by Alex Segura
They’d talked more freely after Kathy let him know, the walls they’d built up between each other temporarily taken down in the wake of the revelation. She wanted to keep the baby. It was hers. She wanted to be a mother. She didn’t care if Pete wanted to be involved. Didn’t care that Marco knew. Didn’t care that her personal life was in tatters. She wanted the baby. She’d already lost one before.
Pete nodded. He wanted it, too. He realized it as he said the words aloud. He wanted this.
But what was “this,” and what did it entail? Marriage? No, friendship was what he could offer now. Anything else ... well, that would come on its own. He tried to stretch out on his cramped couch, his bare feet leaning over the side.
Kathy had been matter-of-fact on the ride to Pete’s house. She was glad Pete knew now. She wasn’t sure how long she could have kept it from him. But she wasn’t going to make the same mistake she made before, with Harras—the secrets and the anger and the regret. With the baby she’d lost. She was going to protect the child. She was going to focus on whatever she could do to ensure its survival. Whether that was with Pete or not, she didn’t care.
Pete thought of his own father. The man he’d hated as a child—not because of any abuse or misbehavior, but because of the rules he’d imposed. The structure. All things that came to serve him well as an adult. Had his perception of the old man changed now, after Pete learned the truth about his mother? That she’d been murdered and had been an addict, like Pete? Why had Pedro Fernandez kept the truth from him? What could he do to dig deeper into the case? Was it even worth doing?
Pete sat up and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. He reached for his laptop and did a cursory search for the bar, the jazz club his mother had worked at in her final days. Terraza still existed, he discovered, though it was an upscale eatery that sometimes featured music—ranging from live jazz fusion to Spanish hip-hop. He did a basic records search. He couldn’t find anything that synced up with the time Graciela Fernandez worked there, but he did find a trail that led him to the current owner.
I shouldn’t be surprised, he thought. It was always one case. One thread.
He stood up and hastily scribbled a note, his hand shaking as he let Kathy know where he was headed. He slid the sheet under his bedroom door and got into his car. He backed out and headed toward the 836 East. He didn’t notice the dark sedan pulling out after him.
PETE RAPPED HIS knuckles on the door again. Hard. He knew it was late. He didn’t care.
Eddie Rosen, Alvaro Mujica’s art dealer-slash-fixer-slash-lawyer, lived on the fringe of Coral Gables, in a large house that could comfortably be called a mansion, or was maybe a small step below that rank. The front lawn was more foliage than grass—plants tangling together like some kind of miniature forest, hiding the large Mission revival–style home from passersby. He waited another minute. Rosen’s black Lexus was in the driveway, but he wasn’t responding to Pete’s repeated calls. He’d promised to reach out to Pete with some hush-hush information about his boss, but Pete had gotten nothing. That meant that Eddie either changed his mind, or had his mind changed. Both roads interested Pete.
It was late in the evening, and Rosen didn’t strike Pete as the partying type. No, he was home. But he was screening his visitors. Just as Pete started to turn back to his car, he heard the door creak open. He wheeled around, but didn’t find Rosen waiting for him.
“Emily?”
“Pete,” she said, a confused look on her face, followed by a nervous clarity. “Come in, hurry up.”
Pete walked into the large foyer, Emily closing the door quickly behind him—her back leaning on the large oak entrance, her hands in her now jet-black hair.
“What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing, Em.”
“Pete,” she said, rolling the word around her mouth, unfamiliar yet comfortable. Like a childhood prayer. “No, no. You shouldn’t be here. I thought it was ... someone ... someone else … ”
“Who? Eddie?” Pete asked. “What are you doing here?”
“You need to go, Pete,” she said. “I’m in a lot of trouble. You are, too. But you can still get out. Stop chasing this.”
“Chasing what?” Pete asked. “Let me help you. We can figure this out together.”
“No, we really can’t,” Emily said, shaking her head. “Not yet. I tried to warn you, but you’re as stubborn as ever. Back off from this. It’s going to get a lot worse.”
