by Alex Segura
Miranda shrugged.
“Varela’s wife was killed by this exact kind of machete,” Pete said. “Which, while not impossible to find, isn’t exactly sold at Target. Did you know that your husband was exchanging emails with someone tied to the case for months, maybe years? That he was basically blackmailing this person with some insider knowledge and evidence?”
“My husband and I didn’t keep secrets from each other,” she said, more matter-of-factly than defensively. “But say your little theory is true. What of it? What does it change?”
“Why hide the weapon?” Kathy said. “It’s the kind of thing that would help convict Varela in a second.”
“Assuming the weapon proves Varela used it,” Miranda said.
Pete felt his mouth go dry.
“On the other hand, say it did prove Varela was the killer,” she said. “Nothing could kill an appeal faster than a weapon with Varela’s prints on it that matched the forensic evidence on his wife’s death. Whoever was paying my husband did not want this knife to go public. Desperately.”
“But why would he hide the weapon either way?” Kathy asked. “He wanted Varela to go down. He sent him there.”
“My husband sent him to jail without a weapon, he was that good,” Miranda said. “But by discovering it later, Calvin saw an…opportunity. He found someone willing to pay a lot of money to prevent him from showing an antique off to the wrong people.”
“Maybe so,” Pete said, growing tired of the back and forth, and of Miranda Whitelaw’s detachment from the entire affair. “But that doesn’t answer the big question.”
“What?” Miranda asked.
“Where’s the knife that murdered Carmen Varela?”
PETE PULLED out the beat-up vinyl copy of Sonic Youth’s Washing Machine and flipped it over. It wasn’t in great condition, but for a few bucks it might be worth it. He scratched at the beard he’d continued to grow. A few months of stubble and a hoodie wasn’t much of a disguise. But he needed to get out. The store, Sweat Records, was located catty-corner to Churchill’s, on the fringe of the Little Haiti area. He needed a break. It’d been a few days since their confrontation at Posada’s office and the Whitelaw visit, and Pete felt off-balance. He needed to focus on something else for a few minutes, even if “something else” was digging through the used bin at his favorite record store.
The door chimed as he slid the record back into the bin. He’d revisit the album on his second pass. He turned around and found himself facing Maya Varela.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” Pete said. “Record shopping?”
“Not really,” she said. “I called Kathy and she said you might be here—‘getting his Wilco dork on,’ she said. Then I remembered you had the Sweat bag at breakfast. That made me think my chances of catching you were above average.”
“Are you sure I’m the detective?” Pete said. The quick joke didn’t have the desired effect. Maya responded with an awkward, strained smile.
“This your first time here?” Pete said, cutting off the silence.
“I…um, I’m ashamed to admit this.”
“What?”
“I’m not a huge music person,” she said, looking around the small space, taking in the various posters, boxes full of records, and the display of coffee and vegan treats.
“I’ll forgive the blasphemy you just uttered for now,” he said. “I’m guessing you want to talk?”
She nodded.
“But not here,” she said.
The outside seating area at Tobacco Road, a landmark downtown bar in Miami’s Brickell neighborhood was at half capacity—a mix of hipsters and early-bird drinkers who hoped to make people think they were getting caffeinated or fed instead of sloshed. Pete and Maya had found a small table on the quiet fringe. After some pleasantries and a few rounds of beverages, the crowd had grown, and Pete saw a band setting up on the outdoor stage, closer to the bar entrance.
“I’m sorry about how we—”
Maya raised a hand. Stop.
“Not yet,” she said. “I called this meeting.”
“Very formal.”
“Hey, it’s true,” she said. “I’m happy to accept your apology later, but for now, I just wanted to let you know that I understand.”
“You understand … what?”
“Why you have to drop the case,” Maya said. “I get it.”
Pete waited a beat.
“I’m trying to come to terms with it,” she said.
Maya looked away, toward the restaurant, breaking her eye contact with Pete. “I’ve got to come to terms with the fact that my father did what he did to my mother, to your friend, and to Whitelaw.”
She fiddled with her silverware before looking at Pete. “I don’t know how to explain what he did,” she said. “What he tried to do.”
“It’s hard to wrap your head around it,” Pete said. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through, or what you’re thinking. Currently, I’m a little nervous about being out in the open like this. That’s my new status quo.”
“To live in fear?”
“Something like that,” Pete said.
She cracked a slight smile.
Their next round of drinks arrived—a Bloody Mary for her, another seltzer for him. Pete felt his energy dwindling, and he wasn’t sure how long this talk would go. Maya seemed defeated, deflated, off. Pete knew what that was like—when everything you had banked on somehow went backward. He wanted to reach out his hand, but held back.
“What if I told you we weren’t dropping it?” Pete said.
She took a long sip from her drink. She put the glass down and leaned back in her chair before responding.
“I’d ask you why not.”
“I still have a lot of questions I need answered,” Pete said. “Like, why is your father working with a violent Cuban street gang? Why does he want me dead?”
“It might have something to do with you investigating the murder of my mother,” she said. Her tone was flat.
“I guess,” Pete said. “But then why let you continue to investigate this?”
