Qui, having taken a step into the bedroom, sank to the floor. Her mind recoiled from the gruesome sight.
Dead prostitute.
Bloody foam around mouth.
Scarlet dog choker.
Straps connected to chains over the canopy.
Montoya hanging lifeless.
All against the black satin bed sheets she’d given him on his birthday.
The blood-red choker made it look like his throat’d been cut, but the twisted, awkward angle of the neck said otherwise. A broken neck. She saw the evidence of it. He was on his knees, hands tied to heels by a network of chains and pulleys-items she’d never seen in Estaban’s possession. So out of character for the man she knew. His body arched in a pained C where his knees bent, toes touching a broken down bed. It appeared that the bed had caved in, snapping his neck and instantly killing him. Her only solace came in that he’d died without suffering. Still, the entire scenario rang false, impossible in fact.
Montoya was murdered.
Pena lifted her gun off the floor, automatically checking the weapon. “The damn safety was on. I fell for her bluff!” he said to JZ. He then returned the Walther to her. Numb with horror, she holstered the weapon zombie-fashion, unaware she’d dropped it.
Closing her eyes to the scene and swaying to a silent dirge playing in her head, she whispered, “No accident. This is murder!”
JZ took her by the shoulders and faced her away from the bodies. “Tell me…why?” he demanded, knowing that in shock she’d talk freely without analyzing her thoughts.
“We don’t know that, Qui,” countered Pena, surprised she hadn’t fallen apart, giving up a grudging respect for her.
“Without a doubt, it’s murder. I trust my instincts.”
“Qui, tell us why? How is it murder?” JZ persisted.
“Back off, Zayas,” Pena said officiously. “You two just got here. She’s not thinking straight. The medical examiner-Vasquez-already ruled accidental asphyxiation by autoerotica.”
“Fuck her findings!” Qui erupted. “Get Benilo in here!”
“It’s my call, Qui.”
“You don’t understand, Pena! This was staged!”
JZ echoed her words. “Staged?”
“Murder, pure and simple.”
“Qui,” soothed Pena, “maybe you didn’t know Estaban as well as you thought. A lotta men take pleasure in bizarre sexual fetishes. Perhaps he hid that side from you.”
“No way! He was murdered.” She ticked off the reasons, “One, he’s… was a doctor, terrified of getting AIDS, so throw out the prostitute. Two, surgeons prize their hands, so he’d never let them be bound. Three, toss out all the sadomasochism crap ‘cause he didn’t like rough sex, and as for drugs-no way!”
“And the girl?” asked Pena, pointing to the dead woman. “Do you have any idea who-”
“Never saw her before. She’s just a prop for whoever’s behind this!”
JZ and Pena exchanged an enigmatic look. JZ said, “Maybe she’s right. Don’t you think she, of all people, would know the doctor’s ahhh…habits?”
Pena frowned and shrugged. “Maybe…maybe not. Both of you come with me.” He led them away from the death room, talking as they went. “Who would want to kill Montoya? A nice guy and a good doctor who just runs a neighborhood clinic? Look, Qui…I know you’re upset, but I have to ask you questions. Please, sit.”
“I don’t want to sit. I want answers.”
They’d moved to Montoya’s elegantly put together dining-living area, all rich woods and native designs, reflecting his Cuban pride. The walls were adorned with Cuban art and framed photographs.
After pacing before the windows, Qui calmed a bit and sat on a nearby sofa occupied by JZ.
Pena cautiously asked her for details regarding Montoya’s activities during the last twenty-four hours. “When did you last see Estaban?”
“Yesterday.”
“When yesterday?”
“I’ve not seen him since I…we met at Santa Isabella just after lunch.”
Pena’s brow lifted at this. Everyone in Cuba knew the reputation of the Santa Isabella, known as one of Havana Vieja’s most romantic getaways. Normally, the hotel was off limits to locals; however, Pena decided that with her family name the usual restrictions didn’t apply.
After a series of routine questions that Qui had little or no answer for, Pena gave up. JZ suggested she be allowed to make a formal statement the next day, so that he could take her home. As JZ bartered on her behalf with the somewhat understanding Pena, she felt a need to focus on something, anything, besides this traumatic turn of events. As a result, her eyes scanned the opposite wall-a mosaic of her father’s framed black and white landscape photos. Learning of his appreciation for her father’s work, Qui’d given him framed photos on special occasions. He called them an excellent investment.
This mix of thought and emotion was abruptly ended when, in astonishment, she focused on the photo of a charred church door with a large ornate lock hanging from it, effectively an anti-religious statement- no one in and no one out. The symbol loomed large in her mind for a reason never posited there before by this image. Growing up around her father’s collection of wartime photos, Qui had seen this fascinating image all her life. But the charred church door and the lock were just point-counter-point in an artistic composition. Nothing special in and of itself, but rather a stylized symbol. But now it seemed a symbol of murder-the same or near identical lock she’d seen strapped to the bodies dredged up by the Sanabela.
Still reeling from Montoya’s awful death, she hadn’t time to puzzle out the tendrils of these now three inexplicable conundrums in her life: the lock, Montoya’s obvious murder, and the killings at sea. Were the American and Canadian deaths somehow connected to Montoya’s? Or was this cruel coincidence? What had the lock to do with the deaths of the foreign doctors, and what had Montoya told her about meeting the Canadian woman? Was there some terrible ripple effect that’d engulfed Estaban?
None of it made sense, but she was reminded of an old Cuban proverb, one that said the best ficciones — lies-are woven on a loom of truth. Somewhere in all of this madness there was a storyteller, someone in charge, pulling at the chain…setting the lock.
JZ gently touched her shoulder. “Qui, I really think you need to get out of here.”
“Just a moment. That photo,” she pointed, and he followed her finger. “It’s mine. I gave it to Montoya years ago. I want it. I need something of his to take away with me.”
JZ looked at Pena and got a slight nod. Pena then disappeared into the bedroom, the scene of the crime.
For the time being, Qui wanted to keep the information about the lock to herself. It looked so much like the lock she’d seen aboard the Sanabela just two days before.
“I’ll get the picture.” JZ paused a moment to study the composition.
She abruptly stood and paced to the window. “Thank you, JZ.”
“This has to be a horrible, horrible shock. Com’on,” he added as he cradled the framed photo. “Let’s get you outta here.”
She felt weak and vulnerable, while simultaneously livid and incensed, a mix that proved dizzying. She let JZ guide her toward the door where she balked. “I should stay…find out what I can from the crime scene. Help Pena get to the bottom of this. They…they’re going to cover up his murder, call it accidental death. I just know it. It’s like the three deaths on the Sanabela, meant to stay undetected.”
“The three on the boat…they’re my two Americans and the Canadian, aren’t they?”
“Yes…I fear so.”
“Then all this nonsense about their having ‘gone local’ was some kind of cover up?”
“They’re trying to buy time. Yes…there is some kind of conspiracy at work.”
“Are you certain of this?”
“JZ…” she hesitated then stared at him before continuing, “I have good reason to believe as I do.”
“Whoa…you’re saying the four deaths are somehow related? Montoya’s death…the two Americans, the Canadian doctor?”
“No proof, but I’m beginning to think so.”