Miami Midnight

by Alex Segura

  It was impossible.

  The masked man wheeled around, the gun pointed at Pete.

  He didn’t hesitate. Pete dove to his right, rolling onto the floor and hitting the far wall hard. It was a sloppy fall, but he was spared a direct hit, though he felt some of the shrapnel burning into his arm and right leg. He caught a glimpse of Harras grabbing the man from behind, his arm wrapped around his neck and pulling him backward.

  Before Pete could think on it too long, the man moved the gun up, as if to shoot his own arm. Instead, the blast went over him, hitting Harras in the neck and shoulder. His friend’s scream rang in his ears for what felt like a century. Pete watched as Harras stumbled back, hands clutching at his bleeding neck, the surprised yell now a droning moan.

  “No,” Pete said, standing up.

  The man in the mask stepped toward Pete, the silencer trained on him as Harras fell to the ground, no longer moving.

  Pete swung a wide kick in the man’s direction, knocking the gun out of his hand. The masked man swung at Pete, a wide, sloppy arc. Pete dodged and grabbed the man’s wrist. He pulled and twisted. The man dropped to his knees, the scream coming through the dark mask clearly. Harras wasn’t making any noise.

  He’s dead.

  Pete grabbed the man’s head, his fingers digging into the mask, and felt his left hand form into a fist and crash into the man’s face, making him go limp. He wanted to hit him again—over and over, but he stopped, took a deep breath, and let the masked man drop to the floor, unconscious. He rushed to Harras.

  His friend, or what remained of him, was shaking violently, metal shards peppering his face and a hole in his neck revealing blood, bone, and more than Pete ever wanted to see of the inside of someone’s body. He was dying.

  “Hold on, okay?” Pete said. He reached inside his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He started to dial 911.

  But there was no holding on. In the second it took Pete to glance at the display of his phone and ring the police, Harras went limp. Pete felt an aching in his chest that threatened to burst through him. He didn’t hear the hurried, stumbling footsteps as the masked man darted out of the house. Pete couldn’t bring himself to care.

  Three months later

  “THIS IS YOUR office?”

  Eddie Rosen seemed perplexed and a bit disgusted, like a princess walking into a janitorial closet. He scrunched up his long nose and tried to plaster a grin on his lupine face. He was here to deliver some bad news, Pete could tell.

  “It’s a bookstore first,” Pete said, locking the door behind Rosen. “My office is in the back. But I meet clients here after hours. Well, when I used to have them. Like this.”

  Rosen nodded and continued to look around the packed and dusty shelves of The Book Bin. The store resembled a hoarder’s garage more than a Barnes & Noble, but Pete felt that was part of the charm. For some book buyers, the journey was the experience—looking for just the right book. Or twenty.

  “You wanted to meet?”

  “My boss is not happy.”

  “I’m sad to hear that,” Pete said, taking the seat behind the register. He was not sad.

  “You’re lucky he’s a forgiving man.”

  “Guess it’s my lucky day.”

  “Cut the crap, Fernandez,” Rosen said, his words suddenly sharp and agitated. “I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here. But you’ve produced nothing since we hired you and your girlfriend to find this woman.”

  “Beatriz de Armas is gone,” Pete said. “If she ever existed.”

  Rosen stepped closer to the desk where the store’s register sat and planted his hands facedown in front of Pete, his eyes open so wide Pete half-expected a vessel to burst from the strain.

  “Mujica wants you gone. You’re fired.”

  “I’ll send you my last bill, or I can prepare it for you now,” Pete said. “Got a printer in the back and everything.”

  “Are you insane?” Rosen said. “You’re lucky Don Mujica is an understanding man. If this were fifteen years ago, you’d be dead. But he gets it. Your friend is gone, your lady friend stayed with her man ... you’ve hit a rough patch.”

  “It’s not a rough patch if your life is always this way.”

  Rosen let out a protracted sigh, like a balloon deflating. “Send me the bill if it’s reasonable,” he said. “I’ll make sure we’re settled up, all right? But don’t expect me to recommend you to any of my friends. You can rest easy about the photos, too. The books are cleared. Just leave us alone.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of bothering you, Eddie.”

