Dangerous Ends

by Alex Segura

  Pete pushed the power button on the remote and the screen went black.

  “Too stabby a day for you?” Kathy asked before standing and stretching.

  “Not in the mood for more depressing tales from the streets of our town,” Pete said.

  Kathy walked over to the dinner table and hooked her purse over her left shoulder. “What are you going to do now?”

  “Nothing, I guess,” Pete said. “Get ready for bed? I assume you need a ride back to your car.”

  “Eventually,” she said, a sly smile forming on her face. “But I have an idea.”

  “That’s always problematic.”

  “Let’s go,” she said as she walked toward Pete’s front door. “You’re driving.”

  “HOBIE BEACH? Is this a joke?” Harras said as he slammed his car door and walked toward Pete and Kathy.

  Hobie Beach was a joke—especially when compared to the pristine, postcard-ready shores of Miami Beach. A bay beach on the south side of the Rickenbacker Causeway, Hobie Beach was a destination for those who didn’t have the patience to drive on to Key Biscayne, Virginia Key, or Crandon Park. The bay waters were calm and soothing, and, on a good day, Hobie could serve as a nice contrast to the crowded and trendier beach spots that were sprinkled across the Miami coast. Most nights, though, it was a place where teenagers went to feel each other up and drunks stopped to down a six-pack or two before heading home. Pete had managed to be a member of both groups at different times in his life, so he was no stranger to the bottle and cigarette butt littered sands of Hobie. It wasn’t the cleanest, but it was mostly desolate in the late hours of the evening, making it a quiet and incognito meeting spot.

  Pete and Kathy waited for Harras to reach them on the beach, a few feet from the water. Further down, Pete could see a few dark cars parked next to each other. In the closest one, he noticed two shadowy forms moving back and forth in the backseat. Young lust always found a way, he thought.

  “Welcome to the offices of Bentley, Fernandez…and Harras, I hear?” Kathy said as she extended her hand to him.

  “News travels fast,” Harras said, shaking her hand. “But let’s cut the polite stuff. It’s late, I’m old, and we’re at Hobie. This is not how I envisioned my evening, or our first formal meeting.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?” Kathy said. “You’re not that old. You look pretty spry for a retiree.”

  Harras sighed and looked at his watch. “Let’s get on with it.”

  It was late enough that the humidity had lightened a bit. Paired with a nice beachside breeze and their encounter could almost be described as pleasant, had they been meeting under different circumstances.

  “I wanted to meet up and lay down some ground rules,” Kathy said. “I got the ball rolling on this and drafted Pete over here. You, on the other hand, were tacked on.”

  “I’m not trying to steal your thunder,” Harras said, his voice strained. “So we can skip the posturing and cut to the actual work, if that’s fine with everyone.”

  Kathy frowned. Harras had undercut her argument and Pete knew his friend was at a crossroads. Either she could press the conflict and ruin the case—and the financial potential it held—or she could swallow her pride for as long as this effort took. Pete knew logic eventually would overcome ego with her, after a brief skirmish.

  “One thing has to happen ASAP,” Kathy said, shifting her eyes from Pete to Harras and back to Pete. “We all need to be on the same page in terms of information. That means we need to see what you’ve seen,” she pointed at Harras, “like, soon. While we wait for that to happen, we still have to push forward.”

  “Agreed,” Harras said.

  Kathy’s eyebrows popped up, pleasantly surprised at Harras’s quick assent.

  “I’m already talking to Maya tomorrow,” Pete said. “I don’t envision it being the be-all, end-all interview, which is why I think I can take the first round myself. Then we can connect and figure out a plan for the second round.”

  “I’m not loving that,” Harras said. “But in the spirit of team unity, I’ll roll with it. Just be sure you do what you say—and no more. I don’t want to meet up and find out you ran down the entire witness list while on a rogue trip.”

  Pete nodded.

  “I’m hoping to get some time with Varela’s original attorney,” Kathy said. “I put in a call before we knew our team had been promoted to trio. I’ll keep you posted on when that’s supposed to go down.”

