Silent City (3 page)

He hadn’t bothered to listen to the sports talk stations on his way in, nor had he scanned the wire last night—too busy moaning into his toilet bowl. He began to unpack his dinner-for-breakfast as he waited for his archaic computer to boot up.

To say he wasn’t in good standing with his bosses was an understatement. Pete had eliminated whatever reputation he’d built up as a basketball beat writer for the Bergen Light in his first few months at the Times. He was consistently late, mediocre when he was actually working and, while pleasant to be around, not terribly interested in his work. Pete knew this. He did little to change it. He found the job of copy editor boring. The drudgery made his last job—covering Jersey’s pro hoops team—seem like a vacation, even though by the time he’d gotten that gig he was already spinning his wheels. He had his reputation to thank for this job, though. A few years out of college, Pete had used keen sourcing and a knack for analyzing records to uncover a small-scale gambling operation involving the assistant basketball coaches at Hamilton University. The story vaulted Pete from small-town-general-assignment reporter to hotshot sports writer. That’s when things got fuzzy, Pete remembered. Instead of being picky and waiting for the right job to come around, he’d jumped at the first chance he got to cover a big-league team, and that was his undoing. The travel, hotels, hotel bars, and expense accounts mixed a little too well with his thirst for drink, and soon he found himself unhappy, almost married, and in a cold-weather state that lacked the appeal and draw of New York.

Then his father died.

That’s what brought Pete—and at the time, Emily—back to Miami. The plan was to stay for a few months and get his father’s affairs in order. His mother had died in childbirth and Pete was the only son of Pedro Fernandez Sr., respected and retired Miami homicide detective. Pete had no choice. Three months had turned into a year. The Bergen Light refused to give him any more paid leave, Emily had left him, and he’d settled for an editing job when he had previously been one of the nation’s rising writing stars. The full scope of Pete’s career collapse was still just an abstract idea in his head most of the time, but days like today, when the mundane reality of his new life stared right back at him, he felt a great sense of loss -—and really wanted a drink. Pete’s screen flickered to life in yellow on black.

• • •

Pete barely noticed Chaz Bentley walk into the newsroom. It was well past 11, and he was putting the finishing touches on a late Marlins game recap while looking over a proof for an inside page. Pete, despite his general disregard for his duties, was proud of his headline writing and took some pleasure in making sure there was something there that would pull a reader in. The page was already covered in red marks from its first pass through the copy desk, and Pete envisioned a few more rounds before the night was through. As on most nights, Pete had his headphones on, trying to drown out the usual newsroom din as he focused on the words and sentences forming on his screen and on the pages the printer spat out with alarming frequency. Pete had a Pixies mix going, the opening, deceptively melodic bassline of “Debaser” pulsing into his ears, when he felt the tap on his shoulder at the moment the song kicked into sonic apocalypse. Pete took off his headphones and wheeled around to face Chaz Bentley, the Times’ local news columnist. In his early sixties and inching toward retirement, Chaz was one of the guys that had been around forever, worked every job and inhaled every part of the city. At least that’s what the Times brass wanted readers to think. Pete didn’t buy it. Chaz had seen better days. He was kept on the payroll mainly for his name—which still seemed to rate with the huge senior citizen readership. In reality, Chaz barely wrote more than his required weekly puff piece, and even that was a product of heavy editing and lots of hand-holding. Pete felt sorry for him. He’d only spoken to him a handful of times in person. It was odd for a columnist to be in the newsroom at this hour, unless there was an urgent rewrite needed. Why he was in the Sports area was doubly baffling.

“Hey, uh, you got a sec?” Chaz was rubbing his hands together. Pete looked across the room. The clock was ticking. The paper was inching close to the deadline for the final edition.

Chaz looked around the newsroom. Everyone seemed deep in his or her respective tasks. The loud bustle of a few hours ago had been replaced by a hum.

“Sure,” Pete said. “But I’m a few minutes from deadline and I’ve got three stories in my basket. Did your column get shifted to one of us by accident?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Chaz said. “I—uh—look, I know this may sound strange,” he trailed off. He could smell whiskey on Chaz’s breath. A glance back at his monitor indicated a growing number of messages blinking at Pete from colleagues across the newsroom. More than half of the messages were probably screaming “WHERE ARE MY PAGES?” Pete slid his hand through his short dark-brown hair and leaned back, eyebrows raised.

