Silent City

by Alex Segura

  “You alive, man?” Mike was half-joking. Pete could tell this routine was getting tiresome for him. He was starting to worry. Pete hated this.

  “Barely,” Pete coughed, and then straightened out his shirt. Nick the bartender met Pete’s eyes briefly, and then he returned to cleaning. The bar was closed. It had to be past five.

  “Nick said he’d let you sleep it off, but he’s gotta close up,” Mike said. “You want a ride home? We can pick up your car tomorrow.”

  Pete let his head hang down for a second. Mike was like a brother. They’d been in the trenches together. Good moments and terrible ones. Their bond was strong. They’d met in college and became fast friends—going to shows, staying out late, working for the paper. They had been inseparable for a while. Mike leaned on Pete and vice-versa. But lately, it seemed more like Pete depended on Mike to keep him from falling off the edge. He was pushing Mike to the limit. One day, he’d just say ‘Fuck it’ and let Pete fall.

  “Nah, I’m OK,” Pete said. “Just tired. I had a few drinks with Kathy Bentley’s dad, it got late, and you know how strong these drinks are.”

  Mike sat down, a glass of water in front of him. Pete thought for a second. Had he called Mike to come by? He felt a pang of guilt. The Abbey was a 45-minute drive for Mike. Pete’s hangover had already kicked in—the headache, the dry mouth. He groaned slightly and looked at Mike.

  “Let’s go eat,” Mike said. “You need to sober up, and I want to know what you were doing drinking with Chaz Bentley, of all people.”

  Pete nodded, and soon they were out of the bar and walking down Meridian, toward David’s Café. David’s was a 24-hour Cuban restaurant. Cheap eats for the post-bar crowd, tucked away amid the neon lights, dance clubs, and dingy hotels that littered South Beach. The ideal spot for someone looking to preempt a hangover.

  They both ordered medianoche sandwiches—marinated pork, ham, cheese and pickles on Cuban bread -—with fries on the side. Simple, filling and tasty, Pete thought. The pair ate in silence, Pete regaining some clarity as he plowed into his food. He was still drunk, but at least functional. If Mike allowed him to, Pete was certain he could make the 10-minute drive home. Sort of.

  Pete brought Mike up to speed quickly, between mouthfuls of food and large gulps of water.

  “So,” Mike said. “You’re basically going to play detective because Chaz can’t afford a real detective? Chaz, a guy you only know from work and don’t really like one way or the other?”

  “That’s not exactly what I said, but yeah.”

  “And you’re going to do it?”

  “I told him I would.”

  Mike finally looked up from his food, a confused look on his face. “Why?”

  “I was drunk, I guess. I dunno. It made sense at the time.”

  “So did having another beer.”

  “Come on. Don’t judge.” Pete wasn’t in the mood.

  “Why you, though?”

  “He said Kathy knew me and that he knew I was a good investigator, I guess,” Pete motioned to the waitress for the check. He was no longer that drunk, but he did need sleep. He turned to Mike. “I figure I’ll check her out in the system, visit the apartment, see if anything jumps out at me. When nothing does, I’ll go back to her dad and suggest he go to the cops.”

  Mike picked at his fries, eating the small ones first, organizing them by size. He popped another in his mouth, chewed, chewed, swallowed, and looked at Pete from across the table.

  “What if something does jump out at you, though?”

  Chapter Five

  Pete winced as the coffee burned his tongue. He put the extra-large cup of Dunkin Donuts Hazelnut back in the cup holder of his Celica. He was off. Despite getting a few hours of sleep, he still felt sluggish and hung over. He was parked outside of Kathy’s apartment complex. It was close to three in the afternoon. He had about an hour to check out Kathy’s living space and use his very unrefined eye to determine if Kathy was just avoiding her father, or something else. Then, back to work. He hadn’t woken up early before work in months. And while he hadn’t woken up early for work, exactly, Pete felt a tinge of pride at being a semi-functional member of society.

