The Butcher

by Jennifer Hillier

  Sam’s head was spinning. She had to agree with Sanchez; it was just all too much. PJ was missing? What the hell was going on today? And why wouldn’t Matt have mentioned that their friend had disappeared? Surely he knew.

  Mind you, her boyfriend had been so busy, all they’d really done the last few days was exchange a handful of text messages. She hadn’t seen him since that fight in the restaurant, she realized suddenly.

  “I’ll call you later, okay?” Sanchez was saying. “Set up a time for you to come in. In the meantime, if you think of anything regarding Bonnie/Joyce, call me.”

  “Of course.”

  They disconnected, and Sam closed her eyes again, needing a moment of silence to process everything the detective had just told her. Who had stabbed Bonnie? Who’d even want to? And was it actually possible there was a new Butcher victim? How could the two murders not be connected? Sam didn’t care if she was a civilian, she was going to figure this out. It was all too coincidental, and she needed answers. And now, of course, the alarming news about PJ Wu. She hoped he was okay.

  As sad as Sam was about Bonnie’s death—because there was no denying that the woman had been very kind by providing as much information as she could about Sam’s mother—Sam had to admit she felt very disappointed. Bonnie was the only person who knew the truth about the Butcher’s real identity. And now she was taking it to her grave.

  But Bonnie had mentioned that the Butcher was still alive. What was it she’d said, exactly? Monsters like that don’t die unless they’re killed.

  If they nailed the wrong guy back in 1985, that was almost thirty years ago. Assuming the killer was somewhere between the age of thirty and fifty, as Rufus Wedge had been (and as most serial killers tended to be), then it was entirely possible that Bonnie was right, and that the Butcher was still alive. At his youngest, he’d be sixty. At the oldest, around eighty.

  He’d be old, yes, but not necessarily dead.

  But was he still killing? That was the thing that Sam couldn’t wrap her mind around. It was one thing to have gone uncaught all these years . . . but to still be killing? At his age? And it was another thing to have continued to kill after 1985 for a few years, as Sam’s theory had been all along. But to be silent for the last two decades, only to kill again now? What in the world could have triggered that?

  Fuck it. She needed to talk to Edward Shank. He’d spent a good chunk of his career catching killers. He would know the answer to this.

  18

  Matt was not expecting to see the middle-aged detective sitting at the bar chatting with Frankie the bartender when he arrived at Adobo. Though Robert Sanchez was an old friend of Samantha’s, Matt had met him only a handful of times, and it certainly wasn’t commonplace for the detective to drop by the restaurant. There was only one reason Sanchez would be here, and Matt wasn’t sure he was ready. He ducked into his office quickly before the man could spot him.

  He needed to compose himself. He was feeling totally off today. He wasn’t sure how many glasses of wine he’d had the night before; he’d lost count after four. Karen, the producer from the Fresh Network, had kept him up late and paid the tab. They’d had dinner at the Pink Door, famed in Seattle for their live cabaret and burlesque show, and while the evening had been fun, Matt had realized almost immediately that they were no longer there to discuss business. The low-cut, skintight black dress Karen had shown up in had been the first clue. Bernard begging off early to go back to the hotel and watch Grey’s Anatomy had been the second clue.

  Work clearly hadn’t been on Karen’s mind. While she’d expressed disappointment at neither Sam nor the Chief being able to make dinner (both of them had declined Matt’s invite, citing other plans), the producer’s behavior suggested otherwise. She’d greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, her lips lingering on his skin a little longer than necessary. She’d laughed at all his jokes, frequently touched his arm as they spoke, and there hadn’t been one word mentioned about the reality show—sorry, unscripted television series—all night long.

  He hadn’t slept with her, but dammit, he’d come very close. He wasn’t proud of how far he’d let things get, but Christ, he and Sam were so emotionally and physically disconnected that it almost didn’t feel like cheating.

  Even though he knew damn well it was.

  Taking a deep breath, Matt left his office and made his way toward the bar, willing himself to stay relaxed.

