by Alex Segura
Delivery man, my ass, she thought.
They two men spoke in hushed whispers for a minute, maybe less. Graciela watched as the man on the other side of the door backed away. Her boyfriend—or whatever he was—lingered for a moment.
He closed the door slowly and turned around. He seemed to just notice she was there, a slight surprise in his expression.
“Hey,” he said, trying to keep it casual, Graciela thought.
His smile almost wiped away her concerns. That look in his eyes—lusty and familiar. She knew the only reason she still had the job was because of him. She’d been written up a few times. For coming in late. Coming in drunk. Slacking off. Taking long breaks. But no one was going to fire her. She was the boss’s … something. He wouldn’t fire her, either. She knew that. The sex was too good. Great, even. He loved her, Graciela thought. She figured she was only partially deluding herself.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he said, sitting at the bar, folding his hands like an expectant customer.
What’s in my head? Graciela thought. Where to begin. Was it the surprised gasp she heard on the other end of the line, when she told Pedro where she was working? Like a scared child, except it came from her husband, a Miami Homicide detective who saw dead bodies with regularity? Was it the look on her young son’s face as he heard his father tell her she couldn’t see him anymore? Because she “looked bad”? Because she never seemed to show up, and when she did, she was either high or drunk?
The worst part? Pedro was right. Graciela was fading fast. And it wasn’t pretty.
She couldn’t stop. She didn’t know how to stop. If she wasn’t high, if she wasn’t feeling something else, anything else to numb the world she’d created for herself, then she could barely function. Getting high was the first thing Graciela thought of in the morning—How am I gonna cop today? How can I get a buzz at work without anyone noticing?—and the thoughts haunted her throughout the day. It was all-encompassing.
“You’re not fun, G,” Diane had told her a few nights back. “All you do is get drunk and cry now. It’s the worst.”
She was right, too. Graciela was spinning out. Days without doing anything. Staying inside the dark, cold apartment. Drinking. Not eating. Sleeping—passed out, really. She was a vampire. If not for her job … well, her benefactor, really—she’d be broke. If not for Diane, she’d be homeless.
In those rare moments when Graciela could think clearly—those brief flickers of sobriety—when she’d had a full meal, maybe taken a hot shower, and didn’t feel like a complete piece of shit, she could envision what she really wanted. What was truly important to her. Her family. Her baby. Her husband. Her house, to lie in her bed, to feel alive. Not like some walking corpse. Not throwing up blood at four in the morning, smelling of cigarettes and cheap liquor. Not in her “boyfriend’s” bed in some nondescript hotel, because he refused to take her to his place. Not hung over on the bus because she missed Diane leaving for work. Not making out with a stranger in an alley because he bought her a drink or let her take a toke or shared his coke.
That’s what was bouncing around her cloudy, fucked-up head, mixed in with the static and numbing buzz that was now her permanent setting. A hangover that never seemed to go away. That was her life now.
“Oh, nothing,” she said, trying to smile. “Just trying to finish up here.”
He nodded and she thought about the call she’d gotten that day. Pedro’s friend again. The cop from Vice. He wanted to meet.
GRACIELA FERNANDEZ’S DREAM book might hold the answer to her own murder.
One of the last people to have access to the book was Emily.
But Emily was long gone. Or was she?
These bits of information swarmed around Pete as he entered The Book Bin, Kathy a few paces behind. Isabel was at the front desk, discussing the pros and cons of a recent fantasy series with one of their regulars. She waved as they headed toward Pete’s back office.
“I see this place remains trapped in amber,” Kathy said, sliding a finger on a dusty shelf.
“Used bookstores have their charms,” Pete said, stepping into the office and closing the door behind Kathy.
He sat behind his desk and opened up his laptop. As it turned on, he swiveled his chair and began rummaging through his desk’s main drawer.
“Are you going to tell me why we’re here?”
Pete pulled out what looked like a tiny scrap of yellow paper. “Got it,” he said to himself.
