by Alex Segura
Her features softened for a second and she looked away, down the direction they’d come from, toward the parking lot.
“Don’t do this to me,” she said. “Please. I’ve made my decision.”
“You’ve said that before,” he said, and the desperation in his voice shamed him. “And you came back.”
She turned to face him, her eyes red. “Did you ever consider Rick in all this?” she said. “You knew I was married. You knew I was vulnerable. Yet you let it happen. You knew I wasn’t myself, yet you let things develop. You pursued me.”
“That’s not true.”
“I know you’ll rationalize this to no end when you walk off,” Emily said, her voice rising. “Because that’s how you can live with yourself, and all the stupid shit you do. We’re not friends. We stopped being friends when we started having sex. You let me move in. You wanted this to happen. And when it finally did you started to act like you were having reservations. You’re not an adult. You’re not a good person. Fuck you, Pete. Fuck you for messing with my emotions and acting like I’m some kind of monster. You’re the monster.”
She didn’t wait for a response as she turned and walked to her car, giving up on the real estate visit. The sound of her flats hitting the dirty concrete matched the painful pounding in Pete’s head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Miami Purity was a tiny, nondescript, and unremarkable Laundromat tucked away on the north end of the small strip mall. Pete pushed open the door and walked into the empty shop, his senses overloaded by the flowery scent of cheap detergent, the whirring sounds of the washers and dryers, and the television perched above the washing machines playing a Diff’rent Strokes rerun. There was no one behind the counter. Pete walked up and looked toward the back of the space, seeing and hearing nothing back there. The door chime cut through the other noise. Pete turned around.
“I’m just going to pretend you’re picking up your dry cleaning for work tomorrow,” Harras said. His eyes had a “gotcha” look—like a cat realizing it’d just cornered an injured mouse.
“That works,” Pete said, trying to remain calm. “Except the dress code at the Book Bin is pretty lax.”
Harras walked up to Pete and looked around the Laundromat.
“What the hell are you doing here, Fernandez?”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“Help me?” Harras said. “You have a weird way of helping. Do you usually do exactly the opposite of what people ask you to do?”
“Nina Henriquez is alive,” Pete said.
“How the fuck would you know that?”
“The killer made that pretty clear,” Pete said, his mind flashing back to that night, surrounded by fire and smoke.
“You are a real trip, you know that?” Harras said. “How many times did I or someone on my team ask you about what happened that night? Never once did you share that little nugget. Now you’re cornered and you suddenly have a lead?”
Before Pete could respond, a low, confused voice cut through their conversation. “Can I help you?”
Pete and Harras both turned to find an older woman standing behind the counter, her eyebrows raised, waiting for a response.
Before Harras could speak, Pete interjected, “Arlene Henriquez?”
She nodded, her eyes on Pete.
“We’re with the FBI, ma’am.” Pete felt Harras’s stare burning into the back of his head. “We want to talk to you about Nina.”
Her expression changed from detached confusion to sad relief. She placed her palms on the counter, as if to balance herself. “Oh, OK,” she said. “Yes, yes. How can I help you?”
Harras stepped forward, shooting daggers at Pete before clearing his throat. “I’m Agent Harras, Mrs. Henriquez,” he said. “This is Pete Fernandez. He’s an associate of mine. We’re sorry to interrupt your day, but we wanted to ask you a few more questions about Nina’s disappearance. Can we sit somewhere and talk?”
“Yes, of course,” she said and motioned for them to come around the counter and toward an office in the back. Harras shot Pete a look that promised intense physical harm to him in the not-so-distant future. Pete shrugged in response. He’d deal with Harras when the time came. For now, they were talking to Arlene Henriquez.
The back office was tiny and offered little wiggle room. Arlene went in first and left the door open. Light from a medium-sized window lit the room. She sat behind a tiny desk with no computer and let Pete and Harras fight over the remaining chair. Pete motioned for Harras to take it.
“Now, Mrs. Henriquez,” Harras began.
“Please, call me Arlene,” she said.
