Silent City

by Alex Segura

  Anyway, why don’t you be a sport and bring them—and any copies you’ve sneakily made—to Casa Pepe’s tonight. I imagine there are a few police officers who don’t take advice from me. I’d suggest they not come along or wait around. It’s either you alone, with the materials I’ve requested or there will be problems. You’ll know what I mean when you get here.

  I realize walking into a situation like this alone doesn’t exactly warm your heart. Fair enough. But let’s look at the downside, too: If you don’t, I’ll continue to make what’s left of your pathetic life a living hell, and the next person you find dead will be much closer to you than some ragged old editor with a bad dye job. Do as I say and you have my word you’ll be left alone as long as you respond in kind.

  See you tonight.

  There was no signature on the letter, and Pete hadn’t expected one. The Silent Death moniker wasn’t one of the killer’s own creation, but something the press had dubbed him early on in his “career.”

  “It’d be stupid of you to go,” Broche said.

  “Oh, I’m not going,” Pete responded, handing the letter back to Broche.

  “You’re not?”

  “What is this, a comic book?” Pete said. “Will he reveal his master plan to me while I’m tied to a giant pan, sliding into a giant oven?”

  Had the circumstances been different, he would have laughed at his own attempt at humor, but this wasn’t funny. Nothing was funny anymore. Three people he knew were dead. All because of a killer Pete had never wanted anything to do with. All because he thought it’d be a good idea to help find a woman he’d barely spoken to.

  Broche raised his hand, as if to hold Pete back.

  “You need to do something, though,” he said. “Your best bet is to give this guy what he wants and step away.”

  “Really? Really, Carlos?” Pete said, getting in Broche’s space. “Because ‘stepping away’ hasn’t done me a whole hell of a lot of good up to now, man. Maybe I should consider some new fucking options?”

  “You need to watch your mouth,” Broche said, his voice lowered. “You have no idea the things I had to do and the strings I had to pull to keep you out of trouble.”

  Pete shrugged his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?” Broche asked.

  “Kathy’s putting together a story,” Pete said. “We figured out who the Silent Death is. It’s over. She got in touch with an editor once you called me about Amy—Steve Vance of all people. Said everything was forgiven if she’d give The Times the story. She’s over at the Times building now, putting the story together. It’ll be on the stands with the early edition, tonight. We’re taking control of this. I’m getting my life back.”

  Broche babbled something and then regained his composure for a second.

  “Who is it? Who’s the Death? You need to share it with the police.”

  Pete cupped his hands around his mouth and moved closer to the cluster of uniformed cops on the other side of the yellow police tapes. He channeled his old rock singing voice, from when he used to play bad punk covers in college.

  “The Miami Times is going to reveal the identity of the Silent Death tonight,” Pete yelled, feeling Broche tugging at him. “Be sure to pick up the paper!”

  Pete felt his body being yanked backwards and slammed into a nearby police car. He was jarred by the motion, but not hurt. He felt Broche grab him by his shirt and pull him closer.

  “Are you fucking nuts?” Broche said, his breath hot and bitter on Pete’s face. “You can’t just decide to announce shit like that. What if you’re wrong? You’ve just signed your death warrant.”

  Pete pushed Broche away.

  “Leave me alone on this one,” Pete said, backing away. “I know what I’m doing.” He turned around and headed for his car, ignoring Broche. Ignoring the new rain. Ignoring everything but the clock ticking in his head.

  Chapter Thirty

  Pete rang the doorbell after a few moments of hesitation. The drive down to Homestead—to Emily’s house—had taken almost an hour. An hour he could have probably used doing something else—something more productive in the short term. But he didn’t care. If the last few days had taught him anything, it was that you have little idea of when you’re going to see someone for the last time. He didn’t want to have his last conversation with Emily be an argument. Like things had ended with Mike.

  The door opened to reveal Rick, Emily’s husband. A tall, burly man with a clean-cut hairstyle and a strong build. He seemed surprised to see Pete, who, in his untucked shirt, faded jeans and ratty sneakers didn’t look his best.

