Juan Domingo Argudin, the Abakua who had accepted Rossi’s contract, smiled as he watched Devlin leave the Capri Hotel. The old man had been right. The man he wanted killed had been found just as he had said-by following this Cuban major who had been helping him from the start.
It had not been easy. This major was no fool, but the old man’s plan had been a good one. He and his fellow Abakua had used three cars, and they had abandoned their customary white clothing. Then fate had intervened as well. Something had happened, and the major and his men had suddenly begun rushing about, all precautions abandoned. Now, he was certain, they would take this American to a place where the kill could be accomplished in a way that would permit his own escape.
Argudin signaled to his men in the second car. One of them had just been released by the police. He had driven the truck in their first attempt to kill the Americans, and Argudin had promised him he could kill the big American who had beaten him outside Plante Firme’s home. He knew the man would do everything in his power not to lose them.
Following in his own car, Argudin thought about the money he would be paid. It was more than he had ever dreamed of having at one time. Enough to take him to Miami, where friends who had been part of Castro’s Mariel Boatlift were now growing rich in the Cuban-American underworld. He momentarily wondered if his men, who would actually do the killing, would escape as well. He decided it did not matter. He had no intention of sharing the money with them. Once it was done, he alone would get the ten thousand U.S. dollars. And he would be one step closer to a new and prosperous life in Miami.
They returned to the Red Angel’s house, where Martinez busied himself on the telephone.
Devlin took Adrianna aside and explained what had happened. As she listened he watched her face darken and her hands close into tight fists.
“I’m snuggling to give him the benefit of the doubt,” she said. “I’m struggling, but it is so hard.”
Devlin stroked her arm. “Martinez says he’ll explain everything-even answer our questions for a change-just as soon as this thing is wrapped up.” He inclined his head toward the room where Martinez was using the telephone. “That includes interrogating Cabrera about your aunt, and nailing Rossi at this change-of-heads ceremony. I think he’s setting those things up now. He’s still positive we’ll end up with your aunt’s body after we do those things.”
Adrianna looked away. “Or what’s left of it,” she said.
“I don’t think we can hang that one on Martinez.”
Adrianna’s head snapped up. “Are you sure? After all this, don’t you think it’s possible he let them take the body so they’d lead him to the rest of it?”
Devlin stroked her arm again, trying to soothe away the anger. “No, I don’t,” he said. “Oh, he played us into it very neatly. There’s no question about that. And he shouldn’t have done it, because it put us at risk. But I saw the setup at the hotel. He had the business part of this thing cold, with us or without us. I think he needed us to help prove that Cabrera had your aunt killed, either because she had found out what he was up to, or because the colonel had cut a little side deal with John the Boss.”
Adrianna stared at him. “You think Rossi might have set this up? Just to get you here?”
“To get us here,” Devlin said. He placed his hands on both of her arms. “Look, I can’t prove it. Maybe I’ll never be able to prove it. If John the Boss set this up, it’s something he’d play very close. Even his Mafia partners wouldn’t know the real reasons behind what he was doing. He wouldn’t tell anybody he didn’t have to. It’s the way he operates. But if it’s true, it was very clever, exactly the way Rossi’s twisted mind works.”
He tried to soften his next words. “It’s no secret that old bastard wants me dead. You were there the first time he tried. But he knows he can’t try again. At least not in New York. If he did, the NYPD would bring the world down on his head.” He looked away, wondering how she’d take what he was about to tell her. “I saw Rossi before we left. I didn’t tell you about it because it was just a routine thing. Then, later, we got all wrapped up with what happened to your aunt.” He gave her a cold, mirthless smile. “It happened the day before we left, and the old bastard was cocky as hell. He told me he knew everything about me.” He shook his head in grudging admiration. “You know what? I believe it. I think he’s made it his business to find out everything he could-everything about me that makes me vulnerable. And that means finding out about the people I love.”
“So you think he found out about my aunt, and how close we were.”
“It wouldn’t be hard. You’re a well-known artist, babe, and your Cuban ancestry has been written about pretty extensively. Your aunt was also a well-known figure in Cuba.”
