by Alex Segura
Pete scoffed.
“Yeah, Jackie told me about how you asked,” Nicole said. “And, look, I don’t care. You disseminate information to your people however you want. I’m doing this as a favor to Jackie. I’ve made a lot of money working cases with her. I can spare an hour here and there to look at files pro bono if it keeps me in her good graces. So, I’ll give you my general thoughts, then you can ask me a few questions. Then I’m gone.”
“Go for it,” Pete said.
“The evidence against Varela isn’t great—when the cops found him, he had blood all over him and his pajama fibers were only in the living room,” she said. “But neither of those things mean he killed his wife. Like any concerned husband, he could’ve rushed to her when he found her on the floor, like he claimed. I think what we saw in the original trial was a very savvy prosecutor and a relatively inexperienced defense attorney butting heads and trying to present two different narratives based on the same evidence—standard courtroom stuff. Whitelaw wanted you to believe Varela was a bloodthirsty egomaniac who knew how to hide and disrupt evidence. Jackie wanted the jury to realize there just wasn’t enough evidence to convict. Jackie—thanks to Janette Ledesma and, in a more damning turn, I think, Juan Carlos Maldonado—lost.”
“What about the fibers?” Pete asked. “And the blood? From what I read, Varela’s blood was on his wife and vice versa.”
“That’s true,” Nicole said, pursing her lips as she grabbed the file folder and flipped through a few pages, looking for something. “But there’s nothing that points to that as being a byproduct of a struggle, you see? If you, Pete, are stabbed and bleeding on the floor and I come to your body and try to resuscitate you and, as I’ve told the police, I’ve been in a struggle myself…well, it shouldn’t be weird that I get my fibers on your body and you get blood on mine. But as you well know, seeing the evidence and understanding it are two different things. Whitelaw was able to present this evidence—which, in my expert opinion isn’t completely damning—as if it was.”
Pete closed his eyes. This wasn’t the meeting he was hoping for.
“So, we’ve got nothing, then,” Pete said.
“Don’t lose hope yet,” Nicole said, closing the folder. “One thing I did notice from the autopsy is that the medical examiner didn’t do much with how Carmen was stabbed—or what she was stabbed with.”
“Well, the murder weapon wasn’t found,” Pete said.
“That’s true,” Nicole said, her voice mellow, as if trying to rub some of her patience off on Pete. “But there are things you can determine based on her wounds—like the attributes of the kind of knife used, or the likelihood that it was a certain kind of knife.”
“Okay, tell me,” Pete said.
“The cuts and stab wounds were long, significantly longer than a kitchen knife or switchblade, and definitely deeper too,” Nicole said. “She was basically hacked at, not poked at. Whoever did this to her seemed to know what they were doing.”
“Can you determine the kind of knife used?”
“Not exactly,” she said. “I can only guess, and that does you no good in terms of new evidence. But it might be enough to get you on track to find that new evidence.”
“You’re saying that if I have a better idea of what the murder weapon was, I could find that and use it to exonerate Varela?”
“I said no such thing,” Nicole said, following her words with an empty, frustrated laugh. “Finding the weapon doesn’t do much if the weapon has his prints on it, for example. But it is a major, major piece of evidence that no one has seen. That’s the kind of thing that would lead to a new trial. And I think the kind of weapon you’re looking for is a long knife, probably a machete. And, based on the evidence I looked over, I’m guessing an older one with a unique signature or marking, like a crack.”
Machete. Pete’s brain latched onto the word. Had Varela’s wife been the victim of Los Enfermos? Or had Varela orchestrated it to seem that way? Pete didn’t know—but he at least felt like he had a trail to follow now.
“That’s definitely something,” Pete said. “I’m impressed.”
Nicole smiled.
“It’s what I do,” she said. Her phone rang. She pulled it out of her purse and looked at the display. “It’s Jackie. Weird. Maybe she’s checking in on us.”
Her brow furrowed as she answered.
