The Beggar's Opera (26 page)

Señora Jones would lead them straight to the accomplice,
Ramirez was sure of it. To the man who had raped, and most likely murdered, Arturo Montenegro.

“You’d better hope so, Ramirez.”

After his meeting with his superior, Ramirez drove back to Old Havana, unhappy himself. He was tired and grumpy. His solid case had crumbled with one piece of paper: the only evidence the female lawyer had produced.

He parked his small blue car and walked up the concrete path to the police station. The dead boy walked beside him, skipping a little. Avoiding the cracks.

Ramirez walked up the stairs to his office. No sign of Rodriguez Sanchez, which was good: it meant the lawyer was on the move. He called the switchboard and asked her to hold his calls for a few minutes. He needed to consider his future, professional and otherwise.

“Put no one through except my wife or Detective Sanchez. And the minister’s clerk if she calls, of course.
Gracias
.” Although the minister was unlikely to contact Ramirez, he’d left his implied threat hanging in the air like the smoke from his cigar.

Ramirez opened his drawer and pulled out the bottle of
añejo
. He poured himself a drink, then another. He watched his fluttering fingers settle down, lose their independence. For the first time in almost a week, he let himself think about his illness.

The New Year was around the corner. It was almost 2007, a new start for the world, and possibly for Cuba.

Despite the minister’s assurances about Castro’s health — in fact, because of them — Ramirez believed that Fidel Castro was seriously ill. Change was in the air. Ramirez didn’t want to waste what remained of his life by worrying about the future. There was too little time for remorse. This was the only way he could manage, he decided. After all, no one ever knew how much time
they had left. The dead man who followed Ramirez all week probably expected to catch many more fish before he drowned.

Ah, well. The Christmas holidays were almost over. Ramirez still hoped he could find time to make love to his wife, to convince her that things were fine, even if they weren’t. The only form of sexual and social intercourse left, he thought wryly, that was not yet regulated by the Cuban government.

The dead boy looked away, embarrassed.

FIFTY - FOUR

“It was you, wasn’t it? You took Mike’s wallet.”

Maria Vasquez shrugged. “He owed me money for the night. It was not my fault he became so drunk. Christmas Eve is one of the best nights of the year: we all charge extra. I could not afford to lose that income. Yes, I took his wallet. I hoped he would think he had lost it. But I took nothing else, I swear. Only what he owed me.”

“Why take the whole thing? Why not just the money in it?”

“He was so drunk, I was not sure he would remember our arrangement the next morning. I was afraid if only the money was missing, he would think someone had stolen it. And if he called the police to report it stolen, people had seen us together. I could have been arrested. Better if he believed he had lost it.”

That made sense. Celia Jones hesitated to think what the penalty for prostitution
and
theft might be.

“Besides, credit cards can be replaced, as can passports. Tourists lose them all the time. Much harder for me to replace a lost client on Christmas Eve. I took nothing more than that to which I was entitled.”

Jones could see her point. “And then you went looking for Arturo.”

“Yes. I knew I could not trust the police to protect him if they were protecting Nasim. I went down the back stairs, and ran all the way back to the Plaza de Armas. The boys there told me Arturo was at the Plaza de Marzo, that he was hurt. I ran all the way there. When I saw him, I realized my worst fears. His face was badly bruised. He said a man had dragged him into a car. The other man, not Nasim. The man made him drink something; after that he could remember nothing.”

She put her head down again and cried softly. Jones patted her hand.

“I gave him the wallet. It was something to cheer him up, to play with, maybe sell for a peso or two. It was Christmas, after all. It was all I had. There are no toys in Cuba, Señora. Besides, I could not keep it. If the police stopped me and I had a foreigner’s identification on me, I would have been arrested for that, too.”

Maria smiled a little, remembering. “He really liked the gold badge. But he was still so dizzy and confused. I told him to go straight home to bed, and if anyone asked about the wallet, to say he found it. His apartment was just around the corner. I should have kept him with me,” she said, choking up again. “If I had, he would still be alive.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Maria shook her head, and Jones dropped it; the woman clearly felt guilty enough as it was. “It seems pretty clear, then,” she said. “Nasim must have found Arturo and killed him after you left.”

