Down the Darkest Street

by Alex Segura

  “Not sure,” Pete said. “I mean, it’s not like this guy was just working out of his office. He must have gone home to plan his kills.”

  “If this is our guy.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I just…” She hesitated. “It seems too easy, is all. On paper, it’s perfect—I mean, location-wise, too. Some of the victims lived around here. But still. Easy.”

  “Easy how?” Pete said, his tone sharp. “We haven’t found him. We haven’t found Emily. We’re just standing outside.”

  “Don’t get snippy with me,” she said. “I’m just saying it’d be too easy if they walked in there, found a bunch of bloody rags pointing to some guy who worked there, and then the case was closed. Serial killers are smart. They kill people over decades. And this guy is no fool; he’s studied killers that have prowled this very area.”

  “So what do you suggest we do? Give up?”

  Kathy sighed and met Pete’s eyes for the first time in what seemed like hours to Pete.

  “Yes, let’s give up,” she said. “Of course not. Jesus. I’m just saying there’s got to be more to it. He could be playing us. Maybe this is a distraction ploy of some kind.”

  As Kathy finished her sentence, Pete caught Harras and Aguilera walking out of the Realtor’s office, yanking their plastic gloves off with disgust. Nothing.

  ***

  The officers working the area had opened umbrellas and tried their best to secure the crime scene from the surprise Miami rain shower, but it was messy business. Pete stood off to the side, Harras on his left, as Aguilera and the other investigators scanned the area surrounding the girl’s body. Melissa Saiz had worked in the strip mall at the Futuro Supermarket. She was barely thirty. Pretty, going to Miami Dade to finish her degree. She’d probably come outside for a bit of fresh air or to make a phone call to her boyfriend or mother.

  “How bad was it?” Pete asked, more to avoid the thoughts careening through his head than to talk to Harras.

  “What do you think?” Harras said, before taking a sip of coffee.

  Pete watched as Kathy, across the small lot, wandered away from the crime scene, pulling out her cell phone. Calling the paper? He hoped not. Their standing with the FBI and police was tenuous enough as it was. Having her report what was going on would destroy any chance they had of helping find this guy. He felt his hair begin to mat against his scalp as the rain got stronger, becoming less of a shower and more of a storm.

  “It’s not one guy,” Pete said.

  “What?” Harras responded, his eyes still on the officers working the crime scene.

  “I’ve crossed paths with him a few times,” Pete said, his eyes squinting from the droplets of rain hitting his face. “And he hasn’t come at me the same way twice. First, he beats me up in a parking lot like some kind of thug. Next, he destroys my house with bombs.”

  “A guy can’t kick your ass two ways?” Harras said, a laugh buried under the growl of his voice. “You need a serious reality check.”

  “No, it’s not that,” Pete said, his voice trailing off. “But when I was in the house, it felt—I dunno…it seemed like he was moving so fast. First he was in one room, then he’d tied Kathy up in another. Then he surprised me from behind. It was almost like some kind of supernatural creature.”

  Pete thought he heard Harras fight back a scoff.

  “We can’t discount it,” Harras said. “But think about your perspective: You’ve been beaten to hell, your house is on fire, you’re inhaling who knows how much smoke, and you can’t see for shit. Not the most ideal way to gauge how many people are in your house, right?”

  “I guess you have a point,” Pete said.

  “Plus, these guys,” Harras said, his chin motioning toward Saiz’s body. “They don’t run in packs. Not usually.”

  Pete saw Kathy walking back toward them. She looked tired, Pete thought. Her shoulders sank and her expression was unreadable.

  “I’m leaving,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” Pete said. “I drove here.” The words spilling out of his mouth before he realized how silly they sounded.

  “I’m taking a cab,” she said. What she meant by “leaving” was becoming clearer the more she spoke. Pete’s eyes squinted as he forced his mind to comprehend what was happening.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home.”

  Harras raised his hands slightly as he walked off. “You guys do whatever you need to do,” he said. “Fernandez, we need to talk. If you’ve got some theories bouncing around in your brain, I want to hear them. But for now, I have to finish up here.”