He placed the paper flat on the desk. The yellow slip was shaded in pencil, revealing some writing Kathy couldn’t make out. Pete slid the Post-It note to Kathy.
She grabbed it and glanced at the difficult-to-make-out words. “What is this?” Kathy said, straining to make out the words. “Emily, her other persona and a name I’ve never heard?”
“Daniela Burgos,” Pete said.
“Right. Not ringing a bell.”
“It didn’t for me, either,” Pete said. “But I found the pad when I searched Emily’s place—back when I first ran into her. The name came up, but there wasn’t much there—an address, DOB. I filed it away. With everything going on, I didn’t think to go back to it until now.”
“If this is one of Emily’s pseudonyms, we should check out that address ASAP,” Kathy said. “But I’m not sure what the rest of the list means. Bogota and Havana are crossed out—and ‘US? Not viable’ is kind of ominous.”
“Let’s find out,” Pete said, getting up. “I shot Harras a text. Maybe he can get one of his friends to do a check on this Burgos person’s whereabouts.”
Pete closed his computer and walked out of his office. Before he and Kathy reached The Book Bin’s front door, Isabel waved them down.
She had one hand on the store phone. “Wait, wait, he’s here, actually,” Isabel said. She turned to Pete. “It’s a friend of yours. Robert? I didn’t know if you were taking calls.”
Pete nodded thanks and grabbed the phone. “Yeah?”
“Got your text,” Harras said. “That address you sent me? There’s nothing there. Vacant lot.”
Pete let out a disappointed sigh. “Then we’re at a dead end,” he said, shoulders sagging. “Shit.”
“Not really,” Harras said. “At least, not yet.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, looks like someone by the name of Daniela Burgos left the country a day after we lost Emily, after her run-in with the Silent Death,” Harras said. “Can’t be coincidental. You think this is Emily?”
“It’s gotta be,” Pete said. “Why else would she run?”
“I am only hearing one side of this conversation,” Kathy said, jabbing Pete’s shoulder.
Isabel looked on with concern.
Pete tapped a button on the phone base and Harras’s voice filtered through the machine’s speaker system.
“So where’d she go?” Pete asked. “Where’d Emily run off to?”
“Cuba,” Harras said. They could hear car sounds and traffic in the background. “Someone named Daniela Burgos flew to Havana, and as far as I can tell, she’s still there.”
THE DECISION HAD been made quickly. At least by Pete. He was off to Cuba.
The threads felt tenuous to Pete, but worth the risk. Emily had been in Osvaldo Valdez’s house when or soon after he died. Pages from Pete’s mother’s dream diary were gone—pages that could hint at who killed her. Emily was on the run.
Kathy pushed back. As did Dave. It was too risky, they’d said. They were right. Pete had never visited the island that was home to his parents and grandparents. Never considered it beyond a fleeting thought. Despite the general thaw in relations between the United States and Cuba, the island was still a dictatorship under the thumb of a man named Castro. Just because it wasn’t Fidel didn’t change that truth.
As curious as Pete was to see the island, this trip would be brief. An opportunity to really explore Cuba—and his family’s connections to it—would probably have to wait.
Everyt
hing had been painless heading to José Martí International Airport. Everything is usually fine until it isn’t. Pete had reached Miami International Airport thinking he was on his own, only to find Robert Harras waiting at his gate. Pete tried to dissuade him at first, but after a while came around to the idea of having a partner on this mission.
“Wasn’t gonna let you leave the country and not come back,” Harras said as they settled into the gate.
“How kind of you,” Pete said. “Feeling guilty?”
“About?”
“Your disappearing act, for one,” Pete said. “Then your fade-out. Are you that desperate to be rid of us?”
“Don’t take it so personal—Jesus,” Harras said, shaking his head. “This was bound to end at some point, don’t you think? We can’t always be chasing psychopaths and risking our lives, can we? It was my time to step away.”
“But you came back,” Pete said. “Why?”
“Unfinished business.”
Pete let out a terse laugh.
