Miami Midnight

by Alex Segura

  She’d finish this story on Cernuda, which specialized in Cuban art; shoot off a quick, apologetic email to her editor for the hasty piece; and call it a night. Pete would slide into bed when he felt the time was right. She’d chide him in the morning. And, maybe—just maybe—they’d eke out a few more days to figure out what the hell was going on.

  Emily’s death had rattled her, in ways she hadn’t fully realized until now. She’d known Emily before Pete had. They’d been friends—not close, but the kind of colleague you’d get drinks with after work, compare notes on who the office creeps were, and stuff like that. She was beautiful, seemed to have it all together—but Kathy had learned that perceptions could be way off. She didn’t know Emily was engaged to a raging alcoholic at the time, that she’d been forced to move back to Miami because her father-in-law had died, and was resigned to taking a design desk job at the local paper because she had bills to pay and little choice in the matter.

  Emily would never truly be her friend, Kathy had realized early on. She was too sharp, too cunning, and took things too personally. But Kathy cared about her because Pete did, and she still remembered the glint of love in his eyes when he and Emily had a brief reunion while Emily was avoiding her marriage to a presumably clean-cut Cuban boy named Rick Blanco. A clean-cut guy who had been laundering money for an international drug gang. A clean-cut Cuban boy who inadvertently left enough bread crumbs for his wife to follow into the lap of not only the Colombian cartels, but the Mujica organization. Rick Blanco had signed his wife’s death warrant—and Pete had gotten a front-row seat to her execution.

  It all felt so sudden, so intense, especially so soon after Harras, a man Kathy had thought she’d loved, once—at least for a few fleeting weeks. His death seemed almost surreal, like a bad joke that leaves you waiting for the punchline that’s already been delivered. Emily and Harras. Two losses that added up to an overwhelming sense of vertigo and confusion, at the worst possible time.

  She entered the gallery, which was packed with the entire spectrum of people that came to Art Basel events: the art insiders, looking to add to their collections; the art dealers trying to con their way to the next sale; gawkers desperate for something to do on a Saturday night; the locals desperate to create a sense of community or familiarity in the sprawling, sweltering tapestry of streets and neighborhoods that called itself a city. Some were dressed to the nines. Others in chanks and shorts. Many in-between. The art was your standard, early twentieth-century realistic fare—seascapes, landscapes, still lifes, paintings of older Cuban government officials and—

  Kathy stopped. Her eyes landed on a large painting across the room. It was a battle scene of some sort. But that was standard. Cubans loved their war stories, right? Loved their memories of la madre patria. No, what struck her wasn’t the art itself—which, look, was fine. Kathy wasn’t an artist. She’d dropped out of college. But she could fake it enough to write some copy for a website that no longer clocked content in inches. No, what struck her was a frightening sense of familiarity, a sense that she should know something about this piece of art, and the fact that she didn’t—the fact that the bit of info she needed to pop into her slow, pregnant brain—could very well prove dangerous.

  She shook her head. She needed to eat. That’s it. Low blood sugar.

  “Get a grip,” she muttered to herself, as she reached into her bag, hoping a sweep of the large purse would come up with a granola bar or some kind of stopgap food that could tide her over—at least until she could leave this space—was it hot in here?—and have a meal. Maybe sushi. Jesus, she would kill someone for a glass of Chardonnay and a spicy tuna roll right about now.

  A tap on her shoulder.

  She turned to face the tall man behind her, his face not registering until she noticed the small gun in his hand, pointed at her but hidden from the people around her.

  “See something you like?” he said, a sly grin on his face, his eyes saying what he couldn’t vocalize: Don’t scream. Don’t make a sound if you want to live.

  She nodded, as if being clued in on something she should have picked up on earlier.

  “Fuck.”

  HE WAS TOO late. The Cernuda Arte Gallery was packed—brimming with the Basel fringe you’d expect to see at an off-brand event like this. But he was too late. Pete knew it. He’d seen the painting immediately. He’d sped across the room. Armando Garcia’s Menocal’s “Segunda Muerte de Maceo” hung in the gallery as if nothing, as if the months of searching and bloodshed and misery had just been a way to pass the time. The painting—fake or not, Pete now realized—had never been lost. Had never been stolen by Emily, or lost by Javier Mujica. It’d rested in the hands of someone else. Someone Javi had trusted. Someone his father had trusted, too.

