Suspicion of Rage (31 page)

"Did she have a lover?"

"I do not know," Anthony said.

As if suddenly remembering, Sánchez said, "A woman in the CDR for this zone has told us that Miss Saavedra has traveled several times to Europe. If she was free to travel, why would she ask for your help in leaving Cuba?"

Anthony shook his head. "It was only a guess, detective. I couldn't read her mind."

"Of course not." He lifted his head to look at Anthony directly, and his glasses reflected the fading gray light from the courtyard. "Where were you at noon today?"

"In Vedado. I had lunch with my father, Luis Quintana. He lives in a home for veterans on B Street."
 

"When did you arrive there?"
 

"Around eleven o'clock."
 

"And you left at... ?"

"I was with my father until one-thirty. Call the veterans' home if you like. I drove back to my sister's house in Miramar and arrived about a quarter before two. My wife wasn't there, and my sister said she had gone downtown to do some shopping. I was with my sister until shortly after four, when you called."

"We will have to confirm it, of course." Sánchez clasped his hands briefly in thought, then extended an arm toward the open door of the apartment. "Would you like to come inside? Your wife told me that in Miami, you're a renowned criminal defense lawyer. She says you have handled many cases of murder. Perhaps you could look at the scene and give me your impressions."

"I'm a lawyer, not a detective."
 

"It doesn't matter. Come."

Anthony had the thought that this man wanted to hear from someone outside his own world. He followed Sánchez, and they stopped a few feet past the door. Men in plainclothes were taking photographs, opening drawers, coming out of the bedroom with a box. One was at the desk going through an appointment book. The men stopped, glanced at each other, then returned to their work.

He knew nothing about Cuban crime scene procedures, but he had heard that officers from the Department of Technical Investigation had a double role. They also acted as secret police, reporting directly to State Security.

Anthony looked quickly around the room and finally forced his eyes to the body on the floor. He could not recognize Olga Saavedra. The bones of her face had been smashed. She lay with her head toward him, her twisted legs beside an overturned chair. A large amount of blood had pooled around her, drying to purplish brown at the edges. With his teeth clamped together, Anthony followed the spatters of blood that went up one wall and across the ceiling. He felt a heaviness in his chest and at the same time a burn of anger.

"A terrible death."

"It was," said the detective.

"How long do you think she has been dead?"

"Between three and five hours. Your wife arrived at two o'clock. One of the neighbors saw Miss Saavedra go into her apartment at noon." Sánchez gestured to the ruined face. "There was anger in the attack. Do you not have that impression?"

"Anger or thoroughness," Anthony said.

An oddly shaped piece of wood lay on the leather sofa. It was perhaps two feet in length with curves extending from a heavy base. Anthony took a step toward it, and the curves resolved into the elongated, nude figures of a man and woman carved from mahogany. "That wooden statue. Was it the murder weapon?"

"Probably. We haven't moved it. The base appears to match an indentation in her skull. There, above her left eye. The amount of force required for a fatal blow would not be great if the point of the base struck at the correct angle. The other blows appear to have been made after she fell, but we'll know more when the coroner arrives. There will be an autopsy tomorrow at the Institute of Legal Medicine."

Anthony looked around the room once more, avoiding the body. "How did the killer get in? Was the door forced? Are there any broken windows?"

"No, there are no indications of a break-in. She probably knew him."

"Perhaps. Or he followed her and forced his way inside when she opened the door. He could have been a stranger."

"In Cuba, such crimes are rarely committed by strangers," said Sánchez.

"She knew him, then." Anthony asked if they had examined the statue for fingerprints.

"Unfortunately, the killer wiped it clean of fingerprints. There are smears on the floor by the desk as well. He obliterated his shoe prints."

"Where is the cloth he used?"

"We have not yet found it."

"Miss Saavedra's hands appear untouched," Anthony said."There are no ...
defensive wounds"
He said it in English.

Following in English, Sánchez said, "Yes, yes, we have the same way to describe it.
Heridas de defensa.
She was probably dead or unconscious at the first blow."

