Murder, She Wrote: Prescription for Murder (11 page)

“You’re more than that,” Machado said.

“Meaning?”

“I Googled you. From what I read, you not only write big bestselling murder mysteries; you’ve been involved in more than a few real ones yourself—at least according to newspaper reports I got off the Internet, lots of stories about some of those cases.”

“It’s nothing I brag about,” I said.

“Hey,” he said, “I’m impressed. If you ever quit writing for a living, maybe you could become a cop.”

“I think it’s a little late for a change in career, Detective Machado.”

“No offense,” he said. “Look. If the ME is correct, that Dr. Vasquez might have been done in by someone else, I’ve got a real hot potato of a case on my hands. Vasquez was well-known in Tampa and controversial, too. My boss, Major Stacks, is already getting pressure from local Cuban American groups.”

“Why?” I asked. “As far as the public knows, Dr. Vasquez was killed by a lightning strike.”

“Tampa’s no different from anyplace else,” Machado said. “We’ve got our share of conspiracy buffs. Word gets around that some people think that maybe Vasquez wasn’t killed by lightning and their paranoia shifts into high gear. Our liaison officers who work with the Cuban community tell us that some people are convinced that Vasquez was killed by our government to get his research and keep it out of Castro’s hands. We’ve also got pressure from the feds.”

“The FBI?”

“Right. So my boss tells me in no uncertain terms to wrap this up.”

“Why would the FBI be interested in a local death?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t sounding too naïve.

“Because of who the victim was, Mrs. Fletcher. Vasquez defected from Cuba. It made all the papers. He supposedly was sitting on some medical breakthrough that the Cubans would want back, and the feds obviously want to make sure that that doesn’t happen.”

“I certainly understand,” Seth said. “That’s why we stopped by, to let you know about the letter.”

Machado glanced at the sheet of paper again. “So Vasquez tells you that he left you copies of his research. Did you go to this self-storage place?”

“Yes.” Seth pulled the three original thumb drives from his jacket and handed them to the detective.

“It’s all on these?” Machado asked.

Seth nodded. “As far as I know.”

“You haven’t looked at them?”

Seth shook his head, and I knew he was relieved to be telling the truth.

“What else is in that storage place?”

“Nothing,” I answered, “just a small table and the box in which these were housed.”

“You take the box and table from there?”

“No,” Seth said. “We left them.”

Machado exhaled a long, poignant stream of air and stood. “Let’s go,” he said.

“Where?”

“The storage place.”

“Is it really necessary for us to go with you?” I asked.

“Can’t make you, but I’d appreciate it.”

A half hour later we were walking down the hallway toward space number sixty-one, whose door was wide-open.

“You locked it when you left?” Machado asked.

“Ayuh, I’m sure I did,” Seth said.

We stepped inside. The smoked plastic box was gone; only the table remained.

Machado abruptly turned and left the room, with us following. We went to the lobby, where Machado flashed his TPD badge to a young woman at the desk. “I need to speak with the manager,” the detective said. A few minutes later, a man appeared and introduced himself, checked Machado’s badge, and said, “Not again.”

“What do you mean by that?” Machado asked.

“You’re the second cop—law enforcement officer—who’s been here this afternoon.”

“Who was the other one?”

“FBI.”

“FBI? You’re sure?”

“He had his credentials. He wanted us to open one of the lockers.”

“Number sixty-one,” I said.

“That’s right. He said that the renter was deceased—Dr. Vasquez. I’d read that the doctor had died, hit by lightning, so I opened the locker and this FBI agent took what was in there, not much, just a table and a box on it. He took the box.”

The manager accompanied us back to the open storage space, and Machado looked around. There was nothing to see aside from the table, which he dismissed with a cursory running of his hand over it. He thanked the manager and we retreated to Machado’s unmarked car.

“Looks like you were right about the FBI being interested,” Seth said as we drove back to police headquarters.

“The agent must have been after what Dr. Vasquez wanted Seth to have, the thumb drives he gave you,” I said.

Machado grunted and drove the last few blocks in silence.

“Appreciate you coming in,” he said to us as we prepared to get into our yellow rental car.

“What will you do with those thumb drives we gave you?” I asked. “They contain what could be very valuable information about Dr. Vasquez’s medical research.”

“We have experts to check them. I want to know whether he names names or says anything about fearing for his life. There’s probably nothing, but then again . . . Anyway, thanks again for your cooperation. You can still be reached at the hotel?”

“Ayuh,” Seth responded.

“How long do you plan on staying in Tampa?”

“Hard to say,” Seth said.

“I’ll stay in touch,” Machado said, and walked away.

When we’d gotten in the car I said, “Either someone other than Dr. Vasquez knew that he’d rented that storage space, or—”

“Or what, Jessica?”

“Or someone followed us there, and that someone is involved with the government.”

We drove a little farther before I asked, “Just how long
do
you plan on staying, Seth?”

He ran his tongue over his lips before answering. “As long as it takes to find out what really
did
happen to Al.”

