by Alex Segura
“I thought he said he was attacked by two people,” Kathy said.
“He did, but he said he found…the one…”
Maldonado stood up and walked a few paces away from the table. He jammed his hands into his pockets, his back to them.
“The one who…” he said, before letting out a quick, cough-like sound. “The one who finished her.”
“How? Who was it?” Pete said.
“Gaspar was in Tampa—this was before they formally arrested him for murder. It took the cops a bit to get their ducks in a row and charge him,” Maldonado said, turning to face them and walking back to his chair. He didn’t sit down, instead hovering behind it. “Anyway, he was on a trip. Trying to get away from it all, he said. He was at a bar and he turned around and there the man was—sitting down a few seats away from Gaspar. One of the killers. The worst one.”
“Why didn’t he call the police?” Kathy asked.
“He followed him out of the bar,” Maldonado said, “and down a few side streets. Then Gaspar confronted the guy. They fought and Gaspar said he lost control. He couldn’t help himself, he told me.”
“Lost control?” Pete said.
“He killed him,” Maldonado said, his eyes wide. “He told me he murdered the man who helped kill my sister. He hid the body. He said I shouldn’t worry anymore.”
Maldonado laughed, a humorless, coarse sound.
“How could I not worry?” Maldonado said, waving his hand in a dismissive motion. “The second I started pressing—asking for details, trying to call the cops—he lost it. Got extremely upset. Finally, I did tell the police. They confronted him and he admitted he’d made it up.”
“Why do that?” Kathy asked. “It makes no sense.”
“He was annoyed,” Maldonado said, his eyes half shut, each word a whisper, hiss-like. “He wanted me to leave him alone. Aside from Maya, I’m the only living member of the family, you see? Our parents are dead. It was just me, and I was a bother—pushing too much. He wanted to move on. Start a new life.”
“That’s what motivated you to testify?” Pete asked.
Maldonado gave Pete a curious look, as if he’d asked him the question in a foreign language.
“That’s what got me thinking about it, yeah,” Maldonado said. “It all made more sense. He was lying to me, lying to his daughter, to everyone. He’s a murderer! He got what he deserved. If the judge had let me testify to that story, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. What kind of a psycho says he murdered someone to calm someone else down?”
Pete leaned back in his seat. He wasn’t sure what to think. Maldonado’s hatred was fresh and strong, but Varela’s move made little sense, especially if he was guilty. It seemed like the act of a desperate man. By all accounts Pete had read, Maldonado was a businessman with a spotty track record who, while not afraid of partaking in the pleasures that came with money, was also haunted by the death of his older sister. Pete felt that the man’s anger was genuine, but was it Varela who Maldonado was angry with? If what he said was true, Pete could understand his resentment toward Varela. Pete could only imagine what it was like to have a sibling, much less to lose one so violently. And then to feel like the case had been closed, only to learn your own brother-in-law was just trying to get rid of you, like a pesky kid he didn’t want to hang out with anymore? It was an act of unimaginable cruelty—enough to create a lifelong resentment, for sure. Then why wasn’t Pete buying it?
Maldonado’s cell phone rang, breaking the silence that had settled over the table like an early morning mist. Maldonado picked it up and took a few steps away from them. From what little Pete could hear—he was too far to make out the words—Maldonado seemed at first intrigued, then agitated, and finally resigned. The entire exchange took about two minutes.
Pete felt his own phone vibrate.
He was surprised by the name that popped up on the display—alerting him to a text message. But before he could mention it to Kathy, Maldonado returned.
“You have to leave,” he said, his voice hollow. “Right now.”
PETE HESITATED before walking into the Thai restaurant. They’d been there before, years ago. He checked his watch and stepped in. The text message during the Maldonado interview had been a surprise, especially after almost a year of silence. He hadn’t expected a response to his initial text message. But here he was, Pete thought, running at the first sign of anything.
