by Alex Segura
Pete didn’t respond. Maya grabbed his arm, as if she wanted to drag him into the kitchen’s light.
“What the fuck happened?”
“I spoke to Stephanie Solares today,” Pete said. “Remember her?”
Maya responded with a confused look.
“Sure, yeah,” she said. “That’s really odd. I haven’t talked to her in years, since high school. Why would she reach out to you? I didn’t even know you knew each other.”
“She told me about how things really were back then,” Pete said, his voice distant and cold, because it had to be now. “The gifts, the late-night meetings with him. How she’d cover for you. How she found your mom screaming into the phone when she learned about you and him.”
“What is this? What are you getting at?”
Orlando Posada sliced my wife to bloody shreds. He lifted the machete blade and cut her throat open while I lay on the floor, unconscious and unable to defend her. Her blood splattered on my face. I know now that he did it. My best friend murdered my wife.
“I know what you did, Maya,” Pete said.
“You are freaking me out,” Maya said, trying to smile—trying to change the tone. To yank things back to how she thought they were a few minutes before.
He pulled the half-heart-shaped pendant from his pocket. He’d seen the other half before, on a chain around Orlando Posada’s neck.
Her eyes focused on the golden piece of jewelry. They fluttered, then closed. She let out a long, defeated sigh.
“Stephanie Solares covered for you that night, the night your mother died,” Pete said. “You were at Orlando’s house, waiting for him to come home. You’d let him know that your parents would be there alone. Your father told me, Maya. He learned the truth when Posada got him out of prison. He ran because he couldn’t face the truth.”
She backed up a few paces. Her hands on the kitchen sink. She turned away from Pete. He couldn’t see her reaction. Couldn’t read her face.
“Stephanie told me about your fights with your mother over him, how she refused to accept that you were with an older man like Posada,” Pete said. “You asked Posada to do it. Because your mom found out.”
“She was going to tell my dad,” Maya said, sounding jagged—like she was in excruciating pain. “It was going to ruin everything. She didn’t understand.”
But it was Maya who had her killed.
“Understand what?”
“That I loved Orlando,” Maya said. “He took care of me. He paid attention to me, took me places. I felt special and nice. It was forbidden, which was also part of it. He was handsome and charming. I was a kid. My mom and I were always arguing, fighting. She didn’t let me do anything. When she found out about us—a neighbor of Orlando’s told her, showed her—she told me she was going to send me away, tell my father, and destroy everything. I was scared. I told Orlando. He said he’d fix it. He said he’d make the problem go away. But I didn’t know he was going to kill her. When that happened I was destroyed. He said he was going to talk to her, maybe scare her, but nothing like what he did. But by then it was too late. I was tied into it. All I could do was try to get my father a new trial, and even then I knew it was impossible, not with Orlando watching, his fingers in everything.”
“He used you, tricked you into falling for him,” Pete said. “He wanted your dad gone. He manipulated you to get him off the board.”
Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground, curling her body into a ball.
New York City
Five months later
THE RED traffic light display said six seconds. Pete was halfway across Dyckman Street, and made it to the other side with a second to spare. He was late. He undid his tie as he walked up the steep hill on Payson Avenue. It was chilly now—even in his full suit Pete felt underdressed. He had yet to master layering for the cold. It looked like it was going to be a brutal, frigid winter.
Kathy was midway up the hill on Payson, two giant bags of groceries in each arm and a look of complete exhaustion on her face. Pete took the bags from her hands.
She gave Pete a friendly peck on the cheek and turned to continue their walk home. Pete followed her up the rest of the hill toward their apartment—a roomy two-bedroom steal of a place in the north Manhattan neighborhood of Inwood, just south of the Bronx. It had its quirks—like most New York apartments seemed to—but it was starting to feel more comfortable. For the first time in a long while, Pete was calling a place outside the Sunshine State home.
“Your lawyer called,” Kathy said. She never referred to Jackie Cruz by name.
“Yeah?”
“Looks like Varela will be out soon,” she said, then paused. “Gaspar, that is.”
