by Alex Segura
“Don’t look at me, asshole,” Dave said. “Answer the question.”
“I’m a student, man,” Arturo said, his hands on the steering wheel as Dave had instructed. His voice cracked on the last word. “I don’t have a job.”
“Cut the shit,” Dave said. He was having trouble maintaining his deepened voice. “Los Enfermos. Talk now or get ready to meet your mommy in hell.”
Arturo hesitated. Dave increased the pressure of the barrel of the gun on his head.
“Shit, fuck, okay, man, Goddamn!” he said. “I barely know those guys, okay? I’m not even a member. I just ran with some of them from when we were kids.”
Arturo stopped talking.
“You’re not getting out of this car alive until you tell me everything,” Dave said.
Dave felt his blood rise. He felt a familiar tingle in the back of his skull.
“One of my buddies, Gus, one of the guys who’s part of the crew,” Arturo said, licking his lips, nervous. “He came up to me a few months back. Said he wanted info on someone. Pete Fernandez. The guy who was in the news a while ago for that serial killer shit. He’d just come up to me with his partners, talking to me about my mom and the Varela case. I guess they weren’t too happy Fernandez was sniffing around it again, causing trouble and headaches for people who thought that shit was long gone, you know?”
Dave didn’t respond. Arturo nodded and kept going.
“So, I told him, Gus, Gus Trabanco, what I knew, which wasn’t a lot,” Arturo said. “But next thing I hear, his boy Nestor—Guzman—tried to take Fernandez out but got killed and Gus got busted on something else, some shit at a bar. But he’s out now. He’s out and he wants Pete gone, yo. Please, man, I don’t know anything else. You gotta believe me. I don’t want any more trouble.”
“You told them Fernandez was in Titusville,” Dave said. “You tried to set him up.”
Arturo gulped.
“Shit, yeah, look, just tell me what to do, I don’t want to die …”
“Just answer my fucking questions and you might not die,” Dave said.
“Okay, cool, okay,” Arturo said, his words jumbling together. “Yeah, I went to Titusville, but I was just driving through, it was a coincidence. I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble or nothing.”
“Bullshit,” Dave said.
“For real,” Arturo said. “I’m not lying.”
“No one stops in Titusville,” Dave said. “You knew he was there. Or you had an idea. Quit lying to me or this gun goes off fast. They put you up to it.”
“Fuck, man,” Arturo said. “Alright, you’re right, alright. I told them I could find him.”
“Who asked you?” Dave said.
“I don’t know who it was, man,” Arturo said. “He called me, said he was Gus and Nestor’s boss and that he had an errand for me…said to find Fernandez and hold him, but I fucked up. I should have left him alone.”
“But you didn’t,” Dave said. “You knew you had valuable information. You told them where he was.”
“Yeah, yeah, I did, I did and I’m sorry,” Arturo said. “But I had no choice. I thought they’d kill me for fucking up and being seen. I thought I was done for.”
“What happened?” Dave asked. “Who did you talk to?”
“I told one of my boys and he told Gus, and then he told the boss and they were on him.”
Dave swung the muzzle of the gun across the back of Arturo’s head—hard enough to bruise, but not hard enough to knock him out. Arturo clutched his skull and let out a pained yelp. When he looked at his hand, it was covered in blood.
“Oh Jesus,” he said. “Fuck, man. I need a doctor.”
“You won’t need a doctor if you don’t talk,” Dave said.
“What else do you want? I got nothing else,” Arturo said, his words coming out between high-pitched sobs.
“Names, I want names,” Dave said. “Who is the boss? What boy?”
Dave felt his hand tighten around the weapon, now back to its original spot, digging into Arturo’s head, sending zaps of pain every time it jabbed the bloody gash down the back of his skull. Dave licked his lips. This had to end soon. He’d tried hard to leave this life behind. He’d rationalized this instance to himself. He was helping a friend. He was on the side of the angels for once. But his trigger finger was slick with sweat and the car felt much hotter than when he’d first snuck in. It all felt too right.