  He flicked his card in Pete’s direction, as if Pete wouldn’t be able to contact him otherwise. Pete grabbed at the card and missed, watching the tiny light blue piece of matte paper fall on the wet gravel. He bent down to pick it up, looking at Kathy as he stood.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “It doesn’t seem like nothing,” Pete said. “You were fine two minutes ago; then you go and talk on the phone and suddenly you’re in a hurry to go home.”

  “I’m just—I’m done with this,” Kathy said, her voice cracking as she motioned her chin toward the Dumpster and the body being slowly pulled out from it. “Death. Murder. Girls in Dumpsters. Friends missing. It’s been two straight years of it and I don’t have the stomach for it.”

  “Who was on the phone?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “Work,” she said. “It was work. Steve Vance called me. He said they got a call about me. They wouldn’t say from whom, but I can guess. Whoever it was let them know about the deal we struck with Harras and Aguilera. The one where I wouldn’t report any of the information I learned right away, but save it for a book that would have nothing to do with The Miami Times. Believe it or not, the newspaper I work for was not too keen on that. It also didn’t help that they had no idea I was here.”

  Steve Vance was Pete’s old boss at The Miami Times, and far from his favorite person. The word “tool” came to mind. Vance was the type who knew how to climb the corporate ladder, but little else. He’d had a role in getting Pete fired the previous year. Pete’s own distracted and half-baked work hadn’t helped matters.

  “Fuck Vance,” Pete said. “We’re on the verge of something here.”

  “Listen to yourself,” Kathy said, her eyes watering. “We’re on the verge of nothing. Deep down, you know that. This isn’t some minor league weirdo you’re chasing. This is a mass murderer who tried to have us both killed. Tried to have you killed a handful of times already. Someone who has your ex-girlfriend tied up somewhere, if she’s even alive. And all you can think about is unlocking the Rubik’s Cube? Then what? What happens if you find Emily and we catch this guy? You’re still doing nothing.”

  Pete took a half step back. “What? Where is this coming from?”

  “I got fired,” she said. “I just got fired. The deal with the FBI was unacceptable to them. I’m not surprised, but I didn’t think they’d figure it out so fast. Lying to my employer and withholding information that would probably help my job as a local columnist, coupled with the fact that I’m just hanging out at a crime scene with no clear press role, plus a million other tiny little things, was the end of the line. I have a month’s severance and I get to say I resigned. But I just got fired.”

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Pete said. “That’s terrible. But Vance is a prick and an idiot. I mean, he fired me, and look, it all turned out fine. I—”

  “It didn’t turn out fine,” Kathy said, her voice loud. Pete noticed a few of the surrounding officers’ heads turning in response. “Look at you. Look at yourself. You think just because you quit drinking nothing else is wrong? That’s not how it fucking works. I’ve spent the last few weeks traipsing around with you, trying to find this monster because it seemed like a good idea. Well, it wasn’t. We’re not equipped for this, Pete. We are not t
he police. We’re not the FBI. Your ego won’t let you see that. You have nothing: no home, no friends, no job, no life. Just this weird, backward delusion that you have some innate ability that no one else can tap into. Well, newsflash—you’re not fucking smarter than everyone else. And this is it for me. I tried. I wanted to find this guy because, let’s be real, I made my name the last time we did this sort of thing. But that’s never happening again.”

  “You’re upset,” Pete said. “I can understand that…”

  He reached out his hand. He was surprised when she swatted it away and moved backward. She was crying now, her makeup mixing with her tears.

  “Don’t patronize me,” she yelled. “I’m done. This is over. Emily is dead. She’s probably in a ditch somewhere, too, and we’ll never find her. And this is all your fucking fault. If you hadn’t stuck your nose in it, dragged me along, fucked around with everyone who was fine and happy and doing things apart from you, none of this would be happening to us.”