“And it would make sense that I’d come here if anything happened to her.”
“Yes, it would,” Devlin said. “Especially if you were told she was hurt and dying. And that old bastard was right. He knows me. He knows I wouldn’t let you waltz into Cuba alone, or slip in illegally through Canada or Mexico. Not with all the hoopla the U.S. government spreads about it being unsafe to travel here.”
“And you think Martinez found all that out?”
“At least some of it. And when he realized that Rossi was trying to set me up, I think he decided to get us both here and use us to force DeForio’s hand. And Cabrera’s. Remember, Cabrera’s supposed to be the head of the secret police, as well as the number two guy in State Security. He’s got a lot more power than a major in the national police. But Martinez has us. Suddenly we’re here, and Cabrera can’t get to us, and neither can Rossi, and now we’re involved in the investigation of your aunt’s disappearance. That had to put pressure on Cabrera. But more importantly, it had to make DeForio think that things were starting to unravel. It made the whole thing a threat to what he was trying to do, and all because of your aunt and Rossi, and this crazy change-of-heads ritual.”
“That is a very good theory, and very close to the truth.”
They turned and saw Martinez in the doorway.
“What part is wrong?” Devlin asked.
Martinez smiled at him. “Later, my friend. I promise you. Later you will have all the answers you need. But first, I must do something else. I must go to Cabrera’s house and conduct my interrogation. There are some answers I need, before I can provide answers for you. Are you interested in accompanying me?”
“You bet your ass I am,” Devlin said.
Juan Domingo Argudin was becoming frustrated. Everywhere the American went he was surrounded by Cuban police. His men had followed the gringo to this neighborhood where all the big shots lived, only to find police surrounding the house he had entered.
The police seemed unusually alert, so Argudin decided to be cautious. He stationed his men at both ends of the block, far enough away to avoid suspicion, but positioned so at least one car could follow the American when he left again. His own car was a block and a half away, just close enough to detect any activity at the house. He knew an attack here was impossible. There were simply too many police. He also knew the American would not stay here indefinitely. When he left, they would follow, and sooner or later there would be fewer police. Then, he thought, they would have their chance, and the American would die. Then, finally, his pockets would be filled with ten thousand American dollars.
Martinez left his men behind to guard Adrianna when he escorted Devlin and Pitts to his waiting Chevrolet. He drove the four blocks to Cabrera’s house with the pedal pressed to the floor, the engine of the ancient Chevrolet whining like an angry cat. He was a madman on a mission, Devlin thought.
He turned to Pitts. “You think the major might be anxious to get this done?”
“I dunno,” Pitts said. He leaned over the rear seat. “You anxious, Major? You warming up your rubber hose?”
“It is a pleasure I have been looking forward to for many months,” Martinez said.
“Could cause a bit of a scandal, couldn’t it?” Pitts asked. “I mean two top guys mobbed up like this? A little government plan to let the wiseguys open a casino? A little side deal on narcotics?” Pitts tried to catch Martinez’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He wanted to give him an evil grin.
Martinez stared straight ahead. “It is possible, of course. It is also possible it will never be known here in Cuba.” He glanced at Devlin, a small smile playing on his lips. “It is different here, you see. Trials need only be public when it serves a greater purpose. Some matters that involve our government officials and our military can be handled more discreetly. It is a question of the nation’s morale.”
Devlin laughed. “That’s a great line, Martinez. I suppose you’ll want to swear us to secrecy.”
“But of course, my friend. That is exactly my hope. You may disagree, of course, in which case I am sure the government will decide that a public trial is necessary. But then you will all have to remain here as witnesses for the state. And these trials can take a very long time. There is also an additional problem. As you know, you have broken many laws in my country, which I am willing to overlook. But if others begin to investigate, this may not be possible-”
“Enough. Enough,” Devlin said. “I don’t care how you handle this. I just want to wrap this thing up, bury what’s left of Adrianna’s aunt, and get the hell out of here.”
Martinez stared straight ahead again, and Devlin thought the Cuban major was trying not to laugh.
