Miami Midnight

by Alex Segura

  “You just gonna sit there?”

  “No, no,” Pete said, stammering. “Did you know Osvaldo Valdez?”

  “Ozzie? Yeah, I knew him. Good man. Like, good-good, not just a good cop, okay?” she said. “What about him? Now, he’s definitely dead.”

  “He came to me a few months ago,” Pete said. “He told me he had information about my mother.”

  “Pedro’s wife?”

  “Yes, Graciela.”

  “Right, she’s dead, too, huh?” Hudson said, pushing her chair back a bit and wheeling to face Pete directly. “What about her?”

  “That’s the problem. I don’t know. He died that night.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “He comes to you, says, ‘Hey man, I got some info on your mom,’ then you hear he’s dead? Same day?”

  “Same day.”

  Hudson let out a long sigh.

  “Did you think it might make a little bit of sense to bring this to us?” she said, her eyes wide with frustration. “Or is that too lowbrow for Mr. Big-Time Private Eye, Pete Fernandez?”

  “I’m here now.”

  “Yes, you are, but I don’t need to give you a tutorial on the art of murder police, right?” she said. “I know you must watch ‘The First 48’ or shows like that. Well, we’re long past the first 48, son, and this case is frozen solid. Anything else you’ve been keeping under wraps while you wonder about your mommy?”

  “Nope,” Pete said. He’d keep Beatriz de Armas’s—or Emily Sprague’s—business card to himself. For now.

  “Let’s hope so,” Hudson said. “Okay, your mom. Graciela Fernandez. How old were you when she died?”

  “Less than a few hours,” Pete said. “She died during childbirth. My birth, I mean.”

  The memories hit again. The wave of textures, sights, smells—from a long time ago, from moments Pete hadn’t thought of … ever. Were they images and experiences created by his subconscious? Or was he remembering something more important? Someone?

  A frown formed on Hudson’s face. A mix of concern, regret, and hesitation.

  “What year were you born?” she asked.

  “1981,” Pete said. “Why?”

  She stood up, dusting her blouse and jacket off.

  “Follow me.”

  HUDSON LED PETE down a series of twisting halls to an elevator. She pushed the DOWN button and looked at him for the first time since they left her office.

  “Tell Harras I said to go fuck himself.”

  Pete started to respond.

  “No, in fact, let me tell him,” she said, stepping into the elevator. Pete followed. “Because he has put me in a shitty position on a day that was already shitty. He knows the drill, too, so he should’ve done this his own damn self.”

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Eventually,” she said. “I have no choice.”

  They reached the bottom floor and Hudson stepped out first. Pete noticed the sign on the doorway near the swipe-pad where Hudson touched her ID card. COLD CASE UNIT.

  They stepped into what Pete would consider, if he was being generous, a cramped closet. There was a tiny desk in the corner, surrounded by a phalanx of file cabinets. Seated at the solitary desk was a woman about Pete’s age, late thirties—long, unkempt dark brown hair, a clean but worn business suit, and sharp green eyes behind black-framed glasses. She looked up as they entered.

  “Hudson,” the woman said, her voice husky and tired-sounding. “This is a surprise.”

  “Pete Fernandez, meet Rachel Alter,” Hudson said, waving at the woman. “She’s the head of—and only member of—the Miami Cold Case Unit. Well, this branch, at least.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Pete said.

  Alter kept her eyes on Hudson, ignoring Pete.

  “What’s this about, Hudson?” she said. “In case you missed it, I’m backed up until I retire, which is still a few decades away.”

  Hudson, who had already started to make her way toward the exit, wheeled around and looked at Pete.

  “Pete Fernandez, your mother didn’t die giving birth to you,” she said, her tone slow and methodical, as if trying to ensure Pete understood every word. “She was murdered on New Year’s Eve 1984, a few months after she abandoned you and your father.”

  August 11, 1983

  GRACIELA’S EYES CREAKED open, the thrum and pounding in her skull making every movement slow, sluggish, and painful.

