He watched as a couple—neither over thirty—sauntered past him. Designer dress, nice suit. They were drunk. The man opened the door for his date, his feet slipping a bit as he leaned in to get the door.
He saw Emily across the street, walking over from the parking lot in a blue dress. He’d never seen the dress before, which at first struck him as odd, until he reminded himself that there was a gap of time where she’d been—and, well, still was—married to someone else. She reached Pete and smiled.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hello,” Pete said. He felt underdressed. He hadn’t been sure what Emily had in mind when she’d suggested dinner. After their night together, they’d reverted to their platonic roommate-esque behaviors—sleeping in their respective rooms, not spending much time together. Pete was OK with it being what it was, he supposed, but he couldn’t say he didn’t think about it often. When she’d texted him, asking if he had dinner plans, he took it to mean they’d order a pizza or grab some Cuban sandwiches from La Carretta by the house—something easy and platonic. When she suggested one of the restaurants they’d frequented as a couple, he wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“Am I overdressed?” she said, her eyes widening a bit. She was nervous.
“Oh, no,” Pete said. “The ball is about to start.”
She punched him on the shoulder as he opened the door and they walked in.
***
“I guess it was kind of random.”
“I’m not complaining,” Pete said.
Their conversation was interrupted by the stocky waiter. He handed each of them a dessert menu before shuffling back to the kitchen.
“You didn’t seem very upset, no,” she said, her eyes scanning the menu, looking up after a moment, a slight smile on her face. “Unless I misread you.”
Pete took a sip of his ice water.
“You didn’t misread me,” Pete said. “But…”
“But what?”
“Well, what does it mean?” Pete said.
“Doesn’t me being here, in this restaurant, with you,” Emily said, “show you what it means?”
“I’m not sure,” he said.
She put the menu down and folded her hands in front of her. “You seem different,” she said. “More like you were when we first got together.”
Pete nodded.
“I forgot how much I missed you,” she continued. “And seeing you and Rick in the same room, it just, I don’t know, clarified it for me.”
“That you want to be together?”
She moved her hand across the table and on his waiting palm. “Let’s just take it easy,” she said. “I just wanted to sit with you here—in this restaurant we both like—and let you know that’s what I was thinking. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, on some level,” Pete said, wrapping his hand around hers. Did it, though? A few days ago they were at each other’s throats. He did miss her, that he was sure of—the good and the bad. The moodiness and cutting remarks were washed away by her good heart and crackling brain. But this was moving fast; he needed to hold onto something.
He moved his hand back to his side of the table.
“Do you want dessert?” he said.
“Not here.”
***
Costello jumped on Pete’s side of the bed, rubbing his face on Pete’s arm, purring. He scratched the cat’s chin in the darkness. Costello was receptive until he decided there was more to do around the house. He hopped off the bed and scurried away, his tiny paws thumping on the hardwood floor. Pete turned to his right, where Emily was curled up next to him, her head resting on his arm. She felt him move and positioned her body closer to his. He pulled the bedsheet up over her shoulder. Pete let his head drop back onto the pillow. He looked up at the ceiling, hard to make out in the dimness. The evening had been wonderful. Pete wasn’t sure he remembered what “wonderful” was like. Dinner was good. Conversation was lively and familiar. Everything he’d wanted—or remembered wanting—had been laid out on the table for him to take. The only woman he’d ever thought to marry was sleeping in his bed. He had enough money to get by for the time being and he felt like, for the first time in years, his life had momentum. He felt recharged. He pulled Emily closer and kissed her on the forehead, smelling the remnants of her perfume and feeling her warm skin touch his.
But if everything was where it was supposed to be, why did he feel so uneasy?
His phone, resting on the nightstand next to the bed, vibrated. A text message. He grabbed it and turned on the display. Kathy.
KATHY: You awake?
Pete typed a response with his one free hand: “Yeah. What’s up?”
KATHY: I’m talking to Erica Morales’ family tomorrow. Wanna come with?
Pete paused. What was he agreeing to do? “What for?”
KATHY: What do you think? To help me figure out who’s killing these girls.
Pete moved out from under Emily and sat up. She grumbled to herself, half asleep. He responded to Kathy, typing with more speed: “You don’t need my help. You’re smart.”
KATHY: Cut the bullshit. Do you want to help me or not?
“OK. When/where?”
KATHY: I’ll pick you up in the morning. Be ready by 7:30. That means stop fucking your roommate and go to sleep.
Pete laughed and set the phone back down. He slid back into bed and turned to face Emily. Her face was focused and serious when she slept. He remembered the first time he’d told her that, how she’d laughed and called him a creep. Years later, she admitted that had been the moment she knew he was a keeper, knew that he cared.
He felt a pang of guilt as he pushed a strand of her blond hair away from her face.
Erica Morales gre
w up in a tiny but well-kept three-bedroom house in Little Havana, a few blocks from 8th Street—or Calle Ocho. That’s where they were heading. Calle Ocho was the heart of the Cuban exile community of Miami—a stretch where English was a second language and people were more interested in the politics happening ninety miles from U.S. soil than what was going on in Washington. Where a comment that even remotely made it sound like you agreed with a certain bearded dictator could get you pummeled. West of downtown, Little Havana was an extension of a Cuba that no longer existed—an idealized version of a country many had left behind in haste and fear. The pace was slow, the salsa music was loud, and the
cafecito
was strong.
