“Mr. Betancourt, this is Guadalupe Solano speaking. Thanks for taking my call.” The son of a bitch. “I would like to meet with you at your earliest convenience.”
He didn’t sound at all surprised. “Certainly,” he said in a deep, refined voice. “When and where did you have in mind?”
“Noon, here at my office. I’m sure you know where that is.” I hung up without giving him a chance to disagree.
I downed the rest of my coffee. It had been a hard, busy twenty-four hours since I saw the shore of Florida from the deck of the Mamita, and I would have no time to get enough rest until after I finally met Betancourt face-to-face.
The Morenos had driven down to Key West to meet Maribel as soon as I called them. Jose Antonio and Lucia arrived at the Truman Annex in their blue Jaguar, running to the Mamita and showering Maribel with kisses and tears. They were doubly lucky, because Maribel had told me she wanted the transplant procedure to be done in such a way that she had no contact with her biological child. She planned to make no kind of custody claim and wanted to spare herself the pain of meeting Michelle. The Morenos had the good taste to hide their relief.
As they climbed into their car, the Morenos got a look at Barbara, who lumbered carefully off the boat to the dock. “I’ll explain everything later,” I said, waving them away.
Barbara had been so quiet on the way back from Cuba because her water broke while she was below deck; she didn’t want to do anything that might bring on the birth. Always superstitious, she refused to have the baby in the cabin where Dr. Samuels had bled to death two days before—not to mention that she knew I would be no help delivering the child.
I paid a couple weeks’ docking fee for the Mamita to Henry, promising to give him a call sometime, and rented a car. I drove like lightning and soon had Barbara at Jackson Memorial’s emergency entrance. I phoned her son Jose and told him where his mother was, making him swear to call me the minute the baby was born.
Before finally collapsing, I picked up Alberto’s notebook and dropped it off with a cryptologist. For an extra four hundred dollars, he promised to have it ready early the next morning.
Following that I went home to my apartment, locked myself in my room, and slept for twelve hours. It wasn’t enough. I had a bubble bath, disinfected the dozen wounds I’d picked up in Cuba, and nuked an enormous plate of chicken and rice from the freezer, courtesy of Aida. Lourdes stopped by while I was asleep, let herself in with her key, then went back home to Little Havana when she found me comatose, leaving a note on my coffee table. She qualified for sainthood for not waking me and demanding I tell her the whole story right away. When I’d slept, eaten, bathed, and eaten some more, I had a call to make.
“Tommy? Hi, I’m back.” I tried to sound as sweet and innocent as I could. It wasn’t hard. I needed Tommy to keep me out of trouble. And I missed him.
“Where the hell have you been?” Tommy roared. Not a good sign. He usually tried to hide his anger from me.
“Oh, Tommy, I’m fine. I need a favor from you.” I had to salvage this. “I want you to represent me with a problem I have.”
Tommy sighed. “You have cojones, don’t you, Lupe? You disappear for days without an explanation—forcing me to make out a will for you before you leave—and then the first words out of your mouth are that you need a favor? You’re fucking unbelievable!”
This wasn’t how I had envisioned it going. I took a deep breath and decided to start over.
“Tommy, querido. Please, I need you.” He chuckled. “I mean it, Tommy. I’m sorry about disappearing, but it was for a case and it was important. Forgive me. When you hear what I have to say, you’ll understand.”
“Sure I will,” he said.
“Please don’t get angry with me,” I pleaded. “I hate that. Please.” I hated to beg, but I was desperate. And it would work.
“Maybe. If you’re really nice to me,” he said. He was warming up. “So what kind of trouble are you in now?”
“The cops are looking for me. They want to talk about the murder of a retired nurse who lived in Sweetwater.”
“Uh-huh. Start at the beginning, and go slow.”
This is what I loved about Tommy. He was completely nonjudgmental as far as his clients were concerned—and I hoped I was one of them now. He was pure Joe Friday—just the facts, with no amazement or reproach. I told him as much as I could in a short time about the Moreno case. He listened without interrupting.
He was silent when I was done, and I knew what that meant: he was cooking up a strategy. “We’ll stonewall,” he said. “When the cops come after you, tell them to talk to your attorney—me. Don’t worry about a thing. Just don’t fuck up anymore.”
