about his mysterious friend, and Espinoza didn’t ask. But as he opened the heavy front door to the police station, allowing the pathologist to enter before him, Espinoza wondered why the little doctor sounded so sad.
Detective Espinoza sat on a wooden swivel chair in his new office. Well, not quite an office, but the desk Inspector Ramirez had assigned to him for his first murder investigation.
It was better than the corner of the Malecón for which he had previously been responsible. There, he had been required to stand in his cheap black shoes on the hard, cracked concrete throughout his entire shift. At least in Major Crimes he could sit down.
“Stabbed through the heart after she was dead? Do you think she was a zombie?” Espinoza had asked Ramirez.
Espinoza believed in zombies. In fact, many Cubans believed that Fidel Castro, hovering between life and death for almost a year since his botched surgery, had become one.
“I don’t know what she was,” Ramirez laughed. “I only know that someone killed her. But try to find out if she had any family, Fernando, will you? That may help us track down her killer.”
It was late at night, but Espinoza sat at his desk, idly flipping through the stack of papers. He was working his way through hundreds of missing persons reports. He hoped to impress Ramirez when the inspector returned from Canada by telling him he had found the victim’s relatives. And maybe her killer as well.
The manager of the building where Señora Aranas had lived had been of little assistance. She had a son, he said. But he hadn’t seen the man in years.
As he thumbed through the pages, Espinoza held back a yawn. So many people had gone missing from such a small island. But then, with all the people trying to escape on rafts made of rubber tires, it was hard to keep track of the Cuban population. It would be almost more productive to have missing tire reports.
A young woman walked past his desk. He watched her turn the corner towards the exhibit room, admiring her legs. She was very pretty, and around Espinoza’s age. Civilian clothes, her dresscut just low enough to catch his interest. She must be a clerk, he thought. A mangito , that one. Those breasts, carumba . He let out a low whistle and hissed in appreciation. The detectives sitting at their desks beside him grinned.
When she came back towards his desk, Espinoza called out, “Hey, linda ,” using the slang for “beautiful.” “I’m off at midnight. You want to have a drink somewhere?”
“With you?”
“You see someone else here?” He held his arms out, palms up, and looked around as if he were the only officer working late.
She shrugged, but a smile tugged the corner of her mouth. “I’m working night shift, consorte . And when I get off work, I have other plans. You think I don’t have a boyfriend waiting?”
I have plans for you too, thought Espinoza, eyeing her appreciatively. A cuarto somewhere, if he was lucky enough to find an empty room in one of the few hotels that Cubans could rent. A little hoja later on, if she felt like fooling around. If not tonight, well, maybe soon. But no sex at his apartment: he still lived with his parents. And probably would for years, despite the big pay increase.
“Maybe so, sweetheart,” he smiled. “But you won’t have any more boyfriends after you go out with me, I promise. Come on, one drink. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life wondering what you missed, do you?”
Neither of them could legally enter a Havana nightclub, not even Espinoza, unless he was on duty. Those were for the turistas , who flooded the streets at night looking for echoes of Hemingway. But a nice bottle of rum and the cool breeze along the Malecón had started more than a few romances on a hot Havana night.
“Join the cola ,” she said, teasing. “I’ll think about it.” She tossed her thick brown hair, and he knew right then that he liked her.
“Hey, you,” he said as she walked
Detective Espinoza sat on a wooden swivel chair in his new office. Well, not quite an office, but the desk Inspector Ramirez had assigned to him for his first murder investigation.
It was better than the corner of the Malecón for which he had previously been responsible. There, he had been required to stand in his cheap black shoes on the hard, cracked concrete throughout his entire shift. At least in Major Crimes he could sit down.
“Stabbed through the heart after she was dead? Do you think she was a zombie?” Espinoza had asked Ramirez.
Espinoza believed in zombies. In fact, many Cubans believed that Fidel Castro, hovering between life and death for almost a year since his botched surgery, had become one.
“I don’t know what she was,” Ramirez laughed. “I only know that someone killed her. But try to find out if she had any family, Fernando, will you? That may help us track down her killer.”
It was late at night, but Espinoza sat at his desk, idly flipping through the stack of papers. He was working his way through hundreds of missing persons reports. He hoped to impress Ramirez when the inspector returned from Canada by telling him he had found the victim’s relatives. And maybe her killer as well.
The manager of the building where Señora Aranas had lived had been of little assistance. She had a son, he said. But he hadn’t seen the man in years.
As he thumbed through the pages, Espinoza held back a yawn. So many people had gone missing from such a small island. But then, with all the people trying to escape on rafts made of rubber tires, it was hard to keep track of the Cuban population. It would be almost more productive to have missing tire reports.
A young woman walked past his desk. He watched her turn the corner towards the exhibit room, admiring her legs. She was very pretty, and around Espinoza’s age. Civilian clothes, her dresscut just low enough to catch his interest. She must be a clerk, he thought. A mangito , that one. Those breasts, carumba . He let out a low whistle and hissed in appreciation. The detectives sitting at their desks beside him grinned.
When she came back towards his desk, Espinoza called out, “Hey, linda ,” using the slang for “beautiful.” “I’m off at midnight. You want to have a drink somewhere?”
“With you?”
“You see someone else here?” He held his arms out, palms up, and looked around as if he were the only officer working late.
She shrugged, but a smile tugged the corner of her mouth. “I’m working night shift, consorte . And when I get off work, I have other plans. You think I don’t have a boyfriend waiting?”
I have plans for you too, thought Espinoza, eyeing her appreciatively. A cuarto somewhere, if he was lucky enough to find an empty room in one of the few hotels that Cubans could rent. A little hoja later on, if she felt like fooling around. If not tonight, well, maybe soon. But no sex at his apartment: he still lived with his parents. And probably would for years, despite the big pay increase.
“Maybe so, sweetheart,” he smiled. “But you won’t have any more boyfriends after you go out with me, I promise. Come on, one drink. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life wondering what you missed, do you?”
Neither of them could legally enter a Havana nightclub, not even Espinoza, unless he was on duty. Those were for the turistas , who flooded the streets at night looking for echoes of Hemingway. But a nice bottle of rum and the cool breeze along the Malecón had started more than a few romances on a hot Havana night.
“Join the cola ,” she said, teasing. “I’ll think about it.” She tossed her thick brown hair, and he knew right then that he liked her.
“Hey, you,” he said as she walked
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