Murder, She Wrote: Prescription for Murder (8 page)

S
ardina drove us to a strip mall on the outskirts of Tampa and pulled in front of a restaurant whose sign promised an Asian buffet. “Hope you like Chinese food,” he said as we entered the large, busy place and found an isolated table away from others. “I come here a lot. Good food, reasonable prices.”

We took turns going through the multitude of hot and cold buffet lines, one of us staying behind to secure the table while the others filled their plates. Once we were all seated with our food, Sardina said, “I’ll tell you right off the bat that I was no fan of Dr. Vasquez.”

“I sorta gathered that,” Seth said.

“Don’t misunderstand,” Sardina said. “I’m sorry that he’s dead.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are,” I said. “How long had you worked for him?”

“A little over a year. I can’t believe I stayed as long as I did.”

“You indicated back at the lab that you wished you’d left a long time ago,” Seth said.

“That’s right.” He tasted a few items on his plate before continuing. “Dr. Vasquez—he told everybody to call him Al, but not me; with me it was always Dr. Vasquez, very formal.” He said the name again, this time with disgust. “Yes, I should have left long ago. No, I never should have gone to work for him in the first place.”

“How did you meet him?” I asked.

“I knew him in Cuba, Mrs. Fletcher. We didn’t work together there. He was into his research, and I—well, I’m not a medical doctor. I have a PhD in infectious diseases. We ran into each other now and then. Dr. Vasquez—” He grinned. “Now that he’s gone, maybe I can call him Al like everyone else. Al was in favor with the Castro regime, got plenty of perks because of it. Ofelia and I were invited to a couple of parties at his house. Nice place—not what he has here, but a lot better than where we lived.”

“I visited Al’s home in Cuba, too,” Seth said.

“He told me that you did.” Sardina looked at Seth quizzically. “You and he really struck up a friendship, didn’t you?”

“Pleased and honored to say that we did.”

“He thought a lot of you.”

Seth nodded, struggling to keep his emotions in check.

“How did both of you end up in Tampa?” I interjected, giving Seth a chance to compose himself.

Sardina turned his attention to me. “Ofelia and I left a few months before Al and Ivelisse defected. We attended a conference in London and came here instead of returning home. That was before the government put a tourniquet on foreign travel. We were lucky to get out.”

“If the government further tightened restrictions on travel after you left, how was Dr. Vasquez able to make his escape?”

“Al had connections,” he said, and stopped.

I had the feeling that he wanted to say more but was editing himself. I asked a different question. “Why did you decide to come to work for Dr. Vasquez?”

“Necessity. I thought once we got to the States, I wouldn’t have a problem finding work in my field. Well, I was wrong. As much as Cubans have assimilated into U.S. society, it doesn’t mean we’re welcomed with open arms. My degrees weren’t recognized here, and all I could manage to find was a low-level job in a lab at a university. It didn’t pay much, and I had a run-in with my supervisor, who knew less than half of what I know and refused to listen to my suggestions. It was around that time that Al called and asked if I wanted to work with him on his Alzheimer’s research. I jumped at the chance. He was paying a lot more than the job I had. Besides, working on finding a cure for a major disease was really appealing. The reality turned out to be less so.”

He seemed to be collecting his thoughts, and we ate in silence until he spoke again.

“Al—” He chuckled. “I can’t get used to calling him that. Dr. Vasquez was—how can I put it?—he was not an honest man.”

“In what way?” I asked.

“In every aspect of his life.”

I could feel Seth, who was sitting next to me, stiffen. I put my hand on his arm to keep him from blowing up. “That’s quite a condemnation,” I said.

“And a truthful one, Mrs. Fletcher. Alvaro Vasquez was a smooth con man. I’m sure you saw that the few times you were with him. He lied to everybody—me, his wife, his kids, and especially Mr. Peters.”

“Did he lie about how his research was going?” I asked, glancing at Seth to gauge his reaction to what Sardina was saying. Seth had had nothing but praise for Vasquez, personally and professionally, and I knew it must have hurt to hear his friend disparaged like this.

“I’m afraid so,” was Sardina’s reply.

