But why, Paul? What does he think we can do?”
Devlin considered the question. They were seated in the hotel dining room, where a breakfast buffet had been set out for guests, made up mostly of fruits and rolls and some type of processed ham that Adrianna had dubbed “Cuban mystery meat.”
All about them vacationers stumbled from buffet to table, all recovering from the delights of Cuban nightlife. They were a mix of Spaniards, Brits, Italians, Canadians, Mexicans, and Germans, part of the steady flow of foreigners that filled hotels each week. Many were men vacationing alone-here to sample the island’s newfound position on the world sex-tour circuit-many bringing last night’s “catch” to breakfast with them, slender and lithe women, mostly mulatto and black (Negroes in the Cuban terminology), all still dressed in the blatantly short skirts, revealing tops, or brightly colored body stockings they had worn the night before. Devlin studied the parade, then turned back to Adrianna.
“I have no idea what Martinez is thinking, but right now he may be our only shot at finding out what really happened.”
“But you don’t trust him.”
“I sure as hell don’t. And I trust Cabrera even less. Between the two of them, I feel like we’re being hung out to dry, and there’s nobody even watching our backs.” He shook his head. He had been in the country for less than twelve hours and already felt thoroughly mystified. He glanced around the dining room again, studying the parade. And this was certainly a first, he thought: Here less than twelve hours, and you’re having breakfast in a whorehouse.
“What did Martinez tell you about my aunt?”
Adrianna’s words drew him back. Her eyes seemed both eager and fearful, and Devlin wondered just how much of it she could handle. In the end, he told her all of it. There was nothing Adrianna liked less than being protected by “a big strong man.”
When he finished, she just sat and stared at him for several moments. She had handled the ugly news well, concentrating instead on the new things she was learning about her aunt’s life.
“My God. I had no idea. She was really a hero.” She stared at Devlin. “I mean, really.”
“Yes, she was,” Devlin said.
The waiter arrived at their table and he had to ask a second time if Adrianna wanted coffee.
She looked at him as though he had arrived from another planet, then shook her head as if freeing it of cobwebs.
“Si, gracias,” she said. The shake of her head and affirmative answer seemed to confuse the waiter even more. She looked back at Devlin and shook her head again.
“She never told me any of that, Paul. Not the attempt to kill Batista. Not her arrest. The torture. The rapes?” She closed her eyes momentarily. “Oh, God.” She stared into her freshly poured coffee as if wondering how it got there. “She never even told me about the two years she spent in the mountains with Castro, or the work she did after the revolution was won. All she ever talked about was her work with children, and how she had been given a government position that involved making sure they were all immunized.”
“Didn’t your father ever tell you the rest of it? He must have known.”
Adrianna shook her head again. “He would never talk about her. He said she was a communist, and a disgrace to the family.” She clasped her hands, the fingers intertwined, and held them in front of her face. “My father was very young when he left Cuba. He was ten years younger than Maria, only about twelve when she was arrested. Two years later, when Castro took power, he and my grandfather fled to Miami, and then to New York. My grandfather had disowned my aunt for what she had done. He refused to have her name spoken in their home. When he died, eight years later, my father said his last words were a curse on her name.”
Tears formed in the corners of Adrianna’s eyes and she brushed them away. “When my grandfather died, my father was forced to leave college. That’s when he joined the New York Police Department.” She gave her head another small, sad shake. “My dad was very much like his own father-a very hard, very unforgiving man.” She folded her hands again and stared across the table at Devlin. “In all the time before he was killed, he honored his own father by never speaking my aunt’s name in our home.” She paused, started to pick up her coffee cup, then stopped and let out a long, tired sigh. “Even when she wrote to him when my mother died, he refused to answer the letter. He did write to his other sister, who had stayed behind with her husband. But he always said she was crazy.” She leaned in closer to the table, as if it would give emphasis to her words. “That’s really all he ever said. That he had two sisters in Cuba. One of them crazy and the other a communist.”
