Slaughtered Read online

  The Texter

  Fallen homicide detective, Jack Slaughter, closed the door on the home where his perfect family had been brutally snatched from him. Moving across the city, he works as a private investigator to fund his own investigation into what happened to his family—who killed his little girl, Zoë, and where is his wife, Leah?

  Every three month for the last three years, Jack receives a simple text telling him where he can find his missing wife. There’s a body at each location, but none of them are Leah.

  Jack hates missing person’s cases, but they’re his bread and butter. He only takes the case to find Carl Boyd's missing wife because the details of her disappearance closely match Leah’s. He hopes by finding Bonnie Boyd, he'll find his own wife.

  The Butcher

  Following the leads in the Bonnie Boyd case, Jack discovers that for the last three years, someone has been killing women all over the city, a fact Jack’s ex-partner and still best friend, Ray Navarro, has neglected to tell him. The city has a serial killer and officials haven’t been able to find a single lead on the person they’ve dubbed The Butcher.

  Could Bonnie Boyd’s disappearance be linked to The Butcher? More important, was Leah one of The Butcher’s victims? And could he have gone so far as to murder a child?

  With every clue Jack weaves together, the more his own life unravels.

  SLAUGHTERED

  Jack Slaughter Thrillers, # 1

  K.A. Lugo

  Published by Tirgearr Publishing

  Author Copyright 2018 K.A. Lugo

  Cover Art: Cora Graphics (www.coragraphics.it)

  Editor: Sharon Pickrel

  Proofreader: Lucy Felthouse

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not given to you for the purpose of review, then please log into the publisher’s website and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting our author’s hard work.

  This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  Publishers and authors are always happy to exchange their book for an honest review. If you have obtained a copy of this book without purchase or from the publisher or author, please consider leaving a review on one of the vendor sites, as reviews help authors market their work more effectively. Thank you.

  DEDICATION

  Always for Peter

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  There are so many people who helped make this book possible.

  First, I want to thank all of my family and friends who supported me through this project. Going from romance to murder is a big step, and I appreciate the handholding along the way! Especially my husband, who’s been my rock through this project. He was subjected to my rants and raves from the moment I typed Chapter One and right to The End, and still let me lean on him.

  I want to thank three special ladies: my editor, Sharon Pickrel, who was patient with me every step of the way; my proofreader, Lucy Felthouse, whose fine-toothed comb teased out the final tangles; and to Cora Graphics for creating the perfect cover for this book and set the theme for the series. Thank you, ladies!

  I also want to thank my wonderful team of beta readers, each who gave me unique and helpful advice on how to improve my work—Charlotte Howard, Dellani Oakes, Kat Simons, and Carol Warham—all amazing writers in their own right.

  A special thanks goes out to Detective Adam Richardson at Writer’s Detective: www.writersdetective.com. I can’t say enough about this wonderful experience. His professional advice and inspirational words have meant so much. Anyone turning to crime writing should tune into his amazing podcasts. And join his group on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/groups/writersdetective.

  A big shout out to the wonderful folks on my Facebook author page. I put out a call for help naming some characters in this book, and so many wonderful people chimed in with their suggestions. Unfortunately, I couldn’t use them all, but these ladies gave me two of the names I did go with (Violet and Jasmine): Laurie Atchison, Kimme Browne, Kandis Caringer, Sharon Caringer, Candy Hake, A.D. Keller, Brandy Messenger, Evin Bail O’Keeffe, Teresa Eland Reitnauer, Linda Rowswell, and Patricia E. Sharp. Thanks so much, ladies! I know I can always count on my readers.

  Finally, to my readers: To my new readers, thank you for giving my books a chance. And to those following me over to thrillers . . . welcome to the dark side!

  SLAUGHTERED

  Jack Slaughter Thrillers, # 1

  K.A. Lugo

  CHAPTER ONE

  San Francisco, California

  Wednesday

  "Is it her? Is it Leah?"

  Jack Slaughter’s heart hammered a hole in his chest as he watched the rail-thin form of the newly-made detective, Paul Travers, stride toward him. If he could read the man’s expression and body language, Travers seemed more amused by Jack’s presence than annoyed.

  When Jack started lifting the crime scene tape to duck under it, Travers pushed him back with a firm hand on his shoulder.

  "You gotta stop turning up like this, Jackie." Travers’ flippant voice grated on Jack, almost as much as the man’s ruddy complexion and brassy hair. His voice edged on being just a bit too high and too nasal to want to listen to for long. Jack didn’t know how his best friend and former partner, Ray Navarro, could stand it.

  With a hand still on his shoulder, Travers nudged Jack back. He made a shooing motion with his other hand. "Why don’t you just go on home and let the professionals do their jobs?"

  Travers’ condescending tone made Jack want to punch him in the throat.

  "Where’s Ray?" He followed Travers’ gaze over the man’s shoulder and saw Ray standing over the victim’s body several yards away. It appeared to have been deliberately positioned at the foot of a tall pine at the dead-end of the road. "I want to talk to him."