“Now, hold on a second,” Seth said, dropping his fork noisily onto his almost empty plate. “I’d like to know what you base that on.”

Sardina, sensing Seth’s pique, held up his hands in mock defense of himself. “Please don’t misunderstand, Dr. Hazlitt,” he said. “I know that you and he were friends.”

“I’m not talking about our friendship,” Seth said. “I’m talking about his research. Are you claiming that he wasn’t honest about his research, that he lied about it?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“But how could you know?” Seth paused and then continued. “You told us back at the lab that you weren’t privy to how the research was progressing, that you only knew bits and pieces on, as you put it, a need-to-know basis.”

“That’s true,” Sardina said, “but that doesn’t mean that I was completely ignorant about the bigger picture. I hated the way Al strung Mr. Peters along, always asking for more money for a new phase of the research even when there wasn’t a new phase. I was with him plenty of times when he did it. He’d get more money from Mr. Peters, and when he left, Al would laugh about it.”

“I’m shocked to hear this,” Seth said, and his face reflected his anguish. I wondered whether he was thinking the same thing I was, that what Sardina was saying didn’t necessarily represent the truth. After all, Peters had said that he didn’t trust the young researcher. We were hearing one side, and I’ve always believed in waiting to hear both sides before coming to a conclusion. Of course, the “other side” of the story was Dr. Vasquez, and he wasn’t in any position to refute Sardina’s claims.

I wondered whether there was more to Sardina’s negative view of Vasquez, perhaps a personal motive. I decided to ask.

“What about Dr. Vasquez’s personal life?”

The question came to mind because of what Dr. San Martín had told us about the circumstances of Vasquez’s death. It certainly wasn’t a new thought for me. It had been rattling around in my brain since our meeting with the medical examiner. If Vasquez hadn’t died of a lightning strike, and since the autopsy had revealed what Seth considered an almost impossible circumstance—a sudden and total collapse of Vasquez’s respiratory system—there was the possibility of foul play. I hated to even consider that option, but it couldn’t be ruled out.

“What do you mean?” Sardina asked.

“He seemed to be a pleasant, well-liked man,” I said. “Did he make enemies?”

“According to him, he had enemies from Cuba threatening to scuttle our work. That’s why we were locked up tighter than a drum. Frankly, I think he just didn’t want anyone else to discover what he was really about.” Sardina motioned for a waitress to bring the check.

“Did he have personal enemies, as well? People without a nationalistic motive?”

Sardina snorted. “Let me just say that there wasn’t a woman who was safe from his advances. I often think that his infatuation with Ofelia was why he hired me in the first place. He didn’t make any bones about being attracted to her, and she’s had to fend him off more than once. I imagine there were a lot of men who took a dislike to Alvaro Vasquez.”

I thought back to the way Vasquez had tutored me on the golf course, pressing in close as he instructed me.

I grabbed the check when it was delivered by a pretty young Asian waitress, waving off Sardina’s and Seth’s offers to pay. “Let me,” I said.

When we were in Sardina’s car, he asked where he could drive us.

“Our hotel, if you don’t mind,” Seth said.

“Yes. That would be helpful,” I said to Sardina. “I have a call to make,” I reminded Seth, referring to the message Oona Mendez had left on the answering machine of the phone in my hotel room.

“I have some calls to make, too,” Seth replied.

Sardina dropped us off in front of the hotel, but before he left, Seth leaned into the car through the open front window. “Mind a bit of advice?”

“Go ahead,” Sardina said.

“I suggest that you keep your negative comments about Al to yourself. The man is dead and can’t defend himself. He deserves your respect.”

If Seth’s harsh words impacted Sardina, he hid his reaction well. He simply said, “The truth is always hurtful, Dr. Hazlitt. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”

I
called Oona Mendez when I got to my room and arranged to meet her at King Corona, a café in Ybor City on East Seventh Avenue. Before leaving, I called Seth and told him where I was going.

“Did she say what she wants?” he asked.

“I’ll know soon enough. Have you had a chance to digest what we heard at lunch today?”

“If you mean the spareribs and fried rice, yes. As for what the young Dr. Sardina had to say, I’m still getting over it.”

