Miami Midnight

by Alex Segura

  “You’re an expert now? A gangster scholar?” Mujica said, leaning back slightly, as if to get a better look at Pete. “You know how we all operate now?”

  He laughed—a brief, empty sound—before straightening up in his seat.

  “No es tan bravo el león como lo pintan,” Mujica said. Your bark is worse than your bite. “Habla con urgencia si quieres vivir.”

  The threat was clear in his eyes, to even those who couldn’t understand his smooth, luxurious Spanish.

  Pete cleared his throat. A slight shock of fear hit his system. He was poking a bear here—a man who ran a criminal empire that Pete only understood in the abstract. But this was his one chance to find out the truth, he thought. There were worse ways to go down.

  “I know Emily has a contact with the Colombians, and I know you know that. So did Salerno—eventually, after a few bodies dropped,” Pete said, keeping his voice calm and patient, like an operator guiding you toward which button to press. “You wanted that info, too—and the easiest way was to get it directly from her. Salerno came to town after Emily. Somehow he died. I don’t think you’d be dumb enough to take out a made guy, but someone did, and pinned it on you. All of this happened after your son was killed—gunned down outside his club.

  “Why would anyone kill a random jazz musician? One who was just married, dealing with a drug and booze problem? Someone who wanted to get to Emily—to get that info she had and use it for themselves. The bolitero trade is dying, Alvaro. We all know that. But when Los Enfermos went down—when they sputtered after last year—there was a void. The Colombians needed a funnel into Miami. Without it, there’d be money burning on the table. Seems like a good place for you to step in, no? It’d revive your business, modernize your operation, and ensure your place in history. Only downside? You had to murder your own junkie son to get it.”

  The slap came quickly, Mujica’s open palm slamming across Pete’s face and sending him back, almost knocking him off his chair. Pete rubbed his cheek. The blow was meant to shock more than hurt, but it accomplished both.

  “Eres un gran cabrón,” Mujica said. “Tu no me conoces. Tu no sabes como me comporto.”

  You don’t know me.

  Pete shook his head, his hand still rubbing the spot where Mujica struck him. He knew it would be suicide—well, more suicidal than what he was doing now—to return the favor.

  Before Pete could respond, Eugenio entered carrying a silver tray. He placed a small glass of orange juice and a cafecito near Mujica. He didn’t show any signs of having heard the scuffle. He nodded and backed way.

  Mujica looked at the beverages and then returned his attention to Pete, his nostrils flaring. “Sale de mi casa.”

  “I have one more thing we need to discuss,” Pete said, as if they’d just been having a friendly chat about the census. “And then you’ll never see me again.”

  Mujica glared but did not speak.

  “Graciela Fernandez,” Pete said.

  “Tu madre,” Mujica said, almost spitting the words out.

  “She worked at a club you owned—Terraza,” Pete said. “She was also informing to the cops—on you, or on someone in your organization.”

  “Was she? Interesante,” Mujica said, tilting his head at Pete. Feigning ignorance? “Yes, I knew her. I visited the club often. I was young. It was a safe space—to drink, cut loose, have fun, tu sabes. There were women all over. It was a different time. Drugs, drinking, sex. She was a lovely woman. Funny, sexy, smart. Quick with a joke. She worked there. I paid her salary. I knew her friend—Dina? Dana?”

  “Diane,” Pete said. “Crowther.”

  “She wasn’t Crowther then,” Mujica said. “Something else. I forget. El tiempo pasa.” He took a long sip from his orange juice glass, pausing for a split second to look at the contents before putting the cup back down.

  “Were you sleeping with her?” Pete said. His tone was without emotion, but his insides were churning—he could feel the beads of sweat forming on his face, the anger bubbling, about to boil over. This was it. “Were you having an affair with her?”

  Mujica coughed, a wet, sickly sound. He shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of something intangible.

  “No, no, listen, I don’t like you,” Mujica said, his eyes looking glassy and distant now. “But I’m not lying to you now. I was never with that woman. I barely knew her. I slept around, fucked a lot of women, but one rule I had was to never shit where I ate, you know?”

