by Alex Segura
Pete steeled himself. He’d had this conversation before.
“Look, Maya, it’s fine,” Pete said. “I get it. We work together. Whatever happened before…”
“Was nice,” Maya said. “I liked it.”
She leaned in and kissed him. It was a quick, gentle touch. Pete didn’t have time to close his eyes. Her face was still close to his. Their eyes met.
“Me too,” Pete said.
She broke away from Pete, moving down the couch, her arms wrapped around her chest as if she were hugging herself.
“What a fucking disaster,” she said.
“It’s fine.”
“You keep saying that,” she said, still not facing him. “But it’s not. My father just broke out of prison. He’s all over the news. My voicemail is overloaded with messages from reporters. I don’t know what to do. Is he coming here? Are they going to shoot him on sight? What do I do? I’m used to…I don’t know…trying to fix things. Now all I can do is sit around and wait.”
“You’re allowed to be hurt by this, you know,” Pete said, getting up. He took a seat across from her. “This is insane. And look, I have no expectations here. You called, I came over, and we chatted. You needed someone to talk to. Who am I to say no to my boss?”
She let out a quick laugh and nodded.
“Okay, I’ll take that.”
“See? That was easy,” Pete said. “Why don’t you crash? I can clean up here and head out.”
“Where do you live, anyway?”
“Westchester,” Pete said.
“It’s up to you,” she said. She leaned over and gave him a long hug. He could feel her breath on his neck. They clung to each other. “You can stay. Or go. I won’t take it wrong either way. I’m not in the best state of mind now. But it was nice to have someone to talk to.”
“Happy to do it,” Pete said, his arms lingering around Maya before ending the embrace.
She exhaled.
“I would love for you to stay, here, with me, that way. But I don’t think that’d be good for either of us now. My head’s not on right,” she said. “But I do want you to stay. I just don’t think you stay-staying is a good idea.”
“The couch looks pretty comfortable.”
She smiled at him.
“Thank you for not making this weird,” she said, walking toward the hallway. “I’ll get you some sheets. I just don’t feel like being by myself tonight.”
After she set him up on the couch, they hugged again and Maya headed to her bedroom. Pete slipped off his shoes, lay on the couch, and stared at the ceiling.
He couldn’t sleep.
Miami, Florida
November 2, 1997
PETE FERNANDEZ let out a long sigh. This fucking sucked. His father didn’t look up from his desk, his eyes focused on the file folder open in front of him. It was almost nine and they hadn’t even left the office yet. His homework was done and he was bored out of his mind. This wasn’t a life, he thought. It was prison. How fitting that he was doing time at a police station with his dad as warden.
It’d been like this for months. Months that felt like years. Pete and his friend Javier thought it’d be hi-la-rious to walk into the 7-Eleven on Coral Way and steal some forties. It wasn’t as funny when the cashier pulled out a shotgun. Since then, Pete had been under lock and key: no going out, no after school, nothing. He woke up, went to class, got picked up by his dad, and spent the night hanging out with him at his desk. It was hell. The only bright spot was watching the hustle of the police station—detectives talking shop, suspects being brought in for questioning, lineups being looked over. It got Pete’s brain sparking. But those moments of interest weren’t common, and most of his days involved long stretches of boredom. He was in exile.
But it wasn’t like Pete had much of a social life to go back to. Javier wasn’t talking to him—he’d gotten in deep shit and Pete was nowhere to help. All his friends were Javier’s friends, and they’d all sided with the cooler guy. Whatever. A few months and he could go to college far away, and this would just be a weird footnote to his life.
Pete sighed again.
“I get it, you’re bored,” Pedro said, not looking up from the file. “We’ll get some food in a few minutes.”
Pete didn’t respond. Any kind of confirmation or sign of agreement would imply that he was on board with this whole thing. He just wanted to go to his room, close the door, put on his headphones, and blast some music. Preferably something loud and grating. He tried to visualize his CD rack for inspiration. Maybe In Utero. Or some Dinosaur Jr. Anything at this point.
