He did write to his other sister, who had stayed behind with her husband. But he always said
Devlin had been a newly made detective, working in the same squad, when street punks in a Harlem tenement had gunned down Rudolfo “Rudy” Mendez. Adrianna’s father had been a homicide detective on his way to make a fairly routine arrest, when he and his partner had stumbled on a drug buy. Both detectives had been killed without ever having a chance to draw their weapons.
Devlin had known Adrianna years before. They had been lovers then, he a young cop, she a graduate student and aspiring painter. But the relationship ended abruptly. Adrianna had given Devlin the news simply and directly. She wanted a different life-different from everything she had known as a child. And that life did not include living with a cop.
Years later Devlin had met Mary, the woman who would become his wife, and he was finally able to push Adrianna from his mind. Then a drunk driver had killed Mary, leaving him with their small daughter. Adrianna had come to his wife’s funeral, and when Phillipa, still a toddler, had begun to fuss, she had taken the child outside. Devlin had found them sitting on the grass, searching for four-leaf clovers. Phillipa had already found two, and the smile on her face had softened all the grief and misery of the day.
A year later Devlin found himself at Rudy Mendez’s funeral. Unable to find a baby-sitter, he brought Phillipa with him, and when the services ended, Adrianna had sought the child out. It was as though her new status as an orphan had required her to hold a child in her arms-perhaps just to give the kind of comfort she would never again know.
Still, despite obvious mutual attraction, Devlin and Adrianna’s own relationship had not rekindled, and several years passed before the vagaries of fate-and the madness of a serial killer-brought them together again.
Devlin’s reverie was broken by the appearance of Arnaldo Martinez. The major was again dressed as he had been the night before-rumpled and threadbare, a perfect match to his world-weary face and mournful eyes.
Today Martinez had opted for a pale blue shirt, missing one button and hanging outside brown trousers that Ollie Pitts would have described as “shit-colored.” Devlin studied the untucked shirt. He wondered if it was used here as it would be by a New York cop-to conceal a weapon. There was no way to tell. If Martinez was carrying, it was probably an automatic, stuck into his trousers flat against his lower back. He gestured to a chair and offered Martinez coffee.
The major accepted with obvious gratitude, then smiled in turn at Adrianna and Devlin. “I am pleased you have both decided to assist me,” he began.
Devlin cut him off. “We haven’t decided anything. Not until you’ve explained some things.”
“Of course. That is understood.” Martinez held his sad smile.
“Number one.” He paused to emphasize that more than one explanation was needed, then leaned toward Martinez and softened his tone. “First, we need to know your involvement in this. Your official involvement. And we need to know Cabrera’s involvement.
A waiter brought coffee, and Martinez sat smiling and silent until he had left.
“Let me explain our police structure first. When you understand this, you will understand who Cabrera is. And who I am. Perhaps then you will better understand what I am doing, and why it must be so.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “First, you must understand that there are many police agencies in Cuba-nine that are known to the people, and one more that officially does not exist. All come under the Ministry of Interior.”
He raised a finger, then clasped it with his other hand. “First is the national police, in which I serve. We have a simple duty. We are to protect our citizens against crime.” He released his finger and waved his hand in dismissal. “Next are several police agencies that do not concern us. The coast guard, fire protection, the immigration police, all of whose functions are explained by their names. Then there are political police. They deal in propaganda and in making sure the attitudes of the government personnel do not become anti-revolutionary or revisionist.” He shrugged. “The mind police.” He laughed at the term. “Most Cubans today listen to what they say, and then ignore them.”
He leaned even closer to the table. “Now we come to the more serious and more secret agencies. First is the intelligence service.” Another shrug. “Our spies. Next is the counterintelligence service. Our spy catchers. And finally is our Office of Internal Security, or State Security. These are the people who watch everything that goes on inside Cuba, and who are responsible for serious crimes against the government. And it is this organization in which Colonel Antonio Cabrera serves as number two in command.”
“And the unofficial police agency?” Devlin asked.
“This is the Departamento Tecnico de Investigacion, the DTI, more commonly known as our secret police.” Martinez smiled across the table. “The DTI have no offices, but work out of ordinary-looking houses in utmost secrecy. No one, except their own officers, knows who is a member. Those who are, are drawn from other police agencies and each of the various ministries, where they all continue to work, supposedly undetected. It is their job to watch the people who are watching everyone else. And they answer to no one except the highest people in the government. It is said that evidence presented against you by the DTI assures that you are doomed.”
“Sounds like the man in charge pretty much holds the fate of everyone in his hands,” Devlin said.
Martinez inclined his head. “If he has done what I believe he has, even he is vulnerable.”
“So, who is he?”
Martinez smiled. “It is a secret, of course. One that only the highest people in our government are supposed to know.”
“But you know.”
“Yes,” Martinez said. “I know. The head of our secret police is Colonel Antonio Cabrera.”
“And
“I was told several years ago, by someone high in our government. Someone who trusted me, and who believed that certain things were happening in our government that could destroy the revolution.” He turned to Adrianna. “I was told by your aunt. Maria Mendez.”
Adrianna seemed at a loss for words. “She would know something like that?” she finally asked.
Martinez let out a long sigh. “There was very little that our Red Angel did not know.”
“And what was she afraid was happening?” Devlin asked.
Martinez gave him a regretful look. “That, my friend, I cannot tell you. Let us just say it is something that could jeopardize the security of my country. So, in this matter, I will have to ask you to trust me.”
Devlin sat back and stared at this small, sad, middle-aged man. Trust you, he thought. I don’t even know you. “And why should we trust you?” he asked.
Martinez made a helpless gesture with his hands. Devlin suspected that his helplessness was as phony as his rumpled clothing and mournful eyes. “I believe you should trust me, because in this matter we have a common interest. Finding the body of Maria Mendez.”
“Do you believe she died as a result of a car accident?” Devlin held his gaze, searching for a lie.
Martinez shook his head. “But I cannot prove this. Not yet.”
“Who would have wanted her dead?”
A sly look came to Martinez’s eyes. It seemed so out of character it was almost comical. “Perhaps the same person who is now charged with finding her corpse.”
“Cabrera,” Adrianna said.
“This is what the investigation by the national police has found?” Devlin asked.
“There has been no investigation by the national police,” Martinez said. “The matter was taken from us before any investigation could begin. It was given to State Security. The explanation we received is the same one Cabrera gave last night. That the theft of the Red Angel’s body is somehow an act against the government.”
“Have you gone to anyone with your suspicions?” Adrianna asked.
“Ah, senorita. And who would I go to? Someone that I know for certain is not a member of Cabrera’s secret police? And who would that be?”
“So who’s working with you?” Devlin asked.
