Silent City (26 page)

Contreras walked over to Pete and grabbed him by the arm before turning to Javier. “We have to get this over with,” Contreras said. “This is taking too long.”

Javier nodded. His face was flushed. He was angry, Pete realized. He’d lost his cool. Perhaps there was still a chance.

“Do you really think killing us will prevent people from knowing who you are?” Pete said, his voice calm and measured. “It’s gonna come out. If a washed up nobody like me can put the pieces together, someone else will, too.”

Javier stepped closer to Pete, the gun now at his side. His face inches away from Pete’s own. He could feel the hate coming from Javier. The bruised ego. Someone had figured out his game. Someone had made him work and step outside of his role. The plan had not been flawless.

“It doesn’t matter,” Javier said. “Javier Reyes is dead. That body in the bungalow might as well have been me. This ——” he said, looking down at his black trench coat and gun, “This is me now. I’ve carved my own place in this city. People respect me. I make the rules here. People live or die because I say so. I refuse to let you ruin it.”

“Do you realize how spoiled you sound?” Pete said. He could feel the shocked look Contreras was giving him. “I mean, really, what do you think the life expectancy for megalomaniacal killers is? You’ve gotta be near the high-end, sure. But all good things and all that jazz, right?”

Pete didn’t see the right hook coming, but he almost welcomed it. Anything but more prattling from Javier. Javier’s fist connected with Pete’s face roughly, knocking him back into Contreras and a row of desks at the far end of the plating room. Contreras groaned as he slammed into two chairs. Pete rolled with the punch and landed to Javier’s left. He sprung himself at Javier, tackling him and pushing them both toward the door that led down the westernmost flight of metallic stairs. He gripped Javier’s hands—one with a gun, one not —and slammed them both against the main door. The gun fell out of Javier’s hand and rattled away. Pete struggled, his grip on Javier’s arms loosening as his old friend tried desperately to get out from under him. Javier’s knee swung upwards, connecting with Pete’s midsection. He rolled off Javier, gripping his left side. More broken bones, he thought. Not ideal timing. Javier got to his feet and hovered over Pete. He could hear Javier’s winded breathing. He rolled away from him and got up slowly.

“This has been fun, kid,” Contreras said, pointing his own gun at Pete now. He’d recovered from his spill and now stood between Pete and Broche, who was still out. “But it’s over now.”

Contreras raised the gun. Pete closed his eyes. He’d done the best he could, he thought. If this was how he was going to go out, so be it. He heard the gunshot and searched his mind and body but found no pain. His eyes opened quickly enough to see Contreras fall to his knees, a chunk of his head no longer there, blood dripping down his face and body. He looked like half his face had folded over the other. Broche stood—more like wobbled—behind him and nodded. Behind him, Pete heard Javier race toward Broche. Pete stepped back. Javier quickly overpowered the older man, knocking him against the far wall and taking his gun. Pete started to get up to help Broche—his side still shooting pain —when the sound exploded around the small room.

Another shot. This time it was Broche who fell, his head snapping back. Javier stepped away from the kill, his eyes on the old detective as he fell, smearing blood on the far wall as his body slid down. He was dead. Pete didn’t hesitate, and dove for Javier’s legs, knocking him forward to the ground. The fall gave Pete enough time to reach for his father’s gun. He stood over Javier, gun drawn, and pointed as the killer rolled his body around to face Pete, a twisted grin on his face, Broche’s police-issue Glock in his hand. The weapon he’d used to kill his father’s partner.

“Pathetic, isn’t it?” Javier said, the blood splattered on his face making for a weird, clown-like appearance. “That this is how it all goes down, huh? Just the two of us. Just like old times, my friend.”

Javier got up. Pete backed off, his gun still trained on him. Javier was holding Broche’s gun at his side, the grin still plastered on his face.

“We’re not friends,” Pete said. “We haven’t been friends for a long time.”

“Now, don’t say that. You were the one all excited to take a trip down memory lane with me. You seemed almost ecstatic when I saw you at Casa Pepe’s, sniffing around and stirring shit up.”

Pete said nothing. He felt his hand sweating. The grip on his father’s gun tightening. Javier took a step closer, his face smeared with Broche’s blood, his eyes wide.

