Silent City (16 page)

Pete swallowed and kept his gun pointed at Contreras. Keep him talking. Let him blow out some hot air. Anything to delay more bullets being fired. Contreras took another step closer to Pete. He was less than a foot away.

“You’re just avoiding the inevitable,” Contreras said. “So, you did it. The son of the dead detective turns out to be a decent detective himself. Who cares? You get to go to the grave knowing who I am. But your dad’s still dead, you’re still a loser, and the girl you were supposed to find is still gone. Sounds like a Pete Fernandez special, huh?”

Pete lunged at Contreras, fueled more by rage than any kind of logic. It was a dangerous miscalculation. Contreras saw it coming—hell, he’d probably planned it that way—and stepped slightly to the side, allowing Pete’s momentum to take him right into Contreras’s waiting knee, which slammed into Pete’s gut and sent him to the ground. His hand hit the cheap brown carpet and he heard the gun rattle out of reach.

He felt Contreras grab him by the shirt and lift him up. He smelled Contreras’s breath—a mix of Cuban food and cheap whiskey. He was getting dizzy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a fist fight, and he was certain he hadn’t won. It took him a second to feel his body being thrown toward his couch, another moment before he registered his head slamming into the wall as he slid down to the ground in a heap.

“Who else knows about these files?” Contreras asked as he walked toward Pete, hovering over him.

“I have no idea, I told you.” Pete felt the fist slam into his midsection before he could finish his sentence. He felt his body curl into a fetal position as Contreras’s knee crashed into his jaw, sending him back to the floor, face first. He tried to scrunch his body into a tighter ball, protecting himself from more blows. None came. He felt blood drip out of his mouth. He couldn’t breathe.

“I’m going to enjoy destroying you.” Pete felt Contreras’s spittle hit the back of his neck as he closed his eyes, trying to shut out the pain. What a failure. What a disaster he had made of his life. This was how it was going to end? Curled up in a ball, crying and about to die at the hands of some kind of boogeyman serial assassin? His mind wandered. Back to his old house. Coming home from middle school with a fat lip. He’d swung at a bully who’d beaten up his friend Steve Carvajal. The bully relished destroying Pete in front of his friends and classmates. His teachers. He was humiliated. His father had been silent as he picked Pete up from school, the suspension immediate and unforgiving, as Pete had swung first. Pete remembered his father’s car quietly pulling into the carport of their house. How his father slowly shut the engine off and turned to face Pete, his eyes sharp and unblinking. Pete expected a verbal lashing, a physical one, too, but later. His father’s eyes softened slightly. “You made a mistake,” he said. “You started this fight. That makes you the bully.” He raised his hand slightly, feeling Pete begin to protest. “No. Next time, you don’t start the fight.” He let the words hang over them as they sat silently in the car. Pete seething. Even his father was against him. He felt him getting out of the car. Pete looked over to see his father leaning over the open driver’s side door, his eyes still on Pete. “But next time, you finish it.”

Another swift kick hit Pete in the back and he screamed in pain, sending the memory back to where it came from.

Pete felt himself being picked up. He let his body go limp. His ribs ached. Broken? He wasn’t sure. His breathing was slow and forced. He felt himself being propped up in front of Contreras. He could feel him close, all cheap cologne and heavy breathing. Pete coughed and felt blood speckle out of his mouth. He was dizzy. He just wanted to close his eyes. He felt Contreras grabbing him by his hair and slapping his face.

“Wake up, wake up,” Contreras said, annoyed his victim was passing out so quickly. “You don’t get to miss the final moment, oh no, I’ve been waiting for this. Ever since you came into my restaurant, acting like some kind of TV cop.”

Pete felt his body slam into the wall. His entire back ached. His vision was fuzzy. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was dizzy or because his eyes were bruised shut. He couldn’t even speak. The hands holding him up were gone, and he dropped to the ground. His limbs splayed out like a corpse. His head throbbed. He wondered about the cats. He still felt Contreras hovering over him.

Then he opened his eyes. He saw the gun pointed at his face. It was over. He could see Contreras’s grin. Wide and evil. He was going to win. Kathy was dead. Chaz was dead. His father was dead.

