Red Angel (22 page)

“What about the neighborhood CDR man?” Devlin asked.

“He has been alerted,” Martínez said. “He will not mention your presence. Like many of our CDR officers, he was a close friend of our Red Angel, and is pleased to serve her visiting niece.”

“Why was my aunt close to the CDR?” Adrianna asked.

Martínez waved his hand, taking in the makeshift clinic.
“Some in our government did not approve of her private activities. They felt it was critical of the overall system.” He raised his eyebrows, indicating another contradiction. “Many in our poorer neighborhoods are neglectful about the need to have their children inoculated against illness. And our hospitals are too large to keep track of them. Some of these people are simply suspicious, and others prefer to seek help from the Afro-Cuban religions. The Red Angel worked with Santeria priests and Palo Monte
paleros
to convince them this was unwise, but she also worked with the CDR to identify those who had neglected these inoculations. Those, she ordered to come to her home in the evenings, and she personally made sure their children were cared for.” A twinkle came to his eye. “The nightly line of people, coming to her home, did not please some others who live in this neighborhood.”

“And when she was told to stop?” Adrianna asked.

“She laughed at them,” Martínez answered. “It is said Fidel, himself, questioned these activities, and was told to mind his own business.” Amusement came to his eyes. “There are not many in our government who do this, and in recent years their friendship became very strained. Mainly because of the embargo, and its effect on needed medical supplies.”

Adrianna wandered about the first floor, picking up various items—a stethoscope, a blood-pressure cuff, an occasional medical book—holding them as though they might impart something of her aunt, then returning them to their proper places, as if her aunt might need them when she returned.

Devlin took Martínez aside. “We need two cars,” he said. “Inconspicuous ones, nothing shiny and new that will attract attention. Rentals are fine, but I’ll want to rent them under phony names so Cabrera can’t trace them.”

“I can arrange this,” Martínez said. “Many individuals rent their cars. Some even serve as drivers. I will find two that are reliable.”

“I don’t want drivers,” Devlin said.

“I understand. There is a small park across from my headquarters. If you meet me there at three, I will have them for you.” He paused and gave Devlin a steady look. “You have something you are planning?” he asked.

Devlin inclined his head to one side. “We’re detectives. We’re going to detect.”

Martínez’s headquarters was located on Calle Zapata, only a few blocks from the cluster of government buildings that surrounded Fidel’s compound and the towering monument to José Martí. It was a large white two-story building that resembled a small castle, with four turrets, battlements along its flat roof, and a high arched entrance that lacked only a portcullis. Pitts had described the interior as “a typical cop shop” with an elevated front desk and waiting area, off which lay a rabbit warren of smaller squad rooms and offices. The basement housed individual cells and a large holding pen.

Devlin and Pitts found Martínez seated on a small bench, reading a battered paperback novel. There was a paper lunch bag next to him. He smiled as they approached and held up the cover of the book.

“One of Tamayo’s mysteries,” he said. He raised his chin toward his headquarters. “His detective is much smarter than any who work for me.”

“It’s the same with our mystery novels,” Devlin said. “Writers don’t like cops who wander around trying to figure out which end is up.”

Martínez laughed and tossed Devlin two sets of car keys. He raised his chin again, indicating two dust-covered cars parked in tandem, a tan Russian Lada, at least ten years old, and a dull blue Nissan Sentra of the same vintage.

“Good surveillance cars, no?” he said. “Very inconspicuous, very Cuban. Unfortunately, neither have air-conditioning. But all the windows open, which is not true of many Cuban cars.” He shrugged. “Used parts and the embargo do not accommodate each other.”

Devlin tossed the keys for the Lada to Pitts, who grimaced at the idea of driving a Russian car.

“Make believe you are a good socialist,” Martínez said. “The Lada belongs to one of my men, and he has assured me it is reliable. Then there is the Russian engineering. If the car fails to start at first, you need only to beat it with a large stick.”

Pitts reached into a pocket and withdrew a leather-covered sap. “I’ll use this,” he said. “Customs never found it in my suitcase.”

Martínez arched his brows. “It is not legal here. Even for police.” He let out a long breath. “Is this what you used on the Abakua outside Plante Firme’s house?”

