The Poisoned Pawn (21 page)

“I’ll do what I can, Ricardo. But as I explained before, Canadian laws are a problem when it comes to personal information. Almost fanatical. I’ve asked them once already and they refused.”

“It could be a matter of life and death. Hector has found a connection. Nicole Caron stayed at the Parque Ciudad Hotel around the same time as Señora Ellis.”

He didn’t tell her they had stayed in the same room. He didn’t want to accuse Michael Ellis of murder a second time, unless he was absolutely sure. Not after the first mistake.

“Oh, wow, I stayed in that hotel, too. That can’t be coincidental.” “I don’t think so. But we need to get those reports to Hector so he can find out for sure.”

“Let me think.” A long pause. “Alright. Listen, O’Malley knows the chief medical examiner really well. He and Ralph Hollands are good friends; they always golf together. I’ll call O’Malley right away and see what he can do. Maybe he can get them through a back channel, once Dr. Hollands knows what we’re up against. What exactly does Dr. Apiro need? Let me get a pen.” He heard her shuffling through papers. “I’m back. Go ahead.”

“The toxicological reports from Señora Ellis’s autopsy and the analysis of her tissue and blood. Gas chromatography test results. If they were done, he says they should have them by now.”

“The Chief Medical Examiner’s Office is going to be really concerned about the link he’s found to that hotel. The Canadian Public Health Agency won’t be able to defend itself if another Canadian dies because it hoarded information. The authorities here got hammered for that a few years ago, after the Walkerton crisis. It’s a long story, but there was a commission of inquiry into deaths from tainted water and the federal and provincial governments withheld information from each other. But if it’s something in the hotel that’s poisoning guests, there’s no reason for a general travel advisory, is there? Couldn’t you just close down the hotel until your people find out what it is?”

“All we know so far,” said Ramirez, “is that Hector has found a link to the hotel, but only between the two Canadian women. We have to assume the problem is more widespread because of Rita Martinez’s death. So far there’s nothing to connect her to the other women or the hotel.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

After he hung up, Ramirez called the Minister of the Interior’s office.

After consulting with the minister, the minister’s clerk confirmed she would prepare a letter to the Canadian Attorney General for the minister’s signature stating that Rey Callendes
would not be executed if convicted in Cuba. Apparently, the minister didn’t care if that was true or not, as long as there were no political obstacles to the transfer. That made things simpler. She promised to fax the letter to the Canadian authorities as soon as it was signed.

Then Ramirez called Corporal Tremblay.

“We’ll have a response for you as soon as the Justice Department confirms receipt of the minister’s letter,” said Tremblay. “Things should move quickly. I’ll call you one way or the other before my shift ends at four. Where will you be?”

Ramirez looked at his watch. It was a quarter to one, and he was supposed to have checked out of his room by noon. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to get back to you.”

THIRTY - NINE

Detective Fernando Espinoza signed out a police car. “I’m sorry you had to wait so long,” the mechanic said, wiping his hands on a rag. “I had to change the oil filter. Actually, I had to invent one.” He grinned.

Detective Espinoza nodded. Mechanics were like
babalaos
. They worked magic, transforming bits of wire and cutlery into replacement parts. Very few new cars had been imported into Cuba in forty or fifty years, and yet somehow these wizards managed to keep the old ones running.

Espinoza checked the tank to make sure he had enough fuel for his trip. Nothing would be more embarrassing than to run out of gas the first time he drove an unmarked police car. He didn’t want to have to hitchhike back to Havana.

But it was early in the New Year and the tank was full with the month’s rations. The young detective was grateful. He did not have sufficient funds to purchase a tank of gas: three pesos was almost a week’s wages.

After leaving Havana, Espinoza put on the right turn signal and exited the
autopista
. The highway was almost empty except for clusters of tired Cubans waiting beside the road to catch rides.
It was illegal for a vehicle to drive by the
botellas
, the underpasses where hitchhikers waited, without picking up a passenger. Only
turistas
and police were exempt from this rule of polite behaviour.

The hard-packed dirt road wound up the hills to Viñales. He passed the occasional truck loaded with stalks of sugar cane.

