She tried the door, and it relented at her touch, swinging open. She immediately drew her blue gun from its holster, stepping in ahead of JZ. JZ followed her in, pulling forth his well-hidden gun from a shoulder holster. The two of them, weapons extended, eased from darkened room to darkened room. Each area spoke of hasty departure and abandonment. Closets half empty, drawers pulled out, rifled through, and even the space in a corner set aside as a nursery-the crib emptied of bed clothes, stuffed animals, and play toys. Deserted. Forsaken. Forlorn. U noccupied, Qui thought, except for an alarming odor of blood wafting overall.
JZ added, “Feels like something outta the Twilight Zone.”
“Hilito? Tino!” she shouted several times to no avail.
They located a back room, a curtain torn from a window rod, allowing morning light to filter in, creating an oddly shaped silhouette of an upturned chair and its contents-the remains of Tino Hilito. It appeared he’d shot himself through the mouth with his own service revolver-a Makarov. Tino had encircled his head with the curtain as if concerned he not make too great a mess. The scene screamed of suicide; in fact, it looked patently so. Perhaps too pat.
“Christ…oh, Tino, no!” she moaned. “What’ve you done?”
JZ, putting away his weapon, studied the scene with more detachment than she could possibly muster. “Any reason you know of…I mean why he’d kill himself?”
“Nooo…except for the usual.”
“The usual?”
“A pregnant wife and an eight year old in and out of hospitals.”
What’s wrong with the kid?
“Hemophilia.”
He shook his head. “Tough for a kid.”
“Tougher for a parent.”
“And expensive, I should think. Free medical care aside, I’m sure there’s gotta be costs that subsidies don’t cover. Lotta stress there.”
“But Tino lived with that stress for eight years. Why do this awful thing now?”
“Smells to me, whole thing.”
“Me too. First Montoya…now Tino? Like dominoes falling.” She burst into tears and threw herself into JZ’s arms and sobbed on his shoulder. All of her pent-up grief surfaced at once.
“Does seem people around you are having a bad time of it, lately,” he murmured, holding her gently. “Qui…you’ve gotta call this in.”
She straightened and accepted a handkerchief from him, and with a final heave and sniff, Qui wiped the last tear away. A look of resolve replaced her tears. A call to headquarters and dispatch put her through to Pena.
“Stay with the body until I get there with a medical examiner.”
“No way am I staying here, Pena.”
“You gotta! 'Til it’s cleared, it’s gotta be treated as a homicide. And you’re the first on scene. I gotta question you… again.”
“Seeing a pattern here, Pena?” she asked sarcastically.
“You’re being paranoid.”
“Being paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you.”
“Who’re you referring to?”
“I intend to find out, right now.”
“Wait! You can’t leave the scene!”
“Just watch me.”
“Hold on! Colonel Gutierrez wants to speak to you!”
She reckoned that the wily old fox had been listening in all along on a speakerphone. Distrusting both men, she switched on a nearby radio, dialed between stations for static, turned the volume full-blast, and waved her cell phone before it. Screaming static tore at Gutierrez’s ears, as she spoke over it. “I’m…’av…trouble ‘earing you…sir.”
“Detective Aguilera!”
“Can you hear me now? Can you hear me now?” she asked repeatedly through the static. “…not hearing you so good, Colonel!”
JZ smiled to hear Gutierrez’s protests coming over the phone as she cut off communication. “Clearly pissed off.”
“When is he not?” She gave him a smile. “OK, let’s go before Pena shows up with a list of unanswerable questions.”
Same time, atop a sugar warehouse along Havana Bay
An exasperated, frustrated Cavuto Ruiz paced the rooftop, his distinctive Panama hat providing minimal protection against the glare of sunlight and none from the heat. Perspiration ran down his microphone cord, leaving dark splotches on his beige guayabera shirt. He held up both hands, one filled with a smoking cigar, to combat against the bright sunlight reflected off the bay. “Sun is a bitch…and where the fuck is Aguilera?” he muttered, then spoke more loudly for the microphone, “Will you be able to see your targets in this glare?” At the other end were two hand-picked marksmen, veteran secret police officers in fatigues. Loyal men, who knew how to take orders-however unusual or unauthorized. They had taken up carefully selected positions, their high-powered weapons at the ready, simply awaiting two designated targets-Latoya and Aguilera-to join the men of the Sanabela. In unison, the sharpshooters grunted into their throat mics.
“That old bastard, Estrada, called Aguilera an hour ago. Where is she?” Cavuto asked, unaware that he was also being heard and watched from an adjacent rooftop.
Headset firmly in place, Alejandro Valdes wondered what new evil Cavuto Ruiz had in mind this morning. Was he operating on Humberto’s orders? Or, was the sadistic bastard operating independently?
25
Grateful to get away from Tino’s body, Quiana and JZ exited the home, now a crime scene, and wended their way down the walk toward the T-Bird, now bathed in full sunlight. Children stood about, admiring the classic car, the same children who’d earlier played about the streets. Qui asked one of the urchins staring at them to approach. “Do you know where the woman who lives here and her children’ve gone?”
“They left,” the boy replied.
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yesterday?”
“Maybe.”
“Saturday?”
“Ahhh…maybe.”
An older girl, having listened carefully, called out to Qui. “They weren’t home Saturday.”
Qui asked the boy, “Is that true?”
“Maybe.” Then he blurted out, “Carlito’s my friend. He said he’d come back.”
“Then you saw them go away on Saturday?”
“Maybe.”
Qui felt a rising exasperation with the boy, so she turned to the girl, “Do you know where they went?”
“Off to the mountains…a vacation…”
All but Tino, who lay dead inside, and for how long? And for how long had he feared for his family’s welfare, and now this. Qui thanked the children and joined JZ already behind the wheel.
The two now rushed for the marina where the Sanabela and the peculiar lock, which refused to stay put, hopefully awaited their arrival. They rode in bleak silence, their somber mood in stark contrast to the bright Cuba blue morning. Spilling from doorways, cafes, and windows along their route came familiar Afro-Cuban rhythms. Even on the docks, music escaped from boats where JZ pulled the T-Bird to a halt.
As Qui climbed from the passenger side facing the bay, she saw Luis Estrada stepping off the boat and coming toward them, a cloth bag in hand. Anticipation gripped her. “Finally, the lock.”
JZ had joined her on the pier, the boards beneath them sounding a dull cadence as they started toward Estrada. She’d told JZ about her ‘Uncle Estrada’ during the drive from Miramar to Tino’s. “So this is your Uncle Estrada?” he asked.
A sudden hail of gunfire exploded behind them. All in an instant, Estrada raced for the boat, clutching the package, while JZ and Qui, guns now extended, wheeled to witness the destruction to the Thunderbird: Windows shattered, chassis riddled with bullets, radiator spewing forth a sulfurous cloud. As Qui pulled him down, JZ screamed out, “Not the car!” With a loud whoosh, a fireball surrounded and consumed the red classic-the only gift of the inferno a rapidly rising black smoke screen affording dubious cover.
Bullets still sought them out, coming through the smoke, ripping gaping holes. Each exploding bullet coming nearer its mark, Qui screamed and tugged at JZ, who was returning fire, “The boat, JZ! Now! Come on!” JZ relented and the two of them, pursued by hellfire, dashed for the Sanabela and cover, the sound of bullets chewing up the wood near their ankles, urging them to move faster.