Down the Darkest Street (13 page)

Pete felt his throat tighten. His eyes began to well up. He pushed the note cards farther away on the podium and held onto each side, trying to steady himself. He was almost done, he told himself. Almost there.

“I wake up most mornings and feel an aching emptiness,” Pete said. “And it’s because so many people that meant so much to me and defined what I am are gone. It’s easy to make this about me, but it isn’t. We’re here for Mike. Because of Mike. I miss him all the time. Losing my best friend was like losing a part of me that I used every waking moment, and now, moving forward, it’s like learning to walk and live all over again. I miss you, man.”

Pete saw his hands shaking as he collected the cards from the podium. It took him a moment to notice the applause, soft at first, then more pronounced as he reached the ballroom floor. Emily met him and took him by the elbow to a nearby corner. He felt her hand rubbing his back and her warm breath on his neck.

“That was good,” she said. “He would have been happy.”

“Thanks,” he said, his face turning to see hers close to his. They turned their attention to the next speaker. Her hand slid into his, gripping it.

He felt a poke at his shoulder. He and Emily both turned to find Kathy behind them.

“Sorry to interrupt the latest edition of Puppy Love Revisited,” Kathy said, her voice low, trying not to interrupt the proceedings. “It’s a pleasure to see you both again, really, especially in full Hallmark mode. But I need to talk to Pete here for a second about our…case—for lack of a better, more realistic term.”

“Case? What?” Emily said.

“The murders,” Pete whispered to Emily, hoping that would pacify her.

“You’re working on them? Like, officially?” Emily was not pacified.

“No, not really, I was just helping Kathy,” Pete said. He didn’t sound very convincing, he thought. “I can explain it all later.”

“Yeah, let’s try that,” Emily said, pulling her hand away from Pete and folding her arms. She turned to face the stage, signaling for Pete to handle whatever he needed to handle.

He followed Kathy outside. The ballroom was a reception area at the Rivero Funeral Home, where Mike’s funeral had been held. The parking lot was mostly full and even this late in the evening not much cooler than the packed ballroom.

“What’s up?” Pete said.

“Did I get you in trouble or something?”

“I’m not sure,” Pete said, annoyed. “I don’t know. Don’t worry about it.”

“Done and done,” Kathy said. “I figured you’d want to hear this.”

“What’s going on?”

“Well, my sources in the police department tell me that they’re freaking the fuck out over the Morales case,” Kathy said, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from her purse and lighting one up. “They’re worried this isn’t just two linked murders but two in a series—like, serial killer time. There are things that they’re holding back from the press that are proving they’re connected—things that only the killer would know, that are repeated. Not just the posing.”

“What else?” Pete asked.

“The girls were posed sexually, that we know and the press knows,” Kathy said, looking around as if she were about to share a deep secret. “But both scenes featured mirrors. Lots of them. Some in the bag underwater with Alice Cline—some placed around Erica Morales’s body in the lot, facing each other. That was also a trick Whitehurst used toward the end. When he was still in some control.”

“What do the police think all this means?”

“Well, it means that the killer is definitely the same guy,” Kathy said.

“That’s kind of what we were thinking, too.”

“Kind of, but hoping for the opposite,” Kathy said. “The fact that the murders resemble one of the last serial killers brought down in Miami isn’t helping matters.”

“So, what does that mean for us?”

“Nothing, really,” Kathy said, taking a long drag. “My story about Erica Morales ran today and I got a few calls, but nothing substantial, just your usual ranters and concerned geezers complaining.”

“But why would this dude be copying Rex Whitehurst?” Pete said.

“Not fully sure he is copying him,” Kathy said. “Whitehurst was skewing much younger by the time his mystery machine rolled into Miami. This guy’s only taking things he seems to like from the Whitehurst playbook.”

“True,” Pete said. “But Whitehurst mostly preyed on college and high school girls, right? Even Bundy went extra nutso toward the end of his spree, grabbing a younger girl for his last kill.”

“Hmm, I’m impressed,” Kathy said. “Seems you’ve been doing some extra credit reading. Did you reach the Ann Rule section yet?”

“I’ve done some research,” Pete said, more annoyed than amused by Kathy tonight. “So, what do we do next?”

“I don’t know,” Kathy said. “It just means that these murders are on the police radar. Which means they’ll probably be on the FBI radar, which means our snooping around will end up on someone’s radar before too long, which is not good.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, you’re not exactly on the Miami PD’s Christmas card list.”

She was right. Part of the fallout from Pete and Kathy’s adventures the year before, and the book that was published a few months later, was the revelation of deep-seated corruption and unethical activity among Miami-Dade’s finest.

“We’ll figure it out,” Pete said.

“Will we? Sounds like your old-slash-new girlfriend is taking issue with you dipping your toe in this,” Kathy said. “You backing out?”

“Backing out of what?” Pete said. “I’m just trying to help you. I’m not investigating anything. I’m just trying to help.”

“You said that, darling. And sure, however you want to explain what you’re doing, that’s fine,” Kathy said, dropping her cigarette and rubbing it out on the pavement with her heel. “I’ll call you tomorrow and see whether you can ‘help’ me or not.”

“Okay,” Pete said. She didn’t respond. She was already halfway to her car.

Pete hesitated before turning to walk back to the funeral home. He needed to clear his head. He walked toward the far end of the parking lot. There were fewer cars around there. A slight breeze. He kicked a small rock and watched it hop a few feet away; his shadow loomed large thanks to the fluorescent light of a nearby streetlamp. He looked at his shadow again. It was too big, he thought. There was something else there.

