Silent City (8 page)

“Ah, shit,” Pete mumbled. “I checked outside and couldn’t see you.”

“Don’t you check your phone, Pete?” Emily said.

Pete could smell the Chanel. “It’s gonna rain in a bit. Lemme go out and get Mike and we’ll meet you here.”

She darted out, shaking her head. Emily was, like Pete, usually in a state of annoyance. She rarely got enraged or very angry, but it took very little to get under her skin. Pete pulled two stools closer to his. He was glad she was here, though. And that Mike was here. Whatever he’d been through, with or without them, made more sense when they were near him. Whenever he found himself alone for too long, things got dark very quickly.

“
D
o I need to use the bridge example?” Emily said, staring right at Pete, more frustration than humor in her voice. “Kathy’s a fuck-up. She’s a great writer, I consider her a friend, but she’s totally unreliable and a mess. I’m surprised it took this long for her to go AWOL.”

“Bridge example?” Pete asked, knowing where she was going.

“Yes.”

“What are you talking about?” Mike asked. Emily turned to look at him with the same annoyed surprise she’d already served up to Pete.

“Maybe it’s time to cut you both off.” She slid her glass an inch away from her grasp. “I was just saying that just because someone asks you to do something, it doesn’t mean you need to do it. What if Kathy’s dad asked you to jump off a bridge?”

Pete laughed. Mike joined. Emily smiled as she took another sip of wine. The three of them had been friends for over a decade, so ribbing and sarcastic exchanges were par for the course. Pete wondered, as he took a quick sip of his beer, if they’d ever make it back to being real friends, or if they were forever cursed to this weird purgatory. When Emily was a Features designer at the Times, she had plenty of contact with Kathy. The two of them would hang out from time to time, before Emily got married and Kathy found Javier. Pete wondered why Emily was even out at this hour.

“I just think it’s stupid,” Emily said, pulling out her cell phone and checking it quickly. “And as someone who actually knows Kathy—which you don’t—I think she’s more trouble than she’s worth. Smart girl, very pretty and cool to hang out with, that’s it. If it was me or Mike, then yeah, of course you should come find us.”

“I’m not risking anything,” Pete said, annoyed. “This’ll be over in less than a day. I’m calling Chaz tomorrow, once I check out a few more things.”

“What are you going to check out?” Emily asked.

“Well, I need to check with her friends and neighbors…stuff like that,” Pete stammered. “And I checked out her boyfriend Javier’s record.”

“How’d you check his record?”

Pete scratched his head. He’d painted himself into a corner. Luckily, this was Emily, and awkwardness aside, she wasn’t going to get him in trouble. She would rib him about it, though.

“You used the Times database? Right?”

“Yeah,” Pete said.

Emily took a long sip from her glass. Mike nodded absentmindedly.

“Well, whatever, everyone does it,” Emily said. “Chaz is going to pay you, right?”

Pete put up his arms defensively. “I just said I’d make a few inquiries. This is a one-off thing. I may not even accept any money from him if I don’t find his daughter.”

“She probably went on some trip with this dude,” Emily said. “Anyway, what did you find?”

“Not a lot, really,” Pete admitted. “Javier’s got a rap sheet. I was going to swing by this restaurant where he works and talk to him, see if he’s there.”

“Where does he work?” Emily asked.

“Casa Pepe’s, a Cuban joint near my dad’s house,” Pete said. He noticed Emily’s eyes softening slightly at the mention of his father. She’d loved his dad. Emily would sit with Pedro for hours, talking and drinking, when she and Pete visited from Jersey. She was shattered when they got the news. Pete had come home haggard and drunk. It didn’t click for her immediately—that sad, empty look in his eyes. He’d often come home wasted after covering a late Nets game. But he looked different that night, or so she’d told him. “You looked like you’d died,” she had whispered to him, a few nights later, as they shuddered outside the Caballero Funeral Home in Miami, drenched in a rainstorm and not caring.

Pete shook his head and looked at his watch. It was late.

“So Javier works there?” Emily asked, pulling Pete out of his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Pete said. “Seems like it. I have to check to be sure.”

“That place is odd,” Emily said, looking at her hands as she fiddled with a matchbook. “Hardly ever see anyone in there. Pretty nice looking for a Westchester Cuban place, though.”

“The food sucks, too,” Mike chimed in, after finishing his beer and sliding the glass over to Jimmy.

“Yeah, it’s not amazing; but you don’t like much food,” Emily said, looking at Mike. “The servers are totally rude, too. But people seem to go there.”

