Hungry Ghosts (29 page)

Espinoza raised his eyebrows but nodded. He inclined his head towards the mirrored glass. “Are you going to let him go?” He sounded disappointed. “I thought maybe he was Banksy.”

“He could be, for all I know. But being a famous graffiti artist isn't a crime. I think El Comandante will be amused if he carries out his plans in front of the Swiss embassy. Although perhaps a little less so if he uses those stencils.”

Ramirez released the Englishman from custody with a can of warm Cristol beer and a warning about painting graffiti on buildings that could fall down on him at any time.

Then he returned to his office. He checked the light, his desk, and his telephone again but found no more bugs.

56

Inspector Ramirez sighed when he thought
about the chase he'd been led on. Rappers,
traceurs
, terrorists,
Guernica
, Basques. He agreed with Picasso—the art world was
full of criminals. And when one's only tool was a hammer, everything was a nail. But he blamed himself for missing the obvious, for allowing himself to be distracted. For seeing only what he expected to see.

He glanced at his watch. It was eleven forty-five. He had no reason not to release the paintings now that he knew, or at least thought he knew, what was going on.

He dialed the number for the Hotel Nacional and gave the operator the room number for Dominique Gatti.

The dead man sat across from him, anxiously drumming his fingers on the surface of Ramirez's desk. “I know who you are,” Ramirez told the ghost while he waited for the operator to connect him. “Me. Not just my subconscious. And I think I know who killed you.”

The dead man raised his eyebrows.

“Patience,” said Ramirez. “I could be wrong. After all, I thought Antifona Conejo was dead and she wasn't.” The dead man shook his head, his brown eyes sad.

Dominique Gatti answered on the third ring.

“I have good news, Señora Gatti. You can take your paintings back to Italy today. Our investigation is over.”

“Oh, thank God,” she said, her voice lifting. “The paintings have been crated; there's a flight this afternoon. Did you find the culprit?”

“It looks as if a visiting graffiti artist was responsible,” Ramirez lied. “Someone trying to make his mark in the art world. What time does the flight leave?”

“At two thirty.”

Ramirez looked at his watch again. If Espinoza moved quickly, they would have just enough time. “Have a good trip back to Italy, Señora. I sincerely hope your paintings can be restored.”

Ramirez pushed papers around while he waited, hoping his instincts were right.

Detective Espinoza called him back just after one o'clock. He sounded surprised. “I have the surveillance tapes in my hand, Inspector. Señor Testa isn't the man we met at the museum. In fact, other than his weight and height, he hardly resembles him at all.”

“That's what I thought,” said Ramirez. “Where are you now?”

“I'm still at the airport.”

“Good.” Ramirez breathed out. He gave the detective further instructions. “I'll join you there later.”

A moment later, the phone on his desk trilled. It was Dispatch.

“Inspector, we have another homicide. Dr. Apiro is at the crime scene. He says it appears to be the real Antifona Conejo this time. She hasn't been dead for long, only hours.”

“Where was the body found?” Ramirez asked, his heart sinking.

“A few hundred yards from the one earlier in the week, in the woods beside the highway. Dr. Apiro's technicians were excavating the site, as you had directed when they discovered it. The technicians from the Centre for Legal Medicine are there now. He says they've taken over the investigation.”

“Why?” asked Ramirez, but he already knew the answer.

“Dr. Flores wants you to drop by his apartment this afternoon so he can explain.” She gave him the address. “He suggested you come around two thirty.”

Of course he did, thought Ramirez. That, and Antifona's murder, made Ramirez unspeakably angry. There was no need for it, none at all.

57

The psychiatrist was staying in an
apartment in a skyscraper known by locals as the Edificio Coño, the “Oh My Fucking God Building,” because of its extraordinary height.

When it was constructed in 1956, the thirty-five-storey structure was considered one of the tallest concrete buildings in the world. It was engineered using what was then brand-new computer technology. But it had been left in shambles when its mostly Russian tenants fled after the collapse of the Soviet Union. For years, turkey vultures nested in its crevices. And in 2000, a cable supporting an elevator snapped, killing everyone inside.