Pete grabbed her shoulders, a slight shake on contact.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide, as if noticing him for the first time.
“Emily,” Pete said. “What the fuck is going on? Why have you gotten yourself invol—”
The sentence was drowned out by gunfire, the staccato beat of a machine gun shattering the large bay windows and shaking the house’s front door.
Pete reacted instinctively, lunging into the foyer, his arm stretched out, dragging Emily down. They landed hard, his head thumping on the white Calcutta marble tile. He groaned as he rolled onto his back, just in time to see the door swing inward. He heard Emily’s frightened intake of breath as a dark figure stepped into his view. He felt her roll to her feet and run. The masked man didn’t flinch, his gaze locked on Pete.
He knew, in his head and heart, that the man beneath the large dark scarf, under the sharp black hat, was not the same man he’d grappled with years before. Yet, here he was—Isleño Novo, if Robert Harras’s intel was right—the same figure that had stormed into his house months before and had almost murdered Harras. A figure that had leapt out of Pete’s own nightmares and into this dark, musty room.
“No,” Pete said, reaching for his back—for the place where he normally kept his father’s gun. The gun wasn’t there.
But this man, this Silent Death, didn’t know that. He drew a silencer-equipped pistol and spoke, a gravel-laced voice seeming to waft out from the dark house’s very walls.
Pete had a moment, maybe two, to act. To not only avoid being gunned down by this killer, but also protect Emily. He mouthed a silent prayer before lifting his hands in surrender.
The move seemed to surprise the masked man momentarily.
“So, you’re the new Silent Death?” Pete asked, turning into a sitting position. “Didn’t realize it was a legacy thing, like James Bond or the Tonight Show.”
The man stepped toward Pete, gun trained on his head.
The sound of the gunshot was deafening, echoing around the room and sending Pete reeling. He watched as the Silent Death crumpled to the floor, a mist of blood spurting out of the back of his head and onto the door and wall behind him. His face hit the tile with a soft schlop sound, blood pooling around it almost immediately.
Emily was standing, the gun still pointed at the space where the man once stood. Her hands were shaking, tears streaming down her face. She didn’t fight when she felt Pete’s hand wrap around hers, gently pulling the gun from her grasp. He put the gun in his back pocket and pulled her in to him. He felt her body shake as the wracking sobs overtook her, the low, wailing moan growing louder with each heaving breath.
NISHA HUDSON HANDED Pete a Styrofoam cup half-filled with a light brown liquid that had once been coffee. He took a hungry slurp. They’d been outside Eddie Rosen’s house for what felt like days, but had only been a few hours.
Emily had been taken to the hospital for observation. The body of the man dressed as the Silent Death was identified as Isleño Novo, as Harras had guessed—a mob assassin with ties to the Five Families, the Albanian crime syndicates, and various other cartels. So, while not the Silent Death Pete remembered, Novo had been a Silent Death of sorts.
The bigger question was: Why had he been gunning for them?
“You all right?” Hudson asked, her stern features softening briefly as Pete finished his lukewarm drink.
“I’ll be okay,” Pete said. “Not sure how Emily will end up.”
“Beatriz de Armas, you mean?”
“She was barely speaking when they took her in the ambulance,” Hudson said, looking down the street, littered with onlookers and Miami-Dade Police green-and-whites, their lights flashing in the Miami evening. “Any idea why she was in the house?”
Pete shook his head.
“You gonna tell me why you were in Eddie Rosen’s house? Without him there?”
“Not unless you really want to push it.”
Hudson smirked. “You’re a pain in the ass,” she said. “Normally, I’d like that. But not tonight.”
Pete started to respond, but Hudson persisted.
“I’m not asking as your dad’s old pal,” Hudson said. “I’m asking as a Homicide detective who’s looking at a warm body in the house of a very well-known part of the community. And I’m asking you as a witness. What were you doing in Eddie Rosen’s house, without Eddie Rosen in there? And what the fuck else happened?”
“I went there to see Eddie, but—“
Before he could continue, Pete heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see Kathy, speeding down the sidewalk, wrapped in one of Pete’s FIU sweaters and black yoga pants. They embraced, a short hug, her face hot on his. Pete held onto her.