Devlin had been a newly made detective, working in the same squad, when street punks in a Harlem tenement had gunned down Rudolfo “Rudy” Mendez. Adrianna’s father had been a homicide detective on his way to make a fairly routine arrest, when he and his partner had stumbled on a drug buy. Both detectives had been killed without ever having a chance to draw their weapons.
Devlin had known Adrianna years before. They had been lovers then, he a young cop, she a graduate student and aspiring painter. But the relationship ended abruptly. Adrianna had given Devlin the news simply and directly. She wanted a different life-different from everything she had known as a child. And that life did not include living with a cop.
Years later Devlin had met Mary, the woman who would become his wife, and he was finally able to push Adrianna from his mind. Then a drunk driver had killed Mary, leaving him with their small daughter. Adrianna had come to his wife’s funeral, and when Phillipa, still a toddler, had begun to fuss, she had taken the child outside. Devlin had found them sitting on the grass, searching for four-leaf clovers. Phillipa had already found two, and the smile on her face had softened all the grief and misery of the day.
A year later Devlin found himself at Rudy Mendez’s funeral. Unable to find a baby-sitter, he brought Phillipa with him, and when the services ended, Adrianna had sought the child out. It was as though her new status as an orphan had required her to hold a child in her arms-perhaps just to give the kind of comfort she would never again know.
Still, despite obvious mutual attraction, Devlin and Adrianna’s own relationship had not rekindled, and several years passed before the vagaries of fate-and the madness of a serial killer-brought them together again.
Devlin’s reverie was broken by the appearance of Arnaldo Martinez. The major was again dressed as he had been the night before-rumpled and threadbare, a perfect match to his world-weary face and mournful eyes.
Today Martinez had opted for a pale blue shirt, missing one button and hanging outside brown trousers that Ollie Pitts would have described as “shit-colored.” Devlin studied the untucked shirt. He wondered if it was used here as it would be by a New York cop-to conceal a weapon. There was no way to tell. If Martinez was carrying, it was probably an automatic, stuck into his trousers flat against his lower back. He gestured to a chair and offered Martinez coffee.
The major accepted with obvious gratitude, then smiled in turn at Adrianna and Devlin. “I am pleased you have both decided to assist me,” he began.
Devlin cut him off. “We haven’t decided anything. Not until you’ve explained some things.”
“Of course. That is understood.” Martinez held his sad smile.
“Number one.” He paused to emphasize that more than one explanation was needed, then leaned toward Martinez and softened his tone. “First, we need to know your involvement in this. Your official involvement. And we need to know Cabrera’s involvement. And I want some clarification on these confusing statements you keep making about him. Does he work for State Security, or not. For the secret police, or not. And what the hell is the difference between the two.”
A waiter brought coffee, and Martinez sat smiling and silent until he had left.
“Let me explain our police structure first. When you understand this, you will understand who Cabrera is. And who I am. Perhaps then you will better understand what I am doing, and why it must be so.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “First, you must understand that there are many police agencies in Cuba-nine that are known to the people, and one more that officially does not exist. All come under the Ministry of Interior.”
He raised a finger, then clasped it with his other hand. “First is the national police, in which I serve. We have a simple duty. We are to protect our citizens against crime.” He released his finger and waved his hand in dismissal. “Next are several police agencies that do not concern us. The coast guard, fire protection, the immigration police, all of whose functions are explained by their names. Then there are political police. They deal in propaganda and in making sure the attitudes of the government personnel do not become anti-revolutionary or revisionist.” He shrugged. “The mind police.” He laughed at the term. “Most Cubans today listen to what they say, and then ignore them.”
He leaned even closer to the table. “Now we come to the more serious and more secret agencies. First is the intelligence service.” Another shrug. “Our spies. Next is the counterintelligence service. Our spy catchers. And finally is our Office of Internal Security, or State Security. These are the people who watch everything that goes on inside Cuba, and who are responsible for serious crimes against the government. And it is this organization in which Colonel Antonio Cabrera serves as number two in command.”