  Travers caught his gaze and looked back. "Go home, Jackie. You don’t belong here." He emphasized the word you. They both knew why Jack was no longer Ray’s partner, nor on the force.

  Ignoring the little pissant, Jack shouted over the man’s shoulder. "Ray!" His friend looked up and gave a quick wave to acknowledge he’d seen Jack. He finished up with a CSI, then made his way over.

  "What are you doing here, Jack?" When Ray reached up to shake hands, Jack palmed his cell phone into Ray’s.

  "I told him to go home . . . partner."

  In Jack’s opinion, Travers seemed to take every opportunity to rub it in that he now occupied Jack’s former position. It didn’t escape his notice that Ray also cringed at the word partner. Jack knew his leaving the force had been a blow to his friend too.

  He gazed directly into Ray’s eyes, struggling to keep the anxiety he felt from his voice. "I got another one."

  "Jack—" Ray sighed, gazing down at the phone’s screen to the open text—Spreckels Lake.

  Since the very first text he’d received—You’ll find your wife in the Panhandle—there had never been anything more than the next location. The texts came every three months, as if on schedule. Every one of them led Jack to a body, but none of them were Leah. If the texter was intent on driving him crazy, it was working. But he couldn’t risk that the guy was crying wolf. Even after three years, Jack still showed up . . . just in case.

  Ray handed back the phone then threw his hands onto his hips. Jack could almost hear the gears working in his friend’s head as he gazed around Spreckels Lake with obvious concentration. r />
  This was a beautiful location. Jack remembered bringing his family here but pushed the memory from his mind. He gazed away from the water, forcing himself to breathe. He knew the answer, but he had to ask it anyway. "Is it her?" Even he heard the waver in his voice.

  "You gotta let me do my job, man. You gotta trust me. If this was Leah, you know I’d tell you."

  "I know, but—"

  "No buts, Jackie," Travers cut in, edging up closer to him as if posturing. "You’re not a cop anymore. You don’t belong here. Go home."

  Jack stared at Travers with a look he hoped said, go ahead and touch me again, pissant, I dare you. He must have got his point across because Travers hesitated before stepping away, his back noticeably erect.

  "I’m sorry. Paul’s right. You don’t need to be here. It’s not her." Ray’s voice remained calm. Jack knew the tone, as he often used it to try defusing situations with suspects and distraught families.

  "You’re just a distraction, Jackie."

  "Paul!" Ray’s warning tone made Travers jump, as it did those around them.

  In his heart, Jack knew when a victim’s family turned up on a crime scene, or tried insinuating themselves into an investigation, it only disrupted the process. More times than he could count, the time he’d spent dealing with the family would have been better served on the investigation.

  Jack shrank away from the crime scene tape, his energy evaporating. "You’re right, Ray. I’m sorry. I just can’t risk that the one time I don’t respond to the text, it really will be Leah."

  "I know, Jack. I know." Ray put his hand on Jack’s shoulder this time. "But this isn’t her. Go ho—" Ray stopped short. They both knew Jack hadn’t been home since that night three years ago. "Go back to your place. I’ll stop by after my shift. We’ll talk then, okay?"

  Jack looked past Ray’s shoulder to the lifeless body. He watched as technicians carefully placed a protective tarp over the victim, telling him the CSIs had retrieved all the scene evidence they needed and now waited for the coroner’s removal.

  Dumping the body at the lake had been a bold move. Even at this dead-end in the road, Golden Gate Park attracted a huge number of people, visitors and homeless alike. Someone had to have seen something.

  "Can you use an extra hand?"

  "Sorry, Jack. You know I can’t. I gotta get back. I’ll see you later, at your place."

  "Don’t bother." Jack didn’t have to look back to know Ray watched to make sure he was leaving.

  From behind him, he heard Travers ask, "What’s with that guy?"

  "Lay off, Paul," Ray said. "You’d react the same way if your daughter had been murdered and your wife was still missing."

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I can't remember the last time I’ve been to confession."

  Jack knelt with his hands clenched before him, his head lowered in submission, though it felt more like defeat. Had his eyes been open and his gaze lifted, he would have only seen the shadowy figure of Father Nicholas on the other side of the lattice screen partitioning them.

  "I remember, Jack." The old priest’s deep, graveled voice softened here in the confessional, but the normal timbre came from a more streetwise, albeit aged, man. Jack knew the man had come to the priesthood in his later years, but didn't know much of his younger life, nor what had brought him to the church so late in his life. If forced to guess, the priest had to be in his eighties. "It was the night you lost your family, and you came to me, asking for forgiveness for an act you intended to commit."

  Jack recalled everything from that night. He and Leah had been frequent parishioners of Saint Gabriel’s Church, just a few blocks from their house in the Sunset District, so it had been natural to seek out Father Nicholas in his greatest time of need. While he no longer attended mass—how could God have allowed this to happen to his family? —Jack returned to the church for the priest’s counsel when he received a text.

