Down the Darkest Street

by Alex Segura

  Harras glanced at Kathy.

  “What about her?”

  “She can help, too,” Pete said.

  “Hold on a second,” Kathy said. “You forget I work for a major newspaper. I can’t just quit my day job and become an honorary deputy.”

  “Don’t you need to write a new book?” Pete asked. “This kind of access would make for a great one.”

  “Assuming we give you any access,” Aguilera snapped. “This is bullshit. You shot your load already with that stupid column. You don’t have any information that isn’t in print.”

  “You’re wrong,” Pete said.

  “What do you have that we don’t?” Aguilera asked.

  “Enough,” Pete said. “I guess now the question you have to ask yourself is, do you want to risk leaving this meeting having pissed me off? All I’m asking is to be allowed to help you. If you let me in, we can pool our information and bring this asshole down.”

  Harras stood up. Aguilera followed. Pete could feel Kathy’s eyes on him. Harras spoke first.

  “You can help by talking to some of the victims’ families,” Harras said. Pete took slight pleasure in watching Aguilera squirm in surprise. “But Henriquez is off limits. We’re not confirming she’s a victim yet. Swing by the main office tomorrow morning at nine and we’ll see about getting your credentials in order.” He looked at Kathy. “Any word of this in the press and we’ll deny this meeting even happened. If you want this to become anything close to a book a year or two from now, those are the rules. Understood?”

  Pete nodded. He stood up and extended his hand. Harras looked at it.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” He wiped his hands on his dress shirt, sweat rings under his arms.

  The two agents turned and left. Aguilera glanced back at Pete one more time. He looked confused, Pete thought. Good.

  “Well, that’s not what I was expecting,” Kathy said as Pete returned to his seat. “Did you take your vitamins this morning?”

  “I had to take control of the situation,” Pete said as he waved down a waiter. “You hungry?”

  “Always.”

  The waiter arrived. Pete ordered a medianoche sandwich, which consisted of pork, Swiss cheese, pickles, and ham. It was one of his favorite Cuban dishes, and he felt like celebrating. Kathy ordered a plate of carne asada—roasted meat—with a side of rice and beans. Versailles was a city landmark—a nexus point for the Cuban exile community. Where revolutions were planned, careers built and destroyed, and political deals hatched. It felt oddly fitting to Pete that they’d have their showdown with Harras and Aguilera here. They ate, comforted by the sing-song voices of the waitresses and the old Cuban men arguing and joking nearby.

  ***

  “So, Emily’s gone?” Kathy asked.

  Pete took a long sip from his tiny cup of Cuban coffee before answering.

  “She left, yeah.”

  “Are you OK?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  Kathy sighed.

  “Do I have to spell everything out?” she said. “It’s clear something was going on. Whether it was a full-blown Relationship Renaissance or just friends with benefits, I don’t know. But you two were back together in some fashion. And knowing how much real estate Emily occupies in that overthinking brain of yours, well, I just wanted to make sure you were fine.”

  “Not drinking, you mean?”

  “Not drinking would fall under fine, yes.”

  “I’m fine,” Pete said. “She left a note, and I haven’t heard from her since. She said she felt ‘overwhelmed.’”

  “I see,” Kathy said, fiddling with her napkin. “You don’t seem totally on-board with that.”

  “No,” he said. “Not really. But I’m not surprised. I probably shouldn’t have let it happen.”

  “That’s sometimes…difficult,” Kathy said. “Not that I know from any kind of personal experience or anything.”

  “I think it’s good to take some time,” Pete said. “I have a lot of my own issues to work out.”

  The waiter walked by their table and left the check. Pete took it and slid two twenties into the thin folder.

  “I’ve got this,” he said.

  “I would hope so,” she said, checking her phone display. “What now?”

  “We start to look for Nina Henriquez,” Pete said, standing up, putting the lunch receipt in his back pocket.

  Kathy followed him toward the car.

