by Alex Segura
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” Pete said, too angry to face Broche. “So what now? I go home and wait to die?”
“No, nothing like that. You just need to lay low. Go to your dad’s house. Maybe take a vacation. Just get away for a few weeks.”
“Run away.”
“Well, however you want to phrase it,” Broche said.
Pete sat up, wincing and gasping at the shock of pain rushing to his brain. Broche got up and put a hand on Pete’s bed.
“You need to rest,” Broche said.
“I need to run, apparently,” Pete said, shaking off Broche, his voice sharp and sarcastic. He was taking out his anger—over the fight, over his life, over everything that had gone wrong in the last week or so on Broche.
Broche sat back down and rubbed his legs.
“You did what your father had been trying to do for years,” he said. “You figured out who this guy is. The only difference is you have no power to do anything about it. Even if your father had figured it out, what would he have done? Arrested him, and watched as a judge—paid off by whomever—let him off the hook. It’s just the lay of the land here, kid. There is nothing to do but step back and try to stay alive.”
“What about Kathy, then?”
“You said yourself she was dead.”
Pete paused for a moment.
“Contreras said she was dead.”
“Right.”
“But if they wanted her dead, they would have just killed her, no?” Pete said, his eyes clear and locked on Broche. The pain in his head ignored. “Why kidnap her and delay the inevitable? Why take her somewhere and kill her, when the Silent Death’s M.O. has always been about killing people quickly, efficiently and with little fuss?”
“No reason,” Broche said, thinking aloud. “Unless she has something he wants.”
She was on the brink of figuring out who he was, Pete thought. She had enough information to piece it together. But it wasn’t just that she knew. The information existed outside of her head. It was in the Miami Times system and, Pete remembered, on a portable drive in his apartment.
“Kathy was working on a story uncovering his identity,” Pete said. “She was close. But she was also smart—she didn’t just keep this info with her. It’s in the newspaper’s system. The story’s not done, but it’s close to enough to being done that, even if she was killed, her editors would find it and run with it. It may not definitively confirm who the Silent Death is, but it would create enough problems for the people that it points to.”
Broche let out a long sigh.
“I’m just going to assume you’re never going to listen to me from now on, OK?” Broche said, looking at Pete, waiting for an answer, then proceeding. “So, I’m not going to ask about how you got that info. Even though, knowing the Times, you don’t have access to that building anymore. If what you say is true—and I don’t doubt it is—then she’s alive until she tells them how to get to those files and destroy them. That would be a reason not to kill her off the bat. A bit of a stretch, though.”
Pete felt the pieces coming together slowly, and it painted a grisly picture. Kathy inching toward the revelation of the Silent Death’s identity. Her father, riddled with debt, pressured into trying to find the story files. Chaz reaching out to Pete. He’d wanted Pete to find the files. He’d enlisted Pete to do his dirty work. And once Contreras figured it out, he killed Chaz. Pete felt a wave of nausea. He was more involved than he’d ever imagined.
“What?”
Pete turned. “What? Did you say something?”
“No,” Broche said. “But you suddenly went blank on me.”
Pete ignored him.
“So Contreras enlists Kathy’s father to look for her? That’s strange.”
“No, I’d imagine Contreras found her pretty easily on his own,” Broche said. “But if you’re right, and she didn’t have the info they wanted, or wasn’t giving it up, that made them enlist her father.”
“Who was deeply in debt to Contreras, and not particularly close to his own daughter.”
“Exactly.”
“Real class act, that Chaz Bentley,” Pete said. He felt like an idiot. Why had he allowed himself to get into this mess? And what could he do to get out of it with no help from the police beyond his dead father’s old partner?
“How do you know Chaz was in Contreras’ debt? I mean, beyond your snitches?”
“A lot of it is guesswork at this point,” Broche said. “He wrote the man some hefty checks over the last few years, according to his bank records. And he wasn’t exactly living in the lap of luxury, you know? Even though he made a decent salary.”
