by Alex Segura
This wasn’t the conversation Pete was looking to have.
“Only a bit.”
“Big bit, then.”
Pete remained silent and let his eyes wander around Broche’s tiny office. It was part workspace and part relic—Pete could point to the photos that hadn’t been touched in years. On Broche’s desk was a framed picture of himself with Pete’s father, high-fiving in the middle of the squad room. A photo Pete had called “cheesy and forced” as a kid. What a brat I was, Pete thought.
“Bueno, enough giving you shit,” Broche said. “You obviously came here for something, not to hear me do my best imitation of your dad, right?”
“Yeah, I actually need a little advice.”
“With the ladies?” Broche laughed at his own crude humor. Pete pressed on.
“No, actually, it’s police-related.”
Broche perked up. “Are you in trouble?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Pete backpedaled. “I’m doing a favor for someone I work with. They asked me to help them find someone and I figured I’d check with you.”
“Why would this person ask you to help them find someone?” Broche asked, his brow furrowing. “What qualifies you to find anyone? No offense, but who is this guy?”
Broche was done with pleasantries and was cutting to the heart of the issue, the same issue that Pete had grappled with this morning. He was out of his element. If Kathy had any chance of surviving, it would be if the police took over.
“It’s his daughter—Kathy Bentley. Her dad thinks she’s missing.”
Broche rubbed his chin and sighed. “Did this guy file a report?”
“He said the police didn’t believe him.”
“How long has she been missing?”
“He said he wasn’t sure, that they’d not talked in a few days.”
“Fathers and daughters don’t talk for a few days all the time,” Broche said, turning to face his desktop computer. “I’m guessing this girl is your age or older? You said Bentley, right?”
Broche began to type before Pete nodded to confirm. Pete watched the older cop squint as he scanned his computer screen.
“OK, here’s the deal,” Broche said. “We have zero calls on file from anyone named Bentley. What’s your friend’s first name?”
“He’s not my friend, he just asked me to help him.”
“Do you do this a lot, help people you barely know?”
“Chaz. Chaz Bentley.”
“Chaz Bentley?” Broche said. “You’re fucking kidding me. The newspaper guy? I used to read his column all the time. When it was good. Guy’s a drunk. Gambles whatever he has away. Your dad took him in a few times. We did, I mean.”
“Yeah, that’s him,” Pete said. The idea that his dad had arrested Chaz Bentley stuck out. The fact that Chaz had lied about calling the police worried him.
“That’s it,” Broche said, still looking at the screen. He turned his chair to face Pete. “Look, this happens all the time. Parents lose contact with their grown kids for whatever reason and they think they’re in trouble when they’re really just pissed off and don’t want to talk to mommy or daddy. Unless there’s strong evidence of foul play, or this person isn’t showing up for work or church group or whatever regular activities they partake in, we usually don’t call out the big guns.”
Pete could feel Broche looking at him, even as his own gaze rested on the photo of his father, taken years before.
“This is what you’re going to do,” Broche said, his voice clear and forceful.
“Ok.”
“You need to tell this Mr. Bentley that unless he has more proof that his daughter is missing. We can’t do anything. I hate to say it’s down to manpower, but that’s part of it. We just don’t have enough cops or detectives to go chasing after every lead.”
“She hasn’t been in her apartment for a few days,” Pete blurted out. He was nervous. He felt like a kid bringing home a bad report card. He fought a desire to wince in anticipation of Broche’s response. “And she was working on a story about the Silent Death.” Pete let the last few words hang in the air.
“How the fuck would you know those things?”
“Because I was there, OK? She hadn’t fed her cat, the TV was on, there were dishes in the sink…”
Broche stood up and pointed at Pete. “So now you’re fucking Miami PD? You have the authorization to break into someone’s place to confirm if they’re alive or not?”
“No, of course not,” Pete said.
“You are out of your mind,” Broche said, his voice lowering to a whisper. “Do you know how much trouble you could be in? If this girl ends up dead somewhere, and we do, God forbid, have to go into her apartment and investigate—do you have any idea how bad it would look if our forensic guys find your fingerprints at her place? Or anywhere in relation to her?”