“Fuck this,” Pete said almost inaudibly. It was loud enough to give Contreras pause, and that moment was long enough to allow Pete to kick out with what little force he had left, connecting with Contreras’ left shin. Pete grimaced as he heard the crack of bone, then the shrill scream as Contreras fell backwards. It took Pete’s remaining energy to get on his feet. He leaned over Contreras, who was flailing on the ground, his hands clutching his leg, and took a quick swing at his face, connecting with a fist that probably did little but add to the killer’s shock. With that came a wave of dizziness that Pete understood to mean he wouldn’t be awake much longer. He slowly half-walked, half-crawled toward the apartment door, and eventually made his way outside to the hall. He closed it behind him, giving Contreras a quick glance. The black-draped killer was already getting to his feet, cursing Pete’s name. He had maybe a minute of lead time, if that. He flung himself at his neighbor’s door, across the hall, using what little energy he had left to bang on it. He heard someone coming. He felt his weight shifting as the door opened. His neighbor, a cute, thin brunette named Melissa, who Pete had probably drunkenly hit on a number of times, stood over him in shock, screaming. He mumbled something. Lock the door. Call the police. She dragged him in and closed the door behind them. Pete thought he saw Contreras getting out of what was left of his apartment.

Melissa sank down and patted Pete’s face, trying to keep him awake. She fumbled with her portable house phone, dialing the police as she held his hand.

“Jesus, what happened?” she said, terror in her voice. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Pete blacked out.

P
ete leaned back in his chair and turned his face to look out his office window. The Manhattan skyline was darkened by rain. It’d been a cold and wet winter, and it was only going to get worse. He checked his holster and absentmindedly caressed the revolver he carried for protection. He had a license, but still didn’t feel very comfortable carrying a firearm. But Kathy wouldn’t let him do most of his jobs if he didn’t. The radio was playing a Beatles song. “It’s All Too Much.” He wondered where the music was coming from, as he didn’t remember buying a radio for his office. The phone rang.

“Fernandez.”

“It’s me.”

“Hey darling,” he said. It was Kathy. He should have known better. She always called around lunchtime to see how his day was going. “Where are you?”

“I’m nearby,” she said; she sounded harried. Another busy day of shopping, Pete mused to himself. “I can’t talk much, but I wanted to let you know. Come get me when you’re done.”

“I’ll pick you up in a few hours, honey,” Pete said. He fiddled with one of his Fernandez Detective Agency business cards. The sun had popped out from behind the clouds. It was summer suddenly.

He was sitting in the backyard of his father’s house. The lawn furniture was gone. It was hot—Miami hot—but he was wearing a black suit. They’d buried his father earlier in the day. Emily was standing over him. He was on the ground.

“I know you’re in love with me,” she said.

“Well, that’s good, I think,” Pete said. He looked up at her. She didn’t smile. She seemed disappointed. He frowned. She was wearing a black dress now. The same one she wore to his dad’s funeral. The funeral they’d just returned from.

“This isn’t working. You’re drunk.”

Pete realized he had a drink in his hand. He wasn’t sure what. It was clear and had a lime in it. It was in a red plastic cup. He took a sip. It tasted sour. He couldn’t drink anymore. It burned his throat. He looked up at Emily.

“I’m not,” Pete said. “I’m sober. This drink tastes wrong.”

“I don’t ever want to see you again,” she said. “Can’t you respect that?”

“I didn’t ask you here,” Pete said. “My father just died.”

“I know you want to bump into me,” she said, smiling without emotion. “It’s not happening again. Please understand this.”

“Understand what?”

His stomach clenched and he was overcome by wracking sobs. He bent over and saw his tears flowing into the ground. He felt Emily was gone. He looked across the yard and saw Kathy a few feet away, buried halfway into the ground. She seemed unconcerned. Her pink dress was sullied by the dirt and grass. She was smoking a cigarette and sipping from a champagne flute.

“You said you’d pick me up,” she said. Her eyes were dazed. She seemed drugged.

“You’re halfway in the ground now,” Pete said. “I can get you out.”

“No you can’t,” she laughed—a long, mournful laugh. She was shaking with laughter. “Maybe my mother can help you.”

She kept laughing. Pete felt uncomfortable.

He got up and wiped the dirt off his pants and jacket. He felt a hand on his arm. His father tugged at him. They were in the police station. Pete looked around. Javier was sitting down near an interview room, a sad, sullen look on his face. He didn’t meet Pete’s eyes. They were adults, though. Broche came out of the interview and walked over to Pete and his father. He turned to Pete.