  Rosen shook his head before making his way out the door. The chimes signaled his exit, clanging heralds cutting through the quiet that usually enveloped the small bookstore.

  Pete waited a few moments, for the sound of Rosen’s car starting and turning out of the strip mall that surrounded The Book Bin. Then he got up, put his battered Marlins cap on, and walked out.

  THE CAR RIDE was brief, the streets empty in the wake of another painful Miami rush hour. It was September, so the swamp-like summer was beginning to ease into a less turgid fall, if there was such a thing in this town. He’d gotten the text a few minutes before Rosen’s unwanted pop-in, and he was running late. Liz Phair sang about fucking and running, and Pete felt bad he was too distracted to sing along.

  Rosen had a right to be disappointed, but Pete couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d worked the Mujica case—he and Kathy had, for the most part—as best they could. Aside from a few rumors and innuendo, nothing pointed to a suspect in the murder of Javier Mujica, much less to the whereabouts of his wife, Beatriz de Armas. On top of that, Pete had been distracted by much bigger, more disturbing developments.

  Robert Harras had survived the Silent Death’s attack—but barely. At least that was the belief Pete clung to. But the reality was, he could be dead for all Pete knew. The ex–FBI agent had been whisked away into government protection almost immediately after multiple emergency surgeries to save his life. The narrative, as far as anyone else was concerned, was simple: Former FBI agent Robert Harras was dead, gunned down in Pete’s own home by a man dressed up like the Silent Death, the mob killer of killers. He’d worn the same uniform as the man who’d menaced Miami for years and had ended up bringing Pete and Kathy together during Pete’s first—albeit unlicensed and unofficial—case.

  But who was wearing the mask now? And why had he been gunning for Pete? Pete’s efforts to get any kind of answer about Harras from the Bureau—or the hospital—had hit a wall. Robert Harras was dead, as far as they were concerned; why did he keep asking?

  The thought of Harras made his chest ache, a dull, burning feeling that Pete knew was grief and confusion. He didn’t have time to mourn. His friend, wherever he was, would want him to push forward, to solve this thing. But the deeper he got into it, the less he came back with, like a man shoving his hands into burning sand, trying to find a missing coin.

  Pete had spent the better part of the last few months trying to regain some level of control—over his life, his world—in the wake of Harras’s encounter with the Silent Death. He hadn’t come close to succeeding. But with the Mujica case stalled, Pete had thrown himself headlong into trying to figure out what happened to his friend—why someone had donned the mask and gear of the Silent Death and attacked Pete, only to escape with Harras barely breathing. Had Pete not been the target? If not, why had Harras been in the Death’s sights?

  The results had been almost nil. He’d chased down every contact, every informant he’d cultivated over the years—nothing. No one had anything to share. Some refused to talk. The fear was evident. They were scared of someone—or something—else more than they’d ever be afraid of Pete.

  And he was doing it alone. Kathy had changed her mind, or at least had stepped back from the edge when it came to Pete. Probably a smart idea. Dave had been in the throes of early recovery. But Pete pressed on. Worked his old cop contacts. Tried to make new ones. He’d heard rumbl
ings in the underworld of a general unrest—an imbalance in how the gangs and families and cartels played with each other. Something was disrupting the regular business of things. Someone was making a play. But that could be anything. It didn’t point directly to Harras or the Silent Death.

  His focus on Harras had helped the Mujica case wilt, Pete knew. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care about some retired gangster’s dead kid, or his wife, or the painting she stole. His friend was gone. His mentor. Pete could admit that now. When they first met, he and Harras had been at odds—a decorated FBI agent and a two-bit private eye. But over time, he’d come to admire the old man. He’d learned from him—about being an investigator, about following clues and tracking down leads. But none of that had helped him. Harras was gone, and Pete was nowhere closer today to finding out where he was or who pulled the trigger than he had been when he saw his friend’s body being loaded onto an ambulance.

