Silent City (12 page)

Detective Carlos Broche had been his father’s partner in Homicide for almost two decades. He had been a constant presence in Pete’s formative years, and Pete had as many memories involving the gruff, mustachioed Cuban as he did of his father during the time. Conversations over coffee while his dad had a suspect “in the box” being interrogated and junk food runs during another late night when his father couldn’t come home but wanted to keep tabs on his errant son were etched into Pete’s memories. He could almost taste the strong Cuban coffee shots, cold from being out for hours, still potent and delicious.

Pete felt a strong hand on his shoulder and turned around to find Broche, burly and powerful but a bit grayer and chubbier, pulling him into an emotional bear hug.

“Pedrito,” Broche said, calling him by a name he hadn’t heard since he was a child. “Why in the hell has it taken you this long to come visit your uncle?”

Pete found himself hugging Broche back, feeling a jolt of nostalgia.

They backed up a pace and looked each other over. Broche was overweight—less like the bull of his earlier days and more like a sleepy bear. Still, he commanded attention. He kept his left hand on Pete’s shoulder, his other hand gingerly slapping Pete on his cheek.

“It’s been too long, hijo,” Broche said, smiling, proud. Pete wondered just how closely he’d followed his old partner’s son. “Let’s go sit down in my office. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

Pete dutifully followed Broche down a short hallway and into a smallish office, decorated with photos and an unused bulletin board behind Broche’s tiny black desk, where he slowly sat down. Pete took a seat across from him.

“It’s good to see you,” Pete said, speaking slowly, slightly overcome by the energy in the place and the rush of memories each step gave him. “It’s funny to be back here after so long.”

“Yeah,” Broche looked around. “This place doesn’t change, little man. Same shit, different day, you know? We had a gas station owner in here last night—beat up real good. Said two guys burst into the station and wiped him clean. Carrying shotguns and shit. This town is going to hell. Always has been.”

Pete let out a dry laugh. Broche was always the pessimist to Pete’s optimistic dad. They were opposites but also meshed well together. Pete shifted in his chair a bit, unsure how to begin.

“So, what’s the deal?” Broche said, cutting through the bullshit. “Your dad dies a few years ago, you don’t even visit? I haven’t seen you since the funeral, man. How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been OK, trying to keep busy,” Pete said. He hated small talk.

“You still with that pretty girl? What’s her name? Emily?”

“Nah,” Pete said, not elaborating. Broche shrugged.

“Eh, whatever,” he said, waving his arm dismissively. “There’s always another woman waiting around the corner. Fuck her. How’s work? You at the Times still?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s good,” he said, wincing at the lie. “Pretty busy with all the layoffs and stuff like that.”

Broche nodded along, paying attention, but thinking of something else. He leaned back in his chair.

“You look like shit,” Broche said. “You know that, right?”

“What?”

“I’m telling you like it is,” Broche said. “Same way I’d talk to your dad when he’d come into work looking like he’d just gone 10 rounds with Roberto Duran after a week without any sleep. You smell like liquor, too. Went out last night?”

This wasn’t the conversation Pete was looking to have.

“Only a bit.”

“Big bit, then.”

Pete remained silent and let his eyes wander around Broche’s tiny office. It was part workspace and part relic—Pete could point to the photos that hadn’t been touched in years. On Broche’s desk was a framed picture of himself with Pete’s father, high-fiving in the middle of the squad room. A photo Pete had called “cheesy and forced” as a kid. What a brat I was, Pete thought.

“Bueno, enough giving you shit,” Broche said. “You obviously came here for something, not to hear me do my best imitation of your dad, right?”

“Yeah, I actually need a little advice.”

“With the ladies?” Broche laughed at his own crude humor. Pete pressed on.

“No, actually, it’s police-related.”

Broche perked up. “Are you in trouble?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Pete backpedaled. “I’m doing a favor for someone I work with. They asked me to help them find someone and I figured I’d check with you.”

“Why would this person ask you to help them find someone?” Broche asked, his brow furrowing. “What qualifies you to find anyone? No offense, but who is this guy?”

Broche was done with pleasantries and was cutting to the heart of the issue, the same issue that Pete had grappled with this morning. He was out of his element. If Kathy had any chance of surviving, it would be if the police took over.