Pete nodded. It was almost three in the morning. He was more tired than hammered. Talking to Emily and Mike had leveled him out. He could drive home, he thought. He snapped to attention as Emily quickly stood up.

“Shit, I have to go,” she said, putting her cell phone back into her purse. She leaned in and gave Pete a quick peck on the cheek and an automated hug. “Rick isn’t a big fan of me being out late and he’s home with the dogs.”

Pete wondered how married life was treating her. He wondered how married life would have treated them.

“Come on, you can’t do one more? Rick’ll watch the dogs,” Mike said.

Emily ignored the belligerent Mike and stood by Pete, still seated in his stool. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Be careful, OK? This whole situation sounds odd.”

Pete’s heart jumped at her concern. He fought an urge to grab her hand. “I’ll be fine, but thanks.”

“OK,” she said, her hand lingering on Pete’s shoulder. She was a little drunk, too, Pete realized. Her hands felt familiar still. Her eyes focused on his for a second and she snapped her fingers, shattering whatever drunken connection Pete felt. “Shit, you know who you should talk to? Do you know Amy Matheson?”

“The news editor? She handles cops, no?” Pete responded.

“Yeah, her,” Emily said. “She’s Kathy’s best friend—well, her only friend at work. They talk all the time. If Kathy’s not talking to her, then something is shady.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Pete said. “I’ll check with her tomorrow when I get in.” He felt himself leaning in to Emily more than he normally would. He was drunk. She was drunk. She looked at him.

“Stephanie says she saw you a few nights ago,” Emily said, letting the statement hang out without any context.

Pete cleared his throat. “Yeah, we chatted for a bit,” he said, refusing to fully engage. “She seemed OK.”

“That’s good,” Emily said, her eyes meeting Pete’s. In the past, she would have pressed the issue—asked why he’d been so wasted, why he’d embarrassed himself in front of someone they both knew. She didn’t do that anymore. They were quiet for a few moments before she spoke again. “How’s your new place?” Emily asked. The question came out of left field and didn’t at the same time.

“That was random,” Mike commented. Emily didn’t turn to respond.

“Uh, it’s fine,” Pete said. “Not really that new anymore.” He stopped himself. He could have continued—noted how long it’d been since she’d left in that cab. He could mention the piles of unreturned e-mails, phone calls, and letters that further confirmed for him that Emily wanted nothing to do with him. That it was over.

“Yeah, sorry,” Emily said.

Pete could see pity in her eyes, and that made him feel worse. He moved back slightly. She moved her hand from his shoulder. An awkward silence lingered. He thought it’d gone so well, but now his mind was spinning. He hated to think about her like this. He hated how his heart—in a second—could show him that nothing had changed. He coughed quickly and offered up a humorless smile to Emily.

“OK, I really have to go.” She kissed him quickly on the cheek again before turning to Mike and shoving him. “You idiots get home safe. Have some water before you leave.”

Mike giggled. Pete laughed in response. He was rarely more sober than Mike. Jimmy hovered over them, looking a little worn out after a long night of serving underage college students and depressed thirtysomethings.

“Hey guys, last call,” he said, wiping around their respective glasses. “Can I get you something else?”

Pete started, then turned to look at Mike, whose eyelids were at half shut as he leaned on the bar. He looked at Jimmy and shrugged.

“I think we’re good for the night.”

• • •

Pete fumbled with Mike’s keys as he tried to open Mike’s apartment door. Mike, relatively useless, was leaning on the opposite wall. Pete smiled. He considered how bad Mike—and he—would be had they let themselves do a few more rounds at the Pub. It was dangerous enough that Pete drove up to Mike’s house, a good 45 minutes away, after the half-dozen drinks he had in his system. He managed to get the door open and they walked in.

Mike’s apartment was decorated sparsely. Lots of white space, little clutter. Pete marveled at the OCD of it all. He motioned Mike to the couch, where they both plopped down with a thud.

“I am fucked up,” Mike said, as if by vocalizing the situation, he could remedy it.

“Nah, you’re alright,” Pete said, grabbing the remote, looking at it in an attempt to figure out how to get to ESPN. “We were just there too long, you know?”

“Yeah, bro,” Mike said. “I hadn’t seen Emily in a while. Always nice to check out that rack.” He laughed.

Pete stayed quiet. He wasn’t sure if he should sleep over and avoid another risky drive late at night or leave Mike alone and head to the comforts of home. He was leaning toward the latter.

