“You’re stark raving mad! In the first place, he knows me… And besides…”
“He hasn’t seen you that much lately, and you’re an artist when it comes to disguises with all those wigs and other things you have…and you can take photos.”
She couldn’t help but grin. It was true. She had had to resort to altering her appearance many times when she worked undercover. There was even that time she had to pass for a prostitute!
“And you’ve already followed him once…”
“That was more than twenty years ago when you had a similar fit of jealousy and your poor husband was trying to overthrow Fidel…”
“Well, that was when the Soviet Union had just collapsed, and we all thought that Cuba was going to fall along with it. It just needed a little nudge. This time it’s different.”
“Look, Lourdes, back then I wasn’t on the police force and I was working as a private detective, but now as an officer of Miami-Dade County I can’t do those things. It’s against the law. I could lose my job.”
“No, mija, not that…”
“Lourdes, I’m absolutely convinced that these ideas of yours are baseless, but if you are still worried a month from now, I’ll put you in touch with a detective friend of mine…”
“Geez, I don’t know. It’s one thing for you to do it, but to employ a complete stranger. I’ll think about it. Thanks, Mariita. And please, don’t say a word about this to your father.”
She was happy to have gotten out of Lourdes’s absurd request, and it was true that the police regulations were very clear on the matter. Barring that, she wouldn’t have had any recourse but to accept her request. She really did love those two crazy, old women. When they diagnosed her mother with cancer six years ago, they had taken care of everything. They accompanied her to her chemotherapy sessions and brought food to her father. They had acted as nurses, housewives, cooks, psychiatrists, and, when her mother lost her battle and passed away, they adopted her as a daughter and Patrick as a grandson. They even went to his basketball games and yelled more loudly than anyone! When he graduated from high school a year ago and was admitted to the University of Florida in Gainesville, his adopted grandmothers took it upon themselves to buy him everything he needed, from a laptop to a first aid kit.
They said their goodbyes with a kiss, some comforting words, messages for the adopted grandson, and a promise to meet up again soon.
“You’re going to see that there’s nothing to worry about,” Maria told Lourdes to reassure her.
Day 1—Monday, November 2, 2015
She followed the directions that the GPS gave her and arrived at the humble house in Hialeah without any trouble. She remembered back before the technological advances that help people get around these days, how she would always get lost when she went to “The City of Progress”—a concrete city known for its ubiquitous statues of Saint Lazarus and Saint Barbara in people’s yards and its diversity of Cubans from all backgrounds who shared one thing in common: they all clung to the culture of the Island. Even those born in the US like herself—those with college degrees, without a trace of an accent in English, and with a Spanish that left much to be desired—felt Cuban even if they had never set foot on the land of their parents and grandparents. She didn’t remember which writer had coined the phrase that being Cuban was an incurable disease, hereditary, and sometimes even contagious, but the author had a point. Her boss, Keppler, was one of the ones who had been contaminated. And she was one of those who had been born with “Cubanness” in her genes.
Maria’s heart skipped a beat. The young girl who opened the door was almost identical to the one she had seen in the drawings that showed what the missing baby would look like today. Before she could say anything, the girl said:
“I’m Elena Lozano, Gladys Elena’s daughter… Gladys Mercedes’s half-sister… You’re the detective that called, right? Please come in. My mom will be right here. She was very nervous waiting for you and went to make coffee.”
Sure enough, Maria smelled right away the unmistakable aroma of coffee… A much younger woman than she expected entered the room, drying her hands and giving instructions to her daughter. The woman then turned to Maria and said.
“Thank you so much, Detective Duquesne… Come in, please.”
She took her to an office with a small desk, a computer, a bookcase, various metal filing cabinets, and a few family photos. Maria didn’t have much time to observe her surroundings because the young girl came back right away with two glasses of water and two cups of coffee on a tray.
“Wow, with foam and all. Thank you.”
“Sit down, please,” said the owner of the house, pointing to one of the two armchairs in front of the desk. She sat in the other.
She’s perceptive, Maria thought. She didn’t sit at the desk to avoid creating distance between us.
“Go ahead, please.”
“Would you mind if I take notes and record the conversation?”
“Of course not.”
“So, I’ve been assigned to reopen both of the cases, the accident involving your first husband and also the disappearance of your daughter. I’ve read what little information there is in the files, which is understandable given that it happened a few weeks after Hurricane Andrew, and I’ve seen everything on the Internet you’ve done to try to find your daughter, that you think she’s still alive, and that you thought you recognized her recently among the crowd at a Heat game. I want to take the case in a new direction without the influence of the prior investigation. To do so, I need you to be completely honest with me, tell me everything from the beginning, even though you might have already gone over it with other detectives, and that you answer my questions without leaving anything out. Are you willing to do so, even if it opens old wounds?”
“You have my word that I will tell you everything.”
“Then let’s start at the beginning. Where did you meet Lazo? What did he do? How long were you together for?”
Gladys Elena took a deep breath, as if to gather up the courage before she began to speak.
“Well, Detective, I was born in Pinar del Rio, not even in the city, just in the middle of nowhere. My parents were simple people, good and honorable country folks. If you’re Cuban, certainly you know that the worst times of the “Special Period” were in ’93 and ’94, but even as early as ’91 things were already bad. Some of our neighbors began pressuring my father to leave the country with them on a raft. My mother refused to. It frightened her, and she didn’t want to risk losing my brother and me. We were just children. My brother was only fifteen and I was seventeen, more or less the same age my children are now. On another occasion, when you have time, I can tell you about the preparations for the voyage and about the journey itself. It was something I’ll never forget. It scarred me for life because my father and neighbors died during the passage. Only Raulito and I survived, arriving here without anything and not knowing anyone. Fortunately, at the last minute, the thought of the sea at night terrified my mother, and she refused to get on the raft.”
The woman took a moment, perhaps searching for the strength to continue.
“At first, we got help from the government, from the Red Cross. Eventually we found some distant relatives who took us in for a while. My mother suffered so much by herself in Cuba that she braved the journey months later and got here safely. The three of us found work. Things were looking up. The laundromat where I worked—you can’t imagine how hot it was in there—is where I met Raimundo, who worked as an electrician. He was much older than me, but we were a lot alike. I had left my boyfriend back in Cuba and, although I’d heard rumors that he was seeing