Alejandro’s cunning plan so far had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams; however, his plan of assassination, rather than being quickly accomplished, had instead permutated into something else, something complex, something tangled. It’d taken years to reach this point-to be this close to his target-and for what? Killing this man was no longer the simple matter it ought to have been.
Rolling the Fuentes between his fingers and lifting it to his lips, Alejandro tasted its sweetness, so like that of his only love-Humberto’s youngest daughter, Reyna-to whom he gave a fleeting thought as the smoke curled about his darkly alluring features. Just the thought of her brought a half-smile to his face. Falling in love with the bastard’s daughter had not been by design, yet their coming marriage ensured his closeness and access to the position and power he’d craved.
With patience grown thin after so many years, he’d begun to plot Arias’s demise. How many times had he killed the old bastard in his mind? So often that when drunk, he’d wax poetic saying, “Let me count the ways.” These thoughts filtered through his mind even as he enjoyed the man’s largesse. Leaning forward, he lifted the rum-filled Waterford crystal snifter and drank. He imagined himself on the other side of the desk, his hands on the controls, his fiancee proudly at his side.
“So tell me,” Humberto began, “do you have this pathologist Gomez…what’s his name? Trebeca in your control?”
“The SP has enough on Trebeca to send him away for two lifetimes. He’ll do whatever I tell him.”
“So when’s this press conference you’re orchestrating for the public? And are you sure this will work?”
“Don’t you see…when the SP announces to the world that these deaths are the result of a drug-smuggling deal gone bad, it will divert attention from us.”
“Clever…but still I see loose ends. That damned lock…and perhaps Montoya.”
Not wanting to pursue the subject of the lock, Alejandro asked, “Are you suggesting that Montoya should take a permanent vacation?”
“Only if he becomes a liability. He says a single word to his lady-this detective Aguilera-even in pillow talk, and we could be tomorrow’s headline.”
“I was against putting the woman on the case from the beginning, but at the time-”
“I know, but neither of us knew she was involved with Montoya.”
“Ahhh…that Montoya wouldn’t jeopardize the money,” replied Alejandro, sipping at his drink. “I know him.”
“Then that only leaves the lock.”
“Stop worrying. It’s already taken care of. The cop, Tino Hilito will be switching your lock so it can’t lead back to you.”
“Then you are telling me, Alejandro-”
“I’m telling you there is no way any of this can be traced. You’re safe.” Alejandro smiled, thinking that the astute Benilo and the equally shrewd woman, Aguilera, would most certainly trace the lock directly to his mother’s murderer. In this way, Alejandro believed he could successfully betray the old man without implicating himself, or destroying his relationship with his fiancee-his guarantee of access to Arias’s fortune. Furthermore, this plan relieved Alejandro of the onus of direct murder while allowing him to slip naturally into the chair he longed for.
“So, Alejandro, my boy, when will you and Reyna set the bans for your marriage?”
“Reyna is making arrangements as we speak.”
“Good! I hope you two give me grandchildren before I depart this world. It’s the bull who makes the calf.”
Alejandro understood the insult to the childless Gutierrez who was married to Humberto’s older daughter, Angelique. “I plan to do all in my power to ensure that happens.”
Each man now leaned back in his chair, a sense of comfort pervading the study as, together, they enjoyed their smokes.
10
Aboard the Sanabela
Qui asked a series of questions where she and Benilo stood over the bodies. “What about the bruising on the bodies? The burn marks. What do you make of it?”
Instead of giving her a direct answer, he pointed to Denise’s lifeless eyes. “The woman’s green eyes tell a story.”
“Read it to me then.”
He continued, “She was repeatedly strangled if you go by the bruises about her throat and the near microscopic splotches of blood in the corneas- petechical hemorrhaging. Look closer.”
Qui kneeled and stared for a moment at the minute flecks of copper-colored spots. “Repeatedly? I don’t understand.”
“Brought to asphyxiation again and again, made to black out. To quickly create disorientation, wears the victim down, oxygen deprivation- hypoxia. Most people exhibit symptoms similar to intoxication: euphoria, intellectual impairment, finally a loss of consciousness.”
“The men weren’t tortured in the same fashion?”
“No, their bodies were riddled with injection marks.”
“I didn’t see any injection marks.”
“Here, shine your light on this.” He leaned over and held up one man’s arm, handing her a small magnifying lens like those used by a jeweler. He added, “See the marks about the armpits?”
Qui kneeled, examined the marks, and said, “Yes, I see.”
“I found the same about the genitals and within the recessed area about the naval.”
“Addicts?”
“Who shoots up within a few hours all over the body? Someone wants us to think addiction is the root of this evil.”
“Then my instincts are accurate. The two Americans died a kinder death than the Canadian.”
“Yes. Without a doubt.”
“So cruel.”
“But quite effective.”
“Then you’ve seen this kind of thing before?”
“Not in a long, long time.”
“Where?”
He paused, “Damn, you’re persistent.” Finally, he added, “Remember, I fought and served at the side of the revolutionary leaders.”
She stared into his eyes. Was the old doctor pointing a finger at Fidel himself or his henchmen? Why kill a trio of young tourists, especially Americans? An icy finger of fear scraped along her spine. “How far up does this go?”
“Who can say if it even goes there? Who can say whether they were killed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time or for political reasons? Who knows? Perhaps taken for assassins targeting Fidel himself?”
“Yeah, they really look like assassins,” she sarcastically replied. “I’ll ask again, does it reach into the regime…if so, how deep?”
“Careful. Except for the rantings of one tired medical examiner called away from his dinner, you have no evidence it even goes in that direction.”
“True,” she replied, standing, stretching, and inhaling the odor of sweet tobacco curling about her head; Benilo had lit a pipe, now clenched between his teeth. The ME said, “There are advantages to an outdoor crime scene. For one, you get a view.” He brandished his pipe like a pointer, indicating the horizon. “She was alive when she went in the water.” He said it so calmly that she had to replay it in her head for the significance.
“How can you tell this with the naked eye?”
“Educated eye,” he said, index finger to temple. “Come, I’ll show you.” He tamped out his pipe before pocketing it.
