“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“Frightening…that they can make three bodies vanish.”
His eyebrows lifted at this, but he said nothing.
“What’s next?” she asked.
“Lunch, I’m hungry.”
14
Thoroughly frustrated with the lack of response on the part of local authorities, Julio Zayas feared the worst. Since his first meeting with those actually charged with locating the missing-a Detective Jorge Pena and an unprofessional oaf of a colonel named Gutierrez-nothing whatsoever had occurred. Not so much as a courtesy call. Believing a face-to-face meeting might shake loose some information, he’d taken a cab from his Miramar headquarters to the Old Havana police station. Actually, the cab was a private car transformed into a cab, a 1957 Ford Thunderbird convertible, painted blindingly yellow with stylized fiery plumes billowing along each side as if emerging from the engine. The ‘cab’ was in beautiful condition, the interior redone to perfection in a blood-orange shade that complemented the hue of fire along its sides.
Arriving at the Capitol Police Headquarters in the flamboyant cab attracted no special attention here as it would in Miami. Zayas paid the driver, waved him off, and started up the steps, through the entryway, and past the too busy desk clerk. He thought the jurisdiction here must suffer badly with such incompetent cops as Pena and Gutierrez at the helm. Still, he’d never known a police department without its share of such people. Gritting his teeth, certain his decision to force another meeting would come to a bad end, Julio nonetheless pressed on. Hell, two American citizens- professionals — continued on the Missing Persons bulletin at the American Interest Section.
As Julio made his way through the maze of desks for Gutierrez’s office, Detective Pena immediately leapt up and intercepted him. “Ahhh, Mr. Zayas, you’re back. How can I help you?”
“I’m here to see your boss.”
“Well…ahhh…I mean he is rather busy at the moment, but I am at your service.”
“Look, I’m concerned about your progress, or rather lack of progress in locating my American doctors. I’ve not heard a single word-have you any leads, anything at all?”
Before Pena could respond, the sound of retching followed by rushing water preceded Gutierrez’s sudden appearance through a door marked BANO.
Gutierrez’s head was tilted downward, his eyes averted, so that when he looked up, he found himself face to face with Zayas, who said, “Colonel Gutierrez, just the man I’m here to see.”
“Ahhh, yes, Mr. Ahhh…Zayas, right? I was just reviewing the case.”
Zayas nodded, acknowledging the man’s words and noting his disheveled appearance.
“Come…my office,” Gutierrez weakly replied. “I’ve new information. Pena, bring your files…come along.”
“Yes, sir.” Pena lifted a thin folder and used it to wave Julio ahead of him.
Gutierrez quickly rounded his desk and put it between them. He dropped heavily into his well-cushioned swivel chair, and it responded with a screech. Julio noticed assorted loose pills, a glass of water, and a bootlegged bottle of Old Spice alongside his blotter. Gutierrez scooped up a handful of pills and downed them with water. “My stomach, you see,” he muttered as he patted his thin middle.
Julio noticed a tossed blanket lying on a leather sofa beneath the window. Masking his distaste for the man, Zayas pretended sympathy. “Ahhh yes, stomach problems can be a curse.”
Gutierrez stared hard into his eyes as if to read the level of his sincerity. “Yes…started with acid and turned into a nasty ulcer. This job doesn’t help. And it doesn’t help that these missing Americans have failed to surface.” Gutierrez paused to let his lie sink in, and as he did so, he tore open a fresh cigar and began sucking on it. “Tell Mr. Zayas, Pena, what you’ve found.”
Pena cleared his throat and preened about the room like a bandy rooster having gobbled a fat worm. He slapped the file onto the table before Julio and announced, “It appears two American fellows purchased a case of rum, rented a car, and went into the hinterlands.”
Julio studied the single page report Pena had developed. It indicated a pair of ‘witnesses’ to this and a copy of two cash receipts stapled to the form-no signatures, no names. “How can you be sure this is my two Americans?”
Pena laughed. “Who else? Few Americans come to Cuba, and they were picked out from a photo array.”
“Americans come to Cuba…they do careless things,” said Gutierrez, “but after they’re finished sleeping it off, you will see…they will turn up.”
“Then you don’t think we at the American Interest Section should worry or let the relatives know that their sons are missing?”
Gutierrez carefully snipped off the end of his cigar, his eyes riveted to the task. “That would be premature, Mr. Zayas.”
Julio knew that the captain’s attention to his Corona- a ritual — was either a delaying or a concealing tactic. “And the Canadian woman?”
His eyes still averted, the colonel fumbled with his lighter and finally lit his cigar, sending up a cloud of smoke to a dark circle overhead. “Our suspicion is that the woman actually initiated this foolish adventure, telling no one of their plans.” He leaned back in his chair, which squeaked in protest, and spread his hands wide before adding, “You know how women can be, how easily men are led.”
Pena added, “There is so much to see and do outside Havana that invites exploration. Cuba is, after all, a tropical paradise.”
“Like a beautiful exotic woman, Cuba is mesmerizing,” added Gutierrez, “so one must accept that young people succumb to her allure.”
So much bullshit, Julio thought. It became increasingly clear that these two were not going to find the missing doctors, nor was this meeting going anywhere, just as he’d predicted.
Julio leaned back in his chair, steepling his hands beneath his chin. He inhaled deeply and was immediately sorry. The acrid combination of men’s cologne, stale cigars, overflowing ashtray, and just a hint of alcohol on Pena’s breath stung Julio’s eyes, nose, and throat. “I came to learn what you know of the missing Americans, but I see you still have no idea where they are.”
“We are doing all we can to locate dos hombres Americanos.”
“You leave me no choice but to contact authorities in America. I don’t think their relatives will treat this so lightly,” he paused for effect, before adding, “gentlemen.”
“Do what you must…but you’ll just look foolish in the end,” warned Gutierrez. “They’ll surface soon.”
Puppet-like, Pena added, “You know, Mr. Zayas, if you take premature steps, it can only harm everyone involved, from the missing young people to the unnecessary heartache you’ll cause their relatives back home. Trust us. We’ll continue our search both here and throughout the provinces. Rest assured, we’ll keep you informed.”
“Yes,” added Gutierrez, “the moment we learn where they are, you’ll be the first person we call. I like you, Zayas, your style, your enthusiasm for your work. Believe me, we have seen this sort of thing before. It’s not uncommon in Cuba for tourists to wander off only to resurface in a day or two. Give it time is all we ask.” Gutierrez reached a cigar-filled hand to his throbbing head, and for just a moment Julio fleetingly hoped his hair would catch fire.
Pena leaned in close to Zayas and said, “Our poor country roads here…they get washed out, cars, you know, they break down.”
Gutierrez piped in. “Any number of things happen here that you Americans cannot appreciate, given all that you have.”
“A phone and TV in every home,” complained Pena.
“Triple-A towing,” added Gutierrez.
“Convenience marts-“
“-ample petroleum everywhere-“
“-and a NAPA auto parts place on every corner.”
Julio shook his head in consternation. “So why hasn’t any one of these three professional people-doctors, responsible for people’s lives, made a single attempt to contact Dr. Cortez? Why?”