by Alex Segura
She believed her father’s story right away—she never considered it possible that he could lie, much less murder her mother. The rest happened fast too—the arrest, the trial, Janette Ledesma, and then her uncle Juan Carlos disowning them after months of support. Maya’s story ran parallel to most of what Pete had read on his own. As each word left Maya’s mouth, she seemed to get more tired, more defeated, like a wind-up toy sputtering out. This was her—mostly unplanned—life story and life’s work, and there was a good chance it would end in abject failure. It was already entering its last lap, no matter the outcome.
Maya tapped her spoon on the side of her water glass. Pete looked up at her.
“You there?” she asked.
“Yeah, just thinking,” Pete said.
“What about?”
“What’s your theory?”
“Theory?” she said.
“What do you think happened?”
“Well,” she said. “I believe what my father said. That’s the truth.”
“That two masked men barged into your house, beat your dad up, and killed your mom?” Pete said. “I get that. But that doesn’t cover an important part of it all: why?”
Pete rapped the fingers of his left hand on the table.
“Your father was not a controversial guy,” Pete said. “He was a cop in good standing, had a nice house and family, and aside from the rumors and other garbage that seemed to percolate when the trial was revving up, lived pretty much under the radar.”
“What’s your point?”
“Why would someone go to the trouble of murdering his wife? It makes that angle, unfortunately, harder to believe,” Pete said. “That’s what I need to wrap my head around. I need to know what you think the motivation was. That will help us figure out where to start digging.”
Maya glanced at her watch for a moment. She was stalling.
“The only theory that I think holds any weight,” she said, her words coming out in a slow, thoughtful rhythm, like a lazy drumroll, “is that someone my father put away wanted to get revenge, so they went after my mother.”
“Do you have any names?” Pete asked. “A list of people your father arrested that we can cross-reference? That would be helpful.”
“Yes, yes, we should,” Maya said, pulling out a pen from her bag and jotting something on a napkin. “I’ll make sure you get that.”
“Who else do I need to talk to? Who else can convince me your dad’s not a killer?”
Maya looked away for a moment.
“Well, Orlando would be good,” she said. “Orlando Posada worked with my father. They were best friends. He’s like an uncle to me.”
“Has he been helpful to the case?”
“He’s basically the only person who’s stuck with me since the beginning,” she said. “He believes absolutely that my father is innocent.”
“What’s his story?”
“Well, he used to work with my dad, they were partners,” she said. “He was a cop. Not anymore. He retired after he was shot on duty. He does security work, runs a pretty big firm. He helps me when he can. He’s a good man. He’s put a lot of money into this whole thing.”
“Will he make time to talk to me?”
“I’m sure,” she said. “I can ask him.”
“What about your uncle?” Pete asked. “Juan Carlos Maldonado?”
Her face went blank for a second. “What about him?”
“Should we talk to him?”
“I’m not sure what you’d get from him, to be honest,” she said with a dismissive scoff. “He betrayed us. Betrayed my dad. Made up lies on the stand to make sure he went to jail. He’s a con artist.”
“Always good to get the other side, no?”
“That’s trite,” Maya said, fiddling with her fork, not looking at Pete. “But yes, sure. I’m curious to hear what Tío Juan Carlos has to say.”
Pete motioned to the waitress for the bill.
“All done?” Maya asked.
“Feels like it,” Pete said. “I think I got what I needed—for now. I’ll connect with Kathy and Harras and we’ll keep you posted.”
“So, you’re in? Even after this breakfast?”
“Yup,” Pete said. “I’m in. Even after this.”
Maya responded with a soft smile.
“Good,” she said. “I think you three will be a huge help. I’m glad you agreed to meet with me too. I wanted to get to know the detective who’ll hopefully exonerate my father. Anything you need, let me know.”
The waitress came by and placed the bill next to Pete. Maya began to reach for it.
“You can let me get this one,” Pete said, pulling out his wallet. “I’m on the clock after we walk out the door.”
“Fair enough,” she said. “Maybe we could do this again.”
Pete laughed as he slipped two twenties into the bill holder.
“Do what again? Ask you questions that’ll make you angry and defensive?”
“Well, maybe not that part,” she said, her eyebrows popping up. “But the rest wasn’t terrible.”
“The Rest Wasn’t Terrible—The Pete Fernandez Saga. I could see that on the Times best-seller list.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Maya said, grabbing her bag and sliding out of the booth. “Some guys don’t even get to think about ‘the rest.’”
Pete stood up. He wasn’t sure how to respond. He could swear his client was flirting with him. He took a last sip of water and motioned toward the door.
She brushed past him as they exited the restaurant, and Pete got a whiff of her fancy perfume—he couldn’t place it. She looked back at him after a few steps and smiled.
“You coming?”
The sun shone behind her, giving her an ethereal, angelic glow. For a second Pete felt like forgetting everything else and just spending a few hours sitting around laughing with someone. It’d been so long since that happened.