The tower was being renovated. La Torre, the restaurant on the top floor, was supposed to be fantastic. But few Cubans would risk eating there, even if they could, for fear of plunging to their deaths.

Ramirez walked up the stairs to the eighth floor. He knocked on the psychiatrist's door after taking a moment to catch his breath.
Manuel Flores opened the door. He appeared thinner and even more stooped, as if he was wasting away.

“Thank you for coming, Inspector. I gather you've heard that Antifona Conejo's body was found. I thought it would be best to have an essentially unpleasant conversation here instead of at your office, where so many people have ears.”

“I am quite sure that applies to all of them,” said Ramirez, trying to suppress his anger. “And yes, I heard about Señora Conejo. I've also heard that the Centre is taking over what should be our investigation.”

“Ah, yes, Ramirez. Well, I can explain.” The psychiatrist walked stiffly to a worn sofa and seated himself. “Please, sit down.” He patted the faded cushion beside him.

The profiler had lined up a series of photographs on the wooden coffee table. Next to them rested a typed report and a small tape recorder.

“Is this really necessary?” said Ramirez, sitting down.

The profiler shrugged his shoulders. “We always use a tape recorder in felony investigations, Ramirez. You know that. The pictures are from this morning's crime scene. She was a lovely girl.” He leaned forward and picked one up. He handed it to Ramirez. “It certainly looks like the same killer, doesn't it? But of course, it can't be Juan Otero. After all, he's in jail.”

Ramirez took the photograph but put it down quickly. There was no mistaking the protruding tongue, the bulging eyes, the nylon stocking tied tightly around Antifona's neck. He thought of her energy and spirit and felt immeasurably sad.

Flores picked up the report. “This is my profile of the serial killer for the Ministry of the Interior. I've concluded that he is highly organized after all. He gives the appearance of being happily married but is having domestic problems. A demanding wife, a difficult job, too little time. Lately, he's strayed, looking for comfort with prostitutes. He has young children, so he feels trapped.”

Ramirez raised his eyebrows.

Flores smiled. “He's involved in law enforcement, which is why we never find any forensic evidence. His guilt over his infidelity is what causes him to kill these women. He poses them as if they're sleeping because he can't cope with the knowledge that he's committed such terrible crimes. The cigarette butts, the purses, their identification—he leaves those behind because deep down he wants to be caught.” He handed Ramirez the report. “I think you'll find my conclusions interesting.”

Ramirez turned to the last page and read aloud: “Subject displays classic symptoms of paranoia and sluggish schizophrenia with visual and auditory hallucinations. The Centre for Legal Medicine confirms that DNA on the cigarette butt found beside the woman's body matches blood samples kept on record. Listening devices installed in his apartment and private vehicle confirm his prior relationship with the victim. Recommend full psychiatric evaluation and isolation at Mazorra while charges are reviewed by the Attorney General. Consider suspect extremely dangerous.”

“I think it's a rather good profile, don't you?” said Flores.

“I never cheated on Francesca.”

“Perhaps. But I doubt she'll care when she finds out about all of this.” Flores smiled again. He shut off the tape recorder. “The minister wants the distribution list back. He wants things the way they were before you went to Canada. Before you involved yourself in affairs that didn't concern you.”

“I didn't kill Antifona.”

Flores shrugged. “Who cares? We have photographs of you with her last night. Getting into your car. Kissing. You should never have taken her to the killing ground. And you should have told us you knew her.”

“I didn't know her before last night.”

“Perhaps not in the carnal sense. But I'm sure you'll understand,
Ramirez, if I don't believe you.” Flores turned on the tape recorder. He inserted a new tape and pushed a button.

Ramirez heard the metallic sound of his own voice: “I'm sorry, Antifona. You really need to leave. I can't have you hanging around my apartment. My wife and children will be back soon, and believe me Francesca wouldn't appreciate you being here when she's not home. Besides, you're far too attractive. It's distracting.”

“There's another part on that tape where you can't find your pants,” said Flores. “And then, of course, there's the conversation in your car. I admit, the lesbian sex sounded hot. It was a nice surprise, finding out that you knew who Antifona Conejo was throughout the entire investigation and didn't tell anyone. It certainly feeds into my theory of your schizophrenic paranoia.”

