Silent City

by Alex Segura

  Since he was logged in as Kathy, he could not only access and view any folders that were public to all editors and reporters in the system, he also had access to areas that were restricted to news staffers and areas that were for Kathy and her administrator’s eyes only. The Enterprise folder was barren, Pete discovered. Thinking about it for a moment, he figured not many reporters would want their work in a relatively public place before it was final. With a few clicks he was in a basket labeled “KBENTLEY.” Kathy’s private area. It was littered with files, about 30. Some were obvious, like “browardcourts09notes.” But what would the title to her big, unfinished story be? Pete scanned the folder for the obvious choices. No “Silent Death.” No “Miami Murderer.” No “Contreras.” After a few minutes he’d clicked on almost every file in the main KBENTLEY folder when he went back and found a subfolder, which he’d previously ignored as irrelevant. It was titled “Published Stories/Old Notes.” He’d disregarded it because he knew this story hadn’t been published—but it would be a good place to put a story you didn’t want anyone to find very quickly, Pete thought.

  He double-clicked on the sub-folder and found another handful of files. Most were, in fact, notes for stories Kathy had written. A recap of a double murder in Hialeah. A convenience store robbery in Opa-Locka. An interview with the outgoing police chief from three months’ back. Pete was getting frustrated. That’s when he heard the footsteps. He couldn’t tell which direction they were coming from, but he’d definitely heard them. Whoever was outside wasn’t walking in a straight line, but stopping and starting. Probably to avoid being discovered. Pete turned the monitor off with a quick push of a button and knelt down by his desk, which gave him a view of the office door, but also gave him cover.

  Who would be wandering this floor so late in the day? Pete had no idea, but whoever it was didn’t want to be found. He waited. A few minutes passed and the silence persisted. The hum of the computer was the only sound Pete could make out. He tried to keep his breathing low and calm. He let another minute pass before he got back on his chair and turned to face the computer, his ears still on full alert.

  Pete tried to focus. He turned the monitor on and took a moment to scan the dark office. Empty. The noises had been nothing, he thought. Probably a custodian or someone trying to catch up on work.

  He went back to the subfolder and continued to scan the list of file names. All were fairly standard, and obviously were for stories that had already run—except one. Titled ‘groceries,’ the file seemed innocent enough, but from what Pete could tell, it was also the file most recently edited by the user KBENTLEY. Pete double-clicked the file icon and waited for it to load.

  After a few seconds—which implied the file was relatively large, especially for the slow computer to process—the file was open on the screen. This wasn’t any grocery list, Pete thought to himself as he scanned the file. It was roughly organized, bits and pieces of commentary in red text, embedded into a loosely structured story. It was well-written, though, and would eventually become a great story. If it ever got published. This was what he was looking for. Pete glanced at the clock hanging over the main windows across the office. It was close to seven in the evening. He’d been in the Times building for close to an hour. The longer he stayed, the more he risked running into someone who knew he wasn’t supposed to be around. He sent the file to print and began to turn away from the computer when he decided to take one extra precaution, one that might leave a bit of a trail, but would keep the information in his hands in case the paper itself was lost. He pulled out a tiny portable USB drive and plugged it into the computer. Once the computer recognized the hardware, he dragged the file onto the drive and disconnected it.

  As he heard the first of about 40 pages begin to print across the room, Pete continued to skim the paragraphs of Kathy’s story. It was all in here—and more. While she agreed with his father’s notes inasmuch as they both thought Contreras was involved, she didn’t seem to see him as the Silent Death himself. Pete frowned. Not exactly what he was hoping for. The files painted the Silent Death as a unique commodity in the Miami underworld. A freelancer who, for the right price, took out other gang leaders and henchmen. He’d somehow managed to keep his identity secret, which in turn helped him stay alive and also be able to live some semblance of a normal life. According to Kathy’s notes, the man who was the Silent Death also made a decent amount of money from a secondary business, laundering money for gangs and smaller drug dealing organizations in northern Florida, including Orlando and outlying areas like Titusville. The gangs would bring the money in and through outposts like Casa Pepe’s, which was owned by Contreras. The money would come back out, written off, “clean” and ready to be used to further the respective drug operations. For a fee, of course. The laundering—though secondary according to Kathy, and spearheaded by Contreras—was run from the Keys, where the Casa Pedro owner had a number of real estate holdings, most notably a cluster of bungalows in Key West. Waterford Resorts, near the main strip on Duval Street. Pete pulled out the tiny black book he’d taken from Kathy’s apartment and jotted down the name. If Key West was the heart of Contreras’ operation, and Contreras was possibly the Silent Death, Pete couldn’t think of a better place to start looking for Kathy.