“Oh, thanks, Tommy. I—”
“Did you hear me?” he asked.
“All right. No more trouble.”
This had turned out better than I thought. Now I could operate freely without the cops interfering. When they found out Tommy McDonald was my lawyer, it would ruin their day for sure. They knew he was a bulldog who would do anything for his clients. Whatever the police might try would have to be firm, well thought out, and airtight. I was in the clear.
“Lupe, why don’t I believe you?” he asked. “This is your lawyer speaking. Leave the case alone. It’s over.”
“Thank you so much, Tommy. I promise. It’s over.”
I hung up and uncrossed my fingers.
It was now eleven o’clock. The cryptologist’s report had arrived at eight, as ordered, and I was ready for Betancourt. I walked out to the reception area and told Leonardo to expect Elio within the hour.
“Elio Betancourt?” Leonardo asked. He had dressed up for my return, in black sweatpants and a South Beach T-shirt that stretched across his biceps. “Coming here?”
I poured myself some more coffee. “At noon,” I said. “And you don’t have to be particularly nice to him.”
Leonardo saw that I was stepping toward our office back porch and quickly got up from his desk. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“Outside. What’s it to you?” I said, unlocking the curtained door. “I need to get some air and collect myself before Betancourt gets here.”
“Okay, fine. It’s just that …” Leonardo sheepishly reached out and opened the door for me. “I’d better go out there with you.”
While I was away he had cleared out the mess on the back porch for Serenity’s meditation and yoga classes, decorating it with posters of rock formations in Arizona at sunset. That didn’t bother me much—the porch had been long overdue for a cleaning, anyway—but the spacey New Age music playing on a brand-new sound system did.
Leonardo put his hand on my shoulder. “Now, Lupe, I know what you’re thinking, but this is an initial investment that’s really going to pay off.” He unrolled a crimson meditation pad. “I got good merchandise at a discount, and we already have five people signed up. I even got Serenity to agree to share the profits. I hope you’re not mad.”
I made him get up from the pad and pinched his cheek. That was always enough to make him blush. “Leonardo, after what I’ve been through this week, it’s going to take more than this to get a rise out of me.”
“Really?” Leonardo said. “Thanks, Lupe.” He opened the wide window. Fresh air rushed in, and the parrots were babbling to each other outside. “You know, I’ve also been meaning to mention …”
“Leonardo,” I said, “don’t push it.”
“Sorry.”
“By the way,” I went on, “there’s another visitor coming a few minutes after Betancourt. Have her wait outside until I ask her to come in.”
* * *
At precisely noon my intercom buzzed. “Lupe, it’s Elio Betancourt to see you,” Leonardo said. His voice was part surly, part polite—just right for the atmosphere I wanted to create.
I rose from the materials I’d prepared and greeted him at the door. I suppose that I’d tried not to think what this moment would be like, finally meeting my until now unseen adversary. My first reaction, which I pushed away, was a burst of fear. I had been through too much to be scared of this man. My second reaction was to his intense personal charisma.
He was dressed impeccably, in a navy-blue suit over a perfectly ironed white silk shirt with subtle red striping. I recognized his tie as Hermès, a perfect choice. His nails were cut short and buffed, and I could see a tasteful narrow gold Patek Philippe watch adorning his wrist when he extended his hand.
I knew how to play the game as well, though, so I wasn’t intimidated. I had dressed in my Armani suit and Walter Steiger suede pumps, with my Cartier tank watch.
“Please, have a seat,” I said, motioning to one of the client’s chairs. His short curly hair was scented with some kind of floral oil, and his skin seemed to glisten with wealth. When I sat at my desk opposite him, however, his veneer vanished. Under the lamp I’d turned on over the chair to simulate an interrogator’s beam, I saw the patches of discolored skin, the rings under his eyes—Elio was an aging party boy, and from the looks of it the high life was taking a toll.
“You have a nice office,” he said, settling his briefcase on the floor at his feet. He offered an affable grin.
“Mr. Betancourt, shall we get down to business?”
“If you like,” he said, a bit disappointed. He held my gaze a little too long. “What can I do for you, Miss Solano?”
I decided to plunge in without checking the temperature of the water. “I think you’re aware that I know all about your business venture with Dr. Allen Samuels in Cuba.”
“What business is that, Miss Solano?” he asked with a blank look.
