“I took yesterday off to watch the parade. I agreed to work switchboard all week to make up for it.”
The first day of January was Liberation Day, the anniversary of the Cuban Revolution. It was forty-eight years since Fidel Castro toppled Batista’s dictatorship and imposed his own. It had been a classic bait-and-switch, thought Ramirez, who admired Castro’s ingenuity.
“Ah, yes, the commemoration of the revolution. I missed the parade, unfortunately,” said Ramirez, although he wasn’t at all disappointed. Just one of Fidel Castro’s speeches could seem as if it lasted for weeks.
But Castro was still recovering from an undisclosed illness. His brother, Raúl, was the acting president. This had changed the
usual dynamics. When imagining a future without Fidel Castro, Cubans alternated between hope and fear.
“Were there the typical speeches?”
“Of course,” said Sophia. “But much shorter with El Comandante in the hospital. Raúl only spoke for three or four hours. I hear you are going to Canada soon, Inspector.” She sounded wistful. “I hope someday I can leave the island, too. To see what it’s like to live in a country that has cows and chickens. Sometimes I think I would kill for a pencil.”
Ramirez chuckled. “I’m sure that day will come, Sophia. Not when you will kill someone for—or even with—a pencil, but when we will be able to travel more easily. Things are changing quickly. The fact that I’m going to Canada is proof of that. Don’t be envious. A week ago, I expected to enjoy the first days of the New Year drinking
añejo
. Now it looks as if I will spend it in a country whose citizens come here to get away from their harsh winters. I’m starting to wonder just which
orisha
I have offended.”
Sophia chuckled. “Did you throw out a bucket of water on New Year’s Eve?”
“Of course,” Ramirez said. “But we had to pull ours from the ocean. We had no running water.”
The Cuban custom was to wash away bad luck by throwing water out the window at the stroke of midnight. Maybe that’s why Cubans are so unlucky, thought Ramirez. We seldom have clean water to throw away.
“Enjoy your trip,” Sophia said, as she transferred the incoming call. “Be sure to come back. Not everyone does.”
“
Hola
, Señora Jones,” said Ramirez warmly. “I was planning to call you. I should be arriving in Ottawa around 11
P.M
. tomorrow night, but my visit will be brief. I have to fly back Friday evening.”
“I wanted to call you as soon as I heard. One of our detectives has been assigned to take you around to your meetings with the RCMP. His name is Charlie Pike. He’s aboriginal.”
“An Aborigine? From Australia?” asked Ramirez, puzzled.
“No, sorry, not Aborigine. Indian. I guess ‘First Nations’ is the politically correct term these days.”
So Ramirez would be working with an indigenous police detective. He had not known there was such a thing. There were no indigenous people left in Cuba; the Tainos were extinct.
“I thought perhaps Señor Ellis would be working on this case. As I recall, he’s in your Sex Crimes Unit, isn’t he? Is that not the unit dealing with the arrest of Rey Callendes?”
“Oh, I thought you knew. But of course, how could you? Mike’s on bereavement leave. His wife died while he was in Cuba.” Jones hesitated. “She took ill on the plane. Everyone’s shocked. She was only thirty-nine.”
“Died of what?” Ramirez glanced at the two small black audiotapes sitting on his desk.
“The chief medical examiner is waiting for lab results to find out for sure, but they seem to think it was food poisoning. All I’ve heard is that she had really high blood pressure and deep-pink skin. She was in a coma from the moment she stepped off the plane.”
The image of a zombie—the undead dead—lurching down the airplane steps crossed Ramirez’s mind. But he doubted that was what Señora Jones meant.
“Poor Mike,” she continued. “He didn’t even know she’d been sick until he got back to Canada. By then, she’d already been cremated.”
“Even without knowing the cause of death?”
“The coroner’s office did an autopsy. There was nothing to suggest foul play. They don’t keep a body long if they don’t have to.”
“Señor Ellis must be stunned.” And maybe even relieved, thought Ramirez. Death was much less expensive than divorce in a country like Canada, from what Ramirez understood. In Cuba, people simply separated, with regrets that things didn’t work out. With so little property to fight over, a few pesos to a notary and it was done. But Ramirez had heard stories of how vicious North American lawyers could be about such matters.