“Your ego’s bruised, isn’t it?” Pete asked. “You can’t face that maybe this case is too tough for you.”
“I don’t like to lose,” Harras said. “It’s something we have in common.”
Harras hoisted his carry-on and walked past Pete. The flight had begun to board. Pete waited a moment before following.
The flight was brief and uneventful—so short the flight attendants barely had time to dish out drinks and a light snack—which was fine for Pete. Air travel was not his preferred mode of transport. They didn’t talk much, beyond basic pleasantries and short-term plans for once they reached the island. They’d deplaned and walked down a winding walkway toward the main airport building, lugging their carry-ons.
They reached baggage claim when Pete felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Pedro Fernandez Jr.?” the uniformed man said. He was mid-fifties, stocky, tan skin. His English was stilted but clear as he uttered Pete’s full name. “Come with me.”
Pete looked at Harras, who shrugged in response. Harras tried to follow, but two other officers blocked his path, shaking their heads. Pete could hear Harras explaining his credentials as the man led Pete into a room off the main airport traffic path. It was sparse—a table, two seats, and no windows. Pete had been interrogated enough times over the years to know what was coming next.
“¿Hay un problema, señor?” Pete asked. Is there a problem? Pete’s Spanish was technically fluent, but definitely rusty. It was moments like this one where he regretted not keeping up with his first tongue.
The man didn’t respond to Pete’s question. Instead, he motioned for Pete to take one of the seats as he sat across from him.
“Pete Fernandez, from Miami,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Son of Pedro Fernandez. Grandson to Diego. Correct?”
Then Pete understood. His grandfather, Diego, had been an attorney general—one of six—in Cuba before Castro took power. Fidel Castro had been dead for years, but that didn’t mean the Castro name failed to carry weight, or that old grudges had been erased completely. If anything, it allowed people like this man to cherry-pick which ones to focus on. Diego Fernandez had escaped Cuba in the early days of Castro’s rule, hiding out in the Argentinian embassy while his grandmother and father went to the United States first.
Pete hadn’t even considered that this might pose a problem for him. Stupid.
“Yes, yes,” Pete said. “I’ve never been here, to Cuba. I’ve never visited the island.”
“Welcome, then,” the man said in stilted English. “My name is Lidio Delgado. I am the head of airport security here. I have received word that you should be questioned.”
“For what, though?” Pete said, stumbling over the words, letting them out slowly, hoping he wasn’t saying the wrong thing —or in the wrong way. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“The sins of the father often affect the son, or grandson, in this instance, Pete Fernandez,” Delgado said. “Please hand me your visa and your cell phone.”
Pete didn’t move. “My visa? Are you insane?”
“Your grandfather was a traitor to this country. That is on the record,” Delgado said, his expression placid. “We do not allow spies or seditionists into the country. I see you have an FBI attaché of sorts, Mister—Mr., what—Harras, no? So, we can only do so much, you understand? But we will be watching you closely, and we will be holding onto your visa until it is time for you to leave.”
“What does that accomplish?”
“You’re a Cuban first, Mr. Fernandez, American second, whether you like it or not,” Delgado said. “You will be treated as such. Like a native. Not as a tourist or a special guest. When you decide to head back to Miami, to your capitalism, you will get your little papers and phone back, too. Until then, welcome home.”
Delgado extended his hand and waited.
Pete pulled his visa from his pocket and slid it over to the man. He handed his phone over next.
Delgado pocketed them and stood up. “I hope you enjoy your time here in Cuba, Pedrito,” he said before walking out. “Be careful.”
JUST A FEW moments into the cab ride, Pete was struck by a sense of detachment—of other. They were not home. They were only 220 miles from Miami but, in many ways, on another planet. The streets, buildings, and people had a faded, worn quality that went beyond the actual. Pastel blues and pinks popped out, clashing with the wider strokes of brown, gray, and black.