“Do I really have to go through all I know, Mr. Betancourt?”
“Call me Elio. And I did cancel all my appointments for this afternoon.” He stretched and leaned back. “I have all the time in the world.”
I pressed the intercom button. “Leonardo, could I ask you to bring in a tray with coffee, please? This meeting is going to last a while.”
Betancourt frowned a little and tugged at his shirt cuff. “Do you have anything stronger?” he asked, grinning.
“I think we should keep our wits about us during this meeting,” I said, staring at him. “We probably both will want to be careful what we say.”
We waited in silence until Leonardo arrived with the coffee, glancing at Betancourt as though he were an annoyance. Betancourt looked nervous, shrinking in his seat at his proximity to Leonardo’s bulk. I had to remember to use Leonardo as an enforcer in the future—who had to know he wept over sick kittens and had never been in a fight in his life?
After Leonardo left I served Betancourt with a grace Miss Manners would have been proud of. While he held the steaming cup in his hand, I gave him a copy of Alberto’s journal entries as translated by the cryptologist.
“While you’re enjoying your coffee, maybe you’d care to glance through these?” I asked, taking a sip of my own coffee.
A note from the cryptologist lay in my desk. Alberto’s code was fairly straightforward and easy to break. He had also been a meticulous record keeper: the journal contained an accounting of all cash that had passed through hands in Cuba, money to pay off the chivatos and money paid to Samuels for delivering the children. It also contained Betancourt’s name and address.
“Where did you get this?” Betancourt asked. His voice was low, and I could tell he was barely controlling a surge of rage.
“From Alberto Cruz. You probably told him not to keep records, but he was a meticulous man,” I said. “You can see he took twenty-one trips to Cuba during a four-and-a-half-year period. If all your clients paid you what you charged Jose Antonio and Lucia Moreno, then you made quite a bit of money. No wonder you wanted to hire someone to steal the book from Cruz’s apartment.”
He shook his head, but his hands were shaking as well. “Fifty thousand per baby times twenty-one trips,” I went on, “equals more than a million dollars. I don’t know what your expenses were, but you still cleared a lot of money. So how did you make your entry when you did your taxes? I don’t recall seeing a heading for ‘profits from baby selling’ in the regular ten-forty forms.”
I smiled sweetly at him, and he got up, placing his saucer carefully on the end table next to his chair. “This is ridiculous. You can’t prove anything, and you know it. You’re wasting my time.”
“Maybe not with that alone,” I said. “But along with a few other factors, I might be able to muddy the waters enough to warrant an investigation into your affairs. Speaking of affairs, this would be a good time for you to have a look at these. Before you leave, I mean.”
I think he knew what was coming, because when he sat down again, he nervously fingered his gold wedding band. When he was cozy I handed him a manila envelope containing photographs of at least three different girlfriends, which my investigators took on surveillance. Most surveillances are stupefyingly boring, so when something actually happens most investigators go all out gathering evidence. In other words, some of these pictures left little to the imagination. It hadn’t occurred to me before that they might become useful, but I had to keep hitting Betancourt, keep him reacting.
“You’re disgusting,” he sneered. He stood up again, so I did too. Betancourt towered over me, but that didn’t matter. Since I’m not much over five feet, most people tower over me.
“I’d be careful how you use that word,” I said. I pulled out a folder and pushed it across the desk. “This is a transcript from memory of a confession given by Dr. Allen Samuels in Isabela de Sagua, Cuba, two days ago. I have a witness to corroborate.”
Betancourt put his hand on the folder, as though he refused to admit its existence. “This is ridiculous,” he repeated.
“Dr. Samuels said you murdered Alberto Cruz and Regina Larrea.” I opened the folder for him. He couldn’t help but look.
“That’s ridiculous. I didn’t kill those people.”
“Samuels said you did. He also told us everything about your operation in Cuba, right down to the personal history between the two of you. He’s willing to go to the wall to convict you of murder if any of this becomes public.”
“Allen is a liar and a lunatic,” Betancourt said. “The old woman was no threat to anyone. I don’t know how Samuels had her killed, but it wasn’t necessary. He was upset about his reputation, which was ridiculous. That was long gone. He was a fool to think he would ever work as a doctor again.”
