Silent City (24 page)

“Nigel?”

Kathy ignored Pete’s snark and continued to snuggle with the cat, who was more than happy to take the overflow of petting. Pete wasn’t exactly the most loving cat owner. Costello meowed plaintively and began rubbing his side on Pete’s left leg.

“Too many cats in here,” Pete said.

Kathy turned to Pete.

“Thank you,” she said. “Seriously. I thought he’d just run away or gotten stolen. You watched him for me. That’s wonderful.”

She stood up, Nigel in her arms, and walked back toward the dining room area. She plopped the cat in her lap as she went back to flipping through the stack of manila folders that were around her area. Pete’s father had been an extremely organized detective, which meant that sorting through his notes on the case would take some time.

• • •

The bottle of Johnny Walker stood at half-mast, but Pete felt alert. The decision came to him quickly, especially after talking to Amy outside Caballero. The only way out—and the only skills he could rely on—were the newspaper. As much as he loathed putting any faith in the Miami Times, he knew that going to the police was fruitless. Only a story that received the proper attention would force those above the local police to take action and, in the process, save both Pete and Kathy from living the rest of their lives in fear.

They’d set up a mini war room on the dining room table, Pete using his laptop to read Kathy’s saved notes more closely and Kathy—with a printout of her notes in hand—focused on scanning Pete’s father’s box of reports and notations. They’d been at it for a few hours, and the clock was now at three in the morning. They were far from being done.

“So, why isn’t it Contreras?” Pete said, his eyes still on the laptop, his hand scrolling down the page with the mouse.

Kathy looked up from the files.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, everything points to him,” Pete said. “The drug front, the record, the relationship with your father, the place in the Keys. What made you hesitate on publishing this earlier?”

“That’s all good evidence,” Kathy said, looking back at the file she had in her hand for a moment. “Trust me, because I worked really hard to get it. But it’s circumstantial. That’s the problem with Contreras as a suspect. There’s just enough evidence to make you think it’s him—we saw Javier’s body, he took credit for my father’s murder, you tussled with him in your apartment. But he has no connections to the ‘official’ Silent Death murders. And it’s not like the Silent Death hasn’t killed. From what your father thinks, there are at least a dozen, if not more. All with two silencer bullets in the head. All with reports of witnesses saying they saw a man in a dark overcoat and hat in the area, or near the victim. There’s something funny there. I feel like we’re missing something.”

It felt like they were close, but even with the stacks of evidence surrounding them, he wasn’t sure there was anything in the files to guarantee a story worth printing. Plus, Kathy and Pete were not exactly lauded Miami Times alums.

“How many people do you think are definitely his kills?” Pete asked.

Kathy put the file down and thought for a second, then looked at her pad.

“Like I said, at least a dozen. Most of them other criminals in the Miami underworld—Alfredo Rangel, Jose Aparicio, Andres Fuentes, Rodrigo Perez. Not nice guys, by any means. And all -—according to my sources—people who had fucked up in some way. Either with their gangland bosses or they somehow offended another, opposing leader. The Silent Death didn’t work for anyone, but he did work for everyone, y’know?”

Pete thought for a second. “Were there any exceptions?”

“What do you mean?” she said.

“Well, people that aren’t clearly criminals,” Pete said. “Some kind of inkling as to who this person was, you know? If I was this guy, and I didn’t want anyone to really find out who I was, I’d clear the decks beforehand.”

Kathy bit her pen and looked at Pete. “You’re pretty good at this,” she said. “Why’d you stop? Weren’t you a sports reporter before?”

Pete nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I did some investigative stuff in Jersey. It was fun. It felt good to crack a story.”

“Why’d you quit?”

“My dad died,” Pete said, a little too quickly. “I came back here, got tangled up making sure his affairs were in order, and ended up staying.”

“Hm.”

“What?”

“Well, don’t take this the wrong way,” she said, shuffling the papers in front of her. “But do you really think your dad would let you get by using him as an excuse? You’re smart. You could do better than hiding and drinking, you know?”

Pete turned back to the screen and clicked the mouse, reverting his attention back to the laptop. “Maybe.”

They each went back to their respective tasks—Pete scanning Kathy’s notes and jotting down any detail of interest, and Kathy doing the same with the box of files.

“Here’s something,” Kathy said, breaking the silence. She had a police report in her hand, pulled out of one of the older files in the box. “This report’s about 10 years old. Same M.O. as the Silent Death, but before any actual criminals were killed by him, as far as we know. Your dad circled the guy’s name. Scribbled something next to it—’Check to confirm’ it looks like?”

Pete grabbed the paper from Kathy’s hand and scanned it. His eyes widened slightly. The man’s name—Alfredo Florin—lingered with Pete.

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure,” Pete said. “The name’s familiar, but I can’t place it.”

Pete’s cell phone rang, vibrating loudly on the dining room table.

“Who the hell is calling you at four in the morning?”

Pete grabbed it. From his experience, no call at this hour could be positive. He braced himself.

He listened intently to the voice on the other end; nodded.

“OK, I’ll be there,” he responded, then pushed a button to end the call. He stood up and put his phone in his pocket, a glazed look on his face.

“What? What is it?” Kathy said, still seated.

“Amy’s dead,” Pete said, clearing his throat. “Broche needs me at the scene. It’s the Silent Death, and he left me a message.”

P
ete pulled his Marlins cap down on his head as the lingering rain soaked him further. He shivered slightly as he waited outside the yellow police tape surrounding Amy’s North Miami Beach condo. From his vantage point, he could see the white tarp that covered Amy’s body, which had been splayed out in the small parking lot that was adjacent to the building. Pete felt a headache forming. Not from the drinks earlier, but from the aching realization that he might have been one of the last people to see Amy alive. Four uniformed officers stood around the scene, trying to preserve as much evidence as possible. Rain was the enemy of homicide police. It washed away vital clues and made a difficult job even harder. Pete felt for them. He remembered many a night when his father would come home soaked to the bone, frustrated at all the information that he’d lost due to an unexpected rainstorm.

“Any one of those clues could be the one that sends the killer to jail,” he’d said. “And they’re gone. I’m starting at a disadvantage. I have to make up the difference.”

Broche’s approach brought Pete back to the present. He too, was soaked, his khaki trench coat splattered with raindrops. He moved past the police tape and walked over to Pete.

“No umbrella?”

“Came over right after you called.”

“This is becoming a bad routine,” Broche said, trying to lighten the mood, even a bit.

Pete didn’t laugh.

“What happened?”

“Two shots to the head,” Broche said, in a tone that implied it wasn’t the first time he’d had to utter the lines. “Right outside her apartment. She was getting out of her car. Couple hours ago.”

After the funeral, Pete thought. Someone knew she’d been there. Someone must have also seen her talking to him. He wiped rain off his face.

“It’s definitely him?”

“Gotta be,” Broche said. “Old lady down the streets says she saw a guy—dressed in all black, even a black umbrella—walk up to her. Two shots, she drops. Then he dropped this next to her, made a point of tucking it under her body since it was raining.”

Broche handed Pete an envelope. In very plain, almost blocky handwriting was Pete’s name. He hesitated before taking it.

“Don’t worry,” Broche said. “It’s been dusted. No prints on it. Same for the paper inside. You think we’re amateurs?”

“No,” Pete said. “Not exactly.”

Broche stiffened a bit at Pete’s comment. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he said, taking the envelope and opening it.

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.

P
ete 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.