  “I thought that was you, Bob.” Matt extended a hand, and Sanchez slid off his bar stool to shake it. “Nice to see you. Sam send you here for an early lunch?”

  “Nice to see you again, too, Matt. No, I’m actually here on official police business.”

  Here we go. Heart lurching, Matt forced himself to react with surprise, careful not to overdo it. “Well, that’s not something I hear every day. Happy to help with whatever I can. Beer? Glass of wine?”

  “I’m on the clock. But a Coke would be great.”

  “Frankie, two Cokes, please, and an order of lumpia,” Matt said to the bartender. “Bob, why don’t we sit over there? A bit more privacy.”

  They took seats across from each other in a corner booth, and Frankie arrived with their Cokes. “Food will be right up, guys.”

  Sanchez smiled at the bartender, then took a long sip of his soda. “I’m sure you’re a busy guy, so I won’t take up too much of your time. I’m here about PJ Wu. He works for you, yes?”

  “He does, and has been for seven years now.” Matt frowned. “Why do I get the feeling you’re about to tell me something horrible?”

  The detective’s expression remained neutral. “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “Three days ago. He was scheduled to work the last two days, but he never showed.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “It’s . . . happened before,” Matt said with the just the right amount of hesitation. “He’s had some personal issues.”

  “And what can you tell me about those personal issues?”

  Before they could answer, Jimmy was back with a steaming plate of fried lumpia. “Fresh out of the pan, gentlemen,” the bartender said. “I’d give it a minute to cool.”

  “Thanks, Frankie,” Matt said.

  “That smells delicious.” Sanchez leaned forward and inhaled. “What are they?”

  “Minced pork, onion, garlic, and a few other top-secret ingredients, in a thin flour wrap and pan fried. Try it with the homemade sweet chili sauce,” Matt said, moving the plate closer to the detective. “If you don’t love them, I’ll take it personally. It’s my grandmother’s recipe.”

  “Do I use my fingers?”

  “Of course you do. You’re in a Filipino restaurant. Only way to go.”

  Smiling, Sanchez dipped a lumpia into the sweet chili sauce and took a bite. Chewing slowly, he closed his eyes. “Oh hell. That’s good. I mean really good. Kind of like spring rolls, but . . .”

  “So much better.”

  “Yes,” Sanchez said, and the two men shared a laugh. “I need to come in more often.” He popped another lumpia into his mouth.

  “So long as you bring your family and friends.”

  “So about PJ . . .” the detective said, his mouth full.

  “Right. You were asking about his personal life,” Matt said. “I honestly don’t know too much about it. We’re not that close.”

  “Really?” Sanchez swallowed his food. He looked surprised as he dusted his fingers off and reached for his Coke. “Frankie the bartender said you guys go back a long way.”

  “We were friends in college, but we don’t really socialize much anymore,” Matt said, silently cursing Frankie. “Mainly it’s just a business relationship these days. Not his fault, I’m just so busy with the restaurant and food trucks. And there’s a TV show on the Fresh Network in the works. Did Sam tell you?”

  “No, she didn’t, but congrats. That’s great news.” The detective cleared his throat. “I spoke to PJ’s wife this morning. Sharon. Well, I guess she’
s his soon-to-be ex-wife. She said PJ has a gambling addiction.”

  Matt nodded. “That’s true.”

  “How much did you know about it?”

  “Not too much,” Matt said ruefully. “I think he mainly bet on sports. Sometimes he’d do an all-night poker thing. He’d sometimes ask for an advance on his pay. He seemed to be more down than up.”

  “Most gamblers are.” Sanchez sighed. “Anyway, his soon-to-be ex-wife filed the missing persons report. He missed a court appearance. Since nobody’s heard from him in twenty-four hours, we have to look into it.”

  Matt frowned. “Well, I hate to say it, Bob, but PJ hasn’t been the most reliable employee lately. He’s been late a few times, and I’ve had to speak to him about his attitude.”

  “Frankie mentioned that the two of you had it out the other day.”