  “I’m flexible,” Harras said.

  “What about Maldonado?” Pete asked. “Maya’s uncle? I’m curious to get his take on this. He testified against his own brother-in-law. Not unheard of, I guess, but it jumped out at me.”

  “Your instincts are good,” Harras said. “I say go for it. I’ll put together some notes on the murder itself—the kind of weapon used, crime scene, who went in, that kind of stuff.”

  “Cop crap,” Kathy said.

  “You know as well as anyone, that stuff’s important. It’d also serve us well to sit down for a few hours and go over everything—files, old evidence, the works, but I’m hoping you knew that,” Harras said. He cracked his knuckles. “Okay, we done here?”

  “I move to adjourn the first official meeting of the Terrible Three,” Kathy said, waving her hand ceremonially.

  “Let’s keep in contact,” Pete said as he handed Harras his card. He returned the favor and turned away from Pete and Kathy. “So we all know the same info as it happens.”

  “Smart,” Harras said as he reached his black Escalade and opened the driver side door.

  Pete and Kathy started to walk toward Pete’s car, a hot breeze slapping them as they made their way from the dirty beach to the worn-out parking lot, two weathered soldiers trudging toward their next battle.

  Pete waved and they watched as the older man got into his car and backed out onto the causeway. Pete pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through the notifications display, checking for any emails or news on the case. One alert—not an email or social media update, but a breaking news flash via the Miami Times app Pete kept on his phone, mostly for nostalgic reasons—grabbed his attention.

  He looked at Kathy across the roof of his car as she tied her long hair into a ponytail. His eyes were wide.

  “Holy shit.”

  “What?” she said.

  “That murder in the Grove,” Pete said. “The guy found stabbed to death in Peacock Park?”

  “What about it?”

  “It was Rick,” Pete said. “Rick Blanco.”

  “Emily’s Rick? As in her ex-husband?” Kathy asked, her face scrunching up in confusion. “What the hell?”

  Emily Blanco, née Emily Sprague, and Pete had a history—to put it mildly. Years ago, Pete and Emily had shared a life—engaged, living together in New Jersey, and planning their future. That withered away after the sudden death of Pete’s father, which led to a move back to Miami, and the marked increase in Pete’s drinking. Since then, she’d married and seemed to have found the stability she lacked while with Pete. But just a year prior, Pete had found himself in her orbit again, letting her stay with him while she tried to divorce Rick after discovering he’d been unfaithful. The roomies situation had been a bad idea, and resulted in a brief but troublesome reunion for Pete and Emily—one that saw them together again romantically and also got her tangled with a deadly killer Pete was trying to apprehend. She’d survived, barely. They hadn’t spoken since.

  Pete scrolled through the short Times story—it had little info beyond naming Rick as the victim, describing him as a “Homestead businessman respected by the local community.” Pete flicked his phone off and slid it back into his pocket.

  “What the hell is right,” Pete said.

  They got into the car. Pete waited a second before starting the engine, letting his eyes wander over the expansive black water, fighting off the creeping feeling that this death wouldn’t be the last he’d see in the coming days.

  “
WHY ARE you doing this?”

  Pete looked up from his plate of fried eggs, ham, and potatoes and met Maya Varela’s stare. She’d barely touched her breakfast, which was quite the feat, considering they were at La Carreta, one of the best Cuban chain restaurants in Miami. They were near the front of the place, in a booth a few steps from the main register and dessert display. They sat across from each other, Pete’s Sweat Records canvas bag taking up the spot next to him. They’d danced through ten minutes of small talk, two fireflies circling the same dwindling porch light, before Maya got down to business.

  “Pondering a sip of coffee?” Pete said.

  “No.” She let a slight smile peek out. “Doing this. This case. Working for my father.”

  “Honestly? At first, it was because Kathy asked me. I was bored. I’ve been kind of bored for the last year or so. Sometimes in a good way—like, I don’t have any major problems or concerns that aren’t of my own creation. Sometimes in a bad way—like, I don’t know what I’m doing with my life beyond peeping at guys cheating on their wives and taking photos.”

