by Alex Segura
“Yeah,” Pete said. “You may be right.”
“Billy Joel,” Dave said, “is always the answer.”
Pete laughed.
“Why are you here? Did you follow me?”
Dave smirked. “Another one of your lesser, more unappealing traits is your belief that everything that happens around you happens because of you. No, I didn’t follow you here. Why would I follow you? I had to swing by my dad’s office and pick up some papers. It just so happens that this here bar, better known as The Bar, is one of my favorite shitholes. And one of the few I’ll humor with my presence in the Gables.” Dave shot a toothy smile to Lisa, who rolled her eyes and went back to counting the bills in the cash register.
“Say no more,” Pete said.
Dave wasn’t paying attention. Instead, his eyes were looking upward at the television screen mounted above the bar, still playing the early evening news. It was an NBC station, and a forty-something Cuban woman Pete recognized but couldn’t name was giving the top news item.
“Another few weeks and another dead girl has been found,” the newscaster, Sara Guzman, said as her name popped on the screen. “The body of seventeen-year-old Erica Morales was found by authorities mere hours ago in an abandoned field in rural Homestead. WTVJ reporter Hansel Vela has the latest. Hansel?”
The screen cut to grainy footage of the scene. Vela, a fit and gruff-looking man in his late thirties, was off to the right. In the background, Pete could see officers roaming around the desolate field, overgrown with weeds and littered with junk.
“Sara, it’s a sad day for the Morales family, as their daughter, Erica, who had been reported missing weeks ago, was found,” Vela began. “After days of frantic searching and an unprecedented outpouring of support from the community, it was off-duty police officer Christian Orr who found her when he decided to cut through this vacant Homestead lot, discovering Erica brutally stabbed to death, her body tied to the front of an abandoned car. Police declined comment when asked about the state of Morales’s body and have yet to confirm any link between the death of Morales and the earlier murder of Alice Cline, but we will keep you posted. Back to you, Sara.”
Morales’s photo was on the screen for a few moments before the TV flickered off. Pete looked down and saw Lisa, the remote in her hand. Pete saw something in the photo. He’d seen Erica before, he thought. Once. He wasn’t sure where.
Lisa let out a loud hissing sound. “Disgusting,” she said. “There’s a sicko out there and all people can do is sit back and watch.”
She tossed the remote on the bar and went back to the register. Pete kept his eyes on her, unable to process. She caught him staring.
“What?”
He snapped out of his trance and shook his head. “No, nothing.”
“What do you think?” It was Dave, sipping his new beer, not as quickly as the last, a pensive look on his face.
“I don’t know enough to have an opinion,” Pete said. “The murders could be related.”
“If they’re related, we have a problem,” Dave said.
“We?”
“Well, Miami. The world. Society.” He shrugged.
“I think we’d have that problem anyway,” Pete said. “But if the murders are connected—and my gut tells me they are—then it means a few things. One: Rick didn’t kill Alice Cline, which I suspected, no thanks to his attitude and being an ass. Two,” Pete continued, counting the points off on his right hand as he spoke, “we may have a serial murderer on our hands, or at the very least a spree killer of some kind. Three, someone should have seen this coming a while ago.”
“Pretty insightful for someone who doesn’t do PI work.”
Pete ignored the comment and continued. “There’s a pattern,” Pete said. “Girl goes missing, time passes, girl turns up dead and posed in an obscene way. It’s almost ritualistic. It’s only two bodies, sure, but that just means two have been found.”
“OK, cool,” Dave said, no sense of urgency in his voice. “Then what?”
“Then nothing,” Pete said, forcing himself to fight the temptation to signal Lisa for a beer. “We have a psycho on the loose and who knows how many bodies are out there, or how many he’ll take before he’s caught.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Pete left Dave after a few more minutes. He walked the few doors down to Randazzo’s, a decent Italian restaurant in a town that didn’t have much good Italian food. The early evening provided a break from the weather, adding a cooling wind to the sludge-like heat of earlier. He tugged at his shirt, which was sticking to his body, hoping the fabricated breeze would cool him off a bit. The streets were empty and quiet, aside from the sounds of passing traffic and piano music coming from the restaurant. It was still on the early side—before the Gables nightlife kicked into high gear. A lull between the happy hour brigade and the late dinner crowd.
Pete stood outside and checked his phone. He was a little early. He slid his phone into his front pocket and peeked into the restaurant’s main window. It was empty aside from the wait staff and a few tables. For years, the place had been in the regular rotation for him. He’d had a birthday party here, about four years back. He and Emily had been in town visiting from New Jersey. They’d just gotten engaged. His father was alive. They’d toasted to the future. It seemed so long ago. Pete could almost taste the bottle of pinot noir they’d split and smell the garlic bread on the table.
He watched as a couple—neither over thirty—sauntered past him. Designer dress, nice suit. They were drunk. The man opened the door for his date, his feet slipping a bit as he leaned in to get the door.
