by Alex Segura
Pedro didn’t have a moment to react. By the time he noticed the gun poking out of the passenger side window—held by a young man with jet-black hair and an overgrown moustache—the first shot had been fired. By the time Pedro knocked over the table and pulled his father down to him, trying to avoid another shot, two more bullets had penetrated his father’s body. Diego shook in surprise, his eyes bulging open and his mouth trying to form words. The car was long gone.
“Don’t talk, don’t talk,” Pedro said, clutching his father, trying to cover the bullet holes to stop the bleeding—but there were too many, the blood flowing too fast.
In the seconds it took to say the words, his father was gone—leaving Pedro holding Diego’s bullet-riddled body and decades of regrets. Pedro’s eyes, stinging from the dust and dirt, scanned the street and saw nothing.
“JUST, PLEASE, tell me you’re not fucking our client.”
Pete didn’t respond to Kathy as he looked down the empty Florida International University hallway. They were in the public university’s central building—the Graham Center—a testament to new money, adorned with bright colors and corporate logos. Pete wondered if his feet still remembered how to get to the Rathskeller, the dive-y school bar that had made up a large part of his own college curriculum. He wondered if it still existed.
They were standing outside of a classroom on the second floor of the building, down the hall from the university’s student government office and newspaper. It had been too easy for Pete and Kathy to snag a copy of Arturo Pelegrin’s class schedule. Just sounding like a cop seemed to work on the gum-chewing student manning the registrar’s fffice front desk. Pete hoped that this little recon mission didn’t go sour and point back to her.
Pelegrin was working on a BA in business, according to the academic transcript Pete read.
“I’m going to take this silence as tacit confirmation,” Kathy said.
They could hear the discussion on the other side of the door—something about the Weimar Republic before World War II. Pete was trying to listen. Kathy wasn’t.
All Jackie Cruz could dig up was a name. The rest was up to Pete and Kathy. In the flash of activity that followed, they hadn’t had much time to formulate more than a vague plan of action for Arturo Pelegrin.
Pete checked his watch. The class would be over in a few minutes. He positioned himself off to the left of the door. The classroom was at the end of a long hallway, near a large window that faced the east side of the campus. Basically, you got a view of a giant peach-colored parking lot. Miami in a nutshell, Pete thought. Kathy inched over in his direction, still scowling.
“Have you heard from Varela?” Pete asked. His last conversation with their client had left Pete concerned. He couldn’t pinpoint why. But the man had gone from energized to flatline in fifteen minutes.
“No, I don’t think his cell is getting good reception in prison,” she said, her head tilting with annoyance for the final part of her answer, emphasizing she hadn’t forgiven Pete for his lone wolf interview. “I’d ask his daughter—you know, our client—but she’s been strangely busy. I wonder with…”
“Jesus,” Pete said. “We didn’t sleep together. Happy now?”
“Well, not really,” Kathy said, a frown forming on her face. “On the one hand, I’d be happy if you, my sad dove, did get some ass now and again that wasn’t fraught with years of history or potentially riddled with selections from the STD Hall of Fame. That being said, I think canoodling with our boss is bad business.”
“We just kissed,” Pete said, surprised he was even sharing that much, but feeling relieved to get it off his chest to someone other than his reflection. “I don’t think it meant anything.”
“Oh, Pete,” she said. “Of course it meant something. Even in this day of Instagramming your Tumblr Tweets, people still get emotional and want to make out. Just don’t overthink it too, too much. Keep in mind we work for her—and for her father. And don’t think I’ve forgiven you for interviewing fucking Gaspar Varela without me being present.”
“I already apologized,” Pete said.
“Apologies are garbage if they don’t feel true,” a voice said from behind.
Pete and Kathy turned around to see Harras walking toward them. He knew they were coming to question Pelegrin, but hadn’t confirmed whether he’d take part. The fact he was here made it clear to Pete that the former FBI agent was going to keep better tabs on them moving forward.
“Gaspar called me,” Pete said. “He wanted to be interviewed. What was I supposed to do? Put him on hold and call you for full sign-off?”
“You made your choice,” Harras said, nodding. “I don’t agree with it. From the sound of it, neither does your partner.”
“This whole ‘agreeing with Harras’ thing has me worried,” Kathy said. “What is the world coming to?”
Harras handed Pete and Kathy identical sheets of paper.
“What’s this?” she said.
“Arturo Pelegrin,” Harras said. “Thought it might be helpful to know what your target looks like. What were you planning on doing? Hoping he’d recognize you?”
Pete scanned the sheet—photo, date of birth, address.
“How’d you get all this?” Pete asked. “Did you run his name through the Miami PD database?”
“You’d be amazed what you can find via Google and a public Facebook page,” Harras said, fighting back a smile.
Before Pete could respond, the classroom door opened and students began filtering out. Most of the college kids had made their way into the hallway when Kathy shot him a worried look—she didn’t see Arturo. The crowd was too thick, the mass of people moving too quickly to the next thing.
Pete did the first thing that popped into his head.
He yelled “Arturo!” and waited.