“All right, Arlene,” Harras continued. “I want to talk to you about your daughter. You reported her missing a few days ago. I know someone from Miami PD came by and got a report, but I wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything you may have forgotten that could be of use to us.”
Mrs. Henriquez nodded. Pete could tell English wasn’t her first language. She was trying to keep up with Harras without letting on how difficult it was.
“Hablas español?” Pete asked.
Her eyes lit up. She nodded at Pete. Harras frowned.
“I don’t habla español, Pete,” Harras said, mis-conjugating the verb for emphasis. “So let me handle this, OK?”
Pete looked at Henriquez.
“Quiere hablarte en inglés,” Pete said. She responded with a gracious smile, thanking Pete for trying.
Harras cleared his throat and continued. He’d pulled out a tiny notepad and began taking notes.
“Mrs. Henriquez, when was the last time you saw your daughter?”
“Not for a long time,” Mrs. Henriquez said, her voice low, almost ashamed.
Pete fought the urge to blurt out a question. Harras responded quickly and with more precision. “Your daughter,” he said. “Nina. She’s missing. When was the last time you saw her?”
“Saw her?” Henriquez said. She paused and looked toward the ceiling, as if to focus her thoughts. “I no see her for a long time. Six month. Year.”
Harras let out a deep breath and rubbed his temples. “Mrs. Henriquez, did Nina live with you?”
“No, Nina live with her father and brother,” Mrs. Henriquez said.
“But you reported her missing, didn’t you?”
“Yes, yes,” she said. “Her father tell me she was missing, so I call the police.”
“Have the police talked to her father?” Pete asked her, ignoring Harras’s glare.
Mrs. Henriquez looked at Pete, then back at Harras, smiling, her nerves showing through. Her body was saying what she couldn’t: How would I know?
Harras stood up and walked out of the office. Pete was left alone with Henriquez, who looked more confused than when they started. Pete nodded politely and followed Harras, catching up with him outside the Laundromat. Harras turned around, his face red from anger. He took a step closer to Pete.
“Why are you wasting my time?” Harras said, his teeth gritted.
Pete took a step back. “How would I know she didn’t live with her mother?”
“You’re not supposed to ‘know’ anything,” Harras said, using air quotes in a way Pete would have found obnoxious under normal circumstances. “This is not your case. This is not your job. This is not your life. I followed you because I knew you were going to do something stupid; I didn’t expect you’d go into this with no idea.”
Pete didn’t respond.
“You’re the worst kind of know-it-all, you know that?” Harras said. “You think this lady wants to relive the fact that her daughter is missing and we have zero leads? You probably didn’t even think about that. You self-involved prick.”
Henriquez’s scream cut through the empty strip mall before Pete could respond.
***
Harras stepped into the Laundromat first, gun drawn. He didn’t protest when Pete followed, his own weapon out, awkwardly held in comparison with the more polished Harras. The place seemed quiet, espec
ially compared to a few moments ago, when all Pete could hear was Harras berating him. As they tiptoed toward the tiny room in the back of the Miami Purity Laundromat, he prayed it would be that simple.
They reached the office and each took a stance on one side of the door, which was now closed. No sound was coming from inside and nothing had been heard since the scream a few moments earlier. Harras reached for the handle and gave it a quick turn. It was unlocked. The door swung in with a slight, whining creak. Pete swallowed and closed his eyes for a second.
By the time Pete turned around to enter the office, Harras had let out a long sigh of relief. She was alive, Pete thought.
He peered over Harras’s shoulder and saw Henriquez, crouched on the floor, sobbing. The cries were low but wracked her tiny body. She hadn’t turned around to face them. The window above the small desk had been opened—by force. Shattered glass covered the desktop and parts of the floor, including Henriquez.