  It happened again.

  She waited a second before sitting up. She put her head in her hands once she did, exhausted and spent after such a minimal action. It happened again, she thought, but not “again” as in “for the second time.” More like “one more time this month.”

  She was in bed. Well, the couch in D’s apartment. That wasn’t the problem. That’s where she’d been sleeping since Pedro sent her packing. It had started to feel even more permanent after her run-in with him a few weeks back. No, the part that wasn’t normal—though, it had become a bit more common—was that she had no idea how she got back. Or when the night had ended.

  She checked herself, patting her clothes and feeling around her face and arms. She was wearing the dress she did remember putting on before she left the apartment, raring to get a good drunk on and enjoy herself. She remembered getting into the car with D. She remembered the bars they went to—up to a point.

  The last thing she remembered—the last image that seemed to pop up in her mind as she slowly, painfully stood and walked toward D’s war zone of a kitchen—was the shot. A massive, almost-full glass shot of Popov, which was cheap vodka that everyone knew was basically gasoline. She remembered feeling the clear liquid sliding through her, activating her insides and then … blackness.

  What had happened after? How had she gotten home?

  She scanned her body. Bruises—purple and yellow marks on her legs, knees, and arms. Her mouth dry—feeling like it could crack and shatter at any moment.

  How did I get back here?

  She felt her body run cold. The shivers came strong, and she had to lean on the wall in D’s small kitchen to stifle them a bit. She stepped out and looked toward the apartment’s sole bedroom. The door was closed, a sign that D was inside and probably asleep. She could ask her when she woke up. She could get a sense, an idea of what happened, and then all the pieces would click together. D had probably gotten her home. Of course she had. She would fill in the gaps and the story would be complete.

  But that wouldn’t make you feel any better, a voice in her head hissed.

  No, because the pieces didn’t belong to her. She didn’t know what happened. What she did. Who she went with. She’d just know someone else’s version. The blackouts were happening more often now. She felt a whooshing in her skull, as if her head was about to explode but couldn’t.

  She poured herself another big glass from the tap and guzzled it down. The reflex triggered another memory. Clinking glasses. Pulling her neck back, opening her throat as the amber liquid poured into her. The smiles and sloppy high fives after, the dizzy euphoria of the buzz that quickly turned to sadness and disorientation.

  “You can’t be a mother if this is how you’re going to act.”

  Pedro’s words had boomed in her ears then and they came back to haunt her now, like a dark, terrifying déjà vu.

  He hadn’t told her this when he asked her to leave. That’d been simpler, cleaner almost. But the refrain had come up often in the days and weeks leading up to her exit. Like the night she’d jumped into oncoming traffic—screaming, arms flailing, completely whacked out on cokes, pills, wine—daring him to chase after her, Pete in the backseat of their car, looking out—his toddler eyes wide and confused, afraid.

  Or the night she’d stormed out of a restaurant—a German place in Kendall—mid-meal, because she could have sworn Pedro, who had never so much as looked at another woman while they were married, was making eyes at the waitress. Or maybe it’d been the time Graciela had crashed t
he family car into ... a parked car in a strip mall, when she’d told Pedro she was running out to pick up a movie but instead decided to stock up on gin and score some coke. All the nights blurred together. The days seemed foggy and slow-motion.

  Graciela felt herself collapse. Her knees hit the floor hard. Her hands were in her hair, pulling, tugging. She could feel the hot tears streaming down her face. This was not normal. This wasn’t right.

  But it was an easy fix, right? Had to be. She just needed a break. A day or two of rest. Then she could figure out what to do.

  I’m just tired. She needed time in bed, some real food, and no partying. No drugs. No drinks. She needed to relax for a bit. The rest would work out.

  It had to.

  “WAIT, IS SHE seriously leaving?”

  Pete started toward the door, his head in a thick gray cloud. He felt his hand shake as he reached for the doorknob. He knew Hudson would be on the elevator by now. But he could catch her. He had to catch her.