“But why would he ask me to look for his daughter if he knew she was in trouble?” Pete asked. He felt weaker the longer he stayed awake. It was slowly dawning on him how badly he’d been beaten. Even though he knew where the evidence pointed, Pete was having trouble with the thought that a father would so easily accept that his daughter was in danger and, in turn, work for her kidnapper.
“From what little we could discover,” Broche said. “He wasn’t remarkably close to his daughter. They barely spoke. Contreras probably figured his best chance at getting whatever info was in her story was by forcing her father—who owed him tons of money and worked at the same paper—to find the information.”
“Ah,” Pete said. “But there’s the rub. Chaz is a columnist. He’s never in the newsroom. Works from home mostly. And the home system —isn’t synched to the network beyond your own personal basket and your editor.”
“Tell me in English,” Broche said.
“Chaz couldn’t check Kathy’s information or articles,” Pete said. “He’d need to come into the newsroom, log in to her computer with her password and find it. Something that would certainly raise suspicion.”
“So…?”
“So he goes to the biggest idiot he can find,” Pete said, a tinge of sarcasm in his voice. “The drunk from Sports. Kind of smart, but not too smart. Gullible enough he’d believe Chaz was just a concerned parent, but smart enough to be able to crack into Kathy’s system and alert him to anything that might put her in danger. He just wasn’t expecting me to actually start sniffing around Contreras.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Broche said. Pete appreciated the gesture, but questioned how genuine it was.
“No, I’m not.”
Pete looked at his hands and over his body. He was hurt. Not irreparably so, but still more damaged than he’d ever been before in his life. For what? His brief flirtation with stepping back seemed wrong.
He needed to see this to the end. Bruises and concussion aside, he needed to find out what the hell was going on. No one else would.
“Let this serve as a warning,” Broche said. “You can’t meddle in business like this. You’re not even a detective—you’re just a guy who’s lost direction. You’ve done a lot of good here, but it’s not your place. You’re looking for some kind of weird validation. You’re like family, Pete. Don’t fall apart over this.”
Pete dropped back down into his bed, signaling the conversation was over.
“I’m proud of you,” Broche said. “Your father would have been, too. What you did was stupid, but brave. But you’ve done enough. You need to stay alive. I want you to get some rest and let this drop.”
Pete nodded. He moved to grab the cup of water resting on the nightstand. Broche passed it to him. Pete sat up slowly, feeling the same wave of dizziness, but deciding it was best to ride it out. The cold water felt good.
“And don’t think for a second I don’t know you’re holding out on me,” Broche said, his tone tougher. “I’ll be back when you’re up and around to pick your brain further. For now, get some sleep.”
“Will do,” Pete said, not bothering to argue.
Broche clasped Pete’s hand in a firm shake and gave him a knowing nod.
“Alright, feel better,” he said, before turning and leaving. Pete could see Emily waiting on t
he other side of the door. She took the opening as a sign to come in. She slid into the chair Broche had vacated. Her eyes were clearer, but she seemed tired. Pete realized he had no idea what time it was.
“How long was I out?”
“A couple hours,” Emily said. “Not very long. It’s early in the morning now, around five. How are you feeling?”
“Shitty.”
“Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“I’m still figuring it out,” Pete said. “Some guy came in and beat the shit out of me. That’s the short version.”
“Well, that’s somewhat obvious,” she said, frustration in her voice. “What did he want, though?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
He felt suddenly tired. Pete realized he’d said the wrong thing immediately. Even in the frayed state of their relationship, any withholding of information between them was something taken very seriously. When they were together, it was all in or nothing. Now, Pete didn’t understand the rules.
“I just, I need to process it, that’s all,” he said, backtracking.
She put a hand up. “Don’t worry about it.”
