Down the Darkest Street (7 page)

“So she was looking for a new apartment?” Pete said.

“Yeah, she had a few leads. I’m not sure. Nothing was definite.”

“Is her computer here?” Pete said.

“Yeah, why?”

“Can we take a look at it?”

***

Kathy plopped herself in front of Alice’s iBook and opened it. A light cloud of dust appeared as Kathy jostled the computer. Alice’s room had just enough space for a double bed, a dresser, a small desk, and a tiny TV on a stand. Still, it was neat and no-frills. A few framed photos rested on the nightstand next to Alice’s bed, one of Rick alone and another of Alice and what Pete presumed was her family at the beach, all smiles and looking up at the camera. He pulled up a chair next to Kathy, and he and Janet looked over her shoulder as she typed. She clicked through the keys and Pete had to focus to keep up.

“I doubt we’ll be able to find anything of note,” Kathy said, her eyes on the screen. “But at the very least, we can check her history and see what sites she’s been on.”

“Do you think that will help you find her?” Janet said.

“Unclear,” Kathy said, her hands no longer typing as she scanned a dropdown menu of Alice’s browsing history. “But it can’t hurt. It looks like she’s been spending a lot of time on Craigslist.”

“So, she was on there looking for an apartment?” Janet said.

“Or a roommate, or sex—you can get anything on here,” Kathy said, beginning to type again. “I’m hoping she’s lazy like I am and has her password saved on her e-mail…yup, we’re in.”

Pete patted Kathy on the shoulder. “Nice work.”

“It was pure luck,” she said, shrugging away from Pete’s touch and continuing to type. “So, OK. It looks like she was e-mailing with someone:
[email protected]
. Not the most unique name, and the fact that the person uses Hotmail indicates they’re slightly behind the times, or just using this account for the purpose of finding a roommate. Not a warning sign, just yet.”

“I use Hotmail,” Janet said.

Kathy’s eyebrows popped up in judgment, but returned to normal after a second, her eyes focused on the screen.

Pete and Janet read the e-mails between Alice and the Hotmail account. They seemed harmless. No meetings were set up, no conversation deviated from the professional. If anything, the exchange was dry and without emotion.

“The last e-mail was from two months ago,” Kathy said. “And this person asked Alice for her phone number to set up a time so she could come see the apartment, which is supposed to be downtown, near the Performing Arts Center.”

The new PAC was also adjacent to
The Miami Times
building.

“What’s the address?”

“That’s the weird thing,” Kathy said, looking frustrated, her typing growing more fevered. “They never give Alice the address, just cross streets. But that could be anything. Saying you live on Biscayne and Twenty-first Street means very little.”

“Do you think this person did something to Alice?” Janet said.

“Too early to tell,” Pete said, his eyes still on the laptop monitor. “She could have just stopped responding, or gone to see the apartment and not been interested. We don’t have much to go on.”

Kathy pushed her rolling chair away from the desk and got up.

“It’s a start. I’m not sure we’re going to get much else on her computer, though.”

“More than the cops did,” Janet said as they exited Alice’s room.

“Color me surprised,” Pete said.

Janet followed Kathy and Pete toward the door. They’d been at her apartment for a little over an hour, but it felt like much longer to Pete.

“Thanks for taking the time,” Pete said. He stuck out his hand and Janet shook it.

“I just want my friend back,” Janet said.

Pete wasn’t sure how to respond.

Kathy shook Janet’s hand and slipped her a business card. A few moments later, she and Pete were in the parking lot, heading to their cars. They reached Kathy’s first, and Pete lingered as she got in. She lowered her window. “What?”

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Pete said, looking toward the busy thruway that was US1, a block or so away from the apartment complex.

“Neither do I,” Kathy said. “But I also don’t know anything concrete. She’s definitely missing, though.”

“She may be dead.”

“Yes, Mr. Private Investigator, that’s very astute of you,” Kathy said. “She may be dead. But all we know at this point is she was looking for a new apartment before she went missing, which I’m sure isn’t all that uncommon.”

“What the hell is your problem?”

She sighed and began to rummage through her purse.

“This is…this is just really weird,” Kathy said, motioning at the building with her left hand. “It’s like I’m at the other end of what happened to me, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, puffing on it before turning to look at Pete.

“Can you understand that? I was missing once, too. And this girl might be where I was. Alone. Tied up to a bed and blindfolded, with no idea as to whether she’s going to live to see anyone she knows, much less her family or friends. It’s terrible. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

Pete felt like an idiot. He’d let her come along, was excited for the company, but hadn’t considered the implications. Just a year ago, it was Pete who was looking for Kathy, though
looking
was a generous word for it.

“It’s OK for you to feel strongly about this,” Pete said, trying to be helpful.

Kathy shot him a look. She wasn’t the type for lovey-dovey new age advice. She was biting her tongue, though. She took another drag, then pulled the cigarette from her mouth and looked at it. She tossed it out the driver’s side window without comment.

“I just need to go home and relax for a bit,” she said. She looked up at Pete. “I’ll call you tomorrow and we can pick up on this. OK?”

“Sure, sounds fine.”

Before he could finish, she was backing her car out of the parking lot and speeding off toward the expressway. Pete walked over to his car and sat in the driver’s seat. He didn’t start the engine. He let his head fall back on the headrest. He felt strange. A combination of déjà vu and something different. Something bad. It took him a second or two to realize he’d closed his eyes. When he opened them, a slight rain was falling, the drops of water the only noise Pete could hear.

