Down the Darkest Street (14 page)

Dave shook his head as he grabbed a copy of the latest Chabon book and walked over to the front window display of the store.

“I’m guessing you told the cops this, right?” Dave said, his back to Pete. “Please tell me you told the cops.” Before Pete could respond, Dave spoke again. “You expecting anyone?”

“Huh?”

The door chime sounded as two men stepped into the store. Both were tall and fit; one was older, past fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair. The other one looked Hispanic and was probably younger than Pete. They looked like cops.

The older one walked up to the counter and gave Pete a knowing half-smile.

“You Pete Fernandez?”

“Who’re you?” Pete responded, not standing up from his seat.

The younger one stood behind his older partner and scowled. The older man pulled out a badge.

“Robert Harras, FBI,” the man said, folding his badge and sliding it into his back pocket. “This man here is my partner, Raul Aguilera. Also FBI. Now, will you answer my question?”

Pete stood up and extended his good hand.

“Pete Fernandez,” he said. “Not FBI.”

“Could have fooled me,” Aguilera said, a sneer on his face. “The way you’ve been acting.”

“I didn’t realize it was junior varsity week at the FBI,” Pete said.

Harras raised a hand as if to quiet Aguilera. He gave Pete an apologetic look.

“Listen, we’d like to chat with you for a minute if you have time,” Harras said. “It’s related to the deaths of Alice Cline and Erica Morales.”

“Sure,” Pete said. “What about them?”

“I need to know what info you’ve collected during your little vigilante escapades with Kathy Bentley,” Harras said, his eyes cold. “I know you’ve been dancing around the PD’s case—talking to the family, et cetera. I also know you were the victim of a fairly severe beating a few nights ago.”

“I got mugged.”

“Yet you didn’t report anything stolen,” Harras said. “See where I’m going here? You’re interfering with a police investigation.”

“Not the first time,” Aguilera said, standing behind Harras with his arms folded.

“You’ve got the menacing thug thing down pat,” Pete said.

“You think you’re hot shit because of all that went down last year,” Aguilera said, this time ignoring Harras’s subtle pleas for silence. “But you’re not. You’re not a cop. You’re just a hotshot, like your father.”

Pete was more confused than insulted by the agent’s remark.

“You didn’t even know my father,” Pete said. “And you haven’t given me a single good reason why I should talk to you. All I know is you’re being an asshole—which, newsflash, isn’t good.”

“Stop right there,” Harras said. “Raul Aguilera Senior knew your dad—he was on the force with him and Carlos Broche, your father’s partner. You remember him, right?”

Pete nodded. Broche had been like an uncle to him, until he was revealed to be as corrupt and traitorous as the rest of his department. The memory of the old man collapsing from a gunshot wound to the head, courtesy of the Silent Death—and of the others lost during the whole affair—hit him. Mike. Amy. Broche. Chaz. The list of people lost in those few days was long.

“Yes,” Pete said. “And while I’m always up for doing some past-life regressions, can we get to the point here? I’m at work.”

Harras gave the store a cursory look, nodding at Dave, who was still stocking books near the front window display—and probably doing it just to listen in on as much as he could.

“Ah, right,” Harras said. “Your job. My deepest apologies for interrupting your important work.”

“You guys really know how to butter someone up,” Pete said, sitting down again. “But I have to ask, what brings the FBI into this? I mean, I’m just some dumb hotshot, right? I may be nuts, so stop me if you’ve heard this one before, but if the FBI is involved, that means whatever the Miami PD is investigating crosses state lines—or might. Which means our potential serial killer situation might have just gotten confirmed, and also might involve something much bigger than two dead girls in South Florida. Am I getting warmer?”

Harras grimaced. Pete had hit a nerve. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

“You’re lucky we don’t haul you in right now, you smug son of a bitch,” Harras said. “Just take this as a first and final warning: This is not your case. You’re not a private investigator and you don’t have any clients. If you know anything that you think may be of value to us, you’d better spill it in the next twenty-four hours or so help me, you’ll be spending some serious time in jail. You’re fucking with the wrong people, and you don’t have a flimsy newspaper press badge to protect you anymore.”

With that, Harras turned around, swung the store’s door open, and walked through, Aguilera right behind.

“Later, asshole,” Aguilera said.

“Nice to meet you guys,” Pete said, waving. His stomach was turning.

“Are you fucking crazy?” It was Dave. He’d reappeared, having heard everything. “Why didn’t you tell them what you just told me? Or are you just in the mood to be difficult?”

“I don’t know those guys from Adam,” Pete said, reorganizing some of the flyers on the counter to keep his hands busy. “And I don’t have a great rapport with cops, FBI or not.”

“That’s for sure.”

“They weren’t exactly being welcoming,” Pete said.

“You weren’t either,” Dave said, shrugging. “But whatever, that’s kind of your thing, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Being a difficult asshole? That’s your thing. It’s how people know you now. Like your signature move, or whatever. I’m amazed you have any friends.”

Pete didn’t know whether to laugh or be upset, so he shrugged and went back to organizing the flyers.

“I’m not trying to rip on you, dude,” Dave said. “I’m just being honest. You stick your finger in shit and make a mess, but don’t commit. Then you wonder why people get mad at you. It’s selfish. You’re doing it with this case, you’re doing it with your ex/now-not-ex maybe/maybe-not girlfriend and you do it with this job.”

Dave began to walk toward the back of the store, not waiting for Pete to respond.

Pete dropped the stack of flyers on the counter and let them slide onto the floor. He picked up his messenger bag with a swoop of his good arm and slung it over his shoulder. He didn’t look at Dave as he walked out, the door slamming behind him.

