Down the Darkest Street by Alex Segura

He looked at Kathy. She didn’t seem confused at all. “What’s the deal?”
    “You’re a bad Miamian,” Kathy said. “You’re really still drawing a blank?”
    Pete hated guessing games. Especially when they involved people’s lives.
    “Just spit it out,” Pete said.
    Kathy collected her printouts and shoved them back into her purse before taking out a black folder. She opened it and pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to Pete.
    “Rex Whitehurst,” Kathy said. “Does the name ring a bell?”
    “Not really,” Emily said.
    “Pete?”
    He looked over the printout, a quick bio of Whitehurst. It was incomplete, as if someone had been in a hurry and had only printed a few pages. But the basic information was there. Whitehurst had killed a dozen women—ranging in age from fourteen to twenty-seven—in the early 1980s, ending his string of murders in Miami, where he ruthlessly killed three girls in a manic spree that led to his capture. Whitehurst was a stabber—and known for leaving his victims in elaborate, sexualized poses.
    “So, this is our dude, then?” Pete said, regretting it after the words left his lips.
    Kathy snatched the paper back and slipped it into the black folder.
    “That’s the problem,” she said.
    “I’m confused,” Emily said. “How is this possible? Did this guy somehow escape?”
    “No, dear,” Kathy said. “This is a much bigger problem.”
    “Why?” Pete said.
    “Rex Whitehurst has been dead for over two decades,” Kathy said, her voice emphasizing the last few words. “He was put down via Old Sparky in 1994. Rex is dead and someone is killing women in a sick, twisted homage to him.”

 
     
     
     
    “You know you have a permanent piece
    Of my medium-sized, American heart.”
    —The National, “Looking for Astronauts”

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    T he bitter c offee burned Pete’s tongue as he sipped it. He hated this part of AA. The socializing. The exchanging of numbers. The questions, like “How’s your day been?” or “How are you holding up?” It drove Pete up the wall. He didn’t know how he was holding up. He wanted a drink most of the time.
    He’d slid over by the coffee pot, where he figured he could finish his cup of tar, do his time, and sneak out with little fanfare. That was the plan, at least.
    “Hey, Pete, how goes it?” It was Jack. Again.
    “Not bad,” Pete said, sipping the still-hot and still-nasty coffee faster. Plan foiled.
    “Meant to tell you this last week,” Jack said. “But you seemed a little ruffled when I mentioned the book. Hope I didn’t offend you.”
    Pete stiffened for an awkward exchange.
    Jack cleared his throat. “I knew your dad,” Jack said. “I was a beat cop—Miami Dade PD. Your dad… He was one of the good ones. Great detective. Smart man. Just an all around good guy. I think he’d be proud of you, seeing you right yourself like you’re doing.”
    Pete was caught off-guard. He’d been expecting some new age AA babble, or a passive-aggressive guilt trip about how Jack “hadn’t seen him around.” Not the memory of his father. It felt weird—like his dad was in the room with him, noticing him for what he was. He stammered a bit before responding.
    “Well, uh, thanks. Thank you, Jack,” Pete said. “Not sure if you’re on the money there, but I appreciate it. My dad was a good man.”
    Jack poured himself a cup of coffee.
    “You been keeping up with the news?”
    Pete tossed his cup into the nearby trash bin.
    “Sure.”
    “People are talking about that dead girl,” Jack said, sipping his coffee with none of Pete’s hesitation. “Some of my old buddies on the force say the brass is freaking out.”
    “Yeah? Why’s that?”
    “Lots of reasons,” Jack said. “Smells of a serial, first of all. Especially with that other girl missing.”
    “What other girl?”
    Jack seemed surprised.
    “Morales,” Jack said.
    Pete nodded and grabbed another empty cup. The church basement had cleared out by