The Poisoned Pawn (2 page)

He snapped off his latex gloves and placed them carefully in his medical kit for sterilization and re-use.

“The people in this area have no love for the police,” he said to Espinoza. “Frankly, the only thing that surprises me is that no one took the knife.”

The occupants of the Callejón sin salida, or Blind Alley, were notoriously suspicious of the Cuban National Revolutionary Police. The feeling was mutual.

Blind Alley was supposedly constructed following spirited discussions between its creator, an artist, and the Cuban gods as to their requirements. It was an unofficial temple for the worshippers of Santería gods and a leading source for the marijuana and other plants used in their secret rites. But it was also a place where the screams of men and women frequently pierced the night as the
orishas
purportedly travelled through them.

Espinoza nodded. “Should I have Dispatch contact Inspector Ramirez? It’s the first homicide of the year.”

“Not unless you want to be demoted back to Patrol.” Apiro grinned. He made a note of the time for his report. 0056 hours, Monday, January 1, 2007. “It’s his day off.”

THREE

Mike Ellis paid the cab driver and lifted his suitcase over the kneehigh snowdrifts. He’d been away from home for two weeks, but it felt eons longer. A Cuban jail cell gave a whole new meaning to the word
infinity
.

Hillary had left him standing on the Malecón on Christmas Eve, stunned and angry at her revelation that she was flying back to Ottawa early, that their marriage was over. She didn’t know he’d been arrested the next day, accused of sexually assaulting and murdering a street child who had followed them along the famous seawall, begging for money.

There were no lights on in their Westboro townhouse. Rolled-up flyers poked through the iron railing on the front steps. He turned the key and opened the door, switched on the lights. The house smelled stale, empty.

“Hillary?”

He opened the door to the hall closet. His wife’s boots were inside on the mat. But Hillary would never take a chance on wrecking her designer shoes on the slushy, salt-laden sidewalks.

Ellis ran upstairs to check the closets in the master bedroom. Dozens of pairs of shoes were lined up in neat rows: Imelda Marcos had nothing on his wife. But there were no empty clothes hangers. Was she really gone?

Ellis sure as hell hoped so.

He walked back to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Anything that was edible before they left on their so-called vacation was now coated with green mould.

There were a couple of beers and some canned juice. He pulled the caps off the bottles and emptied them down the drain.

His New Year’s resolution was to stay sober. He’d found a higher power in Havana, although he couldn’t describe it. But he was starting to believe in fate, after the way that so many people’s lives had turned out to be linked together like some kind of cosmic chain gang.

He poured himself a glass of juice and collapsed in a chair. Without Hillary, he had a clean slate, a chance to start over. The muscle above his heart corkscrewed. He breathed in deeply, forced himself to relax.

The doorbell rang. He looked at his watch. It wasn’t quite 1
A.M
. The early hours of New Year’s Day were a funny time for a visitor.

He opened the door to find two uniformed policemen on the stoop. The taller of the pair faced away from the door. The other stamped snow from his rubber overshoes.

Damn June, thought Ellis, noticing the thick stack of letters stuffed in the mailbox. She hadn’t looked after anything.

Miles O’Malley slowly pivoted. Usually he was smiling, but not now. Ellis’s heart began to bang a tattoo. There were only two times that the head of the Rideau Regional Police Force wore his dress uniform that Ellis knew of—at police graduation ceremonies and when he had to inform a family about a death. Ellis had
no idea what O’Malley would wear if he was about to charge one of his detectives with murder.

“Can I come in, Michael? Martin, you wait outside for a moment, that’s a good man.”

The young patrolman nodded. He avoided looking at Ellis’s face as he stood aside to let O’Malley through the door. “I’ll sit in the car, Chief.”

O’Malley entered the living room and sank into an armchair. He took his hat off and held it in his thick fingers. He ran one hand over his smooth bald head. “Ah, Michael. I’m so sorry. I have bad news. It’s about Hillary.”

“Hillary? What about her?” The crippling muscle at the top of Ellis’s chest tightened. He hadn’t had an anxiety attack for a week, but he could feel one starting. Damn it, Hillary had my pills, he thought. I’ll have to get a refill from Walter.

