by Alex Segura
He reached The Book Bin and plopped himself down in the tiny back office. He flipped open his laptop and clicked on a familiar file. The bundle of images opened up fast, and Pete was once again transported to Osvaldo Valdez’s living room. The images had been sent to him via email by Harras before their meeting in Pete’s house. Before they were attacked by the Silent Death.
Over the last few months, Pete had pored over the photos—trying to find some kind of clue that would explain why the aging ex-cop had been put down so violently just hours after tipping Pete off to something, and moments before Pete was supposed to show up and meet with him. But he’d continued to draw a blank. Looking over the images had become almost ceremonial, like an arcane ritual meant to conjure up some evidence that would help him solve the case.
Pete understood what it really was: a desperate attempt to commune with Valdez and Harras. Always chasing dead men. The Miami police had let it go cold, unable to figure out who would have murderous eyes for the frail Valdez. Plus, there were bigger, more salacious cases to worry about. This was a blip on the evening news. Pete shook his head.
He was about to quit the program when his eye caught something in the last photo, a zoomed-in shot of Valdez’s fallen body, a pool of blood forming around the man, his arms splayed out in an awkward position. A small piece of cloth near his left hand. No, not cloth—cardboard. A business card.
Pete used the program’s zoom tool to get a closer look. It was a white card, but Pete could only make out the last few letters—“ENT.” Under that line a few more letters—“OU.” Underneath the text, a sliver of black and yellow. He pulled Beatriz de Armas’s business card from his pocket and held it up to the screen.
“Huh.”
He leaned back in his chair. Normally, he’d call Kathy. Or Harras. Or Dave. But it’d all gotten muddy of late. His romantic reunion with Kathy had soured faster than the first time, and Pete was sure he could have handled it better. The run-in with Marco was the most egregious example. His feelings for her hadn’t changed. But Kathy, ever the smart one, wasn’t into throwing caution to the wind anymore. In Marco, she’d found a stable, honest man who loved her, as opposed to an erratic, unemployed, and seriously injury-prone private investigator. He couldn’t fault her. But he missed her. And now he’d have to grapple with the fact that he had potentially ruined whatever happiness she’d made for herself.
Harras was gone, and there was only so much baggage Pete could toss on Dave’s fragile shoulders. Dave was in the tense, uncertain days of early recovery, where a small frustration that one brushed off normally could have seismic effects—and lead to a drink or a drug. No, he couldn’t call him. Even if he’d been the one to give him de Armas’s card.
But it was a bigger question that hit Pete like a sucker punch to the jaw: what was Beatriz de Armas doing in Osvaldo Valdez’s apartment the night he died? The more complicated question could be, why would someone want Pete to believe that? It wasn’t a coincidence that Dave got the same kind of card. Pete had looked over the image a number of times and had paid no mind to the piece of paper on the floor. He’d needed the actual card, fresh in his mind, to make him notice.
He stood up and slid the card back into his pocket. He closed his laptop and walked out, the horns and screeches of Miami traffic echoing through the night.
LAGNIAPPE WAS A cozy, smoky bar-slash-restaurant on Second Avenue. The smell of tobacco and red wine mixed smoothly with the charcuterie that made up a large part of the menu. The lights were dim and the crowd was relaxed, lulled by the polished, tight band playing on a small stage at the far end of the space, near a set of doors that lead to a patio area. The entire venue gave off a buzzed, sated vibe—like the one Pete remembered having after a good meal, when you could savor a sip of wine. Except Pete had never sipped wine and didn’t drink one glass after dinner. No, most times he chose to drink over dinner, and it rarely happened in a restaurant as nice as this.
Pete got to hear the band’s last song—a faithful cover of the Miles Davis Quintet’s “It Never Entered My Mind.” The somber, plaintive number struck Pete as an odd choice to close out the set, but he was more used to rock shows, with their second encores and crowd-sung anthems. The crowd seemed into it, swaying to the moody trumpet lead, the tickle-touch piano providing a subtle dressing to the tune. As the number wound down, the bar erupted in applause—not raucous, but not stuffy, either. Jazz fans could get excited, too, Pete mused.
