The Beggar's Opera (6 page)

He thanked the young patrolman, then picked up his radio and had Dispatch contact Detective Sanchez.

“Rodriguez, I need you to do one more thing before you come here,” Inspector Ramirez said. “Get in touch with Interpol, will you? I want a criminal record check on Señor Ellis.”

Ramirez pulled his daughter’s crumpled drawing out of his pocket and provided Sanchez with the Canadian’s full name and date of birth. He was glad he had managed to find a pen. Finding a pencil could take years.

“Tell me, is that Señor Rivero, the fisherman?” Ramirez inclined his head to a gnarled man in his late sixties or seventies who stood nearby, a metal bait can at his feet. The man looked shaken and somewhat bewildered.

“Yes. I asked him to wait, in case you had any questions.”

Ramirez walked over to Rivero. The older man was shaking. From wading into the cold water, no doubt, but likely also from his find. A child’s body was not what Rivero got up so early that morning to catch.

Words poured from the old man like water. “When I saw the bright red fabric puffed out with air in the current, I thought that someone lost a jacket. It looked like a flower, blooming in the waves. Then I saw a small brown hand floating above the water and realized what it was.”

The fisherman’s knees were bleeding, scraped on the jagged rocks as he dragged the boy’s body from the water. His face was ashen. He was clearly in shock. Ramirez put his arm around the man’s shoulder and gently escorted him to Apiro.

“Thank you, Señor Rivero, for everything you have done here. Believe me, it is much appreciated.”

“There was nothing I could do.” The man shook his head, his eyes red from tears. “He was already dead. So small, just a boy.”

“Hector, can you put a bandage on that knee for Señor Rivero? And if you have a thermos with you, I think Señor Rivero could use a coffee to warm him up.”

Apiro nodded and smiled at the man kindly as he reached into his kit. Ramirez knew he would make sure Rivero had a shot of rum before he left as well. “Dr. Apiro will take care of your injuries. Is there anything else we can do for you?”

“No, Inspector, thank you.”

“Let’s hope the rest of your day is less upsetting. But you should feel very proud of the way you behaved today; you did well to brave the cold water.”

Many Cubans would have walked the other way when they saw the body in the water. Afraid they would be blamed somehow for the child’s death.

Ramirez looked more closely at the child’s body. The boy was shirtless, malnourished, like so many Cuban children. Ribs poked through his skin. His right eye was heavily bruised.

Apiro gently turned the boy over. There were flat purple bruises on his back. He used his gloved hands to pull down the boy’s shorts and underpants.

“Look here,” he said, pointing out injuries to the rectum, small tears.

“Rape?”

“At this age, not likely to be consensual,” the doctor murmured. “There was a strong degree of force involved in this assault. It would have been very painful for this child to sit down for some time, excruciating to go to the bathroom.”

“Do you know how he died?”

“I can’t say yet for sure, but based on this,” Apiro pointed to
some swelling at the back of the head, “I would guess he was hit with something hard.”

“And the bruises on his face and back?”

“Hard to say. The ones on his face could be from the rocks. I will have to assess the bruises at the autopsy to know for sure. My guess, though, is that they were ante-mortem injuries. Caused before death, not after.”

“From blows?”

“Ah, Ricardo, I cannot be sure with a boy of this age. Boys play, they climb trees, they run into things, they push each other, they fight. But once I see everything and evaluate all the known facts together, I will have a better idea. I will do the autopsy this afternoon. I have to, really,” he said wistfully. “Our refrigeration unit is not working properly.”

“Bad luck,” Ramirez said, thinking of the conditions Apiro would have to work in once the afternoon heated up.

The pathologist grinned. “Bring your cigar.”

TWELVE

A giant Christmas tree sparkled in the lobby. It was decorated with long strings of flashing blue and green lights that lit up at different times so the entire tree changed colour as if by magic. The twinkling lights hurt Mike Ellis’s eyes. He took the elevator up to his room and undressed, took his time showering for the second time that day. His eyes stung from the water, but at least his legs felt like they were his own again.