  “Pete,” Rick said, still holding the door half-closed. “Uh, Emily didn’t mention you were coming over. It’s not even seven in the morning.”

  Pete smiled.

  “Ah, well, I was in the neighborhood,” Pete said, his hands in his pockets, looking anywhere but at Rick. He was a good man, Pete thought. But he would never like him. He couldn’t. That would require him to admit Emily had made the right choice by leaving him. “Is Emily around? I needed to talk to her about something.”

  Rick stepped back and opened the door.

  “Sure, sure, come in,” he said. “Wait here. I’ll go get her. I think she’s in the garden.”

  Pete took a seat on the couch in the living room. He didn’t know what to expect from Emily—anger, dismissal, love. She was unpredictable and emotional, not to mention extremely sharp. It’s what drew Pete to her in the first place. It’s what kept him dancing around the edges of her world, pretending to want to be friends with someone who’d stomped his heart out.

  Emily walked into the living room, through the glass patio door. She was in a dirty pair of jeans and a red Fugazi T-shirt, stained by the dirt and grass.

  “Pete?”

  He stood up awkwardly from the couch. She walked over to the living room. Pete noticed that Rick stayed outside. He was giving them their privacy.

  “Hey,” Pete said. He’d felt like coming here was such a good idea when he hopped into his car. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  “This is kind of a surprise,” Emily said. She sat down in the chair across from the couch. “What’s up? Are you OK?”

  Pete sat down. “Well, I felt like we left on bad terms the last time we talked.”

  “That’s one way to put it.’

  “I’m here because I want you to know that I think all of this is going to be resolved soon, one way or the other.”

  “What do you mean?” Emily said, her eyebrows furrowing. “You’re acting extra weird.”

  “Kathy and I figured out who the Silent Death is,” Pete said. “We pooled our research and we think we’ve cracked the case.”

  Emily nodded, motioning for Pete to keep talking.

  “And I think we’ve figured out a way to nail him,” Pete said. “But I’m not totally sure. Not 100 percent, at least.”

  “Why are you here, Pete?”

  “I’m here to say goodbye,” Pete said.

  Emily took a quick breath. “Goodbye? What are you talking about?”

  Pete cracked his knuckles quickly and looked around the house. It was nice. He’d never really spent time here. He wondered if they would have gotten a house like this, had things not fallen apart. He’d never know, he told himself.

  “You’ve got a life here,” he said. “A job, friends, a husband. I feel like even if none of this had happened, we’d still be in this weird limbo state. Me wondering about what was, you thinking about what could have been if I hadn’t screwed up.”

  “That’s not true at all,” Emily said, defensively. “I don’t see what the point of this is. ‘Goodbye’ as in I don’t want to talk to you ever again, or ‘goodbye’ as in, I may be dead tomorrow? You’re being really creepy and ominous, and I don’t know what to say.”

  “I don’t know either,” Pete said. “This all sounded much better in my head.”

  He stood up.

  “That’s it?” Emily
said, also standing up. “You come in here, disrupt my day, freak out my husband, and for what? To just act all mysterious and vague? What the hell is going on?”

  Pete hugged her, pulling her in quickly, but holding on to her as if his life depended on it. After a few seconds she started to hug him back. And he was grateful for that. Almost happy. To know that even with everything else between them being weird and disconnected, they could still share something.

  “I love you, Em,” Pete said, pulling back, his hands on her arms. “Just know that. Even when I hated you, I cared about you. It’s terrible. I don’t know what to do about it. And I know I’m a fuck-up. Try to forgive me.”

