by Alex Segura
“We made a deal,” Mujica said, his voice a dark, low baritone. “I honor my promises, Mr. Fernandez. I was led to believe you did, too.”
“Your man Rosen fired me.”
“So I’m told,” Mujica said, nodding slowly. His demeanor was thoughtful, but not casual—a professional hunter waiting for the right time to shoot. “But my argument stands. You owe me your time and effort. I have neither.”
“This isn’t about a painting, is it?” Pete asked.
“What do you mean?” Rosen said.
“I did a little digging after the trail went cold,” Pete said. “And while your story of a lost Garcia Menocal painting was intriguing, it made no sense. I talked to a few experts—Cuban history, art history, you name it. There’s no evidence this painting ever existed, much less that you even had it in your possession. Which makes me wonder—what did this woman, this Beatriz de Armas, steal from Javier?”
Rosen fidgeted and Mujica shook his head. They’d expected Pete to roll over.
“Mr. Fernandez, you insult me with your intimations, your insults,” Mujica said, placing his hands on Pete’s dinner table, palms down. “I came to you with a clear request. You accepted it. Now we are at an impasse. That frustrates me.”
Mujica licked his lips slowly, as if preparing himself for a long, thoughtful speech. But Pete knew the man enough to know he chose his words carefully—for maximum impact.
“Déjame hablar claramente, Fernandez. Mr. Rosen tells me he offered to destroy something relating to you, something potentially damaging to your reputation,” Mujica said, switching from Spanish to English with ease. “That was kind of him. Eddie is a trusting sort. I’m more direct—because my time is precious: Do as we ask, and I will personally clear up your problem. Ignore my request, and I can’t guarantee what happens next will be to your liking. ¿Me entiendes, mijo?”
He motioned to his bodyguards and they led the older man out Pete’s front door.
Rosen lingered behind. “That didn’t go as well as it could have,” he said, his eyes on the door, waiting for his boss and his lackeys to be out of earshot.
“I’m not doing this,” Pete said. “I have no reason to.”
“Well, now it sounds like you do,” Rosen said. “Doesn’t it?”
“You lied about those photos being destroyed.”
“I may have forgotten that I had an extra set,” Rosen said with a shrug. “Old age, it gets to you.”
“You’re a piece of shit, Eddie,” Pete said.
“You saw her, didn’t you?” Rosen asked, changing the subject. “Why didn’t you tell Alvaro?”
“Who?”
“Beatriz.”
“Yes,” Pete said. “For a minute. But then I lost her.”
“You lost her?” Rosen said, shaking his head. “I’m going to forget to tell my boss that, too. Beatriz has become an obsession for him, understandably.”
“If that’s what you want to call her.”
Pete turned away from Rosen. He didn’t care. He wanted the men out of his house. Out of his life.
“What did you mean by that?” Rosen said, grabbing Pete’s shoulder.
Pete shook Rosen’s grip off. “Nothing,” he said. “You can leave now, unless there’s something else?”
Rosen looked out Pete’s doorway, watched as Mujica’s bodyguards shepherded the man into the back seat. Making sure they were able to talk freely.
“Your instincts were right,” Rosen said. “There is no painting.”
“Thanks, but it’s not instinct,” Pete said, before Rosen cut him off.
“Whatever you want to call it,” Rosen said. “It’s more complicated than that. Beatriz has something that belongs to my boss. Something that’s ... how do I put it? Jeopardizing his business interests.”
Pete turned to face Rosen, who upon closer inspection, looked weary and tired.
“That’s a shame,” Pete said. “Best of luck. Like I said, I’ve got other things I need to work on.”
Rosen sighed and stepped closer to Pete. He could smell the art dealer’s musky aftershave, could see the creases around his eyes and the dark rings under them.
“I don’t want to put this woman—Beatriz, or whatever you know her as—at risk, all right?” Rosen said, eyebrows raised. “I can guarantee her safety. I want her to be safe. I don’t care about her. But she has something we need. And it’s directly tied to you.”
Pete didn’t respond.
