Dangerous Ends

by Alex Segura

  “I think Ledesma is the key here. Maya didn’t have a lot on her, though, just the basics Harras already shared,” Pete said as they walked out of the office building and toward Kathy’s car. “But Maya seems to think she was the great missing piece, and regrets how buried she got by the prosecution, and how her dad’s defense didn’t really develop Varela’s theory on the killer. Not that it helps us much now.”

  Kathy let out a long sigh. “Wow, breaking news indeed. But Ledesma is dead—has been for a while. And this Cruz lady was zero help, beyond giving us her files. Let’s hope the discovery has something useful in it. Anyway, at least our old pal Harras seems to be invested in us getting this right.”

  “We need to find Ledesma’s son,” Pete said, opening the passenger side door and sliding into the seat. “We need to know if Ledesma was actually in that room—and what she saw.”

  PETE STOOD at the far end of the freezer aisle in the Publix Supermarket in West Kendall. He gripped the handle of his green basket as he scanned the TV dinner options. The chill emanating from the glass doors was soothing, a nice contrast to the temperature outside, which felt more humid than usual, even for Miami.

  He’d spent most of the morning at Kathy’s Wynwood apartment, sitting across from her and Harras, going through the Varela files Jackie had sent over. A lot of it was stuff they’d picked up from news reports, conversations with Maya, and their preliminary investigation, but it was essential nonetheless. As Pete read through the lengthy trial transcripts, the major moments of the case played out in black and white, and the train wreck of Ledesma’s testimony seemed that much more surprising—and devastating. But it was the discovery files that jumped out at Pete. They showed Varela starting off at an immediate disadvantage. He didn’t yet have the benefit of Posada’s checkbook to fund his legal expenses, so he was paying Jackie Cruz—at the time a somewhat inexperienced litigator—out of pocket. There was no real investigator tasked with proving Varela’s version of the events, meaning all the defense had to support their case was the evidence the prosecution provided.

  Jackie’s notes also gave them some insight into the struggle she’d faced trying to formulate a viable alternative theory for the murder of Carmen Varela. Severely limited by a dearth of funds and support, Jackie had little to go on aside from the statements her client made to the police and what he told her. It resulted in a vague, inconsistent narrative that stood little chance against the more predictable tale of a desperate, angry husband trying to slash his way out of a loveless marriage.

  Varela had been a narcotics officer with a solid arrest record. He’d brought in a lot of perps and busted up serious drug operations. He was not a friend to the Colombian cartels or their local partners, so it would follow that those powerful criminal organizations would target Carmen Varela. That was where the theory ended—unable to evolve into something concrete, supported by facts. By the time Posada started to help with the financial side, Varela had been convicted and burned through a string of less-qualified appellate attorneys. Maya was also serving as her father’s default legal counsel with chances of a new trial dwindling. Even double-checking the list of criminals Varela had brought to justice bore little fruit, Pete discovered. Most of them were either still in jail, dead, or too small-time to merit consideration. It was a wall Pete was having trouble getting around.

  The shopping trip was meant to serve as a distraction—Pete needed to move and think on his own. It’d been a productive detour, at least. In addition to the files, Jackie Cruz had been helpful on another front: she’d delivered on her half-hearted promise and gotten them the name of Ledesma’s son: Arturo Pelegrin, the product of a brief marriage. The kid, well, man—he was almost twenty—had been taken away to live with his father a few years before his mother’s death. But finding out the kid’s name was only half of it, Pete realized. They needed to figure out where he was and what to ask him. Pete needed to think before he sat down with his partners again. Thus, grocery shopping. It beat sitting at the bar.

  He’d felt his phone vibrate in his pocket earlier, but hadn’t bothered to check. He knew who it was. Maya. She wanted to talk about the case and about the night before. He hadn’t done anything wrong—or, rather, he hadn’t done anything he didn’t want to do. He was trying to live a different kind of life from the one that had gotten him here—a more honest existence with fewer grays and much less black.

  They had just kissed, that was all.

  He could hear Kathy in his head. Great, now you’re going to sleep with our client? Why not just flush our case down the toilet?