It took another second for Pete to notice the piece of paper a few feet away from Henriquez’s hand. It was crumpled. Harras gave Pete a freezing stare that said, Look at what you did. The FBI agent backed out of the office and walked into the tiny Laundromat’s main area. Pete could hear him shouting orders over his phone, probably calling the main office. Pete kept his feet in place, his eyes frozen on the still sobbing middle-aged woman, her body shaking. He took a small, tentative step forward. Still not in the office, but closer. Close enough to read the hastily written letters on the piece of paper: NINA’S DEAD. EMILY’S NEXT.
The words sent a cold snap through Pete’s system, blocking out Harras, blocking out everything as he ran back to where he’d last seen Emily.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Are you fucking crazy?”
The Messenger was agitated. Julian had stepped out of the Realtor’s office to take the call. He’d been expecting it.
“I can’t talk—I’m at work,” Julian said. He had ducked away near a garbage area, surrounded by massive metal bins full of trash, keeping his voice quiet and his movements casual. He’d let his ego interfere. There’d been no upside to leaving the note. It had been tricky, too. He enjoyed that. Hearing the woman scream. He’d left work without a word, which raised some eyebrows. The edges were beginning to fray.
“People are figuring it out. I can’t believe you dealt with her without letting me know. You’ve ruined the moment,” the Messenger said. “That note was stupid. There were prints! I’ll take care of that. But Fernandez is heading over. I’m ahead of him, thankfully. I’m going to resolve my end of the bargain, because we have no choice.”
“I kill on my schedule,” Julian said. “Do your part. Fix my Fernandez problem. Execute the task I’ve written for you. Don’t let this fall apart.”
Julian slammed the phone against the garbage dump. He turned to go back to work when he saw her. She looked up from the compact she’d been using to check her makeup. The girl couldn’t have been over twenty, and stood just outside the garbage area. She looked scared, her big brown eyes open wide in fear. Her hair was cut short, almost like a boy. A cigarette was at her feet. She’d come out for a smoke to find this.
He took a step toward the girl. “Sorry you had to hear that,” he said, his voice sweet and welcoming, a warm smile on his face. “Give me a second to explain.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Meet me at Emily’s house,” Pete said, his breath short. He hadn’t even waited to hear Kathy say hello.
“What? In Homestead?” Kathy said. She sounded annoyed. They hadn’t talked in a few days.
“Hurry,” Pete said and hung up, tossing his phone on the passenger seat. He’d been trying Emily’s number nonstop but it was going straight to voice mail. Harras had assured him a cruiser was on its way to Homestead—but Pete hadn’t heard from him since then. A cruiser with sirens blaring had a distinct advantage over most people, but this guy wasn’t “most people.”
Pete felt his foot press on his rental car’s accelerator, its engine groaning with the strain. The radio was off. The windows were down. The drive to Homestead was not a quick one—the suburb was the last vestige of civilization south of the city of Miami before you hit the swamplands of the Everglades and the first hint of the Florida Keys. It was mostly agrarian, large farms and miles of unblemished land that were slowly getting populated by people looking for more space and cheaper housing. Pete hated it there.
His mind veered back to the exchange with Emily. Pete cursed himself under his breath. The sociopath who’d been stabbing teen girls to death to get his rocks off was on his way to do the same with Emily. The car was stopped at an intersection, the light red. Homestead was at least forty-five minutes away, even at top speed. The intersection was a busy one: Sunset and 137th Avenue. Cars were whizzing across. Pete felt a chill cover him. He imagined Emily working on her garden. He pressed the horn and let it ring out, a long, droning squawk. Then he pushed down on the accelerator.
He’d looked both ways enough to discern a lull in the oncoming traffic, but not much of one. He ignored the horns from behind and both sides and pushed the car forward. He made it across the intersection and let out a quick sigh of relief. He was pushing seventy in a fifty-five mph zone. He kept his eye on the road, checking the rearview mirrors for cops.
***
There were two police cars in the driveway at Emily and Rick’s house when Pete pulled up and parked in front, leaving the driver’s side door open as he ran to the front door. He was met by a uniformed police officer.
“Hold it, bud,” the cop said. “Can I help you?”
