by Alex Segura
“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—”
“Spare me the details, please,” Pete said. “Did she leave? Did she spend the night? What happened?”
“We argued,” Rick said. “We didn’t even get to anything physical. She asked where ‘this’ was going and I sprung it on her. She flipped; started throwing shit, yelling. Threatened to call Emily and tell her everything. It was nuts. She went fucking crazy. Finally, she wore herself out and bolted.”
“Did you try calling her?”
“No, I just tried to fix the room up and get out of there. I was worried she was going to call Emily, but when I got home and realized she hadn’t, I just figured she needed time to cool off.”
“You didn’t try to reach out to her, then?”
“No, man,” Rick said, confusion in his voice. “Why would I? Bullet dodged, you know?”
“You’re an asshole,” Pete said, standing up. “You can leave.”
Rick got up and followed Pete toward the door.
“But why? What am I supposed to tell the cops?”
“Exactly what you told me.”
“But that sounds terrible.”
“That is accurate,” Pete said.
“I need your help,” Rick said, his voice pleading. “I could be seriously up shit creek for this.”
Pete opened the door.
“I don’t care,” Pete said. “I used to think you were a good guy. After all the shit I’d put Emily through, I thought, hey, OK, at least she’s with a stand-up dude and they’re going to have a decent life together. But you’re not. You’re a piece of shit and you’ve come to me to get you out of a bind of your own making. You know what? Fuck you. You’re not my concern.”
Rick seemed taken aback and let out a quick, dismissive sound.
“Suddenly you’re this high and mighty force of good? I remember when you’d spend hours on the phone, crying and begging for Emily to take you back. I’m not the sad piece of shit, man, you are.”
“Get the fuck out of my house.”
“That’s it, then?” Rick said, venom in his voice. “You’re going to let me dangle because I fucked around on your ex? You know what she’s like as well as I do, and after a while, the joke gets old. It doesn’t change the fact that Alice is missing, and I could be getting the blame for it. You’re going to let her disappear because of some petty vengeance against me?”
Pete locked his eyes on Rick’s.
“I’m not going to help you,” Pete said. “Your story—true or not—sounds terrible, even if you’ve done nothing wrong. As for Alice, well, that’s different—but none of your business. That goes for Emily, too. Leave us alone.”
“She’s never going to take you back,” Rick said as he turned toward the open door.
It was only then that they noticed Emily standing in the doorway, her arms looped through a half-dozen grocery bags. Her eyes were red. The rain had stopped.
CHAPTER TEN
“Leave us alone?” Emily said.
“Let me explain.”
Rick didn’t stick around to see the fireworks. Upon realizing Emily had heard most, if not all of their heated exchange, he sidestepped his estranged wife and darted off. Stand-up guy, Pete thought.
“There’s nothing to explain,” Emily said, walking into the house and plopping her groceries on the dining room table. She gave Pete’s gun a quizzical look. “Why is that out in the house?”
Her tone gave Pete pause. “The house?”
“Yes, this house,” Emily said, her volume rising. “Why is there a gun on the dining room table of this house?”
“Because this is my fucking house,” Pete said. “How many times am I going to have to remind people of that today?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind,” Pete said. “I thought someone had broken in. I pulled out the gun and found Rick in here.”
Emily began shuttling grocery bags to the kitchen and putting the items away. Pete followed her.
“Thanks for the groceries,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “I got a few things before I met Susan.”
“You’re pissed.”
“Yes, Peter. I am pissed.”
She never called him Peter, he thought, unless she was reaching a level of angry no one really wanted to experience.
“What was I supposed to do, kick him out?”
She looked up from the fridge, her eyes dull and red.
“I don’t want to have this discussion,” she said.
“So, we just forget this happened and avoid each other for a little bit, hoping that things go back to normal?” Pete said. “Just like old times?”
Emily closed the fridge door with a little too much force.
“This is not ‘just like old times,’” she said. “You know that. It can never be that way again. You’re letting me stay here for a bit, and I appreciate that. I just need some time to think about what to do next, and it doesn’t help to come home to find your two most recent exes having a confab about you, one of their mistresses, and who’s more deserving of your affection. Such macho, stupid bullshit.”
“He’s being questioned about this girl’s disappearance.”
“Alice? You can say her name. I won’t go into convulsions.”
“Yes, Alice,” Pete said.
“So, they think he did it?”
“They’re questioning him, at the very least,” Pete said. “And I doubt his visit to me is going to earn him any points with them.”
“Wonderful,” she said. “Fucking wonderful.”
She sped past Pete and headed toward the guest room, which was across the hall from the kitchen. She closed the door with a slam.
He decided against prolonging the discussion. He walked back to the kitchen and slowly put away the rest of the groceries. After a few minutes he was done, and exhaustion overtook him. He walked back into the living room, picked his gun off the table, and made sure the safety was on. He stood by the dining room table and scanned the house. The liquor cabinets were empty. That’s where his mind went now, he thought. Always to what was missing. What he couldn’t have anymore. He pushed the thought away and put the gun on the small table by the front door. He walked down the main hall toward his bedroom, pulling his T-shirt off as he closed the door behind him. He threw his jeans into a corner. He didn’t bother to turn on the light. He knew where every book was, where every piece of furniture jutted out. Costello mewed in frustration as Pete fell onto the bed.
