Dangerous Ends

by Alex Segura

  Then Posada took a calculated risk—pulling his right arm away from the disputed blade and jabbing his palm at Kathy’s chin. Pete heard a cracking sound and saw Kathy stumble back. Then Posada went in with the blade, slashing at her already bloody midsection. Kathy fell back, screaming in pain. She collapsed on the floor. Posada took a few steps away from her and tried to regain his composure. Pete didn’t hesitate.

  He pulled up his gun and fired. The bullet blasted Posada’s chest; a look of surprise formed on Posada’s face as he stumbled backward. Pete fired again, this time blowing off a chunk of Posada’s neck. The cop-turned-druglord crumpled to the ground and landed with a wet, sloppy sound.

  Pete rushed to Kathy, curled up on the floor. Her breathing was strained and Pete couldn’t tell where she’d been cut—her chest and midsection covered in blood.

  “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” Pete said, digging in her pockets for her phone. “I will not let anything happen to you. Kathy, stay with me, okay? You’re going to be okay.”

  She mumbled something and closed her eyes, her head dropping back.

  Pete pulled her to him and found her phone. He dialed 911. She wasn’t breathing. A chill swept through the dark, blood-spattered bar as Pete screamed for help.

  PETE TOOK a sip of the scalding coffee and grimaced. He looked around the half-empty St. Brendan’s church basement. It was locker room hot in the cramped space, and only a few people had shown. A few were busy stacking chairs and returning the room to its previous state after the weekly AA meeting.

  “Another good one,” Jack said, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot.

  “They’re always good,” Pete said, nodding to his sponsor.

  “Getting back into the swing of things?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah, it feels good,” Pete said. “Been an intense few weeks, to say the least.”

  “The reporters are outside for you,” Jack said. “I can help you get through if you need.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Pete said, a sad smile on his face. “Thanks, though.”

  “My pleasure,” Jack said. “Just know you can call whenever you need. Don’t go trying to fix everything by yourself.”

  “Not possible,” Pete said. “I’ve broken too much already.”

  He tossed the paper coffee cup into the trash and nodded to Jack as he headed up the flight of stairs that led to the small parking lot next to the church. As Jack had promised, there were a few stray reporters waiting for him. The number had dwindled over the past week or so, as newer, sexier stories took up valuable TV and Internet real estate. But there were still two or three dedicated vultures waiting for him to say something.

  “Pete, Pete, what can you tell us about Orlando Posada?” a Channel 7 reporter said. She was young, dark-haired, and looked fresh out of college.

  “Nothing,” Pete said, sidling past the small cluster and getting into his car. He felt a tap on the passenger side window. Another reporter. This one older. Gray hair thinning but still in the game. Pete brought the window down an inch.

  “Pete, gimme something, will ya? We’re dying here,” the man said. Narvaez was his name. Pete had seen him on TV now and again. He was new in town.

  “No can do, my friend,” Pete said. “I have to be somewhere.”

  A text message appeared on his phone display. Pete hadn’t thought of the person in weeks, maybe more. Stephanie Solares.

  Can we meet?

  Pete backed out of the parking lot and turned north on Galloway.

  HARRAS FOUND Pete in the lobby at South Miami Hospital. The ex-FBI agent had a large bouquet of flowers in one hand and an equally large coffee in the other. He didn’t seem any worse for wear from his injuries.

  “You’re late,” Harras said. “Thought you’d be here an hour ago.”

  “Something came up,” Pete said. “Sorry again.”

  “Don’t worry about it. How’re you holding up?” Harras asked as he motioned for Pete to push the elevator button.

  “Been better,” Pete said, holding the door for Harras.

  “That’s an understatement,” Harras said. “Where’d you snag that Cruz lady? She really saved your ass.”

  “She’s a friend,” Pete said. “She also reps Dave’s family, and for some reason they like me.”