  She didn’t wait for him to respond. She turned around and walked toward the parking lot. The rain had started again, a soft drizzle that most people would normally ignore. But as Pete watched his friend’s figure grow smaller and drift farther into the tiny, decaying strip mall, he felt every drop sting and stab at his tired body.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  It had stopped raining by the time Pete arrived at the Book Bin. It was nearly eight in the evening and the store was closed. He opened the front door and locked it behind him. He hadn’t bothered to swing by Kathy’s to try and gather what few material possessions he had left. At least there was a cot in the back office here, he thought. Somewhere warm to rest his head. Tomorrow he’d figure out what to do. Tomorrow he’d find Emily. He felt his throat clench at the thought. His mind bounced back to what Kathy had said. About Emily probably being dead. Probably chopped up in a Dumpster somewhere. He felt weighed down, his body suddenly heavy as he dropped onto the tiny cot in the small office. He didn’t bother to turn the light on. He wasn’t sure if Dave would be opening the store tomorrow, but he wasn’t concerned.

  He didn’t give what he was doing much thought until he’d pulled the bottle of Stoli vodka from the small desk’s bottom drawer. How long had he known Dave kept it there? Probably since the first night he’d slept in the back room, scrunched onto the tiny cot, his feet dangling over the edge. He set it on the desk and found some comfort in the way the mostly full bottle hit the cheap, imitation wood. The liquid inside sloshed from side to side. Pete opened another drawer and pulled out a small Dixie cup. He set it next to the bottle and paused for a second. Was this when he would feel a pang of guilt and stop himself? Run out of the shitty used bookstore that was the only roof over his head and find Emily? Negate all the damage he’d done and fix things?

  Kathy was right. As he considered what was left of his life, he heard the familiar sound of liquor pouring into a glass.

  He lifted the flimsy cup up to his face and stared at it, smelling the alcohol.

  The first sip sent a wave of warmth and electricity pulsing through him. He was back. He was home. He felt complete. The buzzing in his brain had erased the sadness, worry, and anxiety that had set up shop. He didn’t care about anything anymore, and that’s what he wanted. The second and third—and fourth, fifth, and sixth—sips were more like gulps, and soon the cup was gone, his throat burning from the vodka. He stood up and refilled his cup with one sloppy flourish. He downed most of it immediately.

  He fell onto the cot, the paper cup falling on him, spilling a few remaining drops of vodka onto his shirt. He didn’t bother to wipe it away. His head was already hurting. He felt his mouth drying up and he didn’t give a shit.

  He leaned forward, stretching to reach the bottle. He grabbed it and brought it back to bed with him, no longer bothering with the pretense of a cup or pacing himself. He heard the sounds of Bird Road outside the store—the honking of horns, the blaring music blasting from expensive stereos, Spanish and English dancing together in the sweat and humidity of Miami—and he took a long, choking pull from the bottle.

  ***

  Pete opened his eyes. He figured about an hour had passed. The words and pictures that had crossed his mind brought a cloud of sadness over him. He wanted to laugh at how silly that sounded—how silly his drunken logic had become. How little anything had changed. How little progress he’d made. How he’d fooled himself into thinking he’d beaten back whatever sick demons were residing inside him. But all he could find in himself was a quick, jagged sob. Sweet oblivion.

  “I remember because of the fires that leapt

  From the caves of the things that have not happened yet.

  When I think of it now they smell to me quite sinister.

  I want to go back and die at the drive-in,

  Die before strangers can say

  ‘I hate the rain.’”

  —Neko Case, “Red Tide”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Pete looked around the empty room. The Jamaica Motel was a rundown shithole on Calle Ocho, on the westernmost fringes of Little Havana. It was one of many such places on the strip, offering free cable TV and no questions asked. You could rent rooms by the hour, day, week, or month. Pete had paid for the room in cash. The pink paint coating the motel’s exterior had faded to an off-peach shade and the pool had developed a layer of green paste over the water.