  Goddamn you, Frankie. “We had a disagreement, yeah. About his lack of punctuality, mainly. If he wasn’t such a good cook, I probably would have fired him a long time ago.”

  “But you didn’t fire him? The other day?”

  “No,” Matt said. “I told him to go home. I dismissed him for the day because he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to work.”

  “And that was the last time you saw him.”

  “Yes. I can ask the staff if anyone’s spoken to him, but I doubt it. They would have told me.”

  The detective leaned in slightly. “Between you and me, Matt, you think PJ blew town?”

  Inside, Matt cheered, but outwardly he made sure to continue to seem concerned. “I honestly don’t know what to think, but I’d have to say it’s totally possible. He was always owing people money, and he knew a lot of shady folks. It wouldn’t surprise me if it all caught up to him and he decided to split. He and Sharon didn’t get along.”

  “She made that very clear.” Sanchez’s phone buzzed and he checked it quickly before slipping it back into his breast pocket. “Mind if I hang out here a little while, talk to some of the other employees? Maybe he mentioned something to someone about where he might be going.”

  “Of course.” It took a huge amount of effort for Matt not to sigh with relief. “Stay as long as you want, and please finish the lumpia. If you want anything else, just let Frankie know, and it’s on the house.”

  “Considering how good it is, maybe I will order something more. What’s good?”

  Matt laughed, slipping out of the booth. “What kind of question is that? Everything’s good. Tell you what, I’ll surprise you. I’ll even make it myself.”

  Sanchez grinned. “Your girlfriend says you don’t have much time to cook these days.”

  “Sam’s right. I miss it.”

  Sanchez’s dark eyes appraised him. “She’s a good girl, isn’t she?”

  Matt nodded.

  “Make sure you take care of her, Matt.”

  Matt forced a smile. “Of course. I’d better get cooking, Bob. Nice seeing you, and keep me posted about PJ.”

  It was a relief to escape to the kitchen and away from the detective’s prying eyes. He’d survived the questioning (interrogation), but as he prepared the man’s meal, he couldn’t help but wonder.

  What had the Chief done with the body?

  Or, he should say, body parts?

  19

  The male nurse at Sweetbay Village escorted Sam right to Edward’s room even though she hadn’t asked, smiling at her the whole way. Miguel was really good-looking, she had to admit, and she snuck a few peeks at his biceps, clearly visible under the dark blue scrubs he wore. She was very aware that it had been a while since she’d last had sex, and she felt her cheeks burn at the thought.

  Was Matt having sex with someone else? Her stomach churned. She couldn’t let herself think about that right now.

  In the hallway, they were passed by a couple of paramedics, who nodded to Miguel and then gave her the once-over.

  “Mrs. Barney’s going to be okay,” the taller one said, slowing down. He was speaking to Miguel but looking at Sam. “BP was a little high but nothing serious. She says she’s trying to wean herself off her blood pressure meds, but she never talked to her doctor about it. She had a small scratch on her arm from the fall, but that’s it.”

  “Thanks, Chris. We’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “We’ll probably see you tomorrow,” the other paramedic said, winking at Sam, and the three men shared a laugh.

  “The ambulance must be here all the time,” Sam said to the nurse as they continued down the hallway. “I’m sure there are all kinds of medical emergencies.”

  “Not just medical emergencies, but death.” Miguel placed a hand lightly on her back and steered her around the corner. “One of the residents croaked last week. Old guy fell in the kitchen while getting his usual midnight snack, hit his head on the way down. Head wound, lots of blood.”

  “Wow, thanks for the visual.”

  “Come on, I know you can handle it. You write about true crime.”

  She glanced at him. “How did you know that?”

  “The Chief told me. He’s quite proud of you.”

  Sam laughed. “Is he? He never tells me that.”

  “He tells everyone, and I can see why.” The smile was back on Miguel’s face, and it brought out the dimple in his left cheek. He lifted an arm to scratch the back of his head, and his biceps flexed. “You know, I don’t think you visit your grandfather often enough.”

  Sam laughed again. “The Chief isn’t my grandfather. I’m actually dating his grandson.”

