by Alex Segura
“Pete, come on,” Kathy said.
“No, no,” Meltzer said, nodding. “He’s not wrong. I should have been ... better at it. I just took it for granted. She was, well, she was a cop’s wife. She knew the risks. She was feeding me such good intel, I …” Meltzer’s head hung down. The old man looked spent.
“I thought she had a handle on it, is all,” Meltzer said, glancing up at Pete and Kathy.
That’s when Pete noticed the man. Tall, muscular and wearing a dark jacket and skullcap. In Miami. His skin was pale from what little Pete could see under the large, reflective shades. At first Pete thought he was just wandering past, but he lingered by the entrance, shooting furtive glances at them. Now he was heading their way.
“You expecting someone?” Pete asked.
“What? Me? Who would want—”
“Gun!” Kathy yelled, her eyes catching the same figure, except she’d seen the glint of metal before Pete did.
Kathy ducked as Meltzer awkwardly tried to crouch under the table.
The man stopped, raised the weapon and sent two bullets in the retired cop’s direction. The soft schtoop-schtoop sound of the silencer was followed by Meltzer’s low, surprised groan as Pete yanked him from the line of fire. They both landed, hard on the grimy jai alai floor.
“You okay?” Pete asked, out of breath.
“Get that sonovabitch,” Meltzer said, his voice a wheeze. He tried to get up and fell back instead. But he was alive.
Pete stood up and followed the man, who was entering a dumbfounded crowd, still trying to react to what had happened.
Pete thought he heard something—Kathy?—behind him. A warning. But he didn’t have time to go back. And he was tired. Tired of the guns. Tired of the surprises. Tired of the blood. The man was trying to walk through the crowd casually, but at a good clip. He hadn’t noticed Pete behind him, not yet—probably thinking he’d stay and care for Meltzer, or wait until the cops arrived.
But the time for waiting was long past. Pete could feel the strands weaving together, around him, pulling at his limbs, tightening around his chest and throat. If he waited—if he took another minute to ponder and plan—he’d be lost. Whoever this man was, he was a small step closer to the truth.
He caught another glimpse of the man, pushing the door that would lead him out onto Northwest 37th Avenue.
Pete started into a sprint. People moved out of his way, looks of surprise and annoyance and fear as he closed the gap. The door began to close and that’s when the man—who’d shed his glasses and hat—saw him. His face was an enigma to Pete—another thug, another killer, another problem—but that didn’t matter.
Before the man could react, Pete had sent a kick into his midsection, knocking the man out into the street.
He rolled back up fast, but Pete expected that. Expected the gun pointed at his face. He swatted it away, his hand hitting the middle of the man’s arm and sending the gun into the nearby grass.
“You should run,” the man said, panting.
“Not anymore,” Pete said as he sent another kick into the man’s stomach. The man folded into himself and Pete sent his knee on a one-way trip to the man’s face. His head snapped back with the contact, his body twisting to one side and hitting the concrete, a throaty groan capped off by a loud crunch as he landed.
Pete leaned down and gripped the man’s shirt, pulling him up so their faces were close together. “Who sent you?” he said.
“Fuck you, man,” the thug spat back, his head lolling back, barely conscious.
“You think Mujica’s gonna let you live when he finds out you’ve failed?”
The man’s eyes flickered.
Pete heard footsteps behind him. Kathy’s voice in the background.
“Surprised I know what’s going on?” Pete said.
“You don’t know shit, motherfucker,” the man said, but his words lacked conviction. He was bloodied and beaten. He’d be going to jail. Suddenly whatever loyalty he had was in question.
“Tell me,” Pete said. “Who sent you? You’re dead either way.”
The man shook his head again. His entire posture was pathetic. Sagging into Pete now. He was broken. “It was a Mujica guy, I know that,” the man said.
“What did he want? Why are they after me?”
“After you?” the man said, a crooked smile on his bloodied and bruised face. “Boy, they’re playing with you now. If they wanted to get you, you’d be long dead.”