He walked to the window and pressed his hand against the pane. For an instant, I thought he was going to jump out. Instead he turned to me, asking, “Where is Samuels? How did you get him to talk to you?”
“He’s out of the loop now.” That was the truth, but there was no need to say more. “Your business endeavor is over, and your ex-partner is willing to talk. I think, from your perspective, that’s a real bitch of a situation.”
He held out his hand to silence me, his head turned away. Then, as if nothing had happened, he returned to his chair and picked up his lukewarm coffee, sipping slowly. He looked at the items arrayed on my desk as though they were poison. His gaze darted from the typed lists from Alberto’s book, to the pictures of him with his lovers, to the transcript of Samuels’s last words.
“I’m a lawyer, which gives me a certain perspective,” he said, opening his jacket. For a scary moment I thought he would pull a gun, but instead he produced a thick cigar. “Do you mind?” he asked.
“Why not? It’s a special occasion.” I gave him an ashtray from the bottom drawer of my desk.
“As I was saying, I know criminal defense as well as anyone in the country.” He lit the cigar with a silver-plated lighter, exhaling a noxious cloud that filled the room. “And from what I see here, you don’t have anything I should worry about.”
I had to give him credit for at least trying. “Do we have to go through this?” I asked. “To begin—I’m sure the IRS would be interested in reviewing your tax returns for the last four years. I probably hate the IRS as much as you, but then I hear whoever reports a case of tax evasion gets a reward if the government successfully collects.”
Another big cloud. Stony silence. “As far as your very visible wife is concerned, I’m sure you have less than an ideal marriage.” His eyes narrowed. “But even in Miami, adulterers aren’t looked upon kindly. I’m sure the Herald would be willing to break the story—especially with colorful pictures.”
He waved the cigar at me. “Do you know what that would do to my daughter?” he asked.
“You should have thought of that when you were screwing around.”
We sat there in silence. I was doing well. He absolutely hated me. “And then there’s the U.S. Attorney’s office. I’m sure he’d like nothing more than to hit the ground running by indicting one of the most prominent attorneys in town. Washington would be sure to notice, and I’m sure you’ve made a few enemies among federal prosecutors.”
Betancourt laughed deeply, with something that resembled admiration. “You’re really the scum of the earth, threatening me with blackmail. I should have you arrested.”
“Oh, please, Elio.” I took a sip of my cool coffee. I was pleased to notice that my hands were perfectly steady.
His smile vanished. In the bright light over his head, he seemed gaunt and drawn, his eyes sunk in their sockets. Here, backed into a corner, was the real Elio Betancourt: a calculating, self-serving shell of a human. “What do you want from me?” he asked.
“Two things. I want your word that you will never attempt to harm or interfere in any way with myself or Barbara Perez.”
He nodded equanimously. “Agreed. And the other?”
“I want you to produce or reconstruct all your records on the babies you brought out of Cuba. No other set of parents should have to go through what you made the Morenos endure.”
“I can’t do that,” he said, his expression vacant.
“Also, you will offer to change the status of the illegal adoptions you oversaw into legal births. At your cost, of course.”
“You are insane,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. His cigar burned unattended in the ashtray. “How the hell am I supposed to do that?”
“I don’t know. That’s your problem now.”
“Forget it,” he said, getting up again. He made a show of checking his watch. “I’ve indulged you long enough. We have no agreement.”
“Fine,” I said, pushing my intercom button. “Leonardo, will you send Maribel in, please?”
Maribel, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt I’d borrowed from Lourdes’s closet, stepped uncertainly into the room. Betancourt stood with his briefcase, swaying uncertainly.
“That’s him,” Maribel said quietly. “That’s the man.”
Betancourt turned to me. “What trick is this? I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
I got up and shut the office door, motioning toward the chairs. Betancourt and Maribel remained standing. “You really don’t remember?” I asked him.
Maribel folded her arms and recited: “You were a client of mine in Havana, in October 1990. You were there for a few days attending a conference on the law. I was working at Señora Anna’s house in the Vedado. You were staying at the Hotel Nacional. You liked what I did so much that you returned three or four times before you went home to Miami.”
Betancourt dropped the briefcase and fell into his chair. “Oh, God,” he said. “Oh, my God.”
“It’s in here, too.” I pointed to the Samuels documents. “Your friend Allen said that you were checking up on the baby-selling scheme during that trip to Havana.”
