by Alex Segura
Harras grabbed the remote from the small table connected to the bed and flicked the TV on.
“Well, there you go,” he said.
“You don’t think that’s a coincidence?” Pete asked. “I mean, for all we know, he was there when Gilbert Fermin died.”
“Listen, kid, the less you talk about that, the less likely anyone’s going to realize that you—Mr. Tough Guy PI—were actually there,” Harras said.
“Were where?”
The three of them turned to face the entrance. Maya had walked in, a small plant and a Get Well Soon! balloon in her hands.
Pete stood up and took the stuff from Maya and set it on Harras’s nightstand.
“Nothing, we were just going over some stuff,” Pete said.
“For the case?” Maya said.
“Yes, the case,” Kathy said, looking at her nails.
Maya ignored Kathy and turned to Pete.
“I wanted to see how everyone’s doing,” she said. “Do you need anything?”
“We’re fine,” Harras said. “Just recovering from attempted murder. Another day in paradise with Dumb and Dumber over here.”
Maya let out a dry laugh. She grabbed Pete’s hand and leaned in to him. “Can we talk?”
She let go and left the room before Pete could answer. He followed a few paces behind.
She turned around when they got to a small seating area down the hall from Harras’s room.
“You seem upset,” Pete said.
“I am upset,” she said. “And it sounds really cliché, but I’m pissed off that I haven’t heard from you in days. I don’t understand what you’re doing—with me, with this case, with anything. I mean, I only figured out what was going on when I got in touch with Kathy, and she wasn’t exactly super-helpful, Pete. If you want to try to be together, let’s do it. I’m in. If you don’t, that’s fine—I’m not a teenager. But give me some kind of idea what’s going on.”
“That’s fair,” Pete said. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. The case is getting convoluted, but I think we’re on to something. And hey, I don’t mean to argue, but I’ve been shot at a handful of times, so I can’t say being social was atop my to-do list.”
Maya frowned. “Fine,” she said. “I get that. But it’s not like we’re just a random couple that went on a few dates, okay? We’re tangled in all this together. Us, the case, and everything that’s coming up with it. Were you planning on updating me on what’s going on?”
“I just told you,” Pete said. “There’s nothing concrete to share. I mean, if Kathy were here, she’d remind you we don’t work for you anymore.”
“But you’re fucking me,” Maya said, her voice raised. The solitary nurse at the main desk turned her head toward them in response. “Okay? We had sex. We are at least somewhat together. Okay? So, I’m not your boss, but you think it’s cool to keep things that directly affect me or my father from me?”
“Look, there’s nothing new to report,” Pete said, lowering his voice, hoping that would calm her a bit. “We’re just following some leads to see where they go. All we know is your dad is still out there and hopefully he’ll turn himself in.”
Maya let out a long sigh. “Fine,” she said. “Can we get back to why I’m here? I don’t want to have weekly state of our union chats. This is not what should be happening this early.”
“You’re right,” Pete said. “I—how do I say this?—I don’t have a good track record with this. With relationships. So, my first response is to ignore. It’s something I need to work on. Are you free tonight? Do you want to get a bite?”
“Sure, yes,” Maya said. “Come over and we can order something. Keep it simple. Just text me when you’re on your way.”
She turned and started walking down the hall toward the elevator bank.
“That sounded totally awesome,” Kathy said. “What did your hot new lady have to say? Complaining about being overdressed in a hospital?”
Pete turned around.
“Were you snooping?”
“I don’t snoop, dear,” Kathy said. “I happened to come out to use the lady’s room when I noticed Melrose Place was filming by the nurses’ station.”
“Funny,” Pete said.
“I thought so,” Kathy said. “Can we talk about work now?”
“Sure, shoot.”
Kathy pulled out a tiny Post-It Note from her back pocket and handed it to Pete.
“What’s this?”
“Graydon Smith,” Kathy said. “I called my guy. Pressed a little more. He works the desk at the PD and is also about to retire. He’s one of the few people who’s managed to keep in touch with Smith. He’s not at home and he’s not hanging out where he usually does. But he’s here.”
