Silent City (17 page)

“Talk to me.”

“I don’t remember,” Pete said.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” Pete said, his mind at half-speed, trying to figure out how to sidestep the detective. “I just remember getting home from meeting with Chaz, then I woke up here, all fucked up.”

Broche pulled up a chair next to Pete’s bed and leaned in close to him. He had a forced smile on his face.

“I’m going to tell you one more time not to lie to me,” Broche said, his tone slow and deliberate. “It was clear this wasn’t a robbery. Your apartment was wrecked, but nothing of value—as far as we can tell—was taken. So, quit the ‘I don’t remember’ story. OK?”

“OK,” Pete said, resigned.

Pete exhaled slowly. He didn’t know what to say. He let Broche continue.

“I did a little digging on Chaz,” Broche said. “He’s a deadbeat gambler who’s racked up thousands of dollars in debt to some bad people. Some of those bad people include Jose Contreras. I can’t verify it, but my snitches tell me most of Chaz’s debts point to Contreras.”

Pete nodded at Broche.

“From what I can tell, Chaz was working on something for Contreras,” Broche said. “But that’s all I know.”

Pete rubbed his eyes. His head was still throbbing, and the tiny nuggets of info Broche had provided were not helping.

“So, Chaz was looking for his daughter,” Pete said, “while also working for Contreras?”

“Seems like it.”

“Contreras is the Silent Death,” Pete said, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. “He attacked me. He’d been following me, I think. I had this feeling, like something weird was going on, and then he sprung on me when I got home. I don’t even know how I got out of it.”

Broche paused. Pete could feel his eyes on him, even with his closed.

“So much for not remembering.”

“So sue me, man,” Pete said. “I’m not sure what the hell is going on anymore. A couple days ago, I’m just another cog in the newspaper machine. Next thing I know, Chaz is asking me to find Kathy. Now Chaz is dead, I’m in the hospital, and I’m pretty sure Kathy’s dead, too.”

“She’s dead?”

“According to Contreras she is,” Pete said, resignation in his voice. He ran his hands over his face, feeling for cuts and bumps. “But I’m not sure.”

Pete opened his eyes and turned to Broche.

“What can you do?” he asked. “How can you help? Can we send someone looking for Kathy? Anything? I mean, I’ve just given you the identity of this legendary killer. The least you can do is make sure I don’t end up dead when I leave here, right?”

Broche made a clucking sound with his tongue and let Pete’s question linger for a second.

“I can’t do anything,” he said. “Nothing beyond what I’ve already done. This is why I warned you. The Silent Death, or whoever he is, isn’t just another thug or a serial killer. He’s connected. The department isn’t exactly clean, either. Your father…he was the last person really still digging around to find out who was doing this.”

“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 the 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.”