Dangerous Ends

by Alex Segura

  “Come in,” Diego said. He wiped his eyes and stood.

  The diplomat was dressed in his usual attire—a tailored black suit and a colorful, almost garish tie. His green eyes were dulled by his glasses. He was clean-shaven and refined. He pulled out a nearby chair and sat across from Diego.

  “You leave for Miami tomorrow,” the man said. Not a question or a request.

  “Yes, thank you,” Diego said. “Thank you.”

  The diplomat walked into the office and to the window by the bed. He tugged at the blinds. Diego stepped back like a vampire—frightened by the light and the possibility that something deadly awaited him on the other side. The diplomat seemed unfazed. He let the sunlight filter into the room, shining on the dusty office and the mess Diego had managed to make in less than a month. He motioned for Diego to come closer.

  He didn’t see them at first, his vision blinded by the bright sun. He felt like a convict finally being paroled. The shapes—of cars, streetlights, and pedestrians—soon came into focus. Two, in particular, were very familiar.

  His wife clutched at their son, Pedro. They both looked at the window. They knew Diego was there. Amparo didn’t hold the gaze. She looked around every few moments to see if they’d been caught, if anyone had noticed the sobbing pair of people just standing outside an embassy for no apparent reason. Pedro’s eyes didn’t waver. The seven-year-old met his father’s gaze. Diego moved closer to the window, pushing the diplomat aside. He rested his open hands on the glass. He opened his mouth, but felt the man’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Don’t yell,” he warned.

  Amparo seemed to notice the diplomat. She whispered into Pedro’s ear and their son raised his hand—a wave. Slow, pained. She mirrored his hand’s movements with her own. Diego waved back, the seconds dragging as he watched them. They shared a long, slow motion goodbye. Diego tried to remember each detail of their faces—his wife’s dimpled smile, his son’s furrowed brow—everything. He had to remember everything.

  The blinds closed. The diplomat grabbed his elbow and gently prodded Diego away from the window.

  Diego fell to his knees. The tears came now. But not as singular, unique droplets of regret, but what felt like a tipped-over bucket of anguish, the hot tears meshing together as they rolled down his face. He felt his mouth open. He felt his throat burn as he screamed his wife’s name. He heard the diplomat run to the door and yell for help.

  PETE PULLED out his notepad and looked at the address for Juan Carlos Maldonado that he’d scribbled down during his meal with Maya, before his run-in with Posada.

  Maldonado had never publicly explained the reasons for his falling out with Varela. Instead, he went quiet, letting his testimony speak for itself. Pete was hopeful he could at least get a sense of what caused him to flip so fast.

  Pete backed the car out of the space and turned right on Galloway Road, heading south. He yanked his iPhone out of his pocket and tapped a preset number. He waited for the other end to pick up.

  “Want to go golfing?”

  THE MICCOSUKEE Golf and Country Club was a sprawling, lush chunk of greenery embedded in Kendall suburbia. The club had once been a local hangout catering to nearby residents looking for a pool and clubhouse to bring their kids to in the summertime. In the intervening years, the Miccosukee Indian Tribe had purchased the land and—thanks to some savvy political maneuvering—managed to have it designated as part of the tribal lands. That meant that the space was now officially part of another country. It also meant local residents were up in arms about things like property values and who got to visit their quiet, unblemished neighborhood.

  The main entrance to the country club was a quick turn-off from 147th Avenue, on Kendale Lakes Drive and across the street from a small neighborhood park. A long driveway led up to a manned security gate, where members swiped their cards for entry and nonmembers were politely turned away. Pete looked at Kathy before turning off on a side street and parking the car.

  “We’re going to have to get creative,” Pete said.

  “Also known as ‘My name is Pete Fernandez and I never have a plan,’” Kathy said.

