The Beggar's Opera (34 page)

“It’s quite the story, isn’t it?”

“That it is,” Ramirez agreed. “I hope I have answered all your questions, Detective Ellis. Here is your passport. I hope things go well for you in Canada.”

“It’s a small matter, but I don’t suppose anyone admitted to taking the money from the safe in my room?”

“I think you should talk to your wife about that.”

Ellis nodded. “Thanks.”

As Ellis pushed on the door to let himself out, Ramirez spoke again. “One more thing, Señor Ellis? Perhaps you can answer another question for me, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course,” Ellis said and turned to face the inspector. “How can I help?”

“Why did you kill Steve Sloan?”

SEVENTY - FOUR

“I’m sorry?” said Mike Ellis. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t kill Steve Sloan; a suspect did. The same man who cut me up.”

“Señor Ellis, we both know this is untrue. Please sit down. There are several hours before your flight leaves. The airport is not far.”

Ellis sat down slowly on the same red plastic chair he’d occupied the first time the police brought him in for questioning. Ramirez seated himself on the other side of the Formica table.

“What makes you think I was responsible for Steve’s death?”

“It’s been bothering me for days, ever since I saw that medical report that referred to your blood type. A fertility test that concluded you were sterile. Not your fault, of course. I listened to your interview with Sanchez again this week as I prepared my case file for the prosecutor. You told him that your wife became pregnant six months ago. The test was dated well before then. I found birth control pills in the bathroom the day we searched your hotel room, which means your wife doesn’t know of your infertility. Last night, Señora Jones mentioned to me that Señor Sloan died shortly after your wife found out she was pregnant.

You must have known it was not your child, that she was having an affair.”

“So you think she was having an affair with Steve? And that I killed him over that?”

“We can only be betrayed by our friends,” Ramirez said sadly. “This is something I was reminded of this week. Perhaps you could forgive your wife for an affair with someone else, but the depth of this betrayal, an affair with your closest friend, and then the carelessness of a pregnancy? I don’t know many men who would wish to raise another man’s child, planted in their nest like a cuckoo’s egg.”

“I told you,” Ellis insisted. “Steve died during a police incident. I was injured, badly injured, by the same suspect who shot him. Look at the scars on my face where he slashed me. You think I made those up?”

“Not so, Señor Ellis. Dr. Apiro saw you during your interview with us the last time you were in this room, a week ago. We watched Sanchez question you together, through that very window.” Ramirez pointed to the mirrored glass. “He wondered how you got your scars. According to him, you should have been slashed diagonally. Someone who swings a knife, left- or righthanded, swings it at an angle, like a golf swing. And your scars widen at the bottom. They should widen in the middle. Dr. Apiro is sure you cut your own face. Here, I have his report.”

Ramirez pulled a document from his inside jacket pocket and put it on the table. “His conclusions are at the bottom. He used to be a famous plastic surgeon, known internationally for his analysis of skin injuries and facial wounds. You have seen for yourself how detailed his work is. Let me translate his conclusion for you: ‘The tentative, hesitant, start to the cut down the subject’s forehead and the lack of defensive wounds to his hands make it virtually certain that the wounds were self-inflicted.’ I
asked myself, Why would a man cut himself while his partner is bleeding to death? There is only one explanation. That is if
you
shot him and were covering up your crime.”

“You’re guessing,” Ellis said. “You can’t prove any of this.”

“I don’t need to, Señor Ellis. I can’t charge you with a murder that took place outside of Cuba. I have no jurisdiction over this crime. We have no extradition treaty with Canada. And as I told you before, confessions are worthless in Cuba. I am just curious because I do not like unfinished business. But I am certain that you were responsible for your friend’s death, make no mistake. You may feel better telling someone. Even Rodriguez Sanchez wanted someone to share his burden, to understand his actions. But it is entirely up to you.”

Mike Ellis shook his head. He tried once again to wipe away the memory of Steve Sloan’s face as they walked up the stairs to the “trouble with man” call. Hillary had told him that morning she was pregnant. He spent the whole day brooding about it, knowing the child couldn’t possibly be his.

He sat back further on his chair, took a deep breath, and finally let it all out.

