William Heffernan - Red Angel

Pitts reached into a pocket and withdrew a leather-covered sap. “I’ll use this,” he said. “Customs never found it in my suitcase.”

Martinez arched his brows. “It is not legal here. Even for police.” He let out a long breath. “Is this what you used on the Abakua outside Plante Firme’s house?”

“Nah. I didn’t have it with me then. Everybody kept telling me what a gentle city this is. I used that lead pipe I found in Plante Firme’s yard.”

“Promise me you will use it only on the Abakua,” Martinez said. A small smile flickered across his lips. “Or Cabrera’s men.”

Pitts winked at him.

Devlin rolled his eyes. “Keep it in your pocket,” he said. “Use that ham hock you call a fist.”

“I’d still like some heat,” Pitts said. “Just in case.”

Martinez turned back to the bench and picked up a paper bag that Devlin had assumed was his lunch. He handed it to Devlin. “If you are found with these, I cannot help you,” he said.

Devlin looked inside. The bag held two snub-nosed.38 revolvers. He slipped one into his waistband under his shirt and handed the bag to Pitts.

“They are loaded, but there are no extra cartridges,” Martinez said. “I do not propose warfare, only self-defense.”

“It’s like fucking Mayberry,” Pitts said. “Maybe I should keep my bullet in my pocket like Don Knotts.”

Martinez glanced at Devlin. “It is very hard to make this man happy,” he said.

“Indeed,” Devlin said. “You should talk to his sergeant someday. She has some very strong opinions about his level of gratitude.”

Devlin took a step toward his car, but Martinez held up a hand. He gave Devlin a no-nonsense look. “I want to know what you are planning.”

Devlin drew a long breath. He had known this was coming. “I’m going to check some of the hotels to see if I can kick up anything on our sick old man. I assume your CDR men are keeping watch in their neighborhoods.”

Martinez nodded. “And Detective Pitts?”

“Ollie is going to run a tail on Cabrera.”

Martinez raised his eyebrows.

“Cabrera’s never seen Ollie, so I think he has a shot at tailing him. If Cabrera meets with anyone suspicious, he’ll drop off Cabrera and follow that person. If that proves productive, we’ll run a second tail tomorrow. Ollie will stay with the colonel, and I’ll pick up on the new target.”

“And Senorita Adrianna?”

“She’s going through her aunt’s papers to see if there are any leads there. They’re in Spanish, and she’s the only Spanish speaker I have.”

Martinez stared at Devlin, letting him know his rather blatant exclusion had been noted. He held Devlin’s eyes. “Today, I will go with you, my friend.” There was no question about refusal in his voice. He turned to Pitts. “We shall meet outside El Floridita at ten. It is a restaurant not far from your old hotel. Very famous. If you park in the area, anyone can direct you there.”

Cabrera’s car pulled out of the Villa Marista compound shortly after five. Pitts’s Lada was tucked into a side street and he dropped in behind, fifty yards back.

The colonel’s car moved slowly through the city streets, past the ferry terminal and onto Avenida del Puerto, which ran along the edge of the harbor at the tip of Old Havana. As they approached the Castillo de San Salvador fortress, the car entered the tunnel that ran under the harbor to Casablanca. Emerging on the opposite shore, it turned onto a winding drive that circled the Castillo del Morro, the sister fortress that together with the Castillo de San Salvador had guarded Havana harbor for more than two centuries. At a sign marked LOS 12 APOSTOLES, Cabrera’s car entered a steep drive that led back to the water.

Pitts dropped back, waited, then followed Cabrera’s car down the drive.

Los 12 Apostoles turned out to be an ancient gun emplacement, twelve two-hundred-year-old cannons, set in a long line and pointed toward the entrance of the harbor, each one bearing the name of one of Christ’s apostles. Behind the gun battery stood the very tony Restaurant of the Twelve Apostles.

Pitts spotted Cabrera’s car in the large dirt parking lot. The driver was leaning against a fender, smoking a cigarette, as he stared out at a passing car ferry. Pitts drove by unnoticed, and parked as far away as he could. Then he sauntered toward the restaurant, just another tourist looking for an expensive meal.

Cabrera was seated alone at an outside terrace table, facing the city. Pitts asked the maitre d’ for a similar table and was seated no more than twenty feet away. A few minutes later Cabrera was joined by another man. He was average height, about forty, Pitts guessed, with dark hair and dark eyes and a heavy five-o’clock shadow. He was dressed in black slacks, a pale blue shirt with the top two buttons undone, and a tan sport jacket. There was a gold Rolex on his wrist and a gold crucifix hanging from his neck. He looked like a flashy European businessman on vacation. Except he greeted Cabrera in American-accented English. The sound of his voice made Pitts smile.

“There is a problem,” Cabrera said.

DeForio’s eyes hardened. “This is a bad time for problems. We’ve already transferred a sizable amount of money to the bank in Panama. We’re ready to move ahead quickly.”

Cabrera nodded. “This difficulty will not stop our plans.”

Mickey D stared at him. “You let me be the judge of that. Tell me about your problem.”

The waiter came, gave them menus, and took their drink orders. When he had left, Cabrera leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“Robert Cipriani has disappeared,” he began. “I sent him to Santiago de Cuba to meet with our friend, together with one of my men. Neither has returned.”

“Have you checked with our friend?”

“He is in Havana now. I spoke with him this afternoon. He said Cipriani and my man left his villa in Cobre two hours before he left there himself. They were to return on a Cubana flight. Our friend traveled on his private jet.”

“And Cipriani and your man never got here.”

“They checked in for the flight, but they never boarded the plane. I checked with the local police and with the immigration police, but they knew nothing.”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“No.” Cabrera shook his head for emphasis as he tried to decide how much more to say. DeForio was unaware of the assassination attempt on this New York police inspector and his woman, either here in Havana or in Cobre. This was a private arrangement with Rossi, just as the theft of the Red Angel’s body had been. That second arrangement had produced an upheaval among the Mafia investors that had only recently been settled. Knowledge of the assassination attempt might produce yet another. Still, DeForio had to be told something.

“The major of the national police that I told you about, the one who is investigating the disappearance of the body …” He paused.

DeForio stared at him. “Yeah, what about him?”

“He was in Santiago at the same time.”

DeForio’s eyes widened. “You are joking with me, right? This crap with this old woman’s body, tell me it’s not coming back to haunt us again.”

“I am not certain,” Cabrera said. “I am attempting to discover the truth.”

Mickey D covered his face with both hands and slowly drew them down. “Where is that fucking body now?”

“It is on its way to Havana, in the nganga that has been prepared. The ritual will be performed here, tomorrow, or the following day.”

“Where?”

“I am not certain. Senor Rossi is hidden in an Abakua stronghold in Guanabacoa. I assume the ritual will take place there, or somewhere nearby.”

“Where the hell is this Guanabacoa?”