  Pete clenched his fists under the table, the nauseating expression threatening to send him over the edge.

  “I—I never …” Mujica said, his voice faltering. “Never touched ... her …”

  Mujica stood up with a jolt, his hands at his throat, a wispy, chime-like sound escaping his mouth as his face went from pale to red to a purplish blue. Pete stood up—reaching out, trying to help in some way, but Mujica was gone, his body spasming sharply before falling over, his face slamming onto the table with a loud, flat thump—followed by more shakes, a wet, gurgling sound spewing from his mouth, red with blood and bile.

  “Gkkk ... gk ... gah ... no … gk,” he mumbled, sounds more than words. Pete got close.

  “Help! We need help!” Pete said, hoping Eugenio hadn’t gone far.

  “Done ... it’s done … se acabó …” Mujica said, his eyelids fluttering.

  “Who did this?” Pete asked, leaning in. “Who did this to you, Alvaro?”

  Mujica let out the scream then—low, animalistic, like a large animal struck down in the wild—as he rolled over, his eyes no longer alive, just white and gone. Then there was quiet, and Pete’s only chance at knowing the truth had flickered into darkness.

  “ARSENIC,” ALTER SAID. “That’s what killed him.”

  The cold case detective was seated across from Pete. The interview room in the Miami Police Department branch was dim and cramped. It looked identical to the room he’d shared with Hudson a few nights back, but Pete was certain it was different. He was grateful the Miami PD didn’t collect rent from frequent guests.

  Pete looked up at her.

  “Why are you here?” Pete said. “This seems like the opposite of a cold case.”

  “Hudson called me in,” she said. “Guess she’s tired of questioning you every time someone ends up dead in your presence.”

  “Like someone called you into the hospital when the Silent Death got killed at Eddie Rosen’s house?”

  Alter froze in place. “That was the truth,” she said, her voice halting and low. “I told you what they asked me to do.”

  “I don’t think you can blame me for not believing you,” Pete said. “Arsenic, huh? Isn’t that a little ... Agatha Christie?”

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  Pete shrugged.

  “Am I free to leave?”

  Alter placed her hands on the table, palms down.

  “Yes, but I hoped we could talk for a minute,” she said. “About the last time we saw each other.”

  Pete shook his head. “Unreal,” he said. “Look—what is there to say? You’re corrupt. You pointed a gun at me. Your motivations are your cross to bear, not mine. You lied to me, and lied about my mother’s case to protect yourself. And now this? Someone is looking to clear certain pieces off the board—and if I’ve learned anything over the last few years, it’s to trust my gut. And my gut says you’re crooked.”

  “You’re right,” she said, frowning slightly. “I made some bad decisions. But I have responsibilities. I am a parent. I needed to make tough choices to keep my child. She’s more than my niece. And while I regret what happened, I can’t take it back. So, yes—I’m sorry.”

  Pete started to get up, but Alter took his arm.

  “Please, Pete,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “I know you don’t owe me anything. I’ve already raised a few eyebrows asking to speak with you—like this, as they investigate Mujica’s murder. Just hear me out.”

  Pete sat down, crossing his arms.

&nbs
p; “I can’t lose this job, okay? I can’t have them find out what you know, or what you allege,” she said.

  “Alleged? Okay. Great way to motivate me—question my skills.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I just—I just can’t. What can I do?”

  “Nothing,” Pete said. “I don’t want to destroy your life, Rachel, all right? It’s not on my to-do list. That’s loaded up with stuff like ‘stay alive’ and ‘find a home.’ This case has derailed everything, but it’s taught me some things, too. One of them is that I don’t have to see every little bit through. So, you can rest easy—as well as someone who’s done the things you’ve done can—that your cop bosses won’t be hearing from me.”

  “Thank you,” she said, her chin trembling slightly. “Thank you. I’m a good cop. I just made—”

  “Spare me,” Pete said, standing up and walking toward the door.

  “Wait, one more thing,” Alter said. “About Mujica.”