He didn’t believe she didn’t care, but he let it go. He’d mend the fence another time. He did feel relief at having her next to him. She was in a loose-fitting Style Council T-shirt he’d bought her in college and worn-out blue jeans. She didn’t have any makeup on, either. She looked tired. Pete thought she looked nice, regardless. He reached out his hand and she took it. They were never much for physical affection, at least not since the breakup, but he was happy for this. She wove her hand into his. They both sat silently for a few minutes.
In less than a week, he’d lost his job, been pounded mercilessly, and had pissed off or offended every friend he had. He almost laughed to himself. He turned to Emily to share the thought and noticed she was wiping her eyes quickly.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, I’m fine,” she said, pulling her hand away from his to blow her nose softly.
“I’m going to get better, don’t worry,” Pete said. “Just a few bumps and bruises.”
Pete was surprised to hear her laugh through the tears and stuffed nose.
“Jesus,” she said. “It’s not you. I know you’ll be OK. You’re stupid and reckless, but always seem to be OK.”
“Um, thanks?”
“I mean, I’m worried,” she backtracked. “Whatever you’re into is stupid and dangerous. But I’m used to you doing stupid shit. You have this weird ability to pretend you’re listening to someone, and I just know that you’re going to do whatever the fuck you want.”
She was right, Pete thought. The ease with which she could get into his head bothered him. He used to love it.
“Rick and I had a stupid fight,” Emily said. “It’s not a big deal. I just feel really isolated down there. Everything is here. My family, my friends. I’m not sure moving there was such a good idea.”
“What does he think?”
“He loves it. He works from home, he can take his boat out, his favorite bar is down the street,” Emily said. “It’s just boring as hell. Maybe that’s what getting older is all about.”
“It sounds more than just a stupid fight,” Pete said. “But what do I know?”
She didn’t respond. The conversation was over. Pete had dealt with this maneuver before. But he was too tired to press the issue.
“Where’s Mike?”
“He went to get some food,” Emily said. “You know how he is in these situations. He gets really antsy and protective. He tries to do things when all you can really do is wait around.”
She slid her hand back into his and smiled at him. A sweet but forced smile. Her mind was elsewhere. Pete wasn’t sure where.
“I’m going to be fine,” Pete said, his voice drowsy.
She tightened her grip on his hand briefly.
“I know.”
“Thanks for coming here.”
She let out a dismissive tsk. “Of course. Where else would I be?”
Pete smiles and felt his eyes close. In a few moments he was asleep. He didn’t dream.
• • •
“I need to go to the Keys.”
Pete’s statement hung in the air of the hospital room. It was early the next day. Pete had slept through most of the previous 24 hours. The only other sound was the television remote control as Mike clicked through the four channels on the room’s TV. He took a few seconds to respond as he watched a scene unfold on a random episode of Judge Judy.
“Sure,” he said, not bothering to look at Pete, who’d just awoken. “Once you get out of here, we’ll hit it up. We both need a vacation. We can go to that bar you like. The Green Parrot?”
“No, now,” Pete said, swinging his legs over the side of his bed, ignoring the throbbing in his head that increased the more he moved. “We need to find Kathy, or she’s dead.”
Mike put the remote on the nightstand and finally looked at Pete, as if confirming he was actually there, and saying what he’d just said.
“What’s in the Keys?”
“Contreras has a place there,” Pete said. Maribel’s information and Kathy’s notes both pointed him there.
“Who?”
“The guy who attacked me.”
“Are you insane?” he said. “Did you forget the part where you got your ass beat and almost murdered because of this bullshit?”
Pete grabbed his shirt and jeans from a nearby table and began to get dressed, tossing his hospital gown on the bed.
“I have to do this,” Pete said, sliding his feet into his worn pair of Chuck Taylors. “As crazy as it sounds, I need to see this to the end. No one else is going to find her.”
Mike stood up, his hand hovering over the button that would summon a nurse.
“No, you don’t,” he said. “The end could have been a few nights ago, if that guy really wanted to put a bullet in your head.”