“He certainly had a litany of negative things to say about Dr. Vasquez. I wonder to what extent his claim that Vasquez made inappropriate advances to his wife colors his view.”

“I wonder the same thing, Jessica.”

“Care to come with me to meet Oona?”

“No, I think I’ll catch me a nap.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” I said. “I’ll check back in with you when I return.”

I left plenty of time between leaving the hotel and meeting Ms. Mendez so I could take the historic Tampa streetcar to Ybor City as Dr. San Martín had suggested. Up to now, my plan for a week of R and R in Tampa following my hectic book tour had involved neither rest nor relaxation, and I was determined to change that. It was a lovely, crystal clear day in the city, and it felt good to be on my own, breathing in the fresh air and feeling the sun’s warmth on my face. I picked up a map from the concierge and figured out where the closest streetcar stop was, only a few blocks from the hotel. I waited with a group of tourists until the next car came along, its bell clanging, the sound of its wheels on the rails and the brake the motorman applied reminding me of San Francisco’s famed cable cars. I took one of the hardwood seats—whoever designed them did not have comfort in mind—and we lurched forward, passing the imposing Tampa Convention Center and the Tampa Bay History Center building, grinding to a halt at the Florida Aquarium, and then up to Ybor City, the Ybor Channel on the right, until reaching Eighth Avenue in the heart of this unique section of Tampa.

A brochure I took from the trolley told me that Ybor City was settled in 1886 by cigar makers Vicente Ybor and Ignacio Haya, who’d moved their thriving cigar-manufacturing business to Tampa from Key West. With a railroad, a port, and a climate that functioned as a natural humidor, cigar manufacturing flourished, turning Tampa and Ybor City into the cigar capital of the world. That lasted until the 1960s, when embargos against Cuban tobacco and declining cigar consumption sent the cigar-manufacturing industry into a steep decline.

Despite the hard benches of the streetcar, I thoroughly enjoyed the ride along the redbrick streets, taking in the large old-fashioned globe streetlamps and the period buildings with their wrought-iron balconies. I got off at a stop near the Don Vicente de Ybor Historic Inn and browsed this former real estate office that was built by Vicente Ybor in 1895. It became a health clinic until a businessman converted it into an inn in 1998. It was like stepping into an earlier era, and I could almost hear the voices of guests speaking Spanish and detect the scent of their cigars.

After that pleasant break, I walked a few blocks to the King Corona, where Oona was already waiting at an outdoor table. She was smoking a cigarette and had a large cup in front of her.

“Hope I’m not late,” I said.

“Right on time,” she said. “Tea? Coffee? A cold drink?”

“What are you having?”

“Tea, creamy vanilla rooibos tea, red tea, from Africa, a specialty here.”

A waitress appeared, and I told her I’d have the same.

“King Corona’s not fancy,” Oona said, “but it’s good, serves the real thing when it comes to simple Cuban food. Hungry? The Cuban cheese toast is always good.”

“Oh, no, thank you, I just came from lunch.”

“A good one?”

“Lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. Asian.”

“You and Dr. Hazlitt?”

“Yes, and Dr. Sardina.”

Uplifted eyebrows accompanied “Oh?”

“He seems like a nice young man,” I said. “Naturally he’s upset at Dr. Vasquez’s sudden death. I think he must also be uncertain of his future.”

“As we all are. Upset at Alvaro’s death, that is. Your friend forged quite a friendship with Alvaro, didn’t he?”

“Seth? Yes, he did. Dr. Vasquez’s death has shaken him, as you can imagine.”

“I find it interesting that Alvaro shared so much of his research with Dr. Hazlitt.”

“Why? Seth is a medical doctor. It seems natural to me that they would be able to discuss complicated scientific investigations easily.”

“It wasn’t like Alvaro to be open about his work with anyone.”

I smiled. “Seth has a way of inspiring trust in people. He’s a wonderful physician and a fine gentleman. He’s held in very high regard back home.”

“Maine.”

“Yes. Cabot Cove, Maine. Have you ever been up north to New England?”

“I can’t say that I have. Jessica, you do know what my job is here in Tampa?”