  “You do remember the part where the FBI told us to do exactly the opposite of that, right?”

  Pete got to his car and opened the door. He looked at Kathy. “Exactly.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “I can’t believe I’ve been reduced to drinking cheap beer,” Kathy said, slurping down another gulp of Coors. She was sitting at Pete’s dining room table, across from him. Stacks of papers and boxes surrounded the small area. They’d decided to go to Pete’s house to combine their notes and put together a game plan, one that would hopefully save Nina Henriquez’s life. Kathy’s main source in the Miami PD had managed to get them copies of the Morales and Cline case files. The photos and police reports were spread over the table.

  “I don’t have alcohol in the house,” Pete said, not looking up from his laptop. “You know that.”

  “Yes, yes,” Kathy said. “Which is why you’ve forced me to shell out for this gas station piss-in-a-can beer. Oh well.” She took another long swig. “I’ll have to make do.”

  Pete ignored her and dove in, sliding some of the photos away from him. He could only stand to look at them for so long.

  “OK, so what do we know? Our killer’s been stalking his victims over the Internet. Victims range in age from mid-teens to mid-twenties. He uses different e-mail addresses and finds women who are looking to either move away from home or need a roommate. How do we think he does that?”

  “Beyond trolling Craigslist?” Kathy said.

  “You think that might be enough?”

  “Well, it could be,” Kathy said, opening her own laptop and typing. “The victims don’t seem to be particularly special. They’re all relatively pretty girls, no major problems, aside from the usual drama with parents or roommates. Nina Henriquez was on the honor roll at her school. Erica Morales had a beef with her mom—but what high school girl doesn’t? It’s also hard to tell when this guy started. I’m not surprised this story is only picking up traction now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re Hispanic girls, not rich, from broken homes who don’t look like your generic, network television ‘Latinas,’” Kathy said, her voice rising. “Even a town as diverse as Miami still has biases. People only care when the white kid is missing. People get up in arms when the white guy is shot in the black neighborhood. It’s rarely the other way around. Those are the stories no one wants to hear about.”

  Kathy paused to scan one of the police reports.

  “Also, I hate to tell you, but this guy strikes me as extremely smart and precise. He’s not a rage-driven killer.”

  “So?”

  “So, the guy that beat the shit out of you—you do remember that, right?” Kathy said. “He seems to me—based on your description—like a regular thug. It doesn’t sync.”

  “You’re right,” Pete said, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “But that opens up a bunch of even more terrible possibilities.”

  “Yes, unfortunately, investigating a serial murderer does not usually involve rainbows and butterflies,” Kathy said.

  “Then there’s the Rex Whitehurst angle,” Pete said. “Whoever this person is, he’s killing girls in the same way Whitehurst did.”

  “Do you think the mirrors are there to imply judgment of some kind?”

  “Not sure,” Pete said. “It’s almost like he wants to show the victim more than once.”

  “Like multiplying their pain?”

  “That feels right, but we’ve got nothing to go on,” Pete said, sounding exasperated. “This gu
y and Whitehurst, there’s something between them, linking them together. What’s that connection? Why?”

  “Homage?” Kathy said. “Like a cover band? Sounds terrible, but these freaks are crazy, right?”

  “It’s definitely some kind of nod,” Pete said, shuffling through a stack of printouts. “But our killer jumps around in age.”

  “Well, it could just mean our killer is still in control,” Kathy said. “Whitehurst went off the rails by the time he arrived in Florida. Most of his focused hunting happened down the eastern seaboard, over time.”

  Kathy pulled out another stack of photos and spread them around a free area on the table.

  “On the bright side, relatively, your friend Rick has been exonerated,” Kathy said. “Though I doubt being hounded by the police for a while has helped his standing in the community.”

  “You spoke to him?” Pete said.

  “No, nothing like that,” Kathy said. “I hear things. I’m a reporter. I sometimes make calls and people pick up. He basically went underground when all this hit, which was smart. Doubly so for someone who would do something as cliché as having an affair with his secretary.”