Ellis dried himself off and walked naked across the room, pulled the curtains tightly to keep out the light. He found a pair of chinos in one of the drawers. He put on a clean pair of briefs, a golf shirt, slid on socks, shoes, grabbed his sunglasses, and rode the elevator down to the lobby.

The skylight over the restaurant below him dripped with the residue of early morning rain, but the open sky above was pure blue. Another beautiful, ruined day.

It was just after eight, but the currency exchange desk was open. He cashed his travellers cheques, folded the money, and put it in his back pocket.

As he entered the lobby, Ellis looked over at the concierge desk and saw Miguel. The doorman moved towards the door as
Ellis approached, ready as always to let him out, his white gloves immaculate, his hat set exactly straight. A handsome young man.

“Merry Christmas, Señor Ellis,” Miguel said, smiling, and pushed the revolving glass door. But instead of walking through it as he usually did, Ellis stopped.

“Merry Christmas to you, Miguel,” he said and tried to smile back, but his lip no longer moved on the side where the knife had snagged. “Listen, I lost my wallet somewhere last night. Probably somewhere around El Bar. You know, Hemingway’s bar. Any idea what I can do about it?”

“I will call the police for you, Señor, and let someone know to contact you here so you can file a report. I am not sure what office handles it. Do not worry, I will take care of it for you.”

“Thanks. I don’t imagine they can do too much, but it had my passport in it.” He gave Miguel the details and a ten-peso note. “This is to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. And also because it’s Christmas.”

“Thank
you
,” Miguel said and quickly slipped the money into his own pocket. He gave Ellis a huge smile and a handshake so hard it hurt.

Five pesos was almost a month’s wage in Cuba. Ten CUCs, the tourist currency in pesos, was a great deal of money. But Miguel had been helpful to Ellis and his wife throughout their stay. He arranged their tour for them, cautioned them about
jineteros
, the street hustlers who would try to scam them, even taught them a little Spanish.

“You are too generous, Señor Ellis. I am truly sorry about your wallet. But our police are very efficient. Do not worry, I am sure they will find it for you.”

“Is there somewhere nearby that I can get breakfast?”

“The Hotel Machado is quite good, Señor. Through the park, on the right-hand side.”

Outside, a cluster of horse-drawn carts sheltered in the cool shade of the Parque Ciudad, City Park, trees. The browbeaten, blinkered horses flicked their manes in the heat, shaking their large heads back and forth. They looked as miserable as Ellis felt.

A row of taxis lined the street. Three or four drivers called out, asking if he wanted a ride. He declined.

The Hotel Machado was easily identified by the distinctive large blue letters on the second level that announced its name. The outdoor café faced away from the sun, fronting the park.

Ellis ordered black coffee and gulped it down. It went down smoothly and helped to soothe his jangled nerves. He caught the waiter’s eye and ordered brown rice, eggs, and beans.

It was getting hot out already. He watched some boys play in the park. They had a plastic bottle and kicked it around like a soccer ball. One boy wore running shoes without laces that were far too big for him. The others were barefoot.

Despite being in Havana for a week, Ellis was still startled by the poverty.

The taxi driver explained to them on the ride in from the airport how anxious the Cuban people were for Fidel Castro’s death, how tired they were of living in Third World conditions. Thanks to free public education, most of the service workers, even the prostitutes, had graduate degrees. Some were doctors, engineers. They wanted more from their lives than
this
.

“Have you heard the joke?” the cab driver said. “A Cuban woman is happy that her new boyfriend is a taxi driver, but heartbroken when she finds out he is only a neurologist.” He laughed, hit his steering wheel with his hand. “Look at me. I have a degree in particle physics and I drive a taxi because we have no laboratories in Cuba. Nothing is simple here, believe me. Nothing.”

“How safe is it in Havana?” Hillary asked. “Can we walk around at night?”

“Of course, but be careful to keep your hands on your purse, Señora. There are pickpockets everywhere. But don’t worry,” the cabbie assured her. “Apart from that, this is the safest country on earth. Look at all the police. They come here to work from all over the island. We call them
palestinos
, because they never leave. They have the most boring job in Cuba. Believe me, they have to invent crimes just to have something to do.”

