The Beggar's Opera (22 page)

Just as the last pages came off the printer, the lights began to flicker in the room. She lost the dial-up connection and then the power went out.

She called for Carlos, who explained that the telephone line was not always reliable and that power outages in Cuba were frequent. She walked upstairs and told Juanita about the early end to her session. The woman offered to bring her back later that morning if she needed to finish her session, but Jones had run out of time.

She asked Juanita to drop her off at the Parque Ciudad Hotel. She gave her the twenty-five pesos in the car. Her computer time had become expensive: fifty pesos for two hours’ access, a small fortune in Cuba. That didn’t include the drinks she had purchased, and she had no receipts for any of it. She winced, knowing the costs would come out of her own pocket. Her Scottish ancestors were rolling over in their graves. She couldn’t help but notice that Juanita didn’t offer a refund even though she didn’t get her full hour.

She needed to get to the Plaza Martí Hotel and find Candice Olefson. She hoped the woman hadn’t left for a day tour somewhere or, worse, for another part of Cuba.

It was just after nine in the morning. She had less than five hours until Inspector Ramirez filed for his indictment.

FORTY - FIVE

The dead man sat in the front seat of the blue mini-car as Inspector Ramirez drove to work. He pointed to Ramirez’s gold wedding ring.

What is my brain trying to tell me?
Ramirez looked more closely at the dead man’s hand. He narrowly missed a coco-taxi in the heavy morning traffic as his car swerved. The round yellow fibreglass vehicles were mounted to mopeds but worked more like rickshaws and moved just as slowly. He pulled back into the correct lane, ignoring the complaining horns.

He hadn’t noticed it before: the faint mark of a missing ring. A white line through the brown skin of the dead man’s ring finger where the sun hadn’t tanned it. But it wasn’t unusual for a fisherman to remove his wedding ring so it wouldn’t slide off when he pulled up his heavy nets. The ring itself could be in the dead man’s pockets, or it could be at the bottom of the ocean. No way of knowing until someone found the body.

If I ever lost my wedding ring, Ramirez thought, the police wouldn’t have to look very far to find my murderer.

“I was wrong to think you were a bachelor. Then why has no one reported you missing? If not your wife, why not a fellow worker?”

The dead man shrugged.

This was Cuba: someone always noticed when someone was missing. Despite its size, once you took away the
turistas
, Havana was really a small town.

“Unless your family thinks you’re still alive.”

At least three thousand Cubans attempted to make the ninety-mile trek across the Straits of Florida each year. They used pieces of drywall, old tires, dinghies, even wrecked cars they had converted into clumsy boats. Most were stopped by the U.S. Coast Guard and returned to Cuban shores before they ever set foot on American soil. But many others drowned in the rough waters or were attacked by sharks. It was possible that this man had tried to leave the island and drowned on his way to the United States.

But if that was the case, thought Ramirez, why come back?

Inspector Ramirez and Detective Sanchez sat side by side, their documents spread out on Ramirez’s desk. They once again went through the exhibits that would be filed in support of the indictment. Ramirez wanted to make certain that nothing was missed.

The dead man looked over the inspector’s shoulder as he flipped through the sheaf of papers. As he had throughout the week, Ramirez tried to ignore him. “Have we had any reports of a man drowning?”

“No, Inspector. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Ramirez said, although he realized it was a strange question. He quickly changed the subject. “Were you and Natasha able to find any car rental records, Rodriguez?”

“No. I’m sure that neither Señor Ellis nor his wife rented a car,” said Sanchez. “They might have borrowed one, but I think that’s unlikely.”

“Good. And are Apiro’s DNA tests back now?”

“Yes. I have made a copy for the case file. Dr. Apiro has
established conclusively from DNA that the stains on the sheets came from the same man who raped the boy.”

“Excellent. It will be very hard for Señor Ellis to argue that someone else’s semen was on his sheets in a room where only he had the key.”

“I think we have more than enough evidence to meet the test of probable guilt.” Sanchez looked reasonably happy, although his expressions often required interpretation.