“What the hell happened?” she hissed into his ear.
“I’m fine.”
She pulled away with a quick shove. She was mad, Pete could tell. But also relieved. The latter meant more to him. It gave him hope.
“Hudson, this is Kathy—”
“I know Ms. Bentley,” Hudson said, extending her hand. “By reputation.”
Kathy shook the detective’s hand and nodded. “I get that a lot,” she said. “I’ll take this one as a compliment, I guess.”
“It’s good you’re here, actually,” Hudson said. “And, Pete, don’t think I forgot about our little chat. You’re a person of interest here. So either we talk now, tomorrow, or very soon. I’m not the type that likes to be ignored.”
Hudson pulled out her phone and pushed a few buttons. She turned away from Pete and Kathy and muttered a few words into the phone.
“What was that about?” Pete asked as Hudson swiveled back to them.
“Turn around,” Hudson said.
Pete and Kathy did.
“Miss me?” Robert Harras asked.
Pete’s expression remain unchanged, if a bit bemused. Kathy’s was a mix of anger, surprise, and happiness—which summed up her general feelings for Robert Harras, dead or alive.
“The gang’s all here, I guess,” she said.
“I THOUGHT YOU were dead,” Kathy said.
“I told Pete to clue you in.”
“He did, in his way, but we’re not exactly on the best terms,” she said. “And, you’re technically dead. The world thinks you’re dead.”
“I’m not,” Harras said.
“You shaved,” Pete said. “That’s like death.”
They were in the backseat of a large police van, the tinted windows giving them some sense of privacy. The van was weaving down Le Jeune Road, heading toward the 836. Hudson was headed to the hospital to interview Emily, and Pete wanted to be there.
“Cut the stand-up routine for once,” Harras said, his more familiar, curmudgeonly self peeking through. “We need to talk.”
“Where the fuck do you get off?” Kathy said, her head snapping left, eyes locking on Harras. “You’ve been AWOL, doing God knows what.
“And you,” she said to Pete. “What in the hell is even going on? We need to get our ducks in a row before you can expect me to sign up for another tour on the Titanic, okay?”
Harras chuckled.
“We’re saying the same thing,” he said. “We need to be on the same page. But before you tell me your side—here’s mine. After I got shot ... well, once they figured out I was going to live but it could be played off as a death, the Bureau took me off the grid. Their agents spun it so I was dead to the world, even before I was out of surgery and in full agreement. When I woke up, they gave me a choice. Go out, risk being in the crosshairs of whoever went after me, or help them. They wanted me for one more case, under deep cover, if I was willing and able. I laid the groundwork here for a while—no one really knew I was alive until I clued Dave in a few nights ago. Part of my time was spent healing, the rest was spent in New York, trying to track Vincent Salerno.”
“The goodfella who got shot up a few months back?” Kathy asked. “Wasn’t that in Miami?”
“Yes, but his trail wove back up north,” Harras said. “I needed to figure out what brought him here, and what brought him into Pete’s path in New York—what made him almost kill Pete, and come after him again. If that’s what he was doing, or if he was coming down here for something else.”
“Well,” Pete said, “don’t let me slow you down.”
“Like I told Pete, Salerno had a line on something big, huge—something that was worth risking his entire life as a made guy. But now I think I know more about what that is,” Harras said, gripping the bumper seat in the back of the van as the vehicle made a sharp turn. “Salerno was chasing after Doug Ferris, the father of your stripper friend, Destiny—”
“Jen. Jen Ferris,” Pete said, his voice sharp. “Her name was Jennifer.”
“Right, sorry,” Harras said, realizing his misstep.
Pete ignored Kathy’s glare.
Harras cleared his throat and continued. “Turns out Doug Ferris had a line on a Colombian connection unlike any other,” he said. “A major pipeline that had gone dry. Can you guess why? Because, believe it or not, you’re directly tied to it.”
Pete shrugged.