  She got out of the car and looked toward the country club’s driveway. Pete could tell she’d had a rough night. They’d been through a lot over the last few years. Kidnappings. Serial killers. Being wanted by the police. But that did little to prepare you for the next insane thing, like intermittent electro-shock treatments.

  “You did confirm this dude is here, right?” Kathy asked. Her voice was hoarse. She leaned back into the car and grabbed her now watery jumbo iced coffee, slurping the drink as she closed the door.

  “Define confirm,” Pete said.

  “I mean, did you set a meeting with him? Like we talked about with Harras?” Kathy said. “So you and I would be at the same place he was, ideally at the same time?”

  “Not exactly,” Pete said, getting out of the driver side and locking the car. “But not for lack of trying. He never got back to me.”

  “Okay, great,” she said. “So what do we know?”

  “Juan Carlos Maldonado—JC to his friends—is a member of this club. A pretty regular member,” Pete said, referencing his notebook. “Odds are he’s here, either taking his afternoon swim or a few rounds of golf. I’m guessing he paid his membership in advance, when he was flush, before his grocery app went under.”

  “Got it,” Kathy said. “But it’s safe to assume we can’t just walk in and request an audience with the prince, right?”

  EVERY PLACE—restaurant, hotel, apartment building, movie theater, museum—has at least one back door. An employee entrance. A less glamorous, less visible way in. It was a lesson both Pete and Kathy learned in their early days as reporters. There was always another way in. In the case of the Miccosukee Golf and Country Club, it was a matter of finding it without being caught in the act.

  The overpowering sense of being out of place hit Pete and Kathy right away. Even as they lurked on the perimeter of the club’s massive front parking lot—which took up both sides of the driveway leading to the entrance—they could tell they were underdressed and wouldn’t be able to blend in all that well: Pete with his T-shirt and worn-out jeans, Kathy with her massive sunglasses and wrinkled blue blouse and slacks. They wove through the parking lot, sticking close to the edge of the club as they cut across lanes of Porsches, Mercedes, and BMWs.

  “Once we do get in here, assuming we do, without incident,” Kathy said, her voice low, “what then?”

  “We ask around and locate our friend JC,” Pete said.

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  They’d reached the midway point of the lot and managed to go unnoticed when Pete crouched down and pointed toward the club’s main building, past the security gate.

  “There,” he said.

  “There what?” Kathy asked.

  “See that guy?”

  A man was walking around the edge of the main building, dressed in the all-white uniform of the catering staff, a box of some kind in his hands.

  “Yes,” Kathy said. “Do I get a prize?”

  “Follow me,” Pete said as he sped forward, picking up the pace. He glanced at the main entrance from time to time, making sure the stocky-looking guard remained at his post, oblivious to their movements.

  They speed-walked through the remaining parking spaces and found themselves a few steps behind the kitchen employee, a short, tired-looking Hispanic man in his late forties. His uniform was mostly white in color, sporting a few food stains around the sleeves.

  Before Pete could get any closer, the man had reached the end of the building and turned right. They waited a few moments, keeping vigilant in case anyone spotted them and wondered why two shabbily dressed adults were loitering in the club’s parking lot.

  They walked down the path behind the man and found the kitchen entrance.

  PETE AND Kathy made the short walk from the kitchen to a large, open space that gave members three options: a small g
ift shop sporting the usual golf and swimming gear, a largish restaurant that seemed to be half full, and an office that served as a doorway to the club’s main attractions: the golf course, tennis courts, the gym, and the pool.

  But the clock was ticking.

  “I vote swimming pool,” Kathy said.

  Pete frowned.

  “As much as I’d love to take a dip,” he said, “I think our best shot is the golf course, at least to start. We can always backtrack to the pool and restaurant. Let’s see if he’s hitting the links first.”

  “You did not just say hitting the links,” Kathy said.

