The Butcher (34 page)

“No, but I'm here on a police matter. I'm also a . . . friend.” Matt was stumbling over his words and he knew it. Shit, he should have rehearsed or something before he'd come inside.

The officer narrowed his eyes. “Detective Sanchez is extremely busy today. I can try calling his extension but if he's not expecting you . . .” He picked up the desk phone. “Your name?”

“Matthew Shank.” Matt waited a beat, then added, “My grandfather is Edward Shank.”

“Oh.” The desk sergeant blinked. “Well, Jesus. That practically makes you royalty around here.” He punched in a few numbers and waited. There was obviously no answer, but he tried another extension and said, “I have
someone here to see Sanchez, and I'm gonna go ahead and send him up. Name's Matthew Shank, the former chief's grandson. Can you take care of him? Thanks.”

He hung up and crooked a sausage-sized finger at Matt, who stepped forward until his chest hit the counter.

“You'll need a visitor's tag,” the sergeant said, clipping a white badge the size of a credit card to Matt's collar. “Elevators are that way. Sanchez is on the fifth floor; make a right when you leave the elevator. And, uh . . .”

“Yes?”

“Tell your grandfather that Mikey Costa says hi.” The sergeant's chubby face flushed slightly. “He was my training officer back in the day. Taught me everything I know. I got injured, so I'm on desk now. Tell him we miss him and that he should stop in sometime.”

Matt gave him a small smile. “Sure, I'll tell him.”

The lobby was fairly quiet and the elevator doors opened immediately when Matt pushed the button. His knees felt like Jell-O and he stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep them from trembling. Marvin Gaye's “Let's Get It On,” the instrumental version, was playing in the elevator, and Matt was forced to listen to an entire verse before he reached the fifth floor. The cheesy song did nothing to quell his nerves.

When the elevator doors finally opened, it was total chaos.

The floor was packed with moving bodies, people talking over other people, the conversations melding into one other, making it impossible to understand what anybody was saying. Like the lobby, the fifth floor had been recently renovated. The room was modern, filled with windows and stainless steel, nothing at all like the dreary space he'd pictured in his mind from watching too many crime shows on TV.

Craning his neck for any sign of Robert Sanchez, Matt thought he
spotted the detective in the back corner of the room, but he couldn't be certain. A moment later, a petite officer in a tailored pantsuit was at his side.

“Matt Shank?” she said, tossing her blond ponytail from one side of her shoulder to the other. “I'm Detective Kim Kellogg. The desk sergeant called up from downstairs, said to make sure you didn't get lost in the shuffle.”

“Hey.” Matt shook the hand she offered, and she squeezed his palm so hard he almost winced.

“Follow me.” Detective Kellogg took his elbow and navigated him through the pulsing room toward the back corner. She motioned him toward a desk cluttered with papers. The computer monitor was on, and the screen saver was an aquarium scene with brightly colored fish swimming across it. Matt took a seat, wondering for the seventeenth time in as many minutes whether or not he was really doing the right thing.

Sanchez was standing in front of a whiteboard filled with photographs. All of them were colored eight-by-tens of women's faces. There were two lines drawn down the whiteboard in black marker, and on the left side, the largest side, the title read “BUTCHER.” There were fourteen photographs underneath it by Matt's count. In the middle section, the title was “BUTCHER?” with a bright red question mark. Under it were three photographs. And on the right side, the smallest side, the title read “BUTCHER 2.0.” This section contained only two photographs.

Sanchez glanced over at him and held up an index finger. After a few more minutes of conversation with his team, he caught Matt's eye and jerked his head toward a door. Matt stood up and followed the detective through the door and down a hallway.

A moment later they were seated in Interrogation Room 4. It was small with a table, four chairs, and no windows. Once the door was shut behind them, Matt immediately felt claustrophobic.

“This is a bit intense,” Matt said, looking around. He noticed a camera mounted to the ceiling, but it appeared to be off.

