by Alex Segura
“Hey, uh, it’s Pete, I work in Sports.”
Amy sized him up. She was older, but fit and with a grace Pete hadn’t immediately noticed.
“Hello. I’m about to head out, so if this is about the 1A teases you’re going to have to talk to Greenberg. He’s…”
“No, no, that’s not it,” Pete responded. He waited. She finally made eye contact with him, shaking her head slightly in confusion.
“Um, OK,” she said. “What’s up, Pete from Sports?”
“It’s about Kathy,” Pete said quickly, his voice lowering slightly. “Kathy Bentley?”
“What about her?” Amy said. “Have you heard from her?”
Pete’s heart sank slightly. Her question had answered his.
“No, I haven’t,” he said. “I was hoping you had.”
Amy sighed and slung her bag over her shoulder. She seemed dejected at Pete’s answer. “Why are you asking? You realize she’s seeing someone, right?”
“That’s not why I’m asking.”
“Oh? Why else would an editor who doesn’t even work in her section wonder about her?”
“Her dad is worried about her.”
Amy let out quick, dismissive sound. “Chaz is suddenly worried? How convenient. Why doesn’t he call her? She’s his daughter. Listen, I really have to go.”
Amy walked past Pete toward the elevators in the middle of the newsroom. He followed a pace or two behind her.
“Look, I know this is random,” Pete said, trying to keep his voice quiet so only Amy could hear. “But I’ve reason to think she may be in trouble.”
Amy turned to face him, clearly annoyed. “You’re right about one thing,” Amy said, meeting Pete’s eyes. “This is very random. Why the hell are you looking for Kathy? What makes you think she even needs to be found?”
“Did she come to work today?”
“What?”
“She works on weekdays. Did she come in today?”
Amy paused, her eyes still fixed on Pete. “What’s your angle?”
“Angle?” Pete asked.
“Yes, angle,” she said. “Why should I talk to someone who I’ve never met, asking about a friend of mine, taking orders from a father that she’s never said anything nice about?”
Pete slid his hands into his pockets and looked around. People were starting to take notice of the exchange happening outside the elevator bay. “Can we talk about this somewhere else?”
“No, we can’t talk about this somewhere else,” Amy said, her voice forceful. “I don’t even know why you’re asking; so as far as I’m concerned, this conversation is over.”
She turned and started toward the elevator. Pete saw her punch the button and head in. Again, without much thought, he darted into the elevator after her. The doors closed behind him. She let out a surprised yelp.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Amy said, now more worried for her own safety than about any questions Pete might have.
Pete put his hands up. “Look, just hear me out,” he said. Amy’s features softened slightly to reveal her own concern. “I don’t know her very well, but talking to Chaz got me to thinking that she might not be OK.”
“OK,” Amy said. “Go on.”
“I know you and Kathy are close,” Pete said. “And, at this point, I’m not sure what Chaz’s game is. But, for my own peace of mind, I want to know if you’ve spoken to her, so I can either stop worrying and get on with my life or go to the cops and let them know she might be in danger.”
Pete took a breath and continued. “So, did she come to work today?”
“No. No, she didn’t. I haven’t heard from her in almost a week.”
The elevator reached the main lobby and opened its doors.
“OK,” Pete said. “Has that ever happened before?”
Amy hesitated and looked Pete over quickly one more time. She was calculating. Should she trust him? Pete hoped she found his face to be trustworthy enough, despite the stubble and slightly bloodshot eyes.
“Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”
• • •
Amy and Pete sat across from each other at Kleinman’s. In the brief moments when they had debated where to go, Pete discovered he only knew of bars in the area. Amy, a recovering alcoholic from what Pete had heard through newsroom gossip, seemed reticent, but they both knew options in that neighborhood were limited. The bar was your usual, generic pub, with dark brown and dingy décor and the requisite pool table and electronic jukebox. If it weren’t for its proximity to work and thus a quick post-deadline nightcap, Pete wasn’t sure he’d frequent the bar as much as he did.
