Down the Darkest Street

by Alex Segura

  “No, I never spoke to Rex again,” she said, uttering the killer’s name slowly, as if savoring a word she hadn’t used in a long time. Her eyes scanned the floor. She began to rub her hands together. “But I knew how he was doing.”

  “How?” Pete asked.

  He felt Kathy’s fingers jabbing at his side. She wanted him to cut it out. Pete couldn’t. He knew this was going somewhere.

  “Rex—and this sounds terrible—had a way with children,” Ana said, her voice hesitant. “And the more I think about this, the more insane it sounds, but I never thought he would hurt him, even after all those terrible things about Rex came up.”

  Pieces started to click together in Pete’s head. Just enough to put him on alert.

  “Hurt who, Ana? Who wouldn’t Rex hurt?” Pete said.

  Kathy had stopped distracting Pete. Her hand was now on his arm as they watched the older woman wipe tears from her eyes. She was still looking at the floor.

  “My son, my little boy,” Ana said, her voice low and hollow. “He loved my little boy, from my first marriage. I let him keep in touch with Rex. I explained everything to him. He was happy to have a father figure of any kind. He’s very smart. He knew Rex had done bad things, but he still cared for him.”

  “Your son?” Kathy said.

  “How long did your son keep in touch with Rex?” Pete said, his voice clear and forceful.

  “Until they killed him,” Ana said. “They wrote letters back and forth for almost a decade.”

  “Where’s your son now?” Pete asked. He could feel Kathy inching closer to him. She was scared.

  “My son is a good boy,” Ana said. Her eyes were glazed over. She realized this had been a sham, but she couldn’t stop talking anymore. “He just loved Rex.”

  “Where is he?” Pete asked again.

  She didn’t answer. Her head was in her hands. She was sobbing now. Kathy gave Pete a confused look.

  Pete’s mind was buzzing. They were close to something. He ran over Ana’s words. What was he missing?

  “Is Gallegos your maiden name?” Pete asked. It was a gut reaction question. She brought her head up. Her eyes were suddenly clear. Her mouth slightly agape.

  “What?”

  “Gallegos. Is that your maiden name?”

  “Yes.”

  Pete felt Kathy’s nails digging into his arm.

  “What’s your son’s name, Ms. Gallegos?” Pete asked. He felt his stomach turn. He hoped the answer would be something other than the name he already knew was coming.

  “Raul…Raul Aguilera,” she said. “My little boy. Raulito.”

  Pete could barely hear Kathy’s sharp intake of breath over the ringing in his ears.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “We need to meet,” Pete said to Harras over the phone, his voice more of a hiss than anything else. They were speeding down 836, heading west. Pete watched as Kathy navigated the crowded expressway. They’d left Dave’s car parked on the street near Ana’s condo, thinking it’d be better to ride together. Soon the traffic would become unbearable; they couldn’t risk being stuck or separated. Pete tried to concentrate on the road and Harras, ignoring the phone’s vibrations—signaling another obscenity-laden text from Dave complaining about the status of his vehicle.

  “Where? What’s going on?”

  “We know the killer,” Pete said. “That’s all I can say on the phone. Where are you? Can you meet us somewhere? Where’s your partner?”

  “I’m at home,” Harras said, sounding annoyed. “Not sure where Aguilera is. Probably on break, too. They’ve got some uniforms stationed at the hospital. Look, this better not be bullshit, Fernandez. I don’t have time for it. Not now. Meet me at La Carretta on Eighth Street, off Le Jeune. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “See you there,” Pete said, then hung up. Kathy looked at him.

  “He’s game to meet,” he said. “La Carretta.”

  “Why do we always meet cops at Cuban places?”

  “You’re complaining?”

  “Well,” Kathy said. “I guess not. But still.”

  Pete allowed a smile to crack. They’d done it. They had figured it out. The killer had been under their noses all this time, and now they had the ammo to take him down.

  “Wow,” Kathy said. “Aguilera’s the last person I would have thought of for the killer, you know?”