“You planted the bugs?”

“Not personally. But good for you for finding them. I've always said you were a brilliant detective.”

“I should have known the minister didn't assign you to our unit to investigate a serial killer.”

“Let's just say he wanted a profile that fit the crime he was most concerned with, which was blackmail. He told you he didn't care about
jineteras
. He's a man of his word.”

“How did you find Antifona when we weren't able to?”

“There aren't too many
jineteras
with that name,” said Flores. “After a few days cleaning up after pigs, believe me, she was happy to work with us.”

Ramirez nodded slowly. “You put her in a rehabilitation camp.”

Flores smiled. “For obvious reasons, our office is handling the investigation into her death. Imagine, a police inspector who's also a serial killer. The FBI could write an entire study about it. Who knows? Maybe they will.” Flores tapped on a photograph. “Look. See the cigarette lying beside the body? It's the one you lit for her last night. It has your DNA all over it. Señora Conejo was prudent
enough to keep it before she gave us a statement about your attempted rape.”

Apiro had it right, Ramirez realized. He should have listened to his friend instead of his ego. “She was a honey-pot.”

“Well she
was
very beautiful, Ramirez. Your loyalty to your wife was the only surprise. After almost a week alone, I could have sworn you'd take the opportunity to have sex.” Flores shrugged. “Of course, it would have been better for us if you had, but we have enough evidence to proceed with charges without it. Señora Conejo signed the complaint of lascivious assault just before she, shall we say, gave up her permanent address. That gives us motive. And her statement is admissible in court even if she can no longer testify in person, poor girl.”

Ramirez shook his head. “I still don't understand why you felt you had to kill her.”

“Don't be stupid, Ramirez. She was naïve. She really believed that she could leave the country. We could hardly have her recanting her statement after she found out she wasn't going anywhere.”

Once the listening device in his apartment picked up her name, Ramirez realized, Antifona was as good as dead. “She was only nineteen.”

“I had orders,” said Flores. “I simply executed them.”

“Bullshit,” said Ramirez, standing up. He was furious. They had used and murdered an innocent woman for political gamesmanship. He grabbed the older man by his jacket lapels. “You're part of the inner circle.”

“If you really believe that, don't you think you should take your hands off me?”

Ramirez reluctantly let go. Flores brushed himself off and smoothed his rumpled clothes.

“How much did you pay her?” But Ramirez already knew the answer. Some new clothes. The promise of an exit permit.

A bad policeman, Dr. Yeung said. Manuel Flores.

58

“Once you turn the distribution list
over, Ramirez, this profile will be destroyed. Juan Otero will be charged with murdering his sister-in-law as well as his wife. Of course, I'll have to revise a few facts here and there in my report to fit him instead of you, and the police holding-cell records will need to be altered by a day or two, but you know how things work.”

Flores straightened his shirt collar. “You've always misunderstood the minister, you know. He's not interested in child pornography. He's only trying to protect the people who are. Rumours are one thing; it's proof that makes them dangerous. You're far more dangerous to this government than any dissident. What did you expect him to do?”

“Who murdered her—you?”

“Not me, Ramirez. My killing days ended decades ago. I have a clear conscience.”

“That usually reflects a bad memory.”

The psychiatrist smiled. “You know at Castellanos they used to douse the dissidents with water, for better electrical conduction. Those are the people you're dealing with. Give him back the list. You're a good detective. You should be doing your job, not wading around in politics. It's not healthy; you really are under a great deal of stress, you know. That's my professional opinion. The minister is a dangerous man to have as an enemy. But at least you have something to trade. And he wants
all
the copies.”

Doused them with water
. Ramirez put the final pieces of the puzzle in place: the real reason that Manuel Flores was back in Cuba and who he was working with. “I don't think so,” he said, and handed the report back to Flores.

“Don't be stupid, Ramirez. How long do you think you'll survive in jail?”

“You should ask yourself the same question.”