“I don’t know exactly how to tell you this. But Hillary’s dead.”

“She’s
what
?” Ellis stood up, knocking over his glass of juice. He looked at the wet stain on the carpet in shock. The rug was a genuine Persian; his wife had expensive tastes. He was struck with a profound weariness, and a sense of foreboding. Oscar Wilde had it right: When the gods want to punish us, they answer our prayers.

“Sit down, lad. She became ill on the flight back from Havana. She was on life support until Friday morning, when she finally passed away. She didn’t suffer, if that helps. She never regained consciousness.”

Ellis sank back into his chair. “I can’t believe it,” he breathed. “Why didn’t someone tell me?”

“Her parents didn’t know she was in the hospital until the day she died, Michael. They thought she was in Cuba with you, having a marvellous vacation. Once they found out, they couldn’t
reach you; the consulate didn’t know where you were staying. I wanted to come to tell you in person. I’m so sorry.”

“But I phoned here; I left messages. All my mother-in-law had to do was check the answering machine and she would have known Hillary had caught an early flight. June was supposed to be looking after the place, making it look lived-in while we were away.”

Ellis walked over to the old black answering machine. A red light blinked. He pushed a button and heard his own metallic voice.

“Hillary. It’s Mike. I’m calling from the Parque Ciudad Hotel. I need to talk to you right away—” He hit “skip.” A beep. The same voice, the same plea. And then a series of urgent messages from the General Hospital, asking him to call the critical care ward immediately.

“I know you feel like blaming someone,” said O’Malley, “but sometimes things like this happen. It’s no one’s fault.”

“You said she got sick—sick from what?”

“They’re not sure yet. They’re running tests. It could have been food poisoning.”

“But that’s insane,” said Ellis. “Hillary hardly ate anything in Cuba. She peeled every piece of fruit, for Christ’s sake. She wouldn’t even brush her teeth with the tap water. Besides, I was with her right up until she left for the hotel to pack to come home. We ate in all the same places.”

O’Malley shrugged. “Maybe something they served on the plane.”

“My God. I can’t believe it.” Ellis shook his head as tears filled his eyes. But they weren’t for his wife; they were for his partner. If Hillary hadn’t seduced him, Steve Sloan would be alive. “Where is she? Where’s the body?” He wanted to see for himself, to make sure.

“Ah, Michael, I’m sorry to tell you this. But the remains were cremated this morning. The coroner said they could go ahead; they’d done an autopsy. He’s still waiting on some results, but it looks like the finding will be undetermined or accidental death.”

“Cremated?” That was a shock. Ellis thought Hillary’s parents would have insisted on an open casket. With all the Botox his wife injected, he half expected O’Malley to tell him the funeral home had exploded. We should never have got married, he thought. Steve was right.

“Take a few days off, Michael. I know how bloody hard it’s been for you. And now this. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Ellis shook his head. “No, I’ll be alright, Chief. I think I’m going to sit down now and get drunk. Maybe you can stay and have a drink with me. It’s not quite the way I expected to celebrate the New Year.” He shook his head, unable to believe it. Erased into ashes.
Till death do us part.
“You’re right; it’s been tough.”

Ellis flashed back to the interrogation room; the stained, damp holding cell he’d shared with frightened Cubans. They’d jumped whenever they heard footsteps. Every backfire in the street had terrified him, reminding him of the very real prospect of being executed by a firing squad. He tried to control his breathing, to ease the pain at the top of his heart.

And now Hillary was dead. How was he supposed to react? He exhaled slowly, forcing the taut muscles above his heart to relax, willing himself to stay calm.

“Now, you know I’d never say no to a whisky, Michael.”

Ellis went to get the bottle while O’Malley called his man in to join them. Fate, it seemed, had a sense of humour. Sobriety would have to wait.

“Detective Ellis took it a lot better than I expected, Chief,” said Constable Mullins as he staggered down the driveway, two empty
bottles later. “He sure got mangled up in that ‘trouble with man’ call, didn’t he?”

O’Malley nodded. “It’s hard to know what’s going on in that head of his sometimes because of it. He was a handsome lad once. I can’t imagine what it’s like, living every day with that disfigurement. I’m sure he thinks of his best friend every time he looks in the mirror.”