“It’s his daughter—Kathy Bentley. Her dad thinks she’s missing.”

Broche rubbed his chin and sighed. “Did this guy file a report?”

“He said the police didn’t believe him.”

“How long has she been missing?”

“He said he wasn’t sure, that they’d not talked in a few days.”

“Fathers and daughters don’t talk for a few days all the time,” Broche said, turning to face his desktop computer. “I’m guessing this girl is your age or older? You said Bentley, right?”

Broche began to type before Pete nodded to confirm. Pete watched the older cop squint as he scanned his computer screen.

“OK, here’s the deal,” Broche said. “We have zero calls on file from anyone named Bentley. What’s your friend’s first name?”

“He’s not my friend, he just asked me to help him.”

“Do you do this a lot, help people you barely know?”

“Chaz. Chaz Bentley.”

“Chaz Bentley?” Broche said. “You’re fucking kidding me. The newspaper guy? I used to read his column all the time. When it was good. Guy’s a drunk. Gambles whatever he has away. Your dad took him in a few times. We did, I mean.”

“Yeah, that’s him,” Pete said. The idea that his dad had arrested Chaz Bentley stuck out. The fact that Chaz had lied about calling the police worried him.

“That’s it,” Broche said, still looking at the screen. He turned his chair to face Pete. “Look, this happens all the time. Parents lose contact with their grown kids for whatever reason and they think they’re in trouble when they’re really just pissed off and don’t want to talk to mommy or daddy. Unless there’s strong evidence of foul play, or this person isn’t showing up for work or church group or whatever regular activities they partake in, we usually don’t call out the big guns.”

Pete could feel Broche looking at him, even as his own gaze rested on the photo of his father, taken years before.

“This is what you’re going to do,” Broche said, his voice clear and forceful.

“Ok.”

“You need to tell this Mr. Bentley that unless he has more proof that his daughter is missing. We can’t do anything. I hate to say it’s down to manpower, but that’s part of it. We just don’t have enough cops or detectives to go chasing after every lead.”

“She hasn’t been in her apartment for a few days,” Pete blurted out. He was nervous. He felt like a kid bringing home a bad report card. He fought a desire to wince in anticipation of Broche’s response. “And she was working on a story about the Silent Death.” Pete let the last few words hang in the air.

“How the fuck would you know those things?”

“Because I was there, OK? She hadn’t fed her cat, the TV was on, there were dishes in the sink…”

Broche stood up and pointed at Pete. “So now you’re fucking Miami PD? You have the authorization to break into someone’s place to confirm if they’re alive or not?”

“No, of course not,” Pete said.

“You are out of your mind,” Broche said, his voice lowering to a whisper. “Do you know how much trouble you could be in? If this girl ends up dead somewhere, and we do, God forbid, have to go into her apartment and investigate—do you have any idea how bad it would look if our forensic guys find your fingerprints at her place? Or anywhere in relation to her?”

A drop of sweat slid down Pete’s back. He could feel his heart beating in his chest. No, of course he hadn’t thought of any of that. This was some wacky adventure that was going to pull him out of his rut. He hadn’t stopped to consider real lives were involved. Broche was now leaning over, his palms flat on the desk. His face was red.

“And what the fuck do you know about the Silent Death, kid?” Broche said, his voice now a strained whisper. He looked at his open door, as if expecting the assassin to waltz in and smoke them both any second. “No one works that case. No one. It doesn’t exist. You know as well as I do what the deal is. This department has two or three good cops. The rest answer to the wrong sergeant. Understand? I do what little good I can, bide my time until I can retire, y ya. That’s all I can do. This is a silent city when it comes to him, Pete. The sooner you realize that, the longer you’ll live. No one talks about him. The ones that do end up dead. No one knows shit.”

Broche glared at Pete.

“Do you realize what an awkward position you’ve put me in?” Broche said, his voice a seething whisper. “You broke the law. If I ignore this now, and it comes back to bite me in the ass, it could cost me my badge, my pension.” Broche shook his head and straightened up. Pete said nothing.

