The Bay Area Butcher: (Quint Adler Book 2)

by Brian O'Sullivan

  “How about this afternoon?”

  “That will be fine. Do you want to get lunch?”

  My mind went to the killer and how he seemed to be a step ahead of me. I couldn’t risk him seeing my mother with me out in public. The last thing I’d ever want was for her to get wrapped up in the investigation. That Cara had become involved was bad enough.

  “I don’t have that much time,” I said. “I’ll just pick something up and we’ll eat at your place.”

  We always ate out, but if she found it suspicious, she didn’t say anything.

  “Sounds good. What time?”

  “I’ll be there at two.”

  “See you then.”

  On my way to my mom’s house, I found myself checking my rearview mirror way too many times.

  Did I really think the Butcher was out there following me?

  It certainly seemed possible. He’d proven to be a step ahead at all times.

  I arrived at my mother’s with a racing mind, but tried to calm down for our visit. I’d picked up a few sandwiches from a local deli named Morucci’s and gave her first pick. She took the tempting-looking pastrami and I was “stuck” with a delicious turkey and avocado.

  She had a million questions, but I tried to appease her as much as I could considering the circumstances. I told her ten times that I hadn’t mentioned being called out by the Butcher himself because I didn’t want to worry her.

  Now that Vitella had gabbed about me in print, I was sure the local news would run with it as well. There was no use trying to hide it from her any more.

  We parted on good terms after I told her for an eighth time how vigilant I would be.

  I also told her Cara and I would love for her to join us when she had dinner with Glenda sometime soon. She seemed excited to meet her and, as I’d expected, empathized with her loss. It gave me hope that her meeting Glenda would be good for the both of them.

  When I returned to my apartment, I made the mistake of looking at Peter Vitella’s article online as well.

  The comments were embarrassing. Mainly for the people who left them, but for me as well.

  “Never liked that camera hog!”

  “His articles were fluff personified.”

  “He got lucky with Charles Zane. He’s a hack!”

  “I kind of hope the Butcher goes after him next.”

  “The Butcher is infinitely smarter than Quint.”

  And that’s when I stopped reading. I imagined they got worse.

  As long as there was no mention of Cara, or God forbid, my mother, I could deal with it.

  I looked back at the article. Currently 294 comments. Peter Vitella was a big deal, and I had a feeling I would regret having entered his sphere. Not that it had been by choice. Or that I didn’t already regret it.

  People who loved gossip and conspiracy theories, of which Vitella had many, weren't often the most rational people.

  I could already imagine having some confrontation with some tinfoil-hatted jackass at my local Trader Joe’s.

  Knowing this wouldn’t lead anywhere productive, I walked from my couch to my room and looked over the collage we had made.

  I tried to focus on the real villain at hand. The Bay Area Butcher. Peter Vitella was a nuisance, but nothing more. I could deal with him.

  Studying the collage, I focused in on the letters. I read them again, for what might have been the hundredth time. Nothing clicked.

  Just then, my phone vibrated with a call coming in from Cara.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “What are you up to?”

  “Went and met with my mother. Where have you been?”

  Cara and I trusted each other implicitly and I never worried about her being out on her own. Obviously, that could change the closer we got to the Butcher.

  “I met up with Maddy and Melanie.”

  “Ahh, the M&M’s.”

  I had patted myself on the back a little too hard when I’d come up with that. I think a five-year-old could have done the same.

  “Yeah, they’re still really impressed with your nickname.”

  I laughed. “How are they?”

  “Still roommates. Still single. And still on the prowl. Got any single friends you want to introduce?”

  “No, I like my single friends too much. Maddy and Melanie are the preying mantises of humans.”

  “Can’t argue with that. They spit out men by the handfuls.”

  “I like ninety-eight percent of your friends,” I said.

  “And the M&M’s are the two percent?”

  “You’re a step ahead of me. Hey, have you ever heard of Peter Vitella?”

  “Everyone from the Bay Area has. Why?”

  “We’re mentioned in one of his articles.”

  “You are?” A pause as she assimilated what I’d said. “I am?”

  “Yup. I’ll tell you all about it. But the stakes just got raised again.”

  “I told you I signed up for it,” she said bravely.

  “You did. And I respect you so much. And by the way, I love you.”

  “I love you too,” Cara said. “I’ll be home in an hour.”

  “Want to fool around?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  As we lay in bed that night, recovering from some great sex, or more like relishing the aftermath of it, we devised a plan going forward. To use a basketball analogy, we planned to use a full court press. To use a non-basketball analogy, we would leave no stone unturned.

  Were we going to bring ourselves to the killer’s attention? Very likely.

  But I was already firmly on his radar, and Cara knew everything she was signing up for.

  If I didn’t have so much faith in her, I would have been more worried.

  Maybe I should have been.

  27.

  When I was a full-time writer for The Walnut Creek Times, I did most of my heavy lifting in the morning. That was when my head was clearest and the early coffees were just kicking in. Obviously, there were many times when I’d write at the office later in the day, but I always thought I was at my best when the sun began rising.