  He picked up his phone and tapped the display a few times. It began to ring.

  “Where is she?” Pete asked.

  “Hello to you, too, I guess,” Dave said. He sounded groggy.

  “Kathy—put her on.”

  “She’s … not here. She had to cover some Basel event. She said she’d left you a—”

  A sharp pain in his neck. A tingling. The prickling pokes of a thousand needles.

  “Where ... where was she supposed to be?”

  “A gallery in the Gables,” Dave said. “She seemed annoyed, but I guess the gallery requested her specifically. They’re debuting some kind of long-lost Cuban art and wanted her there. Which is weird, because it’s not like—”

  “It’s Rosen,” Pete said. “It was Rosen all along.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Pete hung up. He grabbed a man walking by him who seemed to work at the gallery. He pulled back, a slight hissing sound escaping his lips.

  “The man, the guy who owns this painting,” Pete said, motioning toward the Menocal. “Where is he?”

  “Mr. Rosen?” the slim, disgruntled twentysomething said with a sneer. “He’s gone. Like, an hour ago. Seemed distracted. Left with some lady who was, like, pregnant—”

  “Where did they go?” Pete said, not letting go of the man’s arm, his grip tightening.

  “Um, fucking excuse me?” the man said, pulling away. “Who died and made you Captain Grabby?”

  “Where did they go?”

  The man shrugged. Pete read the flimsy nametag on his blazer. Rex Nagorski.

  “Listen, Rex, I need your help,” Pete said, dusting off the man’s sleeve. “I need to find Mr. Rosen. I want to make a bid on this painting.”

  “Well, you can just do that through me—”

  “I can’t,” Pete said, trying to keep his cool. “I can only do it in person. It’s how I do business. I need to look the other guy in the eye, you know?”

  Nagorski seemed to understand, nodding slowly. “Well, I know he went to South Beach,” he said. “He wanted to swing by one of the big events before heading home—I think he mentioned the Hyde Beach thing, on Collins?”

  “Hyde Beach, the club?” Pete asked.

  “I mean, yeah, like where else?” Nagorski responded. “I think DJ Tiesto is spinning and—”

  Before he finished, Pete was halfway to the door.

  A LIFE-OR-DEATH situation was probably the only way Pete would consider coming to Hyde Beach. A massive, high-end, club-slash-pool-slash-restaurant, Hyde Beach was where the rich and cool intersected and luxuriated. On a normal night, it’d be packed with celebrities, the nu-wealthy, and those on the fringe trying to join either group. Bottle service, VIP areas, and bars in general weren’t Pete’s scene, and this was not a normal night for Hyde Beach. Art Basel had taken over the city, with streets rerouted, police everywhere, and foot traffic at a maximum. Even putting the pedal to the floor, it’d taken Pete almost an hour to get to the front door of the club. An hour he couldn’t afford to lose.

  Pete pulled out his phone and dialed Dave as he approached the Hyde Beach entrance. The burly, tattooed security guard manning the velvet rope already giving Pete a healthy dose of side-eye.

&
nbsp; “Any luck?”

  “Yeah,” Dave said. “Guy at the door’s name is Tisdale. Tell him you know me. Let him know I remember that thing we did with Creeden. That should help.”

  “Got it,” Pete said before hanging up.

  He could feel the security guy’s palm on his chest a few seconds before contact was made. The blonde, well-built guy had a look that mixed beach bum charm with gym rat grit. His expression was blank.

  “See the line?” the man said, his voice booming over the thumping music escaping the door each time it swung open.

  “I need to get inside,” Pete said. “Can you help me out?”

  Tisdale scoffed. “Dude, are you high? You look like you just got barfed up by an Eddie Bauer catalogue and you’re probably closer to forty than twenty. Why are you even here? Isn’t there a Pearl Jam concert you can go to?” Tisdale said with a tinny laugh. “Hit the back of the line. Maybe I’ll feel bad for you by the time you get here, around two in the morning.”

  “Dave Mendoza says hello.”

