The Butcher (23 page)

“Assuming there are any more.”

“Assuming, yeah.” He sipped his beer. “What did the Chief say when you floated your theory past him?”

“Not a whole lot.” Sam sighed, kicking her shoes off and tucking her legs under her. “We didn't really get into it. I think he's getting tired of me talking about how he might have gotten the wrong guy, and I suppose I can't blame him. Besides that, he didn't look like he was feeling too well the last time I saw him.”

“What are you talking about? The Chief never gets sick.”

“He wasn't sick. More like, he's been coned.”

“You've lost me.”

Sam laughed. “Okay, you remember that cat you used to have? Bugsy? Remember when she got clipped by that crazy kid on a bike? Oh, what was his name . . .” She frowned. “Kenny. Kenny Perkins.”

“Oh God. I remember him,” Jason said with a snort. “He had that giant Schwinn that was twice the size he was. What were we, twelve?”

“I was twelve, you were fourteen.”

“Right.”

“And remember how we took Bugsy to the vet, and after they patched her up, they put one of those cones on her?”

“Yeah, and she was all depressed. For the whole two weeks she had to wear it, she just moped around, wouldn't play, wouldn't chase her toys, nothing. It's like her little spirit was crushed.”

“Right,” Sam said. “That's the Chief right now. Coned. Bored. Uninspired. Like someone's crushed his spirit. It's hard to see him like that.” She bit her lip.

“There's a very simple solution for that,” Jason said. “The old man needs to get laid.”

Sam paused for a moment, then made a face. “Okay, that's totally gross. Now I have a visual in my head of the Chief having sex. Thanks so much for that.”

“I'm just saying. And it shouldn't be hard for him to find someone to have some fun with. Those old folks' homes are dens of sin.”

It was Sam's turn to laugh. “Dens of sin? You sound like Father Patrick, lecturing us about why we should never, ever have sex before marriage and why we should live at home with our parents for as long as possible. Because college dorms are dens of sin.”

“Well, not for you, Miss ‘I Was a Virgin Until I Turned Twenty-Two.' You wouldn't know anything about it.”

“Shut up.”

“So what does Matt think about the Chief's new sex life? He was really close to his grandmother, and it hasn't been that long since she passed away.”

“I would tell you if I knew, but we don't talk about Edward,” Sam said. “We barely talk at all these days, actually, except for the really fun argument we had the other night.”

Jason raised an eyebrow, and reluctantly Sam recounted the details of what happened, from her hiding in the bushes, to sneaking into Matt's house, to catching him watching a porn movie.

Jason had to put his beer down, he was laughing so hard. He seemed equal parts tickled and horrified. “Oh shit, that's awesome. And horrible. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I thought he was cheating on me.”

“Come on, he would never do that.”

“Really?” Sam stared at Jason, turning serious. “Would you tell me if he was?”

“Yes, I would.”

“But that would be a violation of bro code.”

Jason shrugged and sipped his beer again. “What can I say? You come first. You always have. You know that.”

Sam closed her eyes. In three years, Matt had never come close to uttering those words to her, and it was nice to hear, even if it was from a man who wasn't her boyfriend.

“Don't get me wrong, you're both my friends,” Jason said. “But I've known you practically my whole life. You and I grew up together. I swear to God, if he ever hurt you . . .” He trailed off and looked away, but Sam noticed his hands had bunched up into fists.

“Things haven't good for a long time with us, Jase,” Sam said. “I don't think we're going to make it.”

Jason nodded, not saying anything. He didn't need to.

“And lately he's just been . . . difficult. I mean, more so than usual.” She stared into her beer glass. “So quick to fly off the handle. Defensive.
Angry. And yet everything is going his way. He's this huge success, but it never seems like it's enough. And that's how he makes me feel.”

“Then end it. You deserve better.”

Her eyes welled up, and Jason pulled her into a bear hug.

“You'll be okay,” he said in her ear, his breath warm and comforting. “You have me, and I'm not going anywhere.”