  In recent months, Father Nicholas moved from Saint Gabriel’s to the Shrine of Saint Francis of Assisi in the city’s Little Italy district. From where he now lived above Tommy Wong’s Chinese Restaurant, the twin spires of the church stretched above the district, as if beckoning parishioners into the Church’s welcoming arms. He preferred steering clear of the Sunset District and his former home, so the priest’s move to a closer church wasn’t a boon Jack was about to question.

  "You received another text." It wasn’t a question. They both knew what these regular visits were about. For a moment, the priest let the silence linger between them. Jack hoped the quiet would calm his racing thoughts and lift the constant weight he felt pressing down on him. "Jack," the priest finally said, "would you rather we just talk, or do you now require that absolution and penance?"

  "I haven’t found him yet, Father. I just don’t know where else to go."

  He couldn’t go home, and he couldn’t immediately go back to Wong’s. Every time he stepped into his apartment-cum-office was like a slap in the face at how horrible his life had become. Even though he no longer attended mass, the church offered the quiet solitude his mind needed after being turned away time and again from crime scenes the texter had sent him to.

  "Come on." The priest’s arthritic hand slid the shutter closed over the partition, cutting off the conversation. Jack heard the door creak open and the man step out.

  Jack stood and parted the curtain over his side of the confessional and met the elderly priest beside the pews. His already small frame seemed more hunched since Jack had last seen him, but the man was still spry for his age and moved without the use of a cane or walker.

  Silently, the priest led him through the church to a door opposite the altar. Jack knew where they were going. He followed the old man through the door, down a short hallway, and into the priest’s office. Jack entered and threw himself into one of the two stuffed leather chairs in front of the desk.

  "I assume you walked up." The priest closed the door before going to a small cabinet at the edge of the room. He withdrew a bottle and two glasses.

  "I did, Father," Jack said, acknowledging their ritual.

  "You know it’s Nick when you’re in my office."

  Nick poured them each a short measure of whiskey, handing one to Jack with arthritic fingers.

  After three years of similar meetings, he and Nick had developed a relationship that went beyond that of priest and parishioner. Sure, Ray was his best friend, but Jack always felt he had to hold back part of himself. It was the nature of being a cop—an absolute dedication that didn’t allow for weakness, on or off the job, which invariably spilled into any relationship that evolved between partners. But they still had their secrets. Until that night, Leah had been his only confessor. Now Nick filled that role.

  Ray had also been there for Jack when he needed him. Ray and his wife, Maria, had taken him in until he could get his shit together and decide what to do with the rest of his life. Jack’s family and upbringing had pretty much dictated his future, until the unthinkable happened. Not in a million years would he have ever anticipated his life taking this kind of twisted turn.

  Ray had been, and still was, a steadfast friend. But Jack needed more from a confidant. Nick offered that kind of friendship. Jack knew without hesitation that whatever was said between himself and Nick, even here in his office, the priest would take to his grave.

  Jack took the offered glass and watched Nick slowly lower himself into the opposite chair.

  "So . . . do you want to tell me what’s going on?" Nick asked.

  "Same shit. The bastard sent me to Spreckels Lake this time."

  "And it wasn’t her."

  Jack shook his head, focusing on the amber liquid warming in his hands. The scent of it slowly filled his nostrils. He could almost smell the history rising off the Jameson 12 Year Old whiskey. He knew he’d only get the one, so he waited until the time was right before emptying the glass.

  "It never is, but I keep going. Just in case," he said,
quickly glancing up at Nick. "You know?"

  "What—" Nick hesitated. "What would happen if you didn’t go?"

  Jack chuffed sarcastically. "With my luck, that would be the time it was her and I wasn’t there."

  "But if it was her, at least you could put all this behind you. Why drive yourself crazy like this?"

  Nick was right. Over the last three years, Jack had beat himself up many times over the same conundrum. His brows pressed together and he turned his gaze back to the glass in his hands.

  "I don’t want her to be dead."

  "Of course, you don’t."

  "What I mean is that I already know the bodies I’m being sent to aren’t Leah’s. I go with that knowledge. But until she’s found, in my mind . . . in my heart . . . she’s still alive."

  "And by going to all those locations, you’re just confirming your belief, is that it?"

  Jack nodded. "I suppose."

  "You know, Jack, for a while now, I’ve wanted to ask you something."

  "What?" He met Nick’s gaze and held it.

  "Have you ever thought that Leah might have had something to do with what happened that night?"

  "No!" Jack glared at the priest. Anger instantly burned his skin. That question had gone through his own mind. Once. He knew in his heart Leah would never harm their daughter. Or their dog, Trax, who’d also lost his life that night. What happened in his house had been beyond anything any sane person could have done. And most certainly not Leah.

  "Think about it from a practical standpoint. There hasn’t been a ransom note. There aren’t any clues in the house. It’s been three years, and you’re no closer to finding her, or finding Zoë’s killer, than you were from day one."