Slaughtered Read online

  Emotion crossed over Nick’s face—worry tinged with reality, but mostly honest concern.

  "Don’t you think I haven’t already thought the same thing?" His vision blurred, and he blinked repeatedly until his sight cleared. "Leah had the gentlest soul I’ve ever known. For fuck’s sake, she couldn’t even kill mice that came in off the beach. She set live traps and walked them across the road to the beach to set them free. Kill Zoë, and Trax? No way."

  "I had to ask. I’m sorry I’ve upset you."

  "It’s okay. I just—"

  Just what? His body shook with helplessness and a sense of things spinning out of control.

  "You’re still struggling with your guilt, Jack. You know there was nothing you could have done to prevent what happened."

  "I should have been there, Nick. I could have been home earlier." Jack’s voice hitched.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Nick calmly gazing at him. Were priests trained to remain composed around people who were on the verge of insanity? He was on that knife blade. Every goddamn day.

  "Were you ever home earlier?" For a moment, silence floated between them. "And how much earlier? Five minutes or an hour? Who’s to say this wouldn’t have happened on another night?"

  Jack scrubbed a shaking fist across his forehead, trying to stop the building pressure there. "How many times do you think I’ve beat myself up over that?" He shot his gaze back at the priest, unintentional anger in his voice as he spoke. "Had he already tried on other nights? If I had been home earlier that night, would he have tried again on another night? Was he going to keep trying until he could finally get in when I wasn’t there? Or was he really after me, but took his anger out on my family instead?" He stopped short; he was now practically yelling at the priest.

  His heart pounded hard in his chest, nearly robbing him of breath. The frustration of being so out of control was almost too much to bear. He gazed deeply into the glass in his hands, as if somehow the whiskey’s amber depths foretold his future. How much more could he take before it became too much?

  Not for the first time, he swallowed hard at the thought of eating his gun. He couldn’t—not before he found Leah and administered his own justice on his daughter’s killer.

  "Jack." Nick’s too-calm voice seemed to echo in the quiet room. "Don’t let this pull you into the darkness."

  Had the priest read his mind? Jack downed the whiskey in one go. "Too late."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Thursday

  A sharp sound beat inside his head, jarring him from a fitful slumber. Jack lay on the tattered, old sofa set along one wall in the front room of the untidy apartment that doubled as his office.

  He hadn’t planned on living in the office space he’d rented above Tommy Wong’s Chinese Restaurant, but he couldn’t go home. Or rather, back to the house where he’d lost his family.

  In an odd turn of events, he was home. He’d grown up in San Francisco’s Little Italy district. Wong’s was located on the corner of Columbus and Broadway at the end of a row of Italian restaurants, where Little Italy bordered with Chinatown. Tommy was a longtime local boy too; they’d gone to school and played together as kids. When he found out Jack was in need, he offered the apartment for a song. Living upstairs had its perks. One of which was all-you-can-eat free food—no one messed with Tommy when there was a former cop on the property; he was paid in as much food as he wanted, though lately Tommy was getting the better end of the deal.

  The city center location was ideal for attracting clients. And he couldn’t beat the view. Had the worn, thin curtains been open, he would see the Transamerica Pyramid, known locally as the Trans-Am Building, to the right; the Bay Bridge directly ahead; and across the street was the famous Condor Club.

  To the left through an angled corner window, the twin spires of Father Nick’s church jutted up behind a triangular shaped building that occupied its own block.

  And just outside his windows was the Language of the Birds sculpture by Goggin and Keehn, a collection of twenty-three suspended books that looked like birds taking flight. At night, small lights automatically switched on so passersby could read the text on the pages. The display was just one thing drawing tourists to this part of the city. Another was the bold jazz mural dominating the entire front of Wong’s.

  Jack had wanted to find a place somewhere in the city where he and Leah didn’t have history but found it nearly impossible. The familiarity of Little Italy had seemed a safe bolt hole, at the time, but he hadn’t considered the number of tourists just outside his door.

  In reality, he probably should have just left the city, perhaps for the more tranquil Monterey two hours south along the coastal route. He couldn’t leave. Not until his family’s case was solved.

  Right now though, he didn’t care where he was. He just wanted to lie in the relatively quiet darkness and forget. But even on the top floor, light and noise from the busy city streets filtered into the room through the thin curtains; the heat of the day was trapped behind closed windows, making the scent of garlic and stale Asian spices cloy at his sinuses.