  “What?”

  “He says hi,” Pete said. “And he wants to let you know he remembers what you guys did with Creeden.”

  Tisdale’s face blanched. An almost imperceptible nod came next, followed by a swift move that pulled back the velvet barrier. He motioned for Pete to enter.

  “Just do me a favor,” Tisdale said, his expression strained. “Tell Dave we’re even. And if anyone asks, you snuck in, all right? I don’t want to lose my job over this.”

  Pete nodded.

  “I don’t plan on being here very long.”

  THE CLUB WAS a dark pit of noise, bodies, and sweat—people grinding on each other, waiters swerving around groups of dancers, swimsuit-clad drunks splayed out on lounge chairs—all in pitch black, with speckles of red, green, and blue lights flickering through from the main stage, where the bottom-heavy beats were emanating via DJ Tiesto’s massive, multi-turntable platform. The crowd—at least the members sober enough to listen to the music—had gathered around the giant, sky-blue pool that made up the centerpiece of the venue’s exterior. The drone of conversation, screams of adulation directed at the stage, and the pulsing music shut down Pete to everything else, and forced him to rely just on the muddy visuals of the dark club.

  Then he saw him.

  Eddie Rosen.

  He was seated alone, almost immune to the din of the club and the claustrophobic crowd, sipping a glass of what looked like champagne. He’d noticed Pete, too, and motioned for him—a casual wave that was almost friendly. C’mon, let’s talk, pal. We can figure this out.

  Pete wove his way through the crowd, eyes locked on Rosen, whose expression remained relaxed and unchanged. This unnerved Pete more than he wanted to think about.

  By the time he sat down across from Rosen, Tiesto had stepped away on a break, shifting the eardrum-busting volume level from 20 to around 15.

  “You found me,” Rosen said, leaning back, eyes on Pete.

  “Where is she?”

  “No banter for you, huh?” Rosen asked. “All business?”

  “Where is she, Rosen?”

  “Oh, relax, will you?” Rosen said. “Brooding vigilante doesn’t suit you. She’s alive. She’s fine. But we do need to talk. I just didn’t want you coming at me, guns blazing, so I came here.”

  Rosen stood up and straightened his jacket. He looked down at Pete.

  “Well, come on,” Rosen said, the smile still plastered on his clean-shaven, smug face. “I don’t have all day.”

  “SHIT, IT LOOKS like a party up in here,” a familiar voice said as Pete was led into a room. The melodic street patter came from a well-built man wearing sunglasses and sporting a large .44 Magnum in his hand, as casually as one would hold a pencil while putting together a grocery list. He nodded as Pete followed Rosen inside.

  Ordell Robbie.

  “This him? This the man himself, Mr. Pete Fucking Fernandez?” he said, taking a step toward Pete. “Thought he’d be bigger, you know? Tougher looking, on account of all that bullshit he put us all through. Oh well. What do they say? Never meet your heroes or some shit like that?”

  “Ordell Robbie, this is Pete Fernandez,” Rosen said.

  “I know Mr. Robbie,” Pete said, fighting the urge to lunge at the man who’d ordered Emily’s death. Knowing he had to hold on if there was any chance of getting Kathy out alive. “Too well.”

  “You do?” Robbie said with a hesitant smirk. “Damn, guess I missed that historic moment.”

  “You killed Emily Blanco,” Pete said, tilting his head to catch any shred of reaction on the gangster’s face. “Or does your buddy Rosen not know that yet?”

  Robbie backed up slightly. He hadn’t thought anyone was in the rental space when Emily was murdered. He was shaken. But it was only a momentary misstep.

  “You one crazy dickhead, you know that?” Robbie said. “Coming in, throwing accusations around like some two-bit district attorney. You better relax, my man. Ordell Robbie does not take kindly to bullshit.”

  Pete looked at Rosen, whose expression had remained stoic. That’s when it made sense.

  “You had her killed,” Pete said, as much to himself as to Rosen and Robbie. “She wasn’t of any use to you anymore, so you—”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Rosen said, losing his cool, his usually well-placed hair suddenly mussed. “You’re not in charge here.”