A drop of sweat slid down Pete’s back. He could feel his heart beating in his chest. No, of course he hadn’t thought of any of that. This was some wacky adventure that was going to pull him out of his rut. He hadn’t stopped to consider real lives were involved. Broche was now leaning over, his palms flat on the desk. His face was red.
“And what the fuck do you know about the Silent Death, kid?” Broche said, his voice now a strained whisper. He looked at his open door, as if expecting the assassin to waltz in and smoke them both any second. “No one works that case. No one. It doesn’t exist. You know as well as I do what the deal is. This department has two or three good cops. The rest answer to the wrong sergeant. Understand? I do what little good I can, bide my time until I can retire, y ya. That’s all I can do. This is a silent city when it comes to him, Pete. The sooner you realize that, the longer you’ll live. No one talks about him. The ones that do end up dead. No one knows shit.”
Broche glared at Pete.
“Do you realize what an awkward position you’ve put me in?” Broche said, his voice a seething whisper. “You broke the law. If I ignore this now, and it comes back to bite me in the ass, it could cost me my badge, my pension.” Broche shook his head and straightened up. Pete said nothing.
“I’m going to pretend this conversation never happened,” Broche said. “You should, too. You need to tell this asshole Bentley that if he really thinks his daughter is missing, he needs to come down here and explain why. Then we’ll send an officer with him to check out her place. Then, and only then, a professional—not some half-ass amateur—will determine if she’s missing or if daddy’s being a paranoid pendejo. Understand?”
Pete felt like a kid again, being lectured for yet another fuck-up. Another suspension at school, another fight after class. He felt ashamed. He got up quickly and headed for the door, he turned to Broche at the last second.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Pete said. “I realize I fucked up.”
“Just go,” Broche said. He seemed dejected, slumped in his chair, no longer looking at Pete. “Do exactly what I told you and never involve yourself in police business again. Do not mention anything about this story you say she’s working on. You’re putting yourself and everyone around you at risk, even if you’re talking bullshit. You’re not helping, even if you think you’re smarter than everyone else. You’re not. Not when it comes to this.”
Pete felt his face redden. Sure, he’d made a mistake, but he would bet money on Kathy being in danger, and he wasn’t going to disregard that instinct just because he’d fucked up the procedure.
“I know she’s missing.” Pete said, his voice shaking. “She’s in trouble. Whether Chaz tells you or I tell you, it’s true. Something is wrong and the longer you wait to start looking for her, the less likely it’ll be that she comes out of this alive.”
Broche stood up with a quickness that surprised Pete and darted around his desk until they were almost nose-to-nose. He could hear Broche’s labored breathing, see the pores on his face, smell his cologne.
“Tell me one thing, right now,” Broche said, pausing between every word. For emphasis, or
was he so angry he could barely speak, Pete wondered? “How do you think your father would feel, seeing you like this?”
“What?”
“Reeking of alcohol, dressed like a bum,” Broche said, his face contorted in a way Pete had never seen before. “It’s not even this stupid girl. It’s how you look, how you’re acting. You’re nothing like him. What happened to everything he taught you? Everything he spent his life on? He pulled you out of the gutter and you dive back in the first chance you get?”
Pete had no response. He backed away from Broche. His legs felt wobbly. He held onto the chair he’d been sitting in and looked at Broche, who was looking back, waiting for Pete to respond, to defend himself, but nothing came. Pete nodded at Broche and tried to straighten himself up.
“I’m trying to fix that.”
• • •
Pete had ordered the vodka soda before he sat down at the bar. It was too early to be drinking, barely noon. Pete didn’t care. He was past caring. His job was gone, Emily was gone and his past had just sucker-punched him. It wasn’t his father tearing him down, but Broche was a close facsimile, and that hurt Pete in ways he was still processing. The bartender nodded as the glass tapped against the bar and Pete slapped a ten on the counter.