“Hello?” she said. “Yes, I’m here with him.”
Pete could tell from Nicole’s face that the news wasn’t good. The call was brief. She put the cell phone back on the table. Her hands were shaking.
“What? What is it?” Pete asked.
“It’s Varela,” she said. “He’s escaped.”
“HOW DID this happen?”
Pete, Kathy, Harras, Maya, and Orlando Posada were in the lobby of a large office building off Biscayne, the home of Posada’s postretirement security business, Posada & Associates. From the look of the digs, it seemed he was doing well for himself.
“Let’s talk in my office,” Posada said, moving his cane toward the elevator banks. There were already throngs of reporters converging on the building, and it would only get worse. They took the elevator up a few floors and ventured past another, less crowded lobby and made a few turns. Posada’s office—the size of a luxurious conference room—was sparsely decorated. No photos on the wall, no plaques or mementos either. Just a calendar and a clean desk with a nameplate: Orlando Posada, CEO.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Pete said, regretting the joke the second the words left his mouth.
“What’s the use in decorating when you’re blind?” Posada said, letting out a gruff laugh as he took the chair behind his desk. He seemed less hesitant moving around his office. He knew the space. “Take a seat.”
Pete and Kathy grabbed the two chairs in front of his desk, Maya sitting on a more comfortable-looking love seat near the large windows that looked out at the ocean. Harras pulled up another chair and positioned himself behind Pete and Kathy. Maya looked shaken. She’d barely reacted to their presence. During the moments they had with her before Posada appeared in the lobby, she gave them a series of blank stares, as if hypnotized by something far off in the distance beyond the conference room.
“He was released,” Posada said as they took their seats.
“Unreal,” Harras said.
“How is that even possible?” Kathy said.
“It was fraud, of course,” Posada said. “Someone from the outside managed to forge his release papers and was in contact with him. The falsified release papers passed muster. According to the cops, someone took Gaspar to a hotel in West Palm Beach. That’s the last anyone’s seen of him. He could be anywhere now.”
“This is absurd,” Pete said. “Didn’t they realize what they were doing?”
“You ever have a mindless job, Fernandez?” Posada said, looking in the direction of Pete’s voice. “These corrections officers just want to push paper from one pile to the next. They don’t have time to cross-reference every release they’re handed. I’m guessing this is something Gaspar’s been working on for months—maybe years—with a contact outside. Someone who’s familiar with the prison system and how prisoners get out.”
“I should have known,” Pete said. “He seemed off.”
“You talked to him?” Maya asked, incredulous. “Jesus, when were you going to tell us?”
“He called me,” Pete said, feeling his defenses go up. He’d already sparred with Kathy and Harras over the call. He wasn’t in the mood for another round. “I was prepping a report about it—then he broke out of prison.”
“While I appreciate your diligence in regard to paperwork,” Posada said, “I’d think this is the kind of thing you’d alert us to sooner rather than later, don’t you?”
“With all due respect,” Harras said, “I don’t think Pete’s speed on the FYIs is really relevant. The big question is: Where did our client go?”
“He’s all over the television,” Maya
said, her voice soft and confused. Whatever hopes she had of exonerating her father—or at the very least gaining him a new trial—were gone. “Channel 10 is calling it the biggest manhunt in Florida history.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Posada said. “Gaspar was guilty in the eyes of the public. Now he’s confirmed it to the world.”
Posada stood up and faced the bay windows. He was in shape—well over fifty but he didn’t look a day older than forty-five. He was Varela’s closest friend, or had been. He seemed as disappointed as Maya, but was hiding it better.
“They found a disposable phone in his cell,” Posada said. “He was using it to keep in contact with someone from the outside, coordinating this whole thing.”
“All while talking to us about getting him out?” Kathy asked.
“Keeping his options open, I guess,” Posada said. “I can’t see how he’d be able to get very far.”
