Carrying several headshots and a full portrait of Lam’s body in costume, Fitzgerald headed uptown to the Twenty-Third Precinct. Ryan had called to alert Officer Diaz, who would serve as his liaison to the Spanish-speaking community and specifically the Cuban contingent.
She was waiting at the desk when Fitz arrived. He had tried to form a mental picture of her as he rode north on the subway and had come up with the image of a matronly type of no-nonsense female cop, with sallow skin, black hair pulled back in a practical bun, and a thick Spanish accent. His stereotyping left him unprepared for the tall redhead who greeted him. He was five foot nine, and her eyes were level with his. Her hair fell to her shoulders in auburn waves.
One look told her that her fellow cop had expected someone very different.
“Officer Fitzgerald, a pleasure.” She greeted him politely, her English accented by the slurred consonants of a New York City native. Her handshake was firm but not aggressive. She held it for a few moments to give him time to recover while she chatted amiably.
“I look forward to working with you. From what your sergeant told me, it’s an interesting case. He didn’t give me much detail, but I’m sure you’ll fill me in.”
Fitzgerald’s double take had settled into a cross between confusion and pleasant surprise. The extended handshake had also given him time to find his voice, although not his full composure.
“Yes, ma’am, I sure will. I mean, yes, Officer Diaz.”
Her smile was alarmingly genial. “Please call me Nita.”
“I answer to Fitz.”
“I think we’ll get along fine, Fitz. Downtown cops don’t come this far north very often, but I worked a case with a detective from the Sixth not too long ago. Dillon is his name.”
Fitzgerald was starting to relax. “We’re both on this one. It’s a killing, maybe manslaughter, maybe homicide. I guess Ryan told you that the victim is Cuban. I want to find out if he was involved in anything up here that could have gotten him killed.”
Nita nodded. “Let’s go back to the office, and you can give me the details.” She paused and came to a decision. “I know you’re wondering about me,” she said as they walked down the hall. “My family is Cuban, too. They were bankers down in Havana. My parents came to New York before I was born. My dad opened a branch of the bank here in Harlem. Hispanics were just beginning to displace the Italians in this neighborhood, and he thought the community was underserved. He was right. None of the Anglo banks wanted to do business with the immigrants.
“Dad’s bank was there for folks who’d never had savings or checking accounts before, or access to loans, so they could buy furniture or open a business. When the Depression hit, and a lot of his customers lost their jobs or their earnings fell off, he carried their loans. It was a financial lifeline for many families around here,” she explained, then got to the point.
“One day, when I was eighteen years old, an armed robber entered the bank. My father confronted him, and the robber shot him dead. The guy ran out and was never caught. The police investigation was pathetic. They dragged it out until it was too late. Word on the street was that the Cosa Nostra paid them off and shipped the guy back to Italy.” She shook her head ruefully.
“It devastated our family. We had to sell the bank. I told my mother I wanted to become a police officer so I could work from the inside and find out who was responsible. She thought I was crazy. ‘Let your brother do it,’ she said, but I knew the force wasn’t for him. He was such a sweet kid, never got into trouble. He wanted to be a musician.”
Her brow furrowed. “So where is he now? Fighting for his life on some godforsaken island in the Pacific. And here I am, wearing a different uniform and fighting my own battles on the home front. I still want to find out who killed my father, even if it’s true that he’s out of reach. That’s why I’m a cop.”
Her frankness impressed him. “That’s as good a reason as I’ve ever heard,” he said, “but I don’t suppose you get much time to investigate such a cold case.”
“No, it’s more a matter of keeping my ear to the ground, hoping something or someone will lead me in the right direction. After five years on the force, I’ve got a reputation as the precinct’s chief snoop.”
They had reached the office, and Fitz held the door for her. “No wonder Dillon put me on to you,” he said aloud, and to himself, I’m sure glad he did.
As they entered, Nita tossed her head and looked back at him, anticipating his unspoken question. “Yes, it’s natural. I come from a long line of fire-breathing redheads.”
Fitz removed his cap and ran his hand over his own ginger hair. “You could be talking about my family, too.”
“If my dad had been a bit less like that, he might still be alive. But solving that killing will have to wait a bit longer.”
She directed him to a regulation hard wooden chair and took one for herself. “Let’s go over your case. What have you got?”
“Not much,” Fitz told her. He pushed a headshot across the desk. “He was an artist, half Cuban Negro, half Chinese.”
“Now there’s a combination.” She studied the picture thoughtfully. “Any reason to believe that either community is involved?”
“Apparently he let the killer in, so it was someone he knew or wasn’t wary of. He had to open two doors for him.”
“Or her,” Nita added.
“Right you are. Can’t rule out anything at this early stage. We don’t have the medical examiner’s report yet, so even the cause of death is unknown.”
“No marks, no wounds?”
“No evident ones, according to O’Connell’s crime scene report. He was the detective on duty when the guys who found the body came in.” Fitz hesitated, not wanting to offend Nita. He was already feeling a mixture of respect and attraction. “One peculiar thing. The body had a weird costume on.” He pulled out the crime scene photograph.
Nita studied it with interest.
“The report says it was put on him after death. He didn’t do the getup himself. His friends, the ones who found him, said they had no idea why he was dressed up like that. But the guys at the station, uh, they have an idea. They think it’s a Cuban voodoo thing, especially since he’s part Negro. I’m sure not everybody from the islands does that pagan stuff, but I have to check it out. Is there anything like that going on up here?”
“I know what Anglos think of us,” she said, then corrected herself. “Some of them, anyway. I don’t want to generalize either.” She smiled reassuringly. “In fact, there are a few older folks who practice Santería—that’s the Cuban version of voodoo—but it’s not big here. I know a self-styled priestess, really more of a fortune-teller and traditional healer. She can probably tell you if there’s anything to link this costume to Santería ritual.”
Fitz gathered up the photographs. “Let’s go see her.”