by Alex Segura
“He knew he was going to die.”
Pete’s words echoed through the small dining room, as Kathy sifted through a stack of pages across from Pete. Dave had left to pick up dinner. It promised to be a long night.
“What?” Kathy asked.
“He knew he was going to die,” Pete said. “Maybe wasn’t sure it’d happen in Cuba, but it was going to happen soon. Los Enfermos were probably trailing him. He saw it coming. Damn.”
Pete let his head drop into his hands. The sprint that had followed Harras’s death had been exhausting and full of danger, but it’d also served as a pleasant distraction from the underlying truth: that his dear friend was gone—really gone. There was no subterfuge here. No mysterious smoke and mirrors to fool their enemies. Pete had seen it happen.
But here was Robert Harras. From beyond the grave. Providing Pete with the intel he thought he’d already had. Could this file, in tandem with the missing dream book pages—be enough?
“These papers,” Pete said, spreading them out in front of him, as if he were trying to soak up all the information they held at once. “This is Graciela Fernandez’s file—the murder book. The police file.”
“But you had that already, no?”
“I had what Alter wanted me to see,” Pete said. “Which was a lot lighter than this. Like this, look—” Pete reached over and grabbed one of the pages. “This is Valdez’s preliminary report, which is nowhere in Alter’s file. It talks about Mosher, the first cop on the scene.”
“The guy who killed himself?” Kathy asked.
Pete looked at her. “I haven’t seen the crime scene photos, but I’d bet what’s left of my house that there’s something fuzzy about the details,” he said. “Either way, Mosher wasn’t in Alter’s file. When I mentioned his name to her, she seemed confused. Next thing I know, he’s dead, suicide.”
Kathy stood up. She rubbed her hands over her growing belly. She looked tired. “That’s good, but we need to figure out what else those extra pages hold. What new information there is,” she said, her hands on Pete’s shoulders. “And what they mean—it all means—not just for you and your mom, but for everything else.”
“It’s gonna be a long night.”
THE EVENING GAVE way to dawn, which gave way to early morning. By the time Dave had gotten out of bed and started revving up the coffeemaker, Pete had some answers. Not all the ones he needed, but some. Which was a lot more than he started with.
“Please tell me you just woke up and wanted to get an early start?” Dave asked, popping his head into the small dining room. “And just happen to be wearing the same clothes? And enjoy being surrounded by empty takeout containers?”
Pete ran a hand over his face. “No dice,” he said.
Dave stepped in and took a seat across from Pete. “Okay,” he said. “Then tell me you got something.”
“Two things,” Pete said, his voice sounding weary and worn-out. He slid a short stack of papers at Dave. “Check this out.”
Dave scanned the top sheet. “It’s a C.I. form,” he said. “A criminal informant report. So?”
“I’m a cop’s son, so a lot of this paperwork wasn’t new to me. These are forms cops—detectives, usually—fill out after talking to C.I.s. Or when they want to file something,” Pete said. “Pretty standard. But the name of the detective filling out the form jumped out at me.”
Pete shuffled some pages and pulled out a battered folder. He opened it and pulled out what looked like half a piece of scrap paper—crumpled and old. There were dark, horror-tinged images drawn in dark pencil, with a few words written underneath.
“See that first name?” Pete asked.
“Meltzer?” Dave said.
“Yup,” Pete said, dropping the page and grabbing the printout of the C.I. report. “Same name as the guy writing this report.”
“Okay, definitely a clue, but—help me out here,” Dave said. “What is a C.I. report doing in your mom’s murder book?”
“Read it,” Pete said, handing the sheet to Dave.
Dave cleared his throat. “C.I. #61183 continues to meet with subject on a regular basis,” Dave said. “Relationship has become romantic but C.I. emphasizes that it remains under control. Subject is key player in criminal org and has begun divulging low-level information to C.I. during their meetings. Still early days but optimistic about progress—C.I. is aware of risks. Despite my own personal concerns, I’m willing to continue undercover operation for at least a few more months based on value and insight C.I. might be able to provide on illegal activities being perpetrated by …”
“Keep reading,” Pete said. “Don’t stop.”