  “So you see this,” she said, waving her hand around, “as a way back to the big time?”

  “I’m not sure I’d describe my previous cases as ‘the big time,’” Pete said. “I just thought it’d be more interesting than stakeouts and finding missing relatives or pets.”

  “I just need to know,” Maya said. Her smile from a moment before had faded away. “Because I’m trusting you and Kathy with my father’s life, really. His chances for freedom are close to zero. If we don’t find anything—any evidence to give him another shot at trial—he’s as good as dead.”

  “Tell me why he didn’t do it.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll be blunt at the risk of sounding like a moron,” Pete said. “But I’m just kind of confused. Why would a good cop kill his wife? What was the motive?”

  “There isn’t any,” Maya said. “He didn’t do it.”

  “Who did it, then?”

  “My father says he saw two people in the apartment before he was knocked out.”

  “You believe him?”

  “Of course I do,” she said, her face contorting.

  “I have to ask you these questions,” Pete said. “If you’re going to pin these great hopes on Kathy and me, we have to know everything you know.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Like what?”

  “Walk me through it,” Pete said, leaning back in his chair. “Tell me why he’s innocent.”

  Maya hesitated. Her eyes scanned the table, as if looking for a sign, a cue that would prompt her to continue. Her mouth became a thin, short line.

  “They were the perfect couple,” Maya said. “Only I know that for sure, because I was there. I know it. I lived it. They were the perfect parents and they were very much in love. They were the best. He would never want to hurt her.”

  “That’s nice, but it doesn’t exactly close the door on his guilt. Did they ever fight?”

  “You’re not much for sentimentality, are you?” she asked, some bite in her voice. Her eyes had glassed over, but they refused to let any tears drop. Pete felt a pang of regret for pushing so hard. But he had to.

  “I’m quite the sensitive guy, once you get to know me,” Pete said, easing up. “And look, I’m sorry. I know these questions are not easy, but I can’t imagine I’m the first person to get tough with you about the case.”

  “You’re far from the first person to get tough with me,” she said, her head tilting, as if trying to look at him from a better angle. Yep, she was annoyed. “I’ve been working my ass off for the past ten years to get my dad out of prison. You just got here. That’s why we’re meeting. To see if you really want to take this case, or if you’re just riding the money train your friend Kathy gave you a ticket for. I need you both invested. I won’t have anyone coasting.”

  Pete put his utensils down next to his plate. They made a clanking sound as they hit the table. He didn’t meet her eyes. As good as the food was, he’d lost his appetite.

  “Maybe I don’t care what happens to your father,” Pete said. “Or you, or anyone you care about. That’s possible. But you hired Kathy, and she’s a hell of a reporter—a great writer. She’ll do your dad justice. I can’t say it’ll be the exact kind of justice he wants, but she’ll write a fair, balanced book that will give readers the real story—as far as she can tell. You must have vetted her, right?”

  Maya nodded.

  “And Harras,” Pete said.

  “What about him?”

  “That was a neat trick you and your dad pulled,” Pete said. “Tacking him onto the team without even checking with us. Great way to build trust.”

  Maya sighed. The meeting was not going as she’d planned. Pete could relate.

  “That wasn’t my call,” she said. “I’m sure Robert filled you in. My father wanted someone he knew and trusted working on this, even if just consulting. I know you and Kathy have a history with Harras—maybe a not-great one, but you know each other. So, yes, I vetted Harras and I vetted Kathy. Of course.”

  “Okay then,” Pete said. “And she suggested me. Kathy and I aren’t rookies. I’ll admit, we’ve never worked on something this formal. But we’ve looked under rocks and made uncomfortable calls and put pieces together. I don’t think I need to prove anything to you. I don’t have to show that I’m committed. I am. Trust me on that. But you also have to let me do my job. And a big part of that job involves us trusting each other and your allowing me to ask you questions that might not make you feel all warm inside. If you have faith in us, we’ll deliver.”