  The story went on, outlining the history of the Silent Death. A black-suited killer who wore a black mask and only appeared at night, the Silent Death was responsible for a string of murders dating as far back as seven years. His influence, in addition to aiding and colluding with gangs across the state, cast a shadow over the only force entrusted to bring him in, the Miami Police Department. Through a combination of payoffs and murders, the Silent Death had made himself immune to investigation and thus to arrest. Kathy noted in her text that over 60 percent of the force was actively taking money from either the Silent Death or Miami gangs who regularly employed him as a hitman. The last bit was italicized. She still needed more facts to support this line. Pete was impressed by Kathy’s tenacity. She had a number of city officials on record, some retired and long gone from Miami, and it was obvious she’d done a fair amount of legwork, probably on her own time. But a key piece was missing. The first paragraph, which, as in any passable news story, was tasked with setting the stage for the entire piece, didn’t have the key bit of info Pete was hoping for: the identity of the Silent Death. Instead, it was a list of names, some of whom Pete was unfamiliar with. Contreras was on the list, followed by a series of question marks. She wasn’t sure about him either, Pete thought.

  “Is he or isn’t he?” Pete whispered under his breath. The signs pointed to it—the illicit meetings and funds, Chaz’s murder, Contreras’s antsy behavior when Pete arrived. He wasn’t sure, though. Not yet. He didn’t have time to sit and read the entire file here; and he didn’t want to be discovered hacking into the Times system if he could avoid it. The computers would show that someone logged in as Kathy Bentley, but there was no way of tracing it back to him, unless they figured out the terminal and also decided to talk to Gustavo, Pete reasoned. He was covered, for the most part. He shut the computer off and walked over to the printer. He drummed his fingers on the machine as it spit out the last few pages. He grabbed a few extra blank pages and put them on top of the pile of papers. He found a manila folder, slid the pages in and gave the office another quick once-over before stepping out into the hallway. The printer’s clicks and zips as it shut down echoed in the empty room.

  • • •

  “Well, whatever problems Steve Vance had, they don’t matter,” Pete said into his phone as he fumbled around in his pockets, looking for the keys to his apartment. Emily was on the other line. They hadn’t spoken since they had drinks at the Pub a few nights before. But a call from Emily was no longer routine to Pete. He had to remind himself of this each time they did talk.

  “It doesn’t matter?” she said, exasperation in her voice. “You’ve lost your job. What are you going to do once the suspension is up and all you have is severance?
”

  “Don’t know yet,” Pete said as he opened the door and walked into his dark apartment. Costello and Kathy’s gray cat mewed in anticipation. “Stop your crying, you’ll get fed.”

  “What?”

  “Talking to the cats. I have no idea what I’m doing. I guess I’ll start looking for work while I’m still getting paid. Maybe I should be a detective?”

  Pete heard silence on the other end. “I’m kidding.”

  “I never know with you,” Emily said. “What are you doing tonight? And since when do you have two cats?”

  “No plans, why?” Pete said, ignoring her second question.

  “Want to grab dinner?” she said. “Rick’s stuck at work and we haven’t really talked in a while.”

  “We hung out a few nights ago, what are you talking about?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “But you were wasted and Mike was there. You always act different in groups. So, yay or nay?”

  “Yeah, sounds good,” Pete said, dropping his keys back into his pocket. The two cats, who dealt with each other with general indifference, continued to follow him into his bedroom. “I’ll be there in a couple hours. I just want to relax a bit and maybe take a nap.”

  “OK, just don’t come here already wasted,” she warned. Pete bit his tongue.

  “I’m not going to be wasted,” Pete said. The cats both looked toward the front door at the same time. They must have heard something, Pete thought. “I’ll see you at nine-thirty. It’s almost eight now.”

  “Ok, cool, see you then.”

  Pete tossed his phone on his desk along with the printouts from Kathy’s file and sat down on the edge of his bed. He placed the portable USB drive in his nightstand. He slid his hand through his dark hair and scanned the mess that was his room. Huge pile of laundry. A stack of unread novels on the nightstand. The lights from his stereo blinking. Things needed to be organized, he thought, and not just material ones. He was still processing what just happened. Chaz was dead. Whatever was left of his career was probably equally dead. But Kathy was still missing. And now, because of Pete’s growing certainty that the so-called Silent Death was involved, the Miami Police would be of little help when it came to finding her.

  Pete felt a strange mix of fear and relief. He had no choice, he reasoned. If he didn’t look for her, no one would. Right?

  He noticed the cats were no longer in his room. That was odd, he thought. They usually pestered him incessantly until they were fed. He heard a soft thud at the door. He got up and walked back to his living room. What now? A delivery? He looked out the front door’s eye hole and saw nothing. He started to turn around when his door swung open.

