Silent City (9 page)

From the few times his father had mentioned it, Pete knew it haunted him. It was his white whale—the one that got away. Pete popped the staples off and watched them bounce onto the dirty brown carpet.

The file folder was sparse and mostly contained dated notes in his father’s handwriting. Pedro could point to at least twelve murders that bore the signature of the Silent Death. Mostly noted mob figures and other criminals. They all had little to no evidence to offer a seasoned homicide detective on the scene. As Pete flipped through the notes, he could feel his father’s growing frustration.

They’re all connected. I know this. Broche thinks it’s a few people—I know it can’t be. Not sure why this case is sticking to me more than the others. It’s not like we don’t have work to do. The early one troubles me. The count is close to eleven now. Probably more. Whoever’s doing this has to be living somewhere in secret—not a hermit, that’s not possible in a city like Miami. Too many people would need to reach him. He has to have a front. But where? Why? I’ll think on it tonight.—PF

That was the last entry in the folder. Reading his father’s notes felt more reassuring than sad. It was like peering into Pedro’s life and catching a glimpse of him. Pete knew these opportunities would come less and less often as time passed. He retired a few weeks later, Pete thought. He died months later. Pete slid the folder back in the box and organized the folders in his best imitation of his father. The Silent Death was still out there.

He pulled out the crumpled brown paper bag and knew from the feel what it was without peering inside. He opened it slowly and pulled out his father’s police weapon—a Glock. Fairly standard issue for most police officers in Miami. It was heavy. Black and bulky, the gun felt strange in his hand. He remembered it—or its type, at least. He checked the weapon and noticed it wasn’t loaded. His mind veered back to his youth and the detailed sessions with his father at the shooting range, where Pedro Fernandez taught his only son how to load, reload and sometimes—when he could see the boredom in his son’s eyes and felt a pang of guilt—fire his weapon under his watchful eye. Always careful. He shook the bag and found a few stray bullets. He held one up to the light. His head was throbbing now. He was still drunk. The clock above his entertainment center told him it was well past five in the morning. He had to work later. He should go to sleep. He should move on and hope the rest of the day was going to be—if not better—at least a little more bearable.

“Fuck it,” he said.

He slid the bullets into the gun, loading it slowly and meticulously. He remembered the procedure. He had touched this gun before. His father’s gun. His father’s life. In a box next to him on the couch. Pete finished loading the gun and pointed it at his television set. He saw his reflection through the coat of dust on the screen. He could smell his father’s cheap Varadero pharmacy brand cologne on the handle. He put the safety back on the gun and laid it down on the small table between the couch and the television.

His father had been a hero. Perhaps only to a handful of people, but to more people than most. Pete slumped back in his seat. What did he have to show for himself? Not much of a job, no wife, a half-empty apartment, and a sense of fading opportunity.

His gaze didn’t move from the gun on the small, cheap IKEA table. It used to have magazines like Cosmo and the New Yorker mingling with his copies of ESPN and MOJO. The gun had spun slowly after Pete placed it on the table, stopping mid-cycle; the barrel of the Glock 34 stared at Pete.

T
he Miami sun beat down on Pete through the booth window at Casa Pepe’s as he sipped a large glass of Diet Coke. The giant plate of picadillo—seasoned ground beef with white rice and black beans—that he’d just devoured had helped somewhat, but didn’t fully eliminate his hangover. Usually around this time he’d be rushing to get to work, not sitting in a restaurant in his old neighborhood savoring Cuban food and staring out at another beautiful Miami afternoon. But he didn’t feel any particularly strong motivation to be at work early today. The encounter with his dad’s files—and his gun—had left Pete more shaken than he’d anticipated. The sight of his father’s things and the memories they brought up left Pete not only nostalgic, but distraught about the present. The last thing he felt like doing was sitting at his desk.

Then why was he at Casa Pepe’s, of all places? Pete couldn’t come up with an answer. It was an unexpected longing for his friendship with Javier that first motivated him to start looking for Kathy, so it wouldn’t hurt to try and look him up. Or so he told himself.