Pete nodded. There was nothing to add. Gaspar Varela’s only crime was walking through the door Orlando Posada had opened for him. Once he was captured and word of his false conviction spread across the national and international news, his trial on those charges sped through the system and he was met with an acquittal and a formal apology. Pete wondered if that apology would keep Varela from suing the City of Miami for damages. He doubted it.
Thinking of the swift resolution to Varela’s legal entanglements reminded Pete of his friend Martin, apparently gunned down by Varela himself. Those facts soon unraveled, as Varela explained to the authorities that the damning fingerprints found on the murder weapon were placed under duress after his escape, Posada forcing his old partner to give him one last bargaining chip. A stray fingerprint belonging to Graydon Smith—the man Varela pegged as Martin’s actual killer—supported this. The news made little difference for Martin, Pete thought.
“She asked that you call her, in reference to Maya’s possible trial,” Kathy said, speeding through the sentence, her patter faster than usual. “My guess is she’s going to ask you to go back to Miami to testify, which, in my humble opinion, is too risky.”
With Posada dead, the district attorney’s office was focusing all its energy on Maya to make up for the mistaken conviction of Gaspar Varela, the latest black eye on the Miami PD, courtesy of Pete and Kathy. The case against Maya was thin. Maya hadn’t been present at the murder and the evidence linking her to the plot was tenuous and hard to prove. But the DA was pushing for a conviction. Pete hoped Maya’s lawyers found a way to settle and allow everyone to move on with their lives. The people left alive, that is.
“That’s fine,” Pete said. He understood Kathy’s hesitation—he didn’t want to talk about Maya. The trial. The last year.
“Except for that pesky bounty on your head,” she said.
“It’ll take Los Enfermos a beat to reorganize,” Pete said. “I doubt I’m their top priority.”
“It’s been five months, dude. For starters, we derailed their entire operation,” she said. “And you killed their leader. You are most definitely their top priority. Or did you forget why we are living in another state?”
She was right. Los Enfermos had suffered a paralyzing blow after the death of Posada. But the gang lived on, their powers weakened but not gone forever. Pete and Kathy felt safe enough in New York, watching from a distance. But a return to Miami was out of the question and would be for some time.
Kathy saw him first and stopped walking toward the door. Not upset or happy—just on pause. Harras was standing in front of the double doors that led to their apartment, atop a small set of stairs that made up the stoop. He looked rough.
“You two weren’t that hard to find,” Harras said. He walked down the steps and stood in front of them. His eyes rested on Kathy for a few extra seconds.
Pete went in for the hug and, for once, Harras was receptive to it. The embrace was brief. Kathy stayed back, her arms folded.
“I’ve got to put these groceries away,” she said. “Then maybe you’ll come inside and explain why you’re here.”
THEY SAT on opposite ends of the large sectional couch that took up most of the living room, Pete sipping from a large glass of water and Harras holding a can of diet
soda. Kathy had sped down the main hallway and into the kitchen. Pete could hear her slamming cabinets with more force than usual, cursing under her breath.
“Is this when I ask you what’s new?” Harras said, deadpan. “I’m still figuring out this small-talk stuff.”
“Things are fine,” Pete said, leaning back into the soft couch. He’d tugged the tie off seconds after entering the house and now unbuttoned the top button of his long-sleeved shirt. His suit jacket had landed somewhere near the dining room chairs.
“That sounds riveting,” Harras said.
“We’re starting over,” Pete said. “We had no choice.”
“So, what are we talking about?” Kathy said as she entered the room and took a seat between them.
“Just getting the update,” Harras said.
“Well, Pete’s got a nice gig as an investigator for one of the local New York sportsball teams, thanks to his former fuck buddy,” Kathy said. “We lost the Varela book deal because—well, no case means no money, and Varela wasn’t keen on talking to me after Pete had him arrested. But my agent got me an even better deal, sans Varela. I’m looking over page proofs this weekend. Should be out in a few months. It’s just a straight true crime book without the interviews we wanted from Varela, but I think it’ll do nicely. That’s a long-winded way of saying Pete’s paying most of the rent for now. Oh, and the subway smells a lot worse than the MetroRail. But no one rides the MetroRail, so there’s that. Not much else has changed, aside from our zip code.”