He started his approach just as the band was shutting down, packing their stuff up in the routine, automatic way gigging musicians make second nature. Pete made a beeline for the drummer, a solidly-built man with wispy hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He was Pete’s age, but looked to have a decade on him just based on how he dressed.
“Excuse me,” Pete said.
“All done for the night, sorry,” the man said, loosening one of the notes on his snare drum, his back to Pete. “But we’ll be here tomorrow night, I think.”
“Thanks, but I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
The man turned around, his face wary. “About what?” he said. “You a cop?”
“Private,” Pete said, extending his hand. “Pete Fernandez.”
The man shook it, a knowing look on his face. “Huh, okay,” he said. “Am I in trouble?”
“I don’t think so, Mr. …?”
“Lovallo,” the man said. “Stu Lovallo.”
The other musicians—a chubby piano player with a bald pate; a bearded, lanky trumpet player; a clearly loaded sax player; and a tall, stocky man wheeling a large bass guitar toward the bar—were moving away, as if understanding they didn’t want to be part of this discussion.
“Stu, I’m trying to locate a woman, by the name of Beatriz,” Pete said, pulling out the business card. “A friend of mine, Dave Mendoza, said he spoke to you a few nights ago about her and you gave him this.”
Stu looked at the card and nodded to himself. “Yeah, yeah. She was by here a lot. Said she dug our sound. Thought we had some potential.”
“When was this?”
“She in trouble?” Stu asked, standing up, the task of putting his drums away forgotten. “Because, look, this industry is tiny, tiny. I don’t want to ruffle any feathers. We’re just trying to make a—”
“No, she’s not in trouble,” Pete said. “I just need to get in touch with her.”
“It’s usually not good when a PI is looking for you.”
Pete chuckled. “Never good when anyone’s looking for you, huh?”
“Got that right,” Stu said, rubbing his neck. “Man, I gotta tell you, I was smitten with this lady. But her card doesn’t even have a number. How the hell am I supposed to find her?”
“Welcome to the club.”
“What a knockout,” Stu said, looking out into the empty bar. “Though, the hair was a clear dye job. But those eyes. Man. Killer body, too.”
“Relax, Stu. We’re only just getting to know each other.”
Stu chuckled and went back to unpacking his kit.
“Buy you a drink?”
“Sure, yeah,” Stu said, not looking at Pete, focused on yanking out his snare drum. “Whiskey, neat. Whatever they have in the well. I won’t drink you dry.”
“Price isn’t too steep—just wanna pick your brain about this de Armas lady.”
“Not much to talk about,” Stu said. “Though, I’m really selling myself short here. You know most of it. Wish I’d gotten her number …”
“I hear you, pal,” Pete said, pulling out his wallet and handing Stu a twenty. “Anything else come to mind? This should cover a round. Consider it a tip for a good set.”
“Did you really like it?”
“I like all kinds of creative things,” Pete said. “Music, paintings, you name it.”
Stu shrugged. “Money’s money. So, okay—here’s the rub, and you’ll probably judge me for this.”
“We’re in a judgment-free zone, my friend.”
�
�I followed her.”
“Like, for days, or what?” Pete asked. “Because your creep factor grows exponentially the longer you do.”
“No, no, not like that,” Stu said, shaking his head. “I mean, kind of like that, but ... well, just to her apartment.”
“She walked home?”
“Yeah, she lives nearby,” Stu said. “Down the block.”
“That’s pretty damn creepy, Stu.”
THE 2 MIDTOWN building was indeed a few blocks away from Lagniappe—a massive fortress-like condo that didn’t really scream “pop in” when Pete reached the main entrance. Not surprisingly, Stu didn’t want to tag along with Pete, despite his disturbingly intimate knowledge of Beatriz’s life. He’d have to circle back to him at some point, Pete thought. He entered the lobby and stopped at the front desk, where a drowsy security guard looked up from his copy of the Miami Times sports page.
“Can I help you?”