“Only what you told me at dinner. Something to do with—”

“The Cuban American Freedom Foundation. Because the U.S. doesn’t have formal diplomatic relations with Cuba, we represent Cubans in America and work to foster better Cuban American relations. Our main office is in Miami; there are more than nine hundred thousand Cubans living there. Tampa has the second-largest community. Our organization works closely with all branches of the U.S. government, including the Treasury.”

“Sounds like an exciting job.”

“Boring most of the time,” she said, and laughed.

But her good humor faded quickly and her expression turned serious. “I’m still grappling with Alvaro’s death. All I keep thinking is how ironic it is that he was killed by lightning. It’s almost as though his charismatic personality acted like a target, inviting the lightning to strike him.”

I wasn’t sure that I agreed with her dramatic explanation of her friend’s death but said nothing.

“He was a marvelous human being, Jessica.”

She blinked back tears, and I thought of what Sardina had said, that no woman was safe from Vasquez’s advances. Had Oona fallen for his obvious charms? Had he been her lover?

“I’m so sorry you’ve lost your friend,” I said. “A sudden death is always difficult to comprehend. You have my sympathies.”

“Thank you,” she said, clearing her throat. She was composed when she added, “Alvaro’s death brings with it certain complications.”

I nodded, listening.

“It wouldn’t surprise you, I’m sure, to know that the Cuban government would very much like his research returned to Cuba. His defection wasn’t taken lightly by Castro and his cronies.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Almost no one has been allowed to leave the country since then, certainly not any doctors or other medical personnel. The loss of Alvaro’s research and the glory it would have brought the Cuban government was a terrible blow.”

Did she know what Sardina knew, that Vasquez’s laptop on which he was thought to have kept track of his research’s progress was missing? Or was it?

I was about to ask when an old man, bent and limping, approached carrying a fistful of cigars. “Cigar?” he asked in a weak, singsong voice. “Best cigars. Robustos, Don Diegos. Cheap, too.”

Oona waved him away.

It was my turn to smile. “Ybor City might not be the cigar capital of the world any longer,” I said, “but they seem to be offered everywhere I look.”

She ignored my observation and said, “I know that Dr. Hazlitt—what an absolutely charming man—was taken into Alvaro’s inner circle, so to speak, and was privy to the status of his research.”

I thought back to what Karl Westerkoch had asked me at the party about how much Seth knew. I had a feeling Oona was probing for the same information, and I was sorry Seth had decided not to accompany me.

“I really don’t know the extent to which Seth was taken into Dr. Vasquez’s confidence, Oona. I suppose you’d best ask him.”

“Yes, of course, I should do that. Did Dr. Sardina have anything to say at lunch about Alvaro’s research and how far he’d progressed in finding a cure?”

I shifted in my chair and finished what was left in my cup. What had begun as a pleasant conversation about an unpleasant subject, Vasquez’s death, was turning into a bit of an interrogation.

I fudged my answer. “He spoke about it, of course, but didn’t say anything specific.”

“What about Bernard Peters at K-Dex? Have you been in contact with him?”

I’m uncomfortable lying, always have been, and hate being put in a position where it might be necessary. Oona’s questions were best answered by the people involved, Dr. Sardina and Bernard Peters among them.

“Seth and I had a brief chat with him this morning,” I said and left it at that.

“He must be beside himself,” Oona said. “It’s my understanding that his company, K-Dex, has sunk millions into Alvaro’s research.”

“I really wouldn’t know about that.”

“But your friend Seth must be aware of it, considering how close he became with Alvaro.”

I said nothing.

She must have sensed my growing unease with the questions, because she shifted subjects. She leaned closer to me and said, “There’s more riding on Alvaro’s research than money.”

“Well, of course,” I said. “If his research was successful, it would have a major impact on the lives of people with Alzheimer’s and their families.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she continued in the same conspiratorial tone. “The disposition of his research could have serious ramifications with regard to the tenuous relationship we have with Castro’s Cuba.”

“I hadn’t thought much about that,” I said, which was true.

“I’m sure I’m not breaching any secrets,” she said, “to tell you that the Castro regime has stepped up its efforts here in Tampa and Miami to sow discontent among Cuban Americans.”

“I wasn’t aware of that happening.”

