Free Red Angel by William Heffernan

Bahamas, or he could spend the rest of his career wondering what “new shit assignment” HIS BOSS would have for him each and every day.
    That done, Devlin changed Martínez’s plan. Putting together their collection of misfits could wait, he said. The first stop he wanted to make was the funeral home that had managed to lose María Mendez’s body.
    As the ancient Chevrolet made its way toward the Vedado section of Havana, Devlin lowered his window to gain some relief from the lack of air-conditioning. Music blared from open louvered doors and windows, and somewhere in the distance he heard a cock crowing. It was his first look at the morning madness of Cuban traffic. Bicycles and aging motorcycles dominated the streets, all with at least two riders. Many of the motorcycles were equipped with sidecars and carried two or three more—all of it, Martínez explained, a tribute to the fuel shortages that plagued the island. As they turned a corner, Martínez pointed out two enormous buses, the likes of which Devlin had never seen, each one disgorging its passengers into plumes of diesel smoke. The buses were tractor-trailer trucks converted to transport people. They had arrived on the island in exchange for Cuban sugar and citrus, part of a deal with the now defunct Soviet empire. The trailer section, which Martínez described as “a tribute to Cuban insanity,” had then been converted by Cuban engineers, fitted withcheap plastic seats and a row of narrow windows that seldom worked. The engineers also created a large dip in the center to accommodate a second door, and it made the entire vehicle appear to have two enormous humps. “The people call the buses ‘camels,’” Martínez said. “They also call them many other things when the windows fail to work. Especially on steamy July days, like the one we are now enduring.”
    Devlin stared out the window. The surrounding buildings looked battered and beaten, the absence of paint and repair leaving exterior walls pitted like decayed teeth. Sections of sidewalk had crumbled away, and holes in the roadway had been haphazardly filled with sand and stone.
    In many ways, Havana had the look of a city that had endured a recent war. Except for the inhabitants. He had never seen people in a large city seem more relaxed or at ease with each other. Pedestrians wandered into the streets, unconcerned about oncoming traffic. And drivers simply stopped and waited for them to pass. There were no blaring horns, no shouted curses, threatening mayhem. It was as though everyone had the right to move about as they pleased, as if every inch of territory was shared equally. And, God, they were beautiful people, Devlin thought—almost uniformly beautiful, in every shade of white and tan and brown and black. Adrianna came by it naturally, he told himself. It was in her genes.
    The funeral home was located on Calzada and K streets, and the sign out front identified it simply as FUNERARIA CALZADA Y K.
    “Why was the body sent here?” Devlin asked as he stepped from the car onto another crumbling sidewalk.
    They were standing on the edge of a small park, two blocks away from the U.S. Interests Section office. In the distance Devlin could see a long line of people, all waiting for a chance at a U.S. visa.
    Martínez waved his arm, taking in the exterior of the funeral home. It was a shabby, three-story poured-concrete structure, dotted with small casement windows and fake marble trim. “This is considered the finest funeral home in Havana,” he said. “It is where the bodies of all high government officials are taken.”
    Adrianna slipped her arm in Devlin’s. She was staring at the covered stone staircase that led to the second level. The interior beyond seemed forbidding, and her normally calm brown eyes were suddenly nervous.
    “Do you want to go in?” Devlin asked. “I want to use Martínez to get into the areas the public doesn’t normally see. So we might end up in