“Ah, I hope I have not given a poor impression of my country,” he said. “The office of tourism would be very upset if that were the case. I am sure they would like you to remain and enjoy the many pleasures we have to offer.”
“Yeah, I’m sure they would,” Devlin said. “But I think I’ll get back to New York. People only try to kill me there about once a year.”
Martinez pulled his car to a stop in front of Cabrera’s house. Two of his men were waiting outside. He spoke to them briefly, then sent them away.
“No witnesses?” Pitts asked.
Martinez raised his eyebrows, feigning offense. “You are too suspicious, my friend. There are other men inside. I have sent these men to Guanabacoa, to make sure our forces are adequate to watch Senor Rossi.”
“Hey, that’s just what I thought you were doing,” Pitts said. He turned to Devlin. “Isn’t that what you thought, Inspector?”
“What I think is that we should get this thing over with.” He took Martinez by the arm. “But if you’re going to rough Cabrera up, do it when we’re not around. All I want is some answers, and whatever’s left of this woman’s body. Okay, Major?”
Martinez nodded. “It is understood. I promise you will have what you want. I also promise that you will not see my men and me touch even a hair on the colonel’s head.”
When they reached the front door, Devlin noticed that the mojo, or whatever it was, no longer hung from Cabrera’s door. He asked Martinez what had happened to it.
“It had to be removed,” Martinez said. “It was a very potent Palo Monte curse. Even my own men would not dare enter such a cursed house.”
“You gotta be kidding me,” Pitts said.
Martinez let out a long, tired breath. “No, my friend. I do not joke. Perhaps, before you leave Cuba, you will understand.”
They followed Martinez across the foyer and into a well-appointed living room. A young man stood next to a paneled door with a Russian assault rifle cradled in his arms. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but immediately snapped to attention as the major approached. Martinez spoke to him briefly, then turned to Devlin and Pitts.
“The colonel is in his study, contemplating his fate. Another of my men is watching him do this. I think we should join them and help the colonel understand exactly what his fate is.”
“Let’s do it,” Devlin said.
Martinez spoke to the guard in Spanish. Devlin couldn’t understand what was being said, but it seemed he was giving the guard detailed instructions. Then he opened the door. A second guard, also armed with an assault rifle, stood just inside. Martinez issued another set of instructions, and the second guard joined the first outside.
Cabrera was seated in a leather chair. He glared at the major, then launched into a diatribe in Spanish.
Martinez held up his hand. When he spoke his voice seemed unnaturally calm.
“You will speak in English, Colonel. As a courtesy to our American guests.”
Again, Cabrera rattled off harsh words in Spanish.
Martinez let out an exasperated breath. “I have assured these men that you will not be harmed in their presence. So you have a choice, Colonel. You may speak English now, or we will leave this room and send in the two men outside, who will convince you of the wisdom of following my orders. Then we will return, and you will speak English. Which do you prefer?”
“You dare to threaten me?” Cabrera spoke the words in English.
“That is very good, Colonel,” Martinez said. “And yes, I do dare to threaten you. As of this moment you are relieved of your duties. You may consider yourself under arrest, and whatever authority you enjoyed under the revolution is suspended indefinitely.”
Cabrera snapped out in Spanish.
“English, Colonel.” Martinez inclined his head toward the door, indicating his men outside. “I will not warn you again.”
“I said you have no right to suspend my authority,” Cabrera snapped.
Martinez walked to Cabrera’s desk and perched himself on its edge. “That is an argument you can make at a later date, Colonel. For the present, you will simply answer my questions, or you will suffer the consequences.”
“What crimes are you charging me with?”
Cabrera’s face was red with anger, and Devlin realized he was not frightened. The man had a lot of power, and he knew it, and Devlin wondered if what Martinez had on him would be enough, or if the major was overplaying his hand. This wasn’t the United States. It was a country that operated under a different set of rules, and Devlin had no idea what those rules were.
Martinez ignored Cabrera’s question. He looked around the room.
Devlin did the same. The study was richly furnished. The sofa, like the chair in which Cabrera sat, was covered in glove-soft leather. There was a wall of books, almost all of which appeared to be rare and presumably valuable. The desk also appeared to be an antique, as did several side tables, one of which held an array of small figures that Devlin recognized as pre-Columbian.
