by Alex Segura
“Well,” Pete said, pulling back for a moment, before kissing her again. “I—I wasn’t expecting—”
“Be quiet,” she said, her voice soft, as she peppered him with quick, staccato kisses on the mouth, as if she were unsure when they’d be together like this again. “Just let this be, okay?”
“Okay,” he said, wrapping his arms around her, squeezing her into him. “We’re okay.”
“I think so,” she said, sniffling slightly as she ran a hand through Pete’s close-cropped hair. “I hope so.”
They kissed again, then blended into one another. They held on, whispering between moments of affection, the tears coming now, like they were waking from a nightmare that felt all too real.
THE FACTS SCROLLED through Pete’s brain like a fast-moving stock ticker.
His mother had been murdered. He’d known that. Potentially by someone she’d been dating while living apart from his father. That man was somehow part of the Mujica organization. Possibly Mujica himself.
Her murder had been covered up almost immediately—thanks to the efforts of Carlos Broche, partner to Pete’s dad, and Osvaldo Valdez, the Homicide cop on the scene. For years, Pete’s father believed his wife had died from her own vices, and he had softened the truth to their son, making Pete believe his mother had died from complications in childbirth.
But she’d been an addict. A drunk. A mess. Like Pete.
Pete didn’t resent his father. He understood the man. His intentions were good. As were those of the elder cop, Valdez.
Carlos Broche? Not so much.
The man had been like an uncle to Pete—he’d known him as far back as he could remember. Burly, quick with a curse or jab, a bit unkempt, but always around to lend a hand and support Pedro Fernandez and his small family.
But Carlos Broche had secrets. Like many officers and detectives on the Miami force who lived complex, double lives.
Broche paid the ultimate price—his face blown off as Pete faced off against the original Silent Death at the Miami Times printing press. Pete had thought that was the end. Tragic, unfortunate, but over.
Or was it?
As the case grew more complex, one thing Pete and Kathy realized was the tenuous, perhaps fuzzy line connecting the case that brought them together—that of the mob gun-for-hire known as the Silent Death—with the gang that seemed to haunt their every waking moment: Los Enfermos, an evolving, deadly, and regenerating drug cartel.
Could the new Silent Death be part of Los Enfermos? Were they tied to Mujica somehow? And why did Pete feel like it all pointed back to his own past? To his own mother?
It was time to find out. But as Hudson had advised, Pete was starting from the beginning. He was starting with Javier Mujica. Or at least someone that knew him well.
He parked his car behind a black Hyundai and walked to the front door. The lights were on.
Devon Owens was home.
HARRAS’S PACKET OF information—the complete Graciela murder book—came with a note. A hasty printout that only featured a few lines:
Feeling some heat. Not sure why. But can’t risk you not getting this if I can’t hand them to you. Call me a paranoid old man. Use your brain, kid.
Pete’s eyes had glassed over reading the note. Hearing Harras’s husky voice chiding Pete from the great beyond. But the former FBI man had been right—the heat was on both of them, and it stretched into the streets of Havana, where Harras died. Pete knew he had to retrace his own steps if there was any chance for him to shake the gunmen after him and find out who killed his mother.
That meant finding out who killed Javier Mujica. And finding Emily Sprague-Blanco.
It all started with Javier Mujica. But Mujica was dead and Emily was in the wind. However, there was one piece of the puzzle Pete hadn’t looked over. Javier Mujica’s old manager, Devon Owens.
Pete rang the doorbell and waited. He heard footsteps approaching seconds before the door opened. A thin, reedy man, well over fifty, stood across the threshold. He gave Pete a slow, lazy once-over.
“Yes?”
“Devon Owens?”
“Son, you came here,” the man said. “To my house. That means you tell me who you are first.”
“Pete Fernandez. I’m a private—”
“Say no more,” he said. “Come in. Was wondering when your ass would show up.”
Pete followed the man into the stuffy, dark house. The smell of dust and paper flooded Pete’s nostrils, and from what little he could make out, the cramped home was loaded with piles of books, records, and errant papers, with seemingly little order to why things landed where.
