Dangerous Ends

by Alex Segura

  Pete was always a fan of the direct route.

  He positioned himself in front of the door. His kick hit under and to the right of the doorknob. The crack of cheap material was good, but the door didn’t give. Pete delivered a second kick and the door swung open, revealing a mess of an apartment: pizza boxes, ripe takeout containers, empty cases of beer, and the smell of over-used cat litter mixed with really skunky weed.

  Pete cut through the living room and onto the balcony. Aside from two pieces of cheap, off-white patio furniture, the area was empty. He leaned over the railing. Gilbert Fermin, a pudgy, fiftysomething man with a thin black mustache and a few wisps of hair remaining on his head, was clinging to the balcony’s edge, his face red from the strain. He didn’t seem inclined to look down, having underestimated just how steep a drop three stories would be.

  “Gilbert Fermin?” Pete said.

  “Y-y-yes,” Fermin said. “Please, I don’t want to fall.”

  Pete grabbed one of Fermin’s meaty arms and leaned back, hoisting the large man up and over the railing. Soon, they were both lying on the balcony, gasping for breath. Pete got up first.

  “Let’s talk,” he said, walking into Fermin’s squalid apartment.

  Fermin followed him and headed straight for the kitchen.

  “Stop right there,” Pete said.

  Fermin turned around and saw the gun pointed at him. His mouth creaked open and stayed that way.

  “Don’t get out of my sight,” Pete said. He motioned with the gun for Fermin to sit on a gray, stained futon. Of course the guy had a fucking futon.

  Fermin sat, placing his hands on his knees.

  “What is this about?”

  “Janette Ledesma,” Pete said. Recognition flickered across Fermin’s face for a moment. He tried to hide it by looking at his feet.

  “Remember her, Fermin?” Pete said. “I hope so. You used to knock her around pretty good way back when.”

  “Of course I remember her,” Fermin said, almost to himself.

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  “She’s dead, man,” he said. “That was a long time ago. Forgot a lot of what happened back then.”

  “Who paid you to kill her?”

  The fact that Fermin didn’t even feign surprise confirmed that Pete was on the right track. The question was a gamble—a leap based on a few strands of speculation that might not tie into anything substantial. But he’d made contact.

  Fermin hung his head. “I didn’t kill her,” he said.

  “Close enough, though, right?” Pete said, stepping toward Fermin. “Close enough for it to seem like an accident, but enough to collect, right?”

  Fermin’s head shot up. He was angry now.

  “What do you want from me? What the fuck is this about?”

  “Answer the question,” Pete said, keeping his tone flat and his gun pointed at Fermin.

  “If I talk to you, I am a dead man,” Fermin said. “How do I know they didn’t send you to test me? Why would I risk my life and talk to you?”

  “I’m not here to make this easy on you,” Pete said. “But I have the gun and you have the answers. So let’s speed up the knowledge transfer, okay?”

  Fermin let out a long sigh and leaned back on the couch.

  “I never liked her,” Fermin said. His words dribbled out in a slow drone. “But the ask was simple and the upside was big, man. So big. Like, I’m still living off it big. I don’t need to work today. May not for a while.”

  “You must be so proud,” Pete said.

  “I used to run with those guys, when I was younger,” Fermin said. “The older generation was calmer. More thoughtful. They didn’t do all this crazy shit. The top guy needed me to work this angle, Janette Ledesma. Make sure she didn’t blab to anyone. Keep her in line. Maybe get a little sugar out of it. She wasn’t bad looking, after all. But man, that woman was a junkie. She would suck your dick for a dollar if it meant she could cop with it.”

  Pete didn’t realize he’d swung the gun handle at Fermin until the man was clutching his face, blood pouring from the gash on his lip. The burst of violence surprised Pete. It came fast and felt right, but it was not the kind of thing he was used to. Had Fermin hit a nerve? Did the clarity that came with being sober also mean he had to do a better job keeping his own emotions in check? Possibly.

  “Motherfucker,” Fermin said, not looking at Pete.

