Down the Darkest Street

by Alex Segura

  “But why would this dude be copying Rex Whitehurst?” Pete said.

  “Not fully sure he is copying him,” Kathy said. “Whitehurst was skewing much younger by the time his mystery machine rolled into Miami. This guy’s only taking things he seems to like from the Whitehurst playbook.”

  “True,” Pete said. “But Whitehurst mostly preyed on college and high school girls, right? Even Bundy went extra nutso toward the end of his spree, grabbing a younger girl for his last kill.”

  “Hmm, I’m impressed,” Kathy said. “Seems you’ve been doing some extra credit reading. Did you reach the Ann Rule section yet?”

  “I’ve done some research,” Pete said, more annoyed than amused by Kathy tonight. “So, what do we do next?”

  “I don’t know,” Kathy said. “It just means that these murders are on the police radar. Which means they’ll probably be on the FBI radar, which means our snooping around will end up on someone’s radar before too long, which is not good.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, you’re not exactly on the Miami PD’s Christmas card list.”

  She was right. Part of the fallout from Pete and Kathy’s adventures the year before, and the book that was published a few months later, was the revelation of deep-seated corruption and unethical activity among Miami-Dade’s finest.

  “We’ll figure it out,” Pete said.

  “Will we? Sounds like your old-slash-new girlfriend is taking issue with you dipping your toe in this,” Kathy said. “You backing out?”

  “Backing out of what?” Pete said. “I’m just trying to help you. I’m not investigating anything. I’m just trying to help.”

  “You said that, darling. And sure, however you want to explain what you’re doing, that’s fine,” Kathy said, dropping her cigarette and rubbing it out on the pavement with her heel. “I’ll call you tomorrow and see whether you can ‘help’ me or not.”

  “Okay,” Pete said. She didn’t respond. She was already halfway to her car.

  Pete hesitated before turning to walk back to the funeral home. He needed to clear his head. He walked toward the far end of the parking lot. There were fewer cars around there. A slight breeze. He kicked a small rock and watched it hop a few feet away; his shadow loomed large thanks to the fluorescent light of a nearby streetlamp. He looked at his shadow again. It was too big, he thought. There was something else there.

  The fist hit his face as he turned around, and the punch floored him. His head smacked the parking lot pavement hard, snapping forward and slamming into the ground again. He was flat on his back. He could smell blood in his nose and saw a dark figure hover over him. The man had a black ski mask on and everything else he was wearing was dark and muted. Leather jacket. Black jeans. Black gloves. He was of medium build, about Pete’s height. Pete’s vision was blurry; the bump on the asphalt had shaken him up. A cold knife was at his throat, near his chin. He tried to speak, but the man in black held up a finger with his free hand.

  “I talk, you don’t,” the man said. “Just listen, you deluded fuck.”

  Pete tried to move. The man pulled the knife back, returning with his fist—two swift punches to Pete’s face. He felt something loosen in his mouth. He let out a soft groan, and the knife returned, preventing him from curling up into a fetal position.

  “You’re in way over your head,” the man said. “What you think you know—that’s not even the half of it. If I killed people for fun—just because they bothered me—you’d be dead. Problem solved. But I don’t. What I do is more important than that. It’s pure. These people need to die. I need them to build a harmony together. The closer they get in death, the closer I get to him, and to seeing what I need to see. I can’t expect you or your stupid friend to understand that. But I will not let you make it any harder for me.”

  The blade dug into Pete’s skin. He felt the sting of it. Felt his blood trickling out. His eyes darted around, looking for anything—a tool, a rock—to help him.

  The man grabbed Pete by his hair and slammed his head on the pavement again. Harder this time. Pete felt his vision fade in and out.

  “No one can hear you,” the man said. “They’re all in there celebrating your dead buddy. Now, I need you to listen very closely. I will not repeat myself. Leave me alone. Step away from me and I won’t hurt you. Because I can. I can hurt you. I can destroy the people around you and build a beautiful chorus of pain that you will never recover from.”