“Here to see Beatriz de Armas,” Pete said, his tone flat.
“No one here by that name.”
“Black hair, around my age, pretty mysterious?” Pete said. “Works nights? Music industry type?”
“Jazz lady? Yeah, I know who you’re talking about. Place is under another name, though. Burgos.”
“Yeah, Burgos is her married name. My mistake.”
“She expecting you?”
“Of course. But you know how she is, probably forgot to put me on the list.”
The guard shrugged, unimpressed with Pete’s banter. He picked up a phone at his desk and dialed a three digit code. Pete watched his fingers move. 419.
A few moments passed, then the guard hung up. His nametag said Humberto.
“No response,” he said, palms up. “Sorry.”
“Can you try again?”
Humberto cleared his throat and met Pete’s eyes. “She ain’t here,” he said. “Haven’t seen her come down in a while. I won’t waste your time if you don’t waste mine, okay?”
“No offense, Humberto, but it doesn’t look like you’re working all that hard. I mean, that’s yesterday’s newspaper, for God’s sake.”
“Turn around and leave, sir.”
Pete pulled out his wallet and placed five twenties on the desk in front of Humberto.
“I think there’s a hole in my wallet,” Pete said. “And Beatriz has my sewing kit.”
Humberto slid the money into his pocket, then gave Pete a frustrated look.
“These cameras pick up audio?”
“Nah, just video,” Humberto said, motioning his head toward the camera monitor next to his computer screen. “And there isn’t one pointed right at my desk.”
“Figured,” Pete said. “So call that hundy a tip and maybe you can look away while I take the elevator up to Beatriz’s apartment?”
Humberto nodded. “Do your thing, bro. Just don’t murder her.”
“Gotta say, it’s weirding me out you’re so cool with a strange dude going up to this lady’s place,” Pete said, backing away. “Maybe consider another career? Something that doesn’t involve people’s privacy?”
Humberto looked away.
Pete walked toward the elevator and pushed the UP button.
419 was to the left of the elevator bank and around a corner. Pete rapped on the door. After a few moments he did it again. He waited. He leaned in, his ear close to the door. No sound. No rustling or “Gimme a minute!”-style exclamation. He wrapped his hand around the knob. Locked.
Pete started to reach into his pocket when he heard a noise. Faint, at first. A scurry of footsteps across a tile floor. He stepped back. The door swung open, a small figure—female—draped in a long black coat stepped out. A pair of large, dark shades covered a pale, stricken face, which was in stark contrast to the jet-black hair, cut in a short bob. But even with the eyewear and hair dye, Pete recognized her immediately, and he felt a sledgehammer hit him squarely in the face.
“Emily?”
“STEP BACK,” SHE said, her eyes ice cold, even through the sunglasses. She’d pulled a gun out of her coat and had it pointed squarely at Pete’s chest.
Pete did. His hands up. His mind was screaming. This couldn’t be right. Things like this didn’t just overlap. He felt his legs start to shake slightly.
“Emily—”
“Be quiet,” she said. “Back off. I don’t know you.”
But Pete wasn’t fooled. He saw the recognition in her expression. He knew the curves and details of that face too well to be misled by designer shades, a fancy haircut, and a dye job. He took a step forward.
“Emily, come on. It’s me, Pete—”
“You have to leave all of this alone,” she said. “You’re not as lucky as you think you are.”
“What are you—”
She moved the gun barrel closer to him. Her hands steady. Her vibe cool, collected—she’d handled guns before. Old hat. No worries. She motioned with her chin for Pete to step off.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” she said, her voice dry, no emotion, like a kid reading their homework aloud. She stepped away from the door and took a few quick paces toward the elevator before turning around. “Do not follow me. I’ll hear you. I’m not coming back here.”
And she was gone.
Pete heard the ding of the elevator and waited a few moments. He walked to the elevator bank and pulled out his cell phone. He dialed the number that he knew from memory. The voice answered on the first ring.
“Yeah?”
“You’re not going to believe who I just saw.”
“Not on the phone. We’ve got a situation.”