Sanchez waved a hand. In the harsh light of the interrogation room, every line in his face seemed deeper. The man looked both wound-up and exhausted at the same time, a feeling Matt knew all too well. “Don't be concerned, I just wanted us to have a quiet place to chat. I didn't think you'd want to talk out in the main area. It's a zoo.” He glanced up at the camera. “That thing's not on.”

“What's going on?” Matt asked, though he already knew the answer. The whiteboard had made it pretty damned clear. “This place is crazy.”

“Well, it's not public yet, but it will be as of . . .” Sanchez checked his watch. “Two hours from now. The chief of police will be giving a press conference.”

“To say what?” Despite his nerves, Matt couldn't help but be curious.

“To officially confirm to the public that we're looking for the Butcher.”

“You mean the Butcher two-point-oh?” Matt said. Sanchez looked surprised, and Matt explained, “I saw it on the whiteboard.”

“Right. No. Not the Butcher two-point-oh. There is no Butcher two-point-oh. We're looking for the actual Butcher.”

“I don't understand.” Matt felt his heart stop. “What about Rufus Wedge? Are you saying he didn't do it?”

“I've already talked to your grandfather, Matt. He knows what we're going to say.”

“Holy shit,” Matt said, and his shock wasn't completely feigned. “That's going to be a . . .”

“Operation Clusterfuck,” Sanchez finished. “That's what we're calling it internally, but don't you repeat that outside of here. How's Sam?”

“I . . . she . . .” Matt stopped, not sure what to say. His mind was still reeling, and he hadn't had time to figure out how to answer questions about Sam.

“Spend some time with her if you can. She needs you right now.” Misreading Matt's expression, Sanchez added, “Because of her mother being one of the Butcher's victims.”

“Oh. Right,” Matt said.

A silence fell over the two of them and Matt wasn't sure how to fill it. His intention when he'd come to the precinct to talk to Sanchez had been to discuss PJ Wu, not the Butcher. He'd been planning to turn himself in. But now . . .

Now it seemed kind of pointless. Seattle PD clearly had bigger fish to fry. They were looking for the Butcher, for Christ's sake—the
real
Butcher. And his grandfather, the former chief of police of Seattle, was the man they were hunting. Which meant the Chief had murdered those two women from the past week, one of whom was Sam's mother's friend.

Because, of course, the Chief had also killed Sam's mother.

Operation Clusterfuck, indeed.

Matt made an instant decision. He wasn't going to say anything about PJ Wu. Because it didn't matter anymore. If they caught the Chief and nailed him for the Butcher murders—
all
of the Butcher murders—then Matt's life as he knew it would be over, anyway. His career and everything he'd worked for would be gone. Why the hell would he want to speed that up?

“So what brings you by?” Sanchez was rubbing his eyes. “Man, there might not be enough coffee in the precinct to get me through the next few days.”

“I actually just stopped in to, uh . . .” Matt frantically searched for a reason. “I have a supplier in the area, and I was just picking some things up. I thought I'd stop by and talk to you about Sam. She and I . . . we broke up last night.”

“Oh shit.” Sanchez seemed genuinely dismayed. “I didn't know that, I haven't talked to her. I haven't even been home since yesterday morning. I'm so sorry to hear that, Matt. What happened?”

“I think . . . it's like you said. The stuff with her mother. It's kind of intense. I think she wants to be on her own for a while.”

“Yeah.” The detective chewed on his lower lip as he considered his next words. “But you know what, give her some time. When all of this is done and life gets back to normal, she may have a change of heart. She loves you. She always has.”

“I haven't been the best boyfriend to her.”

“Please,” Sanchez said with a shrug. “All men feel that way. We always think we could be better, and you know what, that's a good thing. So you're a workaholic. There are worse things, trust me. Give her a few days, then revisit the conversation.”

“You think?” Matt couldn't keep the hope out of his voice. He hadn't come here expecting advice on his love life from the detective, but God knew he needed it.

Sanchez stood up, the chair scraping again the concrete floors. It was a terrible sound, like nails on a chalkboard, and both men winced. “I do think so. Our Samantha, she's a loyal girl at heart. She'll give you a second chance. Just make sure that when she does, you follow it up with actions. Show her what's different. It's not about words. From now on, it's about what you do.”