"Menos mal"
Anthony said. At least this small thing. He leaned over the body. Returning to Spanish, he said, "She's wearing a gold necklace. Are there abrasions on her neck?"

"No. The killer didn't attempt to take her necklace, nor is the money missing from her purse."

"Then it wasn't a robbery," Anthony said. "She's fully dressed. That would seem to rule out an attempted rape."

"That was my thought as well," Sánchez replied. "On the other hand, perhaps he did intend
such an act and left after realizing she was dead. He could have become frightened that he would be discovered."

"Frightened? No, he was very cold," Anthony countered. "Not only violent, but intelligent. He took the time to get rid of the evidence."

"What do you infer from this?" Sánchez asked.

"That the crime could have been planned in advance."

"It is impossible to say until we find the person responsible."

"That is true." Anthony brought his eyes back to the woman on the floor. "Did she have any family? I never asked her."

"No children. There is a sister in Holguin. Her mother died in prison."

"In prison? What had she done?"

"She was profiteering from the black market," Sánchez said. "Her sentence was ten years, but she died of a heart attack after six. That is what we have been told by the CDR. Miss Saavedra has no criminal history, and she attended the block meetings. Not all of them, but enough not to have been marked as uncooperative. There were no unknown visitors coming and going from her apartment."

"But with the side entrance so near her door, they might not have been seen."

"Exactly so."

Anthony accompanied the detective back to the passageway. The buzzing fixture in the low ceiling did little to keep out the encroaching darkness. Lights shone in the other apartments.

Sánchez said, "Before I reunite you with your wife, I would like to ask an unrelated question, if you would allow me. A police chief from the Bahamas was here last week. He told me about the crime laboratory in Miami. He says they use it for their difficult cases. Even the FBI uses it. Is this so?"

"He means the laboratory that belongs to the county," Anthony said. "But yes, it is nationally recognized, as is the medical examiner's department. They do death investigation for many of the islands."

"It would be something to see." Sánchez nodded, then said, "I have a brother in Miami. He left twenty years ago. His daughter is about to graduate from medical school. It won't be easy, all the red tape, but I am thinking of going for a visit. I would be there at least a month."

"Keep in touch with me," Anthony said. He took one of his cards out of his wallet. "If you come, I'm sure I could arrange a personal tour of the crime laboratory and the morgue."

"I would like that very much." Sánchez put the card into his shirt pocket. As he did so, his attention went to the courtyard. The people milling around the entrance were being ordered back by one of the police officers. Three men appeared, walking in a V formation of square shoulders and lace-up boots. The Army had arrived. Two other men followed in sport shirts and dark trousers.

Those two continued into the apartment. The men in uniform stopped just short of the passageway. The officer in the lead, a
mulato
in his late thirties, had two red stripes and a small star on his epaulets. His eyes fixed on the detective.

"Inspector Sánchez? I am Major Orlando Valdez. This investigation is now being handled by State Security. You will assist them by giving a full report."

Sánchez glanced at the door of the apartment, then nodded. "I am at your orders."

The major shifted his attention to Anthony. "Mr. Quintana, you and your wife will come with me."

"May I ask where?"

"To the Ministry of the Interior to answer some questions. General Vega has been notified. It's completely a matter of routine."

He motioned in the direction of the officer across the courtyard, who leaned down to Gail's chair and spoke to her. She picked up her purse and started walking toward them. Even in the diminished gray light of late afternoon, Anthony could see the apprehension in her eyes.

 

 

 

 

26

 

 

The face of Che Guevara looked out from the smooth stone facade of the Ministry building. This was not a photograph but a line drawing made of steel, amazingly accurate: the firm mouth and flowing hair; the piercing eyes fixed on the inevitable, glorious future; the beret with its star. Under the face, Che's words were written as if scrawled by an immense hand:
Hasta la Victoria Siempre.
Onward to victory forever.