  Jackie Cruz had indeed saved his ass—in more ways than one. Pete had avoided any charges related to interfering with a police investigation, leaving the scene of a crime in relation to Gilbert Fermin and, most importantly, the death of Orlando Posada. In fact, the Miami PD had been uncharacteristically swift in moving things along. It probably helped that Pete had already pulled the rug out from under the department a few times. In exchange for the speedy handling, plus a nod and a wink from the detectives in charge, Pete was keeping things mum in regard to the press, even though the case felt far from closed to him.

  “Reporters still hassling you?” Harras said, pushing the button for the fifth floor.

  “They’re just curious,” Pete said. “And Varela’s still out there. It’s too complicated for the news. Too much to explain, even with the Castro connection. They want the easy headline and a sizzle reel.”

  “Just keep your head low,” Harras said.

  Pete nodded. “I’m trying. It’s hard not to flinch every time someone moves toward me. I’m wondering if they’ve been sent to take me out. Los Enfermos didn’t go away with Posada. Hurt, sure. The head is gone, but the body lives on.”

  “Shame about the Pelegrin kid,” Harras said. “Never stood a chance.”

  Pete wasn’t sure what to feel about Arturo Pelegrin. Like his mother, he had lived his life as an enigma, trying to play all sides—the police, Pete, Los Enfermos. He wasn’t surprised the kid ended up dead in his car, a bullet hole behind his ear. Pete felt some regret over not having had the chance to talk to Pelegrin and let him know he didn’t have to end up that way—he could make his own path.

  “At least your ex finagled her way out, whatever that’s worth,” Harras said. “She’s probably traipsing around Europe, spending all of her dead husband’s money.”

  Pete shrugged his shoulders. He had nothing to add.

  The elevator chimed as they reached the eighteenth floor. The doors opened and Pete and Harras cut left to room five seventy-five. Dave sat outside, looking dazed and tired. He’d probably been there most of the night.

  “Welcome back, amigos,” Dave said, getting up. He pointed at Pete. “I have a bone to pick with you, my man.”

  “Oh?”

  “Pregnant?” Dave said. “Was anyone going to tell me?”

  “Are you the father?” Harras said.

  “Well, no—I mean, no, definitely not,” Dave said.

  “Then it’s none of your business,” Harras said.

  “We didn’t know until they wheeled her in here,” Pete said. “She’d kept it quiet.”

  “That’s Kathy for you,” Dave said. “But who’s the papi? That’s what I wanna know.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore,” Pete said. He walked past Dave and Harras and opened the door to Kathy’s room. She was asleep, hooked up to machines. The beeping and blinking was not reassuring to Pete.

  He pulled up a chair next to her bed and took her hand.

  Her eyes fluttered open. She turned her ashen face to Pete. “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey there,” Pete said. He could feel his eyes welling up. They’d gotten so close to losing her, he wasn’t going to take any of these small moments for granted. He gripped her hand.

  “I feel like shit.”

  “You’ll get better,” Pete said.

  She’d been like this for the last day or so—popping in and out of a deep sleep. A marked improvement over the coma she’d been in when everything was touch and go. Now, all signs pointed to a full recovery. The knife wounds were bad—lots of blood loss, some emergency surgery—but she would make it. The baby didn’t. It was gone before she got to the hospital.

  “You’re no
t going to ask me,” Kathy said.

  “You’ll tell me if you want to,” Pete said.

  She didn’t respond. She gave him a weak smile and let go of his hand, turning to face the other wall.

  “I think I’m going to take another twelve-hour nap,” she said, sniffling. “Thanks for being here.”

  Pete stood up and rested a hand on her shoulder.

  “Of course,” he said. “Just get some sleep.”

  He felt his phone vibrate and checked the iPhone display. Maya.

  Hey you! How’s Kathy? Still up for dinner tonight at my place? I’ll even try to cook ☺

  Pete smiled and replied with a quick Yes.

  His phone vibrated again. This time from a different, unknown number. The message was short and vague, but Pete knew what it meant. And who it was from.

