Chapter Four

Havana didn't wait for the flight attendant to welcome the passengers to Chicago and announce that they were once again permitted to use their cell phones. As soon as the plane landed, she powered hers on. She had three messages.

The first was from her father. He had called to invite her to a get together at the home of one of his associates from what he called the business. “We'll all have a good time,” he said. “Frank Agrela will be there.” Before he hung up, he suggested that she might wear something nice.

Whenever Havana arrived at a function where Frank Agrela might show up, her father criticized her clothes. “You have nice dresses,” he'd say. “Did you have to wear that?”

Frank Agrela didn't seem to mind her choices. Often when Havana looked Frank's way, she'd find him inspecting her clothing. He didn't turn away when she caught him, but let his eyes linger on every button or snap, and slide up and down her zipper. Then he'd look her in the face and wait for her reaction.

Her reaction now was to press delete and move on to the next message.

It was from Dr. Dave Sharlet. His voice was deep and he spoke slowly. Havana thought he might have just woken up when he called her. Her head lowered down toward her shoulder, like she was lying on the pillow beside him. He said that he had good news for her about their patient. “Please give me a call,” he said. After a pause, he added, “I had forgotten just how beautiful your voice is. I loved listening to your outgoing message.”

Havana listened to this message a second time and saved it before she went on to her last message. It was Tom. He wanted her to stop by to see him when she was signing out.

What did Tom want? Havana pulled her suitcase behind her onto the moving walkway and passed one after another of the travelers who idled as the conveyor carried them along. Maybe Tom had come up with an opportunity for her to fly international after all.

She imagined a phone conversation with the doctor. Dave, she would call him. Hello, Dave. He would want to see her. When could they be together? Soon he hoped? And where?

On Tuesday I'll be in Paris, she imagined herself saying. Or Rome? Hong Kong on Thursday. On Thursday, Dave, I'll be in Hong Kong.

Havana realized she was moving her lips as she daydreamed the details of the phone call. She gave a quick look around and saw that she had been seen by a young couple leaving a coffee counter. They grinned. The young woman raised her cup in a playful toast.

As soon as Havana swiped her badge and walked through the glass doors at crew scheduling, she saw Tom waiting for her. They walked in the direction of his office, but then veered off toward a conference room.

“Some people are waiting to see you,” he said.

A man in a gray suit stood up from the conference table when Havana entered the room. A second man turned from the window to face her. They introduced themselves as Special Agent Johnson and Special Agent Wright. They were from the FBI.

The business, Havana thought. She sensed danger for her father. She took a cordial, even tone with the men. Before she had learned two-times-two or how to write in cursive, her father had taught her the art of not being flustered and the importance, above all, of protecting the family. It wasn't until she was older that she understood why.

She took a seat with Special Agent Johnson. Special Agent Wright remained standing.

The men started out by making what Havana took to be small talk, asking about her flight, New York, LA, the short stop in Newark. Then Special Agent Wright laid six photographs out on the table in front of her. Did Havana recognize any of these men?

She saw so many people each day, she said. It was the nature of her job. She couldn't be sure. The agents watched her closely. No, she said finally. She couldn't say she'd ever seen any of them before.

Riding home on the elevated train, Havana kept one hand on her suitcase and the other on the overhead bar. She steadied herself as she was rocked by the memory of the fourth photograph Special Agent Wright had laid out on the table in front of her. It was enlarged from a mug shot. The man's dark hair was unkempt and he needed a shave. The painted lines behind his head indicated that he was just over six foot two. The set of his lower lip and the hard lines around his mouth gave Havana the impression of menace and maybe even cruelty. But mostly, she remembered the eyes. Inwardly, she had been chilled by the coldness of those eyes. She hoped the FBI men hadn't noticed any outward reaction as she found herself once again staring into the blue eyes of Dr. Dave Sharlet.