  So it was no surprise that I’d come up with what I viewed as a winning idea at six thirty a.m.

  Halfway through my first coffee, it came to me: I should have someone tail me for a week.

  The killer had gotten close enough to attach a listening device on me. He’d mentioned me in every letter, sans one, and was obviously way too interested in me. He’d even entered the Avalon Walnut Creek complex to hand-deliver a letter to my apartment.

  The guy had come close to me several times. But more than that, I had a feeling he was always a step ahead of me. And the police.

  Maybe, just maybe, he remained out there, occasionally following me.

  The OPD had made it clear I was no longer part of their investigation, so they certainly weren’t going to help me.

  But I thought of someone who just might.

  I knew what I had to do.

  I told Cara my plan and said I’d be back in a few hours.

  I had Paddy Roark’s phone number, but after getting no response from Captain Lockett, I decided it might be better to surprise Paddy in person. It’s much easier to tell someone no, or not to respond at all, with your phone.

  So I decided to surprise him.

  I did call ahead to make sure he was working, and sure enough, as I walked into Boyle’s Grocery Store, he waited there.

  The greens and oranges of the store had never been brighter. I’d been to Ireland a few times in my twenties, and walking into Boyle’s always brought me back. Under different circumstances, I might have grabbed a Guinness at a local pub afterward.

  But this wasn’t the time. For obvious reasons.

  “Quint, to what do I owe this surprise?” Paddy Roark asked.

  “You’re becoming less gruff every time I see you, Paddy.”

  “Don’t tell anyone,” he said. “Might ruin my rep.”

  A clerk laughed, and I wo
ndered if she knew the rep that Roark referred to.

  Did his fellow employees realize that he was the right-hand man of the biggest bookie in the Bay Area? Or did they just see him as Paddy, the GM of their local Irish grocery store?

  I’d guess the latter, since we never, ever talked business in front of other people.

  “Let’s go back to my office,” Roark said, as if on cue.

  I followed him along the now familiar course, heading to the back of the store and into one of the offices. Last time, Dennis McCarthy had met us there, but he wasn’t waiting when we entered.

  “So what is it, Quint? I’m going to guess this isn’t a courtesy visit. Something else involving the Bay Area Butcher, if I can be so bold.”

  “You may. And you’re right.”

  “You know we’ll do anything legal to help you catch this asshole. Giving our beautiful area a bad name.”

  “What if it’s less illegal and more frowned upon?”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “This killer has a hard-on for me. I still don’t know why, but obviously this has something to do with an article I wrote at some point in time. He’s attached a listening device to me and entered my apartment complex to leave me a letter. I’ve got this feeling that he’s still out there, watching me. Monitoring me. Closer than I realize.”

  “Let me guess, you want a tail on you?”

  Paddy Roark was a smart guy. The surly exterior may have fooled some people, but not me.

  “Yes. If we see a guy who’s in a background shot more than once, I’ll start to get a little suspicious.”

  “I know a guy or two who could do a job like that,” Paddy said.

  I’d assumed he would.

  “How would payment work?” I asked.

  “Well, I have to talk to the boss man first. But since we are probably a little more flush with cash than you, I imagine Dennis would be rather generous. Maybe we could pay a guy out of our pocket and you could pay for his meals each day. Something like that.”

  “You’re too kind to me.”

  “Maybe. But having a serial killer on the loose is bad business for anyone. I’m sure Dennis would like to do his part.”

  “Thanks, Paddy.”

  “I’m sure you’d love to avenge the loss of your friend. Despite our connections in the police force, I’m not too tight with them usually, but he seemed like a good one. I guess they still exist.”

  With all that had been going on the last several days, I hadn’t thought about Ray as much as I probably should have. Paddy mentioning him was like a stomach punch, prompting immediate and vivid memories of some of our good times together.

  “Ray was a very good man. And died way too young.”

  “Well, let’s catch this motherfucker, then.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” I said. “What’s next?”

  “I’ll talk to Dennis. Come back tomorrow. Same time.”

  I looked at my cell phone. It was eleven a.m.

  “I’ll be here. And thanks for your help, Paddy. You guys are good people. I don’t care what the general public say about bookies and their right-hand men.”

  Paddy Roark laughed. “There was a time where you might have gotten your arm broken for a comment like that.”

  “I’m starting to think you’re an old softie and the rough exterior is just a front.”

  Paddy Roark started to stare at me. His eyes were so intense that I instinctively looked away.

  “Is that what you really think?” he asked.

  “No,” I admitted.

  “Good. And don’t you forget it,” he said. When I looked at him once more, his smile returned.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Paddy. Thanks.”

  “Take care, Quint.”

  I arrived back at the apartment and relayed everything that happened to Cara. She was on board with being followed and filmed. In fact, she was borderline giddy about it. Not the act of being followed, obviously, but the idea that we could potentially get the Butcher on film.

  “But how is it going to work? The videographer isn’t going to be here with us, is he?”

  She extended her arm, gesturing to the apartment with a flourish like a model on The Price is Right.