Maria nodded, sniffling.

“How did he get into Mike’s room?” Jones wondered out loud.

“Who?”

“Nasim. He was the only person who could have framed Mike.
He had photographs of Arturo and the other boys. Someone put photographs of Arturo under Mike’s mattress.”

“Señor Ellis lost his room key that night. We had to get another one from the receptionist.”

Jones paused to think. “Maybe he didn’t lose it. Maybe Nasim stole it from him at the bar.”

“I remember that Señor Ellis’s jacket was on Nasim’s bar stool, but it fell to the floor. He could have taken it then. He must have gone to the Parque Ciudad before we arrived there. He could have tried the key in all the doors until one opened. Those plastic keys are only used in the new wing of the hotel.”

“So he drugged Mike at the bar,” Jones said. “I assumed it was you. But he would have known that Rohypnol would slow Mike down and give him time to plant the evidence.”

“Do you think he drugged and assaulted Arturo before he came to El Bar?” asked Maria.

Jones nodded. “Probably. That fits the timeline. Then killed him afterwards to shut him up.”

“I remember wondering what happened to make Señor Ellis so drunk. He was too drunk to make love. And that is the first time that has happened to me, ever.”

“How many drinks did you have that night?” Jones was unsure how reliable a witness Maria Vasquez would be if she was drunk.

“Me? Just one. I had a mojito and then Señor Ellis poured me a glass of rum. But I don’t usually drink rum, except at celebrations. He drank it himself.” Her eyes widened. “He drank
my
drink. Do you think perhaps Nasim meant to drug me instead?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Thank God I did not drink it. I would be dead now.” The
jinetera
made the sign of the cross in front of her chest. “But why did Nasim frame Señor Ellis for a murder that hadn’t yet happened?”

Jones thought for a minute. “He didn’t frame Mike for murder, but for rape. He knew Mike was a foreign policeman. He must have been worried you would tell Mike he’d been luring children to Campanario and that Mike would follow up on your complaint.”

“Then it makes sense. Once Nasim put that evidence in the hotel room, he could do whatever he wanted to Arturo and implicate Señor Ellis. And if he had someone on the inside of the police force, he had a way to lead the police right to Señor Ellis as well.”

The anonymous complaint that had so conveniently resulted in the search of Mike’s room the next morning had undoubtedly come from Nasim, thought Jones. Nasim likely had a cellphone. Mike Ellis had been set up very neatly indeed. “There was other evidence in his room, though, Maria. Stains on the sheets that matched semen found on the boy.”

“Nasim had photographs with which to arouse himself. That would not have taken him long. Besides, we were at the bar for at least another hour after he left. He had time.”

“Then it’s Nasim we need to find,” said Jones. “Do you have any idea where he could be?”

“No,” said Maria. “But if he hears of your interest in this investigation through his police contact, he may go back to the address where he took the boys. To remove the evidence of his crimes. I would do this, if I were him.”

Jones nodded. Maria might be a hooker, but she was smart. That was exactly what someone like Nasim would do. Cover his ass.

“Come, we can go there together,” Maria urged. “We should go before he has a chance to clean up. I know exactly where it is.”

Jones borrowed the woman’s cellphone and tried to reach
Ramirez. He wasn’t in. Neither was Sanchez. But according to Maria, Campanario was only a few blocks away.

Maria was wearing four-inch heels, but that didn’t seem to slow her down. On the way, Jones asked, “How much was your client supposed to pay you for the night?”

“Around one hundred American dollars. Worthless now, but not for long. Although I will deny these arrangements later. Trust me, I do not want to go to jail for prostitution. Or be re-educated.” Maria frowned. “Being educated once was bad enough.”

“Is that where you learned to speak such good English?” Jones asked.

“Thank you. Of course, like all Cubans, I learned my English at school. And then, I had a very good tutor for a year. A doctor. He enjoyed literature and used to read to me. I hope someday to get a university degree. I only do this because I need the money. And because sometimes, I mean someday, I hope to meet a nice man who will accept me for who I am.”