“And the unofficial police agency?” Devlin asked.
“This is the Departamento Tecnico de Investigacion, the DTI, more commonly known as our secret police.” Martinez smiled across the table. “The DTI have no offices, but work out of ordinary-looking houses in utmost secrecy. No one, except their own officers, knows who is a member. Those who are, are drawn from other police agencies and each of the various ministries, where they all continue to work, supposedly undetected. It is their job to watch the people who are watching everyone else. And they answer to no one except the highest people in the government. It is said that evidence presented against you by the DTI assures that you are doomed.”
“Sounds like the man in charge pretty much holds the fate of everyone in his hands,” Devlin said.
Martinez inclined his head. “If he has done what I believe he has, even he is vulnerable.”
“So, who is he?”
Martinez smiled. “It is a secret, of course. One that only the highest people in our government are supposed to know.”
“But you know.”
“Yes,” Martinez said. “I know. The head of our secret police is Colonel Antonio Cabrera.”
“And how do you know?” Especially as a freshly minted major with a shiny new badge, Devlin added to himself.
“I was told several years ago, by someone high in our government. Someone who trusted me, and who believed that certain things were happening in our government that could destroy the revolution.” He turned to Adrianna. “I was told by your aunt. Maria Mendez.”
Adrianna seemed at a loss for words. “She would know something like that?” she finally asked.
Martinez let out a long sigh. “There was very little that our Red Angel did not know.”
“And what was she afraid was happening?” Devlin asked.
Martinez gave him a regretful look. “That, my friend, I cannot tell you. Let us just say it is something that could jeopardize the security of my country. So, in this matter, I will have to ask you to trust me.”
Devlin sat back and stared at this small, sad, middle-aged man. Trust you, he thought. I don’t even know you. “And why should we trust you?” he asked.
Martinez made a helpless gesture with his hands. Devlin suspected that his helplessness was as phony as his rumpled clothing and mournful eyes. “I believe you should trust me, because in this matter we have a common interest. Finding the body of Maria Mendez.”
“Do you believe she died as a result of a car accident?” Devlin held his gaze, searching for a lie.
Martinez shook his head. “But I cannot prove this. Not yet.”
“Who would have wanted her dead?”
A sly look came to Martinez’s eyes. It seemed so out of character it was almost comical. “Perhaps the same person who is now charged with finding her corpse.”
“Cabrera,” Adrianna said.
“This is what the investigation by the national police has found?” Devlin asked.
“There has been no investigation by the national police,” Martinez said. “The matter was taken from us before any investigation could begin. It was given to State Security. The explanation we received is the same one Cabrera gave last night. That the theft of the Red Angel’s body is somehow an act against the government.”
“Have you gone to anyone with your suspicions?” Adrianna asked.
“Ah, senorita. And who would I go to? Someone that I know for certain is not a member of Cabrera’s secret police? And who would that be?”
“So who’s working with you?” Devlin asked.
“I am hoping you and Senorita Mendez will be working with me,” Martinez said.
“Just us? That’s it?” Devlin’s tone was pure incredulity.
“The gentleman we will see this morning may also help.”
“Who is he?”
“He is a well-known Cuban mystery writer, who, before he retired, also worked as a propagandist with our political police.”
“That’s it?” Devlin snapped. “One Cuban cop, a retired mystery writer, and a pair of tourists? And against us we’ve got the Cuban secret police?”
“You are much more than a tourist, my friend.”
Devlin shook his head emphatically. “No, I am not, my friend. Here, I am definitely just a tourist.”
“I am also hoping that Plante Firme will assist us,” Martinez said.
“The witch doctor?” Devlin stared at him, wide-eyed.
