The Butcher (19 page)

“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.” Edward 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.”

“Spoke to Robert Sanchez a little while ago. He's working the case.”

The Chief nodded. “Good. I like Bobby, he was always a hard worker. Did he give any information that wasn't in the news?”

She shook her head. “He's working on it.”

“You said there were two murders?”

“The other one was a seventeen-year-old. Happened in Marysville, not far from the big casino. She was raped and strangled, and her hand was cut off.”

The Chief's face was hard to read. Sam supposed it was hard for the man to feel emotion when it came to murder, having been in homicide for almost forty years. “Is that so? That wasn't in the papers.”

“Bobby told me. He talked to the detective at Marysville PD who caught the case. I imagine they're keeping it quiet for now.”

The old man nodded. “Of course they are. And you're here because it reminds you of something.”

“The Butcher.” Sam leaned forward. “Chief, her hand was chopped off. Likely with a cleaver, just below the wrist bone. Her
left
hand.”

Edward smiled, but there was no humor in it, only indulgence. “That always was the Butcher's signature move. Someone obviously copied it.”

“What if someone didn't?”

The Chief barked a laugh. “You're still on that track, eh? Rufus Wedge is dead, my dear. I was there, remember?”

Sam took a deep breath. “Yes, but what if Rufus Wedge wasn't the Butcher?”

Edward sighed and took a sip of his tea. “We've been over this before, Samantha. Many times. You know I'm always interested in your theories, but I don't know what more insight I can offer. Wedge was our best suspect. Maybe the case wouldn't have held up at trial, but that doesn't mean he didn't do it.”

“Well, things are different now,” Sam said. “Technology has come a long way. If there's a trace of anything on her body left behind from her killer, they'll find it. You can't just kill someone and get away with it anymore.”

Edward laughed again, and this time he seemed genuinely amused. “Sure you can,” he said. “Happens every goddamned day. Now what do you say we break open that box of cannolis? I've been patient long enough.”

Even though the rest of the house was dark, the lights were on in the bedroom, and that meant Matt was home. Sam was perfectly positioned under the magnolia tree in the corner of his backyard, the full moon behind the clouds providing just enough light for her to see her surroundings while still remaining in the shadows. The deck he was building was almost finished and it provided a bit of cover as well. Looking up at his lit bedroom window, she waited.

So okay, she was totally spying on her boyfriend. And yes, it was ridiculous and humiliating, and she wasn't proud of herself. People did stupid things to get answers. Matt had been pulling away for a long time now, although if Sam was really honest with herself, he'd never been completely available. And something had to change.

A rustling noise made her jump, and she turned to see a squirrel paused nearby, sitting on its haunches, watching her with suspicious, glinting eyes. If the squirrel could actually think, it would probably be wondering what in the hell this woman was doing hiding under a tree at midnight.

And if the squirrel could actually talk, it would have been a fair question. The answer was, she needed to catch him red-handed. She needed a concrete reason—an inarguable, tangible, very strong reason—to walk away from this relationship, because otherwise, she wasn't sure she ever could. Or would.

Sam didn't know for certain whether Matt had actually had sex with the slutty female producer from the Fresh Network (which, let's be real here, didn't come close to being as classy as the Food Network, even on its best day). But everything in her gut told her he had, and might still be.

Oh yeah, she knew all about Karen Burgundy. Though Sam had initially turned down Matt's invitation to dinner at the Pink Door with the Fresh Network producers, she'd changed her mind. She might not be interested on appearing on her boyfriend's reality show, but that didn't mean she couldn't be at the dinner to support him. She loved him, despite how difficult things had been lately. And frankly, she wasn't sure why they were so disconnected now, and why Matt could never seem to make time for her, and why he'd become so strangely private ever since moving into the Chief's old house.

Sam had arrived at the Pink Door thirty minutes late, well after the burlesque show had started, and she'd rushed inside, apologies for her tardiness on the tip of her tongue. That's when she'd seen them. They were seated at a table right by the stage, huddled close and whispering like lovers. The image of that slutty producer's hand on her boyfriend's leg, leaning in to shove her desperate cleavage in his face, was burned in Sam's brain. It had taken all her willpower not to grab the woman by her hair extensions and punch her. She had never felt so angry, so insulted, and so hurt, all at the same time.

Still, though, the public display of inappropriateness wasn't quite enough to convict Matt. Flirting with and being attracted to another woman were one thing, but it didn't mean he had necessarily crossed
the line into Cheaterville. If he had, though, they were over. Sam knew she could never forgive him, and either way, she needed to know.

The lit bedroom wasn't telling her much. She thought she could make out Matt's silhouette behind the curtains, but she couldn't confirm whether or not he was actually alone.
Dammit
.

Clenching her teeth, she began to creep through Matt's backyard. Within a few seconds she had crossed the nearly finished deck and was at his back door. She paused, deciding what to do. The house had never had an alarm system. The Chief had always believed that security alarms were essentially useless, because if someone was determined to murder you, then no alarm system in the world was going to stop them from doing it. And if someone was going to rob you, well then, let 'em. That's what insurance companies were for.

She tried the door handle, but of course the back door was locked. No surprise there. Where did he keep that spare key? After a minute of searching, she found it hiding in the planter a few feet away.

Inserting the key, she held her breath, listening for the click that told her the door was unlocked. Twisting the doorknob, she pushed the door open slowly, then paused again before stepping inside. Elmo, Matt's cat, immediately came to greet her, and she knelt down to pet him. The Abyssinian purred and nudged her hand, but thankfully that was the only sound he made.

She closed the door behind her as quietly as she could, and stepped farther into the kitchen. The main floor of the house was completely dark, but Sam had been here enough times when Edward had owned it that she knew the house well.

Moving silently through the kitchen and down the hallway, she navigated her way toward the steep staircase. She took the steps as quickly as she could, knowing a few of them would creak, and reached the top
of the landing in record time. She paused again. Matt's bedroom was at the end of the hall, his door open just a smidge.

She stood still, cocking her head toward the bedroom. At first she couldn't hear anything over her own breathing, but then all of sudden, there it was.

He wasn't alone, goddammit. Sam could totally
hear
them.

Oh God, it was really happening
. Matt and that slut were in his room, right now, fucking like a couple of dogs in heat, and the confirmation of this hit Sam like a sledgehammer to the gut. Yes, she had wanted to catch him, and yes, she needed to see it for herself, but never could she have anticipated a pain like the one that was stabbing her in the chest like an ice pick, making it impossible to breathe.

They weren't being overly loud, but there was no mistaking that her boyfriend was in his bedroom and
totally
having
sex with someone else
. That fucking slutty producer with Sam's boyfriend of three goddamned years? It was unconscionable, and Sam felt the rage build up inside her. Willing herself to remain some semblance of calm, she moved closer to the door, every inch of her body tense. She could hear sounds of a bed squeaking, and Matt grunting, and that Halle Berry clone moaning like the disgusting whore she so obviously was.

How could he do this to her? How could Matt have actually brought that witch home? They were really in there, fucking each other as if they had the goddamned right to do it, as if there wasn't someone else in the picture who loved him, that they'd be
hurting
. What gave them the goddamned
right
? Who the hell did they think they
were
?