“We know where this is gonna go,” Javier said, pointing his gun at Pete. “So let’s not drag it out, shall we?”

“We’re tied, it seems,” Pete said, his voice cracking. He felt a drop of sweat slide down his face. “Except you’re in a bit of a time crunch.”

Javier raised an eyebrow.

“Any minute now, the press people are going to come into this room and find blood and bodies everywhere,” Pete said. “Do you think you’ll just be able to walk out of here without any explanation?”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Javier spit and stretched out his gun arm. Pete’s eyes zoomed in on the gun. He tried to dodge, but it would be impossible. A split second before he heard the gunshot and felt the searing agony, he heard the pressroom alarm—the signal that the giant newsprint machines were being warmed up and preparing to print all the papers that would be distributed across South Florida. The momentary distraction made Javier hesitate. Made his shot veer slightly off. The bullet tore into Pete’s shoulder, sending him backwards, slamming into the main door and knocking it open. He reached for the wound. His father’s gun landed on the floor beside him. Blood. His blood. Everywhere. Blood all in his mouth. He couldn’t breathe.

“Fuck!” Javier screamed. Pete could hear people downstairs, alerted by the gunfire, no doubt. He could feel air from the press room—the fans—filtering in from the open door. He reached out his good hand and grasped his gun. It was his gun now. He saw Javier head toward the door. Weak, shivering, and not sure how close he was to dying, Pete slammed his good arm into Javier’s legs, sending him tripping forward. Javier managed to grab the metal railings in time, preventing his fall. He turned to face Pete, looking down on him, that smile still plastered on his face.

The bullet hit him in the neck, causing a small fountain of blood to spray out, spreading down his neck and further bloodying his face. The force of the shot sent Javier back into the railing, propping him up awkwardly as he gurgled his last breaths, his face no longer smiling. Pete thought he heard him try to form words, but the look on his face was enough for Pete. Confusion. Anger. Surprise. All replacing the cocky laugh that Pete had once admired.

Pete’s gun hand fell to the floor. He saw Javier’s body sag at an odd angle. He tried to keep his eyes open. He heard voices. People rushing up the stairs. A scream. Emily? He wasn’t sure. Pete groaned and tried to focus his vision on the room around him. Then everything went dark.

H
e drained the last sip from his beer and placed the glass back on its coaster. The bartender, a youngish-looking girl with too much makeup on, was quick to reappear in front of him.

“Want another?” she said, putting on her best bartender smile.

“No, I’m good,” Pete said. She gave him a nod, but Pete also noticed how her eyes lingered over him. How often did she get a guy with his arm in a sling, cuts all over his face and a black eye in her bar ordering drinks? Not very often, he hoped. For her sake.

Big City Tavern was your typical yuppie, after-work watering hole, if a bit too bright and not nearly as welcoming as it should be. Pete remembered sitting in a nearby booth with Mike many times over, talking until the wee hours about who-knows-what. He turned the beer glass around slowly, his fingers tracing over the Stella logo. The place was a few blocks from Mike’s place—well, where he used to live. When he used to live, Pete corrected himself.

He yawned. He winced as the yawn ran through him, hurting his broken ribs. His body was a mess. By some strange twist of fate, the shot that Pete’s shoulder took didn’t do any major damage. It did cause a lot of bleeding, though. Had the paramedics on the scene not acted swiftly, the loss of blood would have meant the end of the line for Pete. He was surprised he was alive. Arm in a sling, bandages over his broken nose and a purple—almost dark blue—black eye that got him more attention than he ever wanted. Sprinkle that over the broken ribs and concussion he hadn’t really allowed himself to recover from and you had what was left of Pete Fernandez, former sports copy editor of The Miami Times.

He didn’t feel like drinking. The numbness that spread over his arm when he got shot lingered—but not in a physical or literal sense. He felt dulled, without sensation. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get back to the man he was before—the twenty-something fiancé working his dream job and traveling the nation. He was OK with that now. He just needed to figure out what he was going to be instead.

Emily dropped her bag next to Pete’s barstool and leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek. She mussed his hair as she slid into the chair next to him.