  Pete found a spot a half a block away from the Conde Contemporary Art Gallery and walked in. The place was empty, aside from a thin young woman with sunglasses near the front; a couple ogling a particularly confusing, colorful work at the far end; and the man he was there to meet. Pete nodded at the woman as he walked past her.

  Dave Mendoza turned as the sound of Pete’s approaching footsteps echoed through the gallery. “Thanks for coming.”

  “You call, I answer, that’s the deal,” Pete said, shaking his old friend’s hand. “How’re you holding up?”

  “Fits and starts, man. But I’m sober today. Have been for about a week,” Dave said with a genuine grin. His face looked fuller, more color spreading across his cheeks than the Dave Pete had encountered a few months back. It would have been a much starker change if he hadn’t been meeting with Dave a few times a week over the last few months.

  “That’s great,” Pete said, gripping Dave’s shoulder. “Keep it up. Did you find a sponsor yet?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” Dave said, looking at his feet. “Guy at my home group seems to be on my wavelength. Gonna ask him next week.”

  “Ask him tonight,” Pete said. “You know I can’t be your sponsor.”

  Dave nodded. Though the mechanics of Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous were similar, it wasn’t the kind of thing where you could cross-pollinate the message. Though many drunks were also addicts and vice versa, the idea was you stuck with your program for official guidance. But Pete wanted to help Dave, so he’d agreed to guide him along until he found a real sponsor. It had taken his friend a while to even start considering it.

  “Everything else okay? Your text seemed urgent.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine, I’m good, actually,” Dave said, nodding a bit too fast. “Just trying to figure out what’s left of myself, you know? The lawyers disentangled enough of our finances to get me a place around here and I’m doing some investing ... still have a few properties and now I’m trying to build up what I burned through after ... what, well, you know. Trying to get my shit together.”

  “Won’t happen overnight,” Pete said. “Be patient.”

  “Right. How’re you?”

  “Fine,” Pete said. “Lost the Mujica case. Officially.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Rosen fired me,” Pete said. “Came by just as I was coming to meet you. Wasn’t surprised. Hard to care, you know? Not with everything going on.”

  Dave grimaced. The loss of Harras had sent Pete reeling, but it’d also had a powerful, destructive effect on Dave. Though he and Harras had never been particularly close, the loss managed to disrupt the fragile balance of his sobriety. But despite the relapses and mistakes, Dave managed to hold on. For now.

  “So, if it’s not about your program, what is it?”

  “Might be nothing, honestly.”

  “Didn’t sound like a nothing,” Pete said.

  “You ever been to Lagniappe?”

  “The jazz club?”

  “Yeah, it’s a cool spot,” Dave said. “I went in there—met up with some friends—a few nights ago.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Anyway, we’re in there, and I remembered the Mujica thing you’ve been working on,” Dave said, his eyes darting around the gallery. No one else had entered since Pete arrived. “Y’know, just asking around to see if anything would shake loose.”

  “Dave,” Pete said, a sprinkle of impatience in his voice. “Get to it. I’m not gonna give you shit for going to a bar. I trust you didn’t drink or shoot up in the bathroom, okay? You know better, anyway. So just tell me what you texted me to say that couldn’t be in the text you sent, all right?”

  “That woman, de Armas?” Dave said. “She’d been there. A few weeks before.”

  “What? How do you know?”

  “The guy playing—well, one of the guys in the house band, the drummer, forget his name,” Dave said, hands shaking a bit. “He said she’d come by to listen to them perform. She was gushing over their set, I guess—offered to manage them. Gave them her card.”

  “Do you have it?”

  Dave reached into his back pocket and pulled out a dark business card, with white letters on one side. BEATRIZ DE ARMAS—ARTIST MANAGEMENT. Under the name was a yellow star and the words “WE WILL FIND YOU” in smaller letters.

  “Just when I thought I was chasing a ghost,” Pete said, mostly to himself. “Can I hold on to this?”

  “All yours,” Dave said. “Not sure you can do much with it—no number.”

  Pete took a step toward the door.