  The space was on the large side, resembling a hotel ballroom minus the chairs, with a conference table at the far end, which was surrounded with places to sit. Robbie, Rosen, and Pete were the only people inside. Pete could still hear the thumping music, but it felt much further away, as if they were listening underwater.

  “Where is she, Rosen?” Pete asked.

  “Pete, really, let’s not get cute, all right?” he said, no longer even trying to remain calm. “You are not getting out of this alive. Kathy might not either, so quit acting like there’s a negotiating window here, all right?”

  Rosen nodded at Robbie and the larger man headed out via an exit across the room. Rosen returned his attention to Pete.

  “I guess this is when you expect me to tell you everything?” Rosen said, unable to hide his smug expression. “Where I tie your little clues together and you have a ‘Oh, wow, how did I miss that?’ moment before you die? I guess I can give you that much…”

  “Not exactly,” Pete said. “It’s a big zero, anyway.”

  Rosen’s expression faltered—flickered. He hadn’t expected Pete to be defiant. Not this late in the game.

  “What?” Rosen asked, trying to regain a bit of his composure.

  “The line was in my mom’s dream book,” Pete said. “You used it when I saw you recently.”

  “That’s your big clue?” Rosen said, his words coming out like a sneer. “A saying? Wow, I underestimated how bad you are—“

  “No, it just sealed it for me. Your boss was an old-school bolitero,” Pete said. “Not into the drug trade. Not that much, anyway. So when Los Enfermos went down—even though he was the most obvious person to step in and fill the void, he probably didn’t want to. Maybe he was considering it because someone was pushing him, but his instinct said something else.”

  “Alvaro was past his prime,” Rosen spat, teeth gritted. “So what?”

  “You’re a businessman, Eddie,” Pete said. “You saw an opportunity and took it. How could you say no, when it fell into your lap like that?”

  Rosen didn’t respond, instead looking at his watch.

  Pete decided to press. “When you found Emily, probably when Javi introduced you, you saw an opportunity there. You knew who she was. Knew what kind of connections she had,” Pete said, stepping closer to Rosen. “What did you offer her, Eddie? To get in touch with La Madrina? To try and take over what was left of Los Enfermos?”

  “Javi was a fool,” Eddie said. “I loved him like a son, mentored him, guided him—but all he wanted to do was play his stupid music and get high. He could have
ruled the city—been better, smarter than his father. Instead he wanted to fuck women, drink, pass out, play music, and do it again. When he showed up with her—she was stunning. Smart. Fearless. And connected. I knew who her husband had been. I knew who she was right away. I didn’t believe that ‘Beatriz de Armas’ bullshit.”

  “So you went after her,” Pete said. “And then had her killed.”

  “You make it sound like it was hard,” Rosen said, clicking his tongue. “She was ready to bail herself, was starting to realize the mess she’d gotten herself into with Javi. She didn’t want to nursemaid another drunk. She wanted a real man.”

  Rosen’s eyes met Pete’s and he smiled. “Yeah, she told me everything about you,” he said. “About what a sad little sack you were—and are. When Mujica said he wanted to hire someone to find out who killed Javi, well, who better than you? Someone I knew would never solve it. Someone who I knew was a failure of a man.”

  Pete didn’t take the bait. Had this been five years ago, he’d have already swung at Rosen. But these kind of jabs fluttered past him now.

  “Where is Kathy, Rosen?”

  “She’s coming. Don’t worry,” Rosen said. “Ordell went to get her. And your baby-to-be. I’m not big on murdering women or children, but I guess I’ll have to do both today.”

  “What do you want?”

  “From you? Nothing,” Rosen said. “This isn’t a final transaction where you save your life, Pete. No. We’re done. I need everything nice and tidy, and you’re not tidy. You’re a stain. I need my decks to be clear.”

  “For La Madrina,” Pete said.

  “Heh. So you do know more than I gave you credit for. Okay,” Rosen said. “Yes, for her. To ensure she’s comfortable entrusting me with her drugs. Comfortable with me running her product into Miami and beyond. I have the manpower. The firepower. But you—you and your stupid FBI agent friend, Emily, everyone—you’re all buzzing around like disease-riddled flies, and it’s fucking obnoxious.