Down the Darkest Street (17 page)

He saw Fernandez step out of the house. He waited for Fernandez to get in his car and back out of the driveway. The sputtering Toyota turned onto the street and sped off. He slipped on a pair of leather gloves. He whistled softly as he stepped out of the car and walked toward the front door.

***

Even under the shade of a giant umbrella, the Miami heat and humidity were still wearing on Pete. He shook his glass to make the ice move around and took a few small cubes in his mouth, crunching on them to pass the time. He hadn’t ordered any food yet, despite being starved and despite being at Versailles, one of the tastiest and best-known Cuban restaurants in Miami. He looked out onto the street. It was the middle of the week in the middle of the day. Not a lot of activity, aside from a cluster of Cuban
viejos
sipping coffee under an awning at the restaurant’s pickup window. The fast, pitter-patter beat of the Spanish exclamations and stories being shared a few feet away comforted Pete.

“Are you waiting for a date?”

Pete turned around and saw Kathy’s lanky figure standing between him and the boiling sun. She cast a long shadow.

“Kind of feels like it, no?” he said.

“I guess,” she said as she dropped her purse down on the large table and sat to Pete’s right. “I’m assuming this means you’re not mad at me anymore?”

“I’m still annoyed at you,” he said. “But I need your help.”

“Well, that’s encouraging, I guess,” she said. “Why are we here? I mean, I’m excited to hork down some
carne asada
and all, but a fancy lunch isn’t your usual way of expressing annoyance. Also, are we waiting for people to join us?”

“You’ll see.”

“Wonderful. It’s going to be like that,” she said, looking around the outside seating area, hoping for a waiter. Her eyes found two other people, though. “Who are those two dudes heading over here? They appear to know you.”

“I know them,” Pete said, putting his glass down and waving at Harras and Aguilera.

“I don’t like this,” she said. “You didn’t tell me I’d have to interact with strangers.”

“Just let me take the lead,” he said, his voice lower as the FBI agents approached the table.

“That’s fucking reassuring,” she whispered back.

Harras reached the table first and nodded, sitting down across from Pete, Aguilera taking the seat to his left as he scanned Kathy and shot daggers at Pete.

“Glad you could make it, gentlemen,” Pete said. “You guys know Kathy Bentley. Kathy, this is Harras and Aguilera. Two of the FBI’s finest.”

Kathy nodded. She looked confused. Her eyes widened at the mention of FBI.

“Get to the point,” Aguilera said. “This better not be a waste of time.”

Harras shot Aguilera a dirty look.

Pete laid his hands palms-down on the table and looked at the agents sitting across from him. “I want us involved.”

“Involved in what?” Harras said, his tone sharp.

“In the case,” Pete said, his voice clear, his eyes locked on Harras. “We knew more than you did. We know more now. Nina Henriquez is still missing—she might be alive. If you don’t let me help, I’ll go back to the press and we’ll blow the lid off this entire thing, and show how incompetent you guys are.”

“Are you fucking crazy, man?” This time Aguilera responded, half rising from his seat. “We’ll throw you in jail in a second for interfering with a police investigation. Do you think we won’t do that?”

“Shut the fuck up, Aguilera,” Harras said, his voice low but forceful. Aguilera twitched in protest but stayed quiet.

Harras looked at Pete and Kathy, like an annoyed parent forced to discipline an unruly child.

“Forgive my partner,” Harras said. “His tone is off. But he’s in the right ballpark. You mess with this investigation, and it’s going to be easy to lock you away.”

“I’m sure,” Pete said. “But by then the damage is done. The guy who brought down the Silent Death is calling the Miami PD and the FBI incompetent? People will buy it. Whether it’s true or not, or whatever the details are. That can be resolved later.”

Harras looked at his hands and took a deep breath.

“What’s your angle?”

“You can’t be seriously engaging this asshole,” Aguilera said, turning to Harras, a look of shock in his face.

Harras shot Aguilera another glance before turning back to Pete and Kathy. “Fernandez—answer the question. What’s your angle with this?”

“I want to help,” Pete said. “I can help you. You must see that by now. I’ve been dancing along the fringe of this thing—these kinds of things—for a while now. I want to be an active part. I think I can help nail this guy before any other girls go missing. Or die.”

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.”

“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 guy 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.