“I never told Hillary about the test results. But I told Steve. And then Hillary got pregnant. Steve and I were working the night shift.” Ellis paused, remembering a night he had tried to erase with liquor for months. “It was about two in the morning. Communications, that’s our Dispatch, told us to be careful. A man on the third floor was schizophrenic, off his meds. That was all the information we had. No one mentioned he had a knife. We were pulling up in front when I told Steve that Hillary was pregnant. I saw the guilt in his face. I couldn’t believe it. That someone I loved so much had betrayed me.”

They walked up the stairs to the dingy hallway leading to the
apartment. Ellis rapped on the door with his flashlight. The hall smelled of urine. There were stains on the walls. The linoleum was cracked, filthy. The hallway light was out, the bulb broken. Ellis had his gun in one hand, his flashlight in the other. Sloan unbuttoned his holster and moved to the right-hand side of the door. He motioned Ellis to the left as he pulled out his gun.

Ellis stood on the other side of the door frame, facing the door, furious.

“Aw, shit, Mike. I’m sorry. It just happened, just that one time. She seduced
me
, honest to God.”

The door swung open and a dishevelled man in his twenties lunged at them with a hunting knife. “Holy shit,” Sloan said, “he’s got a knife.” Sloan shot the man once in the chest.

“Like hell she did.” Ellis turned and shot Sloan in the groin, just below his police vest. Sloan groaned and slumped to the ground. Ellis saw the arterial blood spurt and knew immediately what he’d done.

It was pitch black, the only light the beams from the two flashlights. Sloan’s had rolled on the floor, highlighting the pain in his eyes. Ellis knelt beside him. He saw how badly Sloan was hurt; already too late for paramedics. He took his partner in his arms, held Sloan’s head in his hands.

“It didn’t mean anything,” Sloan said, his voice barely audible.

“It meant something to me.
Fuck, Steve
, what were you thinking? Why did you sleep with her? I can’t believe you did that.”

“I don’t know. Just to
know
, I guess. I couldn’t figure out why you couldn’t just up and leave her. But we’re even, buddy. I can’t believe you just shot me either.” He smiled weakly and then his eyes rolled back. Ellis was still holding him when his body went slack.

Ellis lifted his head up and looked Ramirez in the eyes. His
hands were cupped in front of him as he once again cradled the back of Steve Sloan’s head.

Ramirez nodded sympathetically. “We Cubans are Latinos. A cuckolded man, a faithless woman. It is an age-old story. Your rage is understandable. Most men in Cuba would have killed the wife, not the friend. But that is our Latino culture. How did you get away with it?”

“I knew I’d screwed up. I had one chance to save myself, whatever was left of my life, my marriage. And there was the baby to think of. That was all I had left. The suspect was dead: I took his knife and pulled it down my face. It was almost a relief that it hurt so much.”

“What about the gun?”

“I switched mine with Steve’s. Put his in my holster and mine in the suspect’s hand, pressed his fingerprints on the grip and the trigger. I pulled out my portable and called Communications. I said we had a dead suspect and an officer down. I told them I was badly hurt, that I thought Steve was dead.”

“No one examined the guns?”

Ellis shook his head. “They were test-fired, but no one checked to make sure they were the same ones issued to us.”

“We would have done that,” Ramirez said. “Apiro would have insisted on it.”

“Yes. I’ve learned how good he is.” Ellis took a deep breath. “What will you do about it, now that you know?”

“Me? Nothing. I told you, whatever happened to you in Canada has nothing to do with Cuba. But it must have been hard for you, keeping this to yourself. Our secrets destroy us from inside when we cannot speak about them openly.”

“Yes,” Ellis said. “I know exactly what that’s like.”

SEVENTY - FIVE

Inspector Ramirez handed Señor Ellis his passport and walked him to the front door. Then he returned to the second floor and opened the door to the anteroom. Hector Apiro stood by the window, still looking through the mirrored glass. He handed the small tape recorder to Ramirez.

“It’s all there, Ricardo. Interesting. So it turns out the Canadian is a cold-blooded murderer after all.”

“Even more cold-blooded than we imagined. Or perhaps more hot-blooded.”