“Honestly? I don’t think it’s hit him yet,” said Jones. “Anyway, it’s not Mike’s unit that’s handling the Callendes matter but the RCMP. They’re the ones who arrested him at the airport. We’re working with them because we have overlapping jurisdiction.”
Ramirez picked up one of the black cassette tapes and rolled it in his fingers.
Ordinarily, given the circumstances and timing of Hillary Ellis’s sudden death, Ramirez would be suspicious. But Ellis had a strong alibi. Ramirez and Sanchez had personally investigated his whereabouts for the hours leading up to Arturo Montenegro’s death, from the time the couple argued on the Malecón to the wife’s early departure to Canada.
Still, that would be impressive, thought Ramirez. If Ellis had found a way to murder his spouse from another country, he was a genius. He decided to mention it to Apiro, who was good at puzzles.
Ramirez glanced at the cigar lady, raising his eyebrows. She shrugged her shoulders. As he watched, the old woman removed the flower from her bandana. She plucked at the petals as if playing the children’s game his American mother had taught his sister when they were small.
He loves me, he loves me not.
“Tell me, will I be able to shop during my brief visit? Francesca has perfume and chocolates on her list, but I think she would settle for soap. Getting soap here requires one to line up for hours at a
bodega
.”
“Absolutely. Where will you be staying?”
“Somewhere downtown. It sounds like a French castle.” Ramirez shuffled through the papers on his desk, looking for the reservation.
“You must mean the Chateau Laurier. It’s a great old hotel. It’s supposed to be haunted by the ghost of its founder. He died on the
Titanic
a week or so before it opened. Some people swear there’s a dead child there, too.” She chuckled. “I hope you’re not afraid of ghosts.”
“Not at all,” said Ramirez. “But our government would never let them stay at a tourist hotel.”
Jones laughed. “You’ll be right across the street from the Rideau Centre. It has every type of retail you can imagine: restaurants, clothing, shoe stores.”
“Excellent,” said Ramirez, pleased. If he brought home
tacos
, women’s shoes, all would be forgiven.
“By the way, Alex and I have three tickets to the opera on Thursday night at the National Arts Centre. It’s
Pagliacci
. Would you care to join us? We can go out to dinner first. Celebrate your visit to Canada.”
“How kind of you.” Opera was Ramirez’s passion. It was the original basis of his friendship with Apiro, since he had proven wholly incompetent at chess. And
Pagliacci
was one of his favourites, an opera about a play within a play. Canio, acting out his role as an actor in the internal play, killed his real wife and lover in his jealousy over their off-stage affair.
“Yes, of course I’d love to come. My wife and I went to see
The Beggar’s Opera
at the Gran Teatro yesterday. Do you know it?”
“I love it,” Jones said. “I saw the one where Macheath died at the end instead of being let out of jail.”
“Ah, yes. It’s one of those operas where the ending can change.
I had not heard of that particular version,” said Ramirez. “But the theatre owner and the writer of the original opera were Gay and Rich, which I found amusing.”
Ramirez glanced at the spectre. With the burned end of her cigar, she pointed to the knife buried in her chest and then impatiently at his watch. She’s lost her life, but not her personality, thought Ramirez. His Vodun grandmother had always said it was easier to change a person’s future than their personality.
“The one we saw was terrific,” said Jones. “All the main female characters were really men. And the audience was supposed to call out warnings like, ‘Watch out, he’s behind you!’ ‘Don’t drink it!’”
The dead woman threw the flower at his feet and applauded madly. It’s as if she’s watching a performance, thought Ramirez. What is she trying to tell me?
“I will look forward to it. And please pass on my condolences to Señor Ellis if you see him. I can’t imagine how I would manage if something happened to my Francesca.”
Ramirez looked again at the small black tape in his hand. When Ellis confessed to Ramirez, Ellis had no idea Hector Apiro was standing on the other side of the mirrored glass in the interview room holding a tape recorder. Ramirez slipped the tape into his inside jacket pocket. He still wasn’t sure how he was going to carry out his assignment. But if Canada was anything like Cuba, it couldn’t hurt to have a little leverage.
“Before we say goodbye, Señora Jones,” said Ramirez, “I have some news for you about the child in the orphanage. I’m afraid it is not good.”
