“Those extra beans in our rations were probably your fault, then,” said Ramirez. “I’m not sure if I should thank you. Do you think Señor Ellis could have somehow poisoned his wife’s food before she left Havana?”
“Perhaps,” Apiro nodded, puffing on his pipe, “but I don’t know how. It’s virtually impossible to obtain that form of cyanide here.”
Ramirez nodded slowly. “Come to think of it, the sniffing dogs at the airport picked up nothing in his baggage when he arrived here. Would they have detected it?”
“Of course, if they were trained to,” Apiro said. “Their noses are thousands of times more sensitive than our own. The beagle there is the best of the bunch. A remarkable animal, really. Highly cost-effective. He works for even less than we do.”
Ramirez laughed. His own salary was a little more than Apiro’s. But the beagle worked for scraps.
TWELVE
Celia Jones sat at her desk, buried behind stacks of paper. Theoretically, she was on vacation for another few days; in reality, the holiday was over.
She had hoped that preparing the tedious paperwork to account for her trip to Cuba would take her mind off little Beatriz’s illness. But itemizing her expenses for the Rideau Regional Police Force’s accounting department was proving torturous.
There were two official currencies in Cuba. The tourist peso, the CUC, was the one foreigners were required to use. It was illegal for Cubans to have even one in their possession. The CUC was worth fifteen to twenty times as much as the domestic peso, but the rate fluctuated all the time.
Despite the laws against it, she’d paid for some things in Havana with domestic pesos and others with CUCs. Only the Parque Ciudad Hotel had provided her with receipts. She’d be tied up for months trying to get reimbursed. A Cuban dictatorship had nothing on Ottawa bureaucrats.
An email from O’Malley pinged in her inbox. “Stop by when you have a moment. Miles.”
“You are rescuing me from accounting hell,” she typed back, and hit “send.”
She stood up and stretched. She walked down the hall, said hello to Clare, and poked her head through O’Malley’s open door.
The police chief sat behind a large desk, chewing on a pencil. He’d quit smoking now that it was illegal in public buildings. He claimed it was a selfish pleasure that never satisfied him anyway.
“What’s up?”
“I had the dearly departed’s mother here first thing this morning. Practically frothing at the mouth. She swore at me so much, I thought she might have Tourette’s. She wants us to lay murder charges.” O’Malley leaned back in his chair and folded his big hands behind his neck, grinning. “I was almost in fear for my own life.”
“Yeah, right.” O’Malley was as big as Paul Bunyan. Good looking, afraid of no one, thought Jones. A
guapo
, they would say in Cuba. “And just which dearly departed was that?”
“Hillary Ellis. June Kelly is her mother. She says Michael murdered her daughter. She gave me these.” He pointed to a sheaf of papers. “Apparently they came from his computer. Take a look for yourself.”
Jones flipped through the pages. A guide to do-it-yourself poisoning. She burst out laughing.
“Buy a poison-dart frog on the internet and throw it at someone? Collect snake venom? I love this one: make your own ‘posin out of caster beens.’ Personally, I wouldn’t take advice on how to get away with murder from someone who can’t spell. I don’t mean to be rude, but is this woman nuts? She can’t expect you to take this kind of nonsense seriously.”
“She was quite rabid,” said O’Malley. “She told me she wanted to see Michael fry as she slammed the door behind her. I didn’t
have the heart to tell her we don’t have capital punishment anymore. And that we never did have the electric chair.”
“Is she going to come after you now, if you ignore her allegations?”
Celia Jones’s job as the police department’s lawyer involved risk management. She was supposed to protect the Rideau Regional Police Force from lawsuits and bad press. And, wherever possible, from crazy old women.
“I may need to watch my food for a while,” O’Malley said, chuckling. “But seriously, it’s a sad situation. I assured her that we would keep her informed of whatever conclusions the Chief Medical Examiner’s Office reaches. If Ralph Hollands finds anything suspicious, I said we’ll follow up with her then.”
“I doubt there’s anything
to
find, Miles. Hillary got sick on a flight. I don’t see how Mike could have had anything to do with it.”