FOX’S LOUNGE had seen better days. But that was part of the charm. Slotted in next to US 1 near the University of Miami, Fox’s was a drinker’s dive. Dark, cool, nary a trendy jukebox in sight, and a wait staff that would as soon smack your hand as bring you a bowl of French onion soup. Pete was no stranger to the place—he’d propped himself up at the smooth bar many a time. Now, he felt anxious and tired, and the last place he wanted to be was in a bar. He needed to stop meeting sources at bars, he thought. A park would be nice. Maybe a fancy restaurant.
It was midday, but when they walked into the dimly lit Fox’s, it could have been early evening. An older couple sucked face at a booth near the bathroom and a big older man sat at the far end of the bar, twirling an empty glass. Kathy sat down to his right and Pete to his left. His reaction—slow and annoyed more than surprised—was proof that he was already half in the bag at lunch.
“Who’re you?”
“You’re Graydon Smith, right?” Pete said.
“So? Who’s asking?”
Pete extended his hand. “Pete Fernandez,” he said. “This is my partner, Kathy Bentley.”
“Aw shit,” Smith said. “Pedro’s boy.”
“Can we get you a drink?” Kathy said.
Pete didn’t like plying a drunk with more alcohol, but didn’t know how else to approach him. He also saw a glimmer of light in Smith’s eyes that told him they’d asked the right question.
“Seven and seven,” Smith said, twirling his glass again, as if to show them he was done. “Make it a double.”
Kathy waved at the bartender, a thin, short-haired hipster kid who could have passed for thirteen or thirty. He nodded and started making the drink.
“One drink gets you a question or two, then we’re done,” Smith said.
“What about two drinks?” Kathy said, leaning into him. He leaned toward her, making no effort to hide the fact that he was breathing in her perfume. Pete felt nauseous.
“Well, let’s do one first and see where the night goes,” Smith said.
Pete didn’t bother to correct him on what time it was.
“Mr. Smith,” Pete said.
“Call me Gray,” he said as the bartender brought him a new drink. “Everyone I know does. Gray. Mr. Smith was my dad. Fuck him.”
“Okay, Gray,” Pete said. “I’ll cut to the chase, so we can leave you to the party here.”
The older man nodded, missing Pete’s sarcasm.
“We’re working on the Gaspar Varela case,” Kathy said. “We’re trying to investigate whether or not he actually killed his wife.”
“Was in jail for it, wasn’t he?” Smith said. “What more do you need?”
“Well, believe it or not, police and law enforcement sometimes make mistakes,” Pete said. “There’s a lot of evidence that’s fuzzy in the case.”
“Not to me,” Smith said. He sounded sober all of a sudden.
“Can you tell us anything about it?” Pete asked. “You were one of the first cops on the scene.”
Smith looked around and took a long sip of his drink.
“Okay, sure, let’s talk,” Smith said. “I got nothing to lose. I’m a dead man walking.”
“Why do you say that?” Kathy asked.
“Don
’t gimme that shit, sweetie, you’re no innocent,” Smith said. “You know as well as I do that someone’s cleaning house. People are dying. Anyone connected to Varela—even Varela himself—is ending up dead or missing. Whitelaw. Fermin. Just the tip of what’s going down.”
“Is that why you finally punched out?” Pete asked.
“I’m old, that’s why I punched out,” Smith said. “Overstayed my welcome. The PD doesn’t have my kind of cop anymore. They’re younger, meaner, more by the book.”
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and Pete caught a whiff of him—stale, dirty, reeking of a few days without a shower and lots of booze. He tried his best not to recoil and noticed Kathy was already inching away from the other side.
“I’ve done some bad stuff, we all did,” Smith said. “Your father, he was the golden child. But I bet he cut corners too. His partner, Broche, was as slanted as any of us. We all have to pay the price at some point. But I won’t lie—for a minute there, I thought I was going to get away clean.”
“Who’s after you?” Pete said. “Why are they after you?”