“I know, but—”
“Say it, Dave.”
“Perpetrated by the ... by the Mujica criminal organization.”
KATHY YANKED THE black Marlins cap down low as Pete pulled onto the street.
“Ever heard of this Dan Meltzer guy before?” she asked. “Did he know your dad? I feel like every cop knew your dad.”
“I never met him,” Pete said. “But he’s still alive. At least according to Hudson. She seemed confused about why I was asking.”
“Did you tell her about Alter?” Kathy asked. “Because I’d want to know if I was her.”
“I didn’t. She was more interested in the Cuba stuff and why my house might have gone boom,” Pete said, looking out the driver’s side window. “I just couldn’t do it. I don’t know. I felt … bad for her?”
“Alter lied to you, not to mention pulling a gun and threatening to kill you,” Kathy said. “Her getting fired is a mild punishment, I think. I vote ‘bye, bitch.’”
“I’ll keep that info close for now. We may need it at some point.”
Pete rubbed his eyes. He felt the exhaustion wash over him. Not because of anything happening now, in the moment, but because his body was starting to wear down. The lack of sleep. The moving around. The anxiety. All his AA prayers and meditations, all his new age-y aikido spiritualism was wearing thin. He needed a meeting. He needed to slow down. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to.
“Talk to me,” Kathy said.
“I keep thinking about my mom,” Pete said. “About how we’re slowly getting this picture of her—this idea of a person—that never existed for me. And, on some level, it’s great. I’m getting to know her. On another, it feels so … sad.”
“It is sad, Pete,” she said, gripping his wrist. “It’s tragic. You never knew your mother. Your father lied to you about it to protect you. She was murdered. That’s a lot of shit to process all at once and, honestly, I’m surprised you’re still functional. You have to breathe. You have to give yourself room to be sad, not just running to the next thing, or to the end, okay? We will get there. We will figure this out.”
“To think, she was battling back these demons—this addiction—that I had,” Pete said. “I feel like we could have talked about it all. I would have learned so much. And she was informing on the mob. She was so brave. It just hurts, I guess … that I’ll never really know her.”
“I know,” Kathy said, pulling him into a tight embrace. “I know.”
“How’re you feeling?” Pete asked, pulling back and looking at Kathy.
“Tired, bloated, and eager to get this creature out of me,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “But we’re still a few months out. Assuming all goes according to plan and we, ahem, live.”
“We need to figure out what we’re going to do.”
“In general, or between you and me?” she asked, turning to look at him. “Or what?”
“I want to make sure this kid is taken care of,” Pete said. “The same way I was. Sort of. I want to make sure they have a home they can feel safe in. Parents they care about.”
“Pete Fernandez, are you trying to guilt me into being your girlfriend? Because that’s not high on the romance scale, I have to say,” Kathy said. “Even if I am, technically, single and ready to mingle now that Marco refuses to answer my c
alls.”
Pete winced at the joke, but pressed on. “No, this is aside from us as ... as a whatever, couple,” he said. “We just need to figure out how we’re going to raise this ... person.”
“Really?” Kathy said with a sigh. “And here I thought I just spit it out and move on.”
They smiled at each other.
She placed her hand on his. “Can we figure this case out?” Kathy said. “First? Then let’s figure out how not to screw up this kid’s life. Deal?”
“Deal.”
CASINO MIAMI WASN’T the first place Pete would have named if asked where he’d end up meeting an ex-cop. But he’d also learned not to assume things, especially when on a case. The spacious arena was a hub for gambling, jai alai, and concerts.
As Pete entered, a jai alai game was in progress, with a sparse, disinterested crowd in the stands. Though Pete had spent most of his life in Miami, the game—which involved bouncing balls off a shared wall for players to catch in hand-held baskets—had never caught his attention. Probably because gambling was something he never took much of a shine to. He’d experienced enough risk and chaos in his day-to-day. He didn’t need to wager what little he still had in his pocket.