A hesitation on the other end of the line. “Your government won’t let her go?”
Ramirez described the child’s medical issues.
“But that’s outrageous,” Jones said, shocked. “She’s dying because she can’t get antibiotics?”
“I agree,” said Ramirez, “but there is nothing we can do about it. It’s because of the trade embargo. As you know, we are very short of supplies, including medicine.”
“Couldn’t Alex and I bring her to Canada for surgery and adopt her here?”
“I’m afraid adoptions these days can be quite political. Fidel Castro has personally intervened to prevent any child from leaving Cuba since the 1960s, ever since Operation Peter Pan. The Catholic Church persuaded Cubans to send thousands of children to the United States for a better life, but many were abused.”
“Is it a matter of paying someone money?”
“It’s not that simple,” said Ramirez.
Jones sighed. “Now that I know all of this, I want that little girl in Canada more than ever.”
“I had not thought you would still wish to proceed, Señora Jones, once you found out how sick she is.”
“I probably forgot to tell you this, Inspector, but Alex is a cardiologist. That child deserves a chance with a family that will love her.”
“Let me speak to Dr. Apiro. He may be able to make the case for a medical transfer. Perhaps we can negotiate things from there. But you must understand, this won’t be easy.”
Almost as daunting as persuading a foreign lawyer to swear a false affidavit, thought Ramirez, as he hung up the phone. Although his odds of success might have dramatically improved. The child’s illness could bring him a step closer to securing the lawyer’s assistance.
He looked at the apparition. She held her cigar like a scalpel and drew an
X
across her chest.
NINE
Charlie Pike looked through his third-floor window. The back alley was dark and secluded this early in the day. It was littered with used condoms and dull needles that glittered dimly, frozen in the hard ice until spring thaw.
The old man didn’t know Pike was watching. But an elderly man who shot up in an alley behind a police station was definitely past caring. The old man was careful to tighten his tourniquet just so. He wanted to make sure the vein he chose was a good one.
You’ll have fewer and fewer to choose from, once they collapse, thought Pike. You’ll start using your toes, the backs of your legs. When you start injecting in your neck, you won’t have much time left. Maybe then I’ll find out your name.
The junkie plunged in the needle. Pike watched his expression change, saw the pain melt from the old man’s face as the drug took hold.
A hooker weaved unsteadily into the alley; she slipped a little on the ice. But the old man didn’t notice. He was essentially
gone
now. Still physically there, but mentally far away.
In a few minutes, when the rush wore off, the dull weight of
heroin would carry him back to earth, his euphoria gone. He would be heavy with exhaustion, lethargy.
The woman rifled through the man’s pockets for money that wasn’t there. She pulled out a new syringe in its plastic package and tottered back to the street triumphantly.
She was rock bottom too, Pike figured. Stealing another junkie’s fixings so she could escape for a few minutes from the emptiness and isolation of living in a mostly white world.
Pike shook his head. The bulletin board in the Rideau Regional Police Homicide Unit was full of posters of missing Anishnabe women. They had hitchhiked from their remote reserves to the city. They couldn’t wait one more day, one more hour, to have something
more
.
The hooker was still alive. That made her one of the lucky ones. She just didn’t know it.
He could arrest her for theft, but the City of Ottawa was about to start a program to give clean needles to addicts anyway. And the old man would forgive her; he had no interest in white man’s justice.
In a few minutes, Detective Charlie Pike would walk downstairs to make sure the old man was okay. He’d stop at the canteen to buy him soup, or coffee, as he had done every day that week and the one before. He’d give him some money, make sure the old man had enough blankets to keep his legs warm.
It was doubtful the old man was hungry, or that he noticed the cold much anymore. Smack did that. It killed your appetite first. Then your soul.
But Pike’s father had been Ojibway. Anishnabe. And Charlie Pike had been raised to make sure that elders were fed first.
The old man had initially refused to accept Pike’s food. Instead, he’d carefully placed the hot soup on the frozen ground, an
offering to the
manitous
. He had the translucent look of those with little time left. He wasn’t as old as Pike had thought when he first saw him at a distance. Maybe late sixties.
“I have nothing to give you back,” he said to Pike softly. “If I accept this, I will owe you.”