“But I never examined his scars professionally,” said Apiro. “Where did you come up with all that nonsense about the width of the scars and the swing of the knife? I know nothing about golf. I have never once played it.”

“I made it up,” Ramirez admitted. “There was no expert report. I used a copy of the departmental order form for supplies. He can’t read Spanish. I knew he couldn’t tell the difference.”

“You are a rascal, Ricardo,” Apiro chuckled. “Some day that trick won’t work, and you will get caught. But you know, I could have fixed those scars for him, and made him rather handsome.

You were right; when it came to the knife, he was an amateur.” He laughed his staccato laugh. “Can the Canadian authorities use that information?”

“I’ll find out soon enough. I forgot to tell you,” said Ramirez. “I had a call last night from the Rideau Police in Canada. Chief Miles O’Malley. His government is trying to get a special authorization for me to go to Canada to assist in an investigation. They think that some of the perpetrators of abuse at our residential schools were transferred to theirs, as part of a cover-up by the Catholic Church. The Catholic brother that Sanchez named may have abused children in Canada also. Chief O’Malley says he was arrested recently for possession of child pornography at the Ottawa airport.”

It was the least Ramirez could do for Rodriguez, his poor, tormented friend. He would help the Canadian police and see the man face justice. A short trip, Chief O’Malley had promised, no more than a week. Ramirez didn’t want to lose any more time than that with his family, not when he wasn’t sure how much, or how little, he had left.

The second call, the one he didn’t disclose to his small friend, was from the Minister of the Interior.

“Castro has heard a policeman died in action,” the minister said. “He wants a full military funeral. It will be good for morale. Your report will emphasize Detective Sanchez’s courage in exposing the prior abuses of the Catholic Church towards Cuban children. It will conclude that he died accidentally in an abandoned school while searching for evidence to support an international investigation into historic crimes against our children. He was accompanied at the time by a Canadian lawyer who personally witnessed his heroism. She will attest to this, in writing. You will get your special authorization to ensure that this story is told. Do you understand, Inspector?”

Ramirez understood exactly how much his trip to Canada would cost.

“That’s exciting,” Hector Apiro exclaimed. “You have not been off this island since you went to Russia.”

“No, I haven’t, although I imagine Canada will be much the same as Moscow when it comes to weather. It’s winter there now. Chief O’Malley wants me to come as soon as possible.”

“How will the unit manage with both you and Sanchez gone?”

“They will be busy,” Ramirez agreed, “but we have a new member. That officer from Patrol, the one from the first day of the investigation. The clever one. Espinoza. I had him transferred today to replace Sanchez.”

“The lad must be thrilled.”

“He is very happy about the raise in pay, yes.” Twenty-five dollars a month was a lot of money, even more than the salary of a plastic surgeon.

“Will you turn the tape over to Señora Jones when you go to Canada, then?”

“Most likely,” Ramirez said. But not right away. When he needed to secure her written statement, the small tape in his pocket could be helpful. He had learned that from Señora Jones on the drive back to Havana. In negotiations, you had to have something valuable to exchange.

“It’s funny that the Canadians have homosexuals on their police force,” Apiro mused. “They must be far ahead of us in that sense.”

“Who do you mean, Hector?”

“Señor Ellis, of course.”

“You think Michael Ellis is gay?” asked Ramirez.

“It seems obvious. Most men whose wives have been unfaithful get divorced rather than shooting their wife’s lover
in the
cojones
. And to show such concern for his friend’s baby? Describe it as all he had left? All he had left of Señor Sloan is what I think he meant. I think it was not the fact that Hillary Ellis slept with another man that enraged Señor Ellis but
who
she slept with. His own lover. Steve Sloan.”

SEVENTY - SIX

It was just after 11
P.M.
on New Year’s Eve. After his discussion with Hector Apiro, Inspector Ramirez spent the rest of the day preparing his reports for the Attorney General and the Minister of the Interior.

He dropped by Apiro’s office, hoping to discuss the political trade-offs he’d negotiated, but Maria Vasquez was there. It could wait, he decided, smiling at the pink lipstick on Apiro’s face. The pair seemed very happy in each other’s company and that made him happy. Apiro poured them each a glass of rum and they toasted each other and the coming New Year. Ramirez lit a cigar.