Foggy Notion, hole-in-the-wall that had once been a microbrewery but now sported a full bar, was a quick drive away from the police station and a few blocks from Biscayne. The décor was sparse, the clientele sketchy, and the music good. Pete wondered why he didn’t frequent this place. Then he remembered: he and Emily used to. He didn’t have to worry about running into her now.
He pulled his phone out and scrolled through his contacts.
He needed to talk to someone. Someone who wasn’t tired of the random, midday phone call. Someone who wouldn’t ask where he was and then ask how long he’d been drinking. He wanted to bask in being miserable with someone new. Not Emily. He’d feel bad calling Mike again. The yellow highlighted text found Javier’s name and Pete clicked his phone to call.
The phone rang two times before Javier picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” Pete said, his mind finally catching up to his actions and realizing he was calling someone that—before yesterday—he hadn’t spoken to in almost a decade. “It’s, uh, it’s Pete.”
“Oh,” Javier said, his voice sounding distant and confused on the other end of the line. “Hey, man. What’s up? This is a surprise.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Pete said, taking a quick gulp from his drink, wincing as he noticed how strong it was. Not much soda water. Mostly vodka. He needed that. “Sorry, I…I just wanted to give you an update. Uh, you asked me to keep you updated.”
There was a pause on the other line. Pete heard some rustling.
“Yeah, sure, thanks for calling,” Javier said. “Sorry, I was doing some stuff outside. I’m at my place now. What’s up? You mean an update about Kathy?”
“Well, sort of,” Pete said. “I went to the police to file a report.”
“Why?”
Pete ignored the question and pressed on. “It turns out Chaz never even called to say he thought she was missing,” Pete said. “There was no record of a report.” He polished off his drink and motioned to the bartender for another one. His need was quickly met.
“I don’t think she’s missing,” Javier said. Pete thought he sounded slightly agitated. “But good for you to double-check.”
“It’s just weird Chaz would tell me he called the cops when he didn’t, you know?” Pete said. “This whole thing is really strange.”
“Yeah, I don’t get it,” Javier said, sounding concerned. “I mean, Kathy does this all the time. We’ll talk, fight, then she’ll go away for a while. I’d start worrying if it’d been a few weeks, but it just seems like she’s off doing her thing. That’s kind of how we operate.”
“Yeah,” Pete said. “Everyone’s different. I just think I’m done with this whole thing. Whatever concerns Chaz had are in the police’s hands, not mine.”
“Yeah, definitely,” Javier said. “It’s not your problem. I mean, it’s great you’re concerned, man, it is. But Kathy’s a big girl.”
“Yeah,” Pete said. He took another long swig from his glass. He felt the initial light-headedness that comes with drinking hard liquor too quickly. He didn’t want the feeling to end.
“You there?”
Pete snapped out of his reverie.
“Yeah, yeah,” Pete said. “I was just thinking about what a shitty few days it’s been.”
Javier didn’t respond immediately.
“Sorry to hear that,” he said. “But hey, at least we got back in touch after so long. It’s good to talk to you, bro. Where the hell are you?”
Pete let out a dry laugh.
“In a bar.”
“Shit, this early? It’s barely lunchtime.”
“Yeah,” Pete said. “I dunno. I needed a drink.”
“Wow,” Javier said. “It has been a rough week, huh? I’d swing over and join you, but I’ve gotta head to work in a few minutes. Have a few for me, though.”
“You got it.”
“And thanks for keeping tabs on this,” Javier said. Pete noted the sincerity in his voice. A tone he hadn’t heard in a long time. “I realize Kathy’s nuts, but she doesn’t have many people looking out for her. I think she’d be touched in her own weird way if she knew you were.”
“Well, that’s good,” Pete said, his hand slowly turning his glass.
They said their goodbyes and hung up. Pete thought he should feel better, but didn’t. Without his job, he’d at least had this to keep him entertained and moving forward. With Kathy a police matter now, he had nothing. His eyes scanned the labels on the bottles watching him from across the bar. He nodded at them silently.