“Aren’t you listening, kid?” Smith said. “Someone is mowing down the people that mucked with the Varela case—and others. I’m next in line. I held on as long as I could. But you two showing up proves it’s over. I’ve been sleeping in my car, drinking myself blind, driving around, and trying to keep moving. But I don’t have that in me anymore. I’m stopping here.”
“We can try to get you protection, if you testify,” Kathy said. She was stretching. Pete wasn’t sure what Smith could even say to warrant that kind of guarantee.
“Gray, you were at not only the Varela scene, but also at a few other ones,” Pete said, speaking in a slow, calm voice. “Diego Fernandez, my grandfather. How do they all piece together? Calvin Whitelaw. My friend Martin. Maybe even Gilbert Fermin. What’s the connection?”
“Beyond me being a cop?” Smith said. “You’re not that dumb, I guess. Figured that’d give me cloud cover for a while. By the time anyone sussed it out, I’d be dead or in Mexico, sipping a piña colada on the beach. But at a certain point, when the guy you’re working for is killing everyone who works for him, you have to wonder if you’re the exception or just last in line.”
“Who is it? Is it Varela?” Kathy asked. She was getting impatient. They both were. Smith was dragging it out as long as he could.
“No, Varela’s a patsy,” Smith said. “He was a good cop, too good. Like your father. Couldn’t crack those two. After a while, we had to figure out a way to crack them to keep getting our cut. Sooner or later, they were going to rat on us. So we had to send some messages. We had to take care of them.”
The pieces started to click together in Pete’s head. Varela and Pedro Fernandez. Two good cops in a sea of corruption. Graydon Smith was working for someone else, who would be threatened by anyone finding out about their side deals, extortion, and skimmed money. Pete’s dad had started as a beat cop before moving to homicide. Varela did as well, before moving to narcotics.
Pete grabbed his phone and dialed Harras. Before he could launch the call, Smith slammed Pete’s wrist onto the bar, sending a shooting pain down his arm. By the time he recovered, his phone was in Smith’s pocket and a gun was trained on Kathy’s head. The bartender—and the couple sitting in the back—were gone.
“You’re smart, but you’re not that smart,” Smith said, stepping away, pushing Kathy toward the bar next to Pete.
“Gray, look, we can help you,” Pete said. “It doesn’t have to end this way.”
“Pete…” Kathy started to speak before the sound of the main door opening interrupted them. They were facing the far wall. They couldn’t see who was here yet.
“It will end this way,” Smith said. “But not for me. Did you think your source suddenly just knew where I was? You really bought all that talk about me being last? The exception? That’s bullshit. I’m still around because I didn’t pussy out. Like Varela. Like Gilbert Fermin. Like Janette Ledesma. Like Whitelaw. Like your friend Martin Colón, that idiot Rick Blanco, and Arturo Pelegrin. They’re all dead. One by one, people start to get scared. They get a taste and want more until they realize how deep they’ve gone; then they want it to be like a job where you give two weeks’ notice and everything is fine and dandy.”
Pete started to say something, but stopped when Smith raised his gun-free hand.
“Sit down,” he said. “And shut the fuck up.”
Pete and Kathy complied. Smith walked up to Pete and patted him down, removing the gun from his back and putting it in his own pocket. He seemed to take pleasure in sliding his hands over Kathy, a look of disgust on her face.
They heard footsteps. Smith backed away from them, as if to make way for the arrival of a king.
A looming figure entered. The boss, Pete realized. He wore a long black jacket over a tailored gray suit, his salt-and-pepper hair was closely cropped, and his face clean-shaven. A golden half-heart pendant hung on a chain around his neck. Pete didn’t gasp when he saw him. He’d figured it out. But it’d been too late. Kathy cursed under her breath.
“You don’t seem surprised,” Posada said.
“If this was twenty minutes ago, I would be,” Pete said.
“That’s a shame,” Posada said, a smile on his face. “I was so hoping to catch the great Pete Fernandez and his partner by surprise.”
“Maybe next time,” Kathy said, her face defiant and angry. “Congrats on the whole being able to see thing. You got better fast, Cain Samael.”
