Miami Midnight

by Alex Segura

  “Any leads on where Emily might be before the meet?” Pete asked.

  “If she was smart, she’d be scoping out the area first,” Dave said.

  “Got it,” Pete said. “Let’s hope we snag her first.”

  Dave hung up.

  Kathy turned to Pete. “This is the part where you say ‘Wow, this really sounds like a job for the cops—so glad that we have an honorable and smart police force here in sunny Miami,’ right?” she said.

  Pete shook his head. “No,” he said. “I need to find Emily. She’s the key to this whole thing.”

  “Wrong,” Kathy said. “We need to find Emily.”

  “Kathy,” Pete started to say, before Kathy interrupted.

  “No, I’m helping,” she said. “Even if it’s just to drive you and serve as a lookout, okay? No arguments. There’s no time.”

  Pete shook his head. He knew when she got this focused, this direct, there was little he could do to dissuade her from anything.

  The meeting spot was the venue formerly known as Picadilly Garden, off North Miami Avenue. The club had once served as a home to theme music nights like Pop Life or Revolver—an excuse for millennial kids to dance around to songs that came out when they were toddlers or barely embryos, like the Smiths, New Order, and Talking Heads. Pete had plenty of blurry memories of swaying to the Cure a half-dozen drinks in, the blinking lights and thumping bass keeping him upright—for a while. But now the venue had been converted into a party rental space—making it a perfect meet. The older neighbors were used to seeing people coming in and out, random cars parked around and, sometimes, loud music. They wouldn’t bat a lash at what would be happening in a few hours.

  He caught her a few blocks away, as he was circling the perimeter. She was wearing a long black overcoat—which stood out awkwardly in the Miami heat—and a light scarf around her face. She was sipping a glass of wine at a bar named Foggy Notion. Pete had visited the spot, a few locations back, when he did that sort of thing. She didn’t react until the car pulled up close to her seat. She grabbed her purse and seemed ready to leap out of her chair—until Kathy lowered her window. Recognition flickered on Emily’s face—cautious but familiar.

  “Get in,” Kathy said. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  “YOU’RE PREGNANT,” EMILY said as she slid into the back seat.

  She closed the door and Pete got back on the road.

  “Observant as ever, Emily,” Kathy said, looking at their old friend in the car’s main rearview mirror. “Nice to see you, too.”

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Emily said, her tone sharp. “I figured Pete would try to find me before the meet, but didn’t expect you to show, too.”

  “No, alas,” Kathy said, giving little. “My freelance career has fizzled a bit since I made it onto Los Enfermos’s most wanted list—again. I do have to do some Art Basel coverage I need to work on, but I can do that in my sleep.”

  Emily squirmed in her seat.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Nowhere,” Pete said, turning down a one-way street. “We need to talk.”

  The street was industrial, factories and warehouses coated in graffiti and promotional posters. There was no one around. Pete pulled up to the curb and flicked the car’s blinkers on before parking. He turned around to face Emily. She looked frazzled. Shaken. She was still Emily, of course, even with the black hair and half-baked disguise. He’d never look at her and fail to find beauty or feel that nostalgic pull, but she seemed different now. On edge. Her eyes darted around the car and her hands fidgeted in her lap. She was trying to play it off, but some things can’t be hidden—especially from someone she had almost shared a life with.

  “Who’s the—um, is it that guy? What’s his name?” Emily said, avoiding Pete’s stare. “Marco? I’d heard you were engaged—”

  “No, uh, Marco ... Marco and I split,” Kathy said, refusing to turn around.

  “Oh,” Emily said, looking from Pete to Kathy and then back to Kathy. “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” Pete said. “It’s complicated.”

  “That’s nice. I’m—ah—I’m happy for you.”

  “Oh, cut the bullshit,” Kathy said, letting out an exasperated breath and turning around. “You’re why we’re here, okay? This isn’t three out-of-touch friends running into each other at Soyka, Emily. You’re in major trouble. You’ve created major trouble. People have died. You may have tried to get Pete killed, whether he wants to believe it or not.”

  “What are you talking about?” she said. “I’ve tried my best to keep Pete from getting killed, actually.”