He was interrupted by the office door swinging open. Carlos Broche, his father’s partner in the homicide division, walked in, barely nodding in Pete’s direction. He laid his palms on the desk and leaned in to talk to Pete’s dad. The whispers came fast, Broche’s head nodding to the rhythm of what he was saying. Pete could only make out every other word. Something about forensics and shells being recovered. Broche said something in Spanish too—“los enfermos.” The sick? Whatever. Pete didn’t care. He wanted to eat and go home.
Pedro nodded and motioned for Carlos to back up. Only then did his dad’s partner react to Pete’s presence.
“What’s up, papo?” Broche said, mussing Pete’s hair as if he were a toddler. “How’s school going?”
“Fine,” Pete said.
Broche grabbed Pete’s shirt in mock anger.
“Poor baby still mad?” Broche said. “You know this wouldn’t be happening if you hadn’t pulled that dumb shit, right?”
Pete didn’t respond.
“You should be on your knees thanking Jesucristo every day for your father,” Broche said. “Not everyone has a dad like him, someone to make sure they don’t end up becoming a hoodlum.”
Pete pulled away.
“You’ll figure it out at some point,” Broche said.
“Leave him alone, Carlos,” Pedro said. “Let him sulk. He’s bored and hungry.”
“Shit, I know I am,” Broche said. “What’re we doing tonight? What about that place on Coral Way? The American one?”
“Wags?” Pete said. “That place sucks ass.”
“Hey, watch your mouth,” Broche said, turning to face him, his humorous tone gone and his finger pointed at Pete’s face. “Nobody asked you.”
Pete walked toward the desk as his father stood up and shoved a file folder into his briefcase. He seemed to pick up the pace the closer Pete got. There were still a few loose pages on his desk.
“Pete, where do you want to go?” Pedro asked, his attention focused on the errant pages. Before Pedro could snatch them back, Pete caught a glimpse. The name on one of the forms: Diego Fernandez. His grandfather. Under the paperwork were photos of what seemed like the front yard of Pete’s house. Except it looked like they were taken a while back. One of the photos near the top featured a covered body on the ground. He started to ask but was frozen by his father’s eyes.
“Where do you want to eat, hotshot?” Broche asked, jamming up the gears turning in Pete’s head.
“Whatever,” Pete said.
“Whatever,” Pedro said, collecting the errant papers in one quick motion and sliding them into his briefcase. “Whatever, okay, sure, I dunno, maybe…that’s your entire vocabulary, hijo. I don’t think that’s enough to guarantee much of a career, do you?”
Pete started to say, “I dunno,” but caught himself. He stayed silent instead.
His grandfather Diego had died long ago, when Pete was very young. An accident, his father said. The subject rarely came up. So why was there a report with photos of their house in a police file of some kind?
Broche tugged at Pete’s arm, and next thing he knew they were walking out of the main doors of the Miami-Dade Police Department. Pedro couldn’t meet his son’s gaze as they moved toward the car.
PETE FLICKED off the television set. He put the remote down on the coffee table and paced around Maya’s smallish living room. Her townhouse felt
comfortable and clean. Family pictures on the wall—Maya and her parents, one with her dad in prison, another of Posada and her. Knickknacks on the shelf. The house smelled nice too.
Pete felt out of it. He ran a hand across his face, feeling the week’s worth of stubble stab at his palm and fingers. With the television off, the house was totally silent. He couldn’t hear anything coming from Maya’s bedroom. It felt weird not to sleep in his own bed.
Maya was warm and kind. She was smart. She was also his boss. He wasn’t sure where things would go after tonight, but he was curious and optimistic.
It was close to three in the morning. He hadn’t expected to come here tonight, but it had happened. He knew he needed to spend some time thinking about this—relationship, affair—whatever it was. But that didn’t have to be now.
Pete blew out the scented candle Maya had lit when they got in. That was when he saw the guy, as he leaned down near the windowsill. The streetlight illuminated the man’s walk toward Maya’s house, which sat at the dead end of the block.
