by Alex Segura
“No sé, todavia,” Pete said. Not sure yet.
“Bueno, apurate, niño, esta empezando,” the man said, roughly moving past Pete to get closer to the ring. The fight was about to begin.
But Pete wasn’t here to watch two roosters murder each other. He looked over the crowd. The lighting was dim, and Pete could only see figures and shapes moving in unison, screaming as a bell rang and the two birds clattered toward each other, hesitant at first, the pecks and flaps becoming more frequent and violent as time passed.
That’s when Pete saw him, standing off toward the rear of the bar, two men at each side as he sat in what looked like an ornate tailgating chair. Even here, in the most casual of environs, Alvaro Mujica was all business—dressed in a tailored navy-blue suit, his thinning hair slicked back. The bolitero’s rough, grotesque features were exacerbated by the contrast of the flickering lights and the infinite blackness of the Miami night.
Mujica wasn’t watching the match, though. No, he was basking in the glow of something bigger. Of the event itself. The fact that he, a king of men, could do as he pleased. Surrounded by guards, watching as friends, strangers, and who knows who threw money in a pot to see this contest of pure animal violence unfurl like some kind of blood-soaked theater. He wasn’t here to see who won or lost. He’d already won.
Pete darted through the crowd, trying his best to seem casual—just another guy trying to get a better look at the fight, which was growing in intensity, the roars from the crowd spewing out with more frequency. Bodies jostling and shaking fistfuls of cash in the air, yelling “Dále!” or “Métele, cabrón!” or any variation that implored the birds to destroy each other.
By the time he was a few feet from Mujica, the man and his bodyguards noticed him, and no amount of playing it cool could get him closer.
The first guard to reach him was bulky and tall, the only hair on his face a thick and triangular soul patch under his bottom lip. Pete recognized him as one of the men guarding Mujica when they’d come to his house. He wore dark shades despite the poorly lit room, and his tone was direct and immediately unfriendly.
“Get back.”
“I have to talk to Mr. Mujica,” Pete said, but before he could continue, another guard appeared, not as bulky, with a fuller head of light brown hair and a somewhat shaggy beard, no friendlier than his colleague.
“Don Mujica is not taking visitors now,” Bodyguard #2 said, grabbing Pete’s right arm. “Move along.”
If the guy hadn’t grabbed his arm, Pete might have stepped back and decided on another tactic to get to Mujica. But the combination of the unwanted touch, his exhaustion, the mix of emotions—fear, anger, confusion—that had been setting up shop in his brain finally created a spark. He felt his training kick in, and before he could think, he’d grabbed the man’s wrist—the hand he’d placed on Pete’s arm— and pulled him back, executing a near-perfect irimi nage throw.
Pete turned to face Bodyguard #1, who was charging at him, gun drawn. Pete gave the thug’s gun hand a quick chop, then shot his palm into the man’s face, sending him down onto the dirt. Kote gaeshi, he thought. Both men got to their feet slowly and began to fall back—not beaten, but surprised and annoyed, at least. The crowd didn’t react—still focused on the waning fight, one rooster hobbled and bloody, the other circling with a manic bloodlust in its dark bird eyes.
“Don’t try again,” Pete said, surprised at the calm and clarity of his own voice. He’d been in skirmishes since his training, found himself in challenging situations that required him to call upon not only the physical aspects of aikido, but the spiritual—but never like this. He’d channeled his anger and frustration into something useful, instead of flailing into a rumble with no sense of how to manage it.
Out of the corner of his vision, Pete saw Mujica’s other two guards hanging back, unsure whether they should take on this attacker or protect their boss. They were doing the smart thing. No doubt they were armed. If things got out of hand, they could just shoot Pete.
Pete fought the urge to dust off his hands as he walked toward Mujica and his two remaining guards. By now, even the crowd of onlookers had noticed the scrum, and a few had shifted their attention from the cockfight to another, similar duel.
“Stay where you are,” Bodyguard #3 said. He was a thin, lanky dude with a well-kept beard and close-cropped hair. “We don’t want this to escalate.”
