“A door?”
“Just a door.”
“Damn, what else can you tell me?”
“Sorted through the evidence you checked in.”
Tino sighed heavily into the phone. “Thanks, Carlos, you’re a friend.”
“I hope things are better with that boy of yours, Tino.”
“About the same.”
“Just thought you’d wanna know about that Aguilera woman’s snooping around behind you.”
“Yes, thank you.”
At the other end, Tino hung up with a soft curse. Standing beside his son’s bed here in the living room, he again sighed. The boy, a hemophiliac, had become too excited that morning, not that Tino himself hadn’t cause for excitement. Since Friday’s discovery of the triple-murder, he had been approached by the shadowy SP figure General Cavuto Ruiz. At about the time of Ruiz’s visit, Tino’s son, Carlito had fallen during a baseball game in the park; ironically, Tino had fallen as well, but Tino’s fall came from the ultimate temptation in Cuba: necessary goods. Any cut or minor scrape causing bleeding became an emergency for Carlito, caused an emotional tsunami that rippled through the family. The financial toll of protective clothing and American-made, high-tech bandages and coagulate powders rivaled the unrelenting worry and constant dread of another episode. Even with Montoya’s generosity at the clinic, the burden of Carlito’s condition was never-ending. There was no way to prevent the boy from being a boy-one who loved sports, especially baseball-the national passion. How could he keep his son, too young to understand his condition, safe? It had seemed a harmless thing, to switch the lock. But now Tino felt trapped.
With all this preying on his mind, Tino’d had next to no sleep since the curse of those three bodies had come his way. Now this. Detective Aguilera knew about the locks. She was no one’s fool; by now, she surely suspected him. He muttered to himself, “As the Americans say, ‘between a rock and a hard place’, between Cavuto and Quiana.”
Regardless, whatever happened to him, the funds set up for his son’s needs would always be there. That much was unchangeable. He might go to prison; he might be killed, but Carlito would be protected now as never before-as Tino had previously failed to do. But no more.
A tear welled up and snaked its way down Tino’s face and dropped on his sleeping son.
22
On their drive to Miramar, Qui and JZ decided to retrieve her Peugeot at some other time. Qui could not get home fast enough. At the Bed and Breakfast, they found Tomaso and Benilo still drinking wine, a third glass telling Qui that Yuri, an early riser, had abandoned the party. Cleaning away the last of the birthday cake, Maria Elena on the way to the kitchen with her hands full, quietly commented to Qui, “Those two men’ve had a hearty reunion all right, and way too much to drink.”
When they saw Qui approaching with JZ at her side, the men attempted to stand, the result more comical than effective.
“See, I told you she’d be back,” Tomaso slurred. He slapped Benilo on the back and added, “And with a friend…someone new.”
Benilo squinted at JZ, as if trying to recognize him. “Montoya? Dr. Montoya?”
Tomaso leapt in suggesting, “You need glasses, old man! This is not Montoya.”
The two men laughed, hearing a joke that was lost on the younger couple. “Ahhh…then your daughter took my advice.” Benilo looked at his newfound old friend and smiled.
With glazed eyes staring at Qui, Tomaso demanded, “What advice?”
Qui ignored her father’s demand. “Papa, Dr. Benilo, this is Julio Zayas. He works security at the American Interest Section.”
“Ahhh…deep in the bowels of the Swiss Embassy,” Benilo said. “The American Mission in Cuba.”
“JZ, this is our foremost medical examiner, Dr. Arturo Benilo. And this is my father, Tomaso Aguilera, the photographer.”
JZ hardly had time to shake hands or pick up on her not so subtle emphasis, when Qui lifted the framed photo, balancing it atop the table, saying, “I want to know about this photo, Papa, now.”
Tomaso fell back into his chair. Benilo deliberately catching Tomaso’s eye, found his seat. Their revelry suddenly at an end, both men stared into Qui’s unwavering gaze. Neither man willing to speak first, each turned his attention back to the photo, studying its every detail as if seeing the artistic composition of black and white shot for the first time. The photo’s impact on the two suggested there was more here than a beautiful still life of a locked church door.
Turning to Tomaso, Benilo said, “I knew this would come back to haunt us. Should’ve destroyed that negative.”
Qui turned to her father. “Tell me about the photo.”
“What has this to do with anything, daughter?”
Breaking his silence, JZ announced, “There’s been another murder. Qui’s friend, Dr. Montoya.”
“Montoya!” gasped Tomaso.
“Murdered?” cried Maria Elena, who’d returned for more dishes. On hearing JZ’s words, she froze, shocked. Tears gathered in her eyes. She’d always liked the doctor, who’d been unfailingly kind to her and her children.
“Montoya, murdered?” echoed Benilo. “I just saw him yesterday at lunch.”
“We just came from the murder scene,” JZ explained.
Tomaso stood and took Qui in his arms, saying, “I’m so sorry. This is terrible news… But why? What happened?”
“Why? Exactly my question,” she replied. “How could Estaban be a target for murder?”
“He was a good man…a kind man,” Maria Elena added, dabbing her eyes, dinner dishes forgotten.
“Not the way my department sees it.” Qui blinked back tears. “They’re going to paint his death as some ridiculous autoerotic adventure gone awry. They’re going to destroy his character, his reputation.”
Tomaso groaned. “Yes, the thing most important to him, his reputation.”
“Bastards! Demeaning the dead!” muttered Benilo.
“Who’s behind this?” Tomaso demanded. “I’ll go see Fidel himself!”
“Why wasn’t I called?” Benilo joined in Tomaso’s indignation. “Who’s the ME on the case?”
Qui replied, “Your assistant, Dr. Vasquez.”
“Irina?” Benilo looked puzzled. “Well…she’s as good as they come. Maybe the autopsy will prove you right, after all. If you’d said Dr. Trebeca, I’d worry.”
“Autopsy results are a lot like photographic evidence these days-hard to fake,” JZ began, “but it does happen.”
“Papa, your photograph has something to do with my murder case,” Qui said, pointing to the framed photo, “and Dr. Benilo, you know it, too.”
“Hmmm…the lock,” grumbled Benilo.
JZ commented, “It gets worse. Qui believes the lock from the Sanabela murders is the same as the one in this photo.”
“But it’s not the same one we examined at Capitol Headquarters an hour ago,” Qui announced. “My evidence has been tampered with.”
“Wait…I’m confused,” said Tomaso, approaching the photograph, lifting it with both hands. “Are you two saying the lock in Qui’s murder case is the same as in my photo? Can’t be! I took that shot over fifty years ago in Santiago de Cuba.” He laid the photo flat on the table.
Benilo shook his head in disgust. “Doesn’t surprise me. What’s a stolen lock compared to three stolen bodies? The real question is why?”
“Hold on,” Qui said to Benilo. “You told Papa about the missing bodies? I thought we had a pact.”
“I told him, yes. I wanted his council.”
“Great, as if he wasn’t worried enough about me.”