“Yes, yes. Samael, the blind, fallen angel, and Cain, the original traitor. I’m surprised that didn’t tip you off. The whole blindness thing was a necessary ruse, if a bit annoying to keep up,” Posada said, walking closer to them. “I have to say, you’ve both graduated from marginal pains in my ass to genuine threats. So, no. There won’t be a next time.”
“Do you really think this is it?” Pete said. He was trying to keep everyone talking while he tried to think of anything that could slow things down. “You don’t think we’ve talked to other people? Better detectives than us? Harras has our notes.”
“Harras will be dead within the hour. There’s a nurse at the hospital who owes us a few favors,” Posada said. “Now, I’m not one for lengthy chats. You got close. We tried to steer you off and you kept digging, so now we’re here. And at what cost? Your drunk buddy with gangster aspirations is dead. Everyone you touched while researching this case is dead or will be shortly. That’s on your shoulders, not mine.”
“We’ll find the murder weapon,” Pete said. “And then it’s over. Then you’re sunk.”
“I admire your tenacity,” Posada said as he reached into his coat, pulling out a long blade. “Did you mean this? I’d really missed it. Calvin Whitelaw was so fucking annoying toward the end there. It was nice to get it back. I hadn’t used it in so long. That might have been why Calvin’s body got so hacked up. Rusty, I guess.”
“You are nuts,” Kathy said. Smith took a step in her direction, but she ignored him. “I haven’t added it all up yet, but you’re the psychopath here. You killed an innocent woman and blamed your best friend. You helped his daughter try to prove he was innocent for almost ten years. And all this time you’ve been a cop and a drug lord? If you think killing us will make it all disappear, you’re truly mad.”
Posada’s smirk didn’t waver during Kathy’s speech. He reached into his coat with his free hand and pulled out his own gun, looking it over with admiration.
“Well said, Ms. Bentley,” Posada said. “But let’s do the math. The only people who’ve made the connection—who’ve realized that a former cop who’s carved out a fairly nice life for himself in retirement after a blinding accident is actually running Los Enfermos—are right here.”
He pointed the gun at Pete. “You…”
At Kathy. “You…”
At Smith. “And you,” he said.
He pulled the trigger, sending Smith lurching forward, blood spreadin
g around his stomach, the ex-cop’s body spinning from the bullet’s momentum. He landed at their feet—his head at the base of the bar, his legs splayed out, and a pool of blood spreading out under the barstools that Pete and Kathy had just been sitting on.
Posada looked down at his dead lackey and shook his head. He pocketed the gun.
“He was losing it,” Posada said. “His sob story—the one I’m assuming he shared with you—was getting too close to reality. Oh well. He had a good run.”
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Pete said. He inched forward a bit. He could see his gun behind Smith’s back, having fallen out of the dead man’s pocket. He glanced at Kathy. She saw it too.
“Is this when you start to beg?” Posada said, the blade raised again, poised to strike at Pete’s head. “That makes my stomach turn. You make my stomach turn, Fernandez. Just like your father did. Watching him cry like an abandoned baby when I murdered his father is something I’ll always cherish. Those few bullets paid off so many times. I got your golden-boy papi off my ass—his father’s death derailed him enough he didn’t have the time or energy to look into a corrupt narco cop—and I got paid by Castro’s people to murder a traitor to la patria. Now I get to put you in the ground too. I get to make three generations of Fernandez men suffer.”
As Pete saw the ex-cop’s grip tighten around the hilt of the machete, Kathy leapt off the barstool and crashed into Posada, knocking him off-balance. But before she could reach him, Posada slashed at her midsection. The blow only slowed Kathy’s momentum as she tried to tackle Posada, and the few seconds she’d bought Pete allowed him to drop down and grab his gun.
Posada and Kathy were tangled, the machete held between them, each one pushing for control of the weapon. Pete couldn’t get a clear shot. He tried to move around to get a better angle, but they were tussling—with Posada gaining ground. Kathy was strong but injured, and Posada seemed to have the better hold on the weapon, though Pete couldn’t get a good look at it. Kathy was getting weaker, her wound spilling blood over both of them as they pushed at each other.