Pete, of course, had seen photos of the country—many from before Castro’s takeover, but also plenty of “today’s” Cuba—but they could not match the reality of a country in disrepair and decay, a land clinging to functionality, chugging along because while the infrastructure was rotting, it still managed to putter on for a bit longer. Pete saw tired faces, rusted vintage cars, faded cobblestone streets, all under the same glowing orange sun that pelted Miami with tropical heat and a bright, seemingly endless summer.
This was not some grand return—a chance for Pete to reconnect with the land that birthed his parents, a chance to reclaim some treasured legacy. This was a desperate man visiting a foreign land that was a shell of its former self. This was what it felt like to be on a sinking ship, Pete thought.
“What now?” Pete asked. His shirt was drenched with sweat and his palms felt clammy. The idea of wandering this city—this country—without any documentation wasn’t doing wonders for his mood. But he was here to find someone. He’d worry about the rest later.
“We’re going to see a book dealer.”
“What?”
“I have a contact here, guy named Angel Padura,” Harras said. “He’s worked this town for a while. Was a cop. Retired now, sells antique books. Does some PI work on the side; thought he might be a good first stop.”
Pete nodded.
“Junior, huh?” Harras said.
“I don’t use it,” Pete said. He had expected some ribbing from his friend over his name. It was just a question of when.
“Maybe I’ll just call you Lil’ Pedro from now on?”
Pete didn’t respond. After a moment, he felt Harras’s hand on his shoulder.
“Hey, don’t sweat the visa thing,” Harras said. “It’s an old trick. They do it to anyone with relations dating back to Castro or before. You’ll be fine. Focus on why we’re here.”
“To find Emily.”
“To find those pages,” Harras said. “To find out who killed your mother.”
“Yeah,” Pete said, looking down. “Any other leads from your sources on Emily?”
“Nothing concrete, but they’re buzzing a lot, which tells me they’re keeping secrets,” Harras said. “The only nugget they’d share was that something was going down in Havana. She isn’t running from so much as running to.”
“To what, though?”
“That’s the mystery,” Harras said. “But I’ve got some people in here we can talk to. First we’ll set up shop with Angel, then we’ll fan out.”
“A few months ago,” P
ete said, turning to face Harras. “You mentioned something about hearing rumblings about Los Enfermos. Anything else on that? Because when I was going through—”
“About someone else taking over?” Harras said. “Yeah, Kathy mentioned you going on a riff about Los Enfermos always being around. And, honestly, you’re probably right. They have been around for a while, in different forms. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were the main customer for the Silent Death, or whoever took over that gig. They didn’t go away when Posada died and I’m sure they’ve come back in some form now. The buzz I’m hearing is there’s a new head guy—and he’s stepping on the gas. Lots of drugs funneling into Miami lately, and that can only mean one thing: Someone’s got a new connect.”
“But what does it all mean?” Pete asked. “In terms of Javier Mujica? My mother? Emily? Hell, in terms of me? Salerno came after me, after he killed Ferris and his daughter—looking for info. Looking—”
“For a contact with La Madrina—a way to tap the flow of drugs,” Harras said. “And when Salerno came to Miami, we thought he was gunning for you. What if he was after someone else?”
“Emily?”
“Possibly,” Harras said. “The gang managing the drug flow into Miami has been hobbled. Someone needs to step in and take over.”
“Right, in the wake of Los Enfermos,” Pete said. “But if you’re saying Los Enfermos are still alive…”
“These two things can exist at the same time,” Harras said. “Los Enfermos could be regrouping and the Colombians could be open to new business partners. Maybe they’re one and the same. But, either way, someone didn’t want Salerno to find that info.”
“Mujica?”
“It’d make sense,” Harras said, “for him to be looking to get a piece of that pie. But he’s a bolitero. Gambler. Dealt in some drugs, I guess. What does a fading Cuban gangster want with the drug trade, this late in life?”
The car lurched forward, sending Pete and Harras tumbling forward. Pete looked up to see that the driver, a wiry, tan-skinned man of about forty, had wheeled around, the whites of his eyes yellow and glassy. He had a gun pointed at them.