  THE FRONT desk employee manning the club’s office directed them toward the golf course after a few awkward looks. Pete half expected him to ask for their IDs to cross-reference them with their member rolls, but the guy had been won over by Kathy’s charm and a few well-placed smiles. Once past the office and outside, they looked out on the wide green expanse that was the club’s main attraction. Even with the midday bustle, the club was quiet—and felt more like a retirement village than a hotbed of youthful activity. Pete didn’t think he’d seen anyone under seventy since getting past the kitchen. A few yards away, under a long canopy, Pete saw a handful of men on the driving range, hitting golf balls out onto the practice green.

  “That’s him,” Pete said, pointing at the man on the far left of the five men honing their golf swings.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure,” Pete said.

  “I guess we’ll have to make do with that,” Kathy said as they began to walk toward the man they hoped was Juan Carlos Maldonado. They were intercepted by an older gentleman wearing one of the club’s all-white uniforms. Maybe the internal alarm had been sounded and their time was up.

  “Hello,” the man said. “Are you interested in practice or playing the course?”

  “We’re actually meeting with a friend,” Pete said, trying to step around the gaunt-looking man.

  “Oh? Can I help you locate them?” he asked.

  Pete shrugged.

  “I think we can take it from here,” Kathy said.

  The older man gave them a smile, the kind a parent would give a petulant child.

  “I’m so sorry, but I can’t allow you to proceed,” he said. “Unless you’re a member or you’re accompanied by a member—”

  “He’s right there,” Kathy said, pointing at the figure Pete hoped was Juan Carlos Maldonado. “See him?”

  Pete nodded. Kathy started toward Maldonado and Pete followed, sidestepping the host, who trailed behind them.

  “Juan Carlos Maldonado?” Pete said.

  The man turned around. He’d just finished another swing, which had sent a golf ball rocketing into the green void. He was in his mid-forties, tan, with sculpted stubble on his face and sunglasses over his eyes. He was handsome in a predictable Miami way. He raised the glasses to get a better look at Pete and Kathy.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m Pete Fernandez,” Pete said, extending his hand. “And this is my partner, Kathy Bentley. We’d like to talk to you for a minute about your sister, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

  He shook Pete’s hand and looked at Kathy. The club employee was a few steps behind them, trying to get Maldonado’s attention.

  “Sir, I am so sorry. Folks, you need to leave. Now.”

  “It’s fine,” Maldonado said. “I’ll take it from here, Frank.”

  Frank nodded and started to walk back to his post.

  “You’re the people who investigated the murders last year?” Maldonado said.

  “That’s us,” Kathy said.

  “So what do you want to know about my sister?” Maldonado asked. “What do you want to know so badly that you’d track me down to my country club and interrupt my day? Didn’t you get the hint when I didn’t return your calls?”

  “We apologize for the pop-in,” Pete said. “But we’re looking into Carmen’s murder and, while we did get the impression you weren’t keen on talking to us, we felt it was worth the trip.”

  “Who are you working for?” Maldonado aked, his left eyebrow arching up. “I mean, you’re pretty much catching me blind here.”

  “We’re working for your brother-in-law,” Pete said.

  “He’s not my family,” Maldonado said, his voice sharp. “And you can leave now.” He signaled to Frank.

  Pete could feel Frank approaching. He didn’t have much time to turn this conversation around.

  “Before you kick us out,” Pete said. “Take a minute and consider what I have to say. Gaspar is paying us, that’s true. But we’re not yes-men. We’re not trying to get him out of prison. That’s what he wants, sure, but that’s not our goal.”

  “Oh yeah?” Maldonado said. “What’s your goal, compadre?”

  “The truth,” Pete replied. “We want to figure out what really happened. And we want to write a book about it.”

  “The truth?” Maldonado said. “The truth is what the court said it was. He was guilty, now he’s in jail, case closed. Put that in your fucking book.”

  “If that is the truth, based on what we discover, then that’s what we’ll write,” Kathy said. “And believe me, people will read it. I’ve written two bestsellers already. This book will have an audience, and if, like you say, he’s a murderer and killed your sister, then why not talk to us? Make sure the truth is what we discover.”