“THIS IS THE part where you tell me what the fuck is going on,” Nisha Hudson said, leaning over the interview room table, palms down. “Because I am a tired woman a few months from retirement and you are not making it easy for me, my friend.”
Pete gave her a “what can I do?”-style shrug. Not the best idea.
She stepped back and crossed her arms. “Listen, I’m not some old-school Cubano cop with lots of nostalgia for your dad, okay?” she said. “I will not turn a blind eye to the shit you’re pulling just because I used to knock back cervezas with Pedro. You’ve been shot at, your house exploded, you almost created an international incident … I am getting a lot of heat to lock you up for something, just to make things calm down.”
“Do I need to get a lawyer?” Pete asked, his voice tired and irritated. “Am I a suspect in something?”
Hudson clicked her tongue in frustration. “Listen, let me help you, all right? I’ve got a retired cop in another interview room refusing to talk. Your girlfriend’s even worse—girl has some bite,” she said. “Plus, I have a suspect who’s suddenly lawyered up with someone Marco Rubio couldn’t afford. I have witnesses screaming at me about an active shooter at the fucking jai alai. I have news crews all over the place. Give me something to work with here.”
“It’s Mujica,” Pete said. “It seems like he’s making a play for the drug trade in Miami.”
“Mujica?” Hudson said with a frown. “I’m not in Vice, I’m Homicide, but that sounds wrong to me. Thought the guy was just a numbers runner.”
“When Los Enfermos went down, for what I thought was the last time, with all the cult stuff last year—”
“There was a void, right,” Hudson said. “But, again—Mujica trying to fill it doesn’t track.”
“Why not?”
“You went to Cuba to find your girl, Beatriz or Emily, right?” Hudson said. “Why was she there?”
“She was taking a meeting—with La Madrina, I think,” Pete said. “To, I dunno, get her foot in the door with the flow of drugs.”
“Right, well, first off—I don’t think Emily Blanco is ready for prime time when it comes to being a gangster,” Hudson said. “Do you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay, so—if she’s trying to horn in on the drug trade, is she working with Mujica? Doesn’t seem like it, right?”
“She’s working with the leftovers of Los Enfermos,” Pete said. “They’re reforming, somehow. Cuba is home turf for them.”
Hudson paced around the room, hands behind her back. “Okay, let’s leave that on the imaginary chalkboard for now,” she said. “Now, tell me—why would Mujica care if you’re talking to a retired cop?”
“Because Meltzer was running a C.I.—my mother—before she died,” Pete said, the words echoing in his head. “It’s what got her killed. If I get closer to that, I get closer to pinning a body on Mujica.”
“Huh, well, you’re not bad,” Hudson said, finally cracking a slight smile. “But humor me for a second. Are you invincible?”
“What?”
“Answer me—are you an escape artist? Are you impossible to kill?”
“No, well—”
“Right, okay, so do you think that Alvaro Mujica, a badass, ex–Bay of Pigs motherfucker who probably has more bodies on his résumé than I have pounds to lose, would have trouble putting you in the ground if he felt like it?”
Pete didn’t respond.
“Didn’t think so.”
“If it’s not Mujica, then who?�
� Pete asked.
“Not saying it’s not,” she said. “I just don’t think whoever it is wants to kill you.”
She sat down across from Pete, her voice now hushed and conspiratorial.
“You know what I do in situations like this? When it feels like I’m tangled up in wires and string and I’m never gonna find the source?” she said. “I simplify. I take a step back and go bit by bit, even if I have to start over. If I’m listening right, you were brought into this by Mujica, right? He asked you to find this Beatriz woman. You found her, but you didn’t find what he wanted, right?”
“He didn’t say what it was,” Pete said.
“You’re smarter than that,” Hudson said. “I’m sure there were things he wanted. Information. Whatever. But Alvaro Mujica is an old man. His son was just murdered. You don’t think the question he wants answered before he flops over is the truth about his son? Who killed his boy? So he can kill them?”
Pete got up.
“Was there something or someone you missed?” Hudson said, looking up at him. “That might make a difference.”