  He ignored Imaginary Kathy and thought back to the night before. Maya’s smell. The way the corners of her eyes crinkled a bit when she laughed and how she managed to look put-together and casual at the same time—like she’d slept in her clothes but still looked good, like crumpled velvet. He was rusty. He hadn’t even bothered to consider anything romantic since he’d gotten sober. Sober this time, that is. He flinched at the thought of what had happened last year, and had the dark thought that maybe he didn’t deserve anything beyond what he had.

  No, he couldn’t think like that. He’d worked too hard to be miserable now. He put the basket down and slid his hands in his pockets so no one would notice they were shaking. Even though he no longer craved a drink, he still had to deal with the stuff underneath the alcoholic grime and dirt, like the piles of wreckage in a long-abandoned house. He’d lived a cluttered life full of mistakes, wrong turns, and false starts. But it was still a redeemable one.

  Pete felt his phone vibrate again. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the display, his fingers poised over the ignore button. It wasn’t Maya this time. The number was unlisted. He picked up.

  An automated recording started.

  “You are receiving a collect call from the Everglades Correctional Institute. To accept the charges, please press one. To decline—”

  Pete pressed one. A voice came on the line—distant and faded, like someone calling from underwater.

  “Pete?” It was Varela.

  “Gaspar?” Pete said. He looked around. The grocery store wasn’t too crowded, but the last thing he needed was a local reporter or blogger overhearing PI Pete Fernandez talking to the most notorious convicted murderer this side of Ted Bundy. He started toward the exit.

  “Is this a good time?” Varela asked.

  “Sure, sure,” Pete said. “Is, um, is everything okay?”

  “As fine as anything can be,” Varela said. “But we need to talk.”

  Pete made it outside and walked toward his car.

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “I know you’ve talked to my daughter,” Varela said. “And to Orlando and Juan Carlos. But we need to talk again. You and me. I need you to get my side of things. I’ve been trying to reach you and I don’t have a lot of time—”

  “Okay, that sounds like a plan,” Pete said. “I think we wanted to gather some information before we came back to you, you know, for a formal interview.”

  Pete opened his car door and started the engine. He made sure the AC was on and let out a long breath. He kept the car in park and let the cool air wash over him.

  “I don’t want to wait for a formal interview,” Varela said. Even with the bad connection, Pete could tell his client was pissed off. He felt looped out. “You and your friends are working for me. What little bit of money my daughter has cobbled together from Posada or her own bank account is going to you—I want you to know my side of things before we go any further.”

  “Fair enough,” Pete said. “Just keep in mind that anything you say on this call will probably be recorded, okay? I’m not your lawyer, so this chat isn’t privileged.”

  There was quiet on the other end and for a second Pete thought Varela had come to his senses and hung up.

  “Believe me, I know,” Varela said. “Go ahead, ask your questions.”

  “I can’t,” Pete said. “This all instantly becomes admissible evidence. If you say the w
rong thing—”

  “Ask your questions,” Varela said, his voice low, trying to keep his temper at a low simmer. “Okay? I know what the risks are.”

  “Did you kill your wife?”

  “What? No, of course not,” Varela said. “What kind of question is that?”

  “You want to be interviewed,” Pete said, one hand gripping the steering wheel. “This is it. No decorations. We talk straight. I ask direct questions, you answer. I need you to be honest with me. I’m the only chance you have. So, tell.”

  “No,” Varela said, his voice softer. “I didn’t kill her. I could never hurt Carmen.”

  “Tell me about that night,” Pete said.

  Varela took in a sharp breath.

  “We’d had an argument,” Varela said. “About work. She was tired of being a cop wife. Tired of the hours. Tired of me spending so much time away. We’d had arguments from time to time. This one got heated. I decided to sleep on the couch. Maya was at a friend’s house, so it wasn’t a big deal. Anyway, by the time we were getting ready for bed, things had calmed down. Carmen went in the bedroom and closed the door and I stayed up a bit longer on the couch. I fell asleep reading.”

  “Then what?” Pete said.

