Dangerous Ends

by Alex Segura

  Pete gave her a civil smile. He knew a political discussion would derail any chance of this interview being productive. The idea that Cuba, still under Communist rule and the thumb of a Castro, was now just another cool, hip destination for a second-generation Cuban like Stephanie Solares to add to her passport stamp collection irked Pete more than it should. He tried to let it slide.

  “So, like I told you over the phone,” Pete said, “I’m working for Maya Varela’s dad. My partners and I are trying to re-investigate the murder of Maya’s mother.”

  “Yeah, that’s intense,” she said. “Do you think he’s not guilty?”

  “I’m not sure,” Pete said. “I’m just in the early stages. Trying to talk to key people and go from there.”

  “That must be cool.”

  “What?”

  “Being a detective,” she said, though her expression didn’t match her words. She was being polite.

  “It’s a living,” Pete said. He cleared his throat. “So, Maya slept over the night of the murder.”

  “Right, yeah,” she said. “It was pretty normal for Maya to come over. We were best friends. We’d either go to my house or hers. Mine more often, I think. Maya liked our house more.”

  “Why’s that?” Pete asked.

  “Oh, it was nicer, I guess?” Stephanie said. “It was closer too. We both went to Lourdes and my house was super nearby, so we’d usually come back and watch TV or eat something, then her mom or dad would pick her up.”

  “Do you still talk?” Pete said.

  “No, not in a while,” Stephanie said. She hadn’t touched her coffee. “We were like sisters in high school, but after, well, after everything, it kind of changed. We both moved. I went to UF and we stopped talking as much. I mean, I see her every once in a while. I saw her a few years ago at Bougainvillea’s near Sunset Place, but we don’t, like, hang out. Maybe I should call her.”

  “How did you feel when you found out what happened?” Pete asked.

  “I was completely shocked,” Stephanie said, opening her eyes, as if to prove to Pete her surprise at the time. “I loved Mrs. V. She was the best. It was scary to think someone would hurt her like that. So terrible. Everyone was crazy about it. It was like, I don’t know, like we’d been infected.”

  “What do you mean?” Pete scooted his seat a bit closer, the din from the airport getting harder to ignore.

  “That kind of thing didn’t happen,” Stephanie said. “At least not to us. To our families. It felt wrong. Like a monster coming to life or something you didn’t think existed being real.”

  Pete let the sheltered comment pass.

  “You said you spent a lot of time at the Varela home?”

  “Yeah, I was there all the time,” she said. “I was like their other daughter.”

  “Tell me about the night,” Pete said. “The night of the murder.”

  Stephanie scrunched up her nose and looked away from them, as if to collect her thoughts for a moment.

  “It’s funny, because I should remember more about it,” she said, still not meeting Pete’s look. “But I don’t, because it was so, you know, normal for Maya to come over and spend the night. By the time we found out her mom was dead, that’s what changed everything. The time before was just the usual.”

  “Were you surprised when Gaspar was arrested for the murder?”

  Stephanie seemed to ponder the question for a moment, her lower lip sticking out slightly.

  “I was, yeah, I was,” she said. “He was such a dad, you know? Always around, fixing stuff around the house. He was a cop. He was just a good guy.”

  “Did you ever notice Maya’s parents arguing?”

  “No, not while I was around,” she said. “But he worked late a lot, so I didn’t always see them together. But they seemed happy. They were a tight little trio. Mr. V, Mrs. V, and Maya. Aside from the usual friction, they were okay.”

  “Friction?”

  “Have you ever tried to raise a teenage girl?”

  Pete chuckled. “I can’t say I have,” he said.

  “That’s what I mean,” she said. “It was just the regular teenage stuff. Maya was independent, did her own thing. She’d act out. Stay out past her curfew, drink a little. Nothing crazy. I did the same stuff. We did it together most of the time.”

  “Did she get along with her parents?”

  “Yeah, mostly,” she said, a distant look clouding her eyes. “But we were both spoiled Lourdes girls. The big difference was I was from a rich family and Maya’s was scraping by to pay for her tuition. So she probably resented that. It must suck to be spoiled and poor, right?”