  “Well, you wouldn’t usually suspect the person investigating the crime,” Pete said, looking out the passenger side window as Kathy took the Le Jeune exit. “But it fits. He was close to Rex, probably admired him, and now has some weird fixation on paying homage to him. Emily also had a meltdown when he went into her room—once she heard his voice, she went nuts.”

  “Is it that easy, though?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean…” Kathy said. “Well, I don’t know. Let’s hope it’s him. It just seems very neat. Although it would explain Emily flipping out when Aguilera came into her room.”

  “Exactly. More evidence. Some things have to work out for us, don’t they?”

  “When do they ever work out like this?” Kathy said.

  ***

  Pete knew something was wrong the moment they turned left on Calle Ocho. The parking lot to La Carretta, which was usually bustling at this hour of the day, was strangely quiet. He couldn’t spot Harras’s car, a late model Mazda Miata, anywhere in the lot, and the usual crowd of aging Cuban viejitos was nowhere to be found. He put his hand on Kathy’s arm.

  “Turn around,” he said.

  “What? Why?”

  “Something’s weird,” he said. “It doesn’t feel right.”

  “Well, you haven’t even eaten yet,” she tried to joke.

  “Think about it,” he said. “Who’s Aguilera’s mom going to call the second we leave? And what power does he still have?”

  “You think she called him?”

  “We’re walking into a trap.”

  She slammed on the brakes and made a U-turn in a few quick, smooth motions. Pete gripped his door handle to keep from slamming into the dashboard. He felt the car accelerate in the opposite direction of the restaurant. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until the car turned back toward the expressway. Kathy’s eyes were focused on the road. Pete looked back and didn’t notice anyone following them—so far.

  “Where to now?” she asked, her eyes still on the road.

  “I don’t know,” Pete said. As he finished the sentence, he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. He looked at the display. Kathy turned to him for a second.

  “Who is it?”

  “Harras,” Pete said.

  “Pick up.”

  “This is Pete,” he said, his voice straining to sound casual.

  “Where are you guys? You call me in a panic and now you’re dragging ass?”

  “We should be there soon,” Pete lied. “We got caught in some traffic.”

  There was a pause before Harras answered. “Lay low,” Harras said, his voice a quick whisper. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but they’re after you.”

  “What?”

  “There’s an APB on you and your girlfriend,” Harras said. Pete could tell he was conflicted. Betraying the confidence of his fellow officers went against his very nature. “Something’s not right about this. I can feel it. Lay low and let me figure it out. But they’re on your trail.”

  Pete hung up the phone without responding. He lowered his window and tossed the cellular out.

  “What happened?” Kathy said, confused. “Why the hell did you just do that? You could have just tossed the sim card, you psycho.”

  “They’re looking for us,” Pete said. “The police think we’re involved somehow.”

  “How do you figure that? Another premonition?”

  “Harras just told me,” Pete said, trying to think. “We need to go somewhere they won’t find us.”

  “Call Dave,” Kathy said, handing Pete her phone.

&nb
sp; ***

  Dusk had settled into night as Kathy pulled into the grassy parking lot across from Churchill’s Hideaway in Little Haiti, a formerly poor part of town that was known more for its crime rate than anything else. But Little Haiti was now squarely in the sights of investors looking to gobble up land as close to the trendy parts of town as possible. While still far from flush and home to a large part of Miami’s Haitian community, the area was gentrifying at an alarming rate—with bodegas and creole restaurants replaced by pop-up stores and nightclubs. The streets were going from dark and seedy to bright and artsy—with Churchill’s as a fossil of an edgier, more dangerous era.

  Inside, the bar was a dive’s dive: loud music, grizzled drunks, and grimy glasses. Outside, torn flyers, stickers, and graffiti covered every bit of wall space, and Pete’s mind instantly went back to his younger days, when a night wasn’t complete without hitting Churchill’s for a show or a nightcap pint of Boddingtons. They got out of the car and Pete paused for a second to take in the landmark of his youth.

  “Leave your keys in the car,” Pete said.

  “What? Are you high?”