“You almost died, months ago,” Rosen said. “That gangster, Vincent Salerno, was after something. Information, you thought. Now he’s dead. We don’t know why. But the Italians want blood. Salerno was going rogue on them, but he was still a made guy. Someone took him out. The Italians—the DeCalvacantes—think Alvaro clipped their guy, and they don’t like that.”
“Wait, so Salerno wasn’t killed by the DeCalvacantes?”
Rosen’s eyes narrowed. “Where’d you get that idea?” he asked. “Why would they kill their own guy?”
“Who else would want him gone?” Pete asked. “The mob tends to self-regulate.”
Images of that moment flooded Pete’s mind. Walking into his empty Spring Valley office. The FBI agent, Chopp. Salerno appearing. Everything going dark. The beeping sounds. The shuffling. The pain. What had brought the gangster back there? What had he been after? And why was it coming back up again now, with Eddie Rosen?
“What does any of this have to do with, uh, Beatriz?” Pete asked. “What did Salerno want?”
Rosen looked over his shoulder, then back at Pete. “I gotta go, now’s a bad time,” he said. “But let’s meet up. I’ll call you, all right?”
He didn’t wait for a response.
Pete watched as the man walked out of his house and slipped into a waiting limo.
August 16, 1983
GRACIELA LOCKED THE front door to Terraza, a trendy jazz club downtown. The area was getting better, safer, but it was still not a good idea to be alone in an empty bar this time of night. She leaned on the door and sighed. It’d been a long night. The tips had been good, the crowd had been mostly well-behaved, and the band—a quartet that was really cooking toward the end of their Latin jazz set—had brought in more people than usual.
So this was what it was like to be part of the workforce, Graciela thought. Diane had finally drawn the line a week back. Get a job. Graciela understood. She’d been surfing on D’s couch for months, not paying rent, eating her food. It made sense. Graciela hadn’t waited tables in years, though. Not since before Pedro. But the tricks of the trade came back quick. Like muscle memory.
It felt good to work, she had to admit. To have some kind of purpose. A place to be. The tips were good, and she had to actually dress up for the gig. She felt like she had some momentum for the first time in a long while.
When she’d gotten the job—when D had come bounding into the apartment to tell her they’d hire Graciela—she’d told herself she’d grow up now. Drink only on the weekends. Go to bed at a normal time. She’d even called Pedro and asked to see Pete.
Graciela thought back to that humid afternoon, the drive—she’d borrowed D’s car—out to Westchester, the pull of regret as she walked up those familiar porch steps. Pete had gotten so big. She’d cried when she saw him, cried harder as she pulled him close, as the familiar touch and smell of him invaded her senses, his little, chubby body warm on her chest.
This is my baby, she remembered thinking. Where the fuck have I been?
She had been ill-equipped in the moment, and found herself shaking with tears. Pete was crying, too. She remembered Pedro gently pulling their son back. Graciela got upset. Started screaming. Cursing. Stomping her feet like a toddler.
“How dare you keep him from me?” she’d screamed. “I can watch him. I can love him. I don’t need your cop bullshit telling me I’m some kind of monster—some drunk. Just because you hate me.”
Then she was spent, on her knees, panting, drenched in tears. She saw Pedro’s dad, Diego,
sitting in a corner, trying to ignore them all, reading his book, keeping some level of decorum. He’d never liked her, Graciela knew. The guy had escaped Castro, evaded gangsters—yet here he sat, looking at her like she was the worst kind of devil he’d ever seen.
Then she’d left. She’d run out. She couldn’t see them again. She hadn’t been ready. But Pete was fine. That was all Graciela needed. Now it was on her. She needed to get her life in order. Find her way back to her son.
She wiped down the bar. She wanted to keep things on the level. But it hadn’t been easy. D wanted to go out every night, no matter what time Terraza closed. If it was too late, they’d end up drinking here, making sure not to skim too much off the top. They’d get a good buzz on the work supply, do a few bumps in the bathroom, and then jump in the car. Then they were off—to the beach, to that shithole bar near D’s place, anywhere really. Sometimes they’d find themselves at a random house party and wake up in a spare bedroom or on a couch. It felt fucking great in the moment. When everyone was laughing, drinking, touching, moving … but the mornings were something else. Something darker. Empty. It left Graciela feeling raw, inhuman. Like a piece of garbage.