“Nah. I didn’t have it with me then. Everybody kept telling me what a gentle city this is. I used that lead pipe I found in Plante Firme’s yard.”

“Promise me you will use it only on the Abakua,” Martínez said. A small smile flickered across his lips. “Or Cabrera’s men.”

Pitts winked at him.

Devlin rolled his eyes. “Keep it in your pocket,” he said. “Use that ham hock you call a fist.”

“I’d still like some heat,” Pitts said. “Just in case.”

Martínez turned back to the bench and picked up a paper bag that Devlin had assumed was his lunch. He handed it to Devlin. “If you are found with these, I cannot help you,” he said.

Devlin looked inside. The bag held two snub-nosed .38 revolvers. He slipped one into his waistband under his shirt and handed the bag to Pitts.

“They are loaded, but there are no extra cartridges,” Martínez said. “I do not propose warfare, only self-defense.”

“It’s like fucking Mayberry,” Pitts said. “Maybe I should keep my bullet in my pocket like Don Knotts.”

Martínez glanced at Devlin. “It is very hard to make this man happy,” he said.

“Indeed,” Devlin said. “You should talk to his sergeant someday. She has some very strong opinions about his level of gratitude.”

Devlin took a step toward his car, but Martínez held up a hand. He gave Devlin a no-nonsense look. “I want to know what you are planning.”

Devlin drew a long breath. He had known this was coming. “I’m going to check some of the hotels to see if I can kick up anything on our sick old man. I assume your CDR men are keeping watch in their neighborhoods.”

Martínez nodded. “And Detective Pitts?”

“Ollie is going to run a tail on Cabrera.”

Martínez raised his eyebrows.

“Cabrera’s never seen Ollie, so I think he has a shot at tailing him. If Cabrera meets with anyone suspicious, he’ll drop off Cabrera and follow that person. If that proves productive, we’ll run a second tail tomorrow. Ollie will stay with the colonel, and I’ll pick up on the new target.”

“And Señorita Adrianna?”

“She’s going through her aunt’s papers to see if there are any leads there. They’re in Spanish, and she’s the only Spanish speaker I have.”

Martínez stared at Devlin, letting him know his rather blatant exclusion had been noted. He held Devlin’s eyes. “Today, I will go with you, my friend.” There was no question about refusal in his voice. He turned to Pitts. “We shall meet outside El Floridita at ten. It is a restaurant not far from your old hotel. Very famous. If you park in the area, anyone can direct you there.”

* * *

Cabrera’s car pulled out of the Villa Marista compound shortly after five. Pitts’s Lada was tucked into a side street and he dropped in behind, fifty yards back.

The colonel’s car moved slowly through the city streets, past the ferry terminal and onto Avenida del Puerto, which ran along the edge of the harbor at the tip of Old Havana. As they approached the Castillo de San Salvador fortress, the car entered the tunnel that ran under the harbor to Casablanca. Emerging on the opposite shore, it turned onto a winding drive that circled the Castillo del Morro, the sister fortress that together with the Castillo de San Salvador had guarded Havana harbor for more than two centuries. At a sign marked LOS 12 APOSTOLES, Cabrera’s car entered a steep drive that led back to the water.

Pitts dropped back, waited, then followed Cabrera’s car down the drive.

Los 12 Apostoles turned out to be an ancient gun emplacement, twelve two-hundred-year-old cannons, set in a long line and pointed toward the entrance of the harbor, each one bearing the name of one of Christ’s apostles. Behind the gun battery stood the very tony Restaurant of the Twelve Apostles.

Pitts spotted Cabrera’s car in the large dirt parking lot. The driver was leaning against a fender, smoking a cigarette, as he stared out at a passing car ferry. Pitts drove by unnoticed, and parked as far away as he could. Then he sauntered toward the restaurant, just another tourist looking for an expensive meal.

Cabrera was seated alone at an outside terrace table, facing the city. Pitts asked the maître d’ for a similar table and was seated no more than twenty feet away. A few minutes later Cabrera was joined by another man. He was average height, about forty, Pitts guessed, with dark hair and dark
eyes and a heavy five-o’clock shadow. He was dressed in black slacks, a pale blue shirt with the top two buttons undone, and a tan sport jacket. There was a gold Rolex on his wrist and a gold crucifix hanging from his neck. He looked like a flashy European businessman on vacation. Except he greeted Cabrera in American-accented English. The sound of his voice made Pitts smile.