“Please, senor. The term ‘witch doctor’ would be an offense to him. He is called a palero, a priest of the Palo Monte sect, a follower of the Regla Mayombe.”
“Great,” Devlin snapped. “One Cuban cop, one retired writer, two tourists, and a goddamn palero.”
“A powerful mix, my friend. If used well, a very powerful mix.”
Devlin leaned forward, eyes hard on Martinez’s mournful face. “Well, not quite powerful enough for me, Major.” He held up a hand, stopping the words Martinez seemed about to speak. “I’ll help you,” he said. “Because I damned well want to know what happened to this woman’s body. But there’s a condition.”
“A condition?” Martinez blinked several times.
“I bring one of my people from New York to help us.”
“Who, Paul?” It was Adrianna.
“Ollie Pitts.”
“God, Paul. No. Not Ollie.”
“Who is this Ollie?” Martinez asked. He pronounced the name Oily.
“One of my detectives. The best damned street detective I have.”
Martinez turned to Adrianna. “You do not seem to like this man,” he said. “Why is that?”
“No one likes him.” Adrianna looked sharply at Devlin.
“I like him,” Devlin said. “I especially like him watching my back.”
“No one likes him except Paul,” Adrianna said.
“And why is that?”
“It’s simple.” Adrianna threw another sharp look at Devlin. “Ollie Pitts is a beast.”
Martinez sat back in his chair and nodded. “Ah, a beast,” he said. “Yes, that is definitely what we will need. A beast.”
Robert Cipriani sat in his brightly lit cell, the day’s edition of Granma propped on his lap. He glared at the newsprint, his face twisted in a sneer. He despised everything about Cuba’s daily newspaper. Even the fact that it was named after the battered ship that Fidel and eighty-six followers had used for their 1956 invasion at Alegria de Pio. It was so like these goddamned Cubans, he thought. Deifying some leaky tub, just because the fucking “Comandante” and his band of bearded greasers had once puked in its head. Naming their one fucking national newspaper after it. His jaw tightened. Christ, they had even put up a monument to the boat right behind Batista’s old Presidential Palace.
Cipriani tossed the newspaper aside. It was useless. The only financial news it carried was so laden with propaganda, all the facts became skewed. Fidel’s view of world finance. Like tits on a bull.
He pulled himself out of his leather easy chair, walked the three steps it took to cross his cell, and punched the button that would boot up the mainframe of his IBM computer. At least they had given him this-a way to communicate with the still-sane world. He moved to the cell’s one barred window while Windows 98 performed its magic. Outside, across the wide, green parade ground of the State Security compound, he could see an occasional car move past the barbed-wire-topped gate that opened onto Canuco Street. Most Cubans avoided the street. The high, wire-topped wall with its watchtowers and heavily armed guards, the mounted video cameras that tracked each car and pedestrian, made the entire two-block area inhospitable.
He snorted over the final word, then turned to take in his own “hospitable” surroundings. A ten-by-eight-foot cell, closed off by a solid iron door. A single bed, not even adequate for the weekly whore they provided. A leather reading chair. And the goddamned computer they had confiscated from his own house.
He closed his eyes and raised his hands to his face. He could feel the changes that had taken place in the five years he had been locked away. His hair was thinner now, the former widow’s peak now reaching back to the middle of his head. His face felt skeletal under his fingers, the cheeks sunken, the lines deeper across his forehead and around his eyes. He had kept his mustache, still too vain about the harelip it hid to cut it away. Christ, he was only fifty-five, but he looked ten years older, all of it coming since they had stuffed him in this cell. The bastards were killing him.
Cipriani’s eyes snapped open with the sound of the key in the lock. He watched as the door swung away and that prick Cabrera stepped into the cell.
“Hola, my friend. Have you come to free me at last.” He had forced a wide smile that Cabrera did not return.
“We have a problem.” Cabrera spoke to him in English, as he always did to protect their conversations from any eavesdropping guards. The colonel had taken care to make certain all the guards on the cellblock were not fluent in the language. It had only added to Cipriani’s miseries.