  “We’re going to hammer out the details tomorrow. But no, he’s not going to stay with us. Don’t be silly. My guess is the man will hunker down close to Avalon and I’ll text him whenever we leave here. Then he’ll start his tail.”

  “How about doing some things out in public? Walking the trail. Going back to the Lafayette Reservoir. Having a coffee outside at the Starbucks below. If the Butcher is truly following you, the only way to capture him on video is by venturing out.”

  “You’re absolutely correct.”

  “Thanks.”

  “There will be hundreds, if not thousands, of people in the background of our lives the next several days. But like I told Paddy, if we see someone appear on the videos more than once, then we’ll take interest.”

  “Exactly,” Cara said. “We’re going to have a lot of footage to look through.”

  “If we’re going to truly investigate, then this is exactly what we signed up for.”

  “True,” Cara said.

  “And one other thing. I hate to say this, but you need to assume the killer is monitoring you as well. That asshole Vitella mentioned you and I’m sure the killer read his column. So he may well take an interest in you.”

  I hated even considering the possibility and started to wonder how I’d let Cara talk me into agreeing to have her become my right-hand (wo)man.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “I’ll bet Ray, Paul Langley, and the San Jose families thought the same thing.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. I’ll be vigilant. I’ll be watchful,” she said.

  “Okay, I’m sorry. Just a little on edge today.”

  “Let’s be honest, we’re going to be on edge every day until this psychopath is caught.”

  She was right, of course. The little pit in my stomach hadn’t really gone away since being told of the Butcher’s first letter.

  “And at some point, I think we should pay Vitella a visit,” I added. “I’d like to know how he found out you were entering Avalon with some of our paperwork.”

  “I imagine he doesn’t give up his sources very easily,” Cara said.

  “Even if that source is a serial killer?”

  My question hung in the air.

  “So what can we do the rest of today?” Cara asked, changing the subject.

  “Thought you’d never ask,” I said. “What do you think about interviewing some neighbors in Tiburon or San Jose?”

  “Doing some real investigating, huh? I like it. But I’m sure there are still officers patrolling the San Jose crime scenes. Probably better not to be seen there.”

  “True,” I said.

  “We could go interview some of the Langleys’ neighbors.”

  I smiled proudly. “I’ve created a monster.”

  “I’ll get ready.”

  Looks like we were heading back to Tiburon.

  28.

  Bradley Marks looked like an aging former professional surfer. But unless he was Kelly Slater, I’m not sure how he’d afford one of the houses near the Langleys. Multi-million dollar homes each.

  He answered the door in board shorts and a tank top, his look replete with bleached blonde, spiked hair. Though probably pushing fifty, he gave off the vibe of a thirty-year-old.

  Huge white pillars went skyward toward the second and third stories of his home. The bricks lining the ground around the front door probably had more square footage than my apartment.

  “How can I help you?” he asked.

  I half expected a “bruh” at the end of his question, but didn’t get one.

  “We are out here investigating the Langley murders,” I said.

  “I thought that was you,” he said. “Quint, right?”

  I hated this part.
>
  “Yup.”

  “Bradley Marks,” he said. “I’m sorry about your cop friend. I watched most of that funeral on T.V. Seemed like a nice guy.”

  “Thanks. He was,” I said.

  “And this is?” Marks asked.

  “My co-worker Cara,” I said.

  We’d discussed on the way over how to introduce her and decided co-worker sounded more official than girlfriend.

  Marks extended his hand and Cara shook it. He held on for a second too long in my eyes and I immediately regretted not introducing her as my girlfriend. If he’d met Cara at the beach, I could almost guarantee he’d be hitting on her.

  I looked at her and nodded, handing off the lead to her.

  I wasn’t a PI yet, and this wasn’t exactly good cop/bad cop, but my instincts had always been solid. I felt Mr. Marks would give Cara more information than me.

  “How well did you know the Langleys?” she asked him.

  “Been neighbors for about two years,” Marks said. “I knew them well enough. Just so terrible what happened.”

  “It’s horrible,” Cara said. “In the media this is being portrayed as a random home invasion. Any reason to believe it’s someone they knew?”

  Bradley Marks thought long and hard, frowning.

  “I’ve got no proof, obviously, but it did seem a little personal, you know? Like, who kills someone’s teenage daughter like that?”

  “I get your point, but there are maniacs who kill strangers every day,” Cara said.

  “I guess. I don’t know, this just seemed different. Maybe just because I was their neighbor.”

  “What did you know about the husband’s job?”

  She briefly glanced my way as if to check if I had any input, but Cara was asking all the right questions, so I kept quiet.

  “It was some high-tech dot-com company. Not really my thing. I own a surfboard company, so entirely different.”

  I wanted to laugh. He was a surfer after all. And it must have been a big time surfboard company to own the house towering over us.

  “That’s very cool,” Cara said. “I’ve never tried, but it’s never too late.”

  She waxed him up like a surfboard itself.

  “You totally should. It would be the ride of your life.”