“You live well, Colonel,” Martinez finally said. “But I imagine you would have lived an even richer life once Senor DeForio had deposited five million American dollars into your foreign bank account.”
Cabrera stared at him. The color seemed to have drained from his face. “It is a lie.”
“Then it is a lie that we have on videotape, Colonel.” He paused, letting the words sink in, then nodded. “Yes, the suite at the Capri Hotel was wired.” He waved his hand in a circle. “But, perhaps you and Deputy Minister Sauri were only luring Senor DeForio into a well-laid trap. Perhaps this trap also involved the assassination of Maria Mendez, and the later theft of her body at the request of the American gangster Senor Rossi.” He raised his hands, then let them fall back. “Of course, some might consider this theft of our Red Angel’s body an extreme technique of entrapment, but it would indeed be an interesting defense, would it not?”
Cabrera seemed to pull himself together. Again, his eyes took on a hard glint. “You believe you will defeat me this way, Martinez?”
Martinez stroked his mustache, as if considering the question. “You are already defeated, Colonel. You will receive a military trial for your crimes, and, as you know, the rules are quite different under those circumstances.” He turned to Pitts. “As I explained earlier to the inspector, in our military courts, evidence is presented by the state and is presumed to be correct by those who sit in judgment. The defendant is then required to prove his innocence.” He gave them his Cuban shrug. “He is not helpless, of course. He is given an attorney. But unfortunately, the attorney is not assigned until the very day the case is presented to the court, so the defense has a difficult task.”
“I like it,” Pitts said. “Who’s the judge, a kangaroo?”
Martinez smiled. “There are five judges. Three military officers and two civilians.”
“Hey, three kangaroos out of five. That’s not bad.” He turned to Cabrera and shook his head. “Sounds like you’re fucked, Colonel.”
Cabrera glared at him, then turned back to Martinez. “These American fools seem to have emboldened you, Martinez. Perhaps you should explain what will happen when your political frailties are exposed.”
“I doubt such exposure will occur.”
Cabrera let out a derisive snort. His eyes filled with contempt. He turned back to Devlin and Pitts. “Since you are so fond of Martinez, and his great powers, I will see to it that you all share the same cell.”
The major shook his head. “It is embarrassing to see you debase yourself in this way,” he said. “I hope you will show more dignity when you are brought before the military court.”
Cabrera straightened in his chair, his entire body filled with defiance. “And who will bring me before this court? You, Martinez?” His mouth twisted into a sneer. “And under what authority, if I may ask?”
Martinez leaned in close, so his face was only inches from Cabrera’s. He spoke softly-this time in Spanish. Devlin only caught a few words-presentar, jefe, departamento, tecnico, and investigacion-but the effect on Cabrera was instantaneous.
The colonel paled, and his lips and his hands began to tremble. Martinez sat back and folded his hands in his lap. “As you now realize, your trial is assured. But, perhaps, you can spare yourself the ultimate penalty, your execution. That, of course, will depend on your level of cooperation.”
Cabrera’s voice came out in a croak. “What is it you want to know?”
Martinez withdrew a voice-activated tape recorder from his pocket, placed it on the desk, and pressed the start button. He gave the time, place, date, and Cabrera’s name. Then he stood and began pacing back and forth. “First, let us begin with Dr. Mendez,” he said. “Who ordered her assassination?”
“I did.” Cabrera’s voice was barely audible.
“Please speak louder, Colonel Cabrera.”
“I did.”
“Was this at the direction of an American gangster named John Rossi?”
Cabrera let out a shuddering breath. “In part, yes.”
“Did it also involve certain information that Dr. Mendez had uncovered?”
“Yes.”
Martinez stopped pacing and again folded his hands. “Tell us about this.”
Cabrera’s arms were trembling now, and he clenched his fists to fight it off. “Dr. Mendez learned of the plan to permit gambling on the Isla de la Juventud. She went to the Ministry of Interior to express her opposition.”