  The bed smelled of cigarettes and sweat. The TV was on, blaring the Channel 7 news. Pete was sitting on the floor, his body leaning on the nightstand next to the bed, his face looking toward the door, a bottle of cheap vodka in his hand. He’d rented the room that morning. Dave had asked him to leave the night before. “If you’re not going to work, and you’re just going to hide back here and sneak drinks, you have to go.” Pete hadn’t argued. This was what he wanted anyway. To be alone.

  He took another long swig from the bottle of Popov vodka. It was cheap and strong. Felt like he was downing acid. The kind of vodka that would kick the hangover in earlier. He was already feeling the first effects. He didn’t even bother going to a bar. Why? Why go somewhere when he could just spend a few twenties and be set for the night? The television said something about the murders and Pete felt a click in his brain, like the sound of someone flipping on a light switch a few rooms away. Something easily ignored, but still there. Better to lie here, alone, in dirty clothes, a week-old beard, and less than a hundred dollars in his pocket. This would be his last stand. This would be his epitaph. Pete Fernandez, a washed-up hack, known for being able to down over a dozen drinks and still drive home, for the innate ability to lead his friends to an early grave, and for an undeserved ego and deluded sense of self-importance. A waste of space. A monster. His memory trailed back to the year before, when he’d run into his father’s old partner on the Miami-Dade police department. What was it Carlos Broche had said? “What would your father think if he saw you now?”

  His dad would be glad he was dead. Happy he didn’t have to see his son wash away what was left of his sad life. He let out an empty laugh. The truth hurt. His head throbbed as if in response.

  He didn’t even have any music. Nothing. The room was stale and empty and dirty. But what would he listen to? No sad song would make him feel better, much less feel anything. What could Morrissey or Paul Westerberg offer? What trivial advice would Lou Reed have to share? No one knew what he was feeling, and no one ever would. It was his pain. His fault. He deserved this black hole.

  He took another drag from the bottle and felt his sadness wash away. Felt the lukewarm liquid invade his mouth and seep into his pores. His vision glazed over. He remembered putting the bottle down and laying his head against the bed frame. Then everything went dark.

  ***

  A new day. More of the same. He tried taking a long shower in the afternoon. His head was a constant ache. His bones hurt. He’d awoken on the floor, what little had been left in the bottle spilt on the cheap carpet. Vomit on his shirt, dried drool caked on his f
ace, and stubble. He wiped at his shirt, as if that would clean off the dirt and bile that was now coating everything around him, in reality and in his head.

  He changed into his last clean shirt, from a stack of polos he’d grabbed at a discount store a few days after the explosion. He felt better from the shower, but knew it wouldn’t last. He looked out the cloudy window of his room and saw that the sky stood out in stark contrast to the gray, musky room. The day was bright, orange, neon, and candy-coated. Miami. Even at its worst, it shone the brightest light on the dankest and darkest corners of any street. Pete allowed himself a wry smile as he left the room and walked out of the motel.

  He had some cash left in his pocket and called a cab from the lobby. He’d been forced to return the rental, and he didn’t anticipate getting a new car anytime soon. The cab came. He got in and gave the driver directions in a flat monotone. He could smell the wine on his own breath and realized he hadn’t brushed his teeth, nor had he done much of a job when it came to showering. He could tell the cabbie noticed. He didn’t care.

  He could hear Willy Chirino coming from the cab stereo as the car wheeled onto Calle Ocho and inched east, toward the 836. Willy was singing about a mysterious woman wearing black socks. After about fifteen minutes, they were in Coral Gables, near the art galleries, glitzy shops, and five-star restaurants of Miracle Mile. He directed the cab to drop him off near Giralda and he paid the driver, leaving a decent if unspectacular tip. He counted the bills in his wallet. Sixty bucks. Enough for a good time at The Bar and possibly a bottle for the rest of the night.

  It was close to four in the afternoon. On Friday? Saturday? Pete wasn’t sure until he walked into the dark bar and noticed the day on the television that was showing ESPN sports highlights. Sunday. His hands gripped the bar for support. Had he really lost all sense of time? His tongue ran over the inside of his mouth, picking up the taste of wine and vomit from the night before. Had it ever been this bad before? He didn’t want to answer himself.