He knew so
meone was in the house as he started to get out of his car. The rain hadn’t stopped. Pete never carried an umbrella. Storms usually didn’t last this long in Miami. The days were hot and the nights only less so.

For some reason, the porch light was off. Pete popped open his glove compartment and took out the gun—his father’s Glock, from his days as a homicide detective for the Miami-Dade Police Department. He got out of the car and held the gun low as he crouched toward his front steps. For a moment, Pete felt foolish, creeping up on his own house, holding a loaded gun, but then he reminded himself that he seemed to attract the kind of company that would require this kind of entrance.

His paranoia was confirmed when he got to the front door. It was ajar. He leaned his back on the wall next to it, trying to peer in but seeing only darkness. Where was Emily? Still out with friends, he hoped, as he pushed the door open with his foot, careful not to make any sudden moves. No sounds came from inside.

Pete let his head pop in the crack of the door. He saw a figure in the living room, sitting in his father’s favorite recliner, which faced away from the front of the house and toward the television set hanging on the opposite wall. It wasn’t moving.

“You can put the gun down,” the figure said, the voice low and male.

Pete straightened up and stepped into his house. He flicked on the gun’s safety and slid it behind his back. He turned on the light switch near the front door and squinted as the living room and dining area were illuminated. Rick stood up from the recliner and faced Pete. He didn’t look any better than the last time.

“You do this often?”

“What?”

“Break into people’s houses? New thing for you, huh?”

“Your door was open.”

“Bullshit.”

“OK,” Rick said. “Maybe not. I didn’t break anything to get in.”

“Parse away,” Pete said, closing the front door. “But I think this still falls under breaking and entering.”

“Are you going to let me explain?”

“I was hoping we’d reach that point, yes.”

Rick walked toward the smallish dining room table. They both took seats and faced each other.

Pete pulled his gun out and laid it on the table.

“Is that necessary?”

“I’ll be the judge of what’s necessary,” Pete said. “This being my house and all, and you being uninvited but still, you know, here.”

“Fine.”

“Plus, it hurts my back when I have it there and sit down.”

Rick ignored the joke and scratched his chin, sizing Pete and the situation up.

“I haven’t done anything to Alice.”

“Well, that’s good,” Pete said. “Never said you did.”

“The cops think I did,” Rick said, cracking his knuckles. “They’re asking me for alibis and shit like that.”

“That’s what cops do, man.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Pete sighed.

“I’m running out of patience here,” Pete said. “I’m tired. I’ve had a long day. I’m getting tangled in some bullshit I don’t want to be tangled in, and I just discovered my ex’s husband has broken into my house. And he may be wanted for questioning by the police. This complicates my life. And it bothers me. So let’s get to the point before I ask you to leave and wash my hands of the whole fucking thing.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Want to risk it?”

“I know you,” Rick said. “That’s not how you operate. You’re like a dog with a bone—you don’t let these kinds of things go.”

“How did you figure this out about me?” Pete said. “Considering we’ve spent, what, maybe five hours together in total?”

“Just because you’re not with Emily doesn’t mean she never talks about you.”

Rick let that hang and Pete let it jab at him. The idea of Emily talking about him, referencing what they once had, comparing that to whatever she had with Rick, made his head pound.

“Get to the point,” Pete said. “Where were you the night Alice disappeared?”

***

Rick’s story meandered, but seemed true, at least to Pete. He was up front about the affair with Alice; it had been going on for a few months. She had joined his company as an executive assistant. His assistant, to be exact. So he became the cliché boss that fell for his hot, twenty-something secretary. She “understood” him, got his jokes, enjoyed the music playlists he made her, was supportive of him writing that last great American novel or finally learning to play the guitar. All the shit that Emily, over time, had started shrugging off.

The night in question, Rick had rented a room at the Eden Roc, a fancy luxury hotel on Collins Avenue in South Beach. The kind of place everyone knew, but few stayed at. It was expensive, and about an hour away from his office. It was a last hurrah of sorts. Emily was catching on, and he had decided that he wanted to work things out with his wife as opposed to taking a leap into a relationship with a coworker who got his dick hard. Pete found himself nodding as Rick told the story.

A year ago, if someone had asked Pete what he wanted most of all, it would have been easy—Emily. To be with her again. To make her laugh, to sit around and spend time together doing nothing. Now, he wasn’t so sure. The memories—of her stepping into that cab a few days after his father’s funeral, of the terse exchanges and distant stares that followed—still stung, but seemed a lifetime ago. He felt both grateful and sad about that.

Rick’s plan was to have one last romantic romp with Alice, break the news to her, then propose they have a friends-with-benefits scenario, where neither of them would shoot for a relationship in the long term, but they’d still fuck from time to time.

“Did you really think she’d go for that?”

“Yeah, why not?” Rick said, straight-faced. “She got all the goods and none of the drama.”

“You don’t think dating a married man involves drama?”

“Well, I’m not sure. It sounded good at the time.”

“What happened that night?”

“She came to the hotel, around nine. Emily thought I was working late. I slept at the office every now and then. After Alice came to the hotel, we went to that shithole club, Purdy Lounge. You know, the one by Gibb Memorial? That park?”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, no. She liked that scene. Drinking and dancing. We used to go all the time.”

Pete looked up at the clock. It was half past midnight. The “case,” or whatever he was doing, had taken up most of the day.

“So, we’re pretty lit up,” Rick continued. “Alice loved those kamikaze shots, so we did a few of those, couple rounds of beers. You know, the usual let-me-get-my-date-ready scenario. We head back to the hotel, do some lines, and I think things are going to go well from there, so we start—”