  “It’s a start. Keep doing what you’re doing, okay?” Pete said. “And get a sponsor. I want to hear what he’s making you do the next time we talk.”

  Dave nodded in agreement. He rubbed at his eyes. “It’s hard, man,” he said. “Nothing has ever been this hard. I never thought I’d be—I mean …”

  “An addict?” Pete said, stopping in his tracks.

  “Yeah, it sounds terrible, but yeah,” Dave said. “You never think it’d happen to you.”

  “Denial is a hell of a drug,” Pete said, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “But you’re aware of it now, which is a huge step.”

  “Yeah,” Dave said. He looked around the gallery. “How’s Kathy?”

  “Not really sure,” Pete said. “With Marco, planning a wedding. With the Mujica case frozen, we haven’t talked much.”

  Pete had given Dave the bare minimum of info. The truth was, Kathy had made it clear she wanted to fix things with Marco, and part of that meant minimizing her contact with Pete. He’d pushed back, but to no avail.

  “Well,” Dave said. “Now you have an excuse to talk to her, I guess.”

  Pete nodded to himself before turning back toward the gallery exit.

  HE PRESSED THE buzzer again, letting it ring—a long screeching sound that Pete could hear through the apartment front door. After a few moments, a voice.

  “Who is it?”

  “Me.”

  “You realize what time it is, right?” Kathy said, her voice getting louder as she unlatched the locks and swung the door open. She was wearing a black T-shirt and boxers, her hair rumpled and chaotic. Pete tried not to stare. “Why didn’t you call or text first, like a normal person?”

  “Yeah, sorry,” Pete said. “Di—did I wake you? You guys?”

  Kathy flinched at Pete’s stutter, but let it go with a shrug. “What’s up?”

  “Got a lead on de Armas.”

  “Pete …” Kathy said, her voice dispirited with a slight tinge of frustration. “Can we talk about this later? I actually have work in the morning, okay? This is not acceptable. Especially after I told you—”

  The door was still half-closed, Kathy blocking the way. Her words came out in hushed whispers. He was home.

  “Marco here?”

  “Let’s talk tomorrow, okay?” she said, shaking her head. “I’ll try to stop by the store.”

  She didn’t wait for Pete to respond. The door shut with a loud thunk and Pete was left in a dark, empty hallway, his
eyes boring into the thick, brown door—as if by staring at it he could will it to open again.

  PETE HEARD THE footsteps trailing him once he reached the parking lot to Kathy’s building. He didn’t need to be a private investigator to know who they belonged to.

  He turned around to face Marco before reaching his car.

  Marco was wearing a black hoodie and sweats. He did not look particularly happy, either. “I think we need to talk,” he said, stopping a few feet from Pete. His demeanor was calm, not threatening. “Look, man, I really think you need to stop bothering us—stop bothering Kathy. I don’t want to go all aggro, either. Let’s just have a civil conversation about this, okay? You seem like a reasonable guy.”

  “Hey, I’m genuinely sorry for bothering you,” Pete said. He meant it, but also realized he wasn’t living up to his words by showing up at their apartment after midnight. “For what it’s worth. I shouldn’t have come here.”

  Marco shook his head, a humorless smile on his face. “It’s not worth a whole lot, to be frank with you, man,” he said. “You’re not exactly my favorite person in the world. You’ve caused Kathy a lot of grief, and—”

  “Look, Marco, I barely know you,” Pete said. “And I realize what happened—well, wasn’t ideal, but we’re both consenting adults and I—”

  Marco took an imbalanced, hesitant step back. His expression one of confusion, followed by hesitant realization.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Marco asked. “What happened?”

  Shit.

  SHIT.

  The confrontation with Marco had ended with Kathy’s fiancé turning on his heels and heading back toward their apartment. Pete had tried to call Kathy on his way home, to give her a heads up—Marco might know—but she didn’t pick up. She hadn’t responded to his subsequent calls or texts, either.

  There would be little sleep tonight. Pete’s brain was revved, and he needed to work a few things out before he’d have a shot at any kind of rest.