S
eth was eager to get back to the hotel to read what was on the thumb drives, but I suggested that we first stop at Carlos Cespedes’s cigar shop and factory. “He said that he wanted to discuss something about Dr. Vasquez’s death,” I said. “As long as you’re committed to getting to the bottom of it, we should follow up on every possible source of information.”

“Is that what you’d have people do if you were writing this as a novel?” he asked.

“Yes, I suppose I would,” I said.

“Makes sense,” he said.

I retrieved Cespedes’s business card and read off the address to him, then consulted the street map that came with the rental car and gave directions.

Cespedes Fine Cigars was located in downtown Ybor City. The owner’s business card billed it as a cigar factory and shop, although from the looks of it the use of the term “factory” was a misnomer. In reality, it was no more than a storefront with two small tables and a few chairs on the sidewalk in front. A sign next to the door offered coffee, cold drinks, and “Authentic Cuban Pastries.” An older woman and a younger man occupied one of the tables. Both had large white mugs in front of them, and both were drawing on cigars.

We found a parking space in a lot across the street. As we got out and waited for traffic to clear before crossing, a family of four, mother, father, and two youngsters, emerged from Cespedes’s shop, each carrying a small plastic shopping bag.

“You don’t figure they bought cigars for the kids, do you?” Seth mused.

“Only chocolate ones, I hope,” I said as we took advantage of a break in traffic and walked across.

The door to the shop was open, and we entered. A long counter to the left held a cash register and clear plastic boxes containing an assortment of cigars. Stacks of colorful cigar boxes filled shelves mounted on the wall. A young woman sat on a stool browsing through a magazine.

“Buenos días,”
she said.

“Buenos días,”
I replied. “Is Mr. Cespedes in?”

She pointed to the rear of the shop and went back to reading.

Our view of the back of the shop was obscured by a row of large barrels in which tropical plants bloomed. Once we reached them, we could see beyond to where two older men sat at wooden tables rolling cigars. They looked up for a moment before returning to their tasks, and I recognized one as Adelmo, who had been making cigars at Alvaro Vasquez’s party. I was about to ask for Mr. Cespedes when he appeared through a slit in a red curtain.

“Ah,” he said, smiling and coming to us, his hand outstretched, “you came, you came. I am so pleased.”

“Thank you for the invitation,” Seth said. “So this is your cigar shop.”

I judged Cespedes to be in his late sixties or early seventies. A short, balding man with a sizable paunch, he wore a red-and-white checkered shirt and tan slacks and had a malleable face on which he adopted a hangdog look. “It used to be much more, I am afraid. I once owned a whole building here in Ybor City, a real factory. I even had lectors.”

My puzzled expression prompted him to explain.

“Lectors,” he said. “Readers. While my
tabaqueros
and
tabaqueras
, the cigar rollers, do their work, the readers sit high above them and read aloud from the newspapers, or short stories. It is a very Cuban thing, very educational, yes?”

“I saw and heard the lectors when I was in Havana,” Seth said.

“Ah, Havana,” Cespedes sighed. “I miss it.”

“You never go back?” I asked.

“Once—no, twice—many years ago. It is very different now that the
imbécil
Castro is there. I would go shoot him myself if I could.”

My attention drifted to what the men were doing at their tables.

“Ah,” Cespedes said, “too much from me about Castro, huh? You’re interested in how my cigars are made.”

One of the rollers, or
tabaqueros
, as I now knew, picked up a small rounded knife and banged it on his table. Adelmo did likewise.

Cespedes laughed. “They welcome you with their banging, a Cuban custom.”

I remembered that Adelmo had rapped his knife on the table when I’d said hello at the party. At the time, I hadn’t realized he was responding to my greeting.

“That is the
chaveta
,” Cespedes continued, “the knife used to smooth and cut the tobacco leaves, smooth the filler tobacco, cut the tips. They say they circumcise the tips, like a baby. See? He rolls the tobacco into a tube that goes into the wooden mold. Then he takes the solid cylinder—we call it the ‘bunch’—and lays it on the wrapper and uses a tiny bit of vegetable glue to secure the second wrapper. Then he glues the cap into place and trims any excess tobacco.”

“How many can he roll in a day?” I asked.

“For those medium-sized cigars, maybe one hundred, maybe a little more. For the bigger, fatter cigars, not so many.” He gave out a plaintive sigh. “Everything is so different now in Ybor City. Once there were a hundred and fifty factories rolling a quarter of a million cigars every year. Now, for me, there is only this.” He took in his shop with a wave of his hand. “It is a shame that you weren’t here last month for the cigar festival. A team rolled the world’s longest cigar, a hundred feet long. You can check it in that Guinness book.”

I laughed as I envisioned a hundred-foot-long cigar.

Seth broke in with, “You said that you wanted to talk to us about Al Vasquez’s death, Mr. Cespedes.”

“Yes, I do.”

A family of tourists came through the front door.

“Please, come with me,” Cespedes said as he parted the red curtains. “We can talk better in here.”

Behind the curtains was a small office. Large posters of famous cigar labels of the past dominated the walls. A calculator surrounded by piles of papers sat on a desk. Family photographs in silver frames were lined up on a table behind the desk.