  “Listen, you piece of shit,” Pete said. “I don’t care about her being a junkie, or what an upstanding citizen like you thought of her. I want to know who put you up to it and where I can find them.”

  “You really don’t know, do you?” Fermin said, his voice muffled by his hand covering his mouth.

  The explosion came from behind Fermin, and sent the fat man hurtling forward. Pete moved out of the man’s flight path and knew Fermin was dead before he landed, face down. His back was charred and already soaked in blood. Pete tried to avert his eyes, but he still caught glimpses of tissue and bone. Smoke and dust cloaked the tiny apartment—making it hard to see clearly and harder to breathe. Pete dove to the right, away from the open balcony window and toward the kitchen, crawling to reach the wall. The futon was on fire, having caught on when the small explosive went off. Someone had planted the device in Fermin’s apartment. But how did they know when to set it off? Pete looked out of the studio through the balcony and realized he was being watched.

  He tried to crawl to the kitchen, keeping his body low. His ears were ringing from the blast and everything felt like it was moving at hyperspeed. That was when he heard footsteps.

  Someone was sprinting down the hall outside the apartment. The steps were getting louder.

  Pete ducked inside the main hall closet and closed the door behind him. He waited. He heard the front door open. He heard someone walk in and stop. Pete felt sweat pool on his hands as he gripped the closet doorknob. The killer was now inside the apartment, walking around the small living room. The steps were slow and thoughtful. The intruder didn’t want to interfere with the scene or leave evidence. Someone aware of law enforcement, Pete thought. He heard some rustling and then a voice—gruff, older.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” the man inside the apartment said, not bothering to keep his voice down. “We dealt with our problem, but the other one is gone.”

  A pause.

  “He’s gone, okay? He must have gotten spooked,” he said, annoyed at whoever was on the other end of the call. “Yeah, I get it. I’m out the door. The cops will be here any second. Yes. Bye.”

  A long sigh was followed by a few more footsteps. He heard the killer shuffling papers at the far end of the apartment. Then things went quiet. A few more steps and the front door opened and closed. Pete waited a moment before stepping outside. The apartment was empty.

  Pete pulled out his gun and opened the apartment door. He could see the killer heading for the stairwell. Pete followed. The killer was about half a flight ahead of him and had noticed Pete was in pursuit. Pete couldn’t get a good look at him, but the man could hear Pete’s gaining ground. The man was well built, perhaps a bit older than Pete. He cursed himself for being out of shape.

  Stepping out of the stairwell and into the lobby, Pete almost tripped over someone—an older lady knocked down by the killer as he tried to escape. No time to help her up. He chased the guy through the apartment building’s main double doors—the figure was still too far off to identify, but Pete was getting closer. He’d have to hop in a car at some point.

  Pete turned a corner that led to the main parking lot, expecting to see the figure on the fringe of his vision. He was gone.

  Pete cursed and looked around. The parking lot was half full and he saw no signs of someone having sped off. Whoever he’d been chasing was still here. But Pete didn’t have time to linger. The cops would eventually show up and wonder what he was doing on the scene of another murder, and Pete had dealt with more than his share of cops over the last two days. He did a quick lap around th
e lot and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Shit. He heard a few sirens in the distance.

  He hopped in his car and sped out of the lot. He took a moment to look himself over in the rearview mirror and realized he was covered in dirt and Gilbert Fermin’s blood.

  “YOU WEREN’T being honest with me.”

  Madelyn Suarez almost jumped out of her designer heels at the sound of his voice. She turned around and saw Pete and Kathy and let loose with a barrage of Spanish obscenities Pete hadn’t heard in years. It felt almost comforting.

  “The hell are you talking about, you little pendejo de mierda,” she said, spittle flying out of her mouth. “Who the fuck do you think you are, coming at me in a parking lot in the middle of the—”

  “Cut the shit, lady,” Kathy said. “The ‘tough old broad’ act is very 2003.”

  “Who’s this pelican-looking slut?” Madelyn said.

  Pete ignored the insult and pressed on.