“There is a problem,” Cabrera said.

DeForio’s eyes hardened. “This is a bad time for problems. We’ve already transferred a sizable amount of money to the bank in Panama. We’re ready to move ahead quickly.”

Cabrera nodded. “This difficulty will not stop our plans.”

Mickey D stared at him. “You let me be the judge of that. Tell me about your problem.”

The waiter came, gave them menus, and took their drink orders. When he had left, Cabrera leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“Robert Cipriani has disappeared,” he began. “I sent him to Santiago de Cuba to meet with our friend, together with one of my men. Neither has returned.”

“Have you checked with our friend?”

“He is in Havana now. I spoke with him this afternoon. He said Cipriani and my man left his villa in Cobre two hours before he left there himself. They were to return on a Cubana flight. Our friend traveled on his private jet.”

“And Cipriani and your man never got here.”

“They checked in for the flight, but they never boarded the plane. I checked with the local police and with the immigration police, but they knew nothing.”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“No.” Cabrera shook his head for emphasis as he tried to decide how much more to say. DeForio was unaware of the assassination attempt on this New York police inspector and
his woman, either here in Havana or in Cobre. This was a private arrangement with Rossi, just as the theft of the Red Angel’s body had been. That second arrangement had produced an upheaval among the Mafia investors that had only recently been settled. Knowledge of the assassination attempt might produce yet another. Still, DeForio had to be told something.

“The major of the national police that I told you about, the one who is investigating the disappearance of the body …” He paused.

DeForio stared at him. “Yeah, what about him?”

“He was in Santiago at the same time.”

DeForio’s eyes widened. “You are joking with me, right? This crap with this old woman’s body, tell me it’s not coming back to haunt us again.”

“I am not certain,” Cabrera said. “I am attempting to discover the truth.”

Mickey D covered his face with both hands and slowly drew them down. “Where is that fucking body now?”

“It is on its way to Havana, in the
nganga
that has been prepared. The ritual will be performed here, tomorrow, or the following day.”

“Where?”

“I am not certain. Señor Rossi is hidden in an Abakua stronghold in Guanabacoa. I assume the ritual will take place there, or somewhere nearby.”

“Where the hell is this Guanabacoa?”

“It is only a short drive from where we sit.”

“Do you think this major knows about this?”

Cabrera shook his head. “It is not possible that he does. Only Señor Rossi, myself, and the Abakua
palero
know this place.”

DeForio’s face darkened, and his lips formed a hard line. “I want to see Rossi, and I want this fucking ritual over with. We gave in to Rossi on this voodoo crap. Now it’s coming
back to bite us on the ass again.” He ground his teeth. “And I still don’t know how you’re going to resolve the disappearance of this big-shot doctor.” He pointed a finger at Cabrera and lowered his voice to a whisper. “If this brings the government down, we could all be fucked. We
need
the Comandante in power if the embargo is going to hold.”

“It is arranged,” Cabrera said. “It will be done tomorrow.”

“How?”

Cabrera leaned forward, bringing his own voice down to a whisper. “We have the body of another woman. The same age and size, and so badly burned and deteriorated a positive identification will be impossible.”

“What about her fucking dental records?” DeForio hissed.

Cabrera smiled. “Her head is missing. It will be found in a
nganga
at the house of a
palero
named Plante Firme. But only a portion of it. Without teeth, of course. It would seem this
palero
may have been in league with antigovernment insurgents.” Cabrera lowered his voice even further, and his eyes hardened. “This appears to be the course the investigation is following. This way, the evidence Martínez has gathered will not be contradicted.”

“And what if the
palero
denies all this crap?”

“That will be difficult,” Cabrera said. “Plante Firme will be dead tomorrow.”

When they left the restaurant, Pitts dropped off Cabrera and followed the second man to the Capri Hotel. Inside the lobby, DeForio veered off to the bar. Pitts quickly latched onto a young prostitute, who surprised him by speaking semifluent English. He took a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet, her normal fee for an evening of pleasure, ripped it in half, and told her if she returned with the man’s name and room number, she would get the other half.