“Varela’s a resourceful guy,” Harras said. “He’s not an average street thug. He’s an ex-cop with knowledge of weapons and the city. That gives him a head start.”
“And, in the meantime, someone’s leaked the news of his book deal—and our involvement in said deal,” Kathy said. “My phone hasn’t gone off like this since the months leading up to my senior prom. There’s even talk that his escape is tied to that street gang—Los Enfermos—if you can believe that.”
“You can’t be serious,” Posada said. “How would Gaspar align himself with Los Enfermos? It’s ludicrous.”
“Not really,” Pete said. Kathy and Harras shared a “here we go” glance.
“What does that mean?” Maya asked.
“Varela’s old lawyer, Jackie Cruz, connected us with an independent forensics expert,” Pete said. He stole a peek at his partners and wasn’t surprised to see Harras closing his eyes to contain his anger and Kathy’s barely successful attempts to bite her tongue.
“You’re just full of surprises today,” Posada said. “I’m guessing this was going to be in the same report you were going to send us about your conversation with Gaspar?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Pete said. “Her actual analysis is quite detailed, but I’ll just give you the bullet points: there’s no real evidence that she can find, from the forensic side, to exonerate Varela. The only hope he has is finding the murder weapon.”
Pete looked around the room. All eyes were on him, each expression a unique mix of anger and surprise, as if he’d told an off-color joke at a dinner party. Pete was used to that by now. He hadn’t planned on sharing this info this fast, or this way, but he didn’t have a choice. It was time to put all the cards on the table.
“But even finding it doesn’t prove anything unless the weapon itself points to someone else,” Pete said. “So that’s a bit of a nonstarter. However, the pathologist, Nicole Purdin, did suggest that the weapon used to kill Carmen Varela wasn’t a random kitchen knife. It was long and, based on the kind of wounds it left, most likely a machete.”
“Like the weapons Los Enfermos use,” Harras said.
“Right,” Pete said. Despite his frustration, Pete could tell Harras was impressed by Pete’s legwork.
“So what? A bunch of gangsters killed Carmen? Is that what you’re saying?” Posada asked.
“If what Gaspar says is true,” Kathy said. “Or if he wanted it to look like a gang-related murder. Or if he’s actually connected to the gang.”
“You can’t be serious,” Maya said.
“No, you’re right,” Kathy said, locking her eyes on Maya. “This is all a fun game and I’m waiting for you to laugh at my well-executed gag.”
Maya started to respond but Pete cut her off.
“It’s not just that—we have to present some kind of united take on all this. And it’s not just about the reporters and what they write,” Pete said. “I expect the police will want to speak with us too. They’ll want to implicate us in some way.”
“You don’t have anything to hide,” Posada said. “Tell the truth if they bring you in.”
“The truth, unfortunately, isn’t worth shit in this case,” Kathy said, a humorless smile on her face. “The truth, according to you and Maya, was that Gaspar Varela was innocent. I don’t think innocent men do this. So, no matter how often we tell the cops and the press that we had absolutely no idea this was in the works, they’re not going to buy it. His escape has, in effect, ruined our reputation here. No one will believe anything we write—Varela participation or not.”
Kathy, as was her wont, was exaggerating. But her words had the desired effect.
“I’m sorry we dragged you into all this,” Maya said. “I’m completely blindsided. I don’t know what we can do from here.”
“We wait,” Pete said. “Until they find him. In the meantime, we continue doing what we were doing.”
“Are you mad?” Posada said, his tone almost mocking. “This is done. Gaspar has basically admitted he killed his wife. There’s no coming back. It’s worse than a slow-moving white Bronco.”
“You didn’t hire us,” Pete said. He pointed at Maya, who was leaning back in her seat limply, her face red from crying. “She did. When she tells us we’re done, then we’re done.”
Posada sputtered a bit before waving his hand in a dismissive motion.
“Christ,” he said. “Get over yourselves. This is over.”
Harras stood up first and made for the door.