“Well, I think Kathy’s missing.”

“Kathy?”

“Yeah, my daughter,” Chaz paused again. Pete thought back. Kathy. The news reporter. She was friends with Emily. They’d bonded soon after Emily had returned to Miami with Pete and had done a stint as a designer for the news desk when it was clear they were not going back to New Jersey. They’d all hung out together a handful of times. Kathy was pretty, blonde, thin, and relatively friendly the few times Pete had spoken to her. Flirted with her was more likely. He’d considered asking her out a few times, but never could find the right moment. It also didn’t help she was friends with his ex.

“Missing? What do you mean?” This time Pete made his glance at the clock obvious to Chaz. I am late now, he thought. In a few minutes, Steve Vance would be calling to see why the pages hadn’t been released to the plating area, where they were then put on the actual presses. Pete knew that was the last call Vance wanted to make on his day off, close to midnight.

“Listen, can we meet up and talk about this?” Chaz said, his face now sleek with sweat. “I just need a few minutes of your time.”

“Sure, sure.” Anything to get back to work, Pete thought. If he hurried, he might avoid the Vance call and get the pages out under the gun. They’d be full of errors, but they’d be done. “Just let me know when. I’m free tomorrow.”

“No, it has to be tonight.”

“Where?”

“Do you know the Abbey?”

“Yeah, yeah. Hole in the wall on Alton?”

“Yes,” Chaz said, his voice clearer and in control now. “Near the beach. Next to the McDonald’s.”

“I should be out of here close to one. That too late?”

“No. Let’s meet there at a quarter to two. That work?”

“Sure. See you then.”

Chaz walked off. Pete turned back to his monitor. He had felt the stares from his fellow sports editors, stuck waiting on him, as he chatted. Pete tried not to think about how odd it would be to sit with Chaz, who was around the age his father would be if he’d lived, at a bar at two in the morning, no less. Pete tried to focus on work. There were still a few late West Coast baseball games tonight. The scores wouldn’t be in for at least an hour, if then. He’d have to blow them off to meet with Chaz. The website guys could post them, Pete thought.

Despite his lingering hangover, the idea of another drink appealed to Pete. It had taken Pete a minute to even make the connection between Chaz and Kathy. Kathy, the investigative reporter all the editors lusted after. Daughter of the surly “columnist” who never dared show his face in the newsroom unless he had to. Something was really weird.

Still, there was work to be done. Pete pushed Kathy, Chaz, and everything else to the back of his mind and dove into the pile of proofs and e-mails that had converged around and inside his computer, the clock taunting him. Had the sports team—or, better said, Pete—managed his time better, the final section would be more complete. He said a silent prayer in the hope that he wouldn’t hear about this tomorrow. Sometimes it worked. The newsroom bustle filled his ears, the faint sounds of the Pixies’ “U-Mass” tinny from the headphones he’d set aside, Black Francis yelling “It’s educational!” as the newspaper skidded toward deadline.

P
ete sat down at the far end of the Abbey’s bar, close to the speakers. He usually avoided bars that didn’t have a jukebox—being part music nerd and part control freak—but the Abbey boasted a fairly solid, iPod-run sound system. Not every song was a winner, Pete thought, but they batted a pretty healthy average. Now, they were blasting the Buzzcocks’ “What Do I Get?”—a power-punk plea for attention that only the best bands could pull. The track took him back to his college days, when his love of music had helped him discover a love for writing, and his nights consisted of rock shows by bad-to-great bands in seedy bars on the edge of downtown. The nights usually produced some overly-stylized reviews that consisted of Pete’s best imitation of Lester Bangs or fluffy features for his college paper on the few bands that dared pop down to Miami for a show. He’d even been in a band—the foolishly named Dancing Violence. Pete hummed the melody to one of their songs but couldn’t remember it past the first verse. He didn’t even own a guitar anymore. Pete rubbed his eyes, sore from staring at his monitor for nine hours. It’d been a long night. It wasn’t over.

The bartender, a thirty-something stoner named Nick, was wearing a rumpled Smiths T-shirt and sported the requisite blond stubble. He hovered at the other end of the bar. Pete motioned for him and ordered a Delirium Tremens. The bartender served him a glass with the trademark pink elephant on it and returned to his post, talking to a thin, bespectacled man. From what Pete could overhear, they were debating the Dolphins’ chances in the coming football season. As much as Pete loved football, specifically the Dolphins, he was in no mood to get involved in heated sports debate. Not tonight.