  Pete winced for a moment and then turned his attention to his watch. He had to go.

  “Is there anything else you remember that you think might be helpful?” Pete asked.

  “She loved her parents,” Stephanie said. “Maya was so broken up when her mother was killed. Her father going to jail for it sent her to a really bad place. I can’t imagine what she went through after we lost touch.”

  She could have called to find out anytime she wanted, Pete thought.

  “Do you remember anything unusual about that night?”

  “Not really,” she said, looking around the empty restaurant. “It was the standard thing we always did—bad movies, bad food, talking about school and boys. The only thing that was different was the next morning. No one came to get her until the cops showed up, super-late.”

  Stephanie stood up, her coffee still untouched on the table.

  “I have to get going,” she said.

  Pete followed suit and held the door for her as they walked out into the chaos of the airport.

  “Thanks again; this was very helpful,” Pete said as they shook hands. She gave him a cordial nod.

  Stephanie turned around and took a few steps before wheeling back toward Pete.

  “You know, there is one other thing,” she said. “Something that happened a few weeks before—before Mrs. V was killed.”

  Pete motioned for her to continue. They moved back toward the restaurant, taking refuge from the swirling crowd.

  “I’d cut class that day,” Stephanie said. “I’m not sure why. I think I had an essay due and it wasn’t ready so I needed to work on it or something. Anyway, I went to Maya’s house, thinking that no one would be home and I could finish it there and wait until Maya came home and my parents picked me up. But the only way I could get in was through the back—they hardly ever locked the patio door, so all I had to do was cut through the backyard and come in. But the second I got into the yard, I heard screaming.”

  “Screaming?”

  “Yeah, loud, frightened, and angry screaming,” Stephanie said. “It was Mrs. V. I was scared. But I also felt like she might be in trouble, so I started running toward the house.”

  “What was she saying?” Pete asked. “What happened?”

  “She was screaming into the phone, and crying,” Stephanie said. “She was on the floor, rolling around like a kid. She kept yelling, ‘How could you do this?’ and, ‘How could you do this to us? To our family?’”

  PETE CLOSED the heavy hardcover book and set it on the counter next to the register. Pete was sitting at the Book Bin’s front desk, across from Martin Colón. It was a little past eight in the morning and they’d been chatting since seven. It had started out as a formal AA sponsor meeting—Pete walking Martin through some twelve-step work, sharing advice and experiences. It evolved into casual conversation and Pete asking questions about Martin’s life and upbringing. It was the first time they’d met outside of the rooms, and Pete was trying to get a feel for how invested Martin was in the program—and staying sober.

  “I think we did a lot today,” Pete said.

  “Yeah, man, I appreciate this,” Martin said. “You taking the time to show me all this stuff. It’s overwhelming, you know?”

  “All too well.”

  “Ha, yeah, I guess you’re right—you haven’t been dry all that long,”
Martin said. He was a jovial guy. Quick with a laugh and always smiling. Pete was optimistic for him. Hopeful this most recent attempt at getting clean was the one.

  “You have stuff to do later today?”

  “You mean, am I keeping busy?” Martin said.

  “Yeah, you have to stay active,” Pete said. “Keep doing stuff. Stay distracted. You don’t want to be locked up at home thinking bad thoughts. Sounds silly, but it happens to all of us.”

  “I know it, man,” Martin said. “I gotta get up and go to a meeting every day, or I lose a bit of, you know—what’s it called, man?—momentum. I lose my momentum and start obsessing over stupid shit, like why that guy cut me off, or is this woman gonna call me, or, you know—dumb stuff. But it isn’t stupid in my head.”

  “When you start to get like that, call me, call Jack, or hit a meeting. Or read from this book,” Pete said, grabbing the book he’d set aside. It had a blue and yellow cover with Alcoholics Anonymous on the front.

  “I am running low on funds, man. I can’t buy this now.”