Matt stood up, too, and followed the older man out of the room. “I think I can do that.”

The detective clapped him on the back. “Give her my best. I'll be swamped for a while with the investigation. Hey, if you see your grandfather, tell him I look forward to his input.”

“His input?”

“We've brought him in as a consultant.”

Matt was taken aback, though why he was surprised, he didn't know. Of course the Chief would want in on this. “How he'd take the news when you told him that he'd caught the wrong guy?”

“Pretty good, actually,” Sanchez said. “Didn't really have much to say. Makes me wonder if the Chief already suspected . . .” He stopped, as if remembering who he was speaking to. “Anyway, I gotta get back to work. Good to see you, kid. Don't be a stranger. And remember what I said about Samantha.”

Matt left the station, waving goodbye to the overweight desk sergeant, who now appeared to regard him with a new respect.

He'd come very close to turning himself in. Thank God he hadn't. What he'd done to PJ was a terrible thing, but it really had been an accident. He would find a way, short of going to prison, to make it up to PJ's family somehow.

He was also going to win Sam back, no matter what it took. There was nothing he couldn't accomplish if he put his mind to it—hadn't he proved that already? He wanted what was rightfully his.

Which was everything.

Enough with the whining. Enough with the guilt. Maybe there was no rewind button for life, but surely Matt could change the channel.

The Chief's Cadillac was in Matt's driveway when he pulled up, and he groaned. He was in no mood to see his serial killer grandfather today, or any day, for that matter. He'd managed to avoid the Chief for the past few days. The man was bad news.

The front door was closed but unlocked.

“In the kitchen,” an authoritative voice called out.

Matt closed the door behind him and headed toward the sound. “Wasn't expecting you to drop by,” he said as he entered the kitchen. He tensed as soon as he saw his grandfather; he couldn't help it. “I need you to call first, Chief.”

“I suppose you want me to give you my key then, too.” Edward Shank was standing by the stove, stirring something in a pot that smelled pretty good. “Staking claim over what's yours, are we?”

“You gave me the house.” It was weird to see the old man cooking. In his whole life, Matt had never seen his grandfather cook anything other than hot dogs, steaks, and hamburgers on the grill. “If
you want the house back, just say so. Otherwise, yes, I would like the extra key.”

The Chief snorted. “Relax. I don't want it back. And the key's right there.” He pointed to the counter where three keys lay, one for the front door, one for the back door, and one for the garage. “All yours, kid.”

“What are you making?” Matt asked, although he already knew the answer.

“
Champorado
. I had a craving.”

“I didn't realize you knew how to make it.”
Champorado
was a chocolate rice porridge, typically eaten for breakfast. “Need help?”

“I've watched your
lola
make it enough times. I think I can handle it. Besides, I like her version better than yours.”

“My version
is
her version,” Matt said, his tone clipped. “Who do you think taught me?”

“Easy.” The Chief gave him a look. “So testy today. Your grandmother makes it best. I'm sure you can't disagree with that.”

“It's the same recipe, Chief. Even Sam can make it.”

“You gave Samantha the recipe?” His grandfather frowned. “You shouldn't have done that. It's a family recipe. Samantha isn't family.”

That annoyed Matt even more. “Stop it. Lola loved Sam.”

“Love has nothing to do with it, my boy,” Edward said. He stirred some more, then dipped the spoon in and tasted it. Satisfied, he placed the lid on the pot and turned back to Matt. “If Marisol had wanted Sam to have the recipe, don't you think she would have given it to her at some point?”

“I think she would have, but she died so suddenly.”

“That's true, she did.” The Chief was quiet for a moment. “Those stairs . . . you oughta think about putting carpet on those stairs, Matthew. They're very slippery. I never got around to doing that and look what happened to your grandmother.”

“Did you kill her too, Chief?”

Edward turned back to the stove. “That's a helluva thing for a grandson to ask his grandfather, kid. What's gotten into you today?”