A few kids turned and gave them strange glances. One guy, walking by himself, near the back of the group, looked at Pete a little longer. Pete zoned in on him. He matched the photo—skinny, tan, longish and unkempt hair to go with stubble masquerading as a beard. Bingo.
“Arturo Pelegrin?”
The kid walked toward Pete, Harras, and Kathy.
“Yeah? Do I know you?”
“No, not really,” Pete said. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”
“Talk about what? Who are you?”
“I’m Kathy Bentley,” she said, sticking out her hand. Arturo took it with a bit of hesitation. “We wanted to ask you a few questions. This is my partner, Pete Fernandez, and our colleague, Robert Harras.”
“Holy shit,” he said.
“What?” Pete said.
“I know you,” he continued, his eyes bouncing from Pete to Kathy to Harras and back again. “You both wrote that book—about that Silent Death guy. Man, that shit was fucked up. You wrote another one too, right? More recent? I haven’t read that one yet.”
Kathy smiled. She loved this kind of attention. Pete wasn’t so sure it was a good thing. Some jobs required a certain level of anonymity.
“That’s us,” Kathy said. “Always nice to meet someone who knows our work. Or, mine at least. Now, can we go somewhere to chat? Food or drinks on us.”
“It’s cool to meet you and all that, but what are we gonna talk about? Am I in trouble? I gotta get to class in a bit…”
Pete fought the urge to tell Arturo that they knew his next class, Survey of American Literature with Professor Arnold, wasn’t until the following day, around three in the afternoon. But he understood why the kid was being evasive.
“We need to talk about your mom, son,” Harras said, his tone flat. He met Arturo’s eyes and saw them widen. The kid had been expecting something—anything—else. A parking ticket, late library books, a winning lottery number.
Arturo backed away a step.
“What about her? She’s gone,” he said. “Been gone a while. I got nothing to say about that.”
“We know this is a hard subject for you,” Kathy started. He didn’t let her finish.
“You don’t know shit about me,” Arturo said, raising his voice. “You don’t know shit about my mom either. You think you can just come in here—to my school, wait outside my class—and take me aside for some…what? Some article about my mom being dead? Is this about Gaspar Varela? No fucking thank you.”
A few other students and a portly security guard, wandering over from the opposite end of the hall, had noticed the conversation, thanks to Arturo’s rising octaves. They didn’t have much time.
“I think your mother was murdered,” Pete said.
Both Kathy and Arturo responded with the same word: “What?” Harras shook his head and looked away, trying to hide his frustration from their target.
“It’s just a theory,” Pete said. “But I’d much rather talk about it somewhere less…public?”
THEY TOOK four seats outside of the Graham Center—“the blue tables,” as Arturo called them on their way over, past the cafeteria and information desk. The weather was gray but still hot, the clouds clinging to the rain, as if waiting for the right moment to let loose—like a kid with one water balloon left. Pete sat down, Kathy to his left, Harras on the right. She let Pete lead—this was his detour. He didn’t miss the annoyed smirk on her face. He wondered if there was a chance it’d become permanent.
Arturo seemed anxious, drumming his fingers on the blue metal table. He shrugged his shoulders. He wanted to get on with this. They had the tables to themselves, aside from one student who was hunched over a Chemistry and Society textbook.
“Well?” Arturo said.
“Like I said, all I have is a theory,” Pete said.
“That is not good enough, man,” Arturo said. “You came here for something. You wanted some info from me. Why should I help you? You could just be saying that to get me to talk about my mom.”
“Why would we do that?” Kathy said.
“I don’t know, lady. I don’t know what your motives are. And who’s this other guy?” Arturo said, motioning at Harras.
“Name’s Harras, kid,” he said. “I’m a retired FBI agent. We’re all working on this together. We’re on your side.”
“Working on what together? What do you want with my mom? She’s been dead a long time.”
“We’re working for Gaspar Varela’s daughter,” Pete said.
“Say that again,” Arturo said. He continued, not letting them respond. “You’re working for Varela? Man, I got nothing to say to you.”
He started to get up.
“Look, give us five minutes,” Pete said. “Let me tell you what I think happened to your mom. If you don’t buy it after five, then go.”
Arturo plopped back into his chair. He crossed his arms and looked around the seating area.
“We were hired by Varela and his daughter to reinvestigate the case. The murder of his wife,” Pete said. “Their goal is to exonerate him. But our goal is to find out what happened. To cut through the bullshit and come to a conclusion.”
Arturo started to interrupt, but Pete raised his hand.
“Ledesma, your mother, was a key witness at trial,” Kathy said. “For better or worse, her testimony changed everything. She had a rough life, we get that. We can only imagine how hard it’s all been on you…”
“This isn’t about what your mother said or didn’t say on the stand,” Harras said, cracking his knuckles as he spoke. “That’s public record. This is about what else she knew—and what you might know.”
Pete could see Arturo fidgeting from across the table. He was about to bolt.