  “It’s free. A gift. Pass it on to someone who needs it more when you’re done, or when you can buy your own.”

  Pete’s phone vibrated on the counter. Martin got up as Pete looked at the display. He didn’t recognize the number. He pushed a button to send the call to voicemail.

  “You gonna take that?”

  “Nah, no worries,” Pete said.

  The phone started to ring again. Same number.

  Martin started to walk toward the door, book in hand.

  “Get your phone, don’t sweat it,” he said. “We’ll pick up later this week. I’ve got some reading to do today.”

  Pete nodded. He waited until Martin was gone and then picked up the call.

  “This is Pete.”

  “It’s Juan Carlos.” The voice on the other end of the line was quiet and rushed.

  Maldonado.

  “Oh, hey,” Pete said, reaching for a pad and pen. “It’s good to hear from you.”

  “I don’t have a lot of time,” he said. “I just wanted to tell you…that…to tell you that you need to stop what you’re doing. You need to let things be.”

  “Stop? Why?”

  “I don’t have the time to explain it to you, buddy. But you’re on a dangerous path, okay?” His words fell out in jumbles. “There’s a lot of shit going on around the story—more than you can figure out on your own. More than I can tell you. Just leave it alone. For your own sake—and for your two friends.”

  “Okay, slow down—what’s dangerous? Why should I leave it alone? What happened? You got a call when we were there—who was it?”

  “No one—no, nothing happened,” he said. “Just take a few steps back, okay? We can’t talk anymore. Stop what you’re doing, okay? Do not contact me again.”

  He hung up. Pete tried to call back a few times but each time someone picked up and ended the call. He saved the number in his contacts.

  His phone rang again.

  “Unreal,” Pete said as he stuck his hand in his pocket. But it was Martin.

  “Hey, man,” Pete said.

  “Hey, Pete, sorry to…sorry to call all of a sudden, man. I know we just hung out.” Pete could hear the traffic sounds of the city in the background—Martin was driving somewhere. “But I had to talk to someone. It keeps happening. One of my boys just rang me up again to catch up with them and I know what that means, you know?”

  “Hey, don’t sweat it. You did the right thing. What did they want?”

  “The usual,” Martin said. “Go to a club, drink some beer, smoke a little weed. But I can’t do that. I’m heading home.”

  “Good,” Pete said. “Take it easy today. Do they know you’re going to meetings?”

  “Yeah, yeah, they don’t know I’m seriously sober, not drinking. They just think I’m on a break or whatever,” Martin said. “I used to roll with them a lot—shoot some pool, watch the game. They just wanted to see what I been up to. Haven’t seen either of them for a while. They’re not bad guys. I mean, some of them hang with people who do some shit. But that’s the street, you know? The bad guys are everywhere. Shit.”

  “Well, it’s good of them to check in,” Pete said. “Maybe they’re trying to understand where you’re coming from. That’s part of the process for some people.”

  “Yeah, I guess. They might want to find a meeting too,” Martin said. “Those guys can pound, you know? But I just don’t think I should be hanging with them anytime soon.”

  “Well, sometimes we lose friends when we decide not to drink. It’s okay. If they—”

  The store’s front door chime interrupted Pete, and he turned to see Maya enter. She gave Pete a slow smile as she slid her purse down from her shoulder to her hand. She strolled over to the counter, as if she’d visited Pete at the store before.

  “Martin, look, sorry, man, lemme call you back.”

  Pete heard Martin’s response and clicked off the call. He looked up at Maya. She seemed relaxed and happy. She was wearing black jeans and a blue blouse. It was too hot outside for much else.

  “Hello,” she said. “I was expecting a fancy pants detective agency.”

  “Sorry, we’re not open yet,” Pete said, trying to keep a straight face. He watched her squirm a bit before cracking a smile.

  “You jerk,” she said with a laugh. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just in the area and figured I’d swing by and…”

  “And?” Pete said.

  “And see if you had time to grab a cup of coffee?”