Pete looked again. He couldn’t make out the man’s face. He was almost strolling. He seemed relaxed, casual. He was walking in the road—not on the sidewalk—toward the house.
Pete grabbed the glass of water he’d left on the coffee table and took a long sip. Who was he to judge? Everyone had the right to be out late, he thought. But the logic didn’t calm him. He put the glass back down and paced around the living room.
He found his messenger bag near the door. Inside were his gym clothes, an apple, a book—a mystery by Lawrence Block, Eight Million Ways to Die—and his gun.
He pulled the gun out and held at his side, pointed down. Maybe he was being paranoid. So what?
His head began to buzz as his eye peeked through the door’s peephole. The man was still moving toward the house. He wore a hat and glasses. Pete could hear his footsteps through the door. The man stopped as he neared Maya’s porch. He reached for the doorbell.
Pete opened the door. The man seemed surprised and took a step back.
“Can I help you?”
“Are you Pete Fernandez?”
“Who are you?” Pete asked.
The man’s face was lost in shadow. His skin was tan. He was wearing a lot of clothes—longish trench coat over a Chicago Bulls jersey, dark jeans. It seemed odd. Pete couldn’t find the switch to turn on the front light. Damn it. The man’s face seemed aged and pockmarked, an abandoned battlefield.
“You’re causing some trouble for a friend of mine,” the man said. His voice was menacing and melodic at the same time. His head moved from side to side with every few words.
“That’s a shame,” Pete said. “Let me know what I can do to fix that.”
“Ain’t nothin’ you can do now,” the man said.
The moonlight reflected off the shotgun as the man pulled it from behind him—with just enough time for Pete to drop backward. He felt a searing pain in his right shoulder. His ears were ringing.
Stay in bed, Maya. Stay in bed.
He yanked his own gun out from behind him before his back hit the floor. He fired twice. He wasn’t sure if he hit anything. He looked at his right arm. Blood. Everywhere. Pooling around Maya’s hardwood floor. He looked toward the porch, but couldn’t focus. His vision was blurred. He saw the man on his back, his hand waving the shotgun in Pete’s direction.
Pete tried to get up, but the pain shot through him like a jolt. He saw movement from the porch. He heard a scream. Not his own. Maya’s. Damn.
Another shot.
He closed his eyes for what he thought would be just a second.
KATHY BENTLEY hated herself already. She tied her long hair back in an ad hoc ponytail and waited for the sound of the lock clicking into place. She took the three steps from the porch to the front yard of his house and reached into her bag for the car keys. This was the second time in less than a week and that was most definitely not the agreement. She shrugged to herself as she reached the driver side door. It was late in the evening—morning, whatever. It wasn’t that she felt cheap, or any of that cliché, walk of shame bullshit. Those days were long gone. She was smart, attractive, and not bound by anyone’s perception of what she should do, so there was nothing to feel bad about. It was just sex, and she was fine with that.
No, she was upset at herself for the cracks that were beginning to show—the ones only she could see—that indicated she was more invested in this every-once-in-a-while dance than she let on. That couldn’t stand, and didn’t really bode well for this continuing. It just wasn’t how she operated. Not after her last serious ex turned out to be a hired killer for the various factions of the Miami mob. Not after she found herself tied up somewhere in the Keys and expecting to die. Those things put life in perspective. No. She was here to have fun and to let the serious stuff be serious. Fuck romance.
She noticed a man’s shadow behind her as she pushed the key button to unlock her silver Jetta. She spun around, her hand still on the keys, and caught him by surprise—he hadn’t thought she’d noticed him yet. He was a stocky Hispanic man, mid-thirties. That wasn’t unique in a town like Miami. Or even here, in suburban Kendall, where every townhouse looked the same and every corner sported a Publix or TGI Fridays. The man seemed lost, standing just on the periphery of Kathy’s vision.
“Hello?” she said, her voice raised to make up the space between them.
The man stepped into the light. It was Dave Mendoza.