“I don’t know his name, man,” Arturo said, his voice getting whinier the more he spoke. “I just know Tito, my boy from back when we were kids, he’s with that crew. I told him about Fernandez being alive when I got back. Then Tito took it to Gus, his boss. I don’t get any access to the real boss. No one does.”
Dave believed him.
“Tell me about your mom,” Dave said.
“What about her?” Arturo said. “She’s dead. She died.”
“Was she lying about the Varela case?” Dave said.
“How should I know?” Arturo said. “I was, like, a sperm when that happened.”
“Quit joking,” Dave said, bumping the nozzle on Arturo’s bruised head—a warning tap. Dave didn’t want to hit him again, but he would if he needed to.
“She was an addict, man,” Arturo said. “She would do or say anything for another hit off that pipe. What does that tell you? You think she thought twice about making shit up on the stand if it meant getting some cash in her pocket? Maybe she was in that room. Varela was hoping she was the one who could save him. But once that jury decided my mom was lying, thanks to that prosecutor, everything else went out the window. She sunk it for Varela.”
“What about her boyfriend?” Dave said. “Fermin? Where is he?”
“Fuck, I don’t know,” Arturo said. He was moving around, getting impatient. “He barely dated her. They weren’t together long before she died. The guy was a scumbag. His beat my mom to death. Cabrón.”
“Why is the boss obsessed with Fernandez? Why does he want him dead?” Dave said.
Arturo shook his head, he started to look up, then stopped himself. The gun was still pressed against his skull.
“It’s all connected, that’s the thing, and Fernandez is getting too close,” Arturo said. “He’s stirring up shit and putting the light on some old stuff, man. That Rick guy, stabbed in the park, Varela, Whitelaw, everything. It’s all one big problem and the boss doesn’t want those dots connected, you hear? He upset the structure of things, and now they want him gone, like, yesterday. If Fernandez had just stopped and backed away, it’d be fine, but now the only way to fix it is for him to die, because he knows too much, and Los Enfermos are foaming at the mouth to get your boy. But I’m out, done with this shit. I’m just trying to go to school now, man. I don’t want any part of this any—”
Dave clocked him with the gun’s handle. Arturo shouted from surprise and pain—dazed by the blow. It gave Dave enough time to slip out of the car and head for his own, parked beyond the lot on the street.
“YOU’RE NUTS. You know that, right?” Pete said, no sign of humor in his voice. They were seated outside a recording studio at the offices of WRGE—RAGE 95.7—Miami’s local hip-hop and pop music station. Dave had given Pete a brief recap of his run-in with Arturo Pelegrin. Pete had been surprised—not that Dave was capable of that kind of violence and intimidation—but that he’d backslid into it so easily. Pete would have felt almost honored if he wasn’t worried his ex-thug friend was moving closer to just being a thug again, and on account of him.
“Do you think he recognized you?” Pete said. He was whispering, hoping to avoid the attention of the secretary sitting a few feet away from them, manning the office front desk.
“How could he, bro? I’ve never met the twerp in my life,” Dave said. “You’re in a bind. I had to help. These guys can’t just put you on blast and expect it to be no big deal. They don’t run this town.”
“What’d Pelegrin say?”
“A few things that stuck out,” Dave said. “
He was definitely put up to it, finding you, that is. He seemed like he was in over his head. Someone is pulling the strings, but he had no names. He kept harping on about everything being connected.”
“I’m getting that feeling too,” Pete said. “Are you planning on telling me why we’re here?”
“I want you to meet someone,” Dave said. “She’s tapped in and might be able to give you a sense of the baggage the Varela case has.”
“I’m just glad to have you in my corner. You’re our lifesaver,” Pete said, stretching his arms. “So, tell me—who is this lady?”
“Madelyn Suarez,” Dave said.
“The DJ?”
“Yes, the radio personality,” Dave said. “You realize this is where your grandfather’s radio station used to be, right?”
Pete looked around. He hadn’t realized it. He knew Diego Fernandez had started a radio station in Miami, but little else—only what his father chose to tell him, and if he believed Harras and the file he’d handed Pete, that was only the beginning.