  “You won’t reach her in time,” Alter said as she stood up, her voice coming through loud. “She’s gone. This is what she does. She’s like a tornado.”

  Pete turned around, eyes wide. He didn’t know what was happening.

  “We can talk tomorrow, when I’m back in the office,” she said, trying to sidestep him. Pete blocked her path. “I’ve got to be somewhere.”

  “Listen, Rachel, I’m sorry—but we need to talk now,” Pete asked. “You and Hudson just dropped a bombshell on me and I’m not sure I can just sit at home and wait.”

  “I have somewhere I need to be, so I’m sorry,” Alter said. Pete could tell she felt bad, but wasn’t going to budge.

  Pete rubbed his temples. For a moment, he let his thoughts drift back, to a time not so long ago when his biggest problem was how many copies of the latest James Patterson to order. Those days had been brief, glorious, and were very much gone.

  “I’m going with you.”

  “No—”

  “Look, you’re a detective,” Pete said. “This is major. I’m Graciela’s only son. I have some information that might help you. I mean, no one ever contacted me about this case—even though you were working on it as a cold-case detective. Maybe we can solve this together.”

  “I need to pick up my daughter from her sitter,” Alter said, shutting off the lights and opening the office door. “You can ride with me, but I’m not bringing you back here. Please don’t make me regret this.”

  “I’ll take a Lyft back, no sweat,” Pete said, relief coating his voice. “But if you’ve been working this case, I need all the info you have, as fast as you can share it.”

  Alter slung her purse over her shoulder. She opened a nearby cabinet and grabbed a stack of heavy-looking file folders. “Fine, come with me.”

  “What are those?” Pete asked, following her out of the office.

  “Work,” she said. “I usually take four or five files home with me each night. This is light, considering.”

  Rachel Alter led Pete to her car, a red Toyota Camry that was a few years old. The backseat featured a car seat and was littered with toys, books, and what looked like tiny food pouches and a roll of paper towels.

  “Mom life, huh?” Pete said as he slid into the front passenger seat.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, just trying to make small talk.”

  “The sitter isn’t far, so maximize your time,” she said, not looking at him as she started the car engine and backed out of the parking lot. Her manner was stern and distant, but Pete sensed there was more to the woman than she let on.

  “How long have you been working in the Cold Case Unit?”

  “That question implies we’re a unit,” she said, pulling onto the 836. “It’s just me in this office. And I’m so backed up I barely get to work on anything. If we get a DNA hit, the case goes to the top of the pile. If there’s a new true-crime Netflix documentary or book, same. We go with the evidence or the buzz. The rest of the files, the ones that aren’t talked about on Reddit or saved by DNA, those stay in the cabinets.”

  “Like my mom.”

  She turned to meet his eyes, a flicker of life in hers. “Yes,” she said. “Like your mom.”

  “What can you tell me about it?”

  “What do you remember about your mother?”

  “Nothing,” Pete said. “Nothing, really. My dad said she was a caring woman, she died of complications during my birth—it was sudden and tragic. He raised me from there.”

  “You never thought to ask?”

  “I did, here and there,” Pete said. “But there was little to ask about. I saw some pictures. She didn’t have any family, so I never met that side of my life, and my father never seemed really to want to talk about it. He’d mention her, sometimes, over the years. But as time went on—well, it sounds terrible, but we moved on, too. Her memory faded. I just went on living.”

  “It happens,” Alter said. “We’re built to compartmentalize and cope. It’s how we survive.”

  “But this—this info, this suggestion—”

  “It’s not a suggestion,” Alter said. “It’s a fact. Graciela Fernandez was murdered. The question I have is: Why didn’t your father tell you? Why didn’t anyone from the Miami Police Department tell you?”

  “I ... I have no idea.”

  “I’d hate to think it was a clerical error, but that’s probably part of it. Graciela Fernandez was her married name,” Alter said. “Her maiden name was Nuñez. She’d reverted to that name during the last year or so of her life. The murder book is under that name.”