The Viñales Valley was a World Heritage Site situated in the Sierra de los Organos. It was surrounded by
mogotes
, small mountains that looked like slightly flattened pincushions. Turkey vultures circled high above the mountains. The occasional mongoose and dozens of tree rats scurried through long grasses at the side of the road.

Espinoza drove past the mountain called Dos Hermanas, or the Two Sisters. The Mural de la Prehistoria painted on its side was commissioned by Fidel Castro. Leovigildo González, a student of Diego Rivera, completed it with the help of twenty or thirty locals, but even then it took years to finish. Castro thought the display would attract foreign tourists. Which it did. They came by the busload to laugh.

Four hundred feet high and six hundred wide, it was supposed to show the evolution of man: a tribute to Cuba’s indigenous people, the Tainos. It depicted how snails had evolved into red and yellow dinosaurs, and finally into two long-haired Taino Indians, a man and a woman, their skin bright red. Espinoza thought it was fortunate there weren’t any indigenous people left in Cuba to complain.

Oxen worked in the fields below, and the scent of tobacco teased the air. The barns were stuffed with tobacco leaves, drying from the harvest. A slight morning mist curled around the road.

Espinoza drove by the entrance to the Cueva del Indio, an impressive limestone cave with a river running through it. Once occupied by the Tainos, and now by thousands of bats, it was filled with stalactites and stalagmites as well as ancient cave
drawings. One had to take a boat to go all the way through it. A local legend suggested that if any water fell on the nose of a visitor, he would have good luck. Espinoza hoped there would be time to explore the cave before he returned to Havana. After what happened to Rita Martinez, he could use a little luck. He felt terrible that she had died.

Three hours after leaving Havana, he entered Viñales. All the houses in the village were painted in different colours. They were neat and trim, one of the benefits of so much tourism in a small village.

He found the orphanage easily. It was on the main road, a low building, surrounded by a metal fence. But he wasn’t really sure what he was looking for.

Inspector Ramirez had told him to find a little girl in a wheelchair, but that, and a child’s crumpled drawing, was the only description he had. “That picture was in the cigar lady’s apartment for a reason, Fernando,” Ramirez had said. “I’m sure of it.”

Espinoza was doubtful, but it was a nice day to be in the country, in the fresh air, away from the choking diesel fumes of Havana. He pulled the police car over to the side of the road.

Espinoza opened the iron gate and walked into the yard. He had assumed that children would be outside playing, but the grounds were empty. He walked up the path and rapped on a heavy wooden door.

“Yes?” said a woman, opening the door tentatively.

“My name is Detective Espinoza. I am with the Major Crimes Unit, Havana Division. I would like to visit one of your charges. A child in a wheelchair. A little girl.”

“Oh, thank God. I didn’t think he was going to call you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I would have contacted you directly,” the woman said, “but the priest said I should leave that to him. I thought it should be turned over to the police. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Because of my complaint?”

“What complaint is this?”

“A complaint I made to the Ministry of the Interior. About my suspicion that the children here were being abused. They transferred my call to someone who told me he would follow up. I told him about the time I saw the former administrator going into the dormitories at night when I was doing the laundry. I heard a little boy crying in the morning, and saw him rubbing his private parts. The church sent an elderly priest to look into it. He was a charming man. He said I must be mistaken but assured me he would look into it. Is that why you are here?”

“What was his name, this priest?” asked Espinoza, writing the information in his notebook. “And what is your name?”

“The priest’s last name was Callendes. My name is Teresa Diaz. I work down the street at the veterinary clinic, but I come here on the days that it’s closed. I help with cleaning and laundry. I like being with the children, and I need the extra money. Believe me,” she rolled her eyes, “it’s better than spending your entire day with pigs.”

“Rey Callendes?”

“Yes, that was it,” she said. She looked relieved. “Thank God. I was afraid for a moment I might have violated the oath he made me take. I had to swear not to tell anyone what I saw. But I felt it was my duty to report it. After all, I’m the captain of the local Committee for the Defence of the Revolution.”