“Was she also aware of the plan to allow narcotics to be shipped from Cayo Largo?”
Cabrera shook his head. “We did not know. She said nothing of it to Deputy Minister Sauri.”
“But you feared she might also discover this?”
“No.” He hesitated. “We did not know. We feared … Minister Sauri feared she would take the matter to the Comandante himself, and that further inquiries would be ordered, and that it might expose who the American investors really were.”
“So you decided she must be killed.” Martinez said it as fact, not a question.
“That she be silenced in some way, yes.”
“And is this the same reason you silenced Manuel Pineiro, our former spymaster?”
Cabrera became agitated. “That was on Sauri’s order, not mine.”
Martinez shook his head. “Very well, we will concentrate on what you did. How did Senor Rossi fit into this plan to kill the Red Angel?”
Cabrera placed his hands on his face and slowly drew them down. He looked up at Martinez. His eyes seemed to be begging him to stop.
“Answer my question,” Martinez snapped.
Cabrera stared down at his lap. “It came about at the same time,” he began. “Senor Rossi sent a messenger to Cuba, suggesting that Dr. Mendez be used in a change-of-heads ritual. He is a believer in Palo Monte. It is an old belief, from many years ago when he lived in Havana. The messenger said he wished to save himself from a grave illness.”
“And did he offer you money to do this?”
Cabrera nodded.
“Say the words, Cabrera. Do not nod your head.”
“Yes, he offered me money.”
“How much?”
“Half a million dollars.” Again, Cabrera’s voice came out in a whisper.
“Louder, please,” Martinez snapped.
“Half a million dollars.”
“And this was all that was required of you. That you arrange for Dr. Mendez’s death, and the theft of her corpse.”
Cabrera shook his head, then realized he should answer aloud. “No. He also wanted me to contact Senorita Mendez in New York, and to tell her of the accident in such a way that she would come to her aunt.”
“And then?”
Cabrera swallowed. “The messenger said an American man would undoubtedly accompany her, and that he was to be killed, along with the woman.”
“Both were to be killed?”
“Si. Yes, both.”
“And were you to be paid for this as well?”
Cabrera nodded again, then caught himself. “Yes. I was to be paid another half a million.”
Pitts let out a whistle.
Martinez held up a hand, warning him to be quiet. He began pacing again.
“So first you arranged the assassination of Dr. Mendez?”
“Yes.”
“And who did you give this assignment?”
“The Abakua who have worked for me in the past.”
“Their names?”
Cabrera rattled off a series of names.
“And these men, they used a truck to cause a car accident involving Dr. Mendez?”
“Yes.”
“And were these the same men who arranged the theft of our Red Angel’s body?”
“Yes. Together with a palero named Siete Rayos.”
“And they then took that body to Santiago de Cuba?”
“Yes.”
“Were you paid when that body was delivered?”
“Yes.”
Martinez went to the desk and picked up a piece of paper and a pen. He handed them to Cabrera. “You will write down the name and location of the bank, and the number of the account to which the money was sent.”
He waited while Cabrera complied, then continued.
“And were these same men who attacked Dr. Mendez, and who later took the corpse, the ones who later tried to kill Dr. Mendez’s niece, and the Americans accompanying her?” He paused. “And who attempted to kill me, as well?”
“Yes.”
Martinez stopped pacing. “You have done well, Colonel. There are but a few more questions.”
Cabrera looked up, a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes. Martinez ignored it.
“Now we must turn to the attempt on the life of the palero Plante Firme,” Martinez began again. “Was this ordered by you?”
“Yes.”
“And why was that, Colonel?”
“Minister Sauri wanted the Americans gone, even if it angered Senor Rossi. He was afraid our plans were being placed in danger.” He looked away, then forced himself to continue. “Another body was located. A woman of the same age and physical size as Dr. Mendez. The body was stolen from a cemetery and burned to conform with Dr. Mendez’s injuries, and the head and hands and one foot were removed. These were to be found later in a nganga placed in Plante Firme’s home …” He paused. “After his death.”
“So he could not contradict your finding?”
“Yes.”