“What, you’re offended now?” Mike said, turning to Pete.

“No, man,” Pete said. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long few days.”

Mike leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “That’s for sure. I’m not feeling work at all.”

“Emily seemed to be in a rush at the end there,” Pete said. He would only make such a comment when Mike was drunk and prone to ramble.

“Hm, yeah,” Mike said, looking at the TV before taking the remote from Pete’s hands and turning it on. “I don’t think she’s that happy with her life. You really derailed her, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“You went off—and you took her with you,” Mike said, his voice clearer. “The only way she could get her shit straight was to leave you behind. But you guys keep dancing around each other. It’s sad.”

Pete stayed quiet.

“And yeah, she seems out of it,” Mike said. “She barely talked about Rick or her new job. She just kept asking about you and the paper. She sounded almost nostalgic.”

“Who’d be nostalgic for the Times?”

“You might be, if you get fired,” Mike said, no trace of humor in his voice.

Pete bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, bro,” Mike said. “You know what I mean. As for Emily, I don’t know. Something’s going on there. She’s not acting like herself. All nervous and jittery. It’s weird.”

“She seemed OK,” Pete said.

“Yeah, sort of,” Mike said. “But she seemed off. Everyone seems a little off lately.”

Pete wasn’t sure how to respond. They both watched ESPN highlights silently until Pete could hear Mike snoring softly. He eased off the couch and wandered into Mike’s room, returning with a comforter. He draped it over Mike and shut off the TV. He hit the main apartment light and walked out, locking the door behind him.

P
ete turned off his noisy Celica’s engine. He looked around his car. It was a mess. Papers everywhere, fast food containers and CD cases strewn all over the backseat. After realizing his car was on its last legs a few months back, Pete had given up on upkeep. Now he felt a pang of guilt as he got out of the car. Then something caught his eye in the back seat. A large cardboard box peeked out from under one of his winter jackets—now pointless since he wasn’t planning on returning to New Jersey anytime soon. Pete slid the driver’s side seat up and moved his coat. He remembered what the box was instantly, and regretted finding it. It was a box of his father’s old paperwork. Probably receipts and expense reports. He hadn’t thought of the box since he tossed it in the backseat the day Emily left. He groaned as he picked up the box—heavier than he’d remembered—and closed the car door with his hip. He walked up the stairs to his second-floor apartment slowly, trying to shift the box’s weight after every four or five steps. His arms hurt from the strain.

“Come on, Pete,” he said under his breath. “Don’t embarrass yourself.”

He managed to open his front door without much trouble and let the box thud on his faded brown couch. He sank into the couch and let out a disappointed sigh as he realized the remote control was not within reach. He sat, waiting for his breathing to steady and looked around his small apartment at his posters. David Byrne’s “True Stories,” a ratty Marlins inaugural season celebratory poster and an Edward Hopper “Nighthawks” print that Emily had given him on their anniversary summed up the last few years of his life. Costello sauntered into the main room with a yowl, followed by his new gray sidekick. Realizing no food was in the offing, Costello rolled over slowly and went to sleep. The gray cat mewled and walked off.

He flicked on the light near the door and turned to face the box that rested next to him. Inside were a series of file folders and a brown paper bag, scrunched tightly behind the stack of manila folders and paperwork. Pete skimmed the titles of each. His father, unsurprisingly, was very organized. The folders were in order by year, and most contained your basic police info—reports, crime scene breakdowns, witness comments, and his father’s own notes coming out of interrogations. Pete wasn’t sure his dad was even supposed to have this level of info, retired or not. Carlos Broche, his father’s longtime partner and closest friend, had probably turned a blind eye to the copying.

“Old man couldn’t put the gun down,” Pete said to himself.

Most of the cases seemed relatively routine, as far as homicides went. Robberies gone bad, spousal abuse escalating to murder, jealous lovers, vengeful coworkers. The files made for interesting reading and Pete felt himself energized and awake. This was his father’s life, he thought. He dealt with the scum of the earth on a daily basis and still remained a strong and gentle soul. Pete pushed the papers away and leaned back on the sofa. He was staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t sure for how long. It was time for bed, he thought, returning his eyes to the box, now less organized thanks to Pete’s meddling. Beneath the manila folders Pete found another—this one a faded red—with two staples holding it closed. Pete’s father didn’t really want to open this, he figured. The tab, which had featured years and case numbers on the other folders, just read “The SD.” Pete knew what it meant: The Silent Death.