  “Just do it,” Pete said. “One of Dave’s friends is going to drive it somewhere and leave it. We have to throw them off our trail. If they find your car here, we’re caught.”

  “If they’re here, we’re caught,” Kathy said. Still, she did as Pete requested. “What sort of master plan does your trust-fund-thug friend have, anyway?”

  “We’ll see,” Pete said as he held the door open for her.

  They were greeted by the loud, jagged chords of a local power punk band, Corky. They’d been playing around the bars and clubs of Miami since Pete was in college. He had seen them play more than a few times—blurred memories that were now almost gone with time. The crowd was sparse, but the music reverberated around the two-room bar. The main area, with two pool tables and soccer on the big-screen TVs, was empty. The showroom, with the band playing, a busy bar, and a few tables, was more crowded. Pete nodded at the bartender—a big, burly Dominican named Escala, his arms decorated with what looked like prison tattoos—who pointed toward the back with his chin. Pete and Kathy headed past the stage and through a narrow hallway that would have probably dissuaded anyone who wasn’t familiar with the venue.

  “The fuck was that?” Kathy whispered.

  “Dave’s here,” Pete said.

  “Well, I would hope so,” Kathy said. “I mean, what was that little knowing look you got from Tony Montana over there? This is a whole different side to you. You hang out with these guys?”

  Pete turned around, his hand on the door to the outside patio.

  “I used to,” he said, his expression flat. “Dave still does.”

  Pete opened the door and they found themselves in a dark, dank garden area. The music from inside the bar could still be heard through the thin walls, but it did little to mask the humid, uneasy feeling that hovered over the empty garden. A few pieces of dirty lawn furniture were all the decoration Pete could see. Dave appeared suddenly, as if cutting through the darkness itself. He seemed totally at ease, his belly visible under his too-tight Def Leppard shirt. He had some kind of crumbs in his beard. He was also wearing large sunglasses.

  “You guys are in some deep shit,” he said, skipping pleasantries.

  “Are we?” Pete asked.

  “Yeah, dude. You’re all over the news,” Dave said. “They’re saying you’re ‘persons of interest’ in this serial killer shit.”

  Pete and Kathy exchanged glances.

  “I need your help,” Pete said.

  “You don’t even have to ask,” Dave said, almost offended. “What’s the deal?”

  “We think Aguilera is the killer,” Pete said, looking around to make sure there was no one else around.

  “The FBI agent? Holy fuck,” Dave said.

  “Yeah,” Kathy interjected. “Crazy, right?”

  “Why him?”

  “His mom dated Rex Whitehurst,” Pete began. “The killer from way back. Turns out her son and Rex were tight. When I was visiting Emily, she freaked out when Aguilera showed up and started talking, as if she recognized his voice.”

  “So what do we do?” Dave said as he scratched his chin absentmindedly. “Go to the cops and explain everything? I mean, they’re on your ass.”

  “First, we need to get rid of Kathy’s car,” Pete said.

  “Gomez is already driving it to Coral Gables,” Dave said. “It’ll be outside her apartment in no time.”

  “Can you get someone to keep an eye on Emily’s room in Baptist?” Pete said.

  Dave nodded.

  “I’ll call some people, see what we can do,” Dave said. “It’s going to be tough, especially if there are cops around her all day. But we’ll try.”

  “If it is Aguilera, then he thought Emily was dead when he dumped her on the side of the road,” Pete said. “Now he knows she’s alive—and he knows she’ll pin this on him. He’ll try to kill her first chance he gets.”

  Dave pulled out his cell and walked away from Kathy and Pete. He could only make out a few words of what Dave was saying in Spanish.

  “What’s going on?” Kathy asked. She was nervous.

  “If we don’t hear what he’s asking them to do, we can’t be implicated,” Pete said.

  “That is some loose-ass logic there, Petey,” Kathy said.

  Dave flipped his phone shut and walked back to them.

  “What else?”

  “I dunno,” Pete said. “That’s all I worked out on the way here. We need to think. I need to figure out how we can put the spotlight on Aguilera before we get arrested, because if we’re locked up, that gives him time to bail.”