  “What about him?”

  “He did it.”

  “What?”

  “He’s responsible—he had your mother killed,” she said. Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t meet Pete’s eyes. “He covered it up. Had me cover it up from the inside. First to stop your father from coming after him. Then to stop ... you.”

  Pete shook his head. “Why are you telling me this now? Why should I believe you?”

  “You have no reason to, I guess,” she said. “But it’s the truth. And now that he’s gone ... well, I guess I feel like I need to clear that off, you know? Get it out of my head.”

  “It’s easy to confess when the threat is neutralized, huh?” Pete said. “Easy to say someone did whatever you want. Whatever makes your story fit.”

  “It’s true, though,” she said. “One of Mujica’s men approached me—years ago. They knew the truth. About me. Said that if I didn’t help them—help them conceal the file, or alert them to anyone tampering with it, that I’d be outed. My life would be ruined.”

  “So now you’re telling me this to avoid the same fate?”

  “That’s part of it, I guess,” she hesitated. “But it’s also because I regret ... how things went, with us. I felt like we could have been more. Been friends. If we’d been honest.”

  “Well, that’s a shame,” Pete said, standing up, avoiding Alter’s grasp. He turned back to her as he opened the door. “Don’t worry. I don’t plan on ruining any more lives tonight.”

  He walked out. He heard the beginnings of a muffled sob as the door clicked shut.

  “ANNIE CLARKE?”

  Annie wheeled around, a few cans of beans falling from her overloaded grocery bag. She recognized Pete and Kathy as she stooped down to gather her scattered belongings. Pete stepped forward and started to help.

  “Scared the shit out of me,” she said, trying to get herself organized.

  “Sorry,” Pete said, offering to hold one of her bags as she fished around in her purse for her keys.

  “How do you know where I live?”

  “We’re private detectives,” Kathy said. “It’s what we do. Plus, you didn’t give us your card after we shared a few drinks at Le Chat Noir, so we had to do some digging.”

  Annie forced a smile. “Do you, uh, want to come in?”

  Pete nodded. They followed Annie into her small but well-lit apartment. The studio was sparsely—but tastefully—decorated, with a few thoughtfully placed posters and minimal furniture aside from a love seat and TV set. The kitchen didn’t look like it’d been used.

  “Can I get you a water or something?” Annie said, her voice quavering. “I have some whiskey—but I guess you can’t have that?”

  “Right,” Kathy said, looking down at her visible baby bump. “But now my mouth is watering, so thanks.”

  “You know why we’re here?” Pete asked.

  “What? No, I mean, I figure you’re just—y’know, detecting—following up on stuff.”

  “That’s part of it,” Kathy said, sitting down on the love seat. “But there’s a reason we need to talk to you, specifically.”

  Annie pulled out a small chair and plopped down, resigned.

  “You knew more about Beatriz than you let on,” Pete said.

  “What do you—”

  “Don’t insult our intelligence,” Kathy said. “Like I said, we don’t have a lot of time.”

  “You said you’d only met her that one time, but that’s not exactly true,” Pete said. “In fact, it looks like someone with the name Beatriz de Armas had a restraining order against you.”

  Annie wove her hands together and took in a long breath.

  “That was bullshit,” she said, her voice hushed.

  “Please enlighten us,” Kathy said.

  “She was mad, she was jealous,” Annie said. “Because Javi loved me. He wanted to be with me, but he couldn’t get out of his marriage.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” Kathy said. “If I had a car for every time I heard that.”

  “So, you stalked her?” Pete asked.

  “I didn’t ... stalk her,” Annie said, looking away, as if trying to find some guidance in the wall moldings. “I just showed up at her house or where she was sometimes. To talk. To try to reason with her.”

  “But something happened?” Pete asked.

  “Yeah, I caught her,” Annie said. “In the act.”

  “In the act?” Kathy asked. “In a meeting?”

  “No, well, yes, but not a business meeting,” Annie said. “I caught her fucking around on Javi. Cheating on him.”

