well-treed Parque Ciudad. He and Detective Sanchez crossed the street. A uniformed doorman let them in through the revolving front door.
The dead man hesitated. It was illegal for Cubans to enter tourist hotels unless they worked there. But there were no laws prohibiting dead or imaginary Cubans from doing anything. Ramirez believed it was one of the few legal restrictions the Cuban government had failed to implement. He expected the amendment any day.
Given that legislative gap, the dead man accompanied the two policemen inside. He stopped to admire the giant Christmas tree that dominated the entry as the two investigators walked to the reception desk.
Ramirez and Sanchez identified themselves to the young woman working at the counter, although it was obvious they were police: Ramirez still wore his uniform. He asked the woman, barely out of her teens, in what room Señor Michael Ellis was staying.
She checked. “Room 612, sir.”
The doorman approached them as they were about to take the elevator up to the sixth floor.
“I overheard you asking about Señor Ellis,” he said. “I was just about to call you. Señor Ellis told me this morning that he lost his wallet last night. He asked me to report it to the police. He has just left the hotel — you’ve missed him by only minutes.”
“Has he checked out?” Ramirez asked and pulled out his notebook.
“Oh, no, sir, he will be back soon, I expect. I recommended the Hotel Machado to him. I think he plans to eat breakfast there.”
“Were you here when he came in last night?” A suggestive question, Ramirez knew. In court, only the judges and lay members on the panel could ask leading questions. As the investigator now, however, he had full freedom as to how he gathered evidence.
“I am always here,” said Miguel Artez sadly, with a small smile. “Yes. I was here when Señor Ellis returned, although he did not mention his wallet to me then. He was quite drunk when he came in. He may not have realized it was lost until this morning.”
“What time was that?” Sanchez asked. “When he came in.”
“Around eleven, I think. Perhaps eleven-thirty. I ended my shift at midnight. Not long before then.”
“Was he alone?” Ramirez inquired.
“I think so.” Artez reflected for a minute. “Yes, definitely. His wife left during my shift yesterday. In the evening. I called a taxi to take her to the airport. I helped her with her luggage.”
“No child with him?”
“No,” said the doorman, surprised. “They were here on their own.”
“Is he staying by himself now?” Sanchez asked.
“Yes, of course. Señora Ellis was a very nice woman,” the doorman emphasized. “Very beautiful. I was sorry when she left Cuba so early, by herself.”
Sanchez took the doorman’s name, address, and date of birth, and recorded them in his notebook. He stepped aside to speak to Ramirez privately.
“I think we should search Señor Ellis’s room before we talk to him. We have enough evidence, with his wallet on the body and that complaint about the children in the park.”
Ramirez considered this. Sanchez was right. Once they had grounds to suspect a crime had been committed, the police could search a state-owned hotel without a warrant. The grounds were not particularly strong but enough to meet the legal test.
Ramirez returned to the reception desk and asked the young woman for a key to Señor Ellis’s hotel room. She handed him a plastic card.
At first, he was not entirely sure what he was supposed to do with it. The only hotels he had stayed in were in Moscow. In those days, a dour key lady had doled out steel keys grudgingly, as if they were cabbages.
Inspector Ramirez and Detective Sanchez walked down the pink hallway with its blue-tiled floor to Room 612. Ramirez rapped on the door; Sanchez drew his gun. When there was no response, Ramirez slid the hotel key up and down in the narrow key slot below the door handle until a green light flashed and the
The dead man hesitated. It was illegal for Cubans to enter tourist hotels unless they worked there. But there were no laws prohibiting dead or imaginary Cubans from doing anything. Ramirez believed it was one of the few legal restrictions the Cuban government had failed to implement. He expected the amendment any day.
Given that legislative gap, the dead man accompanied the two policemen inside. He stopped to admire the giant Christmas tree that dominated the entry as the two investigators walked to the reception desk.
Ramirez and Sanchez identified themselves to the young woman working at the counter, although it was obvious they were police: Ramirez still wore his uniform. He asked the woman, barely out of her teens, in what room Señor Michael Ellis was staying.
She checked. “Room 612, sir.”
The doorman approached them as they were about to take the elevator up to the sixth floor.
“I overheard you asking about Señor Ellis,” he said. “I was just about to call you. Señor Ellis told me this morning that he lost his wallet last night. He asked me to report it to the police. He has just left the hotel — you’ve missed him by only minutes.”
“Has he checked out?” Ramirez asked and pulled out his notebook.
“Oh, no, sir, he will be back soon, I expect. I recommended the Hotel Machado to him. I think he plans to eat breakfast there.”
“Were you here when he came in last night?” A suggestive question, Ramirez knew. In court, only the judges and lay members on the panel could ask leading questions. As the investigator now, however, he had full freedom as to how he gathered evidence.
“I am always here,” said Miguel Artez sadly, with a small smile. “Yes. I was here when Señor Ellis returned, although he did not mention his wallet to me then. He was quite drunk when he came in. He may not have realized it was lost until this morning.”
“What time was that?” Sanchez asked. “When he came in.”
“Around eleven, I think. Perhaps eleven-thirty. I ended my shift at midnight. Not long before then.”
“Was he alone?” Ramirez inquired.
“I think so.” Artez reflected for a minute. “Yes, definitely. His wife left during my shift yesterday. In the evening. I called a taxi to take her to the airport. I helped her with her luggage.”
“No child with him?”
“No,” said the doorman, surprised. “They were here on their own.”
“Is he staying by himself now?” Sanchez asked.
“Yes, of course. Señora Ellis was a very nice woman,” the doorman emphasized. “Very beautiful. I was sorry when she left Cuba so early, by herself.”
Sanchez took the doorman’s name, address, and date of birth, and recorded them in his notebook. He stepped aside to speak to Ramirez privately.
“I think we should search Señor Ellis’s room before we talk to him. We have enough evidence, with his wallet on the body and that complaint about the children in the park.”
Ramirez considered this. Sanchez was right. Once they had grounds to suspect a crime had been committed, the police could search a state-owned hotel without a warrant. The grounds were not particularly strong but enough to meet the legal test.
Ramirez returned to the reception desk and asked the young woman for a key to Señor Ellis’s hotel room. She handed him a plastic card.
At first, he was not entirely sure what he was supposed to do with it. The only hotels he had stayed in were in Moscow. In those days, a dour key lady had doled out steel keys grudgingly, as if they were cabbages.
Inspector Ramirez and Detective Sanchez walked down the pink hallway with its blue-tiled floor to Room 612. Ramirez rapped on the door; Sanchez drew his gun. When there was no response, Ramirez slid the hotel key up and down in the narrow key slot below the door handle until a green light flashed and the
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