A normal person would have gone to sleep long before toying with an old weapon between bouts of feeling bad for himself. Not me, Pete thought. No, his night ended with a long, presumably rambling call to Emily. Pete only knew this because he’d checked his outgoing calls when he woke up this morning. What he’d said to his former fiancée was probably best left undiscovered, he mused to himself. So much for trying to be friends again.

The waitress, a pudgy, tan girl who was probably a few years younger than Pete, politely asked if he needed anything. He responded slowly, his Spanish rusty from lack of practice. The waitress—Maribel according to her name tag—seemed to notice Pete’s plight and switched to English. Her accent was strong, but she managed.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“Sorry,” Pete said. “I haven’t been speaking much Spanish lately.”

“It’s OK,” she smiled. “How was the picadillo?”

“Oh, great,” Pete said. “Can I ask you a question?”

Maribel seemed slightly taken aback and confused.

“Yes, sure. Do you want dessert?”

“Ha, no,” Pete said. “I’m looking for a friend of mine, I think he works here. Javier Reyes?”

Pete noticed Maribel’s bubbly demeanor visibly shift upon the mention of Javier, and she hesitated before saying anything.

“Javier’s not here today.”

“I figured as much,” Pete said. “But do you know when he’ll be in? We went to school together, and I wanted to say hi and maybe catch up with him.”

Maribel looked around the restaurant and turned back to Pete.

“Did you want any dessert?”

“No, I’m fine,” Pete said. “But do you know about Javier? Is there a manager I can speak to?”

Maribel nodded and stepped back quickly.

“Yes, I’ll have him come by here,” she said. “And I’ll bring the check.”

“OK, thanks.”

Pete took a final sip of his Diet Coke and began to take some money out of his wallet when a stocky bearded man approached his table, wearing a beige guayabera and black slacks. He was fairly unremarkable looking, except for the long scar running down the left side of his face. Pete wondered how a restaurant owner got a wound like that. The man reached out to shake Pete’s hand.

“Hello, I’m Jose Contreras,” he said, clearly not comfortable speaking English. “I own Casa Pepe’s. I hope you enjoyed your food here.”

“Pete Fernandez,” he responded. “Yeah, the food was excellent. I used to come here, years ago. I was actually wondering about a friend of mine. I’d heard he works here. Javier Reyes?”

Contreras seemed to be straining to keep up his jolly demeanor at the mention of Javier’s name.

“Ah, yes, Javier,” Contreras said. “He was a smart kid. He doesn’t work here anymore. You know how it is. I get a lot of employees. They come and go.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.”

“Yes, yes,” Contreras said. “You know how things are in the restaurant business, my friend. It is very flowing. He was a good employee, but people come and go.”

Pete placed some money on the table and stood up next to Contreras.

“That’s a shame,” Pete said. “Did he tell you where he was going? Is he still on work release? I’d imagine he’d have to report where he’s working, no?”

Contreras forced another smile, this time more visibly annoyed. It was clear that he had hoped Pete would’ve dropped it by now. He tucked his hands behind his back and leaned into Pete slightly.

“Look, Javier was a good kid, a hard worker, sometimes,” Contreras said, looking around him and smiling at the customers who probably couldn’t hear what he was saying. “But he doesn’t work here anymore, OK? Now, stop asking my employees questions, OK? If you want dessert, it’s free. If not, go.”

Pete was surprised at the venom in Contreras’ response. Pete dropped an extra dollar on the table. As he did this, he noticed something scrawled on the back of his receipt. He couldn’t make out the message, but he stuffed it into his pocket and turned to Contreras, a forced smile on his face.

“No, that’s fine,” he said. “Thank you for a lovely lunch.”

• • •

Clouds had weakened the sunny day, so Pete walked out of Casa Pepe’s to a gray sky. Once he was clear of the front door and walking toward the small parking lot behind the restaurant, he pulled out the crumpled receipt. Written hastily on the back of the small piece of paper was a quick message: “Dessert at Denny’s in 20 minutes.—Mari.” Pete slid the paper back into his pocket. He didn’t notice that someone was behind him.

“Looking for me?”

Pete turned around quickly and saw Javier—or, at least, an older, gruffer version of the kid he used to pal around with—leaning against an employee exit, taking a drag from a cigarette, surrounded by trash bags and empty boxes. He was in a cook’s attire—white smock and apron, white pants—each one sporting its own palette of food and work stains. It took Pete a few seconds to process that it was really Javier standing in front of him.