Pete sipped his beer slowly, aware from many past experiences that the selection of brews at the Abbey was not only diverse, but also highly potent. It was close to two. Pete was early.

The bartender looked over as he wiped off a pint glass with a rag that hung limply from his waist. A few minutes passed and his first beer was gone. Pete ordered another. He pondered a shot, but remembered the Abbey was beer and wine only. Probably for the best.

• • •

Chaz walked into the Abbey at a quarter past two. Wisps of blondish-gray hair framed his thin face. He reminded Pete of a sitcom dad after a three-night bender. Pete pictured Chaz sitting him down on the couch for a heart-to-heart about the perils of premarital sex. Pete chuckled under his breath. Chaz wore a plaid, short-sleeved, button-down shirt and worn light-blue jeans. Like Pete, Chaz carried a notebook in his shirt pocket. Chaz had been working at the Times for over 25 years. Despite his recent nosedive in quality, he still had an impressive resume that Pete could only dream of matching. He appreciated Chaz’s old-school ethic. Too many reporters had lost themselves in the technology, using it as a crutch to mask bad journalism and weak writing. Despite their difference in age, Pete felt some kinship with the elder reporter.

Chaz looked around the empty bar until he noticed Pete at the far end. Pete was on his third drink and feeling it. He forced himself to focus.

The bartender looked at Chaz as he took a seat next to Pete, nodding politely. Pete slid over the drinks menu.

“What’ll it be, man?” The bartender asked Chaz.

“Rogue.” His voice was hoarse, but cleared up a bit as he spoke.

The bartender nodded and walked over to the taps near the center of the establishment. Pete and Chaz were the only people in the bar, aside from Nick the bartender.

“Good to see you,” Pete said. “Though, I can’t say I really know what this is about.”

“Thanks for coming. I appreciate it.” Chaz’s eyes were tired and empty. Pete could still smell whiskey on his breath. “At this point, I feel like I need to take any help I can get.”

“Well, what can I do?” Pete said. “I don’t really know Kathy that well. So, she’s missing?”

“I don’t really know. She was fine a couple weeks ago, but I haven’t seen her since.”

“Well, OK. How does that mean she’s missing?” Pete asked. “Has she been to work?”

“I only realized she was gone yesterday,” Chaz explained. He trailed off a bit as the bartender served his beer. He took a hungry gulp. Most of the beer was finished with one lift. Pete felt like he was getting a glimpse of what he might look like in 30 years. Or was he just being melodramatic? Chaz closed his eyes for a second and then looked at Pete. “Sorry. It’s hot as fuck outside. I hate this city. Even at night it’s hot. No breeze, just heat, sweat, and smell. Too much. It’s too much sometimes.”

“I guess,” Pete said. He looked up at one of the muted TV screens. Repeats of the evening news. A gator found in Homestead. He’d have to call Emily to see if it had crawled through her yard. Or not, he thought. Pete could already hear her laughing on the other end of the line.

Chaz slid a finger over his glass. He didn’t respond.

“Why don’t you go to the cops?” Pete asked.

“The cops don’t think she’s missing.”

“Doesn’t that count for something?”

“They think that she’s just not talking to me, since we don’t have much of a relationship.” Chaz looked away from Pete and finished his beer in one pull.

“Maybe she’s on vacation? I don’t know,” Pete shrugged. His buzz was fading and he was getting bored.

“She’s been off my radar for a few weeks. She usually calls once a week, on Sundays,” Chaz said. “To chat, to say hello, to ask for money. The usual routine. The last time we talked she sounded frazzled. Just…I dunno…off. She’s been seeing this guy, Javier.”

“Javier what?”

“Reyes. You know him, right?”

“Yeah, I know him. We went to high school together,” Pete said. He hadn’t thought of Javier in years. He vaguely remembered Emily or Mike mentioning something about Javier and Kathy. The few times Pete had hung out while Kathy was around, the topic of Javier never came up. Neither did her having a boyfriend. He felt slightly disheartened to discover she wasn’t single. Javier and Pete had run together in high school, back when Pete wasn’t much more than a wannabe street thug—petty theft, minor dealing. If it hadn’t been for Pete’s dad and his discipline, he’d more than likely be doing time or struggling to get back on his feet after doing time.