The taxi driver was right, Ellis realized, as the waiter refilled his cup. There were young policemen with blue pants and berets on every corner, sometimes more than one. They looked like restless children carrying guns. It wasn’t reassuring.

THIRTEEN

Inspector Ramirez and his apparition watched sadly as the small remains were loaded into the white van that carried bodies to the morgue.

Ramirez sighed. Cases involving children were the hardest. The file would be difficult for everyone in the unit, especially those with children. Including himself. His son, Edel, was around the same age as the boy.

Sometime later that day, Ramirez would have to explain to grieving parents that their son had died. He wanted to be able to tell them he had a suspect under arrest and en route to the firing squad. He glanced at the dead man, surprised to see him wipe away tears.

A patrol car pulled up. Detective Rodriguez Sanchez stepped out. He looked tired; his complexion rougher than usual. He handed Ramirez the surveillance tapes he had requested. As the two men spoke, the technicians began to brush the sidewalk for evidence using tiny combs.

Ramirez and the dead man stepped to the other side of the barrier tape, making sure to get out of their way. Ramirez opened the plastic exhibit bag Espinoza had turned over and removed the
passport. He flipped gingerly through the wet pages. He winced at the man’s scars, magnified in the unsmiling black-and-white photograph. It looked like Michael Ellis had been in a serious accident. His face was cut up like a jigsaw puzzle.

“Not so pretty,” said Ramirez, showing the picture to Sanchez. “Did you find out where he’s staying?”

“The Parque Ciudad Hotel. But listen to this, Inspector. Dispatch called me a few minutes ago, on my way here. She received an anonymous call that a man with a scarred face approached some young boys in the Parque Ciudad yesterday demanding sex for money. It must be the man in the passport. I think we should go to the hotel and interview him now, before he goes out for the day.”

“How convenient that we have a complaint this early in our investigation,” Ramirez commented dryly.

Under Cuban law, the police had only three days to complete their investigation into a felony offence. The legislature had imposed this requirement most likely because flights left the island several times daily. Otherwise, suspects could flee the country before investigations were completed. Cuba had very few extradition treaties with other countries, only a few informal agreements.

Because of this, the Major Crimes Unit had to move rapidly when outsiders were suspected of criminal acts. His men usually met the timeline, despite the department’s continual lack of resources, like the fuel Sanchez had run out of and the forensic supplies Apiro somehow managed to do without.

Once they arrested a suspect, Ramirez had to turn his case file over to a prosecutor within seventy-two hours, along with a draft indictment. If he couldn’t meet those timelines, he was required to let the suspect go, guilty or not. Most
turistas
were unaware of the law, allowing many Cuban officials to line their own pockets
by accepting money from foreign suspects in lieu of uncertain charges. “Win-win,” as they said in America.

If Ramirez needed more time, he was required to develop a plan that outlined what was left to do. The prosecutor then had to persuade a sometimes reluctant juridical panel to deny bail based on that plan. Panels could be skittish when tourists were involved.

Life was considerably easier for Ramirez if he could work within the three-day time frame. He preferred to keep things informal at first, to stop the clock and make sure they had enough time.

Sanchez, on the other hand, thought it was more efficient to frame the guilty, that it allowed for a speedier investigation, given their tight deadlines. Ramirez had never really believed that he was joking. He half-suspected Sanchez of calling in the complaint himself.

“Too bad the call was anonymous. Did Dispatch get a number?”

“A cellphone, no display.”

“Anything distinctive about the voice? Male or female?”

“I asked. She forgot to make a note of it.”

“That is unfortunate,” Ramirez said. “But there are
cederistas
everywhere.”

It was not uncommon for members of citizen watch groups to call about crimes without identifying themselves. The use of a cellphone was unusual, however. It was illegal for unauthorized Cubans to have one, and very few had authorizations. But Sanchez had no cellphone either, just the phone at his apartment and his police radio, which meant the complaint must have originated elsewhere.

“Then perhaps this Michael Ellis is our man,” said Ramirez, although he did not like the idea of accusing a foreign police officer of a serious crime based only on an anonymous call. “Let’s go see what he has to say.”