Maria Elena, and the children can play together.”
“That is extremely generous of you, Senora Aguilera. It takes a great deal off my mind.”
Tomaso called Maria Elena to join them and see to the family’s needs. “Put them in a room beside yours.”
“Again, sir, on behalf of my family, I thank you. Frees me up.”
“Frees you up?” Tomaso took him aside. “Frees you up to do what?”
“To do my job. Same as you daughter, Detective Aguilera.”
“You can’t be seen in Havana. You and my Qui’ve attracted great danger.”
“You’re right about that. I need to go undercover, a disguise.”
“I think I have just the thing for you. But, tell me, what are your plans?
“Investigate Estaban Montoya.”
“Yes. Qui suspects foul play.”
“I mean to have a serious look at his life…his records…anything that doesn’t fit.”
“Anything that made him a target. I never trusted the man.”
“By now, the SP will’ve taken his records, I’m sure.”
“Sergio, I knew Montoya. Not well but well enough to’ve observed him as a cautious fellow. He may’ve kept records elsewhere. In fact, I’ve known him to bring work home with him…here.”
“Here?”
“When he stayed overnight.”
“And you think he may’ve left some things here?”
“Possibly.”
“Where?”
“Ahhh…follow me.”
Tomaso led him to Qui’s apartment where they entered in semi-darkness. The light entering from the doorway showed that Qui had left in a rush, nightclothes scattered across the unmade bed. “You may want to look around. You have my OK.”
“Thanks, Mr. Aguilera.”
“I’m worried about her, Sergio.”
“So am I,” agreed a third voice in the doorway. “But she’s tougher than you think, Tomaso.” Yuri stepped into the room.
“Ahhh…Yuri, this is Sergio.”
“Yes, with the PNR, I know. Quiana’s partner in this business with the Sanabela.” Yuri extended his hand to the detective, saying, “Anyone on Quiana’s side in this unholy mess is a friend. Glad to meet you.”
The men shook hands before the three began searching the apartment for anything unusual or hidden. They quickly rifled through Montoya’s collection of medical journals. From inside Qui’s closet, Tomaso called out, “Here, there’s something here, a loose board.”
Sergio pried loose the board and a horde of paper flooded out onto the floor. “Jackpot.”
Sorting the papers and files, they discovered records that implicated Montoya in a host of illegal activities: black market dealings in medicines, money from coded donors, records of supplies purchased illegally and from whom, a list of who received these items and when they’d need replacements. A damning collection if it ever got out.
“I knew there was something he was hiding, something not quite right.” Tomaso grimaced in distaste. “He never complained about the system, not like a normal, competent person.”
“Seems he wasn’t happy with Fidel’s healthcare system. Supplementing patient care with illegal goods.” Sergio shook his head. “How’d he ever get them to stay quiet?”
Examining the records, Yuri looked up and said, “Likely mixed it in with herbal concoctions. Bitter tasting stuff anyway. Mixed in a salve. No one’s the wiser. ‘Cept his patients always get better. Bet he didn’t do it with everyone-too noticeable.”
Tomaso continued. “Estaban did things his own way, wouldn’t listen to anyone. Clever man, but not clever enough to keep himself from being killed
Ever suspicious, Sergio asked, “How could he afford this? Where did the money come from? He was a doctor, not a criminal.”
“Everyone cheats the system-it’s the communist way. Lotta antibiotics listed. Hard to get for years now. Only the very sick and the tourists get them.”
Yuri added, “So he cheated to save lives-is that wrong? Better man than I imagined.”
“But still, not legal. Dangerous too. Qui was right, he was murdered.” Pausing for a moment, Sergio waved his hand at the records. “These are a risk to all of us. Better left hidden for now.”
Yuri nodded. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s leave them here.” Turning to Tomaso, Yuri added, “Your suspicions were right. There was more to Montoya than met the eye.”
“Like an iceberg, yes,” agreed Yuri.
Sergio asked, “But of all of these dealings, which one got him killed?”
28
Somewhere along the leeward coast of Cuba, aboard the Sanabela
Still standing beside Estrada, Qui quietly asked, “Other than the lock, did you find anything else this morning? Anything unusual, out of place?”
When Estrada failed to answer, appearing lost in thought, some drama playing out in his head, Qui immediately knew there was more he hadn’t told them. “You know every inch of this trawler, every nook, every cranny.” She tore her eyes from Estrada and exchanged a knowing look with JZ, who’d joined them on the deck.
“This might best be discussed in private,” JZ suggested. The three returned to the pilothouse. Inside, out of the wind, JZ continued. “Luis, maybe it’s a good idea for us to search your vessel for anything unusual.”
“Unusual?” he asked.
“We don’t want the Sanabela going up in flames like my rented classic, do we?”
“A bomb? On board my boat? But it was in PNR impound the entire time. No one allowed on or off without proper-“
“Tino got aboard with proper authority to do an improper thing,” Qui corrected him. “He mayn’t’ve been the only one to come aboard.”
“But why rig my boat for destruction?” Estrada remained doubtful.
“They drove us onto your boat with their gunfire, Uncle. They wanted us here. Either an incendiary device or they plan to attack us at sea.”
“In that case, we should search the boat.” Estrada stroked his beard thoughtfully, “But we do not tell the crew, I think.”
“Understood,” replied Qui.
“The five of us-Giraldo, Adondo, you, Qui, myself-must do the search without attracting attention.”
“No easy task on a small boat,” commented Qui.
“Not so small, Qui. She’s seventy-two feet long with an eighteen and a half foot beam.” Luis went to his charts and pulled out the ship’s plans. As he spread the yellowing blue-pencil sheets across the chart table, he said, “In case you need to know, I keep these handy. Every corner of my boat at a glance.” The Sanabela was a typical wooden trawler, her hull planking, partitions, and pilothouse made of cypress, her bow stem and ribs of white oak. Some 27,000 board feet of timber went into her construction. Carrying 8,000 gallons of fuel and 900 gallons of fresh water, her 220 horsepower diesel engine enabled cruising at twelve knots and trawling at three. Typically, trawlers were iceboats carrying nearly a ton of ice for each day of cruise, which could last up to fifty days. Built to last some thirteen years, Estrada and his men had stretched out her diesel soul to more than 40 years. A good operator could pay for his boat in a free country in four to five years of hard work. But this was Cuba. While Estrada considered the Sanabela his, the hard truth of the matter was that it would always belong to the government.