  As it often happened when he was turned away from crime scenes the texter had lured him to, memories of that night slammed into him like a wrecking ball. And as usual, he tried pushing them away with liquor. Not the good stuff offered by John Jameson, but the cheapest stuff he could find with the highest alcoholic content.

  His head pounded. Ignoring it, he let the whiskey fuzz envelop him again, and fell back into the darkness . . . into his dark dreams.

  Until that night, Jack had been a creature of habit. Every night after work, he’d called Leah, letting her know he was on his way home. On arrival, he’d park his Harley in the small garage and make his way into the house through the internal kitchen door where he’d greet his family. Their dog, Trax, rushed to greet him as Jack made his way across the kitchen to kiss Leah. He missed being away from her while he was at work and made sure his kiss told her how happy he was to be home. Having outgrown her highchair, Zoë would be in her booster seat at the head of the table in the small dining area where she could watch Leah prepare dinner. Zoë giggled with delight at the sight of her daddy coming through the door and kissing Mommy and then collapsed into new fits of giggles when he lifted her from her chair to spin her around and kiss her cheeks and blow bubbles on her neck.

  Even after the seemingly endless trail of horrible cases crossing his desk on a daily basis, seeing his family at the end of a long day always made the work he did worthwhile. Despite what he saw on the job, he loved his job. He would do everything in his power to protect Leah and Zoë, and to do that, he had to be the best damn cop he could be. His many citations were testaments to that goal.

  They’d had the perfect life.

  They say you never remember trauma in great detail, but Jack remembered everything about that night. Every last second. If it wasn’t bad enough the memories were etched into his soul, Jack was forced to relive it every time that damn texter sent him on a wild goose chase.

  On that night traffic had been light, so he’d arrived home within half an hour to their small Victorian in the Oceanside area of the Sunset District. The night played out in Jack’s drowsy, whiskey-fogged memory.

  Leah’s 1965 pale yellow Mustang had been pulled over in their driveway so he could get his black Harley Fatboy into the narrow single-car garage that was located under the living room. He’d smelled Leah’s homemade marinara as he climbed the stairs leading up to the kitchen door, but he couldn’t get through. He’d had to push against the weight pressing from the other side of the kitchen door. He looked down and saw Trax’s shaggy, dark tail. He would have chuckled at the retired service dog, knowing he often found places to sleep that may have been comfortable for him though not so convenient for those around him, but his tail lay unmoving in a dark puddle on the floor.

  Jack pushed into the kitchen, smearing blood across the floor. A distinct metallic scent tinged the air, mingling with the contents of bur
nt marinara still simmering on the stove.

  His cop instincts collided with instant panic as he surveyed the scene, scanning from the lifeless dog across the bloodied floor and into the alcove where Zoë sat slumped in her highchair.

  At that moment, everything seemed to move in slow motion.

  His heart had squeezed into his throat when he raced across the short space to his daughter and lifted her face in his palms. Her head lolled to one side, and thick, warm blood oozed over his fingers from the slash in her tiny neck.

  At once, grief and anger flooded his veins like acid. Loath to leave Zoë alone, he forced himself to search the house for Leah, but she wasn’t there. Anywhere.

  It took every ounce of effort Jack had in him to not disturb the crime scene. With all his heart, he wanted to pull Zoë from her highchair and cradle her in his arms one last time, but he couldn’t. She was dead. Those who would come needed a pristine crime scene.

  When his colleagues arrived a short time later, they’d found him crouched in a corner of the living room and covered in blood, wailing as no man ever should.

  The pounding started again. Jack rolled toward the sofa-back, folding his arm over his ear to block out the noise. As the knocking persisted, he realized it wasn’t coming from inside his skull. Someone was at the door.

  Ray was early.

  Wait. That’s not right. Jack had told him not to bother coming by after his shift, but Ray was a good friend and showed up anyway. Last night. As usual, their talk had been light and their drinking heavy, which was why Jack found himself still wearing the same clothes as yesterday.

  He glanced at his watch through blurry eyes—8:50 a.m.—then at the door. Had Ray found something at the crime scene after all that pointed to Leah? He launched himself off the sofa and was at the door in a handful of unsteady strides.

  "You Jack Slaughter?" he thought he heard the man say through the sudden pounding in his head from standing too fast.