Above them, a lit Recording sign shut off, and the studio door swung open. A short older woman with a bleached-blond bouffant hairstyle and a lime green business suit stormed out, cigarette dangling from her mouth, and what looked like a gallon-sized travel coffee mug in her hand. She stopped and turned to look at Pete and Dave.
“Which one of you is Dave Mendoza?” she said, her voice a croak.
“That’s me,” Dave said, standing up, hand extended.
She ignored the gesture and moved toward the front desk. She slammed her mug on the counter and waved goodbye to the assistant. She reached into her large, tote-like handbag and pulled out a massive pair of dark sunglasses. Once she had the shades on, she turned her attention back to Dave.
“My manager says you want to talk to me,” she said. She looked at Pete. “Who’s this guy? Your boyfriend? Everyone has a boyfriend now.”
“I’m Pete Fernandez,” Pete said, skipping the handshake attempt but walking over closer to Dave and their new friend.
“Good for you,” she said. “Madelyn Suarez. You should know me. If you don’t, something’s wrong.”
She looked up at Dave.
“Where are you getting me drunk?”
Dave smirked, his chubby face turning a slight shade of red, even through his thick brown beard.
“You know of a place to party in Miami Gardens?” Dave said.
“Miami Gardens? Get me out of here, Davey boy,” Madelyn said. “Let’s class things up. You want info? You want my time? Neither is free. You’re driving too.”
THE CLEVELANDER was a beachside nightclub bar on Ocean Drive in Miami Beach. It was not the kind of place Pete would frequent, even during his drinking days. The music was loud and obnoxious, the people were plentiful and overdressed, and the lighting had probably caused its fair share of brain aneurysms. Pete hated the beach—at least the trendy, overcrowded, and grimy tourist trap slice of it known as South Beach. Nowadays, unless he was working a case, he made it a point to avoid the area. He wasn’t the venue’s target audience. The Clevelander had it all—bar, pool, dance floor, and outdoor seating a few feet from the water. This was where tourists came to live it up, be loud, and party hard. There was no room for Pete here, and he was slowly getting priced out anyway. The last time he’d been around, a rum and coke at a trendy spot like this would clock in at double digits. Pete didn’t want to think about what it’d cost now.
They managed to find some space at the main outdoor counter, which faced the beach and Ocean Drive. The music wasn’t as loud outside, which was a tiny blessing, but that was overshadowed by the swarm of drunk millennials swaying and grinding with each other. It’d only been a few minutes and Pete had already been jostled and had narrowly missed having a fruity drink spilled down the front of his T-shirt. He gave Dave a dirty look as they took their seats. Madelyn sat between them. She was already on her third cranberry and vanilla vodka—all of which was taking up residence on Pete’s bar tab. Her voice had begun to slur.
“You’re Diego’s grandson? That is something,” she said, pointing at Pete, her finger wavering, then finally dropping with the rest of her hand back onto the counter. “You don’t even look like him. Your dad was cute. Cute kid. Smart kid. Good cop.”
She took a long pull of her drink.
“I knew it was over after they stabbed him,” she said. “In our own offices, Dios mío. I knew it was over. He lost himself after that. Sold the station. Retired. By the time those Castristas shot him, he was already half dead.”
She raised her glass toward the beach, toasting to a fallen friend.
Pete and Dave exchanged a glance. Better to get to some questions in before she was completely soaked and sentimental.
“Madelyn, I know you’ve been hosting your show for a while now—”
“Thirty-five years,” she said, straightening up a bit. “It’s an institution. Every government official listens to Hoy en Miami.”
Pete knew this wasn’t true. Sure, the show had enjoyed a lengthy heyday, but now it’d been reduced to a monthly, pre-taped thirty-minute program that aired in the wee hours, when people were either asleep or asleep at the wheel, driving back home from the club, bar, or whatever had taken up their evenings. Still, for a time, Madelyn’s program was essential listening—to get the gossip and feel the pulse of the city and its various backroom deals and corruption scandals. Madelyn Suarez was a Castro-hating conservative firebrand who loved Cuba and prayed for the day she and her family could sail back and reclaim what was once theirs. Little had changed since the day Pete’s grandfather had stolen her from his top competitor to anchor his fledgling talk-radio station.