“Tell your boss I want to talk,” Pete said, his voice husky and spent.
Bodyguard #3 turned to Mujica and whispered into his ear. The old gangster looked over at Pete and nodded. He motioned with his hand for Pete to step closer. Bodyguard #4 nodded and patted Pete down briskly, his hands gliding over him, finding nothing. He stepped back and nodded for Pete to enter their makeshift sanctum.
“Señor Fernandez, un placer,” Mujica said, his voice gravelly and low, like a Cuban impression of Marlon Brando’s Don Corleone. “¿Qué me cuentas? What causes this violence on a night of celebration? Is the cockfight not enough action for you?”
“I’m not here to watch birds,” Pete said. “We need to talk. Somewhere else.”
Mujica nodded. He shrugged and stood with a speed of a man twenty years his junior.
“Then let’s talk,” he said. He snapped his fingers at #3. “Chino, tell Cunningham to get the car and pick us up. It’s time to go home.”
PETE FOLLOWED MUJICA’S black Lexus NX SUV to the house he’d visited months before. So much had changed since then. The details about his mother. Kathy. Harras. Emily. But this time Pete was in control. He knew what he was doing. And he knew what he wanted to find out.
“Déjame con él, no te preocupes,” Mujica said as his bodyguards—minus the injured #1 and #2—watched them take seats in the same dining room they’d shared before. They did so with no hesitation, uninterested in whatever their boss and this other man were going to discuss. Once they were gone and the dining room door had closed with an almost silent click, Mujica folded his hands and looked Pete over, a grimace forming on his weathered, pockmarked face.
“I am granting you a great courtesy, Pete Fernandez,” Mujica said, the words bubbling to the surface slowly, thoughtfully. “You interrupted a rare moment of relaxation for me. You failed me before. I do not know where this de Armas woman is. My painting is not hanging on my wall. My son’s killer remains on the loose. Yet, here you are. Calling upon me like some petty servant. This one time, I will humor you. Tell me what you want. Then you can leave.”
“Graciela Fernandez.”
Mujica’s expression didn’t change. He looked at Pete, waiting for more. When he realized the detective was waiting for him, Mujica pursed his lips.
“Do I know this woman?” he asked. “Is she a relative?”
“My mother,” Pete said. “She died when I was very young.”
Mujica nodded.
“I am sorry for that,” he said. “But, again, I don’t know what the name should mean to me.”
“Did you own a bar—a jazz venue? Terraza?” Pete asked. “She worked there for a short time.”
Mujica paused, scanning the wall behind Pete.
“It’s possible,” Mujica said. “I’ve owned and sold many properties. The name is familiar, but that was a long time ago. A lifetime ago.”
“She was dating the owner, or someone pretending to be the owner,” Pete said, leaning forward, trying to get Mujica’s full attention. “Still doesn’t ring a bell?”
Mujica’s mouth morphed into a dark, menacing grin.
“¿Quién me crees, Pete Fernandez? You think I’m some new puppy?” Mujica asked. “I survived Castro’s interrogators. I’m sorry your mother is dead. But I didn’t know her. You can leave.”
Pete stood up. He heard the door open. It would be #3 and #4, eager to escort him out. Despite Mujica’s dismissiveness, Pete found himself believing the older man—which only raised even more questions. Questions he would not be able to ask now.
He started to turn when Mujic
a spoke again.
“I am not without resources,” Mujica said. “Help me, and I can help you.”
“What?”
“You heard me, hijo,” Mujica said, a sly smile on his face. “You’re a good detective. Do what I hired you to do, and I can return the favor.”
“The painting was bullshit, wasn’t it?” Pete asked.
“¿Qué importa?” Mujica said. Does it matter? “I need to find that woman. When I do, I will find out what happened to my son, plus much more. Now I have nothing but questions.”
“You want in on the drug trade,” Pete said. “That’s why you wanted me to find Beatriz. To connect to La Madrina.”
For a moment, Pete thought he saw a flicker of rage flash across the gangster’s rugged features. He couldn’t be sure.
“I did not say that,” Mujica said. The aging criminal turned his attention to the door. “Chino, Noe—entren.”