  “Gilbert Fermin is dead. So’s Calvin Whitelaw,” Pete said. “Los Enfermos have tried to kill me and my partner a handful of times too. Someone wants us to think it’s Gaspar Varela calling the shots. I think it isn’t. You got jammed up when I asked you about the case. I need you to be honest with us. It could save our lives.”

  Madelyn hesitated, then leaned on her car, a black Nissan in need of a new paint job. She seemed decades older now.

  “I was hoping this would blow over,” she said.

  “Well, it hasn’t,” Kathy said.

  “Where can we talk?” Pete said.

  “Here’s as good a place as any,” Madelyn said, motioning for them to get in the car with her.

  Pete sat next to Madelyn in the front and Kathy slid into the backseat.

  “Better I not be seen traveling around town with you two,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “So, tell Tía Madelyn why you’re angry at her.”

  “You know more about the Varela case, I can tell,” Pete said. “You gave me the press-release answer. Dave says you know everything about this town. That was one of the biggest scandals in Miami history. I was amazed you didn’t have even one tidbit.”

  “Well, I don’t work for you, papi,” she said. “So, what’s my incentive?”

  “You worked for my grandfather,” Pete said.

  Madelyn met Pete’s eyes and smiled.

  “He was a good man,” she said. “Didn’t deserve to go out like that.”

  “We know Ledesma was in the room after Varela’s wife was killed. Someone paid her to tank her own testimony,” Kathy said. “Then someone paid to have her beaten to death when it seemed like she might flip. We also know Whitelaw was in contact with someone nicknamed Cain Samael. He was blackmailing Samael with information and the actual murder weapon, threatening to reveal some truths about the case, along with the kind of evidence that would certainly lead to a new trial. Now Whitelaw’s dead. Whoever this Samael is, he is after us and is running Los Enfermos.”

  “Varela’s no pandillero,” Madelyn said. “I promise you that. Miami doesn’t want that story, though. Too easy, not as sexy. They don’t want another situation where the police fucked up, even if it exonerates one of their own. Follow the cops, follow the money, follow the motive, then you’ll have your answers. To both cases.”

  “Both cases?” Pete asked.

  “You’re trying to figure out who killed Diego, el pobre, right?”

  “Yes, my dad was investigating it before he died,” Pete said. “It looks like whoever killed Varela’s wife may have been the one who stabbed my grandfather.”

  “Jesus, do I have to spell everything out for you, niño? Read the notes, you comemierda,” she said before taking a long drag of her Parliament. “Your dad was a great cop. The best. He worked on that case for years. He knew who the killer was. What do you know about how your grandfather died?”

  “Just what was in the files,” Kathy said. “So, very little. We know that, years after a deadly knife attack left him in poor health, someone drove by and shot Diego Fernandez and sped off. The only descriptions noted he was a younger, well-built man in a beige Oldsmobile.”

  “Okay, think,” she said. “Who were his enemies?”

  “No one in Miami,” Pete said. “But Castro? Los Enfermos have a history of hitting people for the Castros.”

  “There you go,” Madelyn said. “You’re not so dumb after all. Los Enfermos were as much a political hit squad as a gang. They made money from drugs and murder and the usual, of course, but they were also an elite attack force for Fidel and Raul. Los Enfermos got to the people Castro couldn’t reach in Miami. Diego was one of them. Esos hijos de la gran puta killed a good man. Killed many good people. The big man you’re looking for on the Varela thing? He’s the same guy behind your grandfather’s death. I guarantee it.”

  “So, what, we just start searching pro-Castro databases and see who drives a beige Oldsmobile?” Kathy said.

  “If you’re an idiot, yes,” Madelyn said, turning to look at Kathy. “But if you’re smart, you’d consider that maybe some Castro agents infiltrate anti-Castro groups. It’s not the answer, but it’s a start. You should put me on your payroll.”

  “I need more than that,” Pete said.

  “I guess this baby needs a bottle, then?” Madelyn said, licking her lips. “Okay, let me make this easy for you. I’m going to say a name and you tell me what you know about him.”

  “I am not in the mood for this,” Kathy said.

  “Shut up for once, mija.”

  “Go ahead,” Pete said.