“What do you know about the Gaspar Varela case?” Pete asked.
“Varela?” Madelyn said. Her eyes narrowed. “The cop who killed his wife? What is there to know? He’s guilty and he ran away because he was tired of being in prison.”
“Do you think he did it?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think,” she said before draining the rest of her drink. She started to look around for the waitress.
“That’s a first,” Dave said.
She gave Dave a sluggish look. The waitress returned, took her glass, and had a refill ready in the time it took Madelyn to formulate a response. Dave got up and wandered through the sweaty, gesticulating crowd toward the bathroom.
“Okay, you wanna know what I think? Here’s what I think—the guy probably did it or he’s not telling the whole story,” she said. “There were too many holes in his version. Still, who remembers everything they did on a boring day or night? I don’t. I don’t even remember what I had for breakfast. His story—about the two people coming in and killing his wife—is crazy enough to be true. But now we get into the part the cops don’t care about because they had someone behind bars: motive. Why would anyone else kill his wife, who, from what I heard, was a nice, pleasant housewife with a lovely kid and not even a blemish on her record? There was no political angle either. Varela wasn’t a hard-line Castro lover or hater, he was a cop in good standing.”
“So you’re on the fence, basically?” Pete said. He was trying to goad her—to help shake off her cobwebs from drinking and from old age. It was a gamble. She might just tell him to fuck off.
“Watch yourself, mijito,” she said, wagging her finger again. “I’m not your abuelita. I don’t have to take any shit from you.”
“Sorry,” Pete said.
“Don’t be sorry. Jesus,” she said, “that’s the worst thing in the world today. Everyone apologizes for fucking everything. So you said something rude? So what? Own it. Anyway, am I on the fence? I guess so. I’m not sure if he did it. I’m not as sure he did it as some people are. The escape doesn’t help. Innocent people don’t break out of prison. Even that doesn’t explain the lack of any real motive or strong, condemning evidence. Where’s my drink?”
She looked around, noticed the refilled drink, and took a long, hungry sip, closing her ey
es to savor the liquor as it went down into her aging system.
“Feel terrible for the daughter, so young,” Madelyn said.
Dave returned from the bathroom, carrying a tall glass full of a clear liquid that was probably gin.
“It’s impossible to walk through this place, man,” he said. Pete didn’t respond.
“What about the daughter? Maya?” Pete said.
“Sad, s’all,” she said. Madelyn was drunk. She’d graduated from a little sloppy to completely shit-faced in less than a minute. It was all hitting the older woman at once. They had to take her home.
“Her, his partner Posada, the brother who ended up testifying against him,” she said. “They were good people. Still good people. Even with the brother’s problems.”
“What problems?” Pete said. He hadn’t thought of Maya’s uncle since they’d returned to Miami.
“He’s broke,” she said, waving her hand toward the beach. “Or he was broke, from that stupid grocery app business. Now he’s back on top of the world. I hear he doesn’t even have to work anymore.”
“What put him back on top?” Pete asked.
Madelyn ignored his question and titled forward, her hands stopping her from hitting the counter at the last possible moment. She lunged for her drink. It was empty in seconds.
“What about Janette Ledesma?” Pete said. He still had questions, but his window for asking them was closing. “Do you think she was lying?”
“She was—she wasthn—” She didn’t finish the sentence, her eyes sliding shut and her body leaning back in her seat. Dave tapped her on the shoulder. She moved a bit to the left.
“We have got to get this lady home, man,” Dave said.
“Can you pour her into a cab and find your way?” Pete said as he stood up. “There’s somewhere I have to be.”
JUAN CARLOS Maldonado didn’t notice Pete sitting on his front porch steps until he almost tripped over him as he tried to get to the front door of his Aventura house, a few blocks south of Barry University. The darkness combined with a faulty porch light was part of the problem. Maldonado being drunk off his ass explained the rest.
