Silent City by Alex Segura Page A

some cash on the table but Pete waved it off. His mind was straining to find the next question to ask her before she left. He dropped a twenty on the table.
    “You’re not a very good cop,” Maribel said.
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean, you know, going undercover and pretending to be friends with Javier from way back. You’re not the first person to ask about him like this.” She was bordering on angry, possibly at herself for revealing too much. “I could tell you were a cop. Why else would I talk? I don’t want any trouble. I just hope Javier isn’t in too much. El pobre. He’s not a bad guy. Not all the time.”
    “What do you mean, not the first one?”
    She looked away from Pete. The conversation was over.
    Pete stood up. “I’m not a cop,” he said, scanning her face for surprise. “But thanks anyway.”
    He walked off. He felt Maribel’s eyes boring into the back of his neck. The Denny’s hostess gave him a dry smile as he pushed the front door open.

Chapter Thirteen
    P ete glanced at his watch. He was running late for work. But, for a change, he was in the Miami Times building, just not in the fifth floor newsroom. He was on the third floor balcony area, a haven to the smokers forced to find refuge to feed their nicotine habits. Pete wasn’t smoking, but sipping a Diet Coke. He sat on a bench on the far side of the large, open-air, roof-like area, hearing the cars on the expressway speed by to and from Miami Beach. He found his feet tapping anxiously. The smokers’ zone was mostly empty, as people were just getting started with their night shifts or heading out, able to smoke on their way home. Pete took a final swig from the soda and tossed it toward a nearby trash can, making it in. Of course, a swish without anyone around to see, he thought to himself.
    He turned at the sound of slow footsteps behind him. Chaz Bentley looked around anxiously as he scanned the balcony, finally stopping as his eyes discovered Pete. His pace quickened and soon he was standing over Pete.
    “Aren’t you late for work?” he asked, skipping pleasantries.
    “A bit,” Pete said. “Don’t worry about it.”
    Chaz sat down to Pete’s left, looking around before settling in. He seemed nervous. Pete chalked it up to the old man having the alcohol jitters. Pete wondered what he himself would do if there was a drink in front of him now, late for work or not.
    “So, you called,” Chaz said. “What’s the latest? Did you get in touch?”
    “No,” Pete said. “Not directly. But I spoke to Javier, and he says she’s fine.”
    Chaz coughed awkwardly and looked away from Pete for a second, his hand rubbing his chin quickly.
    “Oh, OK, how did that go?”
    “Fine,” Pete said. “I caught him at work. Casa Pepe’s. Cuban joint in Westchester. Ever been?”
    Chaz didn’t answer. He stood up abruptly.
    “Are you alright?” Pete stood up as well, backing away from Chaz slowly. The older man was running his hands nervously through his thinning gray hair, his other hand buried in his pants pocket.
    “Yeah, yeah,” Chaz said. “Don’t sweat it. Keep going. So, you spoke to Javier at Casa Pepe’s? No one else, right?” His eyes told Pete that’s exactly what he wanted to hear.
    “I spoke to the owner and a waitress,” Pete said. “That’s it. I didn’t really get much information, but you said you wanted me to keep you updated, so…”
    Pete felt himself being pulled and slammed into the bench. The motion and shock at hitting it startled him. Chaz hovered over him, his hands on Pete’s shirt as Pete was splayed awkwardly, half-standing, half-sitting.
    “The fuck?” Pete said, surprised at the old man’s speed.
    “What did you tell the owner? Tell me. Don’t skip a beat, son.”
    Pete pushed Chaz away and backed up. He kept his eyes on Chaz, who was shifting his weight from one foot to the next, probably expecting Pete to take a swing at him. Pete supposed that’s what most men would do in this