“We?” he said. “Why is it that we have problems, while only you enjoy the occasional success?”
“Spare me your philosophical observations.” Cabrera perched on the very edge of Cipriani’s bed, worried, as always, about damaging the knife-edge crease in his trousers. He was dressed in a business suit-his normal attire. Like all officers of State Security, he wore his uniform only for ceremonial occasions, or when he wanted to intimidate someone.
Cipriani returned to his leather armchair and became as attentive as possible. There was no point in irritating the man. The first two years of his incarceration had been spent in serious prisons. First, here at the State Security detention facility, the Villa Marista, but in a regular cellblock where he lived with four other men in a cell half the size of the one he now occupied. Next he went to a general prison, at Combinado del Este. There it was eight men to a cell, sleeping in tiered bunks one atop the other, the food so meager that doctors classified their level of undernourishment as moderate, severe, or critical, and it was not uncommon for prisoners to kill each other over food brought in by relatives. No, he thought, there was no point in irritating the colonel. He had saved him, brought him back to the Villa Marista, and put him in this well-appointed hellhole. And the price of redemption for his “financial crimes” was at least interesting.
It was a strange turn of fate. Robert Cipriani was a fugitive from the United States. There, he had done what other financiers do daily. He had taken money from fools. He, however, had been caught, and had fled-twenty million dollars in hand-to one of the world’s few havens from extradition. Here, the Cubans had accepted him, and his money, allowing him to live well for more than a decade. Then they had come in the night and dragged him away, convicted him of financial crimes against the government, which to this day were vague at best. All of it to one purpose. To put him where he was now, serving the interests of State Security.
But at least there was decent food, and the weekly teenage whore. There was his computer, which allowed him to work again, and over the past five years he had accumulated another five million. And that was the best game there was. Better even than anything the teenage whore could offer.
“Tell me your troubles,” Cipriani said. He studied the colonel’s dour expression. He was a tall man-six-foot-two, a full six inches taller than Cipriani-and when dejected, his tall, hard, angular body curved like a great, bony question mark. He was hatless today, and it pleased Cipriani to see his balding head glistening above his dark beard. The man was only forty, at best, and he already had less hair than the prisoner he pissed on at will. He also had a big nose that ruined any chance of being handsome. You were handsome once, Cipriani told himself. But that was before. Before they turned you into a walking skeleton.
Cabrera told him about Devlin and Adrianna Mendez. “I did not know Maria Mendez had any relatives, other than her lunatic sister. I only learned of her after the old man told me what he wanted done.”
“Look, you agreed to what the old man wanted. That’s a fait accompli. And I still don’t see the problem.” Cipriani shrugged away concern. “This is Cuba. They are in a maze with only one exit, the airport.”
“I told you the problem. This woman, this niece of Maria’s, her lover is a detective.”
“But he’s a detective walking in the same maze.”
“But he has a guide.” Cabrera told him about Martinez. “I had no idea they would have this kind of help. If they begin to inquire too deeply …”
Cipriani shook his head. “You have the ability to stop all of them. I’m still missing the problem.”
Cabrera glared at him. “The problem is Maria Mendez, a hero of the revolution. Everyone above me is shitting their pants that the people will learn, not only that she has died, but that her body has been stolen. If they learn this, and then learn that her only surviving relative is raising questions about her death …” He lowered his eyes and ground his teeth. “It could become serious-serious enough to put our plan in jeopardy.”
Cipriani rubbed his face, feeling again its cadaverlike transformation. We, he thought. It’s always we when things don’t work out. “I still don’t know why you chose the Red Angel.” He waved a hand in the air. “Oh, I know we needed her dead anyway, that it was necessary to keep her from putting the screws to our overall plan. But then to give that crazy old man what he thought he needed? Just so he’d finally give his support?” He shook his head. “That, my friend was a mistake. You should have thought about the effect, the disgrace it might bring on Fidel and his cronies. Christ, we’d already gotten Fidel to accept what we wanted.” He shook his head. “If you recall. I told you this Palo Monte-Red Angel nonsense was dangerous. There were other ways to keep the old man happy. Christ, we could have found any doctor. The old man never would have known the difference.”