“And this assassination was attempted by two of your men, who have since disappeared.” Martinez gave him the names of two men.
“Yes. Those were the men. We have not been able to locate them.”
“But the assassination failed, did it not?”
“Yes, it failed.”
“And Plante Firme’s grandson was murdered in his place.”
“Yes.”
Martinez turned to Devlin. “Are your questions answered, my friend?”
Devlin nodded. “Except for the location of Dr. Mendez’s body.”
Martinez turned back to Cabrera. “You can answer this question?”
“Yes.”
“Do so.”
“The body, or what remains of it, has been made part of a nganga now under the control of the palero Siete Rayos.”
“And the remaining parts of the body?”
“Destroyed, the ashes scattered at the direction of the palero Baba Briyumbe, who prepared the nganga”
“And the change-of-heads ritual for Senor Rossi is still to take place.”
“That is my understanding.”
“When?”
“Tonight. After dark.”
“And where will this happen?”
“At a house in Cojimar.”
“You have the address?”
Cabrera nodded, and Martinez did not correct him this time.
“Write it on the paper I have given you.”
As Cabrera did so, Martinez turned back to Devlin. “Is there anything else?”
“No. No more questions,” Devlin said. “I just want to get my hands on Rossi. Around his throat would be nice.”
Martinez smiled at him. “I take it you did not know that the lovely Senorita Mendez was always to be part of this killing that Senor Rossi paid so generously to arrange.”
“No. But I do now.”
Martinez raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I am afraid I cannot allow you to give him the death he deserves.” He raised one finger. “But I believe I can help you give him even greater misery.”
“How?” Devlin’s eyes were cold, blue steel, and the scar on his cheek, the gift of an old knife wound, had turned a vivid white.
“In time, my friend,” Martinez said. “But well before you take your leave of my country.”
He turned back to Cabrera, and noticed that the colonel had succeeded in regaining some composure. “Do you have something more to say, Colonel?”
Cabrera straightened his back. “I wish the privilege of an officer,” he said. His voice broke as he spoke the words. “I wish a pistol, and time alone in this room.”
Martinez walked back to the desk and turned off the tape recorder.
“I am afraid I cannot accommodate you.”
Martinez went to the door and rapped lightly three times, then stepped back. The door swung back slowly to reveal Plante Firme.
Devlin heard Cabrera gasp. The old palero was naked to the waist. He wore a straw hat with several large multicolored feathers protruding from the brim. In his left hand he held the long staff Devlin had seen at his home. It was nothing more than the straight limb of a tree, denuded of bark, the top forking into five separate branches, six to eight inches in length, each holding an individual white feather. Plante Firme’s mpaca hung from his neck on a leather thong, and in his right hand he held a crudely fashioned rattle, also covered in white feathers.
He stepped into the room and began to chant in a mixture of Spanish and Bantu as Cabrera shrank back in his chair, his eyes frozen with fear.
Martinez took Devlin and Pitts by the arm. “Perhaps you would like to leave now,” he said.
Devlin shook his head. “No, I’d like to stay.”
“As you wish, my friend.”
They watched as Plante Firme advanced. His steps were slow and methodical, each bare foot planted with an audible slap on the polished tile floor.
Cabrera’s eyes widened and his entire body shook. He pressed back in the chair as if hoping it would swallow him.
Plante Firme stood before him now, the feather-festooned rattle held high above Cabrera’s head. His low, rumbling voice rose until it seemed to shake the walls of the room. Then he lowered the rattle and thrust it against Cabrera’s chest.
The colonel’s body stiffened with the blow. He let out a high-pitched scream; his eyes bulged in his head, and his body began to jerk uncontrollably. His face twisted in agony, then collapsed with the rest of him into a limp mass.
Devlin stepped forward and placed two fingers against his neck. There was no pulse. He looked at Plante Firme. The palero‘s face was expressionless, except for a fading glint of hatred in his eyes.
Devlin turned to Martinez. “He’s dead.”
Martinez nodded, and Devlin turned back to look at Cabrera’s lips, waiting for a blue tinge to appear. Nothing happened.