He saw Emily across the street, walking over from the parking lot in a blue dress. He’d never seen the dress before, which at first struck him as odd, until he reminded himself that there was a gap of time where she’d been—and, well, still was—married to someone else. She reached Pete and smiled.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hello,” Pete said. He felt underdressed. He hadn’t been sure what Emily had in mind when she’d suggested dinner. After their night together, they’d reverted to their platonic roommate-esque behaviors—sleeping in their respective rooms, not spending much time together. Pete was OK with it being what it was, he supposed, but he couldn’t say he didn’t think about it often. When she’d texted him, asking if he had dinner plans, he took it to mean they’d order a pizza or grab some Cuban sandwiches from La Carretta by the house—something easy and platonic. When she suggested one of the restaurants they’d frequented as a couple, he wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“Am I overdressed?” she said, her eyes widening a bit. She was nervous.
“Oh, no,” Pete said. “The ball is about to start.”
She punched him on the shoulder as he opened the door and they walked in.
***
“I guess it was kind of random.”
“I’m not complaining,” Pete said.
Their conversation was interrupted by the stocky waiter. He handed each of them a dessert menu before shuffling back to the kitchen.
“You didn’t seem very upset, no,” she said, her eyes scanning the menu, looking up after a moment, a slight smile on her face. “Unless I misread you.”
Pete took a sip of his ice water.
“You didn’t misread me,” Pete said. “But…”
“But what?”
“Well, what does it mean?” Pete said.
“Doesn’t me being here, in this restaurant, with you,” Emily said, “show you what it means?”
“I’m not sure,” he said.
She put the menu down and folded her hands in front of her. “You seem different,” she said. “More like you were when we first got together.”
Pete nodded.
“I forgot how much I missed you,” she continued. “And seeing you and Rick in the same room, it just, I don’t know, clarified it for me.”
“That you want to be together?”
She moved her hand across the ta
ble and on his waiting palm. “Let’s just take it easy,” she said. “I just wanted to sit with you here—in this restaurant we both like—and let you know that’s what I was thinking. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, on some level,” Pete said, wrapping his hand around hers. Did it, though? A few days ago they were at each other’s throats. He did miss her, that he was sure of—the good and the bad. The moodiness and cutting remarks were washed away by her good heart and crackling brain. But this was moving fast; he needed to hold onto something.
He moved his hand back to his side of the table.
“Do you want dessert?” he said.
“Not here.”
***
Costello jumped on Pete’s side of the bed, rubbing his face on Pete’s arm, purring. He scratched the cat’s chin in the darkness. Costello was receptive until he decided there was more to do around the house. He hopped off the bed and scurried away, his tiny paws thumping on the hardwood floor. Pete turned to his right, where Emily was curled up next to him, her head resting on his arm. She felt him move and positioned her body closer to his. He pulled the bedsheet up over her shoulder. Pete let his head drop back onto the pillow. He looked up at the ceiling, hard to make out in the dimness. The evening had been wonderful. Pete wasn’t sure he remembered what “wonderful” was like. Dinner was good. Conversation was lively and familiar. Everything he’d wanted—or remembered wanting—had been laid out on the table for him to take. The only woman he’d ever thought to marry was sleeping in his bed. He had enough money to get by for the time being and he felt like, for the first time in years, his life had momentum. He felt recharged. He pulled Emily closer and kissed her on the forehead, smelling the remnants of her perfume and feeling her warm skin touch his.
But if everything was where it was supposed to be, why did he feel so uneasy?
His phone, resting on the nightstand next to the bed, vibrated. A text message. He grabbed it and turned on the display. Kathy.
KATHY: You awake?
Pete typed a response with his one free hand: “Yeah. What’s up?”
KATHY: I’m talking to Erica Morales’ family tomorrow. Wanna come with?
Pete paused. What was he agreeing to do? “What for?”
KATHY: What do you think? To help me figure out who’s killing these girls.
Pete moved out from under Emily and sat up. She grumbled to herself, half asleep. He responded to Kathy, typing with more speed: “You don’t need my help. You’re smart.”
KATHY: Cut the bullshit. Do you want to help me or not?
“OK. When/where?”
KATHY: I’ll pick you up in the morning. Be ready by 7:30. That means stop fucking your roommate and go to sleep.
Pete laughed and set the phone back down. He slid back into bed and turned to face Emily. Her face was focused and serious when she slept. He remembered the first time he’d told her that, how she’d laughed and called him a creep. Years later, she admitted that had been the moment she knew he was a keeper, knew that he cared.
He felt a pang of guilt as he pushed a strand of her blond hair away from her face.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Erica Morales grew up in a tiny but well-kept three-bedroom house in Little Havana, a few blocks from 8th Street—or Calle Ocho. That’s where they were heading. Calle Ocho was the heart of the Cuban exile community of Miami—a stretch where English was a second language and people were more interested in the politics happening ninety miles from U.S. soil than what was going on in Washington. Where a comment that even remotely made it sound like you agreed with a certain bearded dictator could get you pummeled. West of downtown, Little Havana was an extension of a Cuba that no longer existed—an idealized version of a country many had left behind in haste and fear. The pace was slow, the salsa music was loud, and the cafecito was strong.