Cabrera jumped up from the bed, furious. “He wanted her.”
Cipriani drew a breath, buying time. He kept his voice soft, free of accusation. “Yes, he did. And now, from what you tell me, there are people who want him dead.”
Cabrera spun away and stared at the cell door. “That is not the reason. They wanted him dead before this happened. Because he at first opposed the plan.”
“Yes, but only because they thought he wanted a bigger share. But that was a matter that could be negotiated. Resolved.” Cipriani raised his hands. “Since he’s coming here, maybe it already has been resolved.” He shook his head. “But now, because of the Red Angel, there may be no share for anyone. This, they will not forgive. And they will blame him. Perhaps even you.”
Cabrera spun back, eyes glaring. “Is that all you have to offer? I could get more from some crazy palero, rolling coconut shells on the floor to divine my future.”
“What do you want me to tell you? Finding the body now is impossible, unless you want to produce a corpse with its head and hands and feet missing.”
“That may be my only choice.”
“Then you will have to have arrests. Arrests that could lead back to you.”
“Not if the people responsible are dead.”
Cipriani shrugged. “That’s always a solution.” He tapped a finger against his lips. “And for more than just your fellow conspirators.”
“What are you talking about?”
Cipriani stroked his chin, as if ready to impart a unique wisdom. “Tell me something first. Does Mickey D know about any of this?”
“He knows about the ritual that will be performed,” Cabrera said.
“But not about these problems?”
Cabrera shook his head. “No, he knows nothing. He is due to arrive here in a few days. I am hoping to have it resolved by then.”
Cipriani nodded. “I think that’s wise. In fact, I think it’s imperative that it is resolved by then. Unless you want to see this whole deal blow up in your face.”
Cabrera stared at him. “And what do you suggest?”
“I think you need another accident. I’m talking about Maria Mendez’s niece. And her detective lover. And Martinez.” He gave Cabrera a regretful smile. “There are billions of dollars at stake, my friend. You’ve already gotten rid of two people who threatened our little deal-that Pineiro guy, and the Red Angel. So, do what you did the other times our plan was threatened. Arrange another automobile accident.”
Cabrera’s jawline hardened. “I have considered this, and already I have people in place.” He let out a long breath. “But, of course, you are right. There is no choice now. It is something that must be done quickly.”
Before they left the hotel, Devlin got a list of available flights from Cubana Airlines, then placed a call to New York. Ollie Pitts mumbled something about grave-robbing communists when Devlin explained the problem. He grunted when Devlin told him what he wanted. Then he cackled when Devlin said he would personally cover the cost of the flight, the hotel, and all the detective’s meals and expenses. When Pitts started to negotiate beer money as an expense, Devlin gave him two choices. He could arrive in Havana later that night via a connecting flight from the Bahamas, or he could spend the rest of his career wondering what “new shit assignment” HIS BOSS would have for him each and every day.
That done, Devlin changed Martinez’s plan. Putting together their collection of misfits could wait, he said. The first stop he wanted to make was the funeral home that had managed to lose Maria Mendez’s body.