“I agree. But best if we keep on top of this. Look, Celia, can I leave it up to you to deal with Ralph? He may need help liaising with the Cuban authorities. I don’t think anyone in his office speaks Spanish. Mrs. Kelly is the type to go running to the media. You know what they’re like. They’ll publish just about any juicy allegation, truthful or not. And she’s full of them.”
“You mean full of
it
. In other words, you want me to deal with her so that you don’t have to.”
“You see? There’s that fine legal mind of yours at work.” O’Malley grinned. He looked at his appointment book and scribbled down a number on a pad. He tore off a page and handed it to Jones. “Here. They own a drugstore. She said it’s best to call her there; the home number’s unlisted.”
“For this, you owe me,” Jones said. “I don’t suppose you have any pull with Accounting, do you?”
THIRTEEN
Inspector Ramirez removed his jacket and unbuttoned the collar of his cotton shirt. With the wind finally calm, it was a scorchinghot day. Even the cooler rooms of the beautiful multi-turreted building that served as police headquarters were hot and humid behind the thick stone walls.
A green gecko hung upside down by the cracked window, breathing lightly. Ramirez ignored the small intruder and sat behind his desk.
The Minister of the Interior had instructed Ramirez to deduct the cost of his airfare from the Major Crime Unit’s already meagre annual budget. Ramirez would need to complete a mountain of documents to explain the reason he was transferring funds out of the country or risk being investigated by Cuban Intelligence for fraud.
That would be embarrassing, Ramirez thought. I would have to bribe them to drop the investigation. That’s when stealing money from the exhibit room
would
be a necessity.
A tall Afro-Cuban man knocked on Ramirez’s open door. “Inspector Ramirez? Do you have a moment?”
The man wore a light coloured shirt and a black suit that had
seen better days. It was stained with ingrained dirt on the pant legs and jacket cuffs. But Ramirez could hardly criticize him for that. All Cubans had problems keeping their good clothes clean, with dry cleaners few and far between and the continual shortage of laundry soap. Some used diesel, which worked well but smelled, and there was always the danger of exploding into flames if someone nearby lit up a cigar. Dressing well was a risky business.
“Yes?” Ramirez looked behind the stranger. He had no police escort, which meant he had to be a plainclothes policeman from another division.
“My name is Juan Tranquilino Latapier. I have been sent here from El Gabriel,” the man confirmed. “I understand you are investigating the death of an old woman who was stabbed with a fish knife?”
“News travels fast,” said Ramirez. “Yes, the body was found early yesterday.” He was surprised a detective from a small village outside Havana had heard of the murder.
The tall man smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. “I have a similar file, although mine involves two children. Both were stabbed to death, but in one case the knife was left behind in the body. I understand that was the same with your victim. I am only in Havana for a few hours, but I thought perhaps we could assist each other. Share information.”
“Of course, Juan. Please, sit down. Tell me more about your investigation.”
Latapier sat across from the inspector on one of the two badly worn upholstered chairs. “The two children were murdered about a year ago. The first was a little girl named Zoila. You may have heard of this. It caused quite a stir locally.”
“Zoila?” Ramirez cast his mind back. The name was vaguely familiar. “I think I read about it, probably in a police report.”
“She was barely four years old when her body was found. She
was disemboweled in her own backyard, the heart cut from her chest.”
“That’s disgusting,” said Ramirez, thinking of his little daughter, Estella. “What kind of monster would do such a thing?”
“Well, that’s the problem; I don’t know for sure. The locals believed that
brujos
took her body parts as amulets and used her blood in their cures. But only a few weeks later, a second child was killed, a ten-year-old. She was mutilated the same way, only this time a fish knife was left behind, stuck in her heart. The second death happened while the suspects in Zoila’s murder were in jail. They were convicted of Zoila’s murder. Their appeal is being argued this week.”
“I see.” Ramirez thought for a moment. “And when you heard of this woman’s murder, you wondered if a mistake had been made in the convictions. Because of the knife.”
Juan Latapier nodded. “Exactly. The suspects had strong alibis, although the judges disbelieved them. I believe the two deaths are connected, and that the bodies were mutilated to cast blame on the
brujos
. I want to be sure, in my own mind, that these men are guilty before they are executed.”
He’s principled, thought Ramirez. Which was almost as unusual in the Cuban National Revolutionary Police Force as someone leaving behind a perfectly good knife at a crime scene.
