latoya—there was an American governmental official aboard the Sanabela, not a Havana cop. This information alone could be used to secure Alejandro’s tenuous position on the chessboard.
Still here on the rooftop he’d earlier selected, Alejandro felt dismayed by the recent turn of events. Now, it was imperative that he leave and not be seen by anyone. Far too much was at stake. Too many years of preparation for the sake of others as well as himself. He wasn’t the only one who’d dance on Humberto Arias’s grave.
Awakened early by commotion coming from Qui and Zayas, Arturo had dressed and left the B&B early, telling Maria Elena that he couldn’t possibly eat breakfast at such an hour. Besides, he was driven to return to his laboratory to see what results had come from the tests he’d ordered on the Qui’s case.
The tests had identified the drugs used in the murders were typical of those smuggled out of Cuba and into the United States. Nothing startling there; however, the sheer amount in their systems was surprising—enough to kill many times over. Denise, however, had far less. Officials would likely make it out a story of how Denise had administered the drugs.
This was when he had stopped all work, deciding to create the
cure
passed onto him by his father. Grimacing at the taste, Arturo Benilo swallowed his father’s ancient concoction for combating hangovers. Entirely natural from indigenous plants, it was a herbal godsend—the only good that had come out of his father’s addiction to alcohol. He sipped more coffee, its bitterness replacing that of his
cure
.
Jesus threw open the door, waving his arms and shouting, “Doctor, quick! Turn on your radio, now!”
Benilo threw his hands over his ears, pleading, “Softly, Jesus. What is it?”
“It’s the SP. Hurry, hurry.”
Benilo switched on his radio to hear the tail end of a news announcement.
…late last night it was officially determined by the medical examiner, Dr. Gomez Trebeca, that the foreigners deaths are due to massive cocaine overdose….
Benilo, hearing his name used in such an outrageous fabrication, exploded in fury, but his first curse hurt his head so badly, he had to stop. Calming himself, he muttered, “Insidious lies! It’s all lies? Why?”
It was at about this time that Arturo got a call from Jorge Pena, asking him to come to Tino Hilito’s to process a crime scene.
Staring at the fiery, charred remains scattered about the marina, Alfonso Gutierrez sat in his car on his cell phone speaking to Jorge Peña. “It’s a horrible mess here at the marina! Is it as bad at Tino’s as Aguilera said?”
“It’s worse than Montoya. His wife and son are missing, and Qui didn’t exaggerate.”
“Missing?
“Food on the table, clothing gone…left in a hurry.”
“
Disappeareds
maybe? SP maybe?”
“Maybe. Either that or Tino got ’em out.”
“Then you don’t think it’s suicide, do you?”
Peña took a moment. “Benilo doesn’t think so. Looks like it, but real professional, boss.”
“Benilo’s there?”
“Tino was one of us.”
“True.”
“He deserves the best.”
“All right then…do a good job and keep me posted.”
“Don’t worry, Benilo’s leaving nothing unexamined.” Peña lied, as Benilo had not yet arrived.
Gutierrez hung up and again looked out his car window at the devastation around him, not just the marina but this case that had become like an octopus about his head. Now with an officer dead and one gone missing, he recalled something Luis Estrada had said early on in this morass, that everyone standing too near this case, will be burned to one degree or another.”
The last vestiges of fire and smoke outside Alfonso’s car window prompted him to mutter, “These flames are too damned close to me.”
Aboard Sanabela II
In the pilothouse, Qui and JZ found Estrada huddled with and talking to Giraldo, both men sipping coffee, the universal cure-all, maps spread before them.
Trying to return to being simple fishermen
, Qui guessed. For a moment, Quiana and JZ stood as outsiders, while the men discussed where best to troll for shrimp as if nothing had happened. Estrada cast an occasional glance at Adondo, new to handling the wheel.
“Ahhh, Qui, my hapless girl,” began Luis.
“Have you recovered your nerves? Some excitement on the dock, heh? I, myself, find such an adventure to be—” he paused, catching his breath—“exhilarating, but somewhere in it all, there should be reward, pesos…perhaps a woman…if I must be
scared to death
!”
Adondo and Giraldo laughed in response, nervousness brought on by the chaos, filtering through.
Qui also laughed before replying, “A few gunshots…an explosion? What’s it to an old sea dog like you?”
“You forget my age…my heart.”
“Uncle, you’ll outlive us all!”
JZ added, “Quick thinking—getting us out of there so fast. Saved lives.”
“Seemed a good idea at the time. So why’re you here with Quiana?”
Qui introduced the men, Estrada’s eyes going wide on hearing Zayas’s title, repeating it under his breath and adding, “Yes, I suppose the American Interest Section would be part of your investigation of murdered American doctors.”
This told her that Estrada, like so many others now, had learned the victims had been doctors. “Then, I suppose you’ve heard—”
“Montoya, yes, makes four dead doctors, and Qui, I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, Uncle.”
“He was not what he seemed, you know.”
“You sound like Peña and the rest who want his memory smeared.”
“No, no. There was more to the man than he let you see.”
“What didn’t I see?” she asked, recalling her own misgivings of the night before when standing in Estaban’s living room.
“Best let sleeping dogs lay, Qui,” he said softly.
“If it has anything to do with my case…”
“No, nothing to do with your case.”
“Where do you get your information?”
“A word here…a word there…keep my ears open…”
“An informant, I know.”
“Then you know to whom I report.”
“My boss, yes. I surmised as much.”
“He keeps me informed, I keep him informed. It works out.”
“If you’ve spoken to him this morning, then you must know about Tino.”
“Tino? What about Hilito?”
Always a cop, Qui skirted the direct question for one of her own. “When’s last time you saw Tino, Uncle?”
JZ stood nearby, interested in their conversation but smart enough to let Qui lead this dance.
“Just last night.”
“Sunday night.”
“Came down here to the boat. Had one of those valises with him. Called it an evidence kit. Said he had to give the boat a final once over before it could be released.”
“Did he, really?”
“Joked about it.”
“Seemed a little nervous, but I didn’t take a lot of notice. Hell, I was half asleep.”
“He must’ve planted the lock on the boat then. But why? What was poor Tino involved in?”
Estrada raised his shoulders in response. “It is curious.”
“Even more curious now that Tino is dead.”
“
Dead? Impossible!
I just saw him, I tell you! Only hours ago on this very boat!”
Qui began to pace. She then turned on Estrada and demanded, “How did those men firing at us know we’d be here? Did you keep your promise? You told no one about the lock?”
“No one.”
“Not even Gutierrez? He’d pay handsomely for such—”
“I honor my promises, Qui.” He didn’t hesitate, although he’d attempted to reach Gutierrez first, she didn’t need to know this, he rationalized. “How…how did Tino…you know…die?”