  Pete could tell she was trying her best not to cry—from a combination of sadness and confusion. He let go of her and stepped back. She just looked at him. He turned around and walked out the door. Despite the cloudy weather, he put on his sunglasses to hide his eyes.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The sun had begun to set by the time Pete pulled into The Miami Times visitor parking lot. He positioned his car to the north side of the building, giving him a direct view of the building’s main entrance. He remembered how empty the lot would get on Saturdays and Sundays—when it was only the newspaper personnel working through the night. All the businessmen and ad people were off enjoying their weekends. He took a sip of his coffee and scanned the lot quickly. He was exhausted, but alert. He hadn’t seen any movement in the lot since he’d parked, which led him to believe he’d arrived at the right time. He’d driven by both secured entrances and found guards at their stations. Pretty good for early on a Sunday evening, he thought.

  Pete felt a strange calm overtake him. He wondered if this was what athletes felt before a big game, or when they were at the foul line, taking a crucial shot—deciding the game. He’d never know. He opened the car’s glove compartment and pulled out his father’s gun. He checked it. Loaded. He saw a figure head toward the side entrance—to the elevator that would take someone down to the printing presses at the bottom of the Miami Times building—and he knew it was time. He got out of the car slowly and slid the gun behind his back. He prayed he wouldn’t have to use it.

  • • •

  It was close to six in the evening and the presses weren’t even warm. From what Pete could tell, it was too early. The area—large metallic printing presses surrounded by stacks of newspapers and blank rolls of newsprint paper—was imposing to someone like Pete, who had never really spent much time in the area when he worked at the Times. He could only imagine what it looked like to a total outsider. The shadowy figure was a few yards ahead of Pete, walking very slowly. Probably out of his element, Pete thought. The plating area—where the files were transferred digitally from the editorial floors to the press editors, who then guided the ink to page, loomed above the machines, like some kind of futuristic surveillance station. There were two metallic staircases, one on each side, leading up to the plating area.

  The shadowy figure had come into better focus, but Pete still couldn’t get a good read on him. He wasn’t sure if he’d played his gamble correctly. He kept his distance and watched from behind one of the presses as the figure made his way up the creaking metal stairs on the west side of the pressroom. Pete slowly pulled the gun from behind his back. He wondered if he should say a prayer of some kind. He looked up and saw the door of the plating room close. Now was his chance.

  He made his way to the metal stairs quick and silent, looking up to the plating area, which faced a wall of windows. The figure was hovering over the main computer terminal, which was opposite the windows; it faced a bay of cubicles and paste-up areas, where last minute changes to the paper could be made. Pete inched up the ladder, trying to avoid creaks from the rusted metal.

  He realized, a few steps short of the top, that he wouldn’t have much of a chance to peer into the plating room without giving himself away. He couldn’t risk losing the element of surprise. Pete knew he wasn’t a fighter; his encounters with Contreras earlier had shown him that. No, this would have to be quick and painless, he thought, or he’d be a dead man.

  With that in mind, he leapt over the final two steps and into the main plating area, gun drawn. Before he could speak, he realized who the figure was. Carlos Broche turned, surprised, and stepped backwards, his hands raised in response to the gun Pete was pointing at him.

  “Pete? What?” Broche said. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “You tell me,” Pete said, his breathing heavy from the run up the stairs. “Tell me why you’re here. Give me a reason why you’d come here that makes me believe you. Please.”

  Broche coughed and continued to back up. He was stalling.

  “I came to talk some sense into you,” Broche said. “This whole thing is crazy. You can’t just run a story about someone if you don’t know it’s true.”

  “Don’t you get it?” Pete said. “There is no story. The empty pressroom should have been clue enough for you. But I figured that information was too inside-baseball. That’s why I yelled at the cops. That’s why I told you. I figured someone would get word to the Death. Someone would show up here and try to stop this imaginary story from happening. I wasn’t sure it’d be you, but here you are, proving me right. You’re not here to talk me out of anything. You’re here to protect your boss from being outed.”

  “My boss? The fuck you talking about?”

  “You put on a good show,” Pete said, the gun still pointed at Broche. He took a few tentative steps in the detective’s direction. “‘I’m just looking out for you, Pete,’ ‘Try to stay out of trouble, Pete,’ ‘You wouldn’t believe the strings I pulled, Pete.’ Bullshit. You’re as corrupt as the rest of the Miami PD. I just didn’t let myself see it.”