  “Oh really?” Kathy said with a short, dry laugh. “Could have fooled me.”

  “That thing with Mujica?” Pete said. “You told me you were there, at his house—I went, to help you. Then the guy drops dead.”

  “I didn’t know that was going to happen,” she said, defensively. “I wasn’t setting you up.”

  “Emily, for the millionth time—what the fuck is going on?” Pete said. “What are you thinking? Running drugs? You think that was going to be easy, something you could do on the side to keep up with your lavish lifestyle?”

  Her shoulders sagged. She looked out the rear passenger side window, out toward the empty lots and block-like buildings that populated the desolate street. It looked like it was all catching up with her at once—the globe-trotting, the changed identities, the drugs, the money—or so it seemed to Pete. He wasn’t sure what he could believe about Emily anymore.

  “You’ve got it wrong,” she said, looking up at Pete. “I never wanted it to be this way. I’m not in control. I’m not running the show.”

  “Who is, then?” Kathy asked.

  “I’ll get to that,” Emily said. “Pete, the last time I saw you in Miami—I was never coming back. Rick had left me enough money—whether it was his or not—to go anywhere and live comfortably for a long, long time. Miami had ruined me. Hurt me. You had hurt me. I didn’t want to be reminded, every time I pulled into a gas station or went grocery shopping, of some terrible, haunting memory. Getting kidnapped, shot at, us ... it was bad. I needed out. Everyone else was moving on, so why not me?”

  “So you left—then what?” Pete asked. “Why not just fade into the sunset, then? Why are you here?”

  “Rick’s papers were garbage to me. I just wanted the money,” she said. “I didn’t know what kind of information he had. I didn’t care. The money was there, and if Los Enfermos wanted to chase me to Europe to get a few million, then fine. But I didn’t think they would, and I was right. But someone else did. Not for my money, but for my contacts. My information.”

  “La Madrina,” Pete said. “Rick had that in his notes. You knew how to reach her.”

  “I did, I do,” she said. “Rick was the gatekeeper for Los Enfermos—he crunched their numbers in Miami, he made sure the Colombians got paid, and he made sure bad people on this side shut the fuck up and stayed in line. I learned that after the fact. Part of his job was dealing with the money people in the cartels. But I didn’t know that. I didn’t know half the shit he was doing until you found it all out—until you brought it into the light during that whole Varela thing a few years ago. And then I was done. I just wanted to be gone. So I left.”

  “Who reached out to you?” Kathy asked.

  “I’ll get to that,” Emily said, shaking her head. She didn’t want to be rushed. This was her story to tell. “I went to Europe. I’d always wanted to live in Spain, so I settled in Barcelona for a while. I lived well, ate well, explored—I had money. Why the fuck not? It was nice. I learned Spanish. I relaxed. It all seemed okay for a little while. I wasn’t even dating, I was just—living. Reading. Walking. Listening to live music.”

  “That’s when you met Javi,” Pete said.

  She caught wind of his tone. Her response was sharp. “I loved him,” she said. “Don’t let anyone ever convince you otherwise, okay? We were in love. From the minute we met. I knew it was
going to be something.”

  “Spare us the Taylor Swift lyrics,” Kathy said. “What happened?”

  “Fuck you,” Emily said, the words hissing out of her mouth. “If you want to hear this, let me tell it.”

  Kathy lifted her hands up in mock surrender. “So you fell for Javi, then came back here?”

  “Yes, that’s the big picture, but he needed help,” Emily said. “He was drinking a lot, doing a lot of drugs—his playing was suffering, and his manager—”

  “Owens?” Pete asked.

  “Yes,” Emily said, slight surprise creeping into her words. “I guess you have been chasing this down.”

  “He’s gotten better at this,” Kathy said.

  Emily shrugged. “His manager was a mess,” she said. “As bad as Javi was. Amphetamines in the morning, shooting up and drinking to even out, treating the whole thing like it was some kind of rock band. Javi was too talented for that. So, after we got together, he asked me to take over—gave me the keys to the whole operation. So I fired Owens, disbanded his group, and got Javi a residency in Miami—I wanted him to play every night, to get better and to get clean. I’d dealt with ... men like him before. You can’t fix their addictions, but you can try and distract them, as long as it works for you. Once it doesn’t, you have to move on.”