“Thanks, yeah, I think I know what’s next,” Pete said. “Can I go?”
Hudson responded with a quick nod. “I’d say ‘Keep out of trouble,’ but I don’t think that’s in your playbook.”
November 15, 1983
“THEY’RE RUNNING DRUGS out of the bar.”
The words hung in the front seat after Graciela spoke them to Dan Meltzer.
The car, a rusty Pontiac, reeked of cigarettes and takeout. They’d parked a few blocks down from Terraza, the Miami streetlights barely illuminating the desolate sidewalks and storefronts around them. If you were walking around downtown Miami this late at night, you were either looking to cop or up to no good.
“You sure?” Meltzer asked before taking a long sip from his coffee. “That’s a big thing, Gracie. Real big.”
“I’m sure,” she said. “It’s a front. Fuck. I don’t know how I missed this. I’ve been so far up my own ass I didn’t even realize the mess I’d gotten myself into.”
“Does Pedro know?”
“No, no, no way,” Graciela said. “I mean, he knows where I work, but—”
“Then he has an idea,” Meltzer said. “What about that woman, Diane? Your roommate?”
“I can’t even talk to her about it,” Graciela said, rubbing her palms on her work slacks. “She’s so caught up in her own life and work … she wouldn’t even know what to make of it, if she believed me. This is bad. I’m tangled up.”
“Take a deep breath, okay?” Meltzer said, turning toward her.
He looked exhausted. His face gaunt, dark bags under his eyes. This was weighing on him, too. He was putting his colleague’s wife on the line to crack a case. A career-making case, but still.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said.
“Tell me who the boyfriend is and we pull you out tonight,” Meltzer said, his tone halfhearted. He knew what Graciela’s response would be.
“I can’t,” she said. “Not yet.”
“Gracie, whoever this guy is—he’s not a good person, all right? He’s mixed up with some bad people. He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t want to help you,” Meltzer said. “At least let me put some guys on you, take some surveillance pictures … anything.”
“I don’t know.”
She thought back to him. Her boyfriend. This man she thought she might be starting to love. But that was fading. She just couldn’t hold onto it anymore. He seemed aware, too. Graciela was pretty sure he was married. Maybe had a kid. He’d been coming to Terraza less and less. The meetings—not dates anymore, who was she kidding?—had become perfunctory and scheduled. The passion whittled away slowly. The routine was locked in: he’d invite her to a hotel, they’d fuck, he’d leave some money for her and walk out while she slept off whatever high or low had dragged her into the room … like she was some kind of whore. The money helped, sure. She could always use it for … something. But the lingering feeling—the sense of constant, ever-present dread—was always there. She just wanted it to end. She just wanted to black out. To go to sleep and not wake up.
“I can’t get out now,” Graciela said. “I don’t even know where I’d go—what I’d do. I’m a fucking mess, Dan. Can you take me home, please?”
He started the car and they were on their way, the radio silent, everything quiet except the sounds of the streets.
I’m a fucking mess.
She was sick. She was more than a mess. She’d thrown up blood again last night. She wasn’t sure why. She just hoped it’d get better on its own. She wasn’t sure it would.
She didn’t even feel like drinking anymore. When she put the bottle to her mouth, she felt it pulling her in, taking something out of her, out of her insides. It was taking part of her. She wasn’t Gracie anymore. She didn’t even do the basics, anymore. She barely showed up at work. When she did, she ended up in trouble for screwing up an order or breaking a glass—on a good day.
She wasn’t dumb. She knew the problem. But she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t stop using. The sex. This life. She would tell herself, hunched over the toilet or crying on the street, that it’s for a greater good—that she’ll help the cops take down this … whatever it is. But that was a lie. She couldn’t stop because she didn’t want to. It was getting harder and harder to even get a slight buzz. The thrill of it was dead. So she was left to chase down the numbness, and a few inches from that numbness was the void.
Who would love her now? Who would want to share a home with her? What kind of mother could she even try to be for Pete? She felt like nothing. She didn’t deserve anything.
I want to die.
She must have dozed off. The next thing she remembered, Meltzer was shaking her gently.