His life had become a collection of ghosts from his past mingling with the detritus of his present with a dash of nostalgia and regret. He slid under the covers and fell asleep.
He didn’t hear her come into the room at first, but the light from the hallway woke him up. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. The cat was gone, probably distracted by a bird or sound. She slid in bed next to him, sniffling to herself, trying to keep it down. Pete was on his back. He felt her leg
loop over him and she was on top, her breath hot on his face as she leaned in to him, grinding her body onto his. He reacted. He remembered her. Them. His hand reached for her sides as his mouth found hers and for a split second they were back—back to a time when this was normal and what they both wanted. Pete pulled away from the kiss and tried to look at Emily’s face in the darkness.
“What are you doing?”
“Don’t talk,” she said, almost pleading. “I just need to feel something, OK?”
Pete didn’t respond. She slid her nightgown off and tossed it near his dresser, and any chance of this stopping went away. She leaned back in to Pete, her body warm on his as he guided his hands up her back, cautiously at first, as if it could stop at any moment—then with more abandon.
Responding to his hungry hands, she reached for him, pulling his boxers down and off the bed. They kissed—bumping into each other, getting reacquainted with their movements, texture, bruises, and tics. Soon, like muscle memory, their bodies moved in a rhythm that neither had found since Emily got into that cab, years before. It was in this moment that Pete allowed himself to push past the nervous energy, the rush of paranoid thoughts, and the constant overthink that had invaded his brain since he’d stopped dulling it with alcohol. She was quiet, letting out soft, slight moans in response to Pete from time to time. Both of them focused on what they were doing to each other—and for each other. A momentary respite from the dirge-like existence surrounding them: the darkness, the rejection, the failure, and the sadness that Pete had seen in himself and in her was carefully placed on the shelf for a minute while they dealt with other feelings that had collected a coat of dust: pleasure, affection, comfort, love.
Pete didn’t believe his phone was actually ringing until the third chime, and with that, he let out a loud groan. Emily, still on top of him, grabbed both his hands and pinned them down on the bed, willing their bodies to continue.
“Do not answer that,” she said, her voice almost hoarse. “I will kill you if you answer that.”
Pete pulled her close and kissed her. She smelled the same. She moved the same. He took comfort in the familiarity. Everything was clearer. The phone continued to ring.
“Let it go to voice mail,” he said with a smile, as he picked her up and flipped her over, kissing her neck, finally appreciating the moment. It rang twice more.
“Good boy,” she half whispered. His fingers, sliding over her face, felt the smile on her lips.
The phone started to ring again. Pete let his eyes glance at the display—it was Kathy. She wasn’t a phone person—the fact that she was calling him twice back-to-back meant it was important.
Pete untangled himself from Emily and grabbed the cell phone on his nightstand.
“Hey,” he said, out of breath. “You OK?”
“Um, I’m fine,” Kathy said. “I guess. You sound like you’re not, though. Are you OK?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“OK, well, you may want to get down here,” she said.
“Where? The Times?”
“Yes, The Times,” Kathy said. “I’ve been stuck here all night. Have you not watched the news at all? I figured you’d be the one calling me.”
Emily stirred. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” Pete whispered to her, then returned his attention to Kathy. “What happened?”
“Is someone there with you?” Kathy said. “Jesus. OK, whatever. It’s Alice.”
Pete’s heart sank.
“They found her? Is she dead?”
“Yeah…Yes,” Kathy said. Pete could hear her voice crack. “It’s just… It’s terrible. Terrible.”
“What happened?”
“She’s dead,” Kathy said. “Stabbed all over. I’ve never seen anything like it. They found her—most of her—in a lake. Whoever did this…I can’t even describe it. She’s dead. Alice is dead.”
Pete dropped the phone and let his eyes drift up to the ceiling as Emily pulled him closer. He couldn’t hear her, but he knew what she was asking him. As he closed his eyes for a moment, the sliver of moonlight creeping into the room went dark.
***
They didn’t talk during the half hour drive from the house to the downtown offices of The Miami Times. They’d gotten dressed, throwing on whatever was around. Pete in a T-shirt and hoodie sweater with blue jeans and sneakers, Emily in Pete’s Pixies reunion shirt, jeans, and sandals. They looked just like they felt—a couple interrupted. Pete had a playlist he’d put together months ago playing off his iPhone. The third track kicked in, Neko Case. She sang about wanting to die at the drive-in. Emily flicked off the stereo. He looked over at her. She was staring out the window.
“You OK?”
“Yeah,” she said.
He thought about reaching out a hand, but he wasn’t sure what to make of her. Had their connection been just a thing that happens when you mix toxic emotions with old flames? He wasn’t sure. Now wasn’t the time to define anything.
