Pitts thought about it. “I don’t buy it. It doesn’t play.” He hesitated, forming his reasons. “Martinez is the one who tipped us that it might be John the Boss. If he was part of it, he would have known we’d tumble to that. It would have been a dumb move, and Martinez is too sharp for that.”
Devlin nodded, acknowledging the point. “He is sharp. No question about it. But it’s either that, or he’s being played for a stooge, too. Or maybe he’s got his own little game. And we just haven’t figured it out yet.”
“Okay, I’ll buy that. But if you’re right, we better find out what it is.” Pitts hesitated, then asked, “So whadda we do now?”
Devlin walked back toward the connecting door that led to his room. He looked back at Pitts. “Now we stop being tourists, and we start being cops,” he said.
14
The Red Angel’s house was on Fortieth Street, two doors in from Avenue Five in a seemingly prosperous area of Havana known as Miramar. It was a neighborhood dotted with foreign embassies and the occasional upscale restaurant. There were several small hotels catering to visiting foreign officials and businessmen, and along the nearby coast there were discreet private clubs-once a bastion of Batista’s oligarchy-that now served high-ranking Cuban officials who had modified their brand of socialism.
Mixed in were ordinary Cubans, just as poor and struggling as compatriots in more meager neighborhoods, many living on inadequate government pensions that forced them to seek out dollars wherever they could find them. Yet the homes of those in power showed none of that financial strain. They were large and well tended, with no battered automobiles parked out front awaiting repair. They were like the homes one would find in any affluent American neighborhood, and they seemed just as removed from everyday life.
“Your aunt lived well,” Devlin said as they looked up at the large modern stucco home that sat behind a high hedge. Devlin thought about Jose Tamayo, the “successful” writer they had visited only days ago. This was a far cry from the impoverished, firetrap apartment that housed his extended family.
“You are thinking, perhaps, there are contradictions in our socialism,” Martinez said.
“You read my mind, Major,” Devlin said.
Martinez made a helpless gesture with his hands. “You are right. Cuba has become a nation of contradictions. The government is dedicated to serving the people, but some in the government-those at its highest levels-live much better than the people they serve.” He removed a key from his pocket and opened a locked iron gate. “This was not always so, and it is something our Red Angel argued against. But come, I will show you.”
They entered the first floor and found themselves in a well-equipped clinic. The main rooms had been divided into a waiting room and four small examination cubicles. The large kitchen, in addition to a stove, refrigerator, and sink, also housed a laboratory.
Martinez turned to Adrianna and smiled. “Your aunt lived on the second floor, where you will find her private office, a sitting room, and two bedrooms. I have had blackout curtains installed over the louvered windows. It will be hot, but if you keep the curtains drawn, no one will know you are here. When the lights are out, you may open the curtains.”
“What about the neighborhood CDR man?” Devlin asked.
“He has been alerted,” Martinez said. “He will not mention your presence. Like many of our CDR officers, he was a close friend of our Red Angel, and is pleased to serve her visiting niece.”
“Why was my aunt close to the CDR?” Adrianna asked.
Martinez waved his hand, taking in the makeshift clinic. “Some in our government did not approve of her private activities. They felt it was critical of the overall system.” He raised his eyebrows, indicating another contradiction. “Many in our poorer neighborhoods are neglectful about the need to have their children inoculated against illness. And our hospitals are too large to keep track of them. Some of these people are simply suspicious, and others prefer to seek help from the Afro-Cuban religions. The Red Angel worked with Santeria priests and Palo Monte
“And when she was told to stop?” Adrianna asked.
“She laughed at them,” Martinez answered. “It is said Fidel, himself, questioned these activities, and was told to mind his own business.” Amusement came to his eyes. “There are not many in our government who do this, and in recent years their friendship became very strained. Mainly because of the embargo, and its effect on needed medical supplies.”
Adrianna wandered about the first floor, picking up various items-a stethoscope, a blood-pressure cuff, an occasional medical book-holding them as though they might impart something of her aunt, then returning them to their proper places, as if her aunt might need them when she returned.
Devlin took Martinez aside. “We need two cars,” he said. “Inconspicuous ones, nothing shiny and new that will attract attention. Rentals are fine, but I’ll want to rent them under phony names so Cabrera can’t trace them.”
“I can arrange this,” Martinez said. “Many individuals rent their cars. Some even serve as drivers. I will find two that are reliable.”
“I don’t want drivers,” Devlin said.
“I understand. There is a small park across from my headquarters. If you meet me there at three, I will have them for you.” He paused and gave Devlin a steady look. “You have something you are planning?” he asked.
Devlin inclined his head to one side. “We’re detectives. We’re going to detect.”
Martinez’s headquarters was located on Calle Zapata, only a few blocks from the cluster of government buildings that surrounded Fidel’s compound and the towering monument to Jose Marti. It was a large white two- story building that resembled a small castle, with four turrets, battlements along its flat roof, and a high arched entrance that lacked only a portcullis. Pitts had described the interior as “a typical cop shop” with an elevated front desk and waiting area, off which lay a rabbit warren of smaller squad rooms and offices. The basement housed individual cells and a large holding pen.
Devlin and Pitts found Martinez seated on a small bench, reading a battered paperback novel. There was a paper lunch bag next to him. He smiled as they approached and held up the cover of the book.
“One of Tamayo’s mysteries,” he said. He raised his chin toward his headquarters. “His detective is much smarter than any who work for me.”
“It’s the same with our mystery novels,” Devlin said. “Writers don’t like cops who wander around trying to figure out which end is up.”
Martinez laughed and tossed Devlin two sets of car keys. He raised his chin again, indicating two dust- covered cars parked in tandem, a tan Russian Lada, at least ten years old, and a dull blue Nissan Sentra of the same vintage.
“Good surveillance cars, no?” he said. “Very inconspicuous, very Cuban. Unfortunately, neither have air- conditioning. But all the windows open, which is not true of many Cuban cars.” He shrugged. “Used parts and the embargo do not accommodate each other.”
Devlin tossed the keys for the Lada to Pitts, who grimaced at the idea of driving a Russian car.
“Make believe you are a good socialist,” Martinez said. “The Lada belongs to one of my men, and he has assured me it is reliable. Then there is the Russian engineering. If the car fails to start at first, you need only to beat it with a large stick.”
Pitts reached into a pocket and withdrew a leather-covered sap. “I’ll use this,” he said. “Customs never found it in my suitcase.”
Martinez arched his brows. “It is not legal here. Even for police.” He let out a long breath. “Is this what you used on the Abakua outside Plante Firme’s house?”
“Nah. I didn’t have it with me then. Everybody kept telling me what a gentle city this is. I used that lead pipe I found in Plante Firme’s yard.”