She was sitting at the bar—having a cloudy martini. He tried to ignore the drink, but couldn’t help it. She noticed him walking over and took a long sip—a last, almost desperate one, as if she’d be unable to have any more now that he’d arrived.
“Hey,” Pete said.
“Hi,” Emily said. Her bright blue eyes stood out against the grays and browns of the restaurant. He thought about leaning in for a hug, but decided against it.
“I guess this is weird,” he said. Lighten the mood. Make it less awkward.
“I guess,” she said. She took a short sip from her drink. “You reached out, I answered.”
“I’m surprised,” he said.
She let out a quick sigh and looked up at Pete. She seemed to already be tired of their exchange.
“Me too,” she said. She straightened up on the barstool, brushing some invisible dust from her sleeve. She was dressed in an understated, dark pantsuit, her long blond hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her makeup was subtle and she seemed—well, fine. Pete felt a pang of disappointment at the thought that maybe she hadn’t played out this meeting in her head as many times as he had on his way here. She’d put together a life that didn’t involve him. A life he didn’t know anything about anymore.
“Should we get a table? You hungry?”
“No,” Emily said. “I don’t want—I’m not hungry. Look, Pete, it’s…good to see you. I guess. But we’re not friends. We didn’t stop talking because one of us moved or because I got a job that had me working weird hours. I never thought I’d see you again. But I guess I felt vulnerable and your text came at the right time, so I’m here.”
Emily finished her drink and nodded at the bartender for another. Their eyes met for a moment and Pete was reminded of all the memories he’d allowed himself to wallow in, to try to savor, while darting through traffic to get to the restaurant. The past had a way of hypnotizing you, of whispering in your ear and spreading a feeling of tingling comfort over you like the warm buzz of a smoky, aged scotch. But memories weren’t the truth, and Pete never sipped his scotch. Pete was a drunk, and things with Emily had ended—not in a clean way, but in fits and starts and too many raised voices and regrets.
“I heard about Rick,” Pete said. “Like I said in my text, I’m sorry. It was a terrible thing to happen.”
“That’s nice of you to say,” she said. “But you can’t really mean it. We both know Rick was an asshole.”
“What happened?”
“He was playing pool at that dive Duffy’s on Red Road,” Emily said. “That’s the last time anyone saw him alive. He left with two guys around midnight.”
Pete nodded and took the seat next to her at the bar.
“You’ve probably read the coverage on this already, but they found him stabbed to death near a park by Biscayne,” Emily said. She didn’t flinch. Her eyes didn’t well up. “Some jogger saw it—his body.”
“Jesus,” Pete said. Not much of what she’d told him was new, but it didn’t make the story any less depressing. Even a douchebag like Rick deserved a better finale, Pete thought.
“What are you going to do?”
She looked at her hands before responding.
“I’m glad you asked. Part of the reason I responded to you was because I need your help, and I hate that I even have to ask this of you,” she said. Her shoulders sagged. “I need you to find out who did this.”
“That’s what the cops are for.”
“Stories like this have a shelf life, even for cops,” Emily said. “You know the drill about the first forty-eight. While it’s in t
he headlines, the cops will do their due diligence, but after that, it drops off their radar. They told me as much when I talked to them. There’s no strong evidence, and Rick wasn’t exactly a stand-up citizen.”
“Can I ask you a question without you getting upset?” Pete said.
“Go ahead.”
“Why do you care?”
“What?”
“About Rick,” Pete said. “About who killed him. About what happened. You weren’t even living together. You’ve been living somewhere else for months. Your divorce must have been close to final when Rick got killed, right?”
“How do you know that?” Emily asked.
“I’m a detective,” Pete said. “You don’t think I did some research before I came to meet you? I was surprised you responded. It got me to thinking about why you did, after all this time.”
“Rick was part of it,” she said. “But I also wanted to see you and say goodbye.”
“We’ve been through the ‘I’m never talking to you again’ routine before,” Pete said. “I don’t respond well to it.”