“You alright, man?” Javier said.

Pete realized he’d been just staring at his old friend for at least 15 seconds. He coughed awkwardly. “Yeah, yeah,” Pete said. “I’m fine. Your boss said you didn’t work here anymore.”

“Well, I don’t,” Javier said, scratching around the stubble on his face, letting out a long lungful of smoke. “Not on the books, at least. You probably made him nervous. He has everyone trained not to rat me out.”

“Why would you need to pretend you’re not working here, though?”

Javier dropped the cigarette butt on the asphalt and ground it out with his shoe. He took a few seconds to respond. He was scanning Pete.

“Aren’t you going to say hello? Or ask me how I’ve been?”

Pete felt a pang of guilt. Javier was part of the reason he’d even started looking for Kathy. He wanted to find his friend more than he wanted to find her. And here Javier was, clearly down on his luck, struggling to make a living, and all Pete could think about was minutiae. He stepped closer to Javier and extended his hand.

“It’s good to see you, man,” Pete said.

Javier took his hand and pulled Pete in for a hug. It lasted a few seconds longer than Pete would have expected, but that was fine. Javier smelled like a kitchen. Mixed with nice cologne. Pete stepped back.

“It’s been a while, huh?” Javier said. “You look good. Lost some weight?”

Pete didn’t think so, but took the compliment.

“You too,” Pete said. “We’re all getting old.”

Javier laughed. Pete recognized it. Javier was being polite. Despite the novelty of seeing each other again, they were not friends. They hadn’t been for some time.

“So, what’s happening with you? Do you want to get a cup of coffee?” Pete asked, pushing Maribel’s note to the back burner in his mind.

“Nah, I can’t,” Javier said. “My break is almost over. But I saw you from the kitchen and I wanted to catch you before you left.”

“Your boss is a piece of work,” Pete joked. “Guess I won’t be welcome here anytime soon.”

Javier tensed up slightly. He looked at Pete for a split second, then turned away.

“He’s just a paranoid old man,” he said. “My work release is done and he doesn’t want to pay me the regular wage, so I’m working for him on the side, under the table. It’s a weird, backward compliment, I guess.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Well, he liked my work so much he wants me to stick around,” Javier said, pulling out another cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket. “He doesn’t have the money to pay me a regular wage, but I owe him. He let me get back on my feet after my last fuck-up.”

Pete thought back to the files he’d scanned from work. Javier’s life had not been easy. He felt bad for him. His father had been out of the picture for years, and Pete couldn’t remember Javier mentioning his mother often. He’d been a latch-key kid who survived on street smarts and the kindness of relatives. Always asking to borrow some money and very rarely offering to lend any.

Javier took Pete’s silence as a cue to keep talking.

“I have to run soon,” he said. “So, while I’m happy to see you, I’m wondering why you came to find me now, of all times. How did you even know I was working here?”

Pete paused. What could he say? That he misused the Times database to find out about Javier’s criminal career in a haphazard effort to find his girlfriend, who was possibly missing according to her alcoholic dad? Probably not.

“Well, it’s a long story,” Pete said. “But I’m actually looking for Kathy Bentley.”

Javier’s eyes narrowed slightly and he took a long drag from his cigarette, his look locked on Pete’s face.

“Kathy? Why?”

“Her dad thinks she’s missing.”

Javier’s nose scrunched up for a brief moment and he sighed.

“Chaz thinks she’s missing? How would he know?”

“Not sure,” Pete said. “Honestly, the whole thing feels strange. It doesn’t seem like they have the best relationship.”

“They don’t,” Javier said, looking at his watch. Pete noticed it was a relatively nice one—the silver band shining in the little bit of sun that was still around on the gloomy afternoon. “And it’s weird for him to ask you, of all people, to find her. No offense.”

“None taken,” Pete said. He felt relief wash over him. It was good to talk to Javier. It’d been so long. Just like before, he was bringing logic into their discussions. Why was Pete even doing this for Chaz, a person he barely knew? At least it had helped him find Javier. “Like I said, the whole thing is strange. Have you heard from her lately? I figure I’ll just tell him I’ve spoken to you and she’s fine.”