The Butcher (15 page)

“That is definitely a strange story,” the detective said. “But it's just that. A story.”

“It's true. She even wears a little bear pendant. Around her neck. And she saw the cleaver, Bobby. It was the Butcher.”

Sanchez sighed, and it was clear he was no longer amused. “Then why didn't she tell someone? Why didn't she tell me?”

“I don't know, she was scared.”

“Fine. She was scared. Understandable.” The detective clearly wasn't buying it. “So she leaves the state. Starts a new life under a new name. Makes sense.”

“Right . . .” Sam waited for the punch line.

“Then why come back now?” Sanchez said. “Twenty-six years after the fact? Why come back? Why the sudden need to tell her story?”

“I don't know,” Sam said, frustrated. “I can only imagine it's because she can't live with what she knows anymore. That she wants the truth to come out once and for all.”

“What's in it for her?”

“You sound like Jason.”

“I always said that boy was smarter than he looked.” Sanchez finished the last of his coffee and then pushed the cup aside. “Samantha, if you want, I'll talk to her. Okay? Would that make you feel better? Maybe she'll tell me the name of who she thinks the Butcher is. I'll run it, we'll see what comes up. Whoever it is that tried to grab her is probably dead by now, but it's worth it to me if it makes you feel better. Is that fair?”

“Yes.”

“Where's she staying?”

“Well, that's the thing,” Sam said, biting her lip. “She checked out of her motel this morning. I have no idea where she is, and I have no contact information for her.”

“OMG.” Sanchez shook his head. “That stands for ‘Oh my God.' My kids say it all the time. This just keeps getting better and better.”

“I know,” Sam said, amused. “And please don't say it again. You're about forty years too old for it. So you'll track her down?”

“Why not? It's not like I'm busy or anything.” The detective saw the look on her face and softened his tone. “She's probably back in Sacramento. I'll find her. We'll talk.”

“You really don't believe me, do you?” Sam said.

“Rufus Wedge was the Butcher, and the Butcher is dead.” Sanchez took her hand gently. “That's what I know. Whoever killed your mom was someone else. And whoever grabbed Bonnie/Joyce was someone else. Assuming the woman's even telling the truth. If she is, maybe it was the same guy who killed your mom, and maybe we'll be looking for a different serial killer altogether. But it's
not
the Butcher, okay? You have to let that go. The Butcher was Rufus Wedge, and he's long gone, my sweet.”

Sam nodded, allowing the detective to hold her hand. It was a fatherly gesture. Sanchez had always looked out for her. She understood that this wasn't any different, but everything in her gut told her there was more to the story.

“Just promise me you'll keep an open mind,” she said.

“Of course I will.” Sanchez squeezed her hand. “But you have to promise me the same thing, too.”

It was easier said than done.

Matt hadn't talked to his grandfather since Monday night, and you know what? That was fine by him. He had no idea what the old man had done with the three Hefty bags full of PJ Wu's body, and you know what? He didn't want to know. So okay, Matt wasn't sleeping well, but it had been a stressful time all around, and you know what? That was life.

There was a light knock on his office door before it opened. Lauryn Kinney poked her head in, her expression tentative. Normally she and Matt got along very well. He offered her a smile, and her whole posture relaxed.

“You look nice,” he said. “What's the occasion?”

Lauryn's blond ponytail was sleek and impeccable, and her navy dress fell to her knees. “Thanks. I came straight from the courthouse.” She hesitated, clearly not sure whether to say anything more.

Matt forced himself to look interested. “How's that going? It's about custody of your son, right?”

“Yes. It's been hell but my lawyer says not to worry.”

“Anything I can do?”

She raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Actually, since you asked, I may need some time off next week. There's another hearing and I need to meet with my lawyer before we go back to court.”

Matt nodded. “Say no more. Just let me know the time and we'll do the best we can to work around it.”

“I appreciate that, Matt.” She smiled, clearly relieved. “I thought it was going to be a problem. Hey, any word from PJ? I tried to call him this morning but his phone is going straight to voicemail.”