  “Graydon Smith,” Madelyn said. “What do you know about him?”

  “He was one of the first cops on the scene of the Varela murder,” Pete said. “He was part of Varela’s crew, with Posada and a few others. Young guns of the Miami PD.”

  “Very good,” Madelyn said. “What else?”

  Pete shrugged. He hadn’t thought of Smith in months.

  “Look at those files again,” Madelyn said. “See where Officer Smith pops up.”

  Madelyn started to cough—a long, wet, hacking sound that stopped after a few interminable minutes.

  “What do you know about Smith?” Kathy asked.

  “Bad,” Madelyn said.

  Another flurry of coughs followed. Madelyn took a moment before speaking again.

  “Varela was an honest cop, though, so think about it,” she said, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. “What does that make him? A minority in Miami. Like your father. Someone wanted him out of the way. Other cops were okay with that because it meant more pie for them. Someone saw an opportunity. Now you and your hermana start asking questions. Start digging around. Then suddenly Varela escapes. What better way to confirm his guilt to the world, right? Even if he wants to go back, he can’t just walk into the prison and ask to be re-arrested. He’d be doomed. No one would buy a story about being forced to escape. Just like no one bought his story of people coming to his house and beating the shit out of him and killing his wife. Look at the cops—look at the evidence. Then you might see a different picture.”

  “YOU’RE TROUBLE, Fernandez,” Harras said, squirming on his hospital bed. “Every time we hang out, I get shot. It’s not a trend I want to continue.”

  “Hello yourself, Mr. Cheerful,” Pete said, sitting down by the bed. Kathy leaned on the wall behind him.

  “Any word on when I can get the hell out of here?”

  “Nurse said at least a day or two, when I badgered her for info earlier,” Kathy said.

  “Ah shit,” Harras said. He scooted up on the bed and winced, his left hand reaching for his bandaged right shoulder. “What’s the latest?”

  “Gilbert Fermin is dead,” Pete said. “Los Enfermos knew I was heading there and killed him before he could talk. Jackie’s forensic expert also thinks, based on the evidence, that the knife that killed Carmen Varela also finished off Whitelaw and was used on my grandfather.”

  “Any leads on the weapon?” Harras asked. “Now that would be something. Even if
it doesn’t automatically exonerate Varela, it definitely counts as new evidence.”

  “Not since we went all B and E on the storage space. We talked to Madelyn Suarez. Again,” Kathy said. “She seems to think Varela is innocent.”

  “Does she?” Harras said. “Not surprising. She’s a contrarian, through and through.”

  “She told us to follow the cops—across the board,” Pete said, pulling out a reporter’s notebook from his back pocket. “So Kathy and I did some research, made some calls.”

  “God help us all,” Harras said.

  “It’s frightening, I know, but once upon a time, we were—well, at least I was—a decent newspaper reporter,” Kathy said. “I still have contacts in the Miami PD. They had a few interesting things to say.”

  “Remember Graydon Smith?” Pete said.

  “What about him?” Harras said.

  “Well, it seems this guy was not only around when Varela was arrested,” Kathy said, “but also when Martin Colón got his head blown off and, strangely enough, when Diego Fernandez was murdered. He retired recently and no one’s heard from him since his goodbye drink-up at Club Deuce.”

  “So? Multiple cops show up at crime scenes, and one cop visits many over the course of a long career,” Harras said. “Are you saying he also killed these people? The guy served for over thirty years—he should have retired a long time ago. Now you want to drag him into this? Let him ride off into the sunset.”

  “We’re just asking if you know him,” Pete said. “Have any sense of what kind of guy he is.”

  “He was an asshole,” Harras said. “There? Happy now? The guy was a prick. He was probably on the take to some degree. Like everyone else who was working in the PD. He was difficult, and he didn’t make things easy for me when the FBI needed something. But he was around and he made his arrest quota and everyone was copacetic. I wouldn’t peg him as a killer.”

  “That’s what I heard too,” Kathy said. “Plus, he was part of that crew—with Varela and Posada. They were the three amigos, basically.”