“You acted properly, comrade. We appreciate your cooperation.”

Rey Callendes, thought Espinoza. That was the priest arrested in Canada for child pornography. He didn’t like the sound of
this. Children in orphanages were vulnerable to abuse; they were alone. Exposed.

“When was Padre Callendes here?”

“He arrived about two weeks ago. He stayed for a full week. And then they sent a new administrator to replace the one I complained about.”

“What was the name of the priest, the one they replaced?”

“Father Felipe Rubido. I don’t know where he is now. I assumed he had been arrested.”

“Who else knew of your complaint?”

“No one. Although Beatriz’s grandmother told me she has also complained to the ministry about the care children receive. She feels that Father Rubido hasn’t done enough for Beatriz because her father is in jail. But that’s not the government’s fault. There isn’t enough medication to treat any of the children properly when they get sick. We have the same problem at the veterinary clinic: not enough supplies. I told her I didn’t think the ministry could do anything to help Beatriz, and I was right. When the priest came, he said we should pray and the child would recover. But she gets worse every day.”

“Who is Beatriz?”

“The little girl you asked for. The one in the wheelchair.” She looked confused. “Beatriz Aranas. Why were you asking for her if you don’t know who she is? Did the ministry not send you?”

“I see no children. Where are they?” asked Espinoza, ignoring her questions.

“The new administrator has taken them to the Combinado del Este prison for the day. They have no mothers and their fathers are dissidents. That’s why they’re here. Not orphans, strictly speaking, but they have nowhere else they can live. Once every
few months, the children are permitted to visit their fathers. The new padre said he would take them there personally. He’s a very nice man. Not like Father Rubido, who was sometimes rude to the staff.”

“And what is the name of the girl’s grandmother?” asked Espinoza, making a note in his tidy script. “The one who made the complaint you mentioned.”

“Angela Aranas. But the children call her Mamita, because she brings them dolls.”

Espinoza thought for a moment. “Who was it that you complained to at the Ministry?”

“I don’t remember who I first spoke to, but I remember the officer I was referred to. He told me his name was Rodriguez Sanchez.”

Detective Espinoza wasn’t sure what to do next. He radioed the switchboard at police headquarters and asked to be patched through to Hector Apiro. He told the doctor what he’d found out.

“I suggest you come back to the city, Detective Espinoza. We need to track down this woman’s son. He needs to be informed of her death, prisoner or not. Inspector Ramirez will be returning later tonight. If you prepare a written report, I’ll make sure he sees it.”

“
Gracias
, Dr. Apiro. You know, I think our victim may have had enemies. She complained to the Ministry of the Interior about the conditions here, and she named names. Someone could have killed her to shut her up.”

“Perhaps,” said Apiro. “I have to leave police work to those more qualified than I. By the way, I found DNA on the knife handle. At the moment, I don’t know whose it is, only that it’s
male. If you identify a suspect, however, I can match the sample to his DNA, with 99.999 percent accuracy.”

“That’s good to know,” said Espinoza.

No time for caves, he thought, as he started the ignition. He grinned to himself. But maybe this time, I got lucky.

FORTY

Inspector Ramirez’s phone rang again as he was packing up his few belongings.

“O’Malley managed to get the records, ‘off the record,’” said Celia Jones. “Clare has already faxed them to Dr. Apiro’s office. But O’Malley says that Dr. Hollands has spoken to the head of the Canadian Public Health Agency, and it doesn’t matter whether it was a problem with the hotel or in the city of Havana generally. Our Foreign Affairs Department is going to issue a travel advisory before the end of the business day today. They have no choice now that there have been three suspicious deaths.”

“Do you know when exactly they plan to do this?” asked Ramirez.

“Well, it’s the Ottawa bureaucracy. And there’s a storm rolling in. The people at Foreign Affairs will probably close up around four. Maybe earlier, because of the weather.”

“That doesn’t give us much time,” Ramirez said, frustrated. It was only minutes before one o’clock. That gave Apiro less than three hours to compare and analyze the results.

“I’m sorry. Believe me, I know the effect a travel advisory will have on tourism.”