“Oh, yes. There are Cuban Americans in both cities whose sentiments are still with Castro. Well, that isn’t strictly true. Some of them don’t pledge an allegiance to anyone. They do it for the money. The bottom line is that the Cuban regime will pay almost anything to get its hands on the research. We can’t let that happen.”

“We?”

“Our government.”

“Are steps being taken to ensure that Dr. Vasquez’s research stays here and doesn’t fall into Cuban hands?”

“Let me just say that the key is to find Alvaro’s notes.”

Did she know about the allegedly missing laptop? It seemed to me that she did.

“Is there a problem finding his reports?” I asked, this time doing the probing myself. Had Peters told her what he’d told Seth and me?

She paused before asking, “Do you know of a problem with that, Jessica?”

“How would I?”

“I just thought that your Dr. Hazlitt might have shared something with you.”

The lame street peddler returned offering cigars and lighters. Oona again told him to leave, but I reached in my purse, withdrew a five-dollar bill, and handed it to him. He opened his almost toothless mouth into a smile and allowed me to take a lighter, a red one, from his hand.

“Gracias,”
he said.

“De nada,”
I replied.

I examined the lighter. It was similar to the one I’d seen Vasquez use to light his cigars, more like a blowtorch than any lighter I was accustomed to seeing.

“For cigars,” Oona said. “It shoots out a flame.”

I tried it and saw that it certainly did.

“Thinking of taking up cigar smoking?” she asked playfully.

“You never know,” I said, dropping the lighter into my purse and getting up from my chair. “I really should be going.”

“I’m glad you found time for me,” she said, rising and shaking my hand.

“I’m sure we’ll see each other again before I return home,” I said.

She handed me a card on which her office contact information was listed. “Please call me if you hear anything that bears on what I’ve said.”

“I can’t imagine what that might be, but I certainly will stay in touch. By the way, I meant to ask you something about your friend Mr. Westerkoch.”

“Yes?”

“He told me he was a consultant. What organization does he consult for?”

“Various agencies,” she said with a small smile. “Thanks again for coming.”

I watched her walk away and disappear around the corner.

Our conversation had raised more questions than it had answered.

That Dr. Vasquez’s research would have political overtones had come as a surprise, although I suppose it shouldn’t have. I could understand that laying claim to his research would be of considerable interest to the Cuban government, but it seemed to me that the ones with the most to lose were Bernard Peters and K-Dex, unless what Dr. Sardina had said about key-man insurance was true.

A chill in the air reminded me that it was time to get back to the hotel. I was eager to find out how Seth’s afternoon had gone, and if other friends and acquaintances of Alvaro Vasquez were quizzing him. I left King Corona and retraced my steps to where I’d gotten off the streetcar. I hadn’t realized how long Oona and I had talked, and it was starting to get dark. I was alone at the streetcar stop in front of the historic inn, except for a man wearing what the young people call a “hoodie.” He leaned against a building a dozen feet from where I stood, trying, in my opinion, to appear casual. When I looked in his direction, he turned away from me, dropped a cigarette he was smoking, crushed it with his sneaker, and walked away. I watched as he crossed Eighth Avenue and got into a car—a small silver sedan that looked like the one I’d noticed earlier in the day. The car quickly pulled away and sped past me, the driver and young man looking straight ahead.

The streetcar arrived and I slipped onto a bench, gripping the back of the seat in front of me. I was on edge. Ever since arriving in Tampa to meet up with Seth, I’d experienced this sort of unease, nothing tangible, no single incident to which I could point. Of course, witnessing Alvaro Vasquez’s sudden death had played a part, but as upsetting as that was, it couldn’t explain the tension I’d felt before that awful event.

I was relieved when I reached the hotel. The first thing I did upon entering my room was to call Seth. There was no answer, so I left a message. Strange, I thought, that he would have gone out without leaving word for me. I waited fifteen minutes and tried his room again. Still no answer. He’d said he was going to take a nap. Was he still asleep? If he was, he would have awakened to the sound of the ringing phone. Seth was used to being called at odd hours by patients or the hospital and was a light sleeper. I made one more attempt before going downstairs. I poked my head in the bar and restaurant looking for him, before I approached the front desk.