  “I woke up with a start,” Varela said, choosing his words with more care now, pacing his story. “It was dark, but I saw two people—two men—in my living room. We had a small nightlight—it was by the couch, so I could make some of it out, for a while. One of them was going into the bedroom, which was on the same floor. I heard my wife scream. A horrible scream. Pain, fear. I still hear that scream. She was dying. I tried to get up, but the other man hit me with something, a stick or a bat, and I was knocked out. I woke up on the floor, near the bedroom. That’s when I saw Carmen…I saw her on the floor, at the foot of the bed. What was left of her.”

  Varela went quiet again. When he spoke next, he sounded shattered—his voice husky and hopeless.

  “My beautiful wife was dead on the floor,” Varela said. “There was blood all over the place. I hadn’t been able to protect her. She was cut up—long, deep wounds all over. Her head was barely attached to her body. It was terrible. So much blood.”

  “Keep going.”

  “Jesus, man, this isn’t easy for me,” Varela said. “Have some regard for that.”

  “Believe me, I do,” Pete said. “But I need to hear the unvarnished truth. It’s the only way I can figure out if there’s any evidence we can use to save you. So far, you’ve just given me stuff I know. I need your perspective. Your story.”

  “That’s when I saw her,” Varela said. “This woman, she’d walked into our home. She was wearing an orange dress, a loud one. She came in…asked if I needed help. I screamed. Told her to call 9-1-1. To please help my wife. She started to help but then turned and ran. I didn’t see her again until the trial.”

  “That’s not what she said. She said she was never there. That she didn’t know you.”

  “She lied,” Varela said, indignant. “I saw her. She was there.”

  “But what did she see that exonerates you?” Pete said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ledesma showed up, walked in on you looming over your dead wife’s body,” Pete said, pulling out a small notebook from his back pocket, flipping through the pages, scanning for information as he thought of his next question. “How does that help you? If you’d killed your wife, the situation could have been the same, right? I mean, the fact that you had an argument also doesn’t help you.”

  A short silence followed. Pete could hear noise in the background—the sounds of a crowd, cursing and yelling.

  “No, no,” Varela said. “Ledesma saw the men. She saw them leaving the house. That cop, Vigil, saw her too.”

  “What about the two men?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did Vigil see them? What about Graydon Smith? Wasn’t he on the scene, too?”

  “I think so,” Varela said, his argument losing steam. “I—I don’t know.”

  “That doesn’t help,” Pete said. “I know she was going to testify to that, but she didn’t. And now Vigil’s dead, so he can’t share his story in a courtroom.”

  “That fucking destroyed me, Ledesma’s testimony,” Varela said, deflated. “That was the end.”

  “What did the men look like?” Pete said.

  “It was hard to see,” Varela said. “They were dressed in black—masks, black pants. It was dark. I wish I could remember more.”

  “What about their physiques? Anything catch your eye? I mean, you’re a cop,” Pete said. “Isn’t this what you’re trained to do?”

  Varela ignored the jab and continued.

  “I wish I’d seen something, anything,” he said. “But they moved fast, efficiently. They knew what the plan was…it was almost like they knew how to avoid doing anything unique or obvious, if that makes sense.”

  “Okay, fine,” Pete said. “But why would anyone—aside from you, for whatever reason—kill your wife?”

  “To get to me,” Varela said. “She never hurt anyone. She was a saint. She was too good for me.”

  “But who were these guys?” Pete asked. “If we can’t find new evidence of you not killing your wife, we need to find evidence that someone else did—follow? So, think hard. Who had it in for you?”

  “I-I can’t think of anyone,” Varela said. “I mean, there were perps I’d brought in, people I’d pissed off.”

  “That was the theory you had your lawyers pursuing, right?” Pete said. “The idea that someone with a grudge against you killed your wife. I mean, you’ve been sitting in a cell for a decade. Surely someone’s come to mind?”

  “Yes, of course,” Varela said, sounding more desperate. “I made plenty of enemies. But it was all street-level stuff. I was a cop, they were criminals. It wasn’t personal beyond that. Not enough reason to kill my wife, to destroy me. I was a good cop, ask Orlando or Harras. I did things by the book. I worked hard, went home, and tried to be a good father and husband.”