  Maldonado sighed. Kathy was hard to argue with when she got on a roll.

  “Okay, fine. I can spare a few minutes,” Maldonado said as he motioned toward a nearby table. “Have a seat. I don’t think you can order food out here, but I’m sure Frank would be able to bring some drinks.”

  They took their seats.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Pete said.

  Kathy cleared her throat.

  “As much as I’d love to mainline some more coffee, I don’t think my body can handle it,” she said.

  Maldonado smiled—a polite, patient smile. Pete could see a slight resemblance between him and Maya. He was younger than Pete had expected, and seemed to be doing well in the finances department.

  “So what do you want to know?” he prompted.

  “We were just hoping to talk to you for a few minutes about Carmen,” Kathy said, trying to smile. “And the terrible crime someone—”

  “Gaspar Varela,” Maldonado said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Varela. You said someone,” Maldonado said. “It wasn’t someone. It was Varela. Her husband. He killed her and tried to make up some crazy story. Bullshit. Total bullshit.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to prove—well, we’re trying to figure out what happened, really, one way or the other,” Kathy said. “Look—the evidence that made it to trial was slim. You know that. We want to revisit what’s out there and discover what didn’t get in front of a jury. We may end up with the same conclusion, but that’s...”

  Maldonado cut her off. His face was red. He took a deep breath and looked down at the table. “Okay, you want to talk? Let’s talk.”

  IT WAS as if no one had asked about his sister before. After the initial rough start, Maldonado dove into Carmen’s story, no longer worried about who Kathy and Pete were beyond them being two people who wanted to hear about his big sister. Santa Carmen. Saint Carmen. But he didn’t want to just talk about the end—her end, the sad part. No, he wanted to cover everything. His first memories of her. Playing together. First communion. College graduation. First date. Her wedding day.

  Pete was surprised at Maldonado’s diplomacy. He avoided Varela until he had no choice but to mention him, trying his best to hover around the happy memories, as if by avoiding Varela he might be able to bring Carmen back. As the story went on, his telling got slower—he dwelled on more details—knowing he was getting close to the end.

  He talked about Maya, his only niece, in an obtuse, distant way. Like a character who’d been written off the show of his life, not someone he was still concerned with.<
br />
  As Maldonado steered the story closer to the murder, the telling became more disjointed and vague, like the first draft of a half-baked idea—plot and character intersecting but not in harmony, hinting at something more defined down the line.

  “When did you realize it was him?” The words left Pete’s mouth without a thought, filling an awkward silence.

  Maldonado wrung his hands and looked up at the sky for a moment, as if to ask for guidance from some unknown higher power. The driving range had emptied by now, the golfers ready to tackle the real game.

  “I believed him,” Maldonado said. “At first. How could I not? He was my sister’s husband. Who would do that to his own wife?”

  He looked around, avoiding eye contact.

  “He was so distraught,” Maldonado said. “He was destroyed.”

  “But…?” Kathy said.

  “The police came on strong in the beginning,” Maldonado said. “‘You always have to look at the spouse,’ the cop said. They grilled him nonstop. I thought for sure they were going to pin it on him, evidence or no.”

  “But they backed off for a while,” Pete said. “They weren’t sure.”

  “Right,” Maldonado said. “But that’s when I became sure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He lied to me,” Maldonado said. “More than once.”

  Maldonado’s nostrils flared as he looked out on the green, his eyes red and wet.

  “He’s a liar,” Maldonado said, his voice cracking. “He gave me hope—said he was on the case.”

  “On the case?” Kathy said.

  “He was going to find them,” Maldonado said. “Find the crazy people he said killed my sister.”

  “But he didn’t?” Pete said.

  “Of course not. He told me he caught him,” Maldonado said, his voice sounding almost comical in reaction to the absurdity of the story. “The one who did it.”