“To my knowledge?”
“Yes.”
“No, but so what. He tried to hit me.”
“Did he or anyone else threaten Maria Fernandez, argue with her, express a desire to harm her?”
Elena’s question was routine and she almost wrote the answer before it came. But the answer she got was quite unexpected.
“Yes,” Victoria said. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes,” said Elena.
“Do you think I am pretty?”
Elena looked at the young woman who now pouted in poor imitation of a model in an American fashion magazine.
“Yes.”
“You are pretty too in a heavy kind of Russian way.”
“I’m flattered,” said Elena. “You say someone threatened Maria Fernandez?”
“The Santería,” said Victoria. “I’m in the band here. You should come and hear us. We do shows for visitors. I sing ‘Blue Moon.’ In English.”
Elena closed the notebook, sat back, and looked at Victoria Oliveras. Shemenkov had said something about Santería.
“What? What are you looking at?”
“Sudden changes of subject are neither interesting nor attractive.”
“Is this attractive?” asked Victoria. She stood up and pulled down her denim pants and underpants.
“No,” said Elena. “Who is the Santería?”
“It’s not a who, it’s what,” said Victoria, pulling up her pants and sitting again. “The Negroes brought it from Africa. They’re like your gangs. You have gangs?”
“We have gangs,” admitted Elena.
“They worship dolls and do magic. They kill. They kill and eat the hearts of their victims for their religion. I know. It was the son of a babalau who works at the Cosacos. Maria made fun of him. She got drunk, made fun.”
“A ‘babalau’?”
“Holy man, Santería,” Victoria said. “Like a … a priest or something. He’s a waiter at one of the tourist bars. Just a waiter, but he comes on to Maria like she should be impressed because he’s the son of a babalau. Hell, his father’s just a second-rate bass player.”
Elena was tired, and the woman in front of her seemed either very clever or very stupid.
“Maria offended this …”
“Javier. I don’t know his last name.”
“And you think Javier …?”
“I don’t think nothing. You asked me a question. I answered your question. I answered your question ’cause maybe I don’t answer your question and they transfer me to another prison. This one is better than where I was living in Havana. Food’s better. Rooms are safe if you watch yourself. Work’s a bore, but easy.”
“This Javier, he threatened Maria?”
“Yes,” Victoria said wearily, looking toward the barred windows.
“Who heard this threat?”
“We all did,” Victoria said.
“We?”
“Me, the Carerras, Maria, your stupid Russian.”
“And Javier said?”
“Maria would die for insulting the son of a babalau. He whispered like a bad guy in a movie. Maria laughed at him. He walked away and Carlos told her it wasn’t a good idea to make the Santería angry. Maria said she didn’t give a shit. Her Russian would protect her.”
“When was this?”
“Week ago.”
“And you think the Santería might have killed Maria for insulting this babalau?”
“I know they could,” Victoria said smugly. “I know people they killed. Antonio Reyes, the pimp from the Dominican. Donna Ramerez, worked the tourists near the ballet on Paseo San Martí on the Prado. They could have sent someone to the apartment over the roof, climbed down in the dark, or maybe they had wings and floated away. They could have killed her, but they didn’t. Your Russian killed her.”
“There is no doubt in your mind that he killed your friend.”
“She was not my friend,” Victoria said, her face inches from that of Elena Timofeyeva. “For all but the first two weeks I knew her, she abused me, ridiculed me, tormented me. We were lovers for two weeks and then we were … I couldn’t stop. I loved her. I never loved anyone before Maria. Not my mother. Definitely not my father. Not my brothers, not even my grandmother.”
There were tears in the eyes of Victoria Oliveras, but she did not blink or look away. She did not try to hide them.
“I’m not going to be stupid enough to love anyone else again.”
“How old are you, Victoria?” asked Elena.
“Seventy, maybe eighty.”
“You are twenty-one,” said Elena. “I’ve looked at your record.”
Victoria’s eyes scanned the clear-skinned, healthy-looking Russian woman, searching for a sign of the trick she must be playing.
“So?”
“Nothing,” said Elena with a sigh, standing up and putting her notebook away.
“You know something?” said Victoria, standing up as the guard who had brought her to the cafeteria returned and took up a position near the exit. It was evident from the perfectly timed appearance of the guard that the conversation had been listened to and someone had decided it had come to an end. Elena was annoyed because they hadn’t had the courtesy or intellect to hide what they were doing.
“No,” said Elena.
“I don’t like Russians,” Victoria hissed. “I don’t like you. I think you would be a cold grouper fish in bed with a man or a woman. Russians are cold. That’s why fools like Shemenkov lose everything for a Maria Fernandez who warms them.”
Elena nodded to the guard, who moved forward. Elena caught the pain and anger in Victoria’s eyes as she turned, tossed her braid of long hair back, and advanced to meet the guard.
The ride back to Havana was quiet except for the blowout, which required the two drivers to put on a spare that had no tread at all.
When she got back to the El Presidente Hotel just before ten, there was a note waiting for her from Inspector Rostnikov.
“Come to the pool whenever you return. Igor Shemenkov seems to have attempted suicide. The management has informed me that there will be no music tonight.”
This did not promise to be a good morning for the Gray Wolfhound, though he was sure no one in the conference of his senior staff was aware of his foreboding.
The colonel was wearing a perfectly pressed brown uniform with three ribbons of honor and one special medal of valor.
His hands were behind his back, his staunch chin held up, his blue-gray eyes scanning the men seated before him.
Only Rostnikov was missing, and, though he did not wish to admit it to himself, the colonel felt relief at the absence of his senior investigator. Rostnikov never seemed to be paying attention at the morning meetings and had a disconcerting habit of asking questions or coming up with answers that seemed to have little to do with the subject under discussion. On the other hand, Karpo, who was at this morning’s meeting, had the equally disconcerting habit of paying close and critical attention to everything Colonel Snitkonoy said.
Facing the Wolfhound at the right end of the solid wooden table sat his assistant, Pankov, a near dwarf with thinning hair who was a perfect contrast to the colonel. Regardless of the season, Pankov’s perspiration soiled and sagged his small collection of suits; the colonel’s uniform never showed a stain or crease. Pankov’s few strands of hair refused to rest in peace against his pink speckled skull; the colonel’s full mane of perfectly groomed white hair was admired by all who met him, particularly women. When he stood, Pankov came up to the colonel’s chest. When he spoke, Pankov’s insecure high-pitched stammering played the flute to the Wolfhound’s confident baritone. In appreciation of Pankov’s inadequacies, Colonel Snitkonoy treated his assistant with the respect due a faithful dog.
Next to Pankov sat Major Grigorovich, a humorless block in his late forties who wore a neatly pressed brown uniform with no medals or ribbons. The major’s lack of decorations reflected his remarkable ability to survive based on his uncanny ability to determine just how far to go without upstaging, embarrassing, or challenging whoever his immediate superior might be. Rostnikov, when he was in attendance at the colonel’s morning meetings, always sketched in his notepad. One of Rostnikov’s favorite subjects was the major. Grigorovich had once had the opportunity to glance at one of Rostnikov’s sketches. The figure in the picture looked remarkably like the British actor Albert Finney.