Aha, Montoya. Must’ve found a moment…came down to fetch me only to learn I was gone. Must’ve smooth- talked the vehicle dispatcher into letting him drop the note inside.
She re-read the note and tossed it back on the seat. Should’ve recognized the paper he uses, extravagant man! No reason to get scared. Must be catching Benilo’s paranoia. She took a deep breath that ended with a yawn. As she drove off, she thought of her last duty tonight-the police report. Too tired to think straight, she hoped what she’d filled in for the colonel would suffice. But even so much as a spelling error or simple mistake of grammar and Gutierrez’d be on her. Yeah, he’d just love that.
She rolled her windows down and a gust of wind blew Montoya’s note onto her lap. A sign? “Home, Montoya, bed, sleep…” she softly chanted into the surrounding darkness. Another good reason to have polished off the paperwork tonight; tomorrow she might well be sleeping in a bit, running behind.
Qui kept two apartments, one in the Old City, the other at her father’s bed and breakfast. She used the little flat, her government-issue residence, in Old Havana to crash whenever it grew so late she could not see to drive out to Miramar.
Tonight, despite the lateness of the hour and a mix of adrenaline and fatigue filling her mind and body, she welcomed the drive, which always calmed her. At the moment, her deeper need was to be close to those she loved, her father and Montoya. She imagined the two men in jovial banter, drinking rum, and playing dominoes or chess to pass the time until her arrival.
Although her father wanted her to marry and give him grandchildren-a frequently repeated request-he knew that she did not love Montoya unreservedly. She and Montoya were good friends, intimate friends, and while Estaban wanted their relationship to go to another level, she remained unsure. His self-serving expectation was that she, his chosen one, would eventually come around to his thinking, to do as he wanted; he was after all a successful doctor, accustomed to telling people what was in their best interests. In his mind, they were already married, the actual ceremony a mere formality…a matter of time; in fact, he already bossed her about, making demands-none of which sat well with Quiana.
While not quite perfect, for Estaban the situation was more than acceptable. When asked by others about their setting a date, he’d smile tolerantly and reply, “Soon…soon. These things take time,” and smile tolerantly.
Qui, on the other hand, felt uneasy at such a question, because for her, their relationship provided more friendship rather than the passionate partnership for which she had always longed. Perhaps it was a foolish romantic fantasy; however, foolish and romantic is exactly how she believed a person in love should feel. At twenty-nine-years old, she’d had her share of affairs and relationships, but if she were honest with herself, she’d never tasted true love. In her mind-love without judgment, love without restraint, love without chains-either existed or failed to flourish. She wanted the kind of love poets spoke of, and all things beneath that protective, nourishing umbrella. At the end of the day, she remained unsure that what she and Montoya had was enough to last a lifetime.
With the dark Cuban night closing around her like a silk shawl, she drove toward Miramar, following her favorite route paralleling the coast. As the Peugeot wound along, the sea air swirled in, lifting her hair and dissipating the foul mixture of chemicals, fish, and death that’d permeated and clung to hair, skin, and clothing. Driving like this filled her with a quiet contentment, a mystical grace painted by a sapphire sea, an indigo sky, and a hide-and-seek moon that played among deep lavender clouds. The hypnotic sound of the waves, constant and reassuring, calmed and soothed her mind and body.
When she pulled into the parking area, she saw Montoya’s immaculate two-tone baby-blue and white Ford Fairlane. She climbed from her car, her body screaming for a shower and a set of cool sheets. She found the two men just as she’d imagined earlier. Still on a high, she began telling them of her day and the case that Gutierrez had assigned her. As she spoke, her father listened with the solemnity that she’d come to expect whenever the topic turned to police matters. At the same time, Montoya became increasingly agitated, pacing and finally bursting out in a flood of words, “Qui, I think I might know those people. They are the missing doctors-”
“Missing doctors?”
“It’s all over the medical community; three doctors from the conference missed their plane, and they’re making a big deal of it.”
“What conference, what doctors, Estaban? What’re you talking about?”
“Two officials came to question me at the clinic, because one of the doctors, a Dr. Beisiegel, spent an afternoon at the clinic last week. She was part of a big medical conference that just ended.”
“What two officials?”
“From one of the embassies! The American Interest Section even, a security guy named Zayas, I think was his name. Who knows? Who cares?”
One of the things that annoyed her about Estaban was his apathy, which went hand-in-hand with a kind of smug complacency. It was at odds with Montoya’s professional bearing, competence, and position. If men like him, in leadership roles, failed to give a damn, then what hope had Cuba of progressing?
“If it is a missing persons case,” she ventured, “why didn’t the police question you? Why embassy people? And who’s this security guy with the American Interest Section?” She recalled seeing someone Pena called “Zayas” this morning at the stationhouse, the guy Pena’d given the brush off. Was it the same man Quiana wondered. Pena might break the case before her, she suddenly feared. “Tell me exactly who questioned you? And come to think of it, if you think this could be my murdered victims as you say, then you can help by coming down to Arturo Benilo’s morgue-”
“Me…morgue? I hate morgues.”
“But you’re a doctor!”
“Who only deals with the living! I was never any good with corpses, not even in medical school.”
“But you’re in a position to help, to identify-”
“Don’t you understand, Qui, I don’t want to be involved, especially if it turns out to be the foreign doctors. It’s not good politically for a man in my position to…to attract attention.”
“Damn you, Estaban, it’s the right thing to do. Help me out here!” Fear of Pena’s possibly getting her case made her edgier than usual-fueling her anger at Esteban’s indifference.
Tiring of the heated exchange, Tomaso cleared his throat, and with a flourish of his hand, suggested, “Estaban, my boy, go look at the body. It may not even be the same woman, and that will end your involvement. Be done with it…”
“I’ll think about it,” Montoya spoke to Tomaso now while eyeing Qui, “but your daughter, she should think long and hard about what’s best for her and me, because-”
Qui put a hand up to him, the universal gesture of ‘don’t go there’ and he stopped short. From between thinned lips, she pleaded, “Just tell me what you know of this lady doctor from Canada.”
“Am I being interrogated?”
“Just help me out here. Please.”
“So far as I know, the three missing are all doctors. Here for the International Virology Conference.”
“The International Virology Conference?”
Tomaso busied himself by putting away his chess set, ears alert, sizing up Montoya’s ability to handle Qui.
Montoya continued between sips of rum. “I spoke to them earlier this week at the conference. Dr. Beisiegel came to the clinic.”
“Why?”
“To see how we deliver HIV-AIDS healthcare at the neighborhood level. She asked some very pointed questions.”
“Like what?”
“About our AIDS research, specifically the HIV vaccine, and our work with monolaurin.”
“Mono-what?”
“Monolaurin, a drug that our bodies produce when we ingest coconut oil. Nowadays, we routinely manufacture it in the lab.”
“To treat HIV?”
“For treating a variety of viruses, including HIV.”
“OK, so tell me more about the Canadian doctor.”