  Miami, Florida

  December 24, 1976

  DIEGO CLOSED the studio doors and pulled out his key ring, heavy with similarly shaped keys for almost every office in the building. He found the right one and locked the door. He had a system. Like everything else in his life, he’d organized the keys so he would never struggle to find the right one. Even now, on a night when he should be sitting down to dinner with his wife, he knew where everything was.

  Diego’s ears still tingled from the show. It was a luxury he allowed himself. He knew it wasn’t the highest-rated radio program on the station—his station—WHBA, Radio Havana. There were other, more popular shows. Other, bigger stations. But Diego was proud of his business. Proud of the signal he’d built in the years he’d spent here in his adopted country.

  The show had been fairly standard. Diego—not Diego Fernandez, but Diego Angel now, clean-shaven and with shorter, grayer hair—had railed at Castro. The dictator’s decision to name himself presidente after almost two decades of rule was laughable, Diego said. Another sign that Cuba was an enemy state and should be dealt with directly by the United States. The callers had been supportive. They’d cheered him on. Saluted the many hats he wore in exile. Businessman. Anti-Castrista. Father. Husband. Few people, only his closest friends, knew there were more ways to describe him. Batista man. Assistant to the Attorney General of Cuba. Fernandez.

  Diego’s son, Pedro, had rejected the surname Angel—because of what it stood for. A smokescreen his father had to put up to protect himself from the shadows he refused to explain, like a con artist moving pieces around to distract an oblivious sap. Pedro loved Miami. He loved the freedom they had. But he detested their adopted name. Cowardly, he’d called the idea once. That had been met by a swift smack across the face—one of the few times Diego had ever raised a hand to strike his child. Pedro understood. Perhaps he felt he deserved it. That was years ago, shortly after they’d been reunited in Miami. Pedro was a man now, with his own wife and their own home. He was Pedro Fernandez, a uniformed police officer protecting his adopted country.

  The lights in the office hallway flickered for a second and went out, sending the building into darkness. Diego pocketed his keys and felt his way down the hall. He knew the offices well enough to navigate in the dark. The station was located on the northern fringe of Miami-Dade County, in an area that sported the illusory name of Miami Gardens. The neighborhood was not nearly as pleasant a
s it sounded. He’d have to call the super. He didn’t want anyone getting hurt. He knew the offices were empty, though, because he’d given everyone the night off. It was nochebuena, after all. The night before Christmas. A holiday that should be spent with family.

  He made his way down the two flights of stairs to the front doors. The light from outside made his journey a little clearer. His car was a short walk away.

  Diego stopped short when he saw the silhouette of a man inside, in front of the double doors. The man was backlit, and Diego couldn’t make out his features. He remembered locking the doors when he’d come in, alone, a few hours before. He didn’t need a producer—especially for a show he knew few would even be listening to.

  Diego was a few steps from the bottom of the stairwell.

  “Who’s there?” he called out.

  The shape didn’t move.

  “This is private property,” Diego said, his voice calm. He wasn’t scared. Not yet. He knew this area wasn’t the best, but the rent had been cheap and they’d lucked into a building with most of the equipment the fledgling station would need. Diego had to cut costs wherever possible to even hope to compete with more established—and well-funded—competitors like WQBA and Radio Mambi. While the station was home to Miami’s top-rated radio show, hosted by local hero Madelyn Suarez, WHBA was still a distant third after five years in existence.

  Diego took the final two steps and walked toward the doors. The man raised a hand. He was also sporting a black mask over his face. Diego stopped.

  “What do you want?” Diego asked, his hands up, showing he wasn’t armed. “Do you need money? I can give you a twenty. Something to keep you going. I know it’s a holiday—”

  “Shut up, viejo,” the man said. He sounded young, Diego thought. Around Pedro’s age. He was calm. He wasn’t yelling. “Stay where you are.”

  Diego saw a flash of metal. The man had a knife. A big one. Either this man intended to rob him—maybe he happened to see a light on and needed the cash—or he’d come here to do something worse. In which case, no offers of money would be enough to save Diego’s life.