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problem; I don’t know for sure. The locals believed that brujos took her body parts as amulets and used her blood in their cures. But only a few weeks later, a second child was killed, a ten-year-old. She was mutilated the same way, only this time a fish knife was left behind, stuck in her heart. The second death happened while the suspects in Zoila’s murder were in jail. They were convicted of Zoila’s murder. Their appeal is being argued this week.”
    “I see.” Ramirez thought for a moment. “And when you heard of this woman’s murder, you wondered if a mistake had been made in the convictions. Because of the knife.”
    Juan Latapier nodded. “Exactly. The suspects had strong alibis, although the judges disbelieved them. I believe the two deaths are connected, and that the bodies were mutilated to cast blame on the brujos . I want to be sure, in my own mind, that these men are guilty before they are executed.”
    He’s principled, thought Ramirez. Which was almost as unusual in the Cuban National Revolutionary Police Force as someone leaving behind a perfectly good knife at a crime scene.
    “Interesting. We don’t yet know who our victim was,” said Ramirez. “I was planning to have one of my men go through missing persons reports. We’ve had Patrol asking questions doorto-door, but with no results. She was found in an alley near the Callejón sin salida. Because of this, I’m not completely sure how rigorous the inquiries have been. Blind Alley makes some of our officers nervous.”
    Latapier nodded. “I have never been there, but I have heard it is a place where the spirits gather.”
    Ramirez glanced at his watch. Juan Latapier’s visit was a welcome excuse to ignore his paperwork and do some real police work before he left for Canada the next day.
    “Look, I have a car with a full tank of petrol. Why don’t we drive over there and see what we can find out?”
    Latapier spread his arms wide. He smiled and bowed slightly. “That’s why I’m here.”
    “Excellent,” said Ramirez, reaching for his jacket. “But don’t be surprised if they refuse to talk to us.”
    “They won’t talk to me,” Latapier nodded. “But they may talk to you.”
    “Excuse me for asking, Juan, but how long have you worked in El Gabriel?” Ramirez put his arms through the sleeves of his jacket. “I usually stop in your station whenever I go by. I don’t recall seeing you.”
    “I’ve been there for years, but I’m almost always in court.”
    “I apologize, then. You must be older than you appear.”
    Latapier laughed. “I used to be heavier, too.”
    Juan Latapier folded himself into Ramirez’s small car. “There was almost no blood on our victim’s clothing,” Ramirez explained. “Our pathologist says she was already dead when she was stabbed.”
    “What was she wearing?”
    Ramirez used his side-view mirror to check the corpse in the back seat. His rear-view mirror was missing, and it had proven impossible to find a replacement. The old woman waved at him and waggled her fingers.
    “A long white dress with ruffles. No sleeves. And a white bandana with a big white fabric flower on it. She looks like a cigar lady.” He smiled at her reflection. “Too old to be a bride.”
    The elderly cigar ladies were famous in Havana. They wore fancy clothing and flowers and carried giant cigars. They werealways happy to let tourists take their photographs in exchange for a few pesos.
    “Our pathologist says she could have been seventy or eighty; it’s hard to say. You know how badly the cigar ladies age. There was something strange, though,” said Ramirez, steering his small car down the Avenida del Puerto. “Her head was shaved bald.”
    “Hmmm,” said Latapier. “White is the colour worn by initiates into Santería. They shave their heads so that the orishas can enter their bodies more easily.”
    “An ahijado ?”
    It hadn’t occurred to Ramirez, but Latapier could be right. Being initiated required a