Two of his men entered the room and hovered by the door.
“So, what are you telling me?” Pete asked.
“Do the job I hired you to do,” Mujica said, standing up. He moved his hand toward Pete in a dismissive gesture—a sign to his bodyguards that it was time for them to escort Pete out. “Then I might be inclined to think back to those days. Maybe then I’ll remember why your mother didn’t live to see your third birthday.”
CARMEN VALDEZ-MITCHELL walked out of the main entrance at Flagami Elementary School, in the southwest part of the city. She was a teacher. Pete knew this because he’d done a basic background check before deciding to intercept Osvaldo Valdez’s only daughter.
The decision to seek her out had come to Pete as he drove home from Alvaro Mujica’s estate, the gangster’s offer hanging over him. Mujica was dangerous. Pete knew that. He’d made a mistake working for him before. He also knew that, even if he were successful—even if he thought it would be a good idea to turn Emily over to Mujica—the information he got back in exchange might—at best—only resemble the truth. Information through a filter was no good to Pete, and it was clear Mujica knew more than he let on. No, it was time to dig into his mother’s case his own way—and that started with Osvaldo Valdez. In his absence, that meant tracking down his next of kin.
He would have probably figured out Carmen was Osvaldo’s daughter just by looking at her. The green paint smeared on her red blouse. The slightly unkempt hair. The look of satisfied exhaustion. Pete knew it well. Had seen it in his father’s eyes, on the few nights he’d been awake when his father got home, bone-tired, blood and dirt on his shoes and pants. But on those nights where they got the guy, or closed the case—his father’s expression was hard to ignore. Not glowing—there was nothing to celebrate when someone was killed. But a look of acceptance. That, for one moment, the odds had been evened and maybe there was a little bit of justice in the world.
“That her?” Kathy asked.
“Yeah,” Pete said as he moved toward the woman, Kathy a few steps behind him.
“Carmen Valdez?” Pete asked.
She turned, surprise on her face, her usual routine disrupted by two strangers. She was in her early thirties: tan skin and straight, dark hair; her brown eyes large and probing.
“Yes?”
“My name’s Pete Fernandez. I’m a private investigator,” Pete said. He could see her start to distance herself, the half-step back, the dulling of the eyes, but he pressed on. “I knew your father. Osvaldo?”
“Oh?” she said, intrigued for a millisecond, before looking around. “Do we have to talk here? In front of my job?”
“There’s a really great Cuban steakhouse nearby,” Kathy said.
They both turned to her.
“What?” Kathy said. “I’m pregnant. And hungry.”
PALOMILLA GRILL WAS a tidy, well-kept, no-frills Cuban spot five minutes from Flagami. The food tasted fresh, the vibe was comfortable and casual—not to mention affordable.
“How did you find me?” Carmen asked, unfolding her paper napkin and placing it on her lap. They’d ordered appetizers—no one wanting to commit to a full meal—but Pete took the ceremonial move as a good sign, regardless.
“Despite trying to ignore his calling, Pete is actually a decent detective,” Kathy said, taking a long sip from her sparkling water. “And you weren’t exactly hiding.”
“I don’t have anything to hide.”
“That’s good,” Pete said. “I thought you might be able to help us. I talked to your father—a few, well, hours before he … died.”
“Before he was murdered, you mean,” Carmen said, her words coming out at a piston-like speed.
“Yes, and I’m sorry for your loss,” Pete said.
“Thanks, but you can spare me the condolences,” she said. “I loved my father. I know he loved me. But he was a flawed man. Very old-school. We had lots of disagreements. He had issues with how I lived my life. But over the last few months ... of his life ... things had calmed down. He seemed to mellow out in his old age, I guess.”
“My father was a detective, too,” Pete said. “Pedro Fernandez.”
“I know,” Carmen said, smiling thinly. “I figured out who you guys are on the way here. It took me a second. I chase six-year-olds around all day, then go home and chase my own toddler. But the names sounded familiar.”
“That’s us,” Kathy said. “Familiar and also mysterious.”