“The way your mother died doesn’t make sense,” Pete said, cutting Harras off. “She knew something—whether it was the truth or part of it. Her addictions prevented her from sharing it at the right time, and it also prevented anyone from taking her seriously. But she knew something. Maybe she knew enough to get Varela out. Or enough to keep him there. Maybe she wanted to share that info, and maybe that got her killed.”
Arturo’s face tightened. His eyes seemed to water a bit. After a moment, he blinked and stood up.
“If I think of anything you can use, I’ll let you know,” he said, his voice raw, hoarse. “Do not contact me again.”
Pete nodded. He handed him his card. Arturo took it, then turned around and walked toward the parking garage.
“I feel for that kid,” Kathy said.
“Remind you of someone?” Harras asked.
“Me,” Kathy said. “He just can’t come to terms with where he’s from—the people who made him, the circumstances he’s dealing with. It takes a while.”
“He was the closest we could get to Ledesma,” Pete said.
“Do you think he knew something?” Kathy asked. “If he did, it didn’t seem like he was in a let-me-bare-my-soul mood.”
“They’re not all winners,” Harras said. “You tried. You’re on his radar. Now we wait.”
“For what?” Kathy said. “The Trix Rabbit to appear with a video exonerating our client?”
Harras ignored Kathy and looked at his watch.
“I gotta run,” he said, standing up. “Wish I could say this has been fun or productive.”
“As do I,” Kathy said, following suit. “Guess you’re on your own, Petey. Try to stay out of trouble for a change.”
PETE KNEW he’d get in trouble for this. He was pushing it with his partners already, having gone off the reservation to talk to Varela, Posada, and, to a degree, Juan Carlos Maldonado. But as much as Pete relied on Kathy and Harras—for their knowledge, experience, and support—he needed to rely on his own gut to figure out what was going on with this case. To do that, he sometimes needed to go into the cave first, without a torch.
Matheson Hammock Park was just off Old Cutler Road, south of Coral Gables. Near Biscayne Bay, the large plot of land featured a large “urban pool,” which was a fancy way of saying man-made lake. The view was stunning, pairing the sun and fun of Miami’s best beaches with the quiet and calm of a neighborhood park. Families loved it because the waters were serene and you could let your kids run rampant without worrying about Mother Nature. It was a respite from the more manic pace Miami had acquired in the last decade. A reminder that the bustling city had once been more sleepy town than teeming metropolis. Late afternoon on a weekday seemed to fit the bill. The small restaurant-slash-snack bar adjacent to the beach was empty. Pete walked past the food stand toward the parking lot and found a batch of picnic tables near the fringe of the park. He took a seat and waited.
The call from Jackie Cruz had been short and cryptic, but Pete knew she’d deliver. He’d asked for a favor, half expecting her to tell him to fuck off. When she didn’t flip immediately, he knew she’d help.
He saw a woman approaching from the same direction Pete had taken. She walked like a cop—her dark features and trim business suit in sharp contrast to the casual vibe of the park. Her black hair was tied back in a tight bun. As she got closer, she gave Pete a slight smile, as if to say, “Yep, I’m the person you’re meeting,”
Pete stood up.
“Jackie Cruz sent you?” he asked.
The woman nodded. “That she did.”
“I’m Pete Fernandez.”
“I know,” she said. “Nicole Purdin. Jackie said you needed some help. Here I am.”
Pete’s request had been a simple one: he wanted a forensics expert to look over the Varela case files. His reasons for asking to meet her alone weren’t as clear to Pete, but he felt the need to see what she had to say about the case against Varela first—before bringing that info to the attention of the people paying his tab, or his partners.
Nicole took a seat across from Pete. She pulled a thin file folder from her purse and slid it over to him.
“Don’t open it yet,” she said. “I want to talk this out first.”
She was all business. Pete could appreciate that.
Nicole tapped a finger on the table between them, as if pondering where to start. She looked at Pete.
“I wish I’d known Jacki
e when she was working this case,” she said. “Because I think we might have been able to win.”
“So you think Varela is innocent?”
“Not guilty and innocent are different things,” Nicole said, raising her left hand, slowing Pete down. “But we’ll get there. I do this for a living. I’m the expert who gets called to the stand to explain to a jury why the evidence the cops are harping on might not mean exactly what they want it to mean. I spent years as a forensic pathologist with the Miami PD. I know how they work. I know the shorthand they use, the loopholes they slide through, and the corners they cut. There was a lot of that here. A lot of stuff that was missed.”
“Like what?” Pete asked. “Is there anything new? Anything we can present to a judge as grounds for a new trial?”
“No, sorry. There’s no ace in the hole that’s going to exonerate Varela,” she said. “At least not in the forensics. The evidence the prosecution presented, though the messaging was off, was in the ballpark. It was a question of tone. Jackie’s argument was undercut by two game-changing witnesses and a judge who could not stand her. If this were Varela’s first trial we were aiming for, I think we’d have enough to get a not-guilty verdict. But I don’t see enough to get him a new trial.”
Pete’s shoulders sank.
“Don’t pout,” she said. “We’re adults here. I’ll give you the top-line stuff and you can take that report and pass it along to your colleagues, assuming you want them to see it.”