Amy ordered a coffee, black, and Pete felt compelled to do the same. Considering that he was already an hour late and logging in was his only work-related accomplishment of the day, he wagered that returning to the office smelling of alcohol wouldn’t do wonders for his employment status.
Amy took a cautious sip of her coffee and looked over at Pete before speaking. “Ok, spill.”
“Spill?”
“What’s this all about? Does Kathy owe Chaz money? Why is he so desperate to find her?”
Pete moved to drink his coffee but hesitated. It seemed like it was too hot. He could let it sit for a while. “Honestly, I’m not sure,” he answered. “I just know he was worried and he asked me to find her.”
“Do you always do favors for bumbling, drunken strangers?”
Pete was slightly taken aback by Amy’s retort, deciding a humorous aside wouldn’t be the best idea. He pressed on.
“Honestly, no. I don’t really know Chaz or Kathy,” Pete said. “But I am a little worried, and if anything, I’d feel worse about this if I just let it go without at least figuring out she was OK. I’m not overly concerned with her issues with her dad, or work, or whatever.”
Amy frowned and took another sip of her coffee. The bar, which saw most of its business happen after sunset, was mostly empty.
“Kathy is a very needy person,” Amy started. “She needs constant reassuring, constant attention, and constant coddling. She’s also one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, which is why I tolerate her. She’s a great writer, sharp as hell, and funnier than that. She’s the closest friend I have.” She paused, as if for emphasis. “We’ve never gone this long without talking.”
“Have you reported this to the police? Has anyone noticed she wasn’t at work today?” Pete felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. Someone was calling. He chose to ignore it.
“No, I haven’t talked to anyone,” Amy said. “It’s not my place. I will now, though. If you’re her only hope, then we’re in trouble.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“There’s no nice way to ask this, so whatever,” Amy said. “But do you look in the mirror when you wake up? For all I know, you were in this very bar before you came to work.”
Pete shrugged off the insult.
“Chaz asked me to try to find her—why? No idea,” he said. “At this point, I’m not sure who to trust. I’m also not sure I’m the person for this job. I’m going to the cops.”
Amy nodded. She seemed relieved.
“Well, that’s a start,” she said. “Has anyone heard from Javier?”
“I spoke to him. He said she was fine, that she does this kind of act all the time.”
“To him, she does,” Amy said. “He’s a prick.”
“Do you know if anything was going on with Kathy lately?” Pete asked, looking down at his coffee. “What was she working on for you? She does long-form stuff, right?”
“Yes, she’s an investigative reporter,” Amy said. “She’s been busy, I don’t know—nothing out of the ordinary. She’s been piecing together this one story on gang murders. That’s been taking up most of her time.”
“What kind of gang murders?”
“The mob kind,” Amy said. She seemed exasperated, as if the conversation was going nowhere. “Ever heard of the Silent Death?”
Pete nodded.
; “It’s some kind of weird, pseudo-urban legend,” Amy said. “One dude. Killed a dozen or so gangster-types. Ranging from bosses to low-end thugs. Same method: two bullets in the head from a silencer. The one or two witnesses that have ever seen him say he comes totally dressed in black—hat, overcoat, scarf, glasses. Real spooky, I’d guess.”
Pete took a long sip from his coffee.
“Anyway, if it is one person—and I don’t really think it can be—this guy kills for the highest bidder,” Amy said. “He’s murdered on all sides and no one has any clue who he might be. He’s been doing this for the last five or six years and no one has any idea who he is or where he comes from. So, Kathy’s been trying, bit by bit, to figure it out.”
“How close is she?”
“Close,” Amy said, her eyes meeting Pete briefly. Concern flashed across her face. “At least she thinks she’s close. I’m not convinced yet.”
Pete felt the wheels turning in his head. He wasn’t sure what to make of Amy’s information. He wasn’t a big believer in coincidences. His mind flashed back to a few nights back, rummaging through his father’s files. Had he missed something that could help him now? He’d have to revisit them, to at least get a better sense about this Silent Death.