“I’m going to pretend this conversation never happened,” Broche said. “You should, too. You need to tell this asshole Bentley that if he really thinks his daughter is missing, he needs to come down here and explain why. Then we’ll send an officer with him to check out her place. Then, and only then, a professional—not some half-ass amateur—will determine if she’s missing or if daddy’s being a paranoid pendejo. Understand?”

Pete felt like a kid again, being lectured for yet another fuck-up. Another suspension at school, another fight after class. He felt ashamed. He got up quickly and headed for the door, he turned to Broche at the last second.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Pete said. “I realize I fucked up.”

“Just go,” Broche said. He seemed dejected, slumped in his chair, no longer looking at Pete. “Do exactly what I told you and never involve yourself in police business again. Do not mention anything about this story you say she’s working on. You’re putting yourself and everyone around you at risk, even if you’re talking bullshit. You’re not helping, even if you think you’re smarter than everyone else. You’re not. Not when it comes to this.”

Pete felt his face redden. Sure, he’d made a mistake, but he would bet money on Kathy being in danger, and he wasn’t going to disregard that instinct just because he’d fucked up the procedure.

“I know she’s missing.” Pete said, his voice shaking. “She’s in trouble. Whether Chaz tells you or I tell you, it’s true. Something is wrong and the longer you wait to start looking for her, the less likely it’ll be that she comes out of this alive.”

Broche stood up with a quickness that surprised Pete and darted around his desk until they were almost nose-to-nose. He could hear Broche’s labored breathing, see the pores on his face, smell his cologne.

“Tell me one thing, right now,” Broche said, pausing between every word. For emphasis, or was he so angry he could barely speak, Pete wondered? “How do you think your father would feel, seeing you like this?”

“What?”

“Reeking of alcohol, dressed like a bum,” Broche said, his face contorted in a way Pete had never seen before. “It’s not even this stupid girl. It’s how you look, how you’re acting. You’re nothing like him. What happened to everything he taught you? Everything he spent his life on? He pulled you out of the gutter and you dive back in the first chance you get?”

Pete had no response. He backed away from Broche. His legs felt wobbly. He held onto the chair he’d been sitting in and looked at Broche, who was looking back, waiting for Pete to respond, to defend himself, but nothing came. Pete nodded at Broche and tried to straighten himself up.

“I’m trying to fix that.”

• • •

Pete had ordered the vodka soda before he sat down at the bar. It was too early to be drinking, barely noon. Pete didn’t care. He was past caring. His job was gone, Emily was gone and his past had just sucker-punched him. It wasn’t his father tearing him down, but Broche was a close facsimile, and that hurt Pete in ways he was still processing. The bartender nodded as the glass tapped against the bar and Pete slapped a ten on the counter.

Foggy Notion, hole-in-the-wall that had once been a microbrewery but now sported a full bar, was a quick drive away from the police station and a few blocks from Biscayne. The décor was sparse, the clientele sketchy, and the music good. Pete wondered why he didn’t frequent this place. Then he remembered: he and Emily used to. He didn’t have to worry about running into her now.

He pulled his phone out and scrolled through his contacts.

He needed to talk to someone. Someone who wasn’t tired of the random, midday phone call. Someone who wouldn’t ask where he was and then ask how long he’d been drinking. He wanted to bask in being miserable with someone new. Not Emily. He’d feel bad calling Mike again. The yellow highlighted text found Javier’s name and Pete clicked his phone to call.

The phone rang two times before Javier picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Pete said, his mind finally catching up to his actions and realizing he was calling someone that—before yesterday—he hadn’t spoken to in almost a decade. “It’s, uh, it’s Pete.”

“Oh,” Javier said, his voice sounding distant and confused on the other end of the line. “Hey, man. What’s up? This is a surprise.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Pete said, taking a quick gulp from his drink, wincing as he noticed how strong it was. Not much soda water. Mostly vodka. He needed that. “Sorry, I…I just wanted to give you an update. Uh, you asked me to keep you updated.”

There was a pause on the other line. Pete heard some rustling.

“Yeah, sure, thanks for calling,” Javier said. “Sorry, I was doing some stuff outside. I’m at my place now. What’s up? You mean an update about Kathy?”

“Well, sort of,” Pete said. “I went to the police to file a report.”

“Why?”