Owens motioned for a seat on a gray, grimy couch after restacking a few of the piles, making room for a tiny seat. He took a spot across from Pete.
“Get you anything?”
“No,” Pete said, sitting down. “I don’t think this will take too long.”
“Angel Menendez sent you, right?”
“How’d you know?”
“Only guy that seems to cover the scene, or give enough of a shit to know who manages who,” Owens said. “And, well, he called me.”
Pete let out a sharp laugh. “Warned you about his former colleague?”
“In a way,” Owens said with a smile. “Said you were sharp. Looking for background on Javi. I said I would share what I could, but I also wasn’t going to stick my neck out all that far, if you know what I mean.”
“Care to enlighten me?”
“You know Javi’s last name,” Owens said, his face blank. “You know his daddy didn’t like his only son spending his time on the piano instead of the family business. You think he’s going to take kindly to the man teaching his boy how to make a living on the keys? No sir. But I also know talent, I know the scene. I know my way around the piano, too. We were a good match, Javi and me. He had the spark, just needed the direction. We did well for a while there.”
“What happened?”
“Slow down, son, slow down,” Owens said. He got up and walked toward the back of the house. When he returned he had two bottles of Heineken. He offered one to Pete, who shook his head no.
“Not a drinker? Smart man.”
“Doesn’t agree with me.”
“Heh, yeah, been there myself,” Owens said. “Should’ve listened ten, maybe twenty years ago. Now, well, now it just feels too late, right?”
“Never too late,” Pete said. “It’s never too late to change your life for the better.”
Owens’s eyes widened slightly.
“You a twelve-stepper, huh? That’s admirable. Maybe down the line. Maybe if the headaches get worse and the money gets tighter.”
“It’ll happen,” Pete said, not wanting to press too hard. “Just a question of when.”
Owens raised his bottle. “Well, here’s to when, then.”
He took a long pull of the liquid before continuing.
“Javi was my protégé, like a son to me,” Owens said, his voice going soft, his eyes scanning the quickly emptying bottle of beer as if he was looking for some secret message. “I found him playing open mic nights, slapping out mediocre covers. But I saw something in there. A spark. Talent. Something I had once. An energy, even through the inexperience and the hesitation. I’d managed people before. I’d been all around the world, myself. In groups, solo, whatever. I was a touring musician. Not a big name, not a headliner—there was no Devon Owens Quartet. But I got by.
“So I got into managing, mentoring at first,” Owens said. “But Javi was something else. We clicked right away. We were the same person. He hated his dad. Wanted to be his own man. Now, I never knew my father—he ran off long before my memory kicked in. But I knew that fire. I knew that hate. And it could drive you, man. It could make you do amazing things if you let it. Next thing I know, Javi’d moved into my house, we were jamming, drinking, making music every damn night—and I was working the phones. Getting him some real bookings. Some real fans. He was sparkin.’ People started to buzz about him. Th
en he formed the first group—that group was tight. You could warm your hands on that stage, they were so hot.”
“You set him up with a tour, right? A package?”
“Yeah, yeah, a few of them,” Owens said. “But that last one, that was a special tour. We burned through Europe, man. It felt so good, watching him and his crew. Was almost like I was up there, too. And well, Europe! London, Paris, Madrid ... can’t get better than that. The drink, the women, the music ... I felt like I was in my twenties again. Felt like I could take on the world.”
“Then he met Emily.”
“She came on strong, man, let me tell you,” Owens said, leaning back. “But it never struck me as odd, you know? It felt genuine. It wasn’t a play. She had no idea who he was, not at first. She was just living there, in Spain. We were making our way through and we saw her in—let me remember—Barcelona, yeah. They hit it off immediately. But it was a bad mix, too strong. Got sour fast.”
“They argued?”