“You were Alvaro’s good friend,” he said as Seth and I sat in director’s chairs with floral-patterned canvas seats and backs, while he perched on a stool.

“That’s right,” Seth said. “I assume that you were a close friend, too.”

“‘Close friend’? We were friends, acquaintances, and I suppose you could say business partners.”

“What sort of business were you and Al in?” Seth asked.

“He never told you? It is hard to explain. As you can see from my shop, what I once had is no longer. Now I make ends meet. But it wasn’t long ago that there was plenty of money from when I sold my factory building. The company that bought it turned it into a handsome social club. You can see it on Avenida Republica de Cuba. Once my father had a hundred
tabaqueros
and
tabaqueras
rolling cigars in our factory, and the best lectors reading the latest news, and short stories, too, by your Papa Hemingway and Agatha Christie and other great writers. We treated everyone well. Our cigars were among the best in the world. Now members of the club drink and eat and dance and hold their meetings in what was our building. It is a good place, the club, but I am sad every time I drive by.”

It was obvious to Seth and me that Cespedes would get around to addressing Vasquez’s death only after he was finished lamenting what had happened to Ybor City and his family’s cigar factory. We listened patiently until Seth again asked, “What sort of business were you and Dr. Vasquez in?”

Cespedes didn’t hesitate. “His research, of course,” he said.

Seth and I looked at each other before Seth said, “The research? How were you and Dr. Vasquez involved together in his research?”

“I invested in it, five hundred thousand dollars, what I received from the sale of my building.”

Seth shook his head as though to clear it. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You invested in the research that Dr. Vasquez was doing to find a cure for Alzheimer’s disease?”

“Yes.”

“But what about—?” I started to say.

Seth finished the sentence for me. “Bernard Peters.”

“Oh,” said Cespedes, “Mr. Peters is also an investor.”

“Does he know about
your
investment in the research?” I asked.

“No, no,” Cespedes said. “It was very important to Alvaro that my investment be kept a secret from everyone, anyone. I have never even told my wife.”

“Do you know if there were other independent investors like you?” I asked.

Cespedes shrugged. “Probably. Alvaro, he needed the money. He liked the high life, you know? The boats, the women, the good food. He liked to entertain his friends. Peters only gave him so much, and he expected it to go toward the laboratory.”

“What were you to receive for the half million dollars you invested?” I asked.

“Ten percent. I wasn’t sure whether to make the investment. Those savings were all I had. But to be on the ground floor, as you say, of a cure for that terrible disease, was a privilege I could not pass up. Alvaro told me that he was only allowing very few people to invest in his work.”

“I assume you had a good written agreement with him,” Seth said.

“Yes. Alvaro gave me a letter saying that when he found a cure, I would receive ten percent of all the money it would make. He told me never to show the letter to anyone.”

“Just a letter?” I said, unable to keep incredulity from my voice. “And you trusted him that much?”

“Yes, of course,” Cespedes replied. “He was my countryman—he was a man of great reputation, a man whose character was above reproach. He was—he was Cuban, my friend.”

“This is what you wanted to talk to us about?” Seth said.

“Yes. You are a medical doctor and Alvaro’s close friend. I asked Dr. Sardina about the research and whether Alvaro had found the cure.”

“And what did he tell you?” I asked.

“He said that it would be some time before the results could be evaluated. Yes, that is what he told me. I thought that maybe you could tell me more.”

Seth grappled for an answer, finally saying, “I don’t have anything to tell you at the moment, but I might have information later. I’ll get in touch with you when I do.”

“Gracias, gracias,”
Cespedes said. “Alvaro told me that you are a fine and upstanding man and medical doctor.”

“And I appreciate his kind words about me. We really should be going.”

“Of course, of course. Before you do, may I ask you a question?”

“Go right ahead.”

“There is the rumor in Ybor City, with some of my Cuban friends, that Alvaro might have been—how shall I say it?—that he might have been killed by an
asesinato
, not by the lightning.”

“Asesinato?”
Seth said. “Assassination?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Who would assassinate him?” I asked.

Cespedes sighed deeply and shrugged. “The DI,” he said, “Castro’s intelligence agency. They have agents in Florida, many here in Tampa. They want to destroy our CAFA.”

“Which is?” I asked.

“Our Cuban American Freedom Alliance.”

“Al told me about that,” Seth said to me. “It’s sort of the Cuban government in exile here in Florida, groups that want to topple Castro and return to Cuba.”

“Do you have any proof?” I asked Cespedes.

“Proof?” His laugh was cynical. “No, no proof, but there are the rumors, many rumors.”

“Well,” Seth said, “there are always rumors. Like I said, Mr. Cespedes, I’ll let you know if I find out anything about Alvaro’s research. Thanks for letting us drop in. It was—interesting.”

Seth was silent as we got in the car and headed back to the hotel.

“What did you think?” I asked as he joined the flow of traffic.

“Gorry, I don’t know what to think. I think I’d like to know who
else
invested in Al’s research. I’m beginnin’ to think that my good friend might not have been as much on the up-and-up as I thought.”