  Pete ignored her last comment. He typed a few words and scanned the laptop’s screen.

  “Do you think our killer started here in Miami, though?”

  “No idea,” Kathy said.

  “Can you do a search on your Times Lexis account to see if you can find any similar unsolved cases on the East Coast, or nearby?” Pete asked. “If we could figure out where else this guy has killed, we might be able to track him.”

  “You say it like it’s easy,” Kathy said. “It’s not. Girls go missing all the time. And remember, the only reason we know we have a killer is because the bodies have been found. Who knows how many are in a hole somewhere. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “Right,” Pete said, scrunching his nose as he looked at his own screen. “It’s too wide a net to cast. But let’s speculate for a bit. Say he has killed before. A few times. Now he’s here and he’s paying homage to Whitehurst. What’s next?”

  “Well, serial killers tend to go two ways,” Kathy said. “They either go dormant for years between kills, or they increase their frequency until they start to get sloppy. Like Rory Conde—the Tamiami Trail Strangler. If these girls died by the hand of the same dude, it looks to me like he’s settled into a pattern, with the exception of the floater. But who knows how long that’ll last.”

  Pete stretched and let out a long yawn.

  “I’m going to make some coffee,” Pete said, standing up and walking toward the kitchen. “Need anything?”

  “Another can of piss, if you don’t mind,” Kathy said, shaking her empty beer can.

  Pete opened the fridge door and grabbed a can of Coors. The cold on his hands sent him back. He placed it on the counter and walked toward the coffeemaker near the sink. He busied himself with the preparation of the pot, trying to ignore the silver can. The coffee machine began to percolate, dripping coffee into the pot. He looked out the small window above the microwave. The dusk gave Pete’s view an eerie, misted quality. The skies were getting darker. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to see anything outside the tiny window. Pete didn’t like it. Too much darkness. This time of year reminded him of things he’d rather forget. Mike. Emily. His father. Then he saw it. A movement—near the westernmost corner of the backyard. Pete moved closer to the window. He couldn’t see anything now. Was it a dog? A possum? Probably.

  He poured a cup of coffee into his old Miami Times mug and splashed in a bit of milk and some sweetener before stirring. He kept his eyes on the window and took a tentative sip. Nothing else. He carried his cup and grabbed the now not-as-cold can of beer. He tossed it to Kathy as he walked in. She caught it, more gracefully than Pete had expected. As he walked toward the dining room table, he noticed that the door to the utility room—where the washer and dryer were, and which led to the backyard and carport exit—was ajar. He put the mug of coffee on the table.

  “Did you go outside for a smoke?”

  “No, not for a bit,” Kathy said. “Why?”

  “This door,” Pete said, motioning toward the utility room. “I haven’t used it since last week, when I did some laundry.”

  “You do laundry? Could’ve fooled me.”

  “This isn’t a joke,” Pete said, turning to face Kathy. “Someone’s been in the house.”

  Then the lights went out.

  Kathy let out a frightened yelp. Pete backed away from the utility room door. The only light in the living room was emanating from the two laptops resting on the dining room table.

  “This is not funny,” Kathy said, standing up and walking over to Pete. “Please tell me you just forgot to pay your electric bill. I don’t mind us going to my place to continue our very special episode of Cagney and Lacey.”

  They heard the sound of breaking glass coming from the guest room.

  “Someone’s in the house,” Pete said. He darted into the utility room and came back with his gun. He flicked the safety off. He held the gun at his side and walked toward the main hall, which led to the guest room and, further down, to his own bedroom. “Stay here.”

  “Fine by me,” Kathy said. Pete looked back at her. The laptops provided enough light for Pete to have a sense of what was around them. Kathy was leaning against the far wall, next to the utility room entrance, peering out the back window onto the backyard.