Sometimes, in the morning, feeling the remnants of a buzz and beginnings of a headache, feeling like an alien in her own skin, Graciela would call people. Friends. Family. Usually Pedro. It’d always end in a fight. He’d be calm and patient at first, but she could feel the anger—the shame. Before it got too bad, she’d ask him to give Pete a kiss and hang up. She’d promise things. Too many things. She’d promise to come by for dinner. She’d ask to see their son. She’d promise this was just something she had to work through. That she’d be better soon.
“But will I?” she said, on the tips of her toes, trying to slide a bottle of vodka onto the bar’s top shelf.
She finished restocking the bar and turned to see the door open. She was sure she’d locked it, so it could only mean one person was coming in. She felt a mixture of excitement and anxiety.
He walked in, looking like he’d just spent the day at the spa. His hair perfect, his suit impeccable, and his smile gleaming— something out of a catalogue. He locked the door behind him with his free hand, the other toting a large bottle of what looked like very expensive champagne.
He leaned over the bar and they kissed. A long, familiar kiss.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he said, a sly smile on his handsome face.
Graciela had become a cliché, and she wasn’t sure she cared. It was one of the few bright stops she could find, when her head was clear and she could truly—soberly—assess her situation. He was smart, charming, and treated her well. He was probably married, too.
She was dating her boss and not sure she felt guilty about it.
PETE LET THE phone clatter onto the table. He’d left Kathy a third voicemail, this one more pleading than the last. He felt tangled up—threads weaving around him and pulling him in different directions. Why was Emily—his former fiancée— masquerading as someone else? What did Salerno have to do with Alvaro Mujica? Who was the mysterious man his mother was with on the night she was murdered? Who killed Osvaldo Valdez hours before he could talk to Pete about the death of his mother?
He didn’t know where to go from here, or if there was a clear path. But he knew what he didn’t want to do: work for Alvaro Mujica. Get ensnared by another powerful, corrupt man. Fuck the photos, he thought. He’d gotten out of worse jam-ups with police. He’d have to do it again. He wasn’t going to be held hostage.
He grabbed his laptop and went to his most reliable search tools and databases—the first step to any investigation. Even now, “retired” as he was, he kept all his memberships and paperwork active. Well, he just hadn’t taken the time to deactivate them, he thought. In the transition from shambling sometimes-PI to almost-dead ex-PI, Pete figured the best thing to do was just stop. Stop the work. Stop the flow of cases. He’d get to the details as needed.
For a moment, he was happy he hadn’t. His past was reaching out to him—trying to pull him down into a darkness he couldn’t make out. He had to dive into the work and find some footing, or risk drowning.
He typed the name into the search field: Emily Sprague. The information unspooled on the screen—much of it familiar to Pete. Banyan Elementary. West Miami Middle School. Coral Park High. Rutgers. The addresses. The one they shared in New Jersey. Her apartment on South Beach, the one she’d scurried to after leaving him, the cab loaded with luggage. The house in Homestead with her husband, Rick Blanco. Then ... nothing.
Rick Blanco was your typical Cuban alpha male—old-fashioned and family-oriented on the surface, up for a party and bending the rules underneath. He’d been nice enough, but he had a temper. And, Pete realized over time, he’d also dabbled on the wrong side of the law. After Rick’s death and the conclusion of the Los Enfermos case, Harras said Emily had ended up in Europe, but Pete never followed up. Never expected to see her again. She was in the wind.
But everyone leaves a trail. Pete had learned this over the years. Every purchase, every move, every relationship, left a fingerprint. Emily was no exception. Shortly after the last time he’d seen her—a heated exchange that was more bitter dismissal than emotional goodbye—she’d flown to Barcelona. According to her credit card, she’d rented an Airbnb near Las Ramblas, a gothic maze in the heart of the city. She’d apparently stayed there for a few months before moving into an apartment nearby.