“What—” Betancourt paused, his face flushed. “What are you trying to do to me?”
I sat on the edge of my desk, leaning close to him. “As I understand it, the only requirements to determine paternity are samples of the mother’s blood, the father’s blood, and the baby’s blood. As an attorney, you must know that the courts accept medical findings as ninety-nine point ninety-five percent accurate.”
“How did you know it was me?” he asked Maribel, staring at her face, her hands, her body, as though remembering.
She lowered her eyes. “You were the only one I was ever with. Señora Anna felt sorry for me after you left and I was pregnant, so she let me do housekeeping duties instead of staying with the men.”
Betancourt stared at Maribel for a moment longer, then turned away from her. “Ask her to leave,” he said. Maribel left quickly. “You win. I’ll do anything you say.”
“Of course, there’s one more demand.”
“Of course.” Betancourt stood up again, his shoulders stooped. “I will have to provide for the girl.”
“In monthly payments. I’ll help you keep it discreet.”
Betancourt looked at me as though I had offered him a branch just before he tumbled off a cliff. Then he nodded and left. I saw him glance at Maribel on his way out.
Maribel came in and sat in the chair Betancourt had just vacated. It was probably still warm. “Do you have a handkerchief, Lupe?”
“Let me get you one.” I gave her a scented linen hankie from my desk, and she furiously rubbed away the stage makeup I’d applied to cover her birthmark. When she was done we looked into each other’s eyes and laughed like little girls.
“You’re smart!” Maribel said, radiant with happiness. “I can’t believe he would think I was another girl, even with my birthmark covered. Maria Rosario and I do look a little bit alike, but I never thought anyone would ever get us confused!”
I wished I had a cigar. I don’t smoke, but it seemed appropriate. “We were lucky you and she spent so much time talking when Mother Superior had you locked up,” I said. “Her story about Betancourt was perfect.”
I told her about the support payments I’d demanded of Betancourt, and she covered her mouth. “But that’s wrong,” she said.
“This has all been wrong. But Michelle is going to be all right, and I got some money for you. Don’t worry about it—he won’t miss it, and it’s the least he can do.”
“I’m leaving soon,” Maribel said, suddenly serious.
“Don’t worry. I’ll have the money sent to you.”
She thought about it for a moment. “I will take his money.”
“Good.”
“They told me at the hospital that I have to donate the bone marrow one more time. Then I will be done. I still haven’t seen my daughter, and I don’t think I will ask to.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was.
“Don’t be sorry. I have a cousin in Union City, in New Jersey. I think I will go up there and find an order to live with. I’ll make a life for myself here—until Castro falls. Then I will go home again.”
“That’s a good plan, sweetheart. I’ll pray for you and Michelle. I went around the desk and embraced her.
When Maribel was gone, I thought what I would tell the police. After hearing Samuels and Betancourt give their respective accounts of who was to blame for Regina’s death, I had to admit I believed the lawyer. Regina discovered Samuels’s past and, being an old world Cuban Catholic, reacted badly and called Betancourt when his name came up. I would probably never know whom she talked to in North Carolina, or who did the killing that Samuels ordered, but the responsibility lay with Samuels. And he was beyond arrest and prison.
On the other hand, I believed Samuels in one respect: Betancourt killed Alberto Cruz. Alberto knew he was playing a rough game, and the man who paid him eventually killed him.
With that morbid thought, the phone rang. It was Barbara’s son Jose, calling from Jackson Memorial. I could barely hear him with all the noise in the background. It sounded like a party had broken out.
An unmistakable voice screamed from the din, “Is that Lupe? Give me the phone!”
“Barbara, how are you?”
“Lupe—I had twins! A boy and a girl, can you believe it?” She cackled maniacally. “Hey, we had a good time, didn’t we, Lupe?”
I tried to congratulate her and tell her the Morenos wanted her to keep the money Alberto had hidden in the fish locker, but Barbara began yelling at someone in her room, caught up in the party again. I hung up and called the florist, ordering their biggest flower arrangement—in pink and blue—to be sent to Barbara’s room. Then I dialed a familiar number.
“Tommy? It’s me. You want to go out tonight? Tear up the will and buy some champagne. You’re going to have a great time, querido. I promise.”