“Los Enfermos. The biggest drug gang Miami’s ever known. The giant funnel that takes all that fine Colombian snow and turns it into money? They were gone, or at least severely paralyzed,” Harras said, pointing at Pete. “Even before you came back to Miami and eliminated the dregs of the gang—”
“Actually, I believe you did that, by running over that Oliva guy and making his skull splatter,” Kathy said. “But who’s keeping score?”
“I was saving your life, if I recall,” Harras said. “Anyway, the Colombians were looking for a connect, a new gang they could trust and use to get their drugs on the street in Miami and across the Eastern Seaboard. Doug Ferris had a line on that info. Not the info itself, mind you. But he knew someone who could speak to La Madrina herself.”
“La Madrina?” Pete asked.
“The godmother, basically,” Harras said. “The head of the Colombian drug cartels is a woman—lady by the name of Andrea Muñoz. Nasty woman, rough character. We’ve—well, the Bureau’s—been trying to take her down for years. Problem is, we can’t seem to find her and we can’t seem to find anyone that knows her. So, even being two degrees away from her is something, and to Salerno, it meant money. Big money. He corners Ferris and gets nothing. Guy didn’t give up his source—because he didn’t really have one, just a friend of a friend, basically.
“Salerno kills him. He finds out his daughter, Jen, had been tracking him down using a PI from Miami named Fernandez. So Salerno starts going down the list. Spends so much time trailing you, he even enlists some of his mafia brothers to tag along, thinking it’s DeCalvacante business. You, being the imperious prick you are, embarrass him enough that his pal lets slip to the bosses what’s going on. So suddenly the heat is on Salerno from inside the house. While you’re in Miami dealing with La Iglesia de la Luz, he kills Jen Ferris and then, desperate, he comes after you when you pop up again in New York. He gets nothing, thinks you’re dead, and jets.”
“Did Salerno think the person with the connection to this Muñoz woman was here?” Pete asked. He felt the car revving up, the sirens starting to blare.
“They are here, Pete,” Harras said. “That’s the thing. Salerno came down to get them. Someone got to him first. Someone, I think, who might be the same someone your girl took out just now. Someone wanted us to believe it was Salerno’s mob bosses trying to clear the decks, bu
t I’m not sure. Now, rogue Mafioso or not, the DeCalvacantes are coming to town, too. They don’t like it when one of their top guys gets clipped without their approval. And, while they don’t know a lot, they do know one thing: Salerno was coming to Miami to find you.”
“So, we’re up shit creek again, basically?” Kathy asked. “All because we don’t know who might know this Colombian drug kingpin?”
“Oh, we know who knows her,” Harras said. “That’s part of the problem.”
“What?” Pete asked. “Who is it?”
The van they were in hit the brakes suddenly before turning around, the siren’s squealing getting louder. The three of them turned to the front of the car to see the two officers in the front seat speaking into the radio frantically. The cop on the passenger side looked back at them, an expression of shock on his face.
“Looks like your lady’s gone,” he said. “Beatriz de Armas split from the hospital.”
Pete turned to Harras, who responded with a quick nod.
“Bingo.”
CORAL GABLES HOSPITAL was a blocky, nondescript building that felt out of place next to the bunches of palm trees and greenery propped up around it. The area felt relatively quiet, aside from the bustle forming around the ICU.
As Harras, Kathy, and Pete followed Hudson down the long hospital corridor, they saw Hudson get intercepted—by Rachel Alter.
“I got called over,” Alter said. “What’s the latest?”
“Weird they’d call you in. But it looks like the bird has flown,” Hudson said, motioning toward what Pete guessed was Emily’s room. “She snuck out when the guard went to take a leak. They thought she was asleep.”
“So what now?” Kathy asked, ignoring Alter. “We were here to try to talk some sense into Emily—try and figure out what the hell is going on.”
“Now? Now nothing,” Hudson said, a look of disdain smearing across her face. “This is police business. I brought you two along because Robert said you were good, but there’s nothing to do if your friend’s gone AWOL. We’ll take it from here. They’re searching around the area. She couldn’t have gone far.”
