“No one on the stairs?”
“No,” said Carlos. “No one came up. Our neighbors across the hall, the Hernandezes, are away, on business I think. We were trying to get Victoria to leave, had her halfway down the stairs, when we heard the scream and the noise. We all ran back up. The Russian was standing over Maria. She was covered in blood. I think my wife screamed.”
“I did. And Victoria attacked Igor even though he had a knife in his hand. She kicked him in the face.”
“He didn’t hurt her?” said Elena.
“No, he didn’t,” said Carlos. “He just looked … I don’t know. Stunned.”
“Did he speak?”
“Yes,” said Angelica. “He said, ‘Someone has killed Maria.’ I think that’s what he must have been saying in Russian. It took a while to get him to say it in Spanish.”
The rain had definitely stopped now and a hint of sunlight came through the window. Distant thunder whispered in retreat.
“Was that window open the night of the murder?” asked Elena.
“Yes,” said Carlos. “It is always open at night unless it is raining.”
Elena got up as gracefully as she could and moved to the window, notepad still in hand. She opened the window and felt a rush of warm moist air. She looked four stories down at the empty street and then, holding the side of the window ledge, leaned out to look upward. The roof was two or three feet over her head.
“Can I look at the roof?” she asked, easing back into the room.
Angelica did not join them on the trip to the roof, though the ascent was not particularly difficult. On the interior landing outside the apartment, Carlos stepped back into the shadows and reached up for a metal chain. The chain, sleepy with rust, came down reluctantly. When pulled it released an equally rusty ladder. A sudden clang echoed across the landing as the ladder came down.
“Careful,” Carlos called out as he headed up the ladder.
Elena followed him up and through the trapdoor to the roof, which was covered with pebbles. Water from the rain could be heard trickling down a metal drain. There were five bent television antennas lashed to the stone balustrade that fenced in the roof at hip level.
“Did the police come up here?” Elena asked.
“Up here? I think so, but maybe not. Why?”
Carlos had somehow managed to make the climb without creasing or soiling his white trousers. He carefully removed a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned his hands.
Elena looked outward at the expanse of high-rise white-block apartments, trees, and departing clouds. Then she moved to the edge of the roof. The next apartment building, about eight feet away, seemed to be a duplicate of the one on which she stood, except that it had only three antennas. On the opposite side there was only an empty lot.
“Your window?” she asked, and Carlos led the way to the edge of the roof facing the street.
“Just below, here I think,” he said.
Elena moved past him, leaned over to be, sure he was right, and felt along the stone wall above the window. The cement was chipped away, but most of the chipped cement was dark with dirt. There was one small chip that looked more recent. At the base of the wall, she searched and pushed away small stones.
“What are you looking for?” Carlos asked.
Elena said nothing. Almost instantly she found two holes. She pressed the tip of her finger into one of the holes and brought it back out with the dust of clean moist cement.
“What did you find?” Carlos asked as Elena rose.
“I would like two things, Señor Carerra,” she said.
“Of course.”
“First, I would like to have the use of your handkerchief so that I may clean my palms as you have. Second, I would like to get on the roof of the apartment building next door.”
Carlos nodded, fished out his handkerchief, and handed it to her.
“Some people are joining us for dinner tonight,” Rostnikov said when Elena reported to him at the table near the pool of the El Presidente Hotel. The table was fast becoming Porfiry Petrovich’s unofficial office.
He was dressed in dark slacks and a yellow guayabera shirt. His forehead was slightly sunburned and he sipped on a tall drink.
Elena sat down and placed her notebook in front of her. Rostnikov was looking at a pair of children, a boy and a girl, splashing in the pool and arguing in what might have been Portuguese over an inflated toy that looked like a cross-eyed pink pony.
“Would you like to know who is joining us?”
“Yes,” said Elena.
“Major Sanchez and Povlevich of the KGB. At breakfast this morning he looked so lonely I took pity on him. We will meet at eight, have some drinks, perhaps see some of the town. When we return I will excuse myself for a well-earned night of sleep while you entertain Major Sanchez, who has a decided interest in you, and Povlevich, who is decidedly glum and in need of as much of the Russian language as he can get.”
The waiter reached over Elena’s shoulder and placed a duplicate of Rostnikov’s drink before her.
“And the reason for this merriment and revelry, Inspector?” she asked.
“Ah,” he said, shifting in his chair to look at the group of American and Cuban writers, who were making an early start at drinking and arguing. “I will slip away with our nearsighted journalist Antonio Rodriguez in search of our
“But have we not concluded that Rodriguez is probably in the employ of Major Sanchez?”
“We have so concluded,” said Rostnikov. “Our conclusion is tentative, but … given our options and the fact that our Major Sanchez has suggested that the Cuban judicial system is likely to move swiftly in this case …”
“Perhaps I have some information that will make your search more promising.” Elena opened her notebook.
“It was my impression that you were filled with revelations.”
“Am I so obvious?”
“You are very wet, very tired, and glowing with life. Speak.”
“The Carerras pretend to be what they are not,” she said. “Their furnishings are spare but there are marks on the floor which indicate that other furniture has been moved. There was one painting on the wall, but clear outlines from the sun indicate that the walls had been covered with pictures or photographs. Carlos Carerra suggested that they had little money for food and drink and gave me only lemonade, but there was a distinct smell of meat recently cooked. I was not shown the kitchen. The table in the living room was filled with bottles. I heard them when I touched the surface.”
“Good,” said Rostnikov. “But that is not the news with which you are bursting.”
“There are signs that something, perhaps a rope or metal ladder, was recently lowered from the roof to the window of the Carerras’ apartment. On the adjacent roof, perhaps eight feet away, I found a wooden painters’ platform leaning against the wall where it could not be seen from the roof of the Carerra apartment building. It was too heavy to move but it is sturdy and about ten feet long.”
“Major Sanchez’s report indicates that the police found no sign of possible entry to the Carerra apartment from the roof,” said Rostnikov.
“Perhaps they did not look carefully enough,” said Elena Timofeyeva. She put her hand to her hair and realized with horror that it was a wild mop. It had probably been just so from the moment she entered the Carerra apartment.
“Or perhaps they did not wish to look carefully enough,” said Rostnikov. “You’ve done well. Go to your room. Take a bath if there is any hot water. Take a nap, prepare to have a good time.”
Elena rose, closed her notebook, and nodded.
“In a little while I am going to the stadium across the avenue where I have been told there exists a passable collection of weights. I order you to enjoy yourself, Elena Timofeyeva.”
“I’m not sure that enjoyment is something that one can be ordered to engage in.”
“Perhaps not, but my doing so gives you leave to make me responsible for allowing you to abandon your post.”