“I certainly hope so. I don’t want this animal released to wander the streets of Old Havana again. According to the minister, Fidel Castro wants to send a strong message to foreigners that our children are out of bounds.”

“That means a conviction for sure. No juridical panel will acquit this man once they hear of Castro’s interest.”

True enough. The panels were often biased towards guilt even without such high-level encouragement. Ramirez remembered the first time he appeared before one as a young police officer. Instead of asking the accused whether he was ready to plead innocent or guilty, the panel chair, a judge, had simply asked the accused if he was ready to plead guilty.

“My God,” the man said, “don’t you even give a man a choice?” No one in the court dared to laugh.

There was no need to stack the deck this time, however. Even Sanchez agreed. The evidence against Michael Ellis was overwhelming.

And the Canadian lawyer, in her various telephone discussions with her client, had found nothing to rebut it. She had spoken freely to Señor Ellis, not realizing that in Cuba, where she was not qualified as a lawyer, she enjoyed no privilege in her communications. It would have been negligent of Ramirez not to make arrangements to listen in on conversations that, if useful, were admissible in court.

“Even so, Rodriguez, there could be a great deal of foreign interest in this trial. We need to make sure we do things right,” Ramirez cautioned. “The Canadian government knows about the charges. We can expect their reporters to come here and ask questions. No foreigner has been executed by a firing squad in Cuba for decades. The last one was that American, after the Bay of Pigs, remember? The one whose family sued the Cuban government?”

“I saw a story about that case on the internet last week, Inspector. It seems an American court awarded his family four hundred million dollars. Another judgment like that could destroy our economy,” Sanchez joked.

Ramirez chuckled. He stacked up the documents he planned to attach to his report to the Attorney General. He hoped there was enough toner to make copies. Transcripts of the interrogation in which Michael Ellis admitted he met the boy and gave him money. The witness statement from the man on the seawall who observed just how angry Ellis was after the boy left. The photographs Sanchez found under the mattress. But not the CD; it was suspicious but not directly relevant.

And then Miguel Artez’s statement that Ellis came back to the hotel on Christmas Eve alone. The doorman’s statement not only contradicted the Canadian’s false alibi, but also established the completely unexpected and sudden departure of the suspect’s wife, close to the boy’s death. That, in itself, was a powerful piece of evidence.

On top of that, Ramirez had Hector Apiro’s opinion as to the cause of death, along with the pathologist’s meticulously detailed forensic analysis. And now he had positive DNA results confirming Apiro’s earlier tests as well. Circumstantial, yes, but it should be more than enough to persuade the Attorney General to proceed.

Yes, thought Ramirez, it is a “slam dunk.”

FORTY - SIX

A terrace with tables and chairs surrounded a dazzling fountain just off the lobby of the Plaza Martí Hotel. Birds trilled in the exotic garden and stained glass flooded the space with refracted colours and light. Celia Jones walked to the reception desk and asked if a Candice Olefson was registered.

The smiling young man confirmed Señora Olefson was a guest and pointed to a beige wall phone. Jones was relieved when Olefson answered. She explained to the surprised woman that she was working on a file for the Rideau Regional Police Force. “Can I take a few minutes of your time?”

“Oh sure, come on up. I could use a break; I’ve been writing all morning.”

There was no elevator in the building, so Jones walked to the second level and knocked on the door. A woman who appeared to be in her thirties let her in.

The room had two double beds, a walnut desk with a laptop, and a carved wooden armoire. It was tastefully decorated, with light peach walls and beige marble-like tile flooring. Luxurious bedding. Olefson pointed to a bentwood rocking chair next to the desk and invited Jones to sit down.

“Can I get you something, a coffee, some orange juice perhaps? I have a very well-stocked mini-bar here with every kind of rum you can imagine. I shouldn’t tell you this,” she laughed, “but I get it re-stocked every day.”

“Orange juice would be great. What a gorgeous hotel.”

“You should see the view from the rooftop pool. It’s absolutely breathtaking.”

“Do you have internet access here?” Jones asked when she saw that the woman’s laptop was turned on. “We’re supposed to have it in my hotel, but it’s been down for days.”