His thoughts were interrupted by Amy clearing her throat.
Amy gently put her mug down and put a few dollars on the table. She looked down at Pete.
“I don’t want to seem ungrateful, because I’m not,” she said. “But you’re in a little over your head. Your timing is way off and from what little I know about these kind of missing person situations, time is imperative. I think the best thing you can do for Kathy—and for me, and that idiot father of hers—is to make sure the cops get on this as soon as possible.”
“Yeah,” Pete said, staring at his folded hands on the table. He felt almost ashamed.
“Kathy, as wonderful as she is, has the habit of running with the wrong people,” Amy said, getting up. “Things may have caught up with her. And if that’s the case, none of us may want to see the results.”
“What do you mean?” Pete asked.
“You see the pieces, don’t you?” Amy said. Pete noticed her eyes were reddening. “Either she’s dead or she will be soon. She’s not on vacation. She hasn’t moved to New Mexico. She is in some serious shit. And if you think for a second Chaz Bentley came to you because he thought you were the best chance he had at finding his daughter, you’re more delusional than I thought you were.”
Pete watched as Amy turned and left the bar. He realized she was right. This was a case for a professional, not a washed up journalist looking for meaning in his life. He looked at the empty seat across from him and sighed. His eyes drifted to the bar. He could probably swing a quick vodka soda or shot before heading back to work, right? Pete pushed the thought out of his head. If he was going to disconnect from this, he needed to talk to the police as soon as possible. But first, he needed to get back to work. He pulled out his phone and saw that whoever called him had left a voicemail. He clicked to check it. The second Pete realized who it was, he knew his day had gone from bad to terrible.
“Pete, it’s Steve Vance. I’m going to get to the point to save us both some time. You’re on paid suspension for two weeks. After which you’ll be evaluated by a Human Resources rep. It’s as bad as it sounds. I thought our talk would be enough to motivate you to show the promise we’ve been waiting on since we hired you, but it wasn’t. I don’t need to list the reasons for this call. Your stuff will be boxed pending the review. Your access pass has been blocked. Please call HR with any other questions.”
Pete heard the last bit of Vance’s message as his phone landed on the table. The bartender looked up from the day’s sports section to see Pete slam his fist down on the table, cursing himself.
Chapter Fifteen
Pete winced as the police station’s fluorescent lights beat down on him. It was early in the afternoon and he’d been awake for less than an hour. The night, not surprisingly, had been a blur. After the call from Vance he decided the best way to deal with his impending career change wasn’t by taking a walk over to his job to confront the problem, but by a slow and gradual obliteration at Kleinman’s. He vaguely remembered stumbling to his car, only to be awoken a few hours later by the Times’ night security, who found him passed out and drooling in the driver’s seat. Luckily, the security guard didn’t seem concerned about Pete’s driving the five or six miles back to his apartment. He felt defeated. He no longer had the grim walls of the Miami Times hovering protectively over him. There was also the issue of money. But Pete knew there would be some severance. He hoped it’d last him.
The precinct— nestled downtown off the expressway—brought back some memories of when he was in high school and his dad was a detective on the force. He remembered many a visit to the station. To bring his father coffee. To keep him company on a late case in the hopes of borrowing the car. It wasn’t always by choice, either. If high school was his second home—and, after Pedro set him straight, it was—then the downtown Miami Police Department building was his third. He walked up to the desk slowly. He didn’t recognize the officer manning it—a chubby, older woman with a fading perm and frazzled, burnt-out look about her.
“Yeah?” she blurted.
“Hi,” Pete said hesitantly. “I’m here to see Detective Broche.”
Pete had determined the lady’s last name was Ramirez from her badge. She gave him a dazed look. “Do you think we just let people come in and meet with detectives?”
Pete smiled at Gladys as politely as he could muster. “No, señora, of course not,” Pete said, already noticing her smile at his formal greeting. “Claro que no. I’m an old friend of Detective Broche. He used to work with my father, Pedro Fernandez.”