The fist hit his face as he turned around, and the punch floored him. His head smacked the parking lot pavement hard, snapping forward and slamming into the ground again. He was flat on his back. He could smell blood in his nose and saw a dark figure hover over him. The man had a black ski mask on and everything else he was wearing was dark and muted. Leather jacket. Black jeans. Black gloves. He was of medium build, about Pete’s height. Pete’s vision was blurry; the bump on the asphalt had shaken him up. A cold knife was at his throat, near his chin. He tried to speak, but the man in black held up a finger with his free hand.

“I talk, you don’t,” the man said. “Just listen, you deluded fuck.”

Pete tried to move. The man pulled the knife back, returning with his fist—two swift punches to Pete’s face. He felt something loosen in his mouth. He let out a soft groan, and the knife returned, preventing him from curling up into a fetal position.

“You’re in way over your head,” the man said. “What you think you know—that’s not even the half of it. If I killed people for fun—just because they bothered me—you’d be dead. Problem solved. But I don’t. What I do is more important than that. It’s pure. These people need to die. I need them to build a harmony together. The closer they get in death, the closer I get to him, and to seeing what I need to see. I can’t expect you or your stupid friend to understand that. But I will not let you make it any harder for me.”

The blade dug into Pete’s skin. He felt the sting of it. Felt his blood trickling out. His eyes darted around, looking for anything—a tool, a rock—to help him.

The man grabbed Pete by his hair and slammed his head on the pavement again. Harder this time. Pete felt his vision fade in and out.

“No one can hear you,” the man said. “They’re all in there celebrating your dead buddy. Now, I need you to listen very closely. I will not repeat myself. Leave me alone. Step away from me and I won’t hurt you. Because I can. I can hurt you. I can destroy the people around you and build a beautiful chorus of pain that you will never recover from.”

He grabbed Pete’s left hand by the wrist and brought the knife to his palm. The man slashed into it, his eyes widening under his ski mask, Pete’s hand gushing blood. The cut was deep—Pete could feel the blade on both sides, cutting into him. Pete couldn’t move, he was pinned down and he was having trouble staying conscious. He let out a pained scream. The man got up, sending a swift kick to Pete’s midsection before turning and walking toward the street. Pete brought his hand closer and saw his own blood flowing. He reached for his neck and felt a smaller trickle coming from the cut under his chin. His face felt sore. His good hand reached back and felt his head: more blood. He tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness hit him, forcing him to roll over, his cheek scraping against the dirty parking lot. That’s when he saw Emily—his view capturing her from a sideways angle. She had walked out, probably looking for him. She was running to him. He was on the ground, no longer able to even hold himself up. She was closer to him now. He could hear her.

“Oh Jesus, Pete,” Emily said, sliding down next to him. “What the hell? What happened?”

“Some guy,” Pete said, having trouble forming words. “Out of nowhere.”

“Did they rob you? Are you shot?”

The edges of his vision got darker and spread inward until everything was black and quiet.

***

Pete’s eyes fluttered open. He felt a dull pain in his side. It was dark. He looked down at himself. He was in a hospital bed. His head hurt and his tongue felt thick and heavy. The only light was from the TV set propped up on the wall, playing the evening news on mute. Next to him, in a chair that looked very uncomfortable, was Emily—her sleeping body leaning on the chair in an awkward position. A beeping sound chimed every few seconds. Pete reached out his hand and took hers before closing his eyes and falling asleep.

***

“You look like shit, dude.”

“Thanks,” Pete said, dropping his bag behind the counter at the Book Bin. Pete wondered how Dave could have even concluded that Pete looked like shit, so intently was he organizing books on the far side of the small store. Still, he did notice. Pete looked better than he felt, which meant he felt like a lot of shit. It’d been a week since he’d been attacked, and he was stepping out into the real world for the first time. He wasn’t sure how he liked it. He winced as the strap on his messenger bag yanked at the bandage wrapped around his left hand. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the storefront window as he sat down behind the counter. A pretty spectacular black eye, a busted lip, and a painful-looking scratch/cut near his chin. Not to mention the giant slice down his left palm. That wound was thankfully out of sight under the white gauze. Pete closed his eyes.

“Could be worse,” Dave said, the noise of books dropping on the counter echoing through the empty store.

“How’s that?”

“Well, you’re alive,” Dave said, picking up another, smaller stack of books farther down the counter and walking toward one of the aisles.

“I appreciate your optimism,” Pete said, his voice louder to make up the space between. “I needed to get out of the house. Sorry for missing a few shifts.”

Dave walked over and placed his free palm on the counter, facing Pete.

“Please don’t give me the martyr bullshit,” Dave said. “No one in their right mind would come to work after what happened to you. I’m glad you’re OK. Next time, wander the Miami streets with a buddy.”

“Duly noted, boss,” Pete said. “What’s on tap today?”

Dave ignored his question.

“How’s Emily?” Dave asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“She seemed pretty shaken up when she called to say you were in the hospital,” Dave said. “So I wanted to see if you’d screwed anything else up in the last week or so.”

They smiled at each other.

“She’s OK,” Pete said, humor turning into frankness. “She’s really pissed about me sniffing around these dead girls.”

“That sounds disgusting.”

Pete laughed. “Yeah, so, she’s pissed.”

“Are you gonna stop…whatever you were doing?”

Pete didn’t respond.

“You kidding me?” Dave said.

“I have to talk to Kathy,” Pete said. “She asked me to help her. I think it might have been the killer who attacked me.”

Pete let the words hang in the air, like a puff of smoke.

Dave looked at Pete.

“What?”

“Whoever attacked me wants me to think it was the killer,” Pete said. “But the whole thing rubs me wrong. I dunno. Maybe it was the killer, changing his MO to throw me off.”

“How would you even know it was the killer?”

“He basically said so,” Pete said. “He told me he would have killed me if he could murder for fun. But what he does is ‘pure.’”