They turned right on San Miguel and left onto Campanario. Maria pointed across the street to a boarded-up three-storey apartment building.

“There it is.” Maria started to walk towards it.

“Maria, we should wait for the police,” said Jones, and grabbed her arm. “We don’t have any weapons if there’s anyone in there.” “Speak for yourself,” Maria said, and pulled off her stilettos.

FIFTY - FIVE

The building was pitch black inside. Celia Jones took a moment to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. “What floor is it on?” she whispered, gripping a rock she had picked up from the crumbling walls.

“Third,” Maria Vasquez whispered back. She stood so closely behind that Jones could feel her breath on the back of her neck.

Jones hoped her police martial-arts training would come back to her if she needed it. She was rusty, but in pretty good shape from years of salsa dancing.

They edged their way up the creaking wooden staircase. Some streaks of light peeked from the boards nailed over what had once been windows.

The building was completely abandoned. Most of the apartment doors had been removed, probably for reuse elsewhere. There were no lights; all the fixtures were broken. There was no electricity. “Don’t put any weight on the railing,” Jones whispered. “It’s loose.”

They finally reached the third floor. Maria pointed to a room at the end of the hallway, to the right. Jones followed her to the end of the hall, stepping as lightly as she could. The floor groaned
beneath her feet. Maria was still barefoot, clutching her shoes. Jones could hear her rapid breaths. Her own heart pounded in her ears.

They stopped, waited to see if they’d been heard, if there was anyone else in the building, but it was quiet. Not even the sound of birds scrabbling on the ledges.

Jones motioned to Maria and they took the last couple of steps to the apartment. It was one of the few in the building that still had a door, left slightly ajar. Jones pushed it open just a little more.

The boards over the windows inside had been removed so the room had light. She swung the wooden door as slowly as she could. It creaked.

There was a soiled mattress on the floor and marks in the dust. Empty plastic water bottles. A child’s yellow shirt, discarded. But there was no one there.

She pushed the door all the way open and took a few steps inside. Dust motes swirled through the broken window as the sun scattered its dying rays.

“This is it,” Jones said. “I’m sure of it. Be very careful not to touch anything. Arturo was probably killed here.”

“What do we do now?” Maria asked.

“We call Inspector Ramirez, and then we wait until he gets here. In case Nasim comes back.”

Jones took another step forward, careful to avoid the marks on the floor, and looked more closely at the small yellow shirt. There were blood spots on the mattress and a pair of small blue running shoes beside it, no laces.

“Those are Arturo’s shoes,” said Maria. “But he was not wearing them when I saw him on Christmas Eve. What a terrible place this is. What an awful place to die.”

Jones heard the door open below and footsteps on the stairs.
“Quiet,” she whispered. When she poked her head out the door, she saw the top of a straw hat.

“It’s Nasim,” she shouted, and she ran down the hall to the wobbly staircase.

Nasim turned and fled down the stairs. He missed several steps. He landed hard on his feet, then ran out the front door and up the cracked asphalt of Campanario, pumping his legs hard, headed towards the Malecón. The straw hat flew off, rolled crazily down the sidewalk.

He was quick, but Jones managed to catch up to him. She jumped on his back and they both went down. Nasim fell facefirst, throwing his arms out in front to break his fall, and Jones landed hard on top. Maria was right behind them, swinging one shoe around in the air like a club.

The two of them managed to pull Nasim’s arms out from under him and yank them back behind him. Jones put all her weight on Nasim’s back to keep him down, but he was struggling hard to break free. “We need to tie him up somehow.”

Maria pulled a scarf out of her bag. “Here. Use this.”

Somehow they managed to tie his hands together. But when they turned him over, it wasn’t Nasim that Jones had tackled. It was Miguel Artez.

FIFTY - SIX

What the hell?
“What are you doing here? Why did you run away?” Celia Jones demanded.

She propped the hotel doorman up against the wall of a building. Miguel Artez sat, with his hands tied behind him, on the dirt and weeds. He began to laugh.

“You tell me, you bastard,” said Maria Vasquez. She held the stiletto heel of her shoe like a knife to his throat. “You tell me what happened to Arturo.”