He pulled up another tab and scrolled through his recent bookmarks. Javier Mujica had a website for his group, The Javier Mujica Quintet. He clicked on “EVENTS” and scrolled back—almost two years back, syncing up with when Emily had left the country and settled in Spain. The Javier Mujica Quintet had embarked on a European tour a month before, and spent time in Spain around the same time Emily was getting settled. They’d played in a medium-sized venue, JazzSi Club Taller de Musics, which was relatively close to the apartment where Emily settled. Pete didn’t believe in coincidences.
He went back to the Emily file and wasn’t surprised to notice that her electronic footprint had become harder to make out, fading over time. Fewer purchases. No forwarding address.
Pete slid the laptop away and pulled out a small notebook. He began to write. Emily Sprague-Blanco. She’d left Miami in fear and shame—afraid her dead husband’s former bosses, the bloodthirsty drug gang known as Los Enfermos, would come after her for absconding with money Rick had skimmed from them. Javier Mujica was the son of a gambling boss with ties to drugs and all things underworld, who’d left the long shadow of his father to become his own man, his own artist. It sounded almost romantic that these two people—on the run from their own pasts—could find love on another continent and start anew.
But life never worked out that way. And as much as he wanted to think Emily did find something special in the dark, winding streets of Barcelona, Pete was also sure she’d found something else. Pete felt his phone vibrating in his pocket and picked up.
“Hello?”
“Pete, it’s Rachel Alter,” the cold case detective said. “We’ve got a problem.”
“What’s up?”
“It’s your partner,” Alter said, her voice hushed. “She’s in trouble. Bentley. The reporter.”
“What?” Pete asked. “Where is she?”
“Downtown, here at the precinct,” Alter said. “Hudson just asked me to give you a ring. Bentley’s been arrested, for battery.”
“Battery?” Pete said. He waited for a moment to hear Alter’s response, but the line had gone dead.
KATHY WALKED OUTSIDE the police station, wrapped in a jacket that was clearly two sizes too big, Rachel Alter a few steps behind her. When she noticed Pete, she shook her head slightly, letting it hang forward in defeat. She barely looked up at him when they stepped off the sidewalk onto the parking lot asphalt.
“Thanks for bailing me out, I guess,” Kathy said, looking around the vacant lot.
“Marco’s dropping th
e charges,” Alter said, her voice flat. “Which is a good thing.”
“Need a lift?” Pete asked.
Kathy shrugged and followed Pete, who nodded at Alter. The detective waved and walked back toward the precinct, a “this is your problem now” look in her eyes.
Pete and Kathy got into the car and backed out of the parking lot. They were silent for the first ten minutes of the ride back to Kathy’s Wynwood apartment, the only sound coming from the radio—Cat Power plaintively asking Aretha to sing one for her.
“I’m pregnant.”
Pete tapped the brakes and slid the car off the road, pulling into a residential street. He flicked the blinkers on and turned to face Kathy.
“What?”
“You heard me,” Kathy said, still not looking at him. Her eyes were red from crying, whatever makeup she’d put on that day wiped away roughly over the last few hours.
“Is that what the fight was about? Marco was upset?”
“You could say that, yes.”
Pete let out a dry laugh. “Not an ideal way to respond to the news that you’re having a kid.’
“I’d say it was pretty normal.”
Pete turned his body toward Kathy.
“How is that normal?” Pete asked. “I’d think he’d be happy he was going to be a father.”
“Pete,” Kathy said, an annoyed frown on her face as she met his look for the first time since walking out of police headquarters. “The baby is yours. You’re the father.”
HE SET KATHY up in his bedroom and took the couch. It was close to two in the morning by the time she was asleep. The suburban quiet of Westchester belied the internal scream Pete had felt since Kathy broke the news to him. Pregnant. He was going to be a father. The idea had been something he hadn’t entertained in years.
He wasn’t ready. He was certain of that. But he didn’t have much of a choice now. That was life, Pete had discovered, over the last few years. Things happened and you reacted in the best way possible. That was all you could control.