“Well, it’s probably not easy to tell your only child you murdered her mother,” she said.
“Why ask us to reinvestigate the whole thing?” Pete said. “He was basically at the end of the line, fourth quarter, two minutes, not even in the—”
“I get the metaphor,” Maya said. “Look, Pete, you and Kathy are going to do whatever you think is best. I don’t see the point in you going rogue now, not to mention doing it for free. I’m not paying you to do this anymore.”
“I also think we have a lead on the murder weapon,” Pete said.
“That…that would change everything,” Maya said. “Holy shit. Where is it?”
His wasn’t sure why he was doing this—opening up the case to Maya, who was very clear in her desire not to be their boss. But part of him wanted to lay down a foundation of trust with her. He wanted to salvage things with her.
“Not sure yet, but it could be a big thing if we get our hands on it,” Pete said. “I wanted you to know we’re making progress. It seems a little pointless, with your father out there and Whitelaw dead and everything crumbling down. I realize that, but…I’m not sure how to say this.”
She didn’t respond. Not a word or a nod of recognition. This was not going well.
“I know I just dropped a whopper of info on you, but can we put this on pause for a second?” Pete said. “I just wanted to say that I was happy to see you. I’ve been thinking about you a lot. Maybe now that we’re not, what’s the word, financially tied together…”
“Pete Fernandez,” she said. “Are you asking me out? Right now? Nice gear shift, buddy. Wow.”
They were silent for a few moments, looking each other over, as if both analyzing what was going to happen next, even if they knew where it was heading.
“You are a true man of mystery,” she said.
“Am I?”
“It’s funny you picked this place,�
� she said, leaning over the small table, her breath hot on his face. She swung her arm around, motioning toward the bar. The drinks seemed to be kicking in. “This is my spot. I hang out here. Didn’t you get the memo?”
“It must have gotten stuck in my spam,” Pete said, raising his voice as the in-house speakers started to blast Springsteen’s Out in the Street.
“This is strong,” she said, pursing her lips as she took a long sip of her drink. “I think I’ll be done after this one.”
“It’s good to cut loose sometimes,” Pete said.
The waiter came back with two half-filled glasses of water.
“Why are we here, Maya?” Pete asked. “Why’d you want to talk to me?”
Maya leaned back in her chair. Pete watched her as she scanned the expansive outdoor seating area, a silly grin on her face. She started to talk before she’d turned to face him.
“I followed you,” she said. “To the record store, I mean.”
“Oh?” Pete said.
“Yes,” she said. “Don’t be mad at me. I mean, I knew you liked that place, but it was more than just a casual bumping into you. I needed to talk to you.”
“Why would I be mad?”
“I dunno, because it sounds stalkerish and crazy,” Maya said.
She moved her hand over his.
“I agree with you, Pete. I wish we could go backward,” she said, looking at their hands. “I feel like it’s all gotten really complicated. I wish we didn’t have all this shit to sift through with me, my dad, you…it’s too much sometimes.”
The crowd had thinned, as the band—a six-piece ska-type group—had started packing up their gear and leaving the stage. Pete finished the rest of his water and stood up.
“You wanna get out of here?”
“THAT WAS nice,” Maya said, rolling over, her face next to Pete’s.
It was close to three in the morning. They were lying in Maya’s bed, in her house. Pete couldn’t say he was surprised, or that he hadn’t wanted this to happen. It had progressed naturally—and without him in a fog of alcohol, which he wasn’t fully used to—from the flirtatious conversation at Tobacco Road, to an all-night Denny’s on Miracle Mile, to Pete following Maya home so they could watch a movie. They didn’t get through the first act before they were tussling on the couch, hands groping around, exploring, their mouths doing the same.
“Yes, nice,” Pete said. “More than nice.”
He leaned in and gave her a long kiss, trying to be present—to savor the moment and not get lost in bigger things, like what this meant or how long it would last. He’d defer those anxieties until he was alone, later today.
“I wanted this to happen,” Maya said, propping herself up on her elbows, facing Pete on the bed. “I want to be honest with you about that.”
“Just about that?”
“What do you mean?” she said, her eyebrows popping up in concern.
“It was a joke,” Pete said. “It’s fine that you wanted this to happen. I’ve wanted this for a while.”
She gave him a wistful smile. Even in the dim light of her bedroom, he could tell it was laced with some regret. For what, he wasn’t sure.
“I meant what I said at the bar,” she said. “Even though I was probably a little tipsy. I wish we could start over. Have a cleaner break, I guess.”
“From what?”
“From the past,” she said, lying back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Yours and mine.”
“I think the past has broken with us,” Pete said. “Whether we want it to or not.”
“I guess you’re right,” she said. “My father made his choices. I have to come to terms with who he is now, or always was.”
Her words lingered over them, their bodies sweaty and still tangled together. Pete wanted to savor this moment. He didn’t want to talk about Gaspar Varela, his past or anything, really.
It was rare for connections like these to match the build-up, the flirting. Especially the kind of sex that’s been danced around, prodded, and teased at for too long. But he felt good, happy. It was an unfamiliar sensation, and she seemed to be sharing it with him. It’d been a brief respite from the grave world they lived in, like a light switch flicked on, illuminating a pitch-black room.