  Pete felt outside his body for a moment, as he watched the dark figure enter his apartment. He was wearing a black trenchcoat, fedora, and dark glasses. He seemed stocky and he had a gun in his right hand. He was looking straight at Pete as he closed the door. Pete backed into his apartment. His mind raced. He felt a surreal calm spread over his body. This was probably it, he thought. The years of backyard brawls and high school fist fights would be of little service when facing off against an assassin, Pete thought. He took the few moments left and scanned the figure. He was bigger than Pete had imagined him. His face was hard to make out, shadows masking his features. He was breathing heavily. There was a slight sheen of sweat on his face. Pete wondered where he’d put his father’s gun.

  He felt the growl of the killer’s voice before he spoke. His gravelly speech sent a shiver through Pete.

  “You’ve made a mistake,” the Silent Death said, raising his gun hand, but not yet pointing it directly at Pete. He thought he sensed a slight Spanish accent when the Death spoke, but that revealed little.

  “Who are you?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I think you should leave,” Pete said, almost laughing after he spoke. Yeah, he’s going to just turn and leave based on my suggestion. He needed to do something drastic.

  “I don’t think so,” the killer said, finally raising the gun to Pete’s head. They were a few feet apart. Pete felt a cold sweat overcome him. He tried to look away, but couldn’t. “You have something I want. Information.”

  The noises at the Miami Times. There had been someone there, after all.

  “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” Pete said, barely able to get the words out before he felt the handle of the gun smash him across the face, sending him down to the ground. He propped himself up, trying to recover, his hands sliding over his mouth full blood.

  “Don’t play stupid,” the Death said. The gravel tone of his voice had faded, replaced by a more normal-sounding, vaguely familiar one. “Give me the files and I’ll make this as painless as possible.”

  “Well, you sure know how to sell a man on something,” Pete said, getting up slowly, his left hand still on his face, rubbing where he’d been hit, his other hand raised defensively. “The files are in my room. You can have them. I haven’t even read them yet.” He wondered how far the lie would get him.

  The Death cocked his head and motioned toward Pete’s room with the gun.

  “Go get them,” he said. The gravel voice was back. He seemed antsy, Pete thought, almost nervous.

  Pete backed into his room and walked over to his desk, which was out of the Death’s line of sight. He scanned his desk for anything that could help. That’s when he saw the box of his father’s files. The gun. He crouched down and rummaged through the box, finding the police issue Glock near the bottom. He slid it behind his back, resting it on the waistband of his jeans. Pete whispered a silent prayer, even though he never prayed.

  He walked back into the living room and held out the large stack of papers, out of reach.

  The Silent Death looked at Pete for a second. He hesitated before stepping toward him. Pete felt the gun sliding, the sweat trickling down his back making it hard to keep it in place.

  “Who else knows about these files?” the Death asked.

  “No one,” Pete responded truthfully. “Where’s Kathy?”

  The Death hesitated before responding, raising his arm so the gun was pointed directly at Pete’s head. He paused, as if wondering if he should even elaborate on the point.

  “She’s dead,” he said. Pete could sense a slight uptick in his tone, as if he were enjoying the revelation. His heart sank. “Her stupid father is dead, too. You’re next. Then my deck is clear for a little while.”

  “All this pro bono work must be driving you nuts,” Pete said, stalling. “Did you think you’d be able to ride this train forever? I mean, sooner or later, someone else is going to find her computer files—you realize this, don’t you?”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about that,” the Death said, a sneer working its way across what little Pete could see of his face. “In fact, you’re my only immediate concern.”

  He noticed the slight twitch of the Death’s hand, as if in slow motion. Pete had little time to think. Again, he felt himself detached from his body, as if he were watching a movie absentmindedly while doing something else. He saw himself lunge at the killer, knocking his hand up. He heard the silencer’s pop, and he felt himself fall atop the Death. They rolled around his apartment floor. He felt his hand gripping the killer’s gun hand, pulling and pushing it as far away as possible, keenly aware that even a grazing shot would guarantee tonight would be his last on earth.

  The Death groaned as he hit the ground, cursing to himself, shoving Pete off him. Pete tried to hold on, but a swift knee in the groin, followed by an elbow to the face sent him reeling, his back slamming into the wall opposite the apartment’s main windows. The Death got up slowly, his hat on the floor. That’s when Pete recognized him. The curly black hair. The sweaty, greasy face. The long scar running down the left side of it. Contreras. Contreras was the Silent Death. His father had been right. Kathy had been right.

  He couldn’t die here.

  He didn’t think before he pulled the gun from his back, pointing it squarely at
Contreras, who was in turn pointing his gun at Pete. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of Pete’s gun. He was surprised, but also impressed.

  “Huh, nice one, kid,” Contreras said, wiping sweat from his forehead with his free hand. “You’re not as much of a pussy as I thought you were.”