  They stopped in front of room 214. “Lucky guy.”

  “Which one?”

  “Both of them,” Miguel said with a wink before walking away. “Don’t be a stranger.”

  Edward opened the door before she could even knock, and Sam blinked at the sight of the old man. He looked tired, exhausted even, and his sour expression caused Sam to take a half step back.

  “That pretty boy nurse making a pass at you, Samantha?” The Chief poked his head out, peering down the hallway. Thankfully Miguel had already rounded the corner and was out of sight. “I could hear the two of you from behind the door. You tell me if he’s harassing you, and I’ll put a boot up his ass.”

  “Nothing to worry about, Chief,” Sam said. “I’m sure he flirts with all the girls here, young and old.”

  “Probably, but he shouldn’t be. I don’t give a shit how good-looking he is, you’re Matthew’s lady, and that’s disrespectful to me.”

  “So glad you’re making it about you,” Sam said dryly. “Now, are you going to invite me in so we can eat, or am I going to stand in the hallway all afternoon?”

  “You brought food?” Looking down at the Green Bean box in her hand, he finally grinned and shooed her inside. “Why didn’t you say that?”

  “What’s got your panties all in a bunch?” Sam asked, handing Edward the bakery box and shaking off her coat. Throwing it on the sofa, she appraised him. “You seem awfully wound up today. And you don’t look so great. You feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine. I’ve just been a little bored, I suppose. Not much going on here.”

  “No gin rummy? Or bingo? Or what’s that other one that old people like to play . . .” Sam snapped her fingers. “Backgammon?”

  “Ha!” He gestured to the sofa. “Sit where you like, and I’ll make tea.”

  “I guess I should have called first. How’s your hip?”

  “Hip’s fine. I may have overdid it on my walk the other day but it’s all right. And by the way, you never have to call first if you’re bringing me cannolis from the Green Bean.”

  “How’d you know they were cannolis? You haven’t even looked inside the box.”

  “Don’t need to, I can smell them.” Edward moved slowly around the kitchenette, opening cabinets. “Did I ever tell you I dated Marie Cossetto?”

  “The owner of the Green Bean? No,” Sam said, settling into the couch. “When was this?”

  “Oh, a lifetime ago. She was Marie Beaudreau back then.” Edwar
d plugged in the kettle and came back around. “We were just kids, really. This was before I even went to the police academy.”

  “What happened?”

  “She dumped me for Paulie Cossetto.” He chuckled at the memory. “I was heartbroken. But then I met Marisol, and the world was right again.”

  “Didn’t Paulie end up in prison? For some kind of white-collar crime thing?”

  “Yeah, he was an investment guy. Swindled his clients out of millions, went away for twenty years. He’s out now, though, living in Puyallup, and of course they’re divorced.” The kettle whistled and he headed back to the kitchenette. “I knew Paulie. He really wasn’t a bad guy.”

  “We’ll have to disagree on that,” Sam said. “He obviously was if he bankrupted the people that trusted him with their money.”

  “It’s never that black-and-white, Samantha,” Edward said, returning with her tea. “Not everyone is all bad or all good. Good people do bad things every day, and bad people do good things every day.”

  It seemed an odd thing to say for someone who’d spent a lifetime catching criminals. Sam waited for him to elaborate, but the Chief seemed content to let his words hang in the air, and the two sipped their tea in silence for a moment.

  “So the reason I’m here,” she finally said, “is I wanted to pick your brain. There’ve been two murders in the last day. Middle-aged woman and a teenage girl.”

  “Saw it on the news a little while ago,” Edward said. “The middle-aged woman was stabbed behind Las Cucarachas. That’s too bad, I like that place. They have good carne asada.”

  “I knew the woman.” Sam sipped her tea. “Her name was Bonnie Tidwell. She was a friend of my mother’s. She came into town to see me, to . . .” She paused. “To tell me what she could about my mother.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Edward looked at her with concern. “I’m sorry, Samantha. That’s a damn shame.”