Harras winced at Kathy’s dismissive tone. Pete realized he hadn’t been in a room with both of them for a while.
“I think the better question is what brings you to our doorstep,” Pete said.
“Nothing good,” Harras said. “But it also gives me a chance to let you know what’s going on.”
“Yes, do tell—what is going on?” Kathy said, looking at Harras.
“Well, I talked to some of my contacts and they gave me the quick and dirty of it all,” Harras said, clearing his throat. “This isn’t pleasant, so let me know now if you want me to skip it.”
“Go ahead,” Pete said.
“Okay,” Harras said. “After the Varela murder, Posada allowed Maya to play the part of crusading daughter, to a point. If she got too close, he’d either buy the person off or have them killed. Posada killed Carmen Varela because he saw it as an opportunity to frame his partner so he could continue doing what he was doing—namely, using his job as a cop to profit and murder.”
“Because Gaspar had started sniffing around Posada’s not-legal dealings, right?” Kathy said. She seemed impatient.
“Right, but Gaspar hadn’t figured it out yet. So it was a two birds scenario,” Harras said. “Maya couldn’t tell anyone she actually had her mother killed, but things fell apart with Posada romantically. He didn’t seem to care, since he’d already gotten what he wanted, but he kept her involvement hanging over her head. He used her to keep her dad docile in prison. Gaspar didn’t really see the entire picture until he walked out of prison and Posada told him. Maya didn’t expect you two to actually figure it out.”
“So, she hired us because we were idiots?” Pete asked. “And Gaspar pushed to have you join because he didn’t have faith in her choice?”
“I wouldn’t look at it that way,” Harras said. “But she wasn’t expecting you to do as well as you did.”
Pete nodded for Harras to continue.
“Eventually, Maya started feeling worse and wanted to be discovered,” Harras said. “She wanted you two to solve it. She was conflicted, or so she’s told the police. Posada and she had a falling out and he turned his energies on getting you two gone. But she pushed back, so we saw some hesitation, like Martin getting shot as a warning. But Posada won that tug of war. He stopped humoring her. Instead, he forced her to help him by providing information on what you were up to.”
Harras cracked his knuckles before continuing.
Pete stood up.
“She wouldn’t do that,” Pete said. “She made a mistake as a kid, but helping Posada while we were investigating it? I don’t know if I buy that.”
Kathy looked up at him.
“She did do that, Pete,” she said.
Pete closed his eyes for a moment and sat back down.
Kathy rubbed his back.
“It’s over now,” she said.
“Is it?” Pete said. “I can’t even go home. We’re living this exile life and playing house, but if we step foot in Miami, we’re dead.”
Kathy recoiled.
“What would you like to do, then? Risk it?” she said. “Take the next flight to MIA and see if Los Enfermos remember who we are? Hope for the best?”
“Well,” Harras said. “That’s why I’m here.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Kathy said.
He looked at Pete and leaned in, his palms up.
“We need you back,” he said. “We need you in Miami.”
“For what?” Pete asked. “I don’t work for the police. Hell, the police have never even recognized me as anything but a huge pain in the ass.”
“FBI, not police,” Harras said. “A case you worked a while back has cropped up again.”
“FBI? What, you’re un-retired now?” Kathy said. She was gunning for Harras today in a way Pete hadn’t seen before.
“That’s irrelevant,” Harras said, turning to look at Kathy, his tone softening. “This is about something Pete did years ago. A case he was directly involved in. We need him back.”
He looked at Pete, his eyes pleading.
“Pete, we’re not just politely asking here,” Harras said. “There’s new info on the case—you know the one I’m talking about. The dead kid? There’s more to it. I know it. You worked it when it all started. You could have some insight into this that they don’t. They’re begging. The FBI does not beg. Try to understand that. You know something they need to crack this case.”
As a PI, Pete hadn’t worked many major cases, aside from the Silent Death and Julian Finch. He knew exactly what Harras was talking about. It flashed back to him now, all at once. Stumbling drunk in the rain. A dead child. Screams of fear and anger. He wanted nothing to do with it.
“No,” Pete said. “The case is closed. They found their man.”
“You know there was something fishy there,” Harras said. “It’s more complicated than that. Come back and help me look it over again.”