As Pete and Kathy made their way toward a smattering of tables at the center of the venue’s rainbow of slot machines and ATMs, they caught a glimpse of an older man in a light gray polo and knee-length khaki shorts. His socks were stretched well past his ankles. All of these details screamed one thing to Pete: this guy was a cop, or had been not long ago.
“Dan?” Pete said as they approached the older man.
“You rang?” Meltzer said, wheeling the rickety chair around. “Assuming you’re Fernandez?”
“I am.”
They shook.
“Your father was good police,” Meltzer said. “Think I have an idea what this is about.”
“This is my partner, Kathy Bentley,” Pete said.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve read your stuff—good writer,” Meltzer said. “Even that newsletter thingie you write, the New Tropical?”
“New Tropic,” Kathy said, with a tone that suggested she’d had to explain what New Tropic was more than a few times. “It’s a news and culture email news—”
“Yeah, whatever,” Meltzer said, waving his hand. “Look, I got some time between games. Shit, I got all the time in the world, but I do what I want, and what I want to do is drink, gamble, and watch jai alai. Hudson said you were worth talking to. That gets you in the door. The fact that you’re Pedro’s kid gets you at least ten minutes. The rest, my friend, is up to you.”
Pete and Kathy sat down across from Meltzer.
Pete pulled out a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. “This ring any bells for you?”
Meltzer scanned the paper, then slipped on a shoddy pair of reading glasses that had been hanging from his neck. His eyes darted over the information with more speed. He nodded to himself.
“How’d you get this?” Meltzer said, looking up.
“Long story,” Kathy said.
“Cute, but you’re asking for my help, right?” Meltzer said. “And I’m retired, but I’m a retired cop. This is confidential stuff. I’ll ask again—how’d you get this?”
“I’m not going to lie to you,” Pete said. “We didn’t get this by request. I honestly don’t know how we got it. Our friend—Robert Harras—got it. He was ex-FBI. We just put him in the ground. Died in action. Something tells me he could pull strings we don’t even know exist.”
Meltzer made a grunting sound. “Non-answer, but fine,” he said. “So, you want to know about this C.I.? Why?”
“Stop playing so coy,” Kathy said, her eyes hot and focused. “You know who she was. We know who she was. He wants to find out about this case because it was his mom. His mother died working this angle and the only person alive who can shed some light on it is you.”
Meltzer smiled slightly, taken aback by Kathy’s assault.
“Please, whatever you do,” Kathy said. “Do not say anything about my hormones being out of control because of this baby, okay? It just won’t end well.”
“Wouldn’t think of it.”
“Great.”
“Okay, fine,” Meltzer said. “Chalk it up to a cop that was raised on keeping secrets having trouble shaking his upbringing, okay? Your mom—shit, I knew her. I’d had dinner at your house, my wife, your dad, his wife. Hell, maybe I met you when you were a sprout. So, it hit close. She’d left your dad—or he’d asked her to leave. The drinking had gotten too bad. Drugs creeped into the picture. Your dad wasn’t having it. Didn’t want anything like that in the house.”
Pete felt his throat close up. He closed his eyes for a moment.
“So she goes out on her own, parties hard, living with her friend,” Meltzer said. “Next thing I know, she’s working at this jazz club, Terraza, which was a pretty hot venue at the time—but was mainly a Mujica front. Now, that’s my beat—I work Vice—gangs and narcotics. Well, worked. Which, look, I don’t need to tell you that being a straight cop in Miami in the ’80s was basically like being a unicorn, you know? A rare gem. Few others, that I knew about. Your dad. Varela, that cop that got fucked over. Broche, for a little while. But that was it.
“Anyway, I’m working my beat, trying to keep my nose clean, and shit, I see Gracie Fernandez getting down with the wrong crowd. I should have just raised the flag to Pedro and called it a day. Let him handle it. But instead, I reach out. I talk to her. She promises me—I remember it so well, sitting in my car, parked outside of that bar, she’s wearing this tight dress, eye shadow smudged, drunk—she promises me ‘Dan, Dan, don’t sweat it, this is a phase. Let me shake it off and I’ll be home to my husband and boy in a month, tops. Let me go.’ So, I fell for it. She was my friend, too. Then it became, well, lemme check in on her. Let me make sure she’s okay because Pedro has no idea what’s going on—”
“What do you mean?” Pete asked.