  He looked at his rearview mirror reflexively. Ever since the encounter with Chaz, Pete had felt an unease slip over him. Not just his usual post-drinking jitters, either. Pete wasn’t really even sure what he was doing, wandering around near someone’s apartment.

  He decided to let the coffee cool for a bit and got out of his car. He slipped on a cheap pair of Fila sunglasses over his bloodshot eyes and scanned the handful of apartments. Kathy’s apartment was one of four, on the west side of the small building’s second floor. Of the three cars parked in the complex’s tiny lot, none was parked in Kathy’s assigned space. Though he had no idea what Kathy drove—and mentally kicked himself for not asking Chaz that—he figured this meant she wasn’t home. Or, at the very least, her car wasn’t. Quite the detective, Pete thought.

  He walked up the west stairwell and reached Kathy’s apartment, number four. He knocked on the door a few times and couldn’t discern any noises coming from within. Feeling sheepish, Pete looked around and pulled the key to the apartment out of his pocket and set it into the lock. He tried turning the key, but no luck. He tried again before realizing that Chaz either had provided him with bum keys, which made little sense, or Kathy had changed her locks recently, as her father suggested she sometimes did. Neither possibility let him into the apartment.

  Fortunately, the front door had a tiny cat gate. Unfortunately, crouching down and sliding his arm through the gate was more overt and prone to arousing suspicion than just opening the door with a key. Normally, Pete would give up by now. He took a quick look around and, determining the coast was clear, got down on one knee and wove his arm through the cat door and up toward the inner doorknob. With some painful stretching and a few seconds of jostling around for the best position, Pete found his hand on the lock. He unlocked it and turned the knob slowly with his fingers. He felt a jolt of excitement run through him as pushed the door, something he hadn’t experienced in a while.

  Pete walked in and immediately caught the strong odor of a cat box left unchanged for days. He looked at the door from inside the apartment and saw it was equipped with a few other locks and latches. They’d have prevented Pete from entering, had they been in use. Why would someone who’d gone to the trouble of having so many locks on their door leave them unused? He heard a weak meow coming from near his feet. He looked down to see a small gray cat, clearly hungry, pathetically rubbing his face on Pete’s feet, begging for food. Pete scratched the creature behind the ears and continued to look around. The cat could wait a few more minutes before he refueled. The apartment was small—a one-bedroom with a tiny kitchen and medium-sized living/dining room area. The television was on—the menu screen for “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.” An almost-empty wine glass rested next to the remote and a tipped-over bowl that once held popcorn in it sat on a table near the couch. There were dirty dishes in the sink and a grocery list tacked onto the fridge. All this suggested two things, Pete thought: Kathy hadn’t been around for a few days and she hadn’t planned on going anywhere. Both could mean nothing. For all Pete knew, Kathy could just be an irresponsible pet owner and prone to leaving appliances on. But something gnawed at Pete. This wasn’t right. He didn’t know much—if anything—about Kathy, but she didn’t seem like the type to up and leave without telling anyone. If Kathy had gone somewhere, she wasn’t planning on being gone for long.

  He gave her bedroom a quick once-over and didn’t find any telltale signs of a trip—no missing luggage or clothing, all her toiletries seemed to be in the bathroom, cell phone charger plugged in. The apartment was sparsely decorated, with few personal items. Pete found a framed photo of Kathy and Javier on her nightstand. They were drinking wine at a bar in Hollywood—Pete recognized it. Le Tub. Outdoor seating. Good wine list. Best burger in America, apparently. They seemed hap
py.

  He opened the top drawer to Kathy’s nightstand and found her address book, which didn’t feature many names. He flipped through the pages and noticed a few he recognized. Turning to the front flap, he saw Kathy had jotted down “kbentley” and “nigel” hastily. He guessed it was a password of some kind. Kathy’s handwriting was florid and legible, mixing the colorful penmanship of a high school teen with the structure and control of an adult. Pete flipped to Javier’s name and found his number. Instinctively, he pulled out his cell phone and called him. It rang three times and went to voicemail. Pete didn’t leave a message, but slipped the tiny address book into his back pocket. Considering the light layer of dust that was on the black book, he didn’t think Kathy would miss it much.