  “Follow me,” Dave said, motioning them toward a gravel walkway near the back of the patio.

  They walked along the narrow path for a few feet until they arrived at a shack about the size of a college dorm room.

  “The fuck is this?” Kathy said.

  Dave opened the door. Inside was a small, well-lit room, with a few chairs and a table that served as a dining area. There were no windows. On the table was a Mac laptop. It was cold in the tiny space.

  “I come here when I need a break,” Dave said. “Computer’s all yours, just don’t judge me if you stumble across anything dicey in my Internet history. I got my car back, by the way. No thanks to you.”

  “How long do you think we have before they find us?” Pete asked, ignoring the jab.

  “Couple hours at least,” Dave said. “Probably a few days if you stick it out here. But knowing you, that’s probably not going to happen.”

  “No,” Pete said. “But this’ll do for now. Thanks, man.”

  ***

  “What do we know?”

  Pete’s words echoed around the tiny room. It was close to three in the morning. He and Kathy had spent the last few hours doing as much research on Raul Aguilera as one could with just a laptop and an Internet connection. Luckily, the usually sloth-like Miami Times had yet to revoke Kathy’s database access, giving them a bit more maneuverability than they’d expected. It probably had to do with the please-don’t-sue-us “exit package” they’d given her, which meant she got part of her salary for a few weeks but didn’t have to report to work—something to tide her over until she found a new gig. Still, the search results were nil.

  “We know that Raul Aguilera was a model student,” Kathy said. “And he went on to be a well-regarded and respected FBI agent. No criminal record, no professional missteps and, aside from what we learned today, no links to Rex Whitehurst or any other serial murderers, aside from the ones he tried to put away. We have a lot of ground to cover, so let’s focus. We don’t exactly have the option of going home and sleeping on this.”

  “No, we don’t,” Pete said. In the last few hours, they’d seen numerous news reports—on the Internet and television—with their photos featured. The cops were doing the full court press to find them, and if they were caught with nothing t
o back up their claims, whatever hopes they had of stopping Aguilera would be under the bus with them.

  “Any chance we could find some of those ads?” Pete said.

  “The ones the killer posted?”

  “Yeah,” Pete said.

  Kathy didn’t respond right away, but began typing.

  “Let’s see how far back we can go,” she said. Pete leaned over her, his eyes scanning the screen as she flipped through pages and pages of the Craigslist’s site history.

  “I wish we had the stuff we got from visiting Alice’s roommate,” Pete said. “It’s going to be impossible to figure out which ad one of these girls responded to.”

  “Wait,” Kathy said. She lifted her hands from the keyboard for a second. “Didn’t one of the posts come from a weird e-mail address?”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Pete said. “A Hotmail account. Alice’s roommate got defensive when you made fun of the poster for using one.”

  “It was something cheesy but sort of official-sounding,” Kathy said. “Like, MiamiApartments@hotmail or something?”

  “MIAapartments4rentSOON@hotmail. Try that,” Pete said.

  She typed in the address and waited for the slowish Internet connection to kick in. After a few seconds, a single listing appeared—from a few months before.

  “Bingo,” Kathy said.

  She clicked on the listing. They both scanned the text quickly.

  “This is it,” Pete said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yup. This is the ad Alice Cline read and responded to,” Pete said. “This is the ad that killed her.”

  $800 / 1br—430ft²—APARTMENT IN KENDALL (7320 SW 80TH ST APT J402)

  Nice clean apartment, for rent starting June 1st. By appointment only. Ideal for first-time tenant or college student. Located near restaurants and laundry. No broker fee, great deal. Contact Steve via email.

  “OK, but there’s no number with it,” Kathy said. “We know it’s him, but that doesn’t help. We’re grasping at straws here.”

  Pete motioned for Kathy to step away from the laptop. They were both tired and cranky, but he had an idea.

  “Let me get in there for a second,” he said.

  He went back to the main search option and typed “miaapartments4rentSOON”—minus the Hotmail domain. He got a handful of search results.