“No, she just took over,” Owens said, shaking his head, as if trying to forget a bad dream. “Before I could get a handle on anything, the tour was cancelled, the band had broken up, and Javi wanted to come back here to Miami. He didn’t even explain way. Just said it was time for a change and he wanted Emily to manage him. That was that.”
“What happened to Javi after that?”
“I only know what I heard, okay? And some rings true, some doesn’t,” Owens said. “But he fell back into bad habits. Now, I wasn’t any kind of teetotaler, but I knew when to stop. Knew when it was time to fall into bed if I was gonna make a gig the next night. Once I was gone, once his bandmates were gone? Javi went wild. Not just drinking, either. Drugging, benders that would last for weeks.”
“What was Emily doing?”
“No idea,” Owens said with a shrug. “She got him a residency, some gigs. Was talking about building a new band around him—but by then, it seemed like things had gone cold between them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I came by their place—that bar where Javi was playing—a few nights before ... before the accident, before they got to him,” Owens said, his voice cracking slightly. “It was all nice, diplomatic, and friendly. They needed some information from me, wanted to, y’know, ‘pick my brain,’ and I said sure, bygones, and figured I’d get a free meal, fix whatever drama there was and move on with my life. But it was all business with them. No affection. They basically sat at different ends of the table.”
“What did Javi want?”
“Javi? He didn’t want nothing,” Owens said. “It was his girl who was doing all the talking. You know, dancing around—‘How are you?’ ‘Been busy?’ ‘How is your family?’—before cutting to what she wanted, like a shark, circling around, making it seem calm and peaceful, until it wasn’t.”
Pete waited. He inched forward in his seat.
“See, when I was managing Javi, I knew he was a junkie and a drunk,” Owens said, licking his lips. “Never let him touch a cent I didn’t see coming out of my pocket, okay? Shady? Maybe. I don’t care. But it kept that kid correct, kept him tipsy but not falling over. High but not comatose. And all his earnings, all that touring money, was still resting in an account, collecting interest. Now, when Javi said, ‘Devon, it’s time we part ways,’ I was ready to just hand over the account number and call it a day. But he never asked, and I was kind of pissed, I admit. Why should I bend over backwards to give this kid this money? He can come to me. Hell, send your daddy to come shake me down. And I needed to live, you hear? I needed to eat. So I dipped into that. Fed myself. Clothed myself. Took care of myself while I waited for the next thing.”
“But they found out.”
“She found out,” Owens said. “And she was mad, boy. She needed that money, she said. Right now. Life or death. Didn’t I care about Javi and all that.”
“What did she need it for, though?”
“She wouldn’t say, not right away, at least. But I’m a slippery snake, man. I don’t just hand over the keys to my car and hope you’ll bring it back. And, eventually, she let me know. She was that desperate for that money. As if her life depended on it.”
Pete leaned forward. “What was it for, Devon?” he asked. “Was she involved in something bad?”
Owens scoffed. “She was a paper gangster,” he said, a bit of fire in his words. “Amateur. She wasn’t bad. Good-looking girl, smart, college educated. Kind of woman who has a career, drives a new car every year, gets a mani-pedi whenever the fuck. Has a family. Or had one. But here she was, she was playing with the big boys, trying to act all hard and slick. But I could see her coming from a mile away.”
Pete started to repeat the question, but was interrupted by Owens.
“She told me, eyes wide as two twin moons, ‘Devon, we are in serious trouble. I need that money. I need to make this deal or Javi and I are as good as dead. Do you want to see this man—who you love like a son—dead? Do you?’”
MUJICA.
It all pointed back to him. But could the old gangster murder his own son? What would drive a father to do such a thing?
Nothing. Unless you’re a mobster. And your son has betrayed you.
Pete dialed the number as he sped down Le Jeune Road toward Miracle Mile. This couldn’t wait.
“We’re good, okay,” Dave said, his voice sleepy. It was late. “You can skip the hourly check-ins, she is totally—”
“Dave, I’m not calling about that,” Pete said. “I need a favor. A tough one.”
“Shoot.”