Pete, now fully dressed, checked his pockets. He was relieved to find his car keys and wallet in their right place. It was all about the little victories lately, he thought to himself. He turned to Mike.
“The nurse won’t get here in time to stop me from walking out,” Pete said, leaning on the bed to keep himself from getting too dizzy. “Someone is going to get killed if I don’t do something. I know it.”
“Fuckin’ A, man,” Mike said. “I am tired of this conversation. You’ve lost your job over this. Are you ready to die, too?”
Pete shrugged.
Mike waited for more of a response but got nothing. Pete saw him push the nurse alert button.
“I’m not going to be able stop you, but don’t expect me to make it easy,” Mike said.
“Great, good,” Pete said. He backed up, his face to Mike, his back to the nightstand where he’d noticed Mike had left not only his wallet, but his car keys as well. “I understand what you’re saying. This is dumb. I feel like shit, too.”
Pete leaned on the nightstand slowly, allowing the keys to slide into his hands.
“Just lie down,” Mike said, concern spreading over his face. “You shouldn’t be moving around.”
“You’re right,” Pete said, lying on the bed, careful to keep the keys hidden, hoping Mike wasn’t awake himself enough to notice they were gone. “Can you get me some water? Might want to tell the nurse the alarm was an accident, too.”
Mike nodded and headed out. Emily stood in the doorway, two Styrofoam cups of coffee in her hand. Pete had to stop himself from cursing aloud. She had heard everything. And she had a look on her face that told Pete she had seen what he did with the keys.
Mike closed the door behind him. Emily calmly placed the two coffee cups on the nightstand and returned to her place between Pete and the door.
“You’re leaving,” she said, not as a question.
“I have to,” Pete said.
“That’s debatable.” She sounded tired, Pete thought. “But I’m not surprised. What’s in
the Keys?”
“Contreras has a place there,” Pete said. “I think that’s where he went to hide out. I think that’s where he has Kathy.”
“So, you’re going to find Contreras? Is that the guy that beat you up?” Emily asked, her eyes drilling into Pete’s. “Then what? Make a citizen’s arrest?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Sounds like a winner, I’ll say,” she said.
“If I don’t find her, Kathy’s as good as dead,” Pete said.
“I think that could be said of any moment during the last few days,” she said. “She’s missing. No one has seen or spoken to her in days. She probably is dead, Pete. Bad people don’t drag out stuff like this. They get what they want or people get hurt.”
“Are you going to let me go or not?”
Emily walked over to Pete. He could see the concern in her eyes. He stood up. He could smell the Chanel.
He took Emily into his arms instinctively, kissing her on the forehead.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, his voice a low whisper. He pushed her chin up.
“I can’t process this,” Emily said, looking away, but pulling him in closer, her head on his chest. “I don’t know what to feel or think about you anymore. I feel like I drove you to this. Which is stupid, but shit, everything is stupid lately.”
“It’ll be fine,” he said, stroking her hair. She pulled back from his touch and looked up at him. He continued. “I’m going to find Kathy and we’ll go from there. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Emily put her hand on Pete’s face for a second and looked into his eyes. He was still holding her close. He had dreamt of this moment. A chance to connect with her again. If he’d had a few drinks in his system, he’d probably lean down and try to kiss her. But it wasn’t the time for that.
She kissed him on the cheek, a friendly, almost sisterly gesture. Then she pulled back.
“Be careful,” she said.
Pete walked past her. She coughed as the morning news sputtered from the television set. Pete closed the door.
Chapter Twenty-One
After a quick stop at the remains of his apartment—to canvass the destruction and to pick up his father’s gun—Pete began his trek south. Mike’s car, a black Ford Focus, seemed to be driving nicely, and Pete silently hoped it wasn’t in dire need of a tune-up or an oil change. The last thing he needed was to be stranded on the Seven-Mile Bridge for hours. Pete hated driving. Hated it even more without his own music to play. He contented himself by listening to a few Pearl Jam CDs Mike had lying around the backseat.