“Is she here? Is she OK?” Pete said, out of breath. “I want to make sure she’s inside.”
The officer walked toward Pete and motioned for him to move to the side of the walkway, concern in his eyes.
“Say that again?”
“I think my friend is in trouble,” Pete said, starting to get frustrated. He tried to look over the cop’s shoulder to see what was happening in the house, but could only see a few other uniforms. “I need to find her.”
He started to move past the cop when he felt the man’s firm hand grab his left arm.
“You’re not going anywhere just yet,” the cop said. “I need to have one of our detectives talk to you. You don’t just waltz in here and—”
Pete pulled his arm away and sidestepped the officer. The cop was only doing his job, Pete realized, but that wasn’t Pete’s problem. He ran for the front door and made it inside the house before he felt his body slam into the hallway entrance. He hadn’t seen the man coming, but his voice was familiar. He felt the knuckles of a fist as they made contact with his chin.
“Where is she? Where is she, you motherfucker?” Rick screamed. It was pure luck that Pete turned his head to the left and noticed Rick’s arm careening toward him. Rick’s face was red and his eyes wet. He looked wobbly and rough.
Pete shoved Rick back and raised his hands up. He wasn’t here to fight.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“She’s gone,” Rick said, his voice a charred whisper. “She never came home. Her phone’s off. The cops found her car on the side of the road, blood on the front seat.”
Before he could say anything else, Aguilera appeared. He got between Pete and Rick, his hand pushing Rick away from Pete.
“Gentlemen, take a deep breath and try to relax for a second,” Aguilera said, his tone calm if a bit condescending. Pete looked around at the house. It seemed very little was out of place. Pete tried to weave farther into the home, but was met by Aguilera’s other hand. Pete fought the urge to twist Aguilera’s arm back and move ahead anyway.
Aguilera seemed to notice the flicker of violence in Pete’s eyes and turned his gaze on him. He seemed calm, Pete thought. He didn’t care about what was happening. This was his job. Just another day for him. Pete tried to push the resentment out of his head.
“We need to stay calm,” Aguilera continued. “Pete, why are you here? What’s going on
?”
“Did you talk to Harras?” Pete said. “I thought you were off the case.”
“Don’t worry if I’m on or off the case. Yes, he called me; then we got the call from Rick,” Aguilera said, looking to Rick briefly, as if to confirm he was still there. “Emily’s gone. We have no idea what state she’s in or where she may be going. Someone pulled her off the road and kidnapped her. Do you have any idea who that might have been?”
Pete took a half step back. Aguilera’s tone bothered him. It was a positioning question; he was asking as if he knew the answer already, which was not what Pete wanted to hear.
“I have no fucking idea, man,” Pete said, shrugging Aguilera’s hand away. “Harras saw the same thing I did. Someone left a note on the floor saying ‘Nina’s dead. Emily’s next.’”
“We’re still checking that note for prints,” Aguilera said. “But Harras says they’ve got nothing so far.”
“Well, I’m not a big pro like you are,” Pete said. “But considering I had just finished talking to Emily before meeting with Harras, I put two and two together and figured he was going after her.”
“Who’s he?” Aguilera continued, his tone still calm and probing. He ignored Pete’s annoyed look.
“I don’t know,” Pete said. “But he might be the same guy who beat the shit out of me, blew up my house and car, and killed all these girls.”
“This is your fucking fault,” Rick said, his voice a low, menacing growl. “You got her into this mess. You got her involved. It was bad enough when he took Alice, but now this…”
Pete could already see Rick shoving Aguilera aside and charging for him, but before that scene could roll, another uniformed officer approached, the same one who’d stopped Pete out front. His appearance slowed Rick’s momentum.
“There’s a reporter from The Times outside, sir,” he was talking to Aguilera, ignoring Rick and Pete. “Says she knew the victim. Wants to talk to this guy.” He motioned his head to signal Pete, and not in a positive way.
Aguilera nodded and turned to Pete. “Come with me,” he said. “Let’s talk to your partner and see what we can figure out.”