The bright morning sun beat down on the silver Jetta as it darted through weekend traffic—a cacophony of honking horns, changed lanes, and slow-moving Cadillacs and Buicks manned by grumpy senior citizens. Kathy drove while Pete fiddled with the satellite radio. It was a little past eight in the morning. In his right hand, Pete clutched an extra-large coffee, which he’d purchased after a quick cortadito made at home. He’d left Emily sleeping, telling her he’d be back later. She seemed to understand, in her hazy, half-asleep state, but he expected a questioning text or call in a few hours. Her freelance design work gave her a fairly flexible schedule that made room for sleeping in when needed. He was happy Emily was back in his life and that he was better equipped to handle it. It reminded him of the early days of their relationship, without the arguing and histrionics that would become all too common toward the end. Though she was the one who packed her bags and left, Pete was as much to blame—drinking at all hours, working late, and distant when he was around. He’d never expected a second chance. He took a long sip from his lukewarm coffee.
“Are we there yet?” he said.
“Shush, you,” Kathy said, her eyes on the road. “My GPS is busted and you know I don’t come down to Cubatown all that often.”
“Aren’t you a reporter?”
“I was, my dear,” she said. “But now I’m an all-important ‘local columnist,’ so I needn’t worry about remembering where things are. It’s about how things are. Comprende, my little café con leche?”
Pete laughed and pushed a button on the satellite radio. The Decemberists came on. It was a relatively obscure track—the band’s lead singer, Colin Meloy, doing a Morrissey song. It took Pete a second to remember it.
“‘Jack the Ripper,’” Pete said.
“Pardon?”
“That’s the song.”
“The Morrissey song?”
“Yup.”
“This is a shitty cover,” she said.
“I like it more than the original,” Pete said.
“You would,” Kathy said. “It’s more emo than the original.”
Kathy pulled the car into a parallel parking space on a residential street. After turning off the engine, she leaned back in the driver’s seat, as if to announce “Yeah, I did that.”
“Do you want a prize?” Pete said, sliding his half-empty coffee into the car’s cup holder.
“You wish you could park like me,” Kathy said, smiling. She opened the door and stepped out of the car. “OK, so what’s the plan, mister?”
Pete got out and looked at Kathy from across the car.
“I follow your lead,” he said. “I’m just a special guest star.”
She let out an exasperated sigh.
“Fine, whatever,” she said. “But turn your brain on. I brought you here for help, not comic relief.”
Pete waited for Kathy to come around the car before walking to the house.
“My story is slated to run tonight, and I want it to be more than a ‘wah-wah look at the dead girl’s family’ piece,” she said, opening the front gate to the quaint Morales house, not noticing the older woman standing in the front yard. Her face showed that she’d heard Kathy’s flip remarks. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry.”
Pete looked at the lady and waited for a heated, angry response, but saw only confusion. He looked at Kathy for a second before opening his mouth.
“Hablas inglés, señora?”
The lady’s look changed from confusion to relief. “No, ni un poco. Pero mi hermana, sí. Con que te puedo ayudar?”
Kathy looked at Pete, uncertainty in her eyes. “She doesn’t speak English,” Pete said, looking at the lady and smiling politely before looking back at Kathy. “Her sister does, however. Thankfully, she wasn’t here to hear what you said.”
“Rub it in while you can, little man,” Kathy said, smiling at the older woman. “Ask her if she has a few minutes to talk.”
“Señora, somos reporteros del periódico Miami Times,” Pete said, his Spanish rusty and not coming to him with much ease. “Tienen un momento para hablar?”
The woman didn’t respond. She knew why they were at her house.
/> Before the old lady could respond, another woman, younger and smartly dressed, appeared next to her.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m Kathy Bentley,” Kathy said, sticking out her hand to the new arrival. “I’m a writer for The Miami Times. I’m working on a story about Erica Morales, your niece. We wanted to know if you and your sister had time to talk about her for the newspaper. We’re very sorry for your loss, but if you have a moment to spare, we feel it’d be an important story to share with our readership.”
The younger woman scrunched up her nose and looked at Pete, as if to say, “Who is this?” She wrapped her arm around her sister. “Erica wasn’t my niece,” the woman said, her voice lowering. “She was my daughter. I’m Odalys Morales. Her mother. This is my older sister, Olga. She just arrived from Cuba, so you’ll have to forgive her lack of English skills.”
Pete felt foolish and figured Kathy did, too.
“And who are you?” Odalys asked, her eyes on Pete.
“I’m Pete Fernandez.” He stuck out his hand, which Odalys glanced at before ignoring. “I’m a colleague of Kathy’s.”
Odalys let out a long sigh and whispered something to her sister. She motioned her head to the house. Olga nodded and walked into the house, not bothering to say goodbye. Odalys rubbed her temples and closed her eyes before looking at Kathy and Pete.
“What can I do? I’ve already talked to the police,” she said. “My little girl is dead. I really just want to be left alone.”
“I apologize for intruding, ma’am,” Kathy said. “I’d only need a few minutes of your time.”
“For what, lady?” Odalys said. “You and this guy show up like nothing? To chat with me about my dead daughter like it’s no big deal?”
“We didn’t mean any offense…” Kathy started.
“You didn’t mean any, but it happened anyway,” Odalys continued.