He stopped himself before his mind could wander back too far, a roll of film spinning off its spool, to things he’d screwed up or left unfinished. To people he no longer spoke to. He wanted to say something now, something meaningful that she might think back to years from now. But he knew those words weren’t coming, and if they did, it’d be hours from now, long after they’d parted.
“Yeah,” he said, moving toward her. “Just enjoying the view for a second.”
AFTER WALKING Maya to her car, Pete headed toward his own, on the north end of La Carreta’s lot. Pete looked out past the strip mall to the streets that stretched from Westchester toward Kendall and beyond. The city was pulsing with life, horns honking, people chattering in Spanish and English, Pitbull blasting from one car as Taylor Swift boomed from another. Even out here in the suburbs, Miami was vibrant, as if propelled by the swamp-like heat. He let himself appreciate the landscape for a second before the May weather became truly unbearable.
As he approached his car, Pete heard a light, consistent tapping, which alternated with the more identifiable sound of footsteps behind him. Pete turned around and saw a man—past fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing dark, impenetrable sunglasses, gray jeans, and a black button-down shirt. He had a gold half heart on a chain around his neck. The man seemed surprised Pete had noticed him. He was only a few feet away and seemed unaffected by the heat. In fact, he looked downright cool. He was also blind. He held his white-tipped cane up a few inches from the ground.
“Can I help you?”
“Pete Fernandez?” the man said. His voice was gruff and low.
“Who’re you?” Pete asked. He was tired of surprise run-ins.
“Orlando Posada,” he said, stepping closer to Pete. “Sorry if I caught you by surprise. I usually don’t do that.”
Pete extended his hand, then pulled back, realizing his mistake.
“You did, but that’s fine,” Pete said. “I was going to look you up eventually. Just didn’t expect you to find me first.”
Posada straightened up before responding.
“Well, I’m a friend of the Varelas,” he said. “Just wanted to let you know I can help if you need anything.”
“I definitely plan on taking you up on that,” Pete said. “And pardon me if this comes off as ungrateful or rude, but how did you know I was here?”
“Maya said she was meeting you here,” Posada said. “My driver pointed you out, and I followed the sound of your steps. Sorry. I can tell that’s a little odd. I know she just left, so I figured now would be a good time to chat.”
“What about?” Pete asked. He was getting frustrated. “Were you hanging around, waiting for our meal to be over?”
“She asked me to come and hang out,” Posada said, shrugging. He was smiling like a lawyer for the other side, waiting to close a deal. He looked around, as if trying to catch a glimpse of Pete. But Pete knew that wasn’t possible. “Like I said, anything I can do to help. I’m not great at first impressions. But Maya and her father are very important to me.”
Pete sized up the older man.
“That’s good,” Pete said. He knew he should wait, to talk to Kathy and Harras, to agree on a line of questioning, but the opportunity had presented itself. He had to take it. “Do you have time to chat now?”
“Sure,” Posada said. “But let’s find a place where I can get some food.”
“YOU DON’T strike me as a hot dog guy,” Pete said as he watched Posada weave a loaded chilidog into his mouth.
Arbetter Hot Dogs was a Miami institution. Everything from the fading exterior to the ’50s-style sign and the burnt-out plastic tabletops screamed old. But the place wasn’t looking to win any beauty contests. It was about the food, and their food was simple: mouth-watering and tasty hot dogs. From the outside, on the corner of Galloway and Bird, it looked like a building lost in time, a relic from a previous era that had managed to avoid remodeling or being absorbed by a chain. Pete knew the place well, as it was just a few blocks away from the house he grew up in.
“This is a rare treat,” Posada said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, the rest of the dog placed gingerly on the paper plate in front of him. They’d arrived during a lull, before the lunch crowd mobbed the front counter and a free table was closer to fantasy than reality.
“So, you’re the detective Maya brought in to save her father,” Posada said.
“Along with a few other people,” Pete said.
“Yes, yes, I worked with Robert Harras on a few cases back when I was on the force,” Posada said. “And Kathy Bentley is well known, I mean, if you read the paper. Though, I guess you’re no stranger to attention either. That serial killer business seemed pretty messy.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Pete said.
“I’m sorry,” Posada said, placing his hands on the table, palms up. “I don’t mean to be glib. I imagine that was an excruciating time for you. I’m here to help Gaspar however I can. I’m doing my best to help Maya fund this last-ditch effort. So, I’m at your service.”
“Well, I’ll be honest,” Pete said. “I wasn’t planning on interviewing you today, or alone.”
“That’s fine, son,” Posada said, shrugging. “We can do this another time.”
“Well, no, I mean, as long as we can follow up later,” Pete said.
“Of course, of course. Whatever you need.”
Pete pulled out a small notebook from his back pocket and began flipping through the pages. He found a blank one and set it on the table as he clicked his pen.
“Tell me about Gaspar,” Pete said. “What was he like to work with?”
“Well, I’m not sure where to start,” Posada said. “We were partners. Close friends. Like family. He was my mentor. I owe him my career. He was very welcoming, from my first day on the force. Jesus, I must have eaten dinner at his house more often than in my own crummy apartment. I’m still baffled that we’re here, in this place, talking about clearing his name.”