“I’m leaving town,” she said. “For good. Next week. All this place has brought me is pain and nightmares. You can imagine part of it. But I finally have the means to live life the way I want to, without having to be tied down to this hellhole.”
Pete nodded.
“Rick had a lot of money, apparently,” Emily said. “A lot of money I knew about, and a lot of money I had no idea about. Like, life-changing money. Never-have-to-work-again money.”
“That’s great for you, I guess,” Pete said. “But I still don’t get how this involves me or Rick’s murder.”
“Rick was in bed with some bad people, and I’m not talking about the whores he paid for,” Emily said. “I mean criminals. I think that whole operation went south and that’s why he was murdered. I could easily hit the road with his cash and not lose a wink of sleep, but I’m also worried. I mean, I had access to Rick’s office and his computer. What if the people who killed him want to finish off anyone who might know what he knows? I need to find out who did this and why. That’s where you come in.”
“Slow down,” Pete said. “Who was Rick working with?”
“I’m not sure yet,” she said. She pursed her lips. “But I know what he was doing wasn’t legal. I mean, you’re right—we weren’t talking much. The marriage was over. But that was part of the reason why, on top of the affairs and other bullshit that no one should tolerate, I knew he was doing something that wasn’t legit. He was in over his head. That’s what killed him.”
Pete scooted off his barstool and stepped toward Emily. He noticed her tense up, as if expecting Pete to make an unwanted advance.
“I’m sorry your husband was killed,” Pete said. “But I can’t investigate Rick’s murder. I can’t be your fallback whenever Rick messes your life up. By the time any of Rick’s cronies find out you looked into his stuff, you’ll probably be long gone. You don’t need my help.”
Emily looked up and gave Pete a strained smile, followed by a sharp nod. “Goodbye, Pete.”
He waited a moment, expecting her to say more. But instead, she turned toward her drink, like a reader flipping a page to the next chapter. He walked to the door, unable to shake the feeling that closure with Emily was just a shimmering mirage. No matter which direction he approached, it would continue to morph and pivot away, like a fast-moving shadow stretching toward the darkness.
PETE TURNED off South Bayshore Drive and parked down McFarland Road, near the street’s dead-end finale on the fringe of Peacock Park. An evening wind hit Pete as he exited the car. Unlike the main drag of Coconut Grove, this stretch of park was quiet, far from the clubs and bars that littered CocoWalk, and made the Grove a destination for foodies and partiers on most nights. Pete appreciated the quiet for a moment before walking into the park, past a wide field and toward a cluster of trees near the small docks that littered the edge of this swath of Biscayne Bay. There was no police tape, but Pete knew this was the spot where Rick Blanco had died.
To anyone walking by, the area would seem undisturbed—a rare slice of Miami that was still tranquil and more nature preserve than metropolis, like a patch of grass growing through a crack on the sidewalk. Despite his stumbles and wrong turns, Pete wasn’t just anyone—at least not anymore. He’d refined his reporter’s eye for detail over time, tightening his focus and drowning out the background noise.
Pete noticed a cluster of fresh tire tracks on the street. A lot of people had gathered here to think about a man’s death. Pete was the last one at the party. He wasn’t going to find anything new—the scene was no longer a viable one, at least in terms of evidence, now corrupted by the reporters and peepers walking through the area after the police had moved on. But he wanted to get a sense of where Rick had been murdered.
Part of being a private detective was accepting that you didn’t have all the answers. You may not get them even after a case is closed. With that knowledge came the acceptance that you had to trust your instinct to guide you down the right path. Pete had felt a shiver of unease as he left the restaurant and Emily. It’d led him here. The idea of Rick being murdered wasn’t the kind of information that would, under normal circumstances, make him rush into action. But something about the news report had stuck in Pete’s head, buzzing around like a dream forgotten too soon after waking up. The idea that Rick was dancing on the wrong side of the law didn’t surprise him. What did come as a shock was that whatever he had been doing was enough to get him killed. Had Los Enfermos been responsible? The TV reporter seemed keen to make the connection, but Pete, forever a print guy at heart, took every bit of reportage he saw on TV with a significant grain of salt. Even if this jaunt turned out to be a waste of time, Pete had to find out for himself. Not for Emily. Not for anyone else.