  Pete rubbed his eyes.

  “Gaspar,” he said. “I know what you’re saying. But none of that stands up in court. Everything you’ve told me? None of it exonerates you. We gain nothing from suggesting other possibilities. Even if Janette Ledesma was alive and willing to testify that she was there, that doesn’t disprove the theory that you killed your wife.”

  “Look—they’re telling me to get off the phone,” Varela said, sounding more distant than before, like a faded, automated recording. “I just want there to be a record. I want everyone to know I’m innocent before…I have to go. My time is up.”

  The line went dead, leaving Varela’s defeated voice echoing in Pete’s head.

  Miami, Florida

  June 11, 1983

  PEDRO FERNANDEZ wheeled the chair down the makeshift ramp he’d installed to help get Diego in and out of their new house. His father liked sitting in the sun and reading. They were close to peak summer now, making today one of the few days they could sit outside and enjoy the weather without risking heatstroke.

  He pushed his father into the front yard, to a small table set up near the carport. Diego waved his hand at Pedro, and Pedro handed him a copy of the newspaper—Diario las Américas. His father leaned back in his wheelchair and opened the newspaper. This was their routine. Quiet, calm, and hot.

  Pedro pulled a lawn chair closer to the table and looked at his father. His body sagged into the chair, defeated. He looked older than his sixty-five years. Never fully recovered from a knife attack years before, Diego’s health had then spiraled, leaving him chained to this chair as his life faded. It was on that day, when his father had been violently attacked, that Pedro went from son to caretaker. Pedro hadn’t even become a father yet. That would come a few years later with the birth of his own son, Pete, who was now dozing in his toddler bed in the house.

  It’d been three years since Pedro’s wife, Pete’s mother, died during childbirth. Just as he’d rec
eived his greatest gift—a son—he’d lost his partner and best friend. That, coupled with his father’s degrading health, had made for years of anguish, brightened only by watching Pete grow from baby to boy.

  Pedro looked out onto the street, at his neighbors’ houses. Westchester was a quiet suburb that almost lulled Pedro into thinking Miami was a safe haven. But that was bullshit. Miami was the nexus of the drug trade. Even pedestrians were at risk.

  Pedro thought about the Dadeland Mall shooting just a few years back that had cost so many lives. He remembered speeding over to the scene with his partner, Carlos Broche, and being shocked by the bloodshed and carnage hitting the suburban shopping center. They’d gotten there too late. The bodies had already hit the pavement and the situation was under control. There was nothing they could have done to change the outcome, but Pedro still felt a weight on his chest. He didn’t want his young son to live in this world—a world of guns and blood and drug deals. He tried not to think about the kind of place Miami would be in a few years.

  “I made detective, Papi,” Pedro said, trying to break the long silence that had become too routine for them.

  His father nodded, not lifting his eyes from the paper.

  “Does that mean better pay?”

  Money. That’s what it boiled down to for Diego: would he be able to create a better life for his family. Not about prestige or acclaim. Though Diego Fernandez had risen high in the Batista government in Cuba, his main concern had always been his wife and son, not his own political career. He had been content to be the assistant to the attorney general if it meant a good home and income. He could do without the hassle of fame or attention.

  “Yeah, it’s a better salary,” Pedro said.

  “Hours? Do you have to still work nights?”

  “Yeah,” Pedro said. “But not as much. I’m working homicide now. Carlos made detective too.”

  “He’s a good kid,” his father said.

  Pedro felt an urge to say something then, something meaningful to his father. The feeling spread through his body like a quick electric shock. He wanted to thank his father for all the sacrifices he’d made to bring them here to this new country. For risking his life to make sure they were safe. For working long hours to ensure Pedro went to school and had every opportunity. For making the tough decisions that made the life Pedro now had possible. The thought fluttered away when he heard the car engine. Pedro turned his head and saw a beige Oldsmobile pulling onto their street, which rarely saw much traffic beyond the residential flow of people coming home or leaving to go to work. The car was speeding—even more rare in this quiet stretch of suburbia.