  He grabbed Pete’s left hand by the wrist and brought the knife to his palm. The man slashed into it, his eyes widening under his ski mask, Pete’s hand gushing blood. The cut was deep—Pete could feel the blade on both sides, cutting into him. Pete couldn’t move, he was pinned down and he was having trouble staying conscious. He let out a pained scream. The man got up, sending a swift kick to Pete’s midsection before turning and walking toward the street. Pete brought his hand closer and saw his own blood flowing. He reached for his neck and felt a smaller trickle coming from the cut under his chin. His face felt sore. His good hand reached back and felt his head: more blood. He tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness hit him, forcing him to roll over, his cheek scraping against the dirty parking lot. That’s when he saw Emily—his view capturing her from a sideways angle. She had walked out, probably looking for him. She was running to him. He was on the ground, no longer able to even hold himself up. She was closer to him now. He could hear her.

  “Oh Jesus, Pete,” Emily said, sliding down next to him. “What the hell? What happened?”

  “Some guy,” Pete said, having trouble forming words. “Out of nowhere.”

  “Did they rob you? Are you shot?”

  The edges of his vision got darker and spread inward until everything was black and quiet.

  ***

  Pete’s eyes fluttered open. He felt a dull pain in his side. It was dark. He looked down at himself. He was in a hospital bed. His head hurt and his tongue felt thick and heavy. The only light was from the TV set propped up on the wall, playing the evening news on mute. Next to him, in a chair that looked very uncomfortable, was Emily—her sleeping body leaning on the chair in an awkward position. A beeping sound chimed every few seconds. Pete reached out his hand and took hers before closing his eyes and falling asleep.

  ***

  “You look like shit, dude.”

  “Thanks,” Pete said, dropping his bag behind the counter at the Book Bin. Pete wondered how Dave could have even concluded that Pete looked like shit, so intently was he organizing books on the far side of the small store. Still, he did notice. Pete looked better than he felt, which meant he felt like a lot of shit. It’d been a week since he’d been attacked, and he was stepping out into the real world for the first time. He wasn’t sure how he liked it. He winced as the strap on his messenger bag yanked at the bandage wrapped around his left hand. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the storefront window as he sat down behind the counter. A pretty spectacular black eye, a busted lip, and a painful-looking scratch/cut near his chin. Not to mention the giant slice down his left palm. That wound was thankfully out of sight under the white gauze. Pete closed his eyes.

  “Could be worse,” Dave said, the noise of books dropping on the counter echoing through the empty store.

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, you’re alive,” Dave said, picking up another, smaller stack of books farther down the counter and walking toward one of the aisles.

  “I appreciate your optimism,” Pete said, his voice louder to make up the space between. “I needed to get out of the house. Sorry for missing a few shifts.”

  Dave walked over and placed his free palm on the counter, facing Pete.

  “Please don’t give me the martyr bullshit,” Dave said. “No one in their right mind would come to work after what happened to you. I’m glad you’re OK. Next time, wander the Miami streets with a buddy.”

  “Duly noted, boss,” Pete said. “What’s on tap today?”

  Dave ignored
his question.

  “How’s Emily?” Dave asked.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “She seemed pretty shaken up when she called to say you were in the hospital,” Dave said. “So I wanted to see if you’d screwed anything else up in the last week or so.”

  They smiled at each other.

  “She’s OK,” Pete said, humor turning into frankness. “She’s really pissed about me sniffing around these dead girls.”

  “That sounds disgusting.”

  Pete laughed. “Yeah, so, she’s pissed.”

  “Are you gonna stop…whatever you were doing?”

  Pete didn’t respond.

  “You kidding me?” Dave said.

  “I have to talk to Kathy,” Pete said. “She asked me to help her. I think it might have been the killer who attacked me.”

  Pete let the words hang in the air, like a puff of smoke.

  Dave looked at Pete.

  “What?”