“Did you and Kathy ever date?” Maya asked. “You seem to have, I dunno, chemistry. Like exes or people who know each other intimately do.”
Maya rolled toward Pete, her arm under her head and pillow, her warm body closer to his. He met her move, facing her in the middle of the bed.
“No,” Pete said. “We’re friends.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I know that’s not the kind of thing you talk about after…well, after this. You don’t owe me your dating résumé.”
“It’d definitely fit on one page,” Pete said. “But no, Kathy’s not on the list. She’s my friend—probably my best friend. She’s stuck with me through some tough times.”
Maya let out a frustrated groan.
“I’m really making a case for myself here, huh?” Maya said. “Giving you the third degree after just one night together?”
Pete gave her a peck on the mouth.
“It’s fine,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
She didn’t respond right away, looking at him as he leaned over her naked body. Pete noticed her eyes were watering.
“What’s the matter?”
“I just want this to be over,” she said, then stopped. “Not this-this, no, not us, but ‘this’ as in my dad and the case and the reporters. I just want to get back to a normal life. Or something close to that.”
Pete sat up and rubbed his eyes. The night was taking a sharp left. He knew what she was asking. But he wasn’t ready to have that discussion. Too much was happening too fast. He swept those thoughts away for the moment and allowed himself a few more hours of pleasure. He pulled her toward him, kicking the sheets off the bed in the process.
“Let’s not overthink this,” he said.
She hesitated before kissing him again, a smile widening on her face.
“Smart boy.”
ARTURO PELEGRIN placed the slim bouquet of flowers next to the tombstone. It was early afternoon, but the sun was hidden behind a cluster of clouds, sparing Arturo from some of the heat. Caballero Ribero North was a fairly nice cemetery, as far as those things went. His mother’s grave was well kept. Arturo wasn’t really sure what to judge the place against. It was the only cemetery he’d ever been to.
He said a silent prayer, bowing his head and closing his eyes. He was starting to forget her. What her voice sounded like. How she smelled. Her expressions and how she reacted to things. He knew it was part of getting older. But he also knew that she’d been taken away too soon.
She had been an addict. There was no denying that. But she did the best she could under those diseased circumstances. Arturo remembered many weeks where groceries came second to copping. Hungry nights or dirty nights or nights spent at friends’ houses because they were too anxious to send him back home to his junkie mother. The lady from that trial. The crazy one. He’d heard it all. He built a thick skin around it.
He did the sign of the cross and turned away from her simple, modest grave. He would be back next week. He would see her every week, just like he did as a younger man—even when she was curled up in a fetal position, sobbing about this or that, begging him for a couple bills so she could get a shot, her lips chapped and bloodied, bruises and scratches in odd places. He would never stop.
He thought about the detective—Fernandez—for a second. He knew he was back in Miami. His benefactor had told him. Fernandez was trying to fly under the radar and failing. He and his girlfriend were digging around, making themselves a nuisance. It was their way. Arturo wasn’t sure why his boss had such a hard-on for them. He wasn’t really even sure who his boss was. He had come to him last year, a day or two after he’d first run into Kathy and Pete, and offered to fix Arturo’s life in exchange for small favors here and ther
e. It seemed too good to be true. It was. But Arturo was short on cash and on the verge of being kicked out of school for nonpayment. He was getting desperate. He had never considered cutting corners or selling drugs, but those were his only other chances to stay afloat. He couldn’t risk losing everything. He needed to stay in school. He needed to graduate and start a life for himself. Everything would resolve itself once those pieces were in place. He had to believe that.
First, the requests weren’t anything serious. Pick up this package. See this guy. Research that. Then the big one: drive to bumfuck Florida, find Fernandez, and give him a message. Let him know we see him. Arturo knew what that meant. He wasn’t finding Pete so his boss could deliver a mislabeled package. But he did it anyway, and got caught with his pants down. He’d been lucky. His boss seemed so pleased that Arturo had found Pete that he didn’t seem to care about the rest of the operation going sour. Now Pete was back in Miami, and it seemed like the entire world was gunning for him. Whatever. He had his own problems to deal with. Fuck that guy.
He walked to his car, parked on the east end of the main lot, and slid into the front seat. He flipped on the satellite radio and played with the dial. That was when he felt it on the back of his head—the gun barrel, cold and heavy. He didn’t dare turn around.
“Don’t say a word,” the voice said.
Dave Mendoza felt hot and itchy under the black ski mask. It’d been a while. The thick cloth felt awkward and unfamiliar. Even silly.
He felt less silly about the gun he was holding to Arturo Pelegrin’s head. That was serious. It had been the only solution that came to mind as he was thinking about his friends and their situation, and what he could do to help. There was a bounty on their heads, and Dave had traced the info back to Pelegrin. He hadn’t discovered who from Los Enfermos wanted Pete dead, and he didn’t really care as long as he could make it go away. If Dave was good at anything, it was making things—or people—go away.
“Who are you working for?” Dave said, his voice muffled by the mask.
“What—who—what are you talking about?” Arturo said, trying to meet Dave’s eyes via the car’s rearview mirror.