“What about his wife? Did you know her well?” Pete said.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Posada said. “We were all close. I felt like Gaspar was a brother and Carmen was my sister. I learned a lot from both of them.”
“What was it like working in narcotics?” Pete said. “I’d imagine trying to stay clean back then wasn’t easy.”
“Stay clean?” Posada said, lifting his chin. “I guess so. There was a lot of corruption. There’s still some now, from what my friends on the force tell me. But it was really up to you, as a person and a cop, to determine what kind of officer you wanted to be. Gaspar and I did our best to stay on the up-and-up.”
“Did Gaspar ever strike you as someone with a temper?”
“Not particularly,” Posada said. “And of course, I think he’s innocent. But I also don’t know what happens behind closed doors, within a marriage.”
“Now you sound like you’re on the fence,”
“Not at all,” Posada said, shaking his head. “I’m just being realistic. You’re going to need something really good to get this opened up again. I’m not sure it exists. This case has been looked over exhaustively by greater minds than you or I, no offense.”
“Still worth a try, I think,” Pete said.
“Yes, definitely,” Posada said, crumpling up his paper napkin and dropping it on his tray. “Narcotics was very corrupt, you’re right. You must have heard a lot about being a cop back then from your father. I didn’t know him well, but I knew he was one of the good ones.”
Pete’s head buzzed. He’d spent many hours at his father’s desk in the Miami PD Homicide Division, finishing homework or just biding his time until it was time to go. He didn’t pay much attention to faces or names back then—too caught up in his own teenage drama and concerns. He regretted that now.
“What do you remember about the night of Carmen’s murder?” Pete said.
“I remember getting a frantic call,” Posada said, his words coming out at a more thoughtful pace, as if slowed by time, “from Maya the next morning. Very early. She was shattered, totally heartbroken. I could only get the barest of facts from her. Eventually, I made my way to the house, then to Gaspar at the police station. It was pure madness. The press was chasing every angle, the police were bumping into each other at the scene, in the station, and the entire family was in shock. ‘How could this happen?’ That’s what everyone was thinking and saying for weeks after. We’re still saying it today.”
“I know you worked narcotics mainly before your, um, accident,” Pete said.
“Before I was blinded—you can say it,” Posada said, a humorless smile spreading across his face. “It’s my reality.”
“Right, okay,” Pete said. “So, I know you didn’t work homicides, but I imagine you’ve had your fair share of suspect interrogations. Correct?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You saw Varela fairly soon after he was taken into custody,” Pete said, winding toward his question, like a predatory cat gauging how close he could get to his intended prey. “So it was all pretty fresh and raw for everyone.”
“Yes, like I said, I saw him at the station. We spoke in person a few hours after he was brought in,” Posada said.
“Right,” Pete said. “So, if you can think back to that moment, the second you first saw him in the interrogation room—tired and worn out from a long night, his wife dead—what was your first thought? Not as his loyal friend, looking to protect someone who’s like a brother, but as a cop.”
“I thought he looked like a guilty man.”
Argentinian Embassy in Havana, Cuba
March 15, 1959
THE OFFICE was empty except for the tiny cot by the window and Diego’s stack of books and notepads piled neatly by the foldout bed. It was midday and the Argentinian embassy was bustling. Or so it sounded from inside the office that had served as Diego’s home for a little over two weeks. Two weeks since he’d barreled through the front doors, his shirt soaked through with his friend’s blood, his eyes wide with fear, and without a word to explain what had happ
ened.
They’d ushered him in and calmed him down. He wasn’t sure how he’d survived. Perhaps the thousands of Padre Nuestro prayers had something to do with it. He liked to think so.
Very little was decided about Diego’s fate the night he arrived at the embassy. Or the next day. He begged them to protect his family. Even though they weren’t in Havana, Castro’s reach was long. They nodded and took notes.
After a few days, he was given the freedom to wander the building. He felt like a ghost, floating around the massive building. He found it hard to focus. He thought of his family. He repeated his plea to the low-level diplomats assigned to keeping tabs on him. Help them. Save them. Had they survived? He weighed his options. He hadn’t heard of Castro’s rancor spreading to the families of his enemies, but it was still early. He wouldn’t put anything past him or his viper-like sidekick, Che. They would do whatever it took to tighten their grasp on the island. On his home.
After a week, an older man, a high-ranking diplomat stationed in Havana, came to see Diego. His family was fine. They were staying with his wife’s brother, Rolando, in Pinar del Rio, on the southwestern tip of the island. That was the good news. But Diego’s sigh of relief only lasted for a second.
He had to leave. The diplomat made that clear. They were not going to make a habit of housing enemies of a government they were still trying to have relations with. Castro was putting pressure on them to turn Diego over, despite their denials that he was even in the embassy. There was a plane leaving for Miami in a week. Diego had to be on it.
Now, Diego sat on the small cot and bowed his head. He’d spent three weeks in exile, tucked away in his own country. Diego muttered a prayer to the Virgen and let a few tears stream down his face, now covered with stubble. The knock on the door was strong and brief.