  He was running late. There wasn’t enough time for him to swing by Javier’s apartment on the way to work, assuming the address Kathy had for him—somewhere in the Design District—was still valid.

  He made his way back to the kitchen and searched a few cabinets before he found a can of cat food. He opened it up and watched as Kathy’s cat stuffed his face desperately, barely stopping to breathe between gulps. Considering the cat was still alive and hadn’t fully abandoned the apartment in search of food, Pete guessed it hadn’t been more than a day or two since his last meal, but couldn’t be certain. He also realized he couldn’t just leave the animal here, unless he wanted to make Kathy’s apartment a stop on his way to work each day. Then again, if Kathy was just at the grocery store, could he just walk out with her cat? Pete decided he would. Costello could use a new “Attraction.”

  Pete felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. He pulled it out and read the display. Work. Pete cursed under his breath and scooped up Kathy’s cat. He ignored the call and let it go to voicemail. But it was time to go. He felt a pang of regret. He wanted to spend more time looking around—piecing together what had happened, if anything. But he couldn’t. He headed for the door with his new sidekick.

  “No time for pleasantries, bud,” Pete said to his new adoptee, who was busy licking a few remaining globs of food from his mouth. “If I don’t drop you off and get to work in the next 15 minutes, we might all go hungry.”

  Pete locked the door from the inside and closed it quietly, hoping no one would notice the strange man walking out of Kathy’s apartment with her cat fidgeting in his hands. He gave the place a quick glance and caught the DVD screen of “Eternal Sunshine” flash on and off one more time.

  Chapter Six

  The second Pete dropped his bag at his desk, he sensed something was wrong. Ideally, he’d hoped to ease into the workday 15 minutes before, well, starting to work. The blinking red light on his phone meant that wouldn’t be the case.

  He was already running late, and even Pete wasn’t inclined to push his luck that far, no matter how intrigued he was by what was going on. And, by the way, what was going on?

  He picked up his desk phone slowly and tapped in his message code and waited. It was Steve Vance, the paper’s managing editor for special projects. A fancy title that just meant he oversaw the Sports department. Pete’s usual boss, Angel Menendez, was out indefinitely on medical leave, which meant Vance was in charge. This was not good for Pete. He missed Menendez, who had been kind to Pete during the trying two years he’d spent at the Times so far. He wasn’t a mentor—Pete felt like that bird had flown for him—but Menendez was certainly someone Pete could look up to. He was gruff but considerate and always put others ahead of himself.

  Like Menendez before his health issues began, Pete was pretty no-nonsense when it came to work. He wasn’t prone to double-talk or getting mired in daily newsroom politics. He ran a relatively loose operation on the nights he was in charge, relying more on skill and independent thinking than procedure. Steve Vance was the opposite. Everything he said or did was calculated, and he catered to the Times’ corporate masters. Pete pictured the fifty-something Vance, with his slicked-back gray hair and tailored suit, speeding into the Times’ executive parking lot in his cherry-red Mini Cooper from his SoBe condo, where Pete was certain he had a black French bulldog and cougar second wife. A message from Vance was not good.

  “Hey, Pete…it’s Steve. It’s around three in the morning. Just hopped online to check a few things and wanted to pick your brain. Call me when you get a chance. Thanks.”

  The West Coast scores. Shit. That had to be it, Pete thought, as he got up, rubbing his temples. He needed a soda or something before he called Vance back. He looked across the newsroom and saw Vance’s office. The door was open. It was a Sunday and Vance was there.

  Vance usually worked Monday to Friday, 10 to 6. A normal schedule, which was considered the Holy Grail for all newspaper employees. The kind of thing you dreamed of and realized you’d never get, after a few years. It had to be a big deal for Vance to violate his sacred schedule to come into the newsroom on a Sunday.