“It wasn’t cyanide,” he said. “Maybe curare.” He turned to Martinez. “What’s your guess, Major?”
“I make no guess,” Martinez said. “Many would say it was magic.”
“You think if I opened Cabrera’s shirt, I’d find a small puncture wound near his heart?” He inclined his head toward Plante Firme. “Maybe from a needle embedded in his rattle?”
“I would not know,” Martinez said. “I do know that it would offend the palero if you were to do so. I must insist that you do not offend him.”
Devlin turned away from the body. Plante Firme took his arm and spoke. The words sounded urgent.
“The palero says you will be in great danger when you leave this house. He asks that you take great care.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we should listen.” Martinez went to the door and snapped out an order to his two men, and they immediately ran toward the rear of the house. Devlin heard a door open as the men headed into the rear yard.
Martinez glanced quickly at Devlin and Pitts. “To the front door,” he said. “With caution.”
All three had their weapons drawn as Martinez reached for the knob of the front door. He eased it back, then moved quickly across the open frame. The move drew immediate fire, only a second too late. Martinez flattened against the wall and shouted out a command. From each side of the house steady bursts of automatic-weapon fire erupted as the major’s men fired toward the street. Martinez leaned out and emptied the clip of his automatic.
Pitts swung into the door frame, crouched low, his weapon out in front. Devlin spun in behind, slightly higher, his own pistol leveled at the street. They fired, then jumped back. Another burst of automatic-rifle fire came from the sides of the house. There was no return fire.
Pitts jumped back into the door frame, ready to fire again. Devlin followed.
“Shit,” Pitts said. “It’s over, and I didn’t get off one clean fucking shot.”
Devlin pulled him back from the door. “Wait for Martinez’s boys to confirm the kills,” he ordered.
A few minutes later words were shouted in Spanish, and Martinez stepped out onto the front stairs, followed by Devlin and Pitts.
They eased their way to the street, weapons held down along their legs. Three men lay scattered on the roadway, two near one car, the third sprawled next to another. A fourth man was slumped against the steering wheel of the second car. Martinez’s men stood to each side of the cars, their weapons pointed toward the ground.
“Dead?” Devlin asked.
Martinez nodded.
“Cabrera’s people?” It was Pitts this time.
“No, I do not think so,” Martinez said. He glanced at Devlin. “I think Senor Rossi has not yet given up on his plans for you.”
Plante Firme stepped past them. He had followed them from the house unnoticed. He used his staff to turn one of the bodies, then reached down and tore open the man’s shirt, revealing a series of ritual scars.
“Abakua,” he said.
“Hey, we owe you,” Pitts said. He turned to Martinez. “The old boy must have seen them when he came in.”
“You discount magic?” Martinez said.
“Hey, magic is fine,” Pitts said. “As long as these scumbags are dead.”
Martinez turned to Devlin. “I detect skepticism in your detective,” he said. “I wonder what he would think if I told him that Plante Firme has been in this house since before we arrived. Or that he was kept in a room at the rear of the house on my orders.”
“Are you shitting me?” Pitts said.
Martinez smiled at both men. “No, my friends. I am not sheeting you. Even so, it seems the palero still knew about the Abakua. It is curious, no?”
Devlin pushed it aside. It was more than he wanted to deal with. “There’s something else that’s curious,” he said.
Martinez’s eyes glittered. “And what is that?”
“When you were grilling Cabrera, you said something in Spanish. It seemed to change everything. He was like a whipped dog after that. Now, I only caught a few words. Presentar was one. Then jefe, and tecnico and investigacion. What did you tell him, Martinez?”
The major stroked his mustache. “Your Spanish, it is improving,” he said. He looked down and studied the toe of his shoe. “It is quite simple,” he said. “I merely introduced myself to the colonel.”
“As what?” Devlin asked.
“As jefe de Departamento Tecnico de Investigacion. Chief of the secret police.” He offered Devlin a small bow. “General Arnaldo Martinez, at your orders, my friend.”
“I thought you said Cabrera held that job.”
Martinez shrugged. “A small lie, I am afraid. What the politicians would call a matter of convenience.”