Carmen nodded, unsure if it was meant as a joke or insult—probably both.
“I was approached by your dad a while back,” Pete said, leaning forward. “He said he had some information on my mother. How she died.”
“How did she die?” Carmen asked.
“Up until now, I thought she died during childbirth—I never got a clear answer, but when you’re a kid, you just accept those things,” Pete said. “I never knew her. Just images and textures. A faded memory.”
“That’s terrible,” Carmen said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Pete said. “You can’t miss what you never knew, I guess?”
“But still,” Carmen said. “She was your mom. I’m sure she loved you. It’s tragic she never got to know you well, or the other way around. My parents drove me nuts—but I got to yell at them. I got to be there for my dad when my mom died. We were a unit.”
Pete felt Kathy’s hand slide up his back softly, then noticed he was clutching the flimsy restaurant table. He let go and leaned back.
“Yeah, yes, thank you,” Pete said. “I would have liked to have known her. But that’s part of why I’m—we’re here. I never got to talk to your father. And I’m worried that—”
“Whoever killed him did it because of the info he had?” Carmen said.
“Yes,” Pete said.
“What did the cops tell you when your father died?” Kathy asked.
Before Carmen could respond, their food arrived—tostones, platanos maduros, yuca frita, and a pile of croquetas de jamón. The smell of the food wafted over them, providing a momentary respite.
“Tell me?” Carmen said as she finished a bite of yucca. “Nothing. They have no leads. They have no idea why anyone would want to gun down a retired ex-cop. It’s not like he’d just retired, or he had enemies waiting in the wings. My dad was a Homicide detective. His cases dealt with the dead. He was a good detective, too. Worked those cases to the bone. So, yeah, the cops don’t have any leads. At least not any they share with me.”
“My mother was found dead in an Overtown hotel room on New Year’s 1984,” Pete said, looking down at his hands. “Your dad was the first Homicide detective. He worked the case. According to the file I got from the Miami Cold Case Squad, he never closed her murder. She’d been strangled and beaten badly.”
“I’m sorry,” Carmen said, her voice low.
“What I don’t get, though, is why he would reach out to me—years later?” Pete asked rhetorically. “He knew, while I was in the dark, about my mom. He kept that under wraps.”
“Did you ever think he was asked to keep silent?�
� Carmen said. “That he didn’t want to hide it from you?”
Pete hesitated. The thought was not foreign to him. Osvaldo Valdez was not the only Miami police detective sitting on the truth about Graciela Fernandez. The biggest obfuscator of information was Pete’s own father, Pedro—who surely knew what went down, and decided it was best for Pete not to learn the truth. The fact haunted Pete. His father had lied.
“I have my theories on that,” Pete said, pushing past the idea. “Did your father ever mention the case? To you? To your mother?”
“No, Papi kept work to himself,” she said. “He wanted his time at home to be peaceful, about family—not bloody or gruesome. He was a conflicted man, but a good man. I appreciated that.”
“What about his papers? His belongings?” Kathy asked. “Did you get to go through them?”
Carmen nodded.
“Yes, as much as I could,” she said. “I’m his only child, and my mom is gone, so it all rested on me. We put the house on the market, but I’ve got all his papers. I haven’t read them all, but I do have them.”
“I know we just met,” Pete said. “But what are the chances you’d let us go through those papers?”
“Sure, fine,” Carmen said. “As long as lunch is on you. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“We don’t use that phrase anymore,” Kathy said with a smile, dropping two twenties on the table. “Let’s go.”
Carmen Valdez-Mitchell lived with her wife in a medium-sized house in the Hammocks neighborhood of Miami—which was on the far west side, past Kendall and closer to the wide swamp that was the Everglades, and all the reptilian and insect life that came with it.
The house was well-kept but cluttered. A sign of the busy, frantic life the two led. Carmen turned slightly as the three of them walked down the long hall that linked the left side of the house—kitchen, living room, office.
“Sorry for the mess,” she said. “I didn’t know we’d have people over. Melissa’s at work. I usually scramble to tidy up or cook something in the few hours I have before she comes home with Atticus.”