“No. Just satellite television. Which so far has amounted to some really dreadful Chinese trivia game shows. They make
Jeopardy
seem like an adrenalin rush.”

Olefson cracked open a small bottle of juice and pulled out a glass from a shelf in the armoire.

“I’m almost glad there isn’t any,” Olefson said. “I’m trying to finish writing a mystery novel. It helps that there aren’t any distractions. I’m at that point where I’m trying to work out the twists and turns. Nothing worse than too much foreshadowing. I set it in Cuba; that’s why I’m here. My agent told me if he saw one more book about vampires, he’d stake his own heart.”

“I’d love to hear about your book, Candice, but I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of time.”

Olefson smiled and sat on the edge of the bed. “Sorry. Writers. We should get paid by the word, the way lawyers used to bill. We’d all be rich. You mentioned something about the Rideau Police. So why
are
you here? And how can I help?”

“I can’t discuss specifics, but I understand you volunteer sometimes to bring veterinary supplies into Cuba? I need to know about a shipment you brought in last week.” Jones reached for a notepad in her purse and pulled out a pencil.

“Yes, I come here quite often. I’ve always been shocked at the
terrible poverty, but it’s the dogs that break my heart. Maybe you’ve seen them? They look like terriers, with short ears and a curled tail?”

Jones nodded. The stray dogs were all over the city. Sickly looking animals, starving, most of them. But she hoped that Olefson would get to the point.

“I’m a crazy dog-lover, but I can’t take them all home with me. So I decided to help. Drugs for Dogs is an NGO in Toronto. I live in Ottawa, but I deliver veterinary supplies for them whenever I’m here. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of them make their way into the human population, but that’s okay with me. The people here are so pleasant and easygoing that you tend to forget how much they struggle to survive every day.”

“You brought supplies on this trip?”

“Sorry, yes. For a clinic in Viñales. That’s a couple of hours from Havana. There was a bus tour last Tuesday; I delivered them then. I prefer not to rent a car; I think they’re held together with chewing gum and wire. Amazing, really, that they’re still running. In most countries, it’s the doctors who are highly prized. Here, it’s the mechanics.”

“Was there Rohypnol in the package?”

“Yes, there was,” the woman said, worried. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”

“Not at all. I just need to find out if any of it went missing.”

“It’s interesting that you ask, because apparently there was a problem this time. And you’re right, it was the Rohypnol. I think they use it on the animals to get them ready for surgery. Anyway, it wasn’t in the box.”

“How did you find out?”

“The clinic called me the next day to ask about it. I told them I gave them everything I had. They asked if I could double-check with the folks in Toronto to see whether it was in the original package or not.”

“Were you able to find out?” Jones asked.

“Not yet, because of the holidays. I left a message on their answering machine. I think the staff at the Viñales clinic were worried it went missing on their end. It wouldn’t surprise me if it was stolen. I’ve had coffee and rum taken from my luggage at the airport. Even tampons, believe it or not.”

“I guess it would be awkward to run out.” Jones cringed at the notion.

“Run out? They haven’t had any for years. It’s easy to understand why people steal things once you’ve spent some time here. I usually bring extras of stuff like that to give away. People will follow you for miles asking for hand soap or pencils. It’s hard to believe the things people will beg for. I guess you can’t know how important something is to you until you’ve lost it. Or think you will.”

Jones glanced at her pencil. She thought about how casually she had waved it around in front of Inspector Ramirez. “Was the package sealed when you took it to Viñales?”

“The Customs officers here opened it to check the contents at the airport. They closed it up after that.”

“Do you have anything that lists the contents?”

“Yes. There’s a manifest that travels with the package. I have to produce it at Customs. They stamp it. I imagine they keep a copy. I don’t keep the stamped copy; that goes to the clinic. But I always make a few copies of the original in case I have any difficulties at Customs here. Usually, people are just grateful I’m trying to help.”

Olefson walked over to the desk and reached for a stack of papers. She shuffled through them until she found the one she was looking for. “Here.”

Jones scanned the list quickly. Penicillin, gauze, sutures, Bactrim, Polysporin, and Rohypnol. The quantities were listed as well.