  “Whoever attacked me wants me to think it was the killer,” Pete said. “But the whole thing rubs me wrong. I dunno. Maybe it was the killer, changing his MO to throw me off.”

  “How would you even know it was the killer?”

  “He basically said so,” Pete said. “He told me he would have killed me if he could murder for fun. But what he does is ‘pure.’”

  Dave shook his head as he grabbed a copy of the latest Chabon book and walked over to the front window display of the store.

  “I’m guessing you told the cops this, right?” Dave said, his back to Pete. “Please tell me you told the cops.” Before Pete could respond, Dave spoke again. “You expecting anyone?”

  “Huh?”

  The door chime sounded as two men stepped into the store. Both were tall and fit; one was older, past fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair. The other one looked Hispanic and was probably younger than Pete. They looked like cops.

  The older one walked up to the counter and gave Pete a knowing half-smile.

  “You Pete Fernandez?”

  “Who’re you?” Pete responded, not standing up from his seat.

  The younger one stood behind his older partner and scowled. The older man pulled out a badge.

  “Robert Harras, FBI,” the man said, folding his badge and sliding it into his back pocket. “This man here is my partner, Raul Aguilera. Also FBI. Now, will you answer my question?”

  Pete stood up and extended his good hand.

  “Pete Fernandez,” he said. “Not FBI.”

  “Could have fooled me,” Aguilera said, a sneer on his face. “The way you’ve been acting.”

  “I didn’t realize it was junior varsity week at the FBI,” Pete said.

  Harras raised a hand as if to quiet Aguilera. He gave Pete an apologetic look.

  “Listen, we’d like to chat with you for a minute if you have time,” Harras said. “It’s related to the deaths of Alice Cline and Erica Morales.”

  “Sure,” Pete said. “What about them?”

  “I need to know what info you’ve collected during your little vigilante escapades with Kathy Bentley,” Harras said, his eyes cold. “I know you’ve been dancing around the PD’s case—talking to the family, et cetera. I also know you were the victim of a fairly severe beating a few nights ago.”

  “I got mugged.”

  “Yet you didn’t report anything stolen,” Harras said. “See where I’m going here? You’re interfering with a police investigation.”

  “Not the first time,” Aguilera said, standing behind Harras with his arms folded.

  “You’ve got the menacing thug thing down pat,” Pete said.

  “You think you’re hot shit because of all that went down last year,” Aguilera said, this time ignoring Harras’s subtle pleas for silence. “But you’re not. You’re not a cop. You’re just a hotshot, like your father.”

  Pete was more confused than insulted by the agent’s remark.

  “You didn’t even know my father,” Pete said. “And you haven’t given me a single good reason why I should talk to you. All I know is you’re being an asshole—which, newsflash, isn’t good.”

  “Stop right there,” Harras said. “Raul Aguilera Senior knew your dad—he was on the force with him and Carlos Broche, your father’s partner. You remember him, right?”

  Pete nodded. Broche had been like an uncle to him, until he was revealed to be as corrupt and traitorous as the rest of his department. The memory of the old man collapsing from a gunshot wound to the head, courtesy of the Silent Death—and of the others lost during the whole affair—hit him. Mike. Amy. Broche. Chaz. The list of people lost in those few days was long.

  “Yes,” Pete said. “And while I’m always up for doing some past-life regressions, can we get to the point here? I’m at work.”

  Harras gave the store a cursory look, nodding at Dave, who was still stocking books near the front window display—and probably doing it just to listen in on as much as he could.

  “Ah, right,” Harras said. “Your job. My deepest apologies for interrupting your important work.”

  “You guys really know how to butter someone up,” Pete said, sitting down again. “But I have to ask, what brings the FBI into this? I mean, I’m just some dumb hotshot, right? I may be nuts, so stop me if you’ve heard this one before, but if the FBI is involved, that means whatever the Miami PD is investigating crosses state lines—or might. Which means our potential serial killer situation might have just gotten confirmed, and also might involve something much bigger than two dead girls in South Florida. Am I getting warmer?”