  SERGIO’S CAFE was the best Cuban food available past 87th Avenue heading west—once you cleared La Carreta. Pete knew it well. The food was heavy, loaded with flavor, and the portion size was impressive, making the restaurant a regular stop for most Westchester and Kendall residents.

  Pete walked in and scanned the packed restaurant. He didn’t have time for this. But he also didn’t have a choice.

  Servers wove around Pete as he made his way to the back of the restaurant. He found him sitting at a two-seater near the bathroom, Dolphins cap worn low, the brim of the hat hiding his newly bearded face and sunglasses. He wore a black polo shirt and light khaki shorts. Basically, he looked like every Cuban dad scarfing an early dinner. Pete pulled out the seat across from him and sat down.

  “Wasn’t expecting to hear from you,” Pete said.

  “Welcome to Sergio’s,” Gaspar Varela said.

  Pete looked around. Everyone seemed immersed in their food, conversations, or whatever was happening on their phones.

  “Not exactly a low-key spot to meet,” Pete said.

  “Hide in plain sight,” Varela said. He took a sip of a Corona and looked at Pete. “I figured we should talk.”

  “Let’s talk,” Pete said.

  “I wanted to thank you,” Varela said.

  “For what?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Let’s move this along, okay?” Pete said. He tapped a finger on the menu in front of him. “I could alert the cops that you’re here. They’d have this place surrounded.”

  “But you won’t.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “When’s the last time you worked with the cops?” Varela said. “But you’re right. It’s not fair to play games. I got distracted. I don’t get out much, as you can imagine.”

  “How’d you get out of jail?”

  “It was Posada’s doing,” Varela said. “Orlando had a connection on the inside. A few keystrokes and a ‘clerical error’ was born. He guessed—smartly—that I would walk through the open door.”

  “But you’ve been exonerated now,” Pete said. “You can come back. Your daughter is going out of her mind wondering where you are.”

  What Pete said was mostly true. The justice system worked slowly. While Varela would eventually be exonerated of the murder of his wife thanks to the evidence Pete and Kathy had presented to the police after the death of Posada, it was by no means a certainty. Varela could still face charges for the crimes he did commit, like breaking out of prison.

  “I’m not spending another day behind bars,” Varela said.

  “So what’s your plan?”

  “I don’t have a plan,” Varela said. “If I don’t know my next move, no one does.”

  “Tell me about Posada,” Pete said.

  “He betrayed me,” Varela said, taking a long pull of his beer. “In more ways than I can really describe. I wasn’t playing along with him, so he wanted me gone. We went from close friends to enemies in a matter of months. He was getting dirtier as time wore on—skimming, taking drugs, selling drugs, taking hits on assignment. He was a mobster in a police uniform. On the outside, he danced the dance. Cop, good citizen, anti-Castrista. But that was a front. He killed for the Castro regime—right here on American soil. Your grandfather was one of many. He was by far the biggest trophy for Posada, but not the only one. He had to try twice to take the old man down, though.”

  “There’s that, I guess,” Pete said.

  “He murdered my wife to send me a message,” Varela said, his stare going long and distant. “Then he framed me for it. He paid off Janette Ledesma. He used his money to bribe people to keep his story going—Whitelaw to keep the murder weapon, Maldonado and his bullshit story about me killing someone, your friend Rick because he needed someone to clean the money, Fermin—you name it. If they pushed back, found out too much, or threatened him, he killed them. He spent decades hiding in the shadows. On the surface he was an honorable, blind ex-cop. But that wasn’t the truth.”

  “And you had no idea?” Pete said. “Why not say something? You spent years in prison.”

  “I didn’t know it was Orlando until it was too late,” Varela said. “Until it was time to walk out of prison.”

  “So you took the bait?” Pete said. “Just like everyone else?”

  “I had no choice,” Varela said. “I couldn’t do anything. He had access to Maya. He could kill her.”

  “That’s no longer the case. Posada is dead. You need to come back,” Pete said, no rancor in his tone. He was too tired for that. He flipped open his menu.

  “How’s my daughter?”