“I said no.”
“You’re not even going to ask me about it?” Harras said. “You’re just going to turn your back on this? On me?”
Harras knew the case haunted Pete. He knew the guilt Pete felt about his role in how it ended. He knew what this meant. It was a big ask. Pete was surprised Harras was even going there. It made him wonder if the man before him was truly a friend or just someone who had repaid a debt and was now back to being an adversary.
“Nothing to ask, and it’s nothing personal,” Pete said, standing up. “I’m not going back to Miami. That’s it.”
“Fucking Miami,” Kathy said as she left the room.
Harras slapped his knees and also stood up.
“Looks like this is gonna be a short visit, then,” Harras said.
He made a beeline for the door. Pete followed, a few paces behind. Harras turned around to face him in front of the doorway, his hand on the knob.
“You can’t hide here forever, living in this pretend world with your pretend wife and pretend job,” he said. “There’s no escaping this. You had a life in Miami. You affected people—for good and bad. Your demons will find you wherever you go. They have before.”
“It was nice to see you,” Pete said.
Harras nodded.
“You’re a good detective—you solved a murder the entire city thought was closed. Hell, you’ve solved a few of them,” Harras said, gripping Pete’s shoulder. It was more affection than Pete was used to from the ex-agent. “Your father would be proud. I’m proud of you. You pi
cked up the shreds of your life and made something of yourself. But there’s another side to that coin, you know? It means using those skills when they’re needed. Risking your life for something instead of sitting back and sitting out. That’s not like you. You have my number if you reconsider. We could use your help. A killer is on the loose.”
The older agent closed the door behind him as he walked out of the apartment. The sound of his heavy footsteps faded as he made his way down.
It never gets easier.
That’s the big lesson I’ve learned while writing these Pete Fernandez mysteries, of which you now hold the third installment in your hands. While, as a writer, you get better and (hopefully) refine your craft, each new book comes with its own set of challenges and pitfalls. If you’re lucky, you have great people around you to help you avoid those traps and focus on what matters: writing a good book.
In that regard, I’m very lucky.
The fictional story of Gaspar Varela owes a lot to the (still unfolding) true crime saga of Jeffrey MacDonald, a US Army officer accused and convicted of murdering his wife and two daughters in 1970. It was after reading Errol Morris’s excellent A Wilderness of Error that the idea for Pete’s latest case came to me: What if MacDonald had been innocent? What if his Manson-esque tale of drugged-out hippies was true? What if one of the kids survived—and had even been to blame? That got my mind riffing, and the next thing I knew, Gaspar Varela had appeared in my mind’s eye, along with his crusading but conflicted daughter, Maya. I’m very much indebted to the work of Morris, Joe McGinnis’s Fatal Vision (and its short epilogue, Final Vision), and the incomparable Janet Malcolm’s The Journalist and the Murderer.
While Dangerous Ends is still very much a book about Pete Fernandez’s Miami, unlike its predecessors Silent City and Down the Darkest Street, it zooms out a bit in terms of place and time—looking back at Cuba during the early days of the Castro revolution and at Miami during different moments leading up to the present day. During the writing of this book I thought back on and pulled from my own memories of Miami and the Cuba stories that were passed down from generation to generation and eventually to me. I also relied heavily on a number of books, both fiction and nonfiction. Most notably, Ann Louis Bardach’s well-researched and engrossing history of the Castro regime and the Miami exile community Cuba Confidential: Love and Vengeance in Miami and Havana; Carlos Eire’s beautifully-crafted memoir of his boyhood in Cuba in the 1950s Waiting for Snow in Havana: Confessions of a Cuban Boy; Richard Gott’s Cuba: A New History; Cristina Garcia’s evocative novel Dreaming in Cuban; and T.J. English’s pre-Castro Cuban mob chronicle Havana Nocturne: How the Mob Owned Cuba…and then Lost It to the Revolution. Despite the stack of books, very little could top those actual stories that made their way from Cuba to Miami, usually told to me by my grandparents (Margot and Guillermo on one side, Angel and Olga on another), parents, and my dear aunt Alina, who regularly implores me to not forget where I come from. I hope this book proves I haven’t, tia.