“This is a rerun,” he said.

“I’m tired of reruns,” Pete sighed. He looked at his father. He was old. The way he looked the day he died. Old and worn out. Defeated and sad. His suit was big on him, like a kid wearing his big brother’s clothing.

“Change the channel,” his father said, before a fit of coughs overtook him. He let go of Pete’s arm and fell to the ground. No one rushed to help him. Pete tried, but was held back. It was Emily. She was holding his arms.

“Just let me help him,” Pete said, his eyes watering. “He’s dying.”

“He died a long time ago,” Emily said.

“I know,” Pete said, falling to his knees. Emily let him fall. As his knees hit the ground, blackness spread over the area near his legs and around the floor. Soon it was everywhere. He knelt in a black room. Only Emily remained. She was dressed casually, with no makeup. Pete stood up to face her. She moved to touch his face, but pulled back.

“This is wrong,” she said.

“What is?”

“Everything. I can’t fix you.”

“I know.”

“But you want me to,” she said. She pulled out a cigar and cut off the tip. She lit it. “Didn’t your father smoke these?” she asked as she took a few puffs.

“I think so.”

Emily stopped smoking the cigar and began to chew on it, her mouth becoming dirty and brown. Her eyes were dark and red. She was wearing a T-shirt and shorts. His Pixies shirt. The way she looked the first time they’d slept together. It was torn under the left sleeve.

“You don’t have to do anything. You’re good at that.”

“What should I do?”

She spit a piece of the cigar out on the floor and turned to him.

“Stop being so fucking literal.”

“
I
s he waking up?”

“His eyes are moving, so yes.”

“Mike—now is not the time for stupid jokes.”

Pete squinted at the bright fluorescent lights. He felt a dull pounding in his head and a general ache. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t form any words. Before he could try again, he felt a hand on his arm. He turned slowly. It was Emily. She looked like she’d been crying. Mike was behind her. He was in a hospital room. He looked himself over. He wasn’t visiting. He was in the bed. Why? Had there been an accident? Then he remembered. Contreras. The Silent Death. Stumbling into Melissa’s apartment. He must have passed out. She called the ambulance. But what happened to Contreras? He felt like shit. He wasn’t dead.

“The cats…?” Pete almost coughed.

“What?” Mike asked.

“Are the cats OK?”

“The cats are fine,” Broche said, as he walked up to the bed. “You, on the other hand, are not in good shape.” Pete noticed that even Broche’s usual expression had softened. How bad did he look?

“Where am I?”

“You’re at Baptist Hospital,” Broche continued. “You’re lucky. Emily called you a few times after you missed your dinner date then headed to your place. Your neighbor said you stormed into her apartment and that someone was after you. She said she was already going to knock on your door because of all the screaming. Emily got there a little while after that.”

“I thought you’d just gotten drunk, passed out on your couch, and forgot to call,” Emily said. “Not this. Jesus. What the fuck happened?”

Pete tried to sit up, but felt a wave of dizziness overtake him; he let his head plop back down on the pillow. Broche put his hand on Pete’s shoulder.

“Let him rest,” Broche said. He turned to Pete. ‘You have a concussion, a few broken ribs and some heavy bruising. That black eye is not going to heal very quickly. But aside from that, you should make a full recovery.”

“Well, that’s good. Thank you, Dr. Broche,” Pete said, his voice a low rasp. The longer he was awake, the more new jabs of pain he discovered in his body. “I’m not a fan of hospitals.”

“Who did this to you? Do you remember?” Mike asked, his usual self-control lost to the situation. “This is fucked up. Was it a robbery?”

“I guess so,” Pete said. He didn’t want to elaborate too much with Broche in the room. He didn’t know what was found at the scene and what Broche knew, but he was not in the mood to hear it from him. Not yet. “I don’t remember that much.”

Broche frowned. He’d known Pete long enough to know when he was being evasive.

“Guys, I need to talk to Pete,” Broche said, turning to Emily and Mike. “Can you give us a few minutes?”

Emily nodded and Mike followed her out of the room. They seemed relieved that their friend had awoken, so a break was in order. Broche waited until the door closed behind them before walking a few steps closer to Pete’s bed.