Her eyes widened slightly. Was she blushing, Pete wondered?
“Pedro Fernandez?” she almost exclaimed. “Bueno, hijo, wait right here. I’ll get Detective Broche myself.”
Pete watched as she labored to extract herself from her chair and waddled over to the back. He looked around the waiting area one more time. The place still smelled the same—a mix of cleaning liquid and sweat, like a boys’ locker room. Pete was here to resolve this situation. After his talk with Amy and Vance’s call, it was clear he was in over his head. What had served as a momentary distraction from his regular life couldn’t be treated as such. Even hung over, Pete realized he had bigger issues to deal with beyond looking for Kathy Bentley. But he couldn’t shake the lingering feeling that the Miami PD—known for lax detective work and not exactly the most honorable institution—wouldn’t give the case the attention it deserved. Still, what could he do?
Detective Carlos Broche had been his father’s partner in Homicide for almost two decades. He had been a constant presence in Pete’s formative years, and Pete had as many memories involving the gruff, mustachioed Cuban as he did of his father during the time. Conversations over coffee while his dad had a suspect “in the box” being interrogated and junk food runs during another late night when his father couldn’t come home but wanted to keep tabs on his errant son were etched into Pete’s memories. He could almost taste the strong Cuban coffee shots, cold from being out for hours, still potent and delicious.
Pete felt a strong hand on his shoulder and turned around to find Broche, burly and powerful but a bit grayer and chubbier, pulling him into an emotional bear hug.
“Pedrito,” Broche said, calling him by a name he hadn’t heard since he was a child. “Why in the hell has it taken you this long to come visit your uncle?”
Pete found himself hugging Broche back, feeling a jolt of nostalgia.
They backed up a pace and looked each other over. Broche was overweight—less like the bull of his earlier days and more like a sleepy bear. Still, he commanded attention. He kept his left hand on Pete’s shoulder, his other hand gingerly slapping Pete on his cheek.
“It’s been too long, hijo,” Broche said, smiling, proud. Pete won
dered just how closely he’d followed his old partner’s son. “Let’s go sit down in my office. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
Pete dutifully followed Broche down a short hallway and into a smallish office, decorated with photos and an unused bulletin board behind Broche’s tiny black desk, where he slowly sat down. Pete took a seat across from him.
“It’s good to see you,” Pete said, speaking slowly, slightly overcome by the energy in the place and the rush of memories each step gave him. “It’s funny to be back here after so long.”
“Yeah,” Broche looked around. “This place doesn’t change, little man. Same shit, different day, you know? We had a gas station owner in here last night—beat up real good. Said two guys burst into the station and wiped him clean. Carrying shotguns and shit. This town is going to hell. Always has been.”
Pete let out a dry laugh. Broche was always the pessimist to Pete’s optimistic dad. They were opposites but also meshed well together. Pete shifted in his chair a bit, unsure how to begin.
“So, what’s the deal?” Broche said, cutting through the bullshit. “Your dad dies a few years ago, you don’t even visit? I haven’t seen you since the funeral, man. How’ve you been?”
“I’ve been OK, trying to keep busy,” Pete said. He hated small talk.
“You still with that pretty girl? What’s her name? Emily?”
“Nah,” Pete said, not elaborating. Broche shrugged.
“Eh, whatever,” he said, waving his arm dismissively. “There’s always another woman waiting around the corner. Fuck her. How’s work? You at the Times still?”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s good,” he said, wincing at the lie. “Pretty busy with all the layoffs and stuff like that.”
Broche nodded along, paying attention, but thinking of something else. He leaned back in his chair.
“You look like shit,” Broche said. “You know that, right?”
“What?”
“I’m telling you like it is,” Broche said. “Same way I’d talk to your dad when he’d come into work looking like he’d just gone 10 rounds with Roberto Duran after a week without any sleep. You smell like liquor, too. Went out last night?”