  Harras grimaced. Pete had hit a nerve. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

  “You’re lucky we don’t haul you in right now, you smug son of a bitch,” Harras said. “Just take this as a first and final warning: This is not your case. You’re not a private investigator and you don’t have any clients. If you know anything that you think may be of value to us, you’d better spill it in the next twenty-four hours or so help me, you’ll be spending some serious time in jail. You’re fucking with the wrong people, and you don’t have a flimsy newspaper press badge to protect you anymore.”

  With that, Harras turned around, swung the store’s door open, and walked through, Aguilera right behind.

  “Later, asshole,” Aguilera said.

  “Nice to meet you guys,” Pete said, waving. His stomach was turning.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” It was Dave. He’d reappeared, having heard everything. “Why didn’t you tell them what you just told me? Or are you just in the mood to be difficult?”

  “I don’t know those guys from Adam,” Pete said, reorganizing some of the flyers on the counter to keep his hands busy. “And I don’t have a great rapport with cops, FBI or not.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “They weren’t exactly being welcoming,” Pete said.

  “You weren’t either,” Dave said, shrugging. “But whatever, that’s kind of your thing, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Being a difficult asshole? That’s your thing. It’s how people know you now. Like your signature move, or whatever. I’m amazed you have any friends.”

  Pete didn’t know whether to laugh or be upset, so he shrugged and went back to organizing the flyers.

  “I’m not trying to rip on you, dude,” Dave said. “I’m just being honest. You stick your finger in shit and make a mess, but don’t commit. Then you wonder why people get mad at you. It’s selfish. You’re doing it with this case, you’re doing it with your ex/now-not-ex maybe/maybe-not girlfriend and you do it with this job.”

  Dave began to walk toward the back of the store, not waiting for Pete to respond.

  Pete dropped the stack of flyers on the counter and let them slide onto the floor. He picked up his messenger bag with a swoop of his good arm and slung it over his shoulder. He didn’t look at Dave as he walked out, the door slamming behind him.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Pete felt out of s
orts as he pushed open the main entrance doors at Miami Senior High School. It was early in the afternoon and most of the students were in their last class. Miami High was a school that prided itself on its athletics—basketball, baseball, football—and boasted one of the prettiest high school campuses Pete had ever seen. It also marked another visit to Little Havana, albeit the westernmost part of the neighborhood. The school was a landmark, thanks to its refurbished architecture—the high ceilings, terracotta tiles, and cast-stone vent screens made it feel more like a museum than a public school. Though Pete had attended Southwest High, he’d taken his SATs in the beautiful Miami High auditorium his junior year. He had carried a beeper and never left the school grounds to get lunch. Kids today were e-mailing, Instagramming, Facebooking, and Twittering their way through classes. Just walking into the school made him feel like he was closer to sixty, not a few years past thirty.

  He walked into the main office. Pete hadn’t been much of a student early on, and it was only when he had an unpleasant brush with the law that his father had clamped down and watched Pete’s every move. It was then that Pete discovered that school wasn’t all bad, and a lifelong love of books, writing, and reading was awakened. Now he envied the students for the time that they had left in school.

  He walked up to the long front desk of the main office and waited. Soon, a young girl, her hair in a ponytail and her eyes dazed, walked up on the opposite side. Her eyes widened as she caught a look at Pete in all his post-beating glory.

  “I feel worse than I look,” Pete said.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see the school counselor.”

  “Which one?” she responded, her tone flat.

  “Melinda Farkas,” Pete said. “I spoke to her earlier today.”

  “All right,” the girl said. She turned toward a series of offices on the far end of the large room and yelled, “Yo, Miss Farkas? Some guy here to talk to you.”

  The girl walked away from the front desk without a word, leaving Pete waiting. He drummed his fingers on the counter and looked around. The interior of the school had seen better days; underneath the fresh coat of paint and polished awards was the wear and tear that came with budget cuts and increased enrollment.