“Exactly that. Pedro was in the dark. Was always in the dark.”
“About what she was doing?” Kathy said. “He must have had some idea.”
“Gracie was smart, too smart,” Meltzer said. “She put up a good front. He knew something was hinky, but nothing deeper. Didn’t know she was sleeping around, the drugs ... he just thought she was still knocking it back. Plus, he was busy. What, were you—a toddler? Guy’s plate was pretty damn full.”
Pete stood up suddenly, his body lurching over the table as he gripped the old man’s shirt tightly.
“What do you mean?” Pete said. He felt his throat freeze up. He couldn’t get his question out.
“Pete, calm down,” Kathy said. Pete could feel her hands trying to pull him back, but he ignored the tug. His eyes locked on Meltzer’s fading gray irises, his eyebrows widening in panic. A few people around them started to take notice.
“Who told my father how my mother died?” Pete said, each word short and loud, like a bass drum beat signaling the beginning of a march.
“Kid, are you really that out of the loop?” Meltzer said, fixing his collar, a sad smile on his face. “Your dad—one of the best cops I’d ever met. One of the best goddamned people I ever had the pleasure of knowing ... he had no fucking clue, man. He thought your mom died alone in some fleabag hotel, drunk off her ass and zonked to the gills on every kind of drug. He didn’t know she was killed. Didn’t know someone choked her out. If he lied to you, kid, it wasn’t to hide that. It was to hide the fact she was a fall-down drunk and a junkie.
“Broche spearheaded it,” Meltzer continued, after Pete had had a chance to pace around the table for a few moments, staring at the walls and shaking his head.
“Pedro’s partner?” Kathy said. “Why?”
“Sometimes the truth is worse than fiction,” Meltzer said with a shrug as Pete returned to his seat. “Valdez gets to the scene and realizes what the hell is going on, so he calls Broche. Couldn’t bring himself to tell Pedro his wife was dead. Broche came down to th
e scene and pulled rank on Valdez. Said there was no way on Earth Pedro Fernandez could find out about this. Valdez pushed back—it wasn’t his intent to keep Pedro in the dark forever. It was admirable. He was another good cop. Some of the uniforms balked, too, like that guy Mosher.”
“Mosher—he died recently,” Kathy said, thinking back. “Overdose.”
“Yeah, that smelled like shit to me,” Meltzer said. “Guy had no vices when I knew him. Except coffee and seltzer.”
“I thought …” Pete said, ignoring the conversation, his mouth a tight line. “I just thought he’d lied to me.”
Kathy put a hand on his arm, gripping it.
“Think about that,” Meltzer said. “It’s a question I used to ask myself all the time, whenever I was on a case—be it narcotics, patrol, murder, whatever: Who benefits? Who gets a few steps ahead if you’re spending your nights tossing and turning, wondering why your dad kept the deepest, darkest secret from you for decades?”
“You think it was a trap?” Kathy asked.
“Yeah,” Pete said, looking down at his hands. “I should have known. I should have seen it coming. My father would never do that. Not if he’d known the truth.”
Pete slammed his open palm on the table, the slapping sound echoing across the room.
“Fuck,” he said.
“For what it’s worth, you mom was a helluva C.I.,” Meltzer said, looking at his watch. “She was getting close. She was feeding me good stuff. It’s what got her killed, I think. I’d bet money on it. I kept her name out of it, of course. But it just takes one bad cop to figure it out and sell the info to the highest bidder.”
“Who was she talking to?” Pete asked, his voice hitting a desperate, frantic pitch Kathy had never heard before. “Who was she seeing? Mujica?”
“Wish I knew for sure. That’s the rub, kid,” Meltzer said. “It was all deep cover. Maybe it was Mujica. I know the guy was no angel. But she was scared. So scared that if she revealed the name, even before she was through, she’d get killed.”
“You let her die,” Pete said, his eyes slits, his jaw clenched.
