Down the Darkest Street (20 page)

Harras sighed. “You’re an idiot.”

Pete’s shoulders sagged and he leaned back in the tiny, uncomfortable wooden chair. He laid his hands on the table in front of him, palms up—as if to say “can we get on with this?”

“All right, now that we’ve confirmed you won’t listen to reason, we can discuss what happened to your house. I know we’ve been over the particulars of the evening,” he said. “And your information’s been somewhat helpful. But I also wanted to bring you in here and see if anything else had come up; usually in cases like these, the victims get bits and pieces appearing in their minds days after the actual event. And call me crazy, but I get the sense that you’re not always sharing information live, as it happens, as they say in TV news.”

“You’re right,” Pete said. He suddenly felt tired. “I get little updates in my brain every so often; it’s weird. But more than that, I’m baffled by how he found me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, why me? Why didn’t he torment you, or Aguilera, or anyone else working on this?”

Harras shrugged. “Wish I knew. It’d give us more insight into who this person is.”

“Who knew I was working with you directly?”

“Why do you ask?”

Pete’s eyes met Harras’s, his stare locked into his. “Someone must have told him.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Harras said, a dry laugh escaping his mouth. “I mean, I know you’re a little deluded by your skills, kid, but to think someone on our end would just rat you out for jollies—that’s a bit much. And insulting, I might add.”

“You have an alternative?”

“Sure,” Harras said. “And I’m glad you brought this up, because it’s been sticking in my craw since we had our little lunchtime meet-and-greet.”

“Why am I here?”

Harras slammed a palm on the table. The sound echoed around the room.

“Shut the fuck up,” he said. “You’re in my house now. I ask the questions and you answer them as fully and truthfully as you can, OK? We’re not playing games anymore.”

Pete started to respond.

Before he could get a word out, Harras stood up. He put both hands on the table and leaned in toward Pete, his voice low.

“If you think you were fooling anyone with your little mugging story, you’re not so clear on how smart you are,” he said. “We think the guy that attacked you may be the same guy that made your house go Nagasaki. So maybe you ought to consider that this guy had been trailing you long before you decided to put a volunteer badge on your wrinkled shirt. Hell, he probably told you the first time to stop sniffing around, and you didn’t fucking listen.”

Pete didn’t respond.

“Am I getting warmer?” Harras said, backing off, his hands turned up, as if waiting for Pete to answer. “Good. Think about that before you decide to start accusing my people of throwing you under the bus. We have bigger shit to worry about than some two-bit wannabes. Get over yourself, asshole.”

Harras turned around and walked out, slamming the door behind him. Pete heard the door click into the locked position.

***

Pete rubbed his hands over his face. He’d been sitting in his rental car for close to five minutes, trying to get his breathing to settle and to get a handle on what had just happened. At least they’d let him drive here. He doubted anyone would want to give him a ride after his exchange with Harras.

His exit from the FBI building had been unpleasant. After sitting in the locked room for another hour, Pete had the pleasure of being escorted out by Gran and Davidson, who seemed to enjoy dragging Pete along to the elevator. Just enough to make it uncomfortable. Just another witness in for questioning. He was embarrassed and angry, which was exactly how Harras wanted him to feel. This was a poke, and the message was clear: stop fucking with our case.

Pete was reaching for his car keys when he felt his cell phone vibrating in his jeans. The number calling was unknown. Pete picked it up anyway.

“Pete here.”

“Hello, Pete? It’s Melinda Farkas.”

It took Pete a few seconds to remember the attractive high school guidance counselor. She noticed the delay.

“We talked a few weeks ago about Erica Morales? Remember?”

“Yes, yes,” Pete said. “I do. Sorry, it’s been an eventful few days.”

“That’s an understatement,” she said. “Sorry about your house.”

“Guess you saw it on the news?” Pete said.

“Well, yeah,” Melinda said. “It was hard to avoid. I can’t imagine how you’re dealing with it.”

Pete closed his eyes. He felt a migraine forming. They came a few times a day. Residual aftereffects from the concussion, the doctors said.

“So, I thought you’d want to know I spoke to Silvia,” Melinda said.

Pete’s interest was piqued. “Oh?”

“Yes,” she said. “But remember, like I said in my office, I will deny us ever having this conversation. I’m even calling you from a pay phone. I could be fired for this. But you seem to be the only person who cares about what happened to Erica, for better or worse.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “I’m dead serious.”

“What did Silvia say?” Pete said.

“She had a lot to say, actually,” she said. “She hung out with Erica that day. She was there to meet someone—a boy, Silvia thought. But Erica was being cagey, which put Silvia on alert. Erica wasn’t prone to hiding things from Silvia.”

“Did she see where Erica went?”

“That’s the thing,” she said. “They parted at Dadeland Mall, but Silvia followed Erica—she was too curious about what was going on. She said Erica went to the south parking lot and was standing around, checking her phone and texting. After a while, she was approached by an older man, who Silvia said Erica didn’t seem to know. They talked, and after that, she got into a white van with him and they drove off.”

A white van.
Pete was distracted, still thinking about being questioned by the FBI. But the phrase played over in his head.

“But here’s the weird part,” she continued. “Silvia started to run toward the van, which was heading onto Kendall Drive. This kid somehow managed to catch up with the van, which she said was a Ford, whatever that’s worth, and even reached the passenger-side window. But Erica was out.”

“Out?”

“Yes, knocked out,” Farkas said. “In the time leading up to her getting in the car or right after, this guy knocked her unconscious.”

“Could she have been sleeping?” Pete said, realizing the question was silly a second after asking it.

“Do you ever fall asleep seconds after entering a stranger’s car?”