“We’re here,” he said. “Keep your eyes open, Gracie.”
She nodded, patted his hand and found her way into the apartment. She didn’t remember getting inside.
She woke up on the floor. She hadn’t made it to the couch. Her head throbbed—like a truck was backing up into her face repeatedly. She could see sunlight sneaking through the blinds, each slit of light stabbing her eyes.
“Gracie, Graciela—”
It was Diane. She was shaking her, patting her face gently, holding something in her hand.
“Who—what?”
“It’s Pedro,” she said, her voice clipped and annoyed. She handed Graciela the phone and walked off. She was still in her bathrobe.
Graciela had no idea what time it was. “Hello?” Even she could hear how rough and sluggish her voice sounded. “Yeah?”
“It’s me,” Pedro said, sounding distant and formal. He knew she was drunk. Had to know. Always knew. “I wanted to … ah … It’s Pete.”
“Is, ohmygod is he —”
“Graciela, he’s fine, he’s fine.” Pedro said. “He’s been making gurgling noises, sounds—I thought it was nothing, but they’re starting to—”
He stopped. A muffled sound on the other end.
Was he crying?
“What is it, Pedrito?” she said, almost pleading. “What is it?”
“He’s talking, mi amor,” Pedro said, the last two words slicing into her. “Not just words but full sentences—almost, I don’t know, conversations, and…”
She couldn’t form a response. The tears starting to flow, the choking sobs bubbling up inside her.
“He said he, well,” Pedro said. “He said ‘I want to see my mama.’”
“WE HAVE TO start at zero.”
The words lingered over Pete and Kathy as they drove toward Miami Beach on the expressway.
“Well, I have to start at zero,” Pete continued. “Hudson was right.”
“Pete Fernandez, you are not putting me on the sideline,” Kathy said. “That’s not your call to make.”
Pete took A1A down to Alton Road without responding.
He pulled into the parking lot and left the car idling. Pete stepped out of the c
ar and opened the passenger side door for Kathy.
Slower, weighed down, Kathy struggled a bit to get out of the seat. She gave Pete a sharp glance as she straightened up. “Not a word,” she said. “And where the hell are we? Why aren’t we back at Dave’s?”
“We are at Dave’s,” Pete said. “One of many spots he has. I told him to pack a bag for you.”
Kathy started to respond, but Pete raised a hand in defeat.
“Please, don’t argue with me on this,” he said. “We’re in trouble. Bad. Someone is out to get me, maybe both of us, and I can’t think of what I’d do if something happened to you. To our baby. I’ll stay in touch. We’ll be linked up. But I need to figure this out on my own, and the only way I can do that is if I know you’re safe.”
Kathy crossed her arms. “You tricked me into this, whatever, safe house situation,” she said.
“I did.”
“Where are you going next?” she asked. “What can I do from here?”
“I have to go back to where this all started,” Pete said. “Retrace our steps. Make sure we didn’t miss anything.”
“Oh, we missed something,” Kathy said. “Something big, if these guys are gunning for us—or trying to make it seem like they are.”
They both turned in response to the light footsteps behind them. Dave.
“That shootout at the Jai Alai is all over the news,” Dave said. “They didn’t name you, but the cops are looking for two ‘persons of interest.’”
“I’m not that interesting,” Kathy said.
Pete let out a dry laugh. “Guess talking to Hudson wasn’t enough,” Pete said.
“Dave, can you give us a minute?” Kathy said.
Their friend nodded and headed toward the elevators near the far end of the garage.
“Is this where you kill me?”
“I should,” Kathy said pacing around the parked car. “But you’re right. Which, trust me, pains me to vocalize.”
“Wait, can you say that again?” Pete said, cupping a hand around his ear. “I’m ‘bright’? Or, wait, did you say—”
“Shut up,” she said, stepping toward him. She pulled him in fast, her mouth on his. The kiss was quiet at first—subtle, almost chaste. But soon they were locked in each other, a release as much as an embrace, finally accepting what they’d been dancing around for what seemed like an endless season.