Che presided over several acres of cracked asphalt in the
Plaza de la Revolución.
A seated José Martí gazed back at him from the low hill across the plaza. Dozens of utility poles with floodlights and speakers had been erected between them to carry the speeches and music at the rallies and mass demonstrations, a million Cubans waving flags and carrying banners, screaming, "Fidel, Fidel,
¡estamos contigo!”
We are with you, Fidel.

On one or another
Dia de los Trabajadores,
a Workers' Day celebration several years ago, Anthony Quintana had marched with the crowd to the plaza to find out what it was like in that sea of bodies and emotion. From his own pocket of silence he had seen an old man with tears of love pouring down his face, a girl fainting from the heat, a teenager listening to his Walkman, and a man taken away by undercover police after he had cupped a hand at his mouth and shouted,
"Palabras, no. Pan, si. "
Words, no. Bread, yes. Dripping sweat, Anthony had gone back to his hotel room, turned the AC to its lowest setting, and opened a beer.

The face of Che Guevara grew larger as the driver sped across the plaza. Anthony was in the back of a small white Renault. The army major who had come for him sat in the front passenger seat. There wasn't much conversation. Turning around, he could see the other car following close behind. They had separated him from Gail. It was procedure, the major had said. So far Anthony had kept a grip on his anger. Gail would be afraid, and he hated to think of it. But she was more intelligent than they knew. She had run across the courtyard, the distraught wife, throwing herself into his arms too fast for the soldiers to stop her. She had clung to him, hiding her face against his neck. Her lips were at his ear long enough to whisper,
I
didn't say anything.

The car turned under the portico past the main entrance, then went around back and stopped with a slight squeal of tires on the damp concrete driveway. Soldiers came to attention. The driver opened the rear door.

Getting out, Anthony looked back to see one of Valdez's men extending a hand to help Gail from the other car. Her eyes connected with Anthony's. She was all right.

"This way," the major said. "Your wife will wait for you downstairs."

Two soldiers fell in behind them. They went up some steps and through a door, where a guard saluted. As they walked, the tap of their heels went into and out of cadence.

Anthony was aware of what he had to do: protect Ramiro Vega. Sometime between his conversation with the CIA spook this morning and staring down at the body of Olga Saavedra, the answer had come into focus. He knew what Céspedes had said. No, better to call it a theory. Anthony needed a couple of details from José Leiva. Another phone call to Hector. He wanted to toss his theory at Bookhouser and see if fireworks went off.

They entered an elevator and avoided looking at themselves in the polished metal doors. No one spoke. The elevator opened onto a terrazzo-floored hall lined with flags and photographs. Through a set of glass double doors across the hall, a thin figure appeared. Abdel Garcia.

His off-center jaw shifted when he spoke. "Thank you, Major Valdez. I will take Mr. Quintana from here."

Valdez hesitated, then said, "Yes, general." He motioned to one of his men, who pressed the elevator button. The doors slid open. Valdez and his men entered and were gone. At the end of the long corridor a group of officers walked out of one office and into another.

As the voices faded, Garcia said quietly, "You were brought here because of your family relationship with General Vega. That was explained to you?"

"Yes. My wife discovered a murder victim. Am I here to talk to you about it?"

"No, you will speak to Lieutenant General Efraín Prieto. As Vega's superior officer, I was notified. They are waiting for us. We don't have much time." Garcia moved so close that Anthony could feel the other man's breath on his cheek. "Do you have something for me?"

"You're referring to your friend who took the trip to Brazil?"

"Quickly."

"I have some information. I'm not certain how accurate—"

"Good. We will talk later. Prieto doesn't know you're working for us. For reasons of security, I couldn't tell him. His staff has been infiltrated with traitors. I report to his superiors. Say nothing. Do you understand?"

Anthony stared down the empty corridor.
Efraín Prieto.
The name stirred a memory. Prieto was near the top of the Cuban power structure. A member of the Politburo, he thought. There were not many men senior to Prieto. The Interior Minister himself. The commander of the Armed Forces. And the
comandante en jefe
at the top of the pyramid. Which one—if any—was Abdel Garcia reporting to?