As the ancient Chevrolet made its way toward the Vedado section of Havana, Devlin lowered his window to gain some relief from the lack of air-conditioning. Music blared from open louvered doors and windows, and somewhere in the distance he heard a cock crowing. It was his first look at the morning madness of Cuban traffic. Bicycles and aging motorcycles dominated the streets, all with at least two riders. Many of the motorcycles were equipped with sidecars and carried two or three more-all of it, Martinez explained, a tribute to the fuel shortages that plagued the island. As they turned a corner, Martinez pointed out two enormous buses, the likes of which Devlin had never seen, each one disgorging its passengers into plumes of diesel smoke. The buses were tractor-trailer trucks converted to transport people. They had arrived on the island in exchange for Cuban sugar and citrus, part of a deal with the now defunct Soviet empire. The trailer section, which Martinez described as “a tribute to Cuban insanity,” had then been converted by Cuban engineers, fitted with cheap plastic seats and a row of narrow windows that seldom worked. The engineers also created a large dip in the center to accommodate a second door, and it made the entire vehicle appear to have two enormous humps. “The people call the buses ‘camels,’” Martinez said. “They also call them many other things when the windows fail to work. Especially on steamy July days, like the one we are now enduring.”
Devlin stared out the window. The surrounding buildings looked battered and beaten, the absence of paint and repair leaving exterior walls pitted like decayed teeth. Sections of sidewalk had crumbled away, and holes in the roadway had been haphazardly filled with sand and stone.
In many ways, Havana had the look of a city that had endured a recent war. Except for the inhabitants. He had never seen people in a large city seem more relaxed or at ease with each other. Pedestrians wandered into the streets, unconcerned about oncoming traffic. And drivers simply stopped and waited for them to pass. There were no blaring horns, no shouted curses, threatening mayhem. It was as though everyone had the right to move about as they pleased, as if every inch of territory was shared equally. And, God, they were beautiful people, Devlin thought-almost uniformly beautiful, in every shade of white and tan and brown and black. Adrianna came by it naturally, he told himself. It was in her genes.
The funeral home was located on Calzada and K streets, and the sign out front identified it simply as FUNERARIA CALZADA Y K.
“Why was the body sent here?” Devlin asked as he stepped from the car onto another crumbling sidewalk.
They were standing on the edge of a small park, two blocks away from the U.S. Interests Section office. In the distance Devlin could see a long line of people, all waiting for a chance at a U.S. visa.
Martinez waved his arm, taking in the exterior of the funeral home. It was a shabby, three-story poured-concrete structure, dotted with small casement windows and fake marble trim. “This is considered the finest funeral home in Havana,” he said. “It is where the bodies of all high government officials are taken.”
Adrianna slipped her arm in Devlin’s. She was staring at the covered stone staircase that led to the second level. The interior beyond seemed forbidding, and her normally calm brown eyes were suddenly nervous.
“Do you want to go in?” Devlin asked. “I want to use Martinez to get into the areas the public doesn’t normally see. So we might end up in places-”
Adrianna shook her head, cutting him off. “No, I think I’ll wait here in the park. I brought a sketch pad with me. I’ll just find a place to sit and draw. I don’t need this to be any grimmer than it already is.”
The floor and walls of the lobby were covered with stark pink marble that had not been polished in a long time, and it gave off a dull, flat, lifeless look that offered little hope of comfort. From the lobby Martinez and Devlin entered a long, wide room where the marble gave way to stone. Here a line of identical wooden rocking chairs ran down the room’s center. Freestanding ashtrays had been placed between the chairs, all of which were now empty. Smaller rooms opened off the larger one. Devlin entered one and found an old man lying in an open coffin, its lid standing on end against a nearby wall. There was an elderly woman seated in a chair beside the old man’s bier. Devlin nodded a condolence, or an apology, he wasn’t certain which, then turned away. A stained-glass window at the far end of the room drew his eye. It offered the only natural light in this otherwise dimly lighted space, and it depicted a scene of a sailing ship out at sea. Devlin wondered if it was meant to imply some final journey now under way.
“How long do bodies stay here?” he asked.
“Normally, only one day. Burials are done quickly here, because of the heat.”
“Is there any security when the place is empty?”
“It is never empty,” Martinez said. “It is our custom to have a family member remain with the body until it is buried the next day.”
“But that didn’t happen in this case.”