  “You should ask her,” Pete said.

  “What do you want me to say?” Varela said, his palms open.

  “It’s not what I want you to say,” Pete said. “It’s what I want you to do.”

  “Tell me,” Varela said, taking his sunglasses off.

  The man crept up behind Varela. He was dressed similarly, but had the gait and build of a rookie cop. He put his mouth near Varela’s ear.

  “Put your hands behind your back and walk out of this restaurant with me,” the officer said. “Let’s not make a scene. This can be easy or it can be very hard.”

  He put his arm on Varela’s shoulder and held it there as Varela stood up, his eyes locked on Pete, wide with anger.

  “You set me up,” Varela said.

  “You owe it to your daughter,” Pete said. “She gave up a decade of her life to see you walk free. Why not let her have it?”

  “You don’t know anything about this,” Varela said. “Even now.”

  Pete shrugged his shoulders as the officer led Varela out the door. He thought about apologizing, but let the feeling pass.

  “Don’t forget to look at the menu,” Varela said, forcing a humorless smile on his face. “They may have added some dishes since your last visit.”

  Pete lifted his menu and found a piece of notebook paper underneath, sloppy handwriting covering most of the front and back. A note from Varela to Pete.

  He checked his phone. The evening was just starting.

  PETE WALKED in through the unlocked front door. He could hear the kitchen sink running.

  “Back here,” Maya said, her voice cheerful. “Just finishing up dinner.”

  “I’m gonna drop my stuff in the bedroom,” Pete said. He felt a great ache in his body. He was beyond tired. He felt spent. Defeated.

  He made a quick right as the entranceway led to the main hall and entered Maya’s bedroom. It was tidy and well decorated. A print of Edward Hopper’s New York Movie hung over the bed. A gift from Pete.

  He dropped his duffel bag on the bed and turned to the chest of drawers across from it. A jewelry box rested atop the cabinet. Pete opened it and sifted through the necklaces and rings until he found it. The words in Varela’s note kept echoing in his head.

  If you’re reading this, we didn’t get to talk much. Something must have gone wrong.

  He took the piece of jewelry out and looked it over. Even in the dark of the room, the gold glimmered—the moon’s light shimmering off the gold half-heart pendant. Pete slipped it into his shirt pocket and
left the bedroom.

  There’s something I need to bring up that I doubt I’ll be able to in person, even after all the trouble it took to meet you, face-to-face.

  She heard his footsteps as he got to the kitchen entryway. He leaned on the frame.

  “Hey, you,” she said, turning her head to look away from the dishes. “How’s Kathy doing?”

  “She’s doing better,” Pete said, looking at his hands. “All things considered.”

  “I’m glad she’s going to be okay. Though I can’t imagine what she’s dealing with after losing the baby,” she said. “Poor thing.”

  “Yeah, it’s crazy,” Pete said. “I had no idea.”

  “What have you been up to?”

  “Nothing,” Pete said. “Well, not nothing.”

  “Pete,” Maya said. “Are you okay? You’re all somber tonight. But you should be happy. You guys solved my mom’s murder. I can’t believe you did, but you did. Now all we need to do is find my dad and…”

  I know you’re with my daughter. I think this is good. She needs someone like you in her life.

  “I saw your dad today,” Pete said. Flat.

  “What?” Maya said, turning around and wiping her hands on a dishrag. “Tell me. Why didn’t you call? What happened?”

  She’s my life. She fought so hard for me while I was in prison. She’s my legacy and part of me.

  “He’s in custody,” Pete said, looking up to meet her eyes.

  “But how…how did the police find him?” Maya asked. She was standing close to Pete, almost leaning into him.

  “I led them to him,” Pete said.

  But she’s also my biggest disappointment.

  “What do you mean?” Maya said, stepping back from him, her face not understanding.

  Not only has she spent—maybe wasted—her entire life trying to set me free, but she’s harboring a dangerous problem. A problem even a father’s love can’t solve. Something that cuts deeper than the death of her mother.