Red Angel

When the call came in, Devlin and Martinez were seated in the front seat of the rental car, just outside the entrance of the Capri Hotel’s parking garage. Martinez barked an order into the handheld radio, then stared out the rear window. Devlin turned with him and saw two men jump from a car fifty yards back.

“What’s going on?”

“There has been a shooting at Plante Firme’s house. The palero was wounded, and his grandson was killed.”

“I didn’t know you had men behind us,” Devlin said.

Martinez stared at him. His eyes were like two black coals. “I always have men behind us,” he said.

Earlier, before Martinez arrived that morning, Devlin had spoken to his organized-crime contact in New York. He now knew who DeForio was. What he didn’t know was whether Martinez knew it as well. The backup in the car behind them made him think that Martinez did. If so, they were both playing the same cat-and-mouse game, and Devlin wanted to know why Martinez was playing his.

“Arc you going to the crime scene?” Devlin asked.

“Yes. One of my men will stay with you.”

“You think this shooting is connected to us?”

“I am certain of it.”

“Then I’ll go with you,” Devlin said. “Have your men follow DeForio and we can catch up with them later.” He saw the uncertainty in Martinez’s eyes. “I’m a good homicide cop, Major. Maybe I can help.”

A large crowd had gathered outside the palero‘s home, well over one hundred, Devlin estimated. They were not the usual collection he had seen so many times in New York, people drawn by the morbid need to view the destruction of another human, as if being there somehow reaffirmed their own escape from mayhem. Here, the faces-almost entirely black-were filled with grief. Men and women chanted prayers he did not understand. Even the children were subdued.

“Are they praying for the palero?” he asked.

“And for his grandson,” Martinez said. “The boy was destined to replace his grandfather. He had been chosen by the orisha in Plante Firme’s nganga. This made him a holy child, not unlike someone the Catholics might consider a saint.”

Devlin shook his head. “I hate to tell you this, but you’ve got to move those people out of there. Your men have to search the perimeter of the house for evidence.”

“I know. My men should have done this, but I think they fear offending the palero. A great vengeance will follow this killing.”

“You mean from these people, his followers?”

Martinez shook his head. “No. From Plante Firme. All his powers will be used against the persons responsible. And I assure you, my friend, that is something to be feared.”

The people were moved back, and the search conducted. The shotgun-shell casing was found opposite the gate. It had been stepped on by people in the crowd, but Devlin felt certain its plastic coating would still yield at least a partial fingerprint from the person who had loaded the weapon.

Neighbors were questioned and reported seeing two men speed away. They had not been dressed in white, Devlin noted, not the sect of Abakua Cabrera had used against them.

“Cabrera would not trust this to the Abakua,” Martinez explained. “They would fear Plante Firme. As you saw, even Baba Briyumbe feared this palero.”

“And Cabrera’s men wouldn’t?” Devlin asked.

“Oh yes. They would fear him,” Martinez said. “That is why they shot him from afar, and why they ran when they saw they had not killed him.”

“But they still did it.”

“Reluctantly, my friend. And only because they also fear Cabrera.” He tapped the side of his nose. “They will still be running, afraid now that Plante Firme will find them, or that Cabrera will. When we find out who among Cabrera’s men is missing, then we will know who the assassins were.”

“And then you can pick them up.”

“Perhaps,” Martinez said. “If it is necessary. If not, I will simply tell Plante Firme who they are. His punishment will be more severe than any Cuba could give them.”

“What would Cuba’s punishment be?”

“Death,” Martinez said. “But a much kinder death than the one Plante Firme will devise.”

When they entered the courtyard they found the boy’s body covered by a blood-soaked sheet. Devlin pulled it back and stared at the child’s butchered face. He had seen many bodies during his years as a cop, many far worse than this, and he had become immune to most. But the body of a child still had impact. There was something obscene about it, something akin to the destruction of hope.

Plante Firme was in his sacred room, seated before his nganga, his wounded shoulder swathed in heavy bandages. He had refused offers of hospital treatment, and his wounds had been tended to here. There were smaller wounds on his face, where stray shotgun pellets had grazed his cheek. Devlin knew from experience that he would be feeling intense, steady pain, but he showed none of it. Instead he cast the coconuts and chanted in a low, rumbling baritone.

As they stepped into the room, the palero‘s eyes shot up, filled with anger at the interruption. When he saw Martinez his eyes softened, and the two men began to speak to each other. After a few minutes Devlin heard Cabrera’s name mentioned, and saw Plante Firme’s eyes harden with hate.

The palero began to chant in a mix of Spanish and Bantu. Again, Devlin heard Cabrera’s name as Plante Firme cast the coconuts. They rolled to a stop, showing two concave and two convex sides pointing up.

Plante Firme stared at them, his fists clenched in his lap, as he hissed the word “Eyife.”

When they left the room, Devlin took Martinez by the arm, stopping him. “Sounds like you dropped a dime on the colonel in there.”

Martinez was momentarily confused by the phrase, then seemed to grasp it. He nodded. “Yes, a dime has very much been dropped.”

“And?”

Martinez started walking again, moving toward the gate and the street beyond. “The palero consulted the nganga. He asked if it was Cabrera who ordered the murder of his grandson. The answer was eyife, a conclusive yes.”

“So what happens now?”

Martinez stepped through the gate and into the street. “I think the colonel’s life is about to take a very unfortunate turn.”

Martinez’s men had followed DeForio to the Calle de los Oficios, a street in Old Havana that had once housed its most prosperous merchants. There, he had entered the Casa de los Arabes, a three-story building of Moorish design with massive wooden doors that were several centuries old.

When Devlin and Martinez arrived, they found Ollie Pitts stuffed into a narrow doorway halfway down the block.

“Cabrera showed up fifteen minutes ago,” he said. “I gather DeForio’s already inside.”

“Did Cabrera go anywhere else first?” Devlin asked.

Pitts shook his head. “Just his office at the Villa Marista. He stayed there all morning, then left around one and came straight here.” He inclined his head toward the other end of the street. “His car and driver are in San Francisco Plaza, over by the docks, near some big church.”

“The Convent of San Francisco,” Martinez said. “For years it was Havana’s central post office. Now Fidel has allowed it to become a church again. But not for religion. The church and the convent have become a museum for tourists.” He smiled at Pitts. “Perhaps it was sentimentality on Fidel’s part. As a boy he studied under the Jesuits.”

“Hey, that’s great,” Pitts said. “Interesting as fucking hell.” He rolled his eyes. The major’s tour-guide act was