“Interesting. We don’t yet know who our victim was,” said Ramirez. “I was planning to have one of my men go through missing persons reports. We’ve had Patrol asking questions doorto-door, but with no results. She was found in an alley near the Callejón sin salida. Because of this, I’m not completely sure how rigorous the inquiries have been. Blind Alley makes some of our officers nervous.”
Latapier nodded. “I have never been there, but I have heard it is a place where the spirits gather.”
Ramirez glanced at his watch. Juan Latapier’s visit was a welcome excuse to ignore his paperwork and do some real police work before he left for Canada the next day.
“Look, I have a car with a full tank of petrol. Why don’t we drive over there and see what we can find out?”
Latapier spread his arms wide. He smiled and bowed slightly. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Excellent,” said Ramirez, reaching for his jacket. “But don’t be surprised if they refuse to talk to us.”
“They won’t talk to me,” Latapier nodded. “But they may talk to you.”
“Excuse me for asking, Juan, but how long have you worked in El Gabriel?” Ramirez put his arms through the sleeves of his jacket. “I usually stop in your station whenever I go by. I don’t recall seeing you.”
“I’ve been there for years, but I’m almost always in court.”
“I apologize, then. You must be older than you appear.”
Latapier laughed. “I used to be heavier, too.”
Juan Latapier folded himself into Ramirez’s small car. “There was almost no blood on our victim’s clothing,” Ramirez explained. “Our pathologist says she was already dead when she was stabbed.”
“What was she wearing?”
Ramirez used his side-view mirror to check the corpse in the back seat. His rear-view mirror was missing, and it had proven impossible to find a replacement. The old woman waved at him and waggled her fingers.
“A long white dress with ruffles. No sleeves. And a white bandana with a big white fabric flower on it. She looks like a cigar lady.” He smiled at her reflection. “Too old to be a bride.”
The elderly cigar ladies were famous in Havana. They wore fancy clothing and flowers and carried giant cigars. They were
always happy to let tourists take their photographs in exchange for a few pesos.
“Our pathologist says she could have been seventy or eighty; it’s hard to say. You know how badly the cigar ladies age. There was something strange, though,” said Ramirez, steering his small car down the Avenida del Puerto. “Her head was shaved bald.”
“Hmmm,” said Latapier. “White is the colour worn by initiates into Santería. They shave their heads so that the
orishas
can enter their bodies more easily.”
“An
ahijado
?”
It hadn’t occurred to Ramirez, but Latapier could be right. Being initiated required a full week of praying, divining the future with shells, and animal sacrifices.
The most devout believers dressed in white for three months while they dedicated themselves to a particular
orisha
. They acted like antennas whenever their god wished to communicate with mortals. A shaved head was supposed to provide better reception.
Before it merged with Catholicism to become Santería, the Yoruba religion had hundreds of gods. Only a few dozen remained. Even most baptized Cubans wore bead bracelets or necklaces reflecting which one they followed.
Ramirez glanced again at the old lady reflected in his side mirror. She wore three strands of beads around her neck—red, black, and white. Eshu’s colours, thought Ramirez. She was brave. Few wore them, for fear of accidentally invoking him. If you stamped your feet three times, it was said he would come. But given Eshu’s role as the intermediary between the living and the dead, this could have unpredictable results.
It made Ramirez wonder if the angry old woman had stamped her feet once too often.
FOURTEEN
As she walked back to her office, Celia Jones thought about Hillary Ellis’s sudden death. June Kelly was right about one thing: Mike and his wife had some serious marital problems.
Jones had read all the psychiatric and medical reports in Mike’s file. She’d relied on one of them to prove his innocence in Cuba: a fertility test that established his blood type.
Mike had been on disability leave from the Rideau Regional Police for months. In June 2006, when he was still in Patrol, he and his partner, Steve Sloan, were dispatched to a “trouble with man” call in a Lowertown walk-up. The two constables were standing at the top of the stairs when the suspect opened his door and slashed Mike in the face. In the scuffle, Sloan’s gun discharged, wounding Sloan. He bled to death before the ambulance got there. Despite his serious injuries, Mike shot and killed the suspect. The first policeman on the scene found Mike crying in a pool of blood, cradling Sloan’s head in his lap.