  “You’ve lost it, man,” Broche said putting his hands by his side.

  “Hands up, asshole,” Pete said. “Do not even think about going for your gun.”

  “You’ve got this all wrong,” Broche said. “All wrong. You’re going to be in deep shit. Just put the gun down. You have some serious issues to deal with, you know that?”

  “It took me a while to figure it out,” Pete said, his eyes and the gun still locked on Broche. “But it dawned on me after Mike’s car blew up. In the interrogation room. The Silent Death was always a step ahead of me. He knew I was going to the Keys. The only people that knew that were Mike, Emily—and you.”

  Broche shook his head, but didn’t speak.

  “You kept pushing me to stop, telling me I was on the wrong track, this and that,” Pete said, feeling his anger boil to the top. “But I was on the right track. You told them I had Mike’s car, so they knew I’d head back there after I got Kathy. You led them right to me. How did you even know?”

  “No, no, it’s not like that,” Broche said, shaking his head. “You’ve got it wrong. I didn’t know they were going to kill him…your friend. It wasn’t like that. I was trying to help.”

  “How was it, then? Why did you come here?”

  “You have to understand,” Broche said, his voice cracking. He had backed up a few paces and was now up against a wall. “I’m old. I’m about to retire. My pension is shit. I started doing jobs for him—everyone did now and then. After your father died, there was no reason not to. It was my turn to get paid. But when you got tangled in this, I had to get you out. I couldn’t have your life on my conscience. I talked to him. He said he just wanted to put a scare in you, get you off the trail so everything could go back to how it was.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Pete said. He had his father’s gun pointed at Broche’s face.

  “You have to believe me,” Broche said. “I was just trying to do what was best—for you, for your father. You have no idea what you’re up against. I was trying to help you. I know how to handle situations like this; I was looking out for…”

  Pete struck Broche with the butt of the gun across the face with a ferocity he didn’t realize he had in him. The detective reeled back, his head slamming int
o the wall, blood dripping down his nose and out of his mouth. For a split second Pete felt a pang of guilt for hitting the older man.

  “Answer my question,” Pete said between gritted teeth. “Why are you here?”

  “He sent me…he told me to stop you,” Broche gurgled, blood dripping down his face. “Stop the story…”

  “Who?” Pete yelled. Broche was losing consciousness. “Who sent you here?”

  “I did.”

  Pete turned around quickly to face the gravel-tinged voice. He was met by a tall man in a dark overcoat, hat and mask. He had a gun pointed at Pete. Jose Contreras stood behind the masked man, weapon in hand.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “You’ve become surprisingly problematic,” the Silent Death said, his voice coarse but almost friendly in tone. He didn’t move. The gun remained pointed at Pete. Contreras winked awkwardly. Pete’s head was spinning. “Put your gun down and step away from Mr. Broche.”

  Pete almost hesitated, still thrown off by how casual the man in black sounded. Broche was unconscious, crumpled on the ground near the far wall. Pete got on one knee and laid down his father’s gun. Both the Silent Death and Contreras watched Pete, the Death following Pete’s descent with his gun. Pete noticed Contreras wince as he took a step closer to the Death. At least they’d hurt him in the Keys, he thought. Pete got back to his feet, raising his hands slightly to show they were free.

  “Good, now we can talk,” the Death said. “I hope you realize how annoying you’ve been these last few days. Really.”

  That voice, Pete thought. In a way, his ploy had both succeeded and failed—it had brought the Silent Death to him, but it wasn’t who he or Kathy had expected. Contreras was here, but he wasn’t the Death. Broche was here, but he wasn’t the Death either. Pete took a deep breath and tried to clear his thoughts. Had they missed something while going over the files? Then it hit him—the name of the Silent Death’s first victim: Alfredo Florin. He remembered why he even knew it. And why someone else would’ve wanted him dead years ago.