  Pete remained silent. He didn’t need to ask who she was referring to.

  “Then you came back?” Kathy said. “Back to Miami?”

  “I fell in love and ended up coming back to the place I hated most,” she said, looking at her hands, as if searching for a sign as to how things had gotten to be such a mess. “But it had to be different. I lied to him, which was bad. It never works to base a relationship on lies. I told him I had enemies in Miami—which, I guess, isn’t a complete fabrication. Told him the only way I could come back would be if I had a new identity. He said he knew people that could do that, but it wouldn’t be easy. That’s when I learned who Javi really was. Where he was from.”

  “The Mujica factor,” Pete said.

  “His family, yes,” Emily said, leaning back. She was loosening up. The familiarity—even if loaded with unresolved issues and anger—was smoothing things over for her. “He was vague about it when we first got together, and I didn’t put the pieces together. I’m not a follower of the Miami underworld, despite what happened to you—and with us. The name ‘Mujica’ didn’t ring a bell. But then he got me a set of papers—”

  “Beatriz de Armas—it had a nice ring to it,” Kathy said with a smirk.

  “Right, once that came together so fast, from the other side of the world,” she said, “I knew something was off. He told me—he was high off his ass, but he told me. And I almost left him right there. I didn’t need that. I didn’t need to be entangled with more drugs and crime. But I did love him. I should have left right then.”

  “But you stayed,” Pete said.

  Emily nodded. “I did, yeah, because I felt like this was something, I dunno, special. Not like Rick ... I mean, Javi was a good guy, or so I thought, but he was also safe ... reliable, different from you, Pete, and that was important. I’m sorry,” she said, looking at him, her eyes watering. “We never talked about it. We never resolved it. Even if we fell into bed with each other at the worst times, we never sat and aired it out, you know? By the time you’d started to get your life together, it was too late. We’d missed our chance. But now look at you—you’re alive, healthy, doing what you’re meant to do, and you’ve found someone. You’re going to be a father. That’s good. I’m happy for you, I guess. And a little jealous we couldn’t line things up the right way for us. But that’s life, huh? Not black and white, loaded with grays and missed opportunities.”

  “This is all very sweet,” Kathy said. “But there is some level of urgency here. Whoever has been orchestrating all this has blood on their hands—Harras’s blood, and maybe even the blood of Pete’s own mother. Not to mention the fact that they’re after us—they blew up Pete’s house. They’re gunning for us. They’ve been gunning for Pete—or trying to make it seem like they were—for a while now.”

  “I wouldn’t let them kill you. I drew the line there. They could get what they wanted without killing you. But I wish you’d taken the hint and backed off earlier.”

  “Well … thanks, I guess?” Kathy said. “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “I’ll get to that, I promise. What about Pete’s mom, though?” Emily said, genuine surprise in her voice. “I thought she died giving birth to you?”

  “You know that’s not true,” Pete said, frustration seeping into his tone for the first time. “You were in Osvaldo Valdez apartment when he died. You took the pages from my mom’s dream book. You had them when I saw you in Cuba. Why? Why were those pages edited before I got them?”

  “It’s complicated,” Emily said. “I’m under pressure from all sides. From people I thought were helping me. From people out to get what I had. I didn’t want to take those pages, Pete. You have to believe me. I didn’t want to disrupt your ability to solve your own mother’s murder.”

  “But you…did?” Kathy said. “A whole fucking lot.”

  “What names were blacked out?” Pete said. “Who are we not looking at? My mom’s death was a lie—at least how she died. A secret kept from me and my father. She was murdered—and I think it had ties to the Mujica organization. Why would you protect the people responsible for this?”

  Emily didn’t respond.

  “Anything you’d like to add to this?” Kathy asked.

  “What do you mean?” Emily said, shaking her head slightly, feigning confusion.