  “I can’t really suggest you have the moral high ground here,” Kathy said. “But continue.”

  “It was a while ago ... Javi had told me we had to stop, well, whatever we were doing,” Annie said, her eyes watering. “Said that there was no chance she was going to end the marriage. There were bigger things at play, and he was boxed in, especially if he wanted to keep living the way he had been. His father had cut him off, and Beatriz was supporting him—managing his career and keeping him afloat. So he said we could keep messing around at the club, as long as she didn’t notice, but any chance of it becoming ... real ... was gone. And I—I lost it. I was crying, screaming ... I just got in my car and headed to his place.

  “I mean, I’d had all these fantasies, you know? That it would be our home. That one day, he’d come in the bar and tell me she was gone, that he was finally free, and then he’d get help to deal with his shit and we could just be out in the open. And now all that was gone. And I wanted to talk to her. To scream at her. To make her realize what she’d done.”

  Kathy reached over to Annie and placed a hand on hers.

  Annie nodded at the gesture before continuing. “But when I get there, I see her—I see her pulling out of the garage in her car, and I just ... followed her,” she said. “I try to keep a low profile, or so I think. And she pulls up to this restaurant, Peruvian place, 1111. They valet her car, and I’m in my own car, hands shaking. And I think, fuck it. So I valet my car and go inside, and that’s where I see it.”

  “What did you see?” Pete asked.

  “She’s walking in, and this guy is greeting her, pulling her in close,” Annie said.

  “Like a hug?” Kathy asked.

  “A hug, but more, this wasn’t just a friendly hello,” Annie said. “They were kissing, passionately. This was intimate. They were in love. And I was ... so upset. Because why can she have her cake and eat it too, you know? She can fuck around on Javi, but he can’t be in love? Just because she has the money? I lost it.”

  “What do you mean?” Pete asked.

  “I screamed, I started yelling, cursing at her,” Annie said. “Calling her a fucking bitch, a whore. I think I threw my bag at her—”

  “What happened?” Kathy asked.

  “The staff took me aside. They called the cops and I got arrested,” Annie said, hanging her head down, ashamed at reliving the story. “I’m not proud of what happened. I’ve been over it so many times—in my own head, in ther
apy. I could have handled it so much better.”

  “The man ... who was he?” Pete asked. “Did you recognize him?”

  “No idea,” Annie said. “He was handsome, older. But I didn’t get a great look at him. That place is dark and all I could tell was it wasn’t Javi, and then I flipped. He moved out of the way fast—which makes sense now, in retrospect. He didn’t want me to see him.”

  Pete cursed under his breath. Mujica? Who else could it be? Was the dead gangster sleeping with his own son’s wife?

  “Was it Alvaro?” Pete asked. “Did you consider that?”

  “I mean, I thought about it, but ... I just couldn’t get a good look at him,” Annie said. “It was impossible, and I was losing my mind.”

  Pete sagged in his chair. He felt like they were chasing down shadows.

  “What happened after that?” Kathy asked, her hand still on Annie’s.

  “It was a blur, most of it,” Annie said. “Hard to remember. I was held until morning.”

  “Did you talk to Beatriz after?” Pete asked.

  “No, I couldn’t,” Annie said. “I never saw her again.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Javi was murdered the next night.”

  “IT’S GOING DOWN tonight.”

  Pete stepped on the gas as he and Kathy sped down Biscayne Boulevard, Dave’s voice coming in loud through the car’s Bluetooth.

  “What are the details?” Kathy asked.

  “Sketchy, but my contact says someone from the cartel is meeting with a new, prospective client tonight downtown—and they’re pulling out all the stops ... security, passwords, you name it,” Dave said. “It’s high-stakes.”

  “Is La Madrina here?” Pete asked.

  “No,” Dave said, almost laughing. “Second she steps foot in the U.S. she’s in jail, dude. If we are even in the same zip code as her, something’s gone horribly wrong. No, one of her lieutenants is running point. But my guess is our girl will be there. Wait—okay, I’ve got the details. I’ll text you the address. Happening in a few hours.”