  Another crash. Pete couldn’t make out where it was coming from this time. Outside? His room? He crouched and began to walk down the hall, his body low to the ground. Once he got past the living room and the two laptops, the house became almost pitch black. He got closer to the guest room door. It was closed. Pete wasn’t sure if he’d left it open. The last time he remembered being in the room was when he found Emily’s note. Since then, he’d avoided even looking at it. His right hand tightened around his gun as he reached for the doorknob with his left. As his fingers touched the handle, the door creaked open. He couldn’t see inside the room. But as the door opened, he realized that he wasn’t alone. The figure—average build, hunched over, panting—stood in the middle of the guest room, in front of the bed. Pete couldn’t tell if he was armed. But he knew the man had heard the noise from the door. Pete rolled away from the doorway and pressed his back against the adjacent wall. His breathing was heavy. He felt his palms sweating on the gun.

  Then he heard the laughter.

  It started softly at first, a low rumble, almost a growl. It came from inside the guest room—from the shape Pete had seen. Then it grew louder. More menacing. As if the man had heard the best, saddest, and most off-color joke ever. The kind of laugh that kept going well past the expiration date of any bit of humor, inching further and further away from sanity. The laughter almost masked the fact that the figure in the guest room was now trashing the room, tossing furniture around and shattering the windows. Pete inched closer to the guest room door.

  He wheeled his body around, facing the entrance in a crouch, his gun pointed into the room in his best imitation of a three-point police stance. He opened his mouth and felt nothing come out. The figure wasn’t moving anymore, but Pete knew he was there, in the corner of the wrecked room, poised to lunge.

  “I have a gun and I know where you are,” Pete said, his voice low but clear. “Come out with your hands up in the next three seconds or I start shooting. I am not fucking kidding.”

  Pete waited. Nothing. He tried to focus, to tune into the figure’s breathing, but found nothing. His hands, holding up the gun as he stayed in the uncomfortable crouch, started to shake. He felt the sweat forming on his brow.

  “You’re foolish.” The voice came from the room, but Pete couldn’t pinpoint where exactly. It was a growl—like someone had swallowed crushed glass and was still trying to speak. “You think it’s that simple? That I’d just come in here, with no plan, no goal, no concept of how to scare you and your stupid girlfriend? Did you think you’d just f
ind Nina and that’d be that?”

  Pete looked into the darkness; his eyes narrowed. He lifted the gun for a split second, unsure of where the man had gone, his voice coming in at weird levels and from different directions. He felt disoriented. The mention of Nina threw him off. She’s alive?

  Kathy’s scream cut through the silence. Pete pulled back and stood up. He turned toward the scream—toward the living room—before he remembered he was leaving one problem behind. He felt the man slam into him, pushing his body into the wall across from the guest room entrance. His gun fell out of his hand and slid out of his reach. He heard the man kick his gun down the hall, away from the rooms. He felt the man’s knee rise and make contact with his face. He felt his face roll off the knee as his body fell. His jaw hit the carpeted floor. The man’s boot made contact with the back of his head. He rolled to the left, dodging another kick, and grabbed the man’s foot, trying to pull him down. But a quick punch to the face disoriented him. Pete’s vision blurred. The man darted down the hall, away from the living room—toward the guest room and Pete’s bedroom on the other side of the house. The room’s door slammed shut. He tried to pull himself up, but slipped and fell again instead. His head was pounding. He didn’t hear Kathy anymore. He could, however, hear his room being trashed—books, shoes, and drawers being strewn about and slamming into his door. Pete strained to get to his feet.

  He had to help Kathy. Whatever was going on at the other side of the house would have to wait. He started to turn toward the living room—to Kathy—when he smelled it.

  Smoke.

  He looked up: nothing. It was too dark. But he felt it. His lungs took in another dose of smoke and he responded with a coughing fit. He started to walk toward the living room and could see the smoke now, obscuring his vision further. He squinted his eyes. He reached the large living room and crouched on the floor, feeling around for his gun. Nothing. He was lost in his own house.