  “I just find this whole conversation, well, super-convenient for you, and I’m not really in the mood for that,” Kathy said. “I get we’re all old pals, you have this deep, afterschool special history with Pete, the father of my baby, and it’s nice to sit here by this abandoned lot and think back on the good ol’ days, but you’re not some innocent, Emily—you’re complicit in this. You’re somehow tied into what’s going on—and I think you need to tell us that part of it, before we can even think to kick back and sign each other’s yearbooks, okay?”

  “Who’s your partner, Em?” Pete asked, pressing. “Was it Mujica?”

  “I don’t have a partner. Not anymore. It’s more complicated than that. They got me involved in things I never wanted to be a part of.”

  “What?” Kathy asked. “Complicated enough that you need our help?”

  “Yes. I’m at the end of my rope. I can’t figure this out by myself. Before you guys picked me up, I was trying to figure out how to handle this meeting tonight, how to find a clean way out of this mess,” Emily said, her eyes red and pleading. “I need an exit strategy. I needed to get clear. I can’t do that by myself.”

  “You said that before, Em—when you called me,” Pete said. “When you said you were at Mujica’s house. You hinted pretty strongly that you were in trouble. Why’d you want me there?”

  “I didn’t want to do that. You have to believe me. That was the last straw,” Emily said. “I was done after that. I was done lying. Done putting people in danger. I kept telling you, Pete, to keep away—that I could only protect you so much. That was the end. It was a trap, and I knew it. I’m so sorry.”

  She wiped a few tears away from her face, trying to avoid Kathy and Pete’s stare.

  “But something went wrong?” Kathy asked.

  “No, it went right,” Emily said, shaking her head. “Alvaro was killed—and the hope was, your case would die there, too.”

  “But I spoke to him,” Pete said. “Before he took the poison. I learned he had nothing to do with my mother. Or at least that’s what he said.”

  Emily nodded, but said no more.

  “They wanted to shake me off the trail,” Pete said, nodding to himself. “That’s why Alter tried to be so definitive—she had no idea I’d spoken to Mujica, that I knew he wasn’t the man who killed my mother.”

  “I need to get out,” Emily sai
d, shaking her head. “I’m in way over my head. Please. I know I don’t deserve this, but I don’t know what else to do.”

  “But you haven’t answered my question,” Pete said. “Mujica’s dead—so who’s behind this? Who’s trying to take over the drug trade?”

  “Alvaro’s death definitely created a problem,” Emily said, wringing her hands. “Not just for his organization, but for the other power players in Miami. That’s part of what I need to resolve tonight—”

  “Wait a goddamn minute, will you?” Kathy said, turning to Pete, her voice exasperated and sharp. “You were working with someone—probably Mujica’s organization—and part of that involved shooting at us. Why is that not a bigger deal?”

  Pete nodded. “She’s right,” he said. “Los Enfermos killed Harras. The Silent Death went after me, Harras, you—why? Gunmen almost killed a retired cop we were interviewing.”

  “I swear to you, on my life, that I used whatever sway I had to make sure you weren’t killed,” Emily said, refusing to meet Pete’s eyes. “I tried not to disrupt what you were investigating with your mom. But the stuff involving drugs and Mujica … I was trying, in my own way, to warn you off. This isn’t your fight, Pete.”

  “Not until you need us, right?” Kathy said.

  “A lot of people wanted the information I had, the connect with La Madrina,” Emily said. “It created major problems—not just for Mujica, but for other organizations. I was the doorway to a lot of money. Like, billions. If they could get to me, get to that info and make a deal, it’d change the entire landscape of organized crime. The Italians, other Miami gangs, Mujica—everyone wanted a piece of it. Everyone. I needed to protect myself. I had to find a way to not only stay safe, but maximize what I had.”

  “No pressure,” Kathy said.

  “I never wanted this,” Emily said, her voice rising. “I wanted to escape. To get away from here, from you, from this world—to just enjoy this money that had fallen into my lap. The only mistake I made was to fall in love with Javier Mujica.”

  “Emily,” Pete said, his voice calm. “You almost got me killed. You almost got Kathy killed. People have died. Maybe you haven’t made the call, but you’re involved. If you want our help, you need to come clean. To us, to the cops—to everyone.”