The bright morning sun beat down on the silver Jetta as it darted through weekend traffic—a cacophony of honking horns, changed lanes, and slow-moving Cadillacs and Buicks manned by grumpy senior citizens. Kathy drove while Pete fiddled with the satellite radio. It was a little past eight in the morning. In his right hand, Pete clutched an extra-large coffee, which he’d purchased after a quick
cortadito
made at home. He’d left Emily sleeping, telling her he’d be back later. She seemed to understand, in her hazy, half-asleep state, but he expected a questioning text or call in a few hours. Her freelance design work gave her a fairly flexible schedule that made room for sleeping in when needed. He was happy Emily was back in his life and that he was better equipped to handle it. It reminded him of the early days of their relationship, without the arguing and histrionics that would become all too common toward the end. Though she was the one who packed her bags and left, Pete was as much to blame—drinking at all hours, working late, and distant when he was around. He’d never expected a second chance. He took a long sip from his lukewarm coffee.
“Are we there yet?” he said.
“Shush, you,” Kathy said, her eyes on the road. “My GPS is busted and you know I don’t come down to Cubatown all that often.”
“Aren’t you a reporter?”
“I was, my dear,” she said. “But now I’m an all-important ‘local columnist,’ so I needn’t worry about remembering where things are. It’s about
how
things are.
Comprende
, my little
café con leche
?”
Pete laughed and pushed a button on the satellite radio. The Decemberists came on. It was a relatively obscure track—the band’s lead singer, Colin Meloy, doing a Morrissey song. It took Pete a second to remember it.
“‘Jack the Ripper,’” Pete said.
“Pardon?”
“That’s the song.”
“The Morrissey song?”
“Yup.”
“This is a shitty cover,” she said.
“I like it more than the original,” Pete said.
“You would,” Kathy said. “It’s more emo than the original.”
Kathy pulled the car into a parallel parking space on a residential street. After turning off the engine, she leaned back in the driver’s seat, as if to announce “Yeah, I did that.”
“Do you want a prize?” Pete said, sliding his half-empty coffee into the car’s cup holder.
“You wish you could park like me,” Kathy said, smiling. She opened the door and stepped out of the car. “OK, so what’s the plan, mister?”
Pete got out and looked at Kathy from across the car.
“I follow your lead,” he said. “I’m just a special guest star.”
She let out an exasperated sigh.
“Fine, whatever,” she said. “But turn your brain on. I brought you here for help, not comic relief.”
Pete waited for Kathy to come around the car before walking to the house.
“My story is slated to run tonight, and I want it to be more than a ‘wah-wah look at the dead girl’s family’ piece,” she said, opening the front gate to the quaint Morales house, not noticing the older woman standing in the front yard. Her face showed that she’d heard Kathy’s flip remarks. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry.”
Pete looked at the lady and waited for a heated, angry response, but saw only confusion. He looked at Kathy for a second before opening his mouth.
“
Hablas inglés, señora?
”
The lady’s look changed from confusion to relief. “
No, ni un poco. Pero mi hermana, sí. Con que te puedo ayudar?
”
Kathy looked at Pete, uncertainty in her eyes. “She doesn’t speak English,” Pete said, looking at the lady and smiling politely before looking back at Kathy. “Her sister does, however. Thankfully, she wasn’t here to hear what you said.”
“Rub it in while you can, little man,” Kathy said, smiling at the older woman. “Ask her if she has a few minutes to talk.”
“
Señora, somos reporteros del periódico Miami Times
,” Pete said, his Spanish rusty and not coming to him with much ease. “
Tienen un momento para hablar?
”
The woman didn’t respond. She knew why they were at her house.
Before the old lady could respond, another woman, younger and smartly dressed, appeared next to her.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m Kathy Bentley,” Kathy said, sticking out her hand to the new arrival. “I’m a writer for
The Miami Times
. I’m working on a story about Erica Morales, your niece. We wanted to know if you and your sister had time to talk about her for the newspaper. We’re very sorry for your loss, but if you have a moment to spare, we feel it’d be an important story to share with our readership.”
The younger woman scrunched up her nose and looked at Pete, as if to say, “Who is this?” She wrapped her arm around her sister. “Erica wasn’t my niece,” the woman said, her voice lowering. “She was my daughter. I’m Odalys Morales. Her mother. This is my older sister, Olga. She just arrived from Cuba, so you’ll have to forgive her lack of English skills.”
Pete felt foolish and figured Kathy did, too.
“And who are you?” Odalys asked, her eyes on Pete.
“I’m Pete Fernandez.” He stuck out his hand, which Odalys glanced at before ignoring. “I’m a colleague of Kathy’s.”
Odalys let out a long sigh and whispered something to her sister. She motioned her head to the house. Olga nodded and walked into the house, not bothering to say goodbye. Odalys rubbed her temples and closed her eyes before looking at Kathy and Pete.
“What can I do? I’ve already talked to the police,” she said. “My little girl is dead. I really just want to be left alone.”
“I apologize for intruding, ma’am,” Kathy said. “I’d only need a few minutes of your time.”
“For what, lady?” Odalys said. “You and this guy show up like nothing? To chat with me about my dead daughter like it’s no big deal?”
“We didn’t mean any offense…” Kathy started.
“You didn’t mean any, but it happened anyway,” Odalys continued.
“We think we can help you,” Pete said. “If we write this story, draw some more attention to your daughter, maybe someone will come forward with information. It’s the best thing we can offer you now, which isn’t a lot, I know. But information is key. If we get anything that could help the police or get someone to come forward, it’d be worth your time. We don’t want this to fall through the cracks.”
Odalys’s shoulders slumped in resignation.
“All right,” she said, turning around and heading toward her house. “Let me make some
café
and we’ll talk.”
***