“You’re thinking about us,” she said, still looking out the window as Pete turned onto the 836, taking them east toward downtown.
“Is that surprising?”
“No, that’s what you do,” Emily said. “You do something, then you think about it forever, then you do something else and think about that for a while.”
“You’re describing pretty standard human behavior,” Pete said.
She turned to him. Even this early in the morning, it was humid and sweaty outside—like walking through an endless wall of lukewarm fog. The night sky had a misty, almost smokelike quality that reminded Pete of mornings spent watching his dad put on his uniform and head out on patrol. When sleep glazed over everything and it all seemed a little fuzzy.
“You’re more like yourself now,” she said. “It’s like you woke up from a bad dream, but you’re still in bed wondering if it was a dream or not.”
“I guess,” Pete said. “I don’t know. What are you getting at?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I’m just saying it’s nice. I wish it had happened sooner.”
Pete didn’t respond. He pulled the car up by the main Miami Times entrance, which was near the expressway and close to the Venetian Causeway, the small bridge that led to the neon glow of Miami Beach. Prime real estate. He wondered when The Times would call it a day and finally sell the land. Then he realized he didn’t care. Pete had put in a few years as a copy editor for The Miami Times’ sports desk, after years as an award-winning sports reporter in New Jersey. His tenure at The Times could be described as unspectacular to subpar. Had it not been for Kathy’s disappearance, he would have probably lasted a few more months, as opposed to getting fired for basically shirking his responsibilities while he went off searching for a woman he barely knew and continued to drink himself to oblivion.
He parked the car and they got out. Kathy was outside, close to the entrance, huddled, her two-sizes-too-big sweater enveloping her as she took a drag from her cigarette. The Miami Times building was a symbol from a bygone era when newspapers mattered, surrounded by half-empty, giant downtown high-rises, luxury condos being rented instead of sold, and a looming performing arts center—a faded icon that would soon flicker out completely. Pete thought he could smell a tinge of salt water mixed in with the dust and dirt from the myriad construction sites slowly dragging the city into the present, but he was probably just deluding himself. Despite the sweltering Miami weather, Kathy looked like she was freezing. Kathy scanned them carefully as they approached, a knowing look in her eye.
“Glad you could make it,” she said, exhaling a small cloud of smoke. “Emily was up at this hour, too?”
Pete didn’t take the bait.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No; she’s dead,” Kathy said, whatever anxiety she had been feeling over the phone now gone. “Her body washed up in a lake over in Kendall. Someone had taken a raft out sometime late at night and dumped her there. The bag was sealed airtight, so it floated to
shore. Maybe the killer was a moron—but that strikes me as odd, considering all the terrible things he did to this girl. I can’t even repeat it. It’s the worst I’ve ever seen. No note, no prints, obviously. No word on DNA. The cops are in a tizzy. And, in case you were wondering, Rick isn’t much of a suspect anymore. This was a little too—um—stylish for him.”
“Tell me about the scene,” Pete said.
“He tied her up, wrists to ankles,” Kathy said. Pete could tell she was uncomfortable, choosing her words with care. “I can’t. I can’t deal with this.”
“Where in Kendall?” Emily asked.
“Off One-thirty-seventh,” Kathy said. “Townhouse complex—Bent Tree. Kind of nondescript. Kind of old pseudo-condos painted in earth tones to look thematic. Pretty random place to dump a body.”
“Unless that’s what you want,” Pete said.
“Excellent point, Mr. Detective,” Kathy said. “But doesn’t this strike you as odd? It just seems really random.”
“It does strike me, but odd’s not the word,” Pete said.
“What do you mean?” Emily said.
“It’s like a weird déjà vu feeling,” Pete said.
“That’s not surprising,” Kathy said, rummaging through her purse and pulling out a stack of printouts. She handed half to Pete and the other half to Emily. “Look at these. I found them in the news archive earlier tonight while doing some research. Something I never do, so I’m sure red flags galore went up. So, suffice to say, these were not easy to acquire and you’re not supposed to be seeing them. Hence our covert rendezvous. So, yeah. No live-tweeting your reading.”
Pete tried to stifle a yawn. It was close to dawn. He was surprised by the number of cars in the parking lot, but big news in Miami meant The Times had to call in what little staff was left. And the grisly murder of a young, recent college grad fell under big news, even in a seedy place like his hometown.
He flipped through the stack of Times clippings. Most were dated from the mid-eighties, and a handful were written by Kathy’s father, Chaz, who, before moving up to be the local columnist du jour, had toiled away as a crime reporter, much as his daughter would twenty years later. Pete skimmed the headlines: “Teen girl found mutilated at Crandon Park”; “Tamarac teen feared missing, last seen with mystery man”; “FIU grad dead, stabbed 24 times: police fear serial murderer.” For a second, he appreciated the terse, staccato writing of the journalists of the era—trying to inform as much as possible, before the Internet, Twitter, and Facebook were options, when your daily paper was your one main dose of information before the nightly news.