Matt's heart skipped a beat and he instantly stiffened. “You, too, huh?” he said, trying to insert the right note of concern into his voice. “Same here.”

“I asked around, and none of the staff has seen or spoken to him in the last couple of days,” Lauryn said. “I'm a little worried. We both know he hasn't always been the most reliable guy, but he always calls if he's not coming in. Do you have a number for his parents? Maybe they know what's going on.”

“They're in San Francisco,” Matt said, and that was true. “And he wasn't close to them. But you know what, maybe I should give them a call anyway.”

Lauryn frowned. “You don't think anything bad's happened to him, do you?”

“I'm sure he's fine,” Matt said. “I've known him a long time. He'd call if he was in trouble.”

“Well, that's what I mean. He hasn't called anyone, so what if . . .” She stopped, then shook her head. “You know what, I'm not even going to go there. That's just silly. He's all right, I'm sure. He's probably just being PJ. When you talk to him, make sure you tell him this isn't cool. I know he's your friend and all, but still. We have a business to run.”

This time Matt's smile was genuine. “Maybe I should let you ream him out. It would be nice to not be the bad guy for a change.”

She laughed. “Anyway, I almost forgot the reason I came back here. The people from the Fresh Network are here. They're waiting for you in the bar.”

“Shit, they're early.” Matt pushed his chair back and stood up, smoothing the front of his shirt. Opening the drawer, he grabbed a thin silk tie, then paused. “Do I look all right? Tie or no tie?”

“Definitely do the tie.”

“What are they like?” he said, wrapping it around his collar and then fumbling with it. “Dammit, I think I need a mirror, I'm not used to doing this blind.”

“They seem fine. Here, let me help.” Lauryn reached out and helped him with his knot. “There, that's perfect. Don't be nervous,” she said with a grin. “They approached you, remember? Just be yourself. You got this. I'll let them know you'll be out in a minute.”

She left, closing the door behind her. Matt sat back down in his chair, knees feeling a little wobbly. He was a little nervous about the meeting with the producers, yes, because he really wanted this reality show, and he needed to make a good impression. But it was also the first time anyone had asked about PJ, and lying about it hadn't been as easy as he thought it would be. Taking a deep breath, he ran a hand through his hair. He needed to get a hold of himself. He needed to relax and breathe and focus, and remind himself of what really mattered.

So PJ Wu was dead. Yes, it was a tragedy, and yes, Matt felt terrible. But it had been an accident, okay? Obviously Matt hadn't meant to kill his friend. He'd lost his temper, and had punched the guy, and PJ had fallen, slammed his head into a rock, and died. It was awful and unfortunate,
but it had happened, it was done, and nothing could or would bring the guy back to life.

But did that mean Matt's whole life had to stop, too? Did that mean he was no longer entitled to the opportunities he'd worked so hard for? PJ hadn't been close to his family, anyway. His parents were in California, and the rest of his family was in Hong Kong (or was it Taiwan? or Singapore? Matt couldn't remember now). Like Lauryn had just pointed out, PJ hadn't always been the most reliable employee. Nobody even seemed that surprised that he'd missed a couple of days of work without calling.

Besides, bad publicity for Matt would spell bad publicity for the restaurant. He had thirty-five employees and they all depended on him—would it be fair to them if Adobo went downhill?

He'd worked so hard for this, for this opportunity, for this restaurant. Two producers from the Fresh Network were here right now, waiting to speak to him, because of the things he'd accomplished. Because he was somebody important.

So no, there was no way in hell he was about to throw his whole life away over an
accident
. PJ's death didn't seem to bother his grandfather at all . . . so why should it bother Matt?

It doesn't bother Grandpa because Grandpa is a psychopathic serial killer,
the little voice in his head whispered.

Matt shook his head hard, forcing the voice to shut up.
Stop with that shit,
he told himself.
That shit won't help
. PJ Wu was gone and there was nothing Matt could do about it. He didn't know what the Chief had done with the body, and frankly, he had absolutely no desire to know. All he could do now was move forward, step up, and take what was rightfully his.

It was showtime.