  “Why was she using Nuñez?”

  “Why do you think women revert to their maiden names?” Alter said, flatly. “Your parents were in the final stages of a divorce. Graciela had left your father—and you, a few years old, presumably—months before she died.”

  Pete shook his head. It felt like an unwritten chapter in his own history was being presented to him, complete and unabridged. He wanted to dig back, deeper into his own thoughts and memories, but he knew he’d find nothing. The story Alter was telling him resided in a void no one could reach—the blank, formative days of a newborn and toddler. But what of those visions? The memories that seemed to materialize when he’d talked to Valdez and then Hudson?

  “I am sorry to be the one giving you all this information,” Alter said. “It’s not fair ... to either of us. Hudson likes to pass the buck, and she was downright gleeful in there. Dumping this on my desk like some kind of eviction form.” She frowned. “No, that’s not fair,” she said. “This is your life. Whether you remember it or not.”

  She pulled the car into the driveway of a tiny house in West Kendall.

  “Look,” she said unbuckling her seat belt. “Let’s keep talking. I just need to grab Ella and get her ready for dinner, then bed. Then we can keep going. All right?”

  “What about your husband?” Pete asked, immediately regretting it.

  “He doesn’t exist,” Alter said with a humorless chuckle. “Ella’s actually my niece. I adopted her a few months back.”

  Pete started to talk, but Alter continued.

  “My sister died in a car accident. She was older. Had the baby on her own—she wanted a kid, but didn’t want to keep shopping for Mr. Right. Ella was less than a year old when a drunk driver mowed my sister down,” Alter said. “I was the only person Ella had left. So I adopted her, basically. I’m her mom now, for better or worse.”

  “It seems like you’re getting by.”

  “It’s all I can do,” Alter said, staring out at the house. She blinked and turned to Pete. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  She got out of the car and walked toward the front door.

  Pete pulled out his cell phone and dialed Kathy’s number. His hand was shaking. It rang a few times and went to voicemail. He hung up and tried again. No response. He tried once more, this time waiting for the message tone.

  “It’s me. Call me back. I need your help. It’s import
ant.”

  As he hung up, he felt the rear passenger side door open. He turned to see Rachel sliding a tiny, light-haired toddler into the car seat. She did it with the calm and expertise of someone who did this regularly, her hands moving over the small chair’s belts like a musician plucking at an acoustic guitar. All the while, baby Ella slept, her head tilted to her left, mouth open, breathing slowly.

  Rachel closed the door gently and sped to the driver’s side. She got in and started the car, then looked at Pete. “This is bad.”

  “What happened?”

  “She shouldn’t be napping now,” Rachel said, looking into her rearview and backing out of the house’s driveway. “It’s going to ruin her sleep tonight.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  Rachel scoffed. “Said the man with no children.”

  “That I know of.”

  “I didn’t think you could get any less charming,” Rachel said. “Who were you calling?”

  “I was trying to get in touch with my partner,” Pete said. “Was hoping she’d be able to swing by and help us talk over the case.”

  “Is she coming?”

  “No response,” Pete said. “She didn’t pick up.”

  “Huh,” Rachel said, putting her turn signal on before making a right. “Sounds like you don’t have a partner.”

  “SHE’S DOWN,” RACHEL said, plopping down onto her tiny two-seater couch. “For now.”

  Pete was seated across from her, the living room of her three-bedroom townhouse littered with toys, a baby-gate enclosure, and stacks of parenting books—most of which were read, from what Pete could tell.

  Rachel was clutching a small remote-like device, which was making a buzzing sound. The light from the monitor’s display shone on Rachel’s face, revealing her tired eyes and weary expression.

  “How long does she sleep?”

  “Four or five hours, if I’m lucky. Usually three or four before she needs to be fed. She slept through the night once and I woke up in a panic, thinking she’d died in her sleep.”