  Pete walked over to the bulletin board area outside the kitchen, a few paces west of the main elevators, and scanned the duty roster. Usually, he wouldn’t bother. He knew which days he was running the show and which days he wasn’t. Today was one of the days he was slated to be the duty officer. He focused on the hastily tacked-on piece of paper. There he was—Pete Fernandez. But not under “duty officer.” He was listed as one of the five copy editors working the shift. Pete cursed under his breath.

  As he walked over to Vance’s office, Pete could feel a few stares from the other editors. He made eye contact with Mike, who, being a page designer, was seated closer to the bay windows of the building, where the light was better. Mike’s eyes widened with concern. He knew something. Pete considered detouring and talking to him first for some—any—kind of hint as to what was coming, but thought better of it. He’d rather jump into the fire and get it over with than delay the inevitable.

  The newsroom knew something was up. Steve Vance liked to talk. He liked to cement things before he made any kind of move. He was more politician than a manager, and Pete wasn’t much of either. This could be very bad, Pete mused, before rapping his fingers lightly on Vance’s slightly open door.

  “Strange to see you here on a weekend,” Pete said, trying to sound as casual as possible.

  “Hey, P. Come in, have a seat,” Vance said, stifling a yawn. Pete tried to force himself not to grimace. He hated when anyone called him anything other than Pete or Peter, or even Pedro, his given name and the one he shared with his father. Vance was in his “casual” clothes—a University of Florida T-shirt and long, khaki shorts. He had a few days stubble. His entire look screamed, “I was enjoying my weekend until you went and fucked something up!”

  Pete waited for the line that would seal his fate and confirm that he was in trouble. “Close the door.”

  Pete sat down facing Vance and braced himself.

  Vance didn’t hesitate. “

  What happened with the West Coast baseball scores?”

  “What about them?”

  “Well, why weren’t they in the paper? I checked the system and it said the pages were closed at around one. The results came in at two. You didn’t wait?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “You guess? The other paper had the results. We look stupid.”

  “We had them online. We were one man down, and everyone was worn out. I made the call to let it ride.”

  “Not good. Not a good call. You chose convenience over effort. Pete, this isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation. It’s become a problem. A real problem.”

  “OK.”

  “I know you like to be the boss everyone likes, the weekend editor who lets guys get away with murder, since it’s a pain in the ass coming in on a Saturday..”

  “That’s not true. I’m just not a hard-ass.” Like you, Pete wanted to say.

  “Neither am I,” Vance responded sharply. “But there are certain things that need to be done. This was one of them. I’m going to have to write you up.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Pete paused for a
second, then continued. “Go ahead.”

  Vance stopped, surprised by Pete’s response. Pete could tell Vance didn’t expect there to be much argument here.

  “This was a serious lapse in judgment and I’m concerned about your ability to continue to manage. I’m sorry.”

  Pete felt himself losing his cool.

  “Are you reading that from an HR manual?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind. Do what you think you have to do.”

  “That’s not the point,” Vance said, sliding out of his chair and standing up. He began to pace around his desk. “We have to leave this discussion having learned something -—I have to be confident it won’t happen again. Can you assure me of that?”

  Pete gritted his teeth. He was watching what little was left of his career slip through his fingers, and he couldn’t muster up the energy or nerve to do the basics—accept the reprimand, promise to do better, be conciliatory in some way. None of it was coming out of his mouth. Instead, he felt himself seething. He could imagine Vance on the phone earlier with someone from Human Resources, discussing the proper protocol for disciplining an errant drone. Steve Vance was a smarmy memo come to life, and Pete could do nothing about it.

  “No, I can’t.”

  “You can’t?” Vance said, unable to hide the shock in his voice.

  “I can’t assure you that I won’t think of the people working extra hours for free, because they’re not allowed to take overtime. I can’t assure you that I’ll just suddenly change my entire managing method.”