Smoothing his hair one more time, Matt opened the door and stepped down. “Let's roll,” he said under his breath. “You got this.”

*   *   *

The female Fresh Network producer was tiny, with wavy dark hair and a dimple on one cheek. Her name was Karen Burgundy, and she looked like a Mini-Me version of Halle Berry with her mocha skin and long-lashed brown eyes. If this was who they sent in to close deals, then Matt couldn't imagine anybody ever saying no.

“The idea is to film a few days' worth of footage, then go back and do the editing before we see what it looks like. Kind of like a trial run,” Karen was saying. The tip of her manicured forefinger touched the outer corner of her mouth briefly. Whether she had a habit of doing that, or whether it was a deliberate move on her part to get Matt to look at her lips—which were pouty and full and alluring as hell—he didn't know.

Her skirt was short, red, and flared. Never breaking eye contact with him, she slowly uncrossed one lean leg, then crossed the other over it. It took effort for Matt to not look down.

“So obviously you know that the show will primarily focus on your food trucks, which are just like, super-popular right now.” Bernard Vitale was the other producer, and Matt guessed he was gay. He plucked an invisible speck of lint off his fitted cashmere sweater. “But there'll still be a lot of filming here at the restaurant. Either way, we need to see you doing all the actual cooking, serving, and whatever else.”

“How many trucks are you featuring?” Matt finally managed to ask, prying his eyes away from Karen. “And how much screen time I do specifically get?”

“It really depends on the rest of your staff. The ones who are good
on camera will get a fair chunk of screen time, but you're our star. Expect us to shoot you at least one full day a week, likely a Saturday, when things are busiest.” Bernard consulted his iPad. “We were hoping to talk to your assistant head chef, PJ Wu. Is he in today?”

Matt blinked. “Uh, actually, no, he's not.” He paused, wondering how much to say. “Actually, guys, I'm not sure he'll be involved. There have been . . . some issues.”

“Oh?” Karen said, cocking her head to one side. “What kind of issues? You should know that that's not necessarily a bad thing. Issues can often make for fabulous TV.”

Matt smiled. “I'll have to get back to you on that. He's, uh, not exactly the most reliable guy. Is it a deal breaker if he's not part of the reality show?”

“Hello, it's not a reality show, it's
unscripted television
,” Bernard said, immediately annoyed. “I hate that term,
reality show
. We all know that anything on TV isn't exactly reality. I mean, what is?”

“Don't worry too much about it,” Karen said, giving Bernard a look. The fingernail was back at the corner of her mouth. “It's you we want, one hundred percent. Whether PJ's available or not.”

“But you guys did make a good pair on the Food Truck Challenge last fall.” Bernard looked disappointed. “You were like the Nazi, barking orders, and he was rolling his eyes behind your back making the funny one-liners. We'd have to replace him with someone you'd have a similar kind of chemistry with.”

“That would probably be anybody here,” Matt said with a chuckle. “I'm kind of a hard-ass.”

“Hard-asses are hot,” Bernard said. “Just look at Gordon Ramsay.”

“Exactly,” Karen said. “But the difference is, you're actually good-looking. The camera just eats you up. Gordon's not even remotely
hot. I can see our female audience falling head over heels in love with you.”

“Not to mention gay men,” Bernard added.

Matt laughed. He knew they were flattering him, but he didn't mind at all.

“And might I suggest a little tweaking when it comes to your look?” Bernard's tone was delicate. “Don't get me wrong, your hair is fabulous, but I'm betting if you let it grow out a little it would go curly. And curly hair is hot. I actually know someone here in Seattle who could cut it for you properly. I'll give you his number.”

“Okay,” Matt said, self-consciously running a hand through his hair. “No problem.”

“And your clothes . . .” Bernard gave him the once-over, frowning slightly at Matt's tie. “I mean, you obviously look great in a shirt and tie, but you're very dressed up.”

“So what am I supposed to wear, a T-shirt?”

“Well . . .” Bernard said. There was a glint in his eyes that made Matt a little uneasy. “Do you work out?”