“You'll never prove I was involved in Antifona's murder. All the evidence leads to you.”

“Not Antifona's death,” said Ramirez. “The premeditated murder of an Italian curator. That's the real reason Antifona's dead, isn't it? She knew what the real Lorenzo Testa looked like. They were going to be engaged.”

The paintings were as important to him as his own children
. That's what Dominique Gatti had said. But Lorenzo Testa wasn't a father. According to Mama Loa, he wanted to get married so he could have children. He wasn't an Iraqi tortured for information; he was a man who held the key to millions of dollars' worth of art.

“Detective Espinoza is at the airport now,” said Ramirez. “He called me just before I came here. It's funny; Señor Testa seems to have changed his appearance quite dramatically in the course of a few days. Espinoza can't find a flight into Havana with a passenger named Dominique Gatti, either, but I'm assuming she and the man who is pretending to be Señor Testa came here from Guantánamo Bay. Are they American CIA? Señora Gatti, or whoever she really is,
wore the uniform well, I must say. In the panic over a bomb, people saw what they expected to see. They thought she was a man. So did I. It sounds like, occasionally, so does she.”

Flores kept his face composed, but he shifted slightly in his seat. Nassara was right, thought Ramirez.
Follow the money.

“You planned this with the CIA for months,” said Ramirez. “A conspiracy to steal priceless Italian masterpieces. The CIA is always happy to embarrass Cuba, and if it can find a way to get money that's off the books to fund its secret operations, I'm sure it doesn't shy away. And you need money too, lots of it, if you're going to get that new treatment for your cancer. That's what we always hear about America, how expensive their health care is.”

“You credit me with a great deal of complexity, Ramirez,” said Flores, but Ramirez read fear in the older man's face.

“You certainly had me thinking along certain lines, Dr. Flores. Graffiti, political protests, damaged artworks, I could have run around in circles for days. But it's the only way to steal art from a place like Cuba, isn't it? Deface paintings that have been brought into the country legitimately and then demand their removal for repairs so you can take them wherever you like. But to do that, you had to kidnap the real Lorenzo Testa and make sure he gave you the information you needed.

“When he told you about his girlfriend, Antifona Conejo, you sent Dominique Gatti to find out if she was going to be a problem. Then you had the brilliant idea of killing Antifona and framing me so I'd be out of the picture, no pun intended. It almost worked. But I can assure you, those paintings will never make it to Guantánamo Bay, I'm guessing that's where they were really headed. And neither will the imposters.”

“You breached a direct order from the minister. He'll have your job.”

“Do you think so?” said Ramirez. He reached in his pocket and put the listening device on the coffee table. “This is one of the bugs
I found. Which means that Cuban Intelligence has been listening to our conversation. I don't think either of the Castros will be happy to find out that the entire time you were supposed to be working on Luis Posada's trial, you were actually plotting an art heist with the American CIA.”

Ramirez picked up the listening device and threw it on the ground. He stood up and crushed it with his shoe. “Now that's gone, perhaps we can speak a little more freely.”

The old man blanched. “What do you want, Ramirez?”

“I'm tired of the minister's brinkmanship. You're going to call him and tell him the mission was successful. Tell him that I gave you the CD from Sanchez's laptop with the distribution list on it, but regrettably there was an accident. You wanted to make sure I was telling the truth. You accidentally erased it, like Nixon's secretary.”

He dialed the minister's number and handed Flores his cell phone. Flores made the call and hung up.

“What will happen now?” the older man asked. His face was ashen.

“That's up to Cuban Intelligence. As far as I'm concerned, you already have a death sentence. No money means no more treatments, and they'll never let you leave Cuba again. How long do you have left? A few weeks? A few months? That's if they don't put you in a psychiatric institution to rot. I think you've been suffering from delusions of capitalism. Imagine what it would be like to spend your last days at Mazorra or Castellanos. You might even run into some of your old patients. But don't worry, most of them are sane.”

Ramirez turned to go. But before he left Flores's apartment to walk back downstairs, he picked up the profiler's report. When he got to his car, he held it with the very tips of his fingers as he put a match to it, making sure he wouldn't get burned.