He had to deal with Chaz Bentley, he realized. Well, deal with him inasmuch as he had to tell him the matter was now in the hands of the authorities. Pete wasn’t looking forward to the discussion, but if he was going to pull himself together in some way, he had to clear the deck of things that were not his concern. Like Kathy. Chaz. Whoever the Silent Death was or is. He laughed to himself. What had made him think he could even help find someone? Someone who probably wasn’t even missing, he mused. He roughly rubbed his hand across his face. He felt like shit. He ordered another drink. The bar was now fully empty aside from Pete and the bartender. He looked out the dusty and greasy window and saw an empty street.
Chapter Sixteen
The sound of the flushing toilet echoed through Pete’s tiny apartment as he slowly made his way to his couch. His eyes were half-closed as he collapsed on the sofa. It was close to four in the morning. He’d only gotten home about 20 minutes prior and had made a beeline to empty what little food he’d had in his system. He was such a seasoned drinker that throwing up was a rarity. But tonight—this morning, rather—had been one of those exceptions. He smelled of cigarettes and vodka. His clothes felt sticky and his breath stank of liquored bile. He didn’t care. He noticed the cardboard box on his living room table, containing his father’s files and who knew what else. He only felt the urge to rummage through them when he was like this—drunk, alone, feeling sorry for himself. He pulled out his phone and checked his outgoing calls. No, not this time. He hadn’t made his usual mistake of calling Emily. He let out a quick sigh of relief and tossed the phone on the other end of the small couch.
“What would your father say if he saw you know?”
Broche’s words rang in Pete’s head. A constant drone merging with the throbbing hangover that was sure to consume him in a few hours. His self pity had dissolved into a drunken anger with each new sip of alcohol, and by now, Pete was not only lucky to be home, but lucky he hadn’t been kicked out of the last bar he’d visited, a tiny beer venue on the beach called Zeke’s. Pete remembered a heated conversation—with the bartender? The driver of the cab the bartender had forced him to take? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t care. He kicked out angrily from the couch
, aiming for the table, a gift from Emily while they were dating. Instead, his foot connected with his father’s box, the missed connection causing him to slide off the couch and onto the floor, sending the box and its contents splayed across the budget brown carpet. Pete half-crawled to the area next to the table where most of the papers had accumulated. He felt pathetic. Here he was, close to dawn, crawling across his carpet after puking his guts out, picking up what little remained of his father’s memory because he’d drunkenly kicked it over.
“Jesus, stop feeling sorry for yourself,” he said aloud, grabbing piles of papers and stacking them on the table. “Get it together, man.”
It was all stuff he’d seen before. Copies of police reports his father probably wasn’t supposed to have, the incomplete Silent Death file and a few errant Post-it notes. But as he moved another stack of papers into the box, a manila envelope slipped loose from between two of the standard case files, landing awkwardly on the floor. Pete dropped the papers in his hands into the box and grabbed the envelope. In rough, block handwriting—not his father’s, Pete noted—someone had written “FERNANDEZ MISC.” on the outside. Pete carefully removed the tape lining the opening and undid the metal latch. Inside were a few more forms—police reports. Alongside them was a small, leather-bound beige book. Pete emptied the contents of the envelope on the couch and sat down next to the new discovery to investigate.
The police reports were a strange collection, Pete thought. None were filled out by his father, and they were all clearly copies of reports his father had pulled from other files. But that wasn’t what caught Pete’s eye. It was the names of the suspects. One, from about 10 years prior, was an arrest record for Charles “Chaz” Bentley—drunk and disorderly. Chaz had been arrested outside the Clevelander—a ritzy bar on Ocean Drive that Pete had trouble even picturing Chaz at. According to the report, Chaz had been kicked out of the bar after he threatened one of the bar’s patrons, who was not identified. Chaz was described as a “noted newspaper writer for the Miami Times. Rumored to also be in great debt to certain criminal elements. No hard evidence to support this yet.” Pete reread the information. His headache had kicked in, but he refused to make the same mistake he made the last time he perused his father’s papers. Something was happening. There were strands of information dangling around him, Pete thought, and he just needed to look at them all before deciding which ones to pull on. He pushed the alcoholic drowsiness away. Curiosity was winning this fight.