She opened her eyes and looked at Jason. All she saw in his face was compassion and concern, and in the soft light of the penthouse, he had never looked more beautiful.

“Will you kiss me?” she asked softly.

He stared intently at her. He didn't seem surprised by the question. His eyes took in her face, her lips, her hair. He smoothed a dark strand away from her cheek, and with his other hand, he stroked her jawline.

“No,” he said. “Because you're not asking for the right reasons. When you do, I will.”

Edward couldn't do it the way he used to anymore, not unless he drugged them. And that, of course, took all the fun out of it. It was only truly enjoyable when they were conscious of their fear, knowing death was imminent.

It was the look in their eyes that turned him on. That look, the moment they understood that they were going to die, was what Edward craved.

Did this make him a psychopath? He didn't think it was that simple. People killed other people for lots of reasons. It was just that
psychopath
was such a trendy word, something folks liked to bandy around as a way to explain why people did bad things. But Edward knew better. Some folks just
liked
doing bad things. In his opinion, there was no need to question it. It was why he'd stayed a cop and had never been interested in working for the FBI when they'd come calling after he'd brought Rufus Wedge down. Edward had never had any interest in analyzing the whys . . . because the whys really weren't that fascinating.

Besides, everybody had hobbies. Some people golfed. Some people fished. Some people hunted deer. Edward killed. Because he liked it,
goddammit. It was really that fucking simple. And the kills had helped his career. He'd felt great satisfaction in creating the Butcher, and almost as much satisfaction when he accepted his promotion to chief of police.

The recreation room at Sweetbay Village was loud as always, filled with the usual bunch of residents engaged in various activities. Dinner wasn't for another hour and this was the time of day when the rec room was at its fullest. Around him, old fogies were watching TV, playing board games, sitting and chatting. There was old Cecilia in the corner with her two closest friends, Esther and Deb, and the three of them were working on a quilt. In the other corner was old Millie, holding that annoying bastard Jack Shaw's hand and laughing at every word he said.

Edward sat across from old Donald Martini, who looked like he was falling asleep on the other side of their chess board. “Your move, Don.”

“Eh?”

Edward spoke louder. “Your move.”

“Oh, right. Sorry, Edward.”

He knew it would take Donald at least five minutes to decide whether to sacrifice his rook (and in the end he wouldn't, which would win Edward the game—he'd played Don several times in chess over the past month and the old guy's moves had become predictable), so he swiveled in his chair slightly to get a better of view of the TV mounted on the far wall. The King5 evening news was on, and there was an update about Matthew's friend.

“The identity of the man found in the dump has been released,” the anchorwoman was saying, a beautifully exotic lady who would have been described as “Oriental” back in Edward's day, but now was known as Asian, thanks to the politically correct pundits. “Patrick Jason Wu, age thirty-one, was a Seattle resident originally from San Francisco. He worked at Adobo, a popular eatery in Fremont. Our sources tell us that
Wu, whose dismembered body was discovered yesterday morning, might be the victim of the Wong crime family, as he had known affiliations with several of its members. Sources tell King5 that his death might be part of a turf war between the Wong and Chang families.” The news cut to an interview of the guy working at the dump site where Wu's body had been found.

Ha
. It had been too easy, really.

It hadn't taken Edward long to find out exactly who PJ Wu was and what his weaknesses had been. He hadn't even had to run a background check to know the kid was in deep debt—all he'd done was glance through Wu's phone and he'd seen several texts about owing money, bets placed, and the like. Kids put everything in those goddamned smartphones nowadays.

Edward normally never worried about covering up, as half the fun of killing was the discovery of the body and the flurry of investigation that ensued. But in this case, he'd had no choice but to put a fictional spin on PJ's death. After all, he didn't want Matthew to go to prison.

He felt eyes on him and turned his attention to the next table, where Gloria Marsh was sitting across from Helena Rubenstein. The two women were playing gin rummy, and the rumor was that these two ladies were a little on the slutty side. Edward liked them both. They were fun.

