situation.
“What the hell was that for?” Pete said.
“Look, forget it, I’m just curious. I want to know what’s going on with my daughter.”
“I told you—she’s fine. I heard it from her boyfriend,” Pete said, his brow furrowed in anger, his hands slowly balling into fists. “Why are you so bent out of shape about this?”
“What did you tell Contreras?”
“How’d you know his name?”
“Whose name?”
“All I said was I’d spoken to the restaurant owner,” Pete said, taking a step closer to Chaz. “I never said his name.”
“I’ve been there a few times, is all,” Chaz said, his voice cracking slightly. “What did you say? Just tell me.”
And in that moment, Pete felt very sorry for Chaz Bentley. He was a beaten man. Pete wasn’t sure if he really did care for his daughter, but whatever it was that he was involved in that also involved Contreras, the angry man with the strange scar, was much more frightening to Chaz than any cruel possible endgame for his only child.
“What the fuck is going on?” Pete said.
Chaz began to back away from Pete, his gaze still with him.
“Look, don’t worry about it,” Chaz said, his voice a low, frightened hiss. “This is not your problem. You said Kathy’s fine? Great. Thanks for checking.”
“What? That’s it?”
“Yeah, I don’t need your help anymore,” Chaz said. “I’ll give Kathy a call and take it from here.”
Before Pete could say anything else, Chaz had turned around toward the entrance to the building. For a moment he considered following, but by then it was too late. The seconds he’d sacrificed to surprise and shock had cost him a chance. Why had Contreras’s name sent Chaz into a frenzy? He wasn’t sure. He looked at his watch. What he was sure of, though, was that he was late. He straightened his shirt and headed for the door, a humid wave of Miami heat slapping his face as he opened the door.
Chapter Fourteen
P ete instinctively looked at the time on his computer after its seemingly endless boot-up, but he didn’t need to check to know he was close to an hour late. He groaned audibly. The encounter with Chaz had left him confused and curious. He wanted to keep digging for information. What did Contreras have to do with anything? Was Kathy really OK? Why did Chaz seem more concerned about who Pete spoke to than with news of his own daughter?
He cracked his knuckles. The last thing he wanted to do was show up for another mindless shift at work. A bottle of wine and a dark room sounded ideal. This worried him in its own way, too. He needed to think. Something was happening, and he wasn’t happy about it. He looked around the newsroom. People were focused on their assigned tasks, as he would be, had he shown up at the appropriate time. Steve Vance was gone for the day, but Pete would be mistaken if he thought he wasn’t going to hear about it. Pete was usually supposed to be here before Vance’s exit on a Monday, and he hadn’t been. Not ideal on any day, but right after a terse warning from the head of Sports? Doubly bad. Pete wondered whether he should be momentarily relieved or more worried. He opted for quick relief, sure that he’d regret it later.
As he logged into the paper’s design and editing system, Pete wondered what his father would think of him. His father, a man who’d never been drunk a day in his life, who worked nights, weekends, and holidays to make ends meet and never complained. What would he expect Pete to do in a situation like this? The question hung over him as he looked across the newsroom. The day-side local news editors were milling about, rushing to relay information to the night-side editors and reporters before they could amble home to their DVRs and empty apartments. How novel, Pete thought. For Sports, it was a good night if he was out of the office before one in the morning. An early evening exit seemed like a luxury. As his mind wandered, he noticed a fifty-something
“What the hell was that for?” Pete said.
“Look, forget it, I’m just curious. I want to know what’s going on with my daughter.”
“I told you—she’s fine. I heard it from her boyfriend,” Pete said, his brow furrowed in anger, his hands slowly balling into fists. “Why are you so bent out of shape about this?”
“What did you tell Contreras?”
“How’d you know his name?”
“Whose name?”
“All I said was I’d spoken to the restaurant owner,” Pete said, taking a step closer to Chaz. “I never said his name.”
“I’ve been there a few times, is all,” Chaz said, his voice cracking slightly. “What did you say? Just tell me.”
And in that moment, Pete felt very sorry for Chaz Bentley. He was a beaten man. Pete wasn’t sure if he really did care for his daughter, but whatever it was that he was involved in that also involved Contreras, the angry man with the strange scar, was much more frightening to Chaz than any cruel possible endgame for his only child.
“What the fuck is going on?” Pete said.
Chaz began to back away from Pete, his gaze still with him.
“Look, don’t worry about it,” Chaz said, his voice a low, frightened hiss. “This is not your problem. You said Kathy’s fine? Great. Thanks for checking.”
“What? That’s it?”
“Yeah, I don’t need your help anymore,” Chaz said. “I’ll give Kathy a call and take it from here.”
Before Pete could say anything else, Chaz had turned around toward the entrance to the building. For a moment he considered following, but by then it was too late. The seconds he’d sacrificed to surprise and shock had cost him a chance. Why had Contreras’s name sent Chaz into a frenzy? He wasn’t sure. He looked at his watch. What he was sure of, though, was that he was late. He straightened his shirt and headed for the door, a humid wave of Miami heat slapping his face as he opened the door.
Chapter Fourteen
P ete instinctively looked at the time on his computer after its seemingly endless boot-up, but he didn’t need to check to know he was close to an hour late. He groaned audibly. The encounter with Chaz had left him confused and curious. He wanted to keep digging for information. What did Contreras have to do with anything? Was Kathy really OK? Why did Chaz seem more concerned about who Pete spoke to than with news of his own daughter?
He cracked his knuckles. The last thing he wanted to do was show up for another mindless shift at work. A bottle of wine and a dark room sounded ideal. This worried him in its own way, too. He needed to think. Something was happening, and he wasn’t happy about it. He looked around the newsroom. People were focused on their assigned tasks, as he would be, had he shown up at the appropriate time. Steve Vance was gone for the day, but Pete would be mistaken if he thought he wasn’t going to hear about it. Pete was usually supposed to be here before Vance’s exit on a Monday, and he hadn’t been. Not ideal on any day, but right after a terse warning from the head of Sports? Doubly bad. Pete wondered whether he should be momentarily relieved or more worried. He opted for quick relief, sure that he’d regret it later.
As he logged into the paper’s design and editing system, Pete wondered what his father would think of him. His father, a man who’d never been drunk a day in his life, who worked nights, weekends, and holidays to make ends meet and never complained. What would he expect Pete to do in a situation like this? The question hung over him as he looked across the newsroom. The day-side local news editors were milling about, rushing to relay information to the night-side editors and reporters before they could amble home to their DVRs and empty apartments. How novel, Pete thought. For Sports, it was a good night if he was out of the office before one in the morning. An early evening exit seemed like a luxury. As his mind wandered, he noticed a fifty-something
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