Martinez shook his head. “The Red Angel’s body never reached this room.”
“Let’s go see the room it did reach.”
The office was off the lobby. There were four people inside-a middle-aged woman seated behind a cluttered metal desk and four men lounging about, drinking coffee. All wore lab coats and bored faces.
Martinez flashed his badge and asked several questions in Spanish, the words coming too rapidly for Devlin to make even a stab at interpretation.
The woman nodded and signaled to one of the men, who immediately opened a rear door, beckoning them to follow. The man, who was tall and slender and somewhere in his mid-thirties, led them down a dark, narrow staircase that opened into a large, dingy room. Several carts were lined up along one wall, two of which held bodies covered with graying, white sheets. There was a hole in one of the sheets, through which the nose of one corpse protruded as if getting a final whiff of life. To the left was an open bay with two hearses parked in tandem, the hood of one jutting out into the street. An old man sat in a chair beside the open door.
Devlin raised his chin toward the old man. “Is he the only guard?”
Martinez relayed the question to their guide.
He answered with a terse “Si. Solo.”
Martinez walked to the first of two other doors and opened it. Beyond. Devlin could see a refrigerated room that held more carts and bodies. He closed it and opened the second door, revealing the naked body of a young woman on a mortician’s table. Two men dressed in lab coats looked up quickly. The older of the pair stared at Martinez with annoyance. His younger assistant simply looked startled, as though he had been caught doing something illicit. Martinez displayed his badge and apologized, then turned back to Devlin and shrugged.
“What time did the body disappear?” Devlin asked.
Martinez glanced at his watch. “It was about this time of day.”
“Let’s find out if the old man was working then.”
The old man stared up at them, a slightly amused look spread across a weathered face.
Martinez loosed a string of questions, which the old man answered with a nod, a raised eyebrow, and a rapid flow of Spanish that Devlin could not follow.
“He was working here when the body disappeared,” Martinez said. A small smile played across his lips. “He is very defensive. He says he had to relieve himself and went to the bano-um, the bathroom. He says the body must have been taken then.”
“Where was the body?”
Martinez raised his chin toward one of the interior doors. “It was in the refrigerated room. He said the body still had bandages on it when it came from the hospital, and it is his job to remove them. He did this, and saw that the body had been badly burned about the face and arms. He feared decomposition would come quickly, so he placed it inside the room so it would remain cool.”
“Does he know who it was?”
Martinez asked the question, then turned back to Devlin and shook his head. “He said the paperwork did not have a name. The driver told him he had not been given any, that it would be sent later in the day.”
“And he didn’t recognize who it was?”
Martinez relayed the question. “He says the face was badly burned and swollen, that it could have been his mother and he would not have known.”
The old man smiled at Devlin. He had only four teeth in the front of his head. He reached into his shirt pocket and removed a black feather, then began babbling in rapid Spanish. His final words were the only thing Devlin could understand. They were “Palo Monte.”
“Did I hear him right?” Devlin asked.
Martinez took the feather and nodded. “He says he found the feather inside the refrigerated room. I have seen these feathers before. They are from a scavenger bird called the aura tinosa, and are considered sacred by the followers of Palo Monte, who call the bird mayimbe. The feather is always used as a part of their mpaca, which is a type of charm made from an animal horn that must always be worn by a Palo Monte priest.”
“Did the old man tell anyone else about this feather?”
Martinez asked, then shook his head. “He says the young officer who was here treated him like an old fool, so he didn’t offer the information. He says he decided to save the feather so he could give it to the palero, the Palo Monte priest, when he returned for it.”
“Is that likely? That the palero will come back for it?”
Martinez shrugged. “I do not think so. There will be other feathers in the palero’s nganga.”
“His what?”
Martinez smiled and took Devlin’s arm. “Come. I think we have found everything we can here. If Palo Monte is involved in this, there is much that you must learn. And I can tell you only a small part of it.”