“What?” Pete asked. “What now?”
“I’m texting you an address. Meet me there ASAP,” Dave said.
The line went dead.
Dave would have to wait, Pete thought as he stepped into the open door of Beatriz de Armas’s apartment. Emily’s apartment. He took a few slow breaths. There’d be time to process what he’d just seen. For now, he had to gather as much evidence as he could before anyone else showed up.
The apartment was barren—a space barely used. Either she’d just moved in or was moving out. He flicked on a light in the tiny living room to get a better look, using his sleeve to avoid touching anything. There was a futon taking up most of the front space and little else. A cheap-looking coffee table next to it, covered with a handful of receipts, spare change, and some takeout menus. The kitchen, which was on the right as he entered, was equally spartan—a few glasses in the cabinets and a fridge that only featured a few restaurant containers and a half-empty carton of soy milk. The small coffeemaker was cold, half a pot still inside.
The apartment’s sole bedroom was another story. The room empty aside from a twin-size mattress on the floor near the far corner, which was opposite a flimsy IKEA desk. Clothes and a stack of paperbacks—Chandler’s The Little Sister, Margaret Millar’s The Fiend, and Patricia Highsmith’s Deep Water jumped out at Pete. Emily had gotten a taste for mysteries. He’d have chuckled if the circumstances had been different. There was no dresser or nightstand, just piles of neatly folded clothes near the end of the bed and a few toiletries in the bathroom. Emily had not been here long.
As he reached the desk, Pete felt his phone vibrating. Dave. Something was going on. But this would be his only chance to piece together why Emily Sprague-Blanco was back, masquerading as someone else.
The desk drawers were empty—and the top was barren aside from two notepads and a small, bound memo book. Both Post-It pads were blank, but as Pete ran a finger over one, he noticed someone had written on a page recently—leaving the indent of whatever was written on the following page. Pete grabbed a pencil from the Dolphins mug resting on the desk and yanked a page from the other yellow pad. Carefully, he shaded over the page, trying to capture the text that someone—presumably Emily—had hastily written on a page before taking it with her.
Emily Blanco
Beatriz de Armas?? SWITCH OUT!!
Daniela Burgos—maybe
>
-
Bogota
Havana??
Mexico City
US? Not viable
Beyond the first two names, the rest meant nothing to Pete. But that could change. He pocketed the sheet and rummaged through the rest of the desk. Nothing. He turned his head toward the door. He thought he’d heard footsteps. It was time to go.
IN THE CAR, Pete’s mind spun out. Emily. He’d lost touch with her before she’d left Miami for Europe, where she’d planned to spend her dead husband’s money and try to escape Los Enfermos. The final coda to their relationship, when she’d asked Pete to find out who’d killed her husband, fizzled as soon as she boarded that plane, two years ago.
But she was back. And she was somehow entangled in a case that Pete had put on the back burner when Harras disappeared. Was Emily Sprague, Pete’s ex-fiancée, also Beatriz de Armas, widow to Javier Mujica? It was possible, sure. There were no photos of Beatriz anywhere—which was a minor miracle in an age where even people’s pets had Instagram and Twitter accounts. It made little sense. He didn’t have enough information. But he had a lot of questions. And that was a start.
The D Towers in Hallandale Beach.
Pete pulled into the visitors lot and walked past the security desk, nodding at the guard, an older, heavyset woman reading a copy of Entertainment Weekly. Pete took the stairs up to the fifth floor, feeling winded by the time he reached apartment 547. The door swung open before he could knock. A hand waved for him to step into the darkness.
“What the hell’s going on?” Pete asked, grabbing Dave by the arm. “What’s up with the cloak-and-dagger shit?”
Dave’s face, illuminated briefly in the moonlight, looked haggard and pale. For a second, Pete worried his friend had slipped—and called Pete out of shame and remorse. But his eyes looked clear. He just seemed shaken to his core.
“There’s someone you need to talk to,” Dave said, the words coming out flat and detached, like a prayer repeated before bed. “Turn on the light.”