“What were you up to?” Pete asked, his voice almost inaudible in the quiet night.
His eyes had adapted to the darkness, and he crouched down to look at a patch of ground bereft of grass and riddled with fading footprints and a crinkled McDonald’s sandwich wrapper that stood guard on the fringe.
“You a cop?”
Pete stood up and turned around, his eyes locking in on the shadowy form in front of him, just a yard away. The man was hunched over a bit and seemed to be wearing multiple layers of clothing, despite the heat. His voice was more of a croak, and he was inching closer to Pete with an unhealthy and stilted gait.
“Who’s asking?”
“This is my house,” the man said. “Been too busy lately.”
Pete didn’t need to see the man to know he was homeless. The smell of cheap beer and dirt had already reached his nostrils.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr…?” Pete said.
“Everton,” the man said, stepping closer, into a crack of moonlight that had made its way through the trees. “Edward Everton.”
Everton was stocky, his build augmented by the sweater and coats he’d piled on himself over time. His face was smeared with dirt and his shoes worn down and almost useless.
Pete extended his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “I can imagine this was a hectic corner of the park for a bit.”
“Cops, reporters, rubberneckers,” Everton said, ignoring Pete’s gesture and counting each group off with a finger from his right hand. “They all been here too much. For what? Some drunk who probably deserved it?”
“You know how it is,” Pete said. “Everyone loves a gruesome news story.”
Everton nodded, his eyes expectant.
“Were you around when it happened?” Pete asked. “I’m not a cop, if that helps at all.”
“I got nothing to say to you,” he said. “Or to the cops. No benefit for me in talking. I just want to be left alone. I just want my home back.”
Pete pulled out a twenty from his wallet and dangled it in front of Everton, who made his way toward Pete, snatching the bill away.
“I get you,” Pete said. “I’d be pissed too. Maybe that
’ll help a bit, at least while you wait for people to stop invading your turf.”
“Thank you kindly,” he said.
Pete let the quiet unfurl for a bit. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Everton licked his lips, his hands fiddling with the twenty.
“I saw what I saw,” he said. “But I ain’t told the cops, and I ain’t telling anyone, so if you’re one of those busybodies running around spreading bullshit, I won’t be here to repeat my story.”
Pete nodded. “I’m not. This is between us.”
The man cackled.
“Between us?” he said. “Who the hell are you?”
Pete extended his hand.
“Pete Fernandez. I’m a private detective.”
Everton shook it. His palm felt chipped and coarse, like old wood.
“Good for you,” he said.
“Sometimes,” Pete said.
Everton let out a soggy cough, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his long coat. Pete tried not to think about how grizzled and warm the man must feel in this weather, even with the minor dip in temperature.
“I saw it,” he said. “I saw what happened. I wasn’t right here, but I could see. I’d heard the car squeal in, so I know it was bad news. I got other hidey-holes. Other spots where I can set up shop while people stomp all over this here space. I’m not dumb. I know it’s a good place. People want to be by the water.”
“You saw them kill him?” Pete said. “Who was it?”
“I saw enough to know they’d done killed him,” Everton said. “They pulled him down here and cut him up real good with their long knives. He was as good as dead when they dragged him here. But he was begging. Oh, he was begging for mercy.”
“How many men were attacking him?” Pete asked.
“Just two,” Everton said. “Couldn’t see their faces in the dark, but both sounded young, talking that garbage Spanish to each other. Seemed normal in size, not too tall, not too short. One last slice and the man got all quiet, but they kept hacking away at him. I heard them laughing real hard all the way back to their car.”
“Did you see what kind of car it was?”