“Well, hello there, Captain Creeper,” Kathy said. “Are you following me? Is this your new thing? If so, I’d really appreciate it if you kept this little factoid to yourself—”
“Kathy,” Dave said. His face was white, stricken. She’d never seen him like this before.
“What?” she said. “What’s wrong with you? You look extra psychotic.”
“It’s Pete,” Dave said, moving closer to her. “I couldn’t find you. He’s in trouble, he’s—”
“Tell me what happened, right now,” Kathy said, closing the gap between them, grabbing his arms, trying not to shake him. “Talk to me.”
“He’s been shot, more than once,” Dave said as he fell into her arms, the words coming out of his mouth in quick jags. “He’s…I don’t know if he’s alive. He was rushed to the hospital, he’s there now. I don’t…I don’t think he’s going to make it. I was trying to find you, but—”
“Who shot him?” she asked, yelling into his ear. “Where?”
“They got him,” Dave said. “They finally got to him …”
She screamed then, not a scream of fear or desperation but one of anger and anguish—for Pete, for herself, and most of all for whoever was responsible.
Titusville, FL
Three months later
PETE DROVE the beat-up red Ford truck to the far end of the Waffle House parking lot. He flicked off the car stereo playing PJ Harvey’s Dress and shut off the engine, allowing himself a few moments of silence. The night air was thick with humidity, the sounds of cicadas and cars whizzing by on Cheney Highway the only noise disrupting an otherwise quiet evening. Titusville was a small city on the eastern coast of Florida, close to Cape Canaveral and not too far from Orlando and all its Disney trappings. There wasn’t much to do, aside from wandering Wal-Mart or knocking over mailboxes. Though, in the town’s defense, Pete had seen a record store on one of his early drives around the area. It was a quiet, nondescript blip of a town that most people wouldn’t notice on the interstate, with a population mostly made up of travelers, transients, people working at the Space Center, and those looking to stay off the grid for as long as possible.
He slammed the truck door shut. He pulled the military-green cap down on his head, the brim masking his eyes. He checked his phone as he walked across the dirt lot toward the restaurant. No missed calls. He dropped it back into his pocket and kept going. He took a deep breath. His chest and shoulder still ached, but he was feeling better each day.
The smell of fried food was strong, even outsi
de the place, and he felt his stomach rumble. Waffle House was one of the few guilty pleasures he’d allowed himself these days. One of the few times he’d leave the house and risk it.
The door jangled as he opened it and walked into the restaurant. The bright lights coated the place’s yellow and brown décor, giving the space a grimy, painted-on feeling. He took a seat at the counter and nodded as the waitress handed him a sticky plastic menu. Like most nights, the place was empty, except for a group of teenagers plotting their evening and an elderly couple sitting by the windows facing the expressway, finishing their dinner. The faint sound of the Eagles filtered through the overhead speakers, the bland, finger-picky ballad spreading over the evening like lukewarm gravy that needed a bit more salt. He motioned for the waitress, a woman in her late forties named Ruth. She had kind eyes and a cigarette-coated voice that made Pete feel at home, even here in the middle of nowhere. She nodded and walked over.
He didn’t need a menu. He didn’t even need to say his order, but the ritual was part of the pleasure of coming here.
“Hey, hon,” she said. “How’s your night going?”
“So far,” Pete said, “not bad.”
“You look tired,” she said, pulling her notebook from her apron and clicking her pen.
“If you’re perpetually tired, is that a thing?”
“It’s the kind of thing you cure with either coffee, sleep, cocaine, or a doctor’s prescription,” she said. “What’ll it be?”
“Just two scrambled eggs and a side of home fries.”
Ruth smiled and moved toward the kitchen.
Pete wheeled his seat around and looked out toward the empty parking lot, unsure why. The feeling had followed him since he got into the car. A feeling that he wasn’t alone. The low sounds of the diner—conversation, the soft rock music from the speaker, and the cling-clang of the kitchen—were soothing to Pete, but not enough to dislodge the growing unease. He looked out onto the parking lot again, toward his own car. That was when he saw the shape, moving behind his truck. Pete grabbed a twenty from his wallet and placed it on the counter.