night, mon!”
Stoke laughed. “You right, Preacher. Anyway, we be sniffing around a few days. You seem like a kid knows his way around town. How ’bout you stick with us? Say, till Friday?”
“Got to check with de boss, mon, but I clear far as I know.”
“That’s good, my brother,” Stoke said, “Here’s my card with my cell number. You call me soon as you know.”
J-Lo, looked like, or some other damn movie star checked them in at the movie set reception desk in the movie set lobby. Big sheets of white linen hung from somewhere high above, and they moved with the breezes off the Atlantic that blew through the lobby. Beautiful, like flags from nowhere.
“Good afternoon and welcome to the Delano, gentlemen,” J-Lo said, “May I have your names please?”
“We just plain old Mr. Jones and Mr. Sutherland—ain’t even in show business—hope you don’t hold that against us.”
“Yes, I have you right here,” she said, handing them two cards to fill in. No smile, no nothing. Too good looking for her own good, that’s what.
Stoke scratched her off the list of women he currently considered to have a shot at the title. The title being the next Mrs. Stokely Jones, Jr. The ex-Mrs. Jones had taken his NYPD pension and moved to a split-level in New Jersey with her podiatrist. Stoke had told the female divorce court judge in Newark that his wife, Tawania, she left him for the podiatrist ’cause she was the kind of woman who liked to have men at her feet.
He was telling that one to Ross when J-Lo handed them the plastic key cards to the rooms.
“Come on, Ross, that was good,” Stoke said. “Men at her feet. Admit it. You thought it was funny, right? Always laughing on the inside, that’s my man Ross.”
Now Ross and Stoke were sitting by a long rectangular aquamarine pool that stretched down to the palm- fringed beach and the ocean beyond, looking at all the suntans and bathing suits. Stokely had just embarked on a philosophical contemplation of women’s swimwear while Ross talked on his cell to a captain at Miami Dade PD, making arrangements.
“Ain’t a whole lot of things you can count on in this world,” Stoke observed to no one in particular, “But the female bathing suit is what they call a constant. Constantly getting smaller every year, is what I’m saying. Ever see ’em getting bigger? No. And, I’m talking about ever since I was damn born.”
Stoke took a pull on the straw in his cherry Diet Coke, surveying the whole Delano pool scene. Women floating in the pool talking secret female stuff to each other, worried about getting their hair wet; shiny, oiled-down white guys lying on the pool chairs talking to their cell phones, everybody wearing trendoid little cat-eyed sunglasses from The Matrix Reloaded Part 9. A killer blonde music video star emerged from the pool and Stoke was amazed to see she was topless. Tits way out to here. Topless? Was that legal?
He looked over at Sutherland, trying to figure out what was on the boy’s mind. The sun was hot and the Scotsman had finished his call and put his phone away, then put his white linen handkerchief on top of his head kinda like a do-rag.
“Ross, what you thinking? I know what you looking at, boy, but tell me what the hell you thinking about?”
“I’m thinking two hours at a stone cold crime scene this afternoon is an utter waste of time.”
“See? That’s professional teamwork. Scotland Yard meets NYPD. I was thinking the same damn thing, exactly! Ain’t likely there’s anything there we don’t already know about the dead SWAT guy, right?”
“Right.”
Stoke’s cell phone vibrated and he pulled it out of the inside coat pocket of his new lightweight sports coat, flipped it open and said, “Jones.” He fingered the lapel of the sports jacket, looked over at Ross and mouthed the word, “Seersucker.”
Preacher was on the phone saying he’d gotten the okay from the limo service to stick with them. Stoke told him, cool, to keep the engine warm and the inside chilly. They’d be out front in five minutes.
“Two choices, way I see it, Ross,” Stoke said, snapping the phone shut. “We head over to Little Havana and start asking folks up and down Calle Oche questions. Or, we go see that Cuban Resistance guy Conch put us on to, her uncle, Cesar de Santos.”
“Aye, the latter,” Ross said, putting down his half-finished Bud Light and getting to his feet. “Let’s go. We’ll call him from the car and tell him we’re on our way. One thing, Stokely. We absolutely cannot discuss Hawke’s involvement during that Cuban insurrection. With anybody. Ever. Strictly black ops, off the radar.”
Stoke looked at him like he was crazy.
“Sorry, mate,” Ross said.
“Damn right you are, Flyboy. All this time together, you still see me as some football-playing, ex-SEAL badass. I was a gold shield–carrying NYPD detective when your mama was still rubbing Johnson’s baby oil on your skinny white Scottish ass. And take that do-rag off your head. Look ridiculous, you trying to look street.”
The architectural firm of de Santos & Mendoza occupied the entire top floor of a jet-black glass tower situated on an island just over a bridge from the heart of downtown Miami. Called Brickell Key, its office towers, hotels, and apartment complexes all boasted panoramic views of Biscayne Bay. The Port of Miami, with giant cruise ships parallel parked along the pier, was to the north; Rickenbacker Causeway and Key Biscayne lay to the south. Ross and Stokely stood in reception, waiting for Senor de Santos, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at all the activity on the sparkling blue bay.
“Mr. Jones? Mr. Sutherland?” the pretty, Prada-clad receptionist said. “Senor de Santos will see you now. I’ll buzz you in.”
They pushed through heavy double black lacquered doors into a room they were totally unprepared for. The four walls were draped in heavy black velvet, and the only light in the room came from countless tiny windows and miniature streetlamps. Spread out before them was an exquisite scale model of the entire city of Havana, at least thirty feet square, on a raised platform. The architectural detail was astounding. Every statue in every plaza, every fountain, every shrub, tree, and tiny climbing bougainvillea was perfect.
“Bienvenidos,” said the elegant white-haired man dressed completely in black who was coming towards them with his hand extended. “Welcome to la Habana.”
“Inspector Ross Sutherland,” Ross said, shaking his hand. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with us.”
“A pleasure,” he said, smiling. “You’ve probably guessed I am Cesar de Santos. You must be Stokely Jones.”
“Thank you for seeing us, Senor de Santos,” Stoke said, looking at the twinkling lights of the miniature city. “I got to tell you, this is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Muchas gracias, senor. I chair an organization called the New Foundation For Old Havana,” de Santos said. “One day, my precious Habana will look just like this. See, the many ancient and beautiful buildings with the blue flags are to be completely restored to former glory. Red flags are the hideous monstrosities built by the Russians. Dynamite. White flags are much-needed new buildings that Cuban-American architects are designing for us even now. But, please, this is not why you’re here. My niece, Consuelo de los Reyes, has told me much about you. How may I be of service?”
“Senor de Santos,” Ross said, “I’m a senior inspector with Scotland Yard. Mr. Jones and I are investigating a murder that took place in England little more than one month ago. We have reason to suspect the murderer may be a Cuban national. Possibly living somewhere here in the Miami area. Or down in the islands. The American secretary of state was kind enough to suggest you might be of help.”
“Yes, my niece Consuelo told me about this horrific murder. A bride on the steps of a church! Despicable! Unfortunately, there are many—how shall I say it, low-lifes, living in Miami’s Cuban community. Las cucarachas. Such a cockroach will be hard to find, I’m afraid.”
“I understand precisely,” said Ross, “But this particular low-life is likely to be living the high life. Our suspect was high in Castro’s government, feeding at the trough of Fidel. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he hadn’t siphoned tens of millions offshore.”
“Ah, a rich low-life. We have those, too.”
“Senor de Santos,” Stoke said, “those three generals who tried to overthrow Fidel a few years ago?” He got a