Pete felt out of sorts as he pushed open the main entrance doors at Miami Senior High School. It was early in the afternoon and most of the students were in their last class. Miami High was a school that prided itself on its athletics—basketball, baseball, football—and boasted one of the prettiest high school campuses Pete had ever seen. It also marked another visit to Little Havana, albeit the westernmost part of the neighborhood. The school was a landmark, thanks to its refurbished architecture—the high ceilings, terracotta tiles, and cast-stone vent screens made it feel more like a museum than a public school. Though Pete had attended Southwest High, he’d taken his SATs in the beautiful Miami High auditorium his junior year. He had carried a beeper and never left the school grounds to get lunch. Kids today were e-mailing, Instagramming, Facebooking, and Twittering their way through classes. Just walking into the school made him feel like he was closer to sixty, not a few years past thirty.

He walked into the main office. Pete hadn’t been much of a student early on, and it was only when he had an unpleasant brush with the law that his father had clamped down and watched Pete’s every move. It was then that Pete discovered that school wasn’t all bad, and a lifelong love of books, writing, and reading was awakened. Now he envied the students for the time that they had left in school.

He walked up to the long front desk of the main office and waited. Soon, a young girl, her hair in a ponytail and her eyes dazed, walked up on the opposite side. Her eyes widened as she caught a look at Pete in all his post-beating glory.

“I feel worse than I look,” Pete said.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see the school counselor.”

“Which one?” she responded, her tone flat.

“Melinda Farkas,” Pete said. “I spoke to her earlier today.”

“All right,” the girl said. She turned toward a series of offices on the far end of the large room and yelled, “Yo, Miss Farkas? Some guy here to talk to you.”

The girl walked away from the front desk without a word, leaving Pete waiting. He drummed his fingers on the counter and looked around. The interior of the school had seen better days; underneath the fresh coat of paint and polished awards was the wear and tear that came with budget cuts and increased enrollment.

A moment later, she appeared behind the front desk. Melinda Farkas was about Pete’s age, if not a bit older. Fit and tan, she wore her business suit a size too big, probably more used to gym clothes, or T-shirts and jeans.

“You’re Pete?” she said. She gave him a more polished once-over than the student had. “You look terrible.”

“Yeah, it’s been a rough few weeks,” Pete said.

She nodded and motioned for him to come around and follow her into her office.

She sat behind her desk in the cramped space and motioned for Pete to take the tiny chair across from her. She got up and closed the door and sat down again, grabbing a file folder at the top of a stack of what looked like class schedule printouts.

“So, you called about Silvia Colmas,” she said, looking over what Pete assumed was the girl’s transcript.

“Yeah,” Pete said. “I’m working with a reporter at
The Miami Times
on a story about the death of Erica Morales, and our interviews have led us to believe that Silvia was one of the last people to see Erica alive.”

Farkas didn’t respond, her eyes on Pete.

“Well, let me not waste your time,” Farkas said. “I can’t let you interview Silvia. It’s not our call, it’s up to her parents. From what little I do know, she’s already spoken to the police, and we don’t just let newspaper reporters—even sort of famous ex-journalists like you—swing by and chat up minors. It’s just not how we operate.”

Pete was frozen. Farkas had done her research. She knew his
Times
story was a weak cover at best.

“Did you really expect to walk in here and talk to a young girl without a problem?” Farkas asked, no malice in her voice. “I mean, I have to ask, because I found it kind of baffling when you called. Also, you don’t work for
The Miami Times
anymore.”

“I’m actually investigating Erica’s murder,” Pete said. He figured he’d go with all he had left: some form of the truth. “It’s not an official thing; my friend Kathy is a writer for
The Times
and I’ve been helping her gather information. I spoke to Erica’s mother and she said Silvia was the last friend Erica saw before she was taken. I was just hoping to ask her a few questions about that day, see if there was anything the cops had missed. I realize this is a weird request, and a bit of a long shot, but I don’t really have much to work with here.”

Farkas took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

“At least now—finally—you’re being up-front,” she said, no sign of anger or emotion in her voice. “Hell, you’re probably doing a better job at investigating what happened to Erica than the cops, who’ve done nothing of note beyond interviewing a few people here and there. Erica was a special girl. Smart. Worked hard. She was one of my favorite students here. She had a real future. She was going to go to a good school, up in the northeast, where she’d have her first kiss, make lifelong friends, and figure out what to do with the rest of her life. All that’s gone now, because of some sicko. All that time she had waiting for her? It’s gone. And everyone else is left standing around wondering what happened. The people who have to figure it out could care less. They’re more freaked about the bad publicity all this serial killer talk is giving the police department. A department, mind you, that you had a big hand in dragging through the mud. So, yeah, you hit a nerve. Lucky for you, I guess. I’m going to talk to Silvia myself. If she tells me anything I think you should know about, I’ll pass it along. But only if I think it’ll help. If anyone asks me if I talked to you outside of this office, and outside of me saying, ‘No, Mr. Fernandez, you cannot talk to one of our students, please leave the premises,’ then I’m going to deny it until I’m blue in the face, and it’ll be your word against mine. You feel me?”

Pete nodded.

“All right, so there we are.” She stood up and stuck her hand out, a slight smile on her face. “Now, Mr. Fernandez, please leave the premises.”

Julian checked the clock on his work computer. Ten minutes after five. He could leave. Only the secretary—Myrna, a slovenly bison of a woman—remained, staring blankly at her terminal.

Fernandez seemed to have quieted down. But he couldn’t know for sure. It seemed like Kathy Bentley was the only one Fernandez confided in. Perhaps Julian would visit her. He pulled out a piece of spearmint gum and popped it into his mouth.

His job had its benefits. The sheer access it gave him—to people, rental spaces, and a sense of who was looking for a new place to live—was useful. These were the people he needed for his own, higher purpose. A simpleton could execute his tasks as a Realtor.