“This conversation is over, that’s for sure,” Kathy said, following Harras’s lead. She turned to Maya. “Keep us posted. Like Pete said, we’ll keep collecting information, when we can shake the press off our asses. If you want us to stop, we will.”
Maya and Pete also stood up. She moved toward him, stopping close—closer than Pete expected. He could see the cobwebs of red in her eyes, smell the detergent coating the rumpled clothes. Her mouth creased into a dry frown. She isn’t sleeping much, he thought.
“I don’t want to change anything yet,” she said. “But we’ll see what happens over the next few days.”
“Sure thing,” Pete said. He tried to smile before following Kathy and Harras out the door. As it closed behind him, Pete could hear Posada going on the offensive. Pete didn’t bother lingering outside to listen to what he had to say. He could guess.
“We have a lot of catching up to do,” Harras said as they filed into the elevator. “But for now, I need a few hours to myself.”
“I’m sorry, I—” Pete said.
“You’re not sorry,” Harras said, not looking at Pete. “If you were, you would have stopped the first time you boxed us out. But this is your thing, your rodeo. We’re just along for the ride. I get it. But I don’t have to put up with it. I’ll talk to you both later.”
The elevator doors opened before Pete could respond. Harras darted toward the lobby without another word. Pete and Kathy cut the other way, heading toward the back stairs that led them to the parking garage, saving them an awkward walk through a phalanx of hungry reporters and bloggers. She gave him a quick hug and peck on the cheek before getting into her car.
“They can’t all be winners, darling. At least it’s been an entertaining three weeks,” she said. She closed the door and lowered the window. “Get some rest. I’ll give you a pass on another verbal lashing, seeing as how big bad Harras is already unfriending you. We’ll see where we’re at in the morning.”
“Sounds good,” Pete said. Kathy backed out and started speeding down the street before Pete could say anything else.
The text from Maya came a few seconds later.
“I’M A mess,” Maya said as she poured herself another glass of wine.
It was late—almost midnight. They’d just finished off some Chinese takeout and were lounging on her couch. She was in jeans and a black T-shirt. She looked exhausted. She looks great, Pete thought. He’d come over after she sent the text and basically listened for a few hours as she talked—about her dad, her life, her fears. She refused to believe her father’s escape was an admission of g
uilt. He’d just had enough. He was done with being incarcerated for a crime he didn’t commit.
They hadn’t even bothered to turn on the TV. Pete had listened to the news enough on the way to Maya’s townhouse.
“You’re allowed to be a mess,” Pete said. “But I hope Posada gave you some advice—because you’re going to be getting a lot of questions about this.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well, you’re Gaspar’s daughter,” Pete said. “People are going to have a hard time believing you didn’t know this was going to happen.”
“I didn’t,” Maya said.
“That may be true—”
“No, Pete,” Maya said. “It is true. I had no idea this was in the works. If I did, do you think I’d spend the better part of my life trying to get my dad out of jail? Do you even understand how this is wrecking my own belief system? I swore up and down to anyone who would listen that he was innocent. But it’s hard to rationalize that with him on the lam like some deranged criminal.”
“I get it,” Pete said. “I’m just saying people will be asking you about this, probably for a good long while.”
“Fuck ’em,” she said, taking a long sip of wine. “Let them ask. I could care less what they think.”
He tried not to watch the golden liquid in the stemmed glass. He hated himself for that. He felt his mouth watering and he closed his eyes. He said a quick prayer and opened them again. When he did, she was sitting next to him. A little too close.
“Getting tired?”
“Just praying,” Pete said.
“Praying? What?”
“Never mind,” Pete said. He leaned in to her a bit and then regretted it. She stiffened at his touch.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I must have sent mixed signals, inviting you here.”
“No, it’s fine,” Pete said. “You didn’t want to be alone.”
She put her free hand on his, her fingers wrapping around his palm.
“It’s true,” she said. “I didn’t. Shit. I just wish we’d met under different circumstances, you know? Because I do like you.”