“You still look like shit,” she said, smiling. She seemed happy to see him. She looked at his empty glass. “Are you already trashed?”

“I looked worse last week,” Pete said, smiling warily. “Twice as bad the week before that. And no, that was my first beer.”

Emily nodded.

“Well, you do look better,” she said.

“It’s nice to not be in the hospital for a change.”

“Or the police station.”

“Or that, yeah.”

Pete closed out his tab and they moved to a small booth near the bar. They sat across from each other. Emily was in a yellow summer dress and a black sweater-jacket. She looked more dressed up than usual. Then again, he hadn’t really seen her outside of the confines of his hospital room in almost a month.

The waiter came by and Emily ordered a glass of Chardonnay. Pete ordered another Stella.

“Where’s Kathy?” Emily said as she fiddled with her napkin. “Is she coming?”

Pete shrugged. After Javier’s death—the real one—Kathy had managed to finagle her way back into the paper. She wrote the definitive story about the Silent Death, both as a killer and as a person, from the perspective of someone who not only knew about the murders themselves, but also shared a bed with the killer himself. It was riveting reading. She’d kept in touch with Pete, interviewing him a few times for the story and eventual book. But her visits had dwindled over the last few weeks. Pete was fine with that. He wasn’t quite as fine with the idea that she might’ve gotten away with a big bag of drug money.

There was a saying about romances or friendships born during times of war, but the exact phrasing was not coming to mind. He scanned the appetizer menu as he spoke. “I don’t think so.”

Emily made a low, humming sound and nodded. Their drinks arrived.

“Do the cops still want to talk to you?” she asked, sipping her wine. “Or are they too embarrassed their entire department was on the take?”

“Yeah. I dunno,” Pete said. “I remember a few different guys coming by my hospital room. It was fine. I’m just glad I’m not being charged with anything. I mean, I killed someone.”

“You were defending yourself.’

“I know, but still.”

She reached out for his hand.

“You were defending yourself,” she said. “You saved yourself and the price was the death of someone who’d killed so many people. We probably have no idea how many.”

Pete took a long sip of his beer and looked around the bar. He wanted to change the subject.

“We all used to come here a lot,” he said, nostalgia in his voice. “Seems like it was a long time ago.”

Emily looked around as well, but without the same wonderment as Pete.

“This place kind of blows,” she said, turning back to Pete. “But you liked it, so we came here a lot.”

Pete nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m still surprised you and Mike listen—listened—to me as much as you did.”

“I’d like to think it’s more me looking out for you than listening to you.”

“Fair enough,” Pete said.

“What now?” Emily asked. Her eyes locked on his. Over the last few weeks, as Pete improved—physically from the injuries he suffered and mentally from the entire affair—Emily had dedicated herself to his recovery, spending entire days keeping him company in his hospital room. Now that he was out and left to his own devices, she still managed to pop up to “hang out” or check in with him more often. Pete was OK with that.

“I think I might try this detective thing,” Pete said. “I got the paperwork last week. Filled it out and sent it for approval this morning. We’ll see. I don’t exactly have a sterling record. But everything after this has got to be easy, right?”

“So, you’re going to open up an agency?”

“I’m not sure, yet,” Pete said. “I doubt I’ll be swimming in clients off the bat. But it probably beats working at the Times.”

Emily smiled, resting her face on her palm. She felt relaxed. Mike’s loss still stung both of them, but for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, it didn’t feel like death or tragedy was around the corner.

“It’s a start,” she said, tracing lines on the table with her index finger. “I’ve got office space downtown, too, if you need a work line or a desk so it feels like you’re actually going to work, instead of checking e-mail in your boxers.”

“But I like checking e-mail in my boxers,” he joked.

“I bet,” she said. “Think about it. I could use someone to help me split the rent.”

“It’ll be a while before I can pay rent on anything that isn’t my apartment,” Pete said, lifting his beer up to his mouth and stopping. He looked at the half-empty glass and placed it back on the table. The bar’s jukebox kicked in suddenly and loudly. The bartender scurried to the controls and lowered the sound. The Stones. “If You Really Want to Be My Friend.” Pete nodded at Emily. She shrugged.

“What, is this another one of your songs?”