“What are you hearing about the cartels? About drugs coming into Miami?”
Pete hated himself for asking. Hated that he was forcing his friend, an addict suffering from some form of PTSD, to relive the pain of the last year. But he needed to know. Dave would understand.
“What do you mean? You gotta be more specific—”
“I’m hearing there was a deal of some kind going down, something big, around the time Mujica’s son was killed,” Pete said. “Trying to line these things up.”
The other end of the line was quiet for a beat.
“There was a lag of time, after the stuff with the—with the cult last year. I was hearing Los Enfermos were gone, dead,” Dave said, the words halted and pained. “There was a void. Lots of people vying to be the funnel—the contact for the Colombian cartels, for La Madrina. No idea who—but I heard rumors even the New York families were sniffing around. But you knew this.”
“I did,” Pete said. “But talking to Javier’s old manager added a piece I didn’t see. We knew Emily had some kind of information from her dead husband, Rick. We assume it was a connect with the Colombians. Then it turns out she needs money to close some kind of deal. Maybe with someone else? The Colombians? She’s worried they’re gonna get killed. Then Javi does get killed—Emily is on the run, and Salerno ends up dead, too, while some guy looking like the Silent Death is back, gunning for me and Emily. I’m trying to wrap my head around this before ... well—”
“Before you end up dead, I get it,” Dave said, his voice lowered. Trying to hide the conversation from Kathy.
“And someone in the Mujica organization, maybe Mujica himself, knows something about my mother’s murder,” Pete said, seeing the disparate pieces drift toward each other, slowly forming something clearer—some taking longer to fit, others snapping into place with little resistance. “I have to go to the source. There’s no time—no chance—for anything else.”
“Wait, what? To Mujica—again?” Dave asked. “No, you can’t—”
“No, not Mujica,” Pete said. “But close enough.”
He tapped his phone display and slid it back into his pocket. He punched the radio switch and let the opening chords of Sharon Van Etten churn out of the car’s tinny speakers. Her voice crooning about a comeback kid.
It was time to circle back. Time to close the loop.
“I WAS SURPRISED when you called,” Eddie Rosen said, stepping into the light. Th
ey were standing on the fringes of Morningside Park, a large multipurpose waterfront park northeast of the city’s Design District. Rosen had picked the location. Pete wasn’t clear on why—and he didn’t care.
“Seems like you’ve been very busy,” Rosen said, trying to fill the silence.
“I need answers,” Pete said. “And your boss doesn’t seem inclined to share what he knows with me unless I come back with answers on Javier’s death.”
“Well?” Rosen asked. “Do you have anything? Or did you just feel like wasting my time tonight? You know this is a busy time for me.”
“Basel season?” Pete asked. “Get to put your art dealer hat on?”
“Yes, but not just that,” Rosen said. “This is tiresome. I don’t think we’re finding any closure on Javi’s death, and you constantly picking at the scab doesn’t help me. I need my boss to move on. We have business to attend to.”
“I’m not going away.”
“I can see that,” Rosen said, frowning. “Believe me. So, again—what do you want?”
“Mujica,” Pete said. “He lied to me. I’m not sure how, or the specifics, but I need to talk to him. Face to face. About my mother.”
“Your mother?” Rosen said, a scoff escaping his mouth. “What?”
“He owned the bar where she worked,” Pete said. “Her murder was covered up, too. Miami PD didn’t want my father to find out the—”
Rosen shook his head.
“Pete, Pete, listen to yourself,” Rosen said. “You, of all people should know better. This is a big zero, okay? Do you really think the Miami police were altruistic in their efforts to hide those details? Who did you talk to?”
Pete didn’t respond.
“How many good cops do you know that worked on the force back then?” Rosen said, stepping closer. “Three? Four? Your dad, Gaspar Varela, Valdez ... that’s it. Your dad’s partner was taking a payout. Orlando Posada was running Los Enfermos. Do you think they wanted your dad to go hot and heavy, trying to find who killed his wife, if it put their livelihoods at risk?”