  Maya crossed her arms over her chest and sighed. “Fair enough,” she said. “We’ll do it your way. Go ahead. Ask me whatever you want.”

  MAYA’S STORY was organized and efficient—she’d told it before and she knew which notes to hit and when, like a veteran politician dishing out their favorite stump speech.

  She had been close to her mom, sometimes more like best friends than mother and child. She’d been a good kid, for the most part. She was studious and active at school, she played soccer and took dance classes. She had friends and sleepovers and pizza parties. Her mother taught her how to deal with teenage heartbreak and crushes. Her home was warm and she never wanted for anything. It felt like a mirage now, she admitted. Like an old movie you remembered fondly but couldn’t really explain in detail. A memory fading into smoke over time.

  She remembered the months leading up to the night of the murder. She’d been preparing for her senior year in high school at Our Lady of Lourdes—a private school on 142nd Avenue. The three of them made up a fairly typical Cuban immigrant family: they were Catholic, middle class, living on her dad’s cop salary while her mom stayed home. Pete wasn’t surprised she ended up at Lourdes, though the tuition must have eaten into their finances. Maya hadn’t been keen on it being an all-girls school, she said with a smirk, but she got used to it.

  As she told her story, the temperature of their conversation cooled a bit. They got back to their food, falling into a rhythm of talking that he found comfortable and soothing. Pete allowed himself to push past the dark story that had brought them together and to appreciate Maya for a moment. The way her eyes would close slightly as she said something funny or how her tongue peeked out between her teeth as she smiled or how she’d push the long strands of brown hair away from her face as she spoke. Her subtle features and easy smile came together to form something uniquely beautiful, like a scenic photograph that lingered in your memory long after walking by. Pete was having a hard time paying attention to what she was saying. He had to drag himself back and focus on the conversation and the fact that this was a job, not a first date.

  She laughed a bit while she reminisced—about her mom’s terrible love for Billy Joel, how her dad whistled old Celia Cruz songs while driving, the kind of meals they had together as a family every night. Carmen Varela was not a perfect woman, on this Maya was clear. She was a worrier, she was obses
sive about keeping a clean house, and she could be strict, especially when it came to curfews and Maya’s hanging out with her friends. There were times Maya felt smothered, but that was normal. They argued, but what teenager didn’t clash with her parents, much less her mother? As she got older, Maya had come to appreciate her mother’s rules, discipline. Carmen Varela had instilled a fierce and independent spirit in her daughter—how to stand up for herself and not settle. Thought sometime at odds, Maya made clear her mother was always there for her, whether it was a bad high school breakup, a flunked test, or sports injury, Carmen Varela was front and center for her daughter. Maya spoke of her mother with warmth in her voice, lingering over small details to savor the memories.

  Despite some bumps, it sounded to Pete like Maya’s childhood had been fairly normal—almost idyllic—until the murder. He couldn’t say the same about his formative years. He longed for a way to erase the lonely childhood nights spent waiting for his single father to get home from his job as a Miami police detective, trying to figure out how a dead body got that way. The round robin of babysitters, after-school programs, and friends kept tabs on him while his father made a living. It wasn’t until his father realized that his own son had veered toward petty crime himself that he took the reins of Pete’s life, shadowing his son like a stealthy predator, watching his every move until Pete was old enough to go away to college. Pete realized that Maya had had all that he’d ever wanted until it was violently yanked away—her mother dead and her father in jail for the killing.

  Maya’s memories of the night of her mother’s murder were hazy. She had been at her friend Stephanie’s house for a sleepover, partaking in bad movies, junk food, and gossip. She did recall the following morning—the visit from the police, letting her know her mother was dead. She remembered falling to her knees, feeling them slam into the ground as her eyes fluttered before she passed out. She remembered waking up minutes later, still on the floor, surrounded by Stephanie, her parents, and the two officers. That was when it became real. It couldn’t be chalked up to a nightmare or a daydream gone haywire. Her mother was dead.