“So, where is this boat? Which marina?”
“No marina! It’s out on the water, a few miles off the bay. The Sanabela II, a Captain Luis Estrada…says he knows you. Says you are, errr, related. Are you?”
Estrada called himself uncle to her, but he meant it in the loosest way. She knew that in some distant past they might well be related somehow, but no one knew precisely how; he called himself uncle to anyone he had an acquaintance with who happened to be younger than himself. Such an attitude toward the entire community, well that was Old Cuba. Qui thought of people as either Old Cuba or New Cuba, defined more by attitude than age, though she must admit most men tended to act Old Cuba around women.
“No, sirs, we’re not related, Colonel. He just calls himself ‘Uncle’ to almost everyone.”
“How nice for you…well then, take a police boat out. You can get a boat, can’t you?” Gutierrez needled more than asked.
“I’ll find transport.”
“Yes, I am sure you will.”
No love lost here, she thought, seeing Gutierrez’s sour expression. It’d never set well with the older man to have a woman-ranking as a detective-placed under his authority.
“Do your best,” he finished, his words daring her to take offense. “Some sort of death aboard; can’t say for sure exactly what. The man sounded hysterical.”
“A death aboard a shrimp trawler?”
“More than one-if this ‘uncle of yours’ hasn’t exaggerated.”
“Two deaths aboard the Sanabela?” She gave a flash thought to the Sanabela’s hard-luck reputation.
“Three-if Estrada’s report is true.”
“Three?”
“Are you suddenly deaf?” he replied, “Get moving! Take Hilito and Latoya. Three deaths, three investigators, all the support you need. Go. Call in your initial findings.”
Quiana stood, saluted, turned, and made for the door, her mind racing. Finally, a major case-but a huge one, three deaths. What awaited her aboard Estrada’s boat? Must’ve been an accident: old boat, old equipment, young men-bad combination. Three deaths at once? This felt like a gauntlet Gutierrez’s had thrown down. A challenge to her training and skills as an investigator.
Emerging from Gutierrez’s office, Qui walked toward her desk and called over to two detectives sitting nearby. “Hilito, Latoya, come. We’ve got an investigation. Let’s go!”
“Terrific!” Tino Hilito leapt from his squealing desk chair.
“We’re with you, detective!” added Sergio Latoya, stuffing paperwork into a desk drawer.
Their eagerness reflected delight at escaping headquarters. In fact, they’d been clock watching until now, fearful of the last hour before shift’s end, praying for a telephone to ring and pull them out onto the street. Everyone under the colonel’s command hated Friday afternoons when Gutierrez would emerge from his office to give them all a good talking to-a lecture on desk etiquette, filling out forms properly, often haranguing against sloppiness of dress and attitude and lack of military bearing. “After all,” he’d remind them, “this is the Policia Nacional de Revolucion.”
“Investigation?” asked Tino. “Where?”
“On a shrimp trawler off the coast. We need a police cruiser. Tino, you’re good with the water cops. Get us a boat.”
“Aye, aye, Lieutenant,” he said a bit too loudly.
Qui checked for signs of amusement but his wink was one of camaraderie. Leaning close, he whispered, “For effect,” nodding toward the watching eyes.
She glanced around, annoyed at still being the center of attention. “Sergio, go check out an evidence kit- gloves included this time!” She grabbed her gun, strapped it onto her hip.
“So Aguilera, got a real case now?” taunted Pena. “Want my notes from school?”
Quiana turned, paused, and replied, “You keep ‘em. Try using ‘em on that missing persons case you’ve got! Perhaps then, you might be able to close it.”
Turning back, she grinned at the catcalls and laughter.
Walking alongside her, Sergio watched the grin fade as her lips thinned. He assumed it a sign of frustration. “He’s just jealous, Lieutenant. Ignore him. You got your shield faster and made higher scores in training-we all know that. Besides, you got that ‘thank you’ note last week. He’s still fuming about that.”
Quiana chuckled at the image of Pena fuming over a letter of appreciation detailing her perfect scores. This from a high-ranking training officer who happened to be Pena’s role model. Tino had made sure that Pena had seen the letter, posting it on the bulletin board. “Still fuming?” she replied. “Serves him right. Payback for rudeness.”
“You get your own licks in too,” Sergio reminded her.
“True enough.”
“I’ll bring my car around to the front,” he said.
They headed in separate directions, Qui’s shoes tapping out a quick rhythm. Before she cleared the door, Colonel Gutierrez shouted from his desk, “Detective Aguilera! Why’re you still here? I gave you an order five minutes ago! Now, go, go!”
3
Aboard police cutter PNR-48, Havana Bay
Here on the water, the air smelled more like rain than it did from onshore, and the sky seemed even darker, more threatening. Quiana expertly piloted the police cruiser, pushing it to maximum speed across the choppy waters of the bay. She wanted to reach the Sanabela before daylight faded or rain fell. The ponderous government boat rocked and bucked over the surface. Sergio, never one for boats, had turned slightly green from the bouncing and the foul smell of polluted water. The sound of wind and motor had become a constant barrage of noise, making conversation impossible.
Outside the bay, in smoother waters, Quiana reduced their speed as they cruised in search of the trawler.
“Gutierrez sure seems to have it in for you,” Sergio shouted to be heard.
“Yeah,” agreed Tino. “That wily old, card-playing poker-faced bit of nastiness, our beloved Colonel, is a hungry dog, and he bites.”
“Even when you throw him scraps,” added Sergio.
Quiana laughed at the apt comparison. “Hey, are you two playing suck up?”
“Nahhh…we’re your main guys!”
“How’s your family, Tino?” she asked.
“Wife’s pregnant again. Kid’s doing better.”
“That’s good, yes?”
“Only if you got money.”
“Hey, don’t listen to him. Carmela’s having our second, too,” said Sergio, smiling. “Tino’s always complaining.”
“What’s a cop got to complain about,” she facetiously asked. “Low pay, long hours. Nobody listens anyway.”
Sergio replied, “The weight of the job can kill a man-or a woman in your case.”
Qui considered Sergio’s last remarks, although flippant, a serious matter. Other than Tino and Sergio, she had no one to confide in about the job, certainly no one in her personal life. Few people outside law enforcement understood the pressures. Still, Qui wished she had one friend or relative to whom she could openly and easily discuss such matters, but who? Her longtime friend Liliana concerned herself with her dancing career, dreams of one day making a splash on a real stage-somewhere in America maybe, and she simply did not care to understand what Qui faced on the job. Qui’s father did not want her on this job period, wishing she’d pursue any other career, something safe, perhaps photography as he had. As for her boyfriend, Dr. Estaban Montoya, he could hardly be bothered with such trivialities as her problems with Gutierrez or the department.