Gloria, in particular, was a perky little thing with a face full of makeup that seeped into her wrinkles. Even in her late seventies, she still wiggled when she walked and giggled when she talked, and hell yes, Edward could appreciate that. It wasn't her fault she was getting old. She'd shown Edward a picture of herself back in the day once. She'd been beautiful in her prime. Movie star looks, pinup girl body, dark brown hair that offset red Cupid's bow lips perfectly.

Now she looked as if someone had deflated her, and all that was left
were the wrinkles and hair dye where her youth used to be. Getting old sucked donkey's balls, and he couldn't blame her for fighting it as best she could. But age was winning the battle, as it always did.

She smiled at him, her blue eyes still clear and twinkly even at the age of seventy-eight. It wasn't hard to see that she had a thing for him, and Edward didn't mind the attention. Not at all. In fact, it was time to do something about it. Lord knew it had been a long time . . . there'd been nobody since Marisol.

He was ready.

Returning her smile, Edward said, “Who's winning, Gloria?”

“Helena,” Gloria said with a girlish giggle. “As usual. I think she stacks the deck.”

Helena, eighty-one years old, didn't appear to hear her name mentioned and so she didn't turn around. Edward winked at Gloria, who winked back.

“By the way, have you ever tasted salted chocolate, Edward?” Gloria asked.

“Can't say that I have, Gloria.”

“It's quite lovely. My granddaughter brought me some the other day. The sea salt enhances the flavor of the dark chocolate, making it taste richer and sweeter.”

“I do have a sweet tooth,” Edward said with a grin. “My grandson's sweetheart brought me some cannolis the other day from the bakery, and they certainly didn't last long.”

“And you didn't share any with me?” Gloria feigned a pout, then giggled again.

“What was I thinking? Next time, my dear.”

“Maybe later, after supper, you'd like to try some of my chocolate?” Gloria said, and her lips stayed parted just long enough for Edward to read her invitation loud and clear. “Around eight, perhaps?”

“That sounds fine. I would love to.”

They exchanged smiles again, and Edward turned his attention back to his chess opponent, who was still contemplating his next move. Don Martini was leaning forward, his chin resting in a liver-spotted hand, and he glanced at Edward with a sly grin. “Looks like somebody's got a hot date.”

“Ha,” Edward said. “Listen, Don, you going to be a few more minutes? I think I need to run to the john. Gotta drop some kids in the pool.”

“Yeah, you go ahead, Edward,” Don said. “At least you're regular. They got me on some new medication now for my heart, and I've hadn't a decent shit all week. Maybe I'll make a hot cup of tea and ponder my next move while you're gone, so you take your time.”

Both men stood up but they headed in opposite directions. Edward headed straight for his room. There was a restroom inside the recreation area, but of course Edward didn't really have to use the toilet.

He entered his room and locked the door behind him. Opening the closet door, he reached into his jacket pocket and found the small prescription bottle of Viagra he'd picked up at the pharmacy the other day. He shook out four pills and placed them on the small coffee table, then retrieved a knife from the kitchenette so he could grind them up into powder. Then he ripped a little chunk of paper from the Village newsletter that was lying on the coffee table and carefully placed the powder inside it, folding it up neatly.

He couldn't kill the way he used to anymore, and he had to admit, he was bummed about that. It was why he didn't bother going to his cabin in Raymond anymore. He owned over two hundred acres in a densely wooded area, but if he couldn't really kill like before, what was the point of driving down there?

He'd always been a strong man, and in a lot of ways still was, but
after Jamie Chavez and Bonnie Tidwell, he'd been exhausted. The pain meds Dr. Ross had prescribed helped considerably, but he didn't have the body of a fifty-year-old and he had to accept that. The urge to kill was back in full force and he had no desire to stop it . . . but that didn't mean he could physically keep up with it. Adjustments were necessary.

Jamie, especially, had worn him out. She'd been a squirmy little thing, and he'd had to stun her several times with the tree branch in order to keep her subdued. It had really taken the fun out of it, because then she'd been too out of it to fight anymore. Back in his prime, he'd been able to hold them down with one arm while doing whatever he'd wanted to them with the other.