“Good point,” Pete said. He felt a shot of pain in his head and winced.
White van.
Why was this sticking in his mind? He turned toward the backseat of the car and grabbed a JanSport backpack from behind the passenger’s side seat.

“Hold on,” Pete said, putting his phone down on the dashboard. He rummaged through the backpack, which was mostly full of news clippings he’d gathered together from old newspapers Dave still had lying around the store, and pulled out a recent edition of
The Miami Times
. The more Pete thought back to the explosions that capped off the destruction of his house, the more he thought the bombs were there to get rid of whatever info he and Kathy had gathered. They had to start over completely.

The newspaper featured the first story on Erica, days after her disappearance. The photograph that ran with the story was the same one he’d seen while sitting in The Bar, when her remains were found. The picture he’d found familiar.

It all clicked into place.

Her picture.

The white van.

Where he’d seen it.

Where he’d seen her.

The dates lined up. Erica Morales had gone missing that night, and a few hours later, Pete had seen a nondescript white van drive by, a youngish girl asleep in the passenger seat. He’d crossed paths with the killer without even realizing it. He heard Farkas’s questioning voice blaring out of the phone, but ignored her. He flung the backpack against the passenger-side door and screamed. His vocal chords burned. He slammed his fists into the steering wheel, and was glad when pain shot through his fingers, reminding him he was alive.

She was alive.

Nina had to remind herself of this every so often. Despite the pain. Despite the fact that she’d lost track of time. Despite the dank smell and her restraints. She knew she was alive, at least for a bit longer.

She wasn’t sure how long her eyes had been closed—or if she’d been sleeping. It all blurred together now. Her thoughts weren’t in her head anymore. She felt outside of herself. There were no days or mornings or routines—it was just this dirty, wet darkness and a kind of anxiety and dread Nina had never dreamed possible.

She thought she’d imagined the clicking sound—a key entering a lock. But that disappeared when she heard the steps coming down the stairs. Calm, casual, and relaxed—frightening. She opened her eyes. The slight increase of light made her squint. She’d managed to get the blindfold off, but it made little difference in the pitch black prison she was in. She was numb. She couldn’t fully register that this moment might be it. He might have gotten bored of watching her through that camera, or he might have figured out just how he wanted to kill her. She wasn’t naïve. People don’t normally find a way out of this kind of prison.

He was coming for her.

He was whistling—a simple, jolly tune. He was taking his time. She opened her mouth to scream but no noise escaped. Her throat was dry.

She tried again—a raspy, pained yelp escaped her lips. Then she saw his figure, backlit by the light coming from the stairwell. “Steve.”

He crouched right in front of her. She could feel his breathing on her face. He smelled of mint gum and fancy aftershave. He looked like he’d just gotten off work—or, depending on what time it was, on his way to work. Clean cut. Almost handsome. He was smiling.

“Nina, Nina, Nina,” he said. He didn’t reach out to touch her. Instead, he slid a plastic bag toward the empty boxes of cereal that had collected over time. A refill. She felt a slight pinch of hope. Maybe he would change his mind?

He stood up. She met his gaze.

“Let me go,” Nina said. Her voice cracking. “Please.”

“Oh, that wouldn’t do at all,” he said.

“Steve” the Realtor continued: “I’ve been busy, which is why I’ve been remiss in taking care of us. But I’ve fixed up one last, little problem. This is going to be special. Now I’m all yours.”

Then the scream came—long, pained, and from the bottom of her being. Nina screamed for what felt like a year—hurtling her body forward, pulling against her restraints, trying to reach this man who’d decided to keep her here, like some kind of misbehaving circus animal. This monster who felt like he had the right to decide if she should live or die.

“Fuck you,” she said, spittle flying out of her mouth. She was scared, sure. But she was also angry. She let the anger fuel her.

He didn’t even step back. She wasn’t sure but she thought she heard a chuckle.

He walked over to the cereal boxes and kicked them toward her, the contents spilling around her body, joining the dirt and grime that had already collected in the small space. Her last meals were now caked with the detritus of her cell.

Her coffin.

“Actually,” he said, turning around and beginning to walk up the stairs.

“Now you’re all mine.”

Nina Henriquez’s mom, Arlene, worked at a Laundromat in West Kendall, off 137th Avenue, near Miller Drive. The area was pure suburbia with some Cuban seasoning—strip malls, chain restaurants, Catholic churches, and movie theaters crowded on the major streets. The further west you went, the more rural things got: horse farms, fruit stands, and lawn ornaments peppered the view. The intersection of 137
th
and Miller seemed almost outpost-like: a meeting point for corporate branding and cookie-cutter condominiums—all colored tan and brown.

A quick online background check—only forty-five dollars from his dwindling bank account—got him Arlene’s current residence, marital status, and credit history. She had no job listed, which meant she was working off the books. He’d knocked on a few doors in Arlene’s neighborhood and flashed some bills. Within the hour, after a few greased handshakes, he knew where she worked. He was now about a hundred bucks poorer but it seemed worth it.

The drive was tedious and fitful for Pete, thanks mostly to his timing. He’d left the Book Bin a little before five, ensuring a wave of rush-hour traffic and a migraine headache by the end of the drive. He’d spent the time in the car alternating between berating himself for being drunk the night he thought he’d seen Erica Morales in the white van and wondering what he could do with such general—and generic—info, considering every handyman and business owner in the greater Miami-Dade area owned one. He pulled his rented Hyundai Sonata into a parking space near a dingy supermarket. The Laundromat was at the other end of the tiny shopping center, but Pete still wanted a few moments to think about how he was going to approach Arlene Henriquez.