“Can’t they do something about those scars with plastic surgery?”

“Now, that I don’t know. He’s still recovering, Martin. I’m worried about him. First Steve was killed and Michael so badly mutilated in the same attack. And now his own wife has passed away without him even knowing. He’s a good man, but there’s only so much anyone can handle before they break. Best give me the keys, man. You’re starting to weave.”

Mullins handed the car keys over sheepishly. He stepped around to the passenger side of the unmarked car. O’Malley folded himself into the driver’s seat.

“She was gorgeous, that wife of his. I could never be anywhere near her for more than a minute or two before I had to excuse myself and find a place to settle down, if you know what I mean. Thick blonde hair, long legs, a little thin for my taste, but a lovely woman nonetheless. I’ll tell you this, whatever they say in public, a lot of officers’ wives will be glad she won’t be flirting with their husbands at the Christmas parties anymore. My own included.”

The patrolman turned his head towards Ellis’s house as he pulled his car door closed. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what, son? I don’t hear anything. Too late for fireworks. It’s long past midnight.”

“It must be my imagination. I could have sworn I heard him laughing.”

FOUR

Inspector Ricardo Ramirez rolled out of bed, groaning. He walked heavily to the kitchen and picked up the phone, scratching himself sleepily.

“This is the clerk to the Minister of the Interior,” a woman said. “The minister wants to see you immediately. He is extremely busy, comrade, getting ready for the Liberation Day festivities. You should be grateful he is taking time from his busy schedule to interrupt your holiday.”

Unfortunately for Ramirez, Francesca did not share his gratitude. Examining a corpse at a crime scene, even one so badly decomposed, he thought later, would have been preferable.

“I’m sorry, Francesca,” he said, as his wife walked into the kitchen, her hair tousled, “but I have to meet with the Minister of the Interior. It shouldn’t take long.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You promised we would go to the opera today, Ricardo. Can’t they leave you alone for a single day?”

“I’ll get the tickets as soon as we’re finished, I promise.”

“You’d better hope there are still tickets left,” she said, frowning. “I’ll believe you once we are actually sitting in the
theatre, listening to the Peachums plot to murder their son-in-law for his money.”

Ramirez kissed her on the side of the mouth. “Sweetheart, I’d better get dressed and get going or I’ll be late.”

“Will he even notice if you’re not there?” she said. “That man is such an idiot.”

Ramirez dashed down the three flights of stairs to the street and started up his car. He drove quickly through Old Havana, steering the mini-car around ancient taxis, his hand kept firmly on the horn.

The small blue car sliced cleanly through crowds of hungover, sunburned revellers who made the nearly fatal mistake of thinking the sidewalks were safe. Ramirez was amused at how quickly even non-athletic, middle-aged men leaped out of the way like Chinese acrobats as the car hurtled to its destination. But being late for a meeting with a member of the inner Cabinet was at least a disciplinary offence, if not a capital one.

The dead cigar lady slid sideways on the passenger seat. She clung to the door handle as the car skidded to a stop. Ramirez had not yet been able to get her to communicate with him. She seemed to think the large knife sticking out of her chest was all he needed to know.

In the hours since she’d materialized in the police parking lot, she’d spent most of her time looking disappointed in him. She must have been someone’s mother-in-law, thought Ramirez. That look of stark disapproval, conveyed with a single raised eyebrow, took years to perfect.

Ramirez was regularly haunted by the ghosts of crime victims. His Vodun slave grandmother had warned him they would come—messengers sent by Eshu, the Cuban
orisha
in charge
of the crossroads. It was her gift to Ramirez as the eldest son. Although he sometimes thought it was his curse.

Ramirez had been raised a Catholic, despite the government ban on Catholicism. His father was Catholic. But his African grandmother had believed in Santería. This had caused consternation on the part of his mother, who had enthusiastically embraced the Cuban policy of official atheism.

“The true mystery of the world is what we see, Ricky, not what we don’t,” his mother warned him after his beloved
mamita
died. She placed little stock in superstition, none in ghosts. “Your grandmother’s illness made her believe many things that weren’t true.”

“But Papi believes in God, and Fidel Castro says God isn’t real either,” the confused boy protested.