  Jack recoiled and shielded his eyes from the shaft of light shooting through the open door. The shock of it after being in the darkened room for so long momentarily blinded him; the pain of it ricocheted through his eyes and into his brain. And the pungent scent of garlic from the neighboring Stinking Rose blended with the smell of greasy Chinese food from Wong’s reminded him he hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning’s toast and coffee. Nausea flooded through him, as bile threatened to erupt from the back of his throat.

  As his gaze adjusted to the morning light and the throbbing in his head and stomach ebbed, he gazed at the unremarkable man on the landing. If Jack were asked to ID him, he could only say the man was of average weight for his height, muted brown hair, receding hairline and graying temples, and rumpled casual clothes—tan cotton trousers, blue checked shirt, generic brown sneaker-type shoes. There were no dashing good looks about him, no penchant for jewelry, nor any brand name garments. He was what one could consider the ‘Average Joe.’ A very tired-looking Average Joe.

  "Depends who’s asking," Jack said.

  "I was told he could be found at this address."

  Jack glanced at the crude letters painted on the outside of his door—Jack Slaughter, Private Investigations and Security—then back to Average Joe. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see which of the two men was the private dick and which was just the dick.

  Jack turned back into the room, leaving the door open. Average Joe could enter or leave. His choice. Shit! He chose to follow.

  "My name’s Carl Boyd."

  "Good for you, Carl Boyd." Jack flopped down onto the sofa, putting his back to the man, and closed his eyes. If Boyd would just close the door on his way out, Jack could resume feeling sorry for himself, and hope the next time he slept it wasn’t a nightmare he saw, but his family in happier times.

  It wouldn’t happen though. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep, or good dreams, in three years.

  "The police can’t, or won’t, do anything." When Jack only grunted, the man persisted. "I was told you’re the best investigator in the city. Please. I need your help."

  The best? He doubted it. He’d burned too many bridges before he left the force—left before they could fire him. "Sure. I’m the best, all right," he mumbled to himself. Then louder, so the man could hear him, "Who sent you?"

  "Detective Ray Navarro."

  Ray hadn’t said anything last night.

  "Why did Ray send you?"

  He heard the man fidgeting. "It’s my wife."

  Oh, no. Did Ray think by sending him a cheating wife case it would keep him busy enough to stay away from crime scenes? Jack saw a lot of infidelity cases since he’d changed careers. Cheating wives or missing husbands—most turned up in one of the seedy motels around the city, caught in the act with a lover, or getting their freak on with a hooker. Or exploring their sexual options in other ways. This was San Francisco, after all. By the very nature of the city, her people tended to be either very open-minded, or very closed. By the looks of Carl Boyd, nothing about him screamed adventure.

  "Sorry, I’m not taking cheating spouse cases at the moment."

  "She’s not cheating on me."

  Jack scrubbed his palms over his tired eyes and rolled over to sit up, resting his elbows on his knees. Like it or not, he was fully awake now.

  "Do you know for a fact she’s not cheating? That’s the number one reason a wife leaves her husband. She gets tired of—" He quickly took in Average Joe Carl Boyd again before forcing himself to be more tactful. "She gets tired and wants a change. At first, it’s a fling in the afternoon while you’re at work, and then she falls in love. She still loves you, but you can’t give her what she needs, so she leaves. Takes her stuff, leaves a note, end of story."

  Boyd shifted from one foot onto the other. "It’s not like that. She’s just . . . gone."

  "What do you mean gone?"

  "As in gone. There was no note. She didn’t take anything. Her clothes are still in the closet. Her car is still in the driveway. When I got home from work, dinner was still in the oven, but she wasn’t there, and no one had seen her."

  That got his attention. Jack shot up from the sofa. "Be right back," he said before disappearing through the door into the backroom.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A few minutes later, Jack reemerged into the front room, his damp hair curling at his neck and wearing a fresh change of clothes—a fitted white T-shirt, black jeans, and black socks. He rarely bothered with shoes when he was ho . . . here.

  He carried a cup of dark coffee in each hand. Pulling the door closed with his toes, he proceeded to his desk between a pair of wide windows.

  Setting down the cups, he waved to a chair in front of the desk. "Please, Mr. Boyd." The man moved from where he stood in front of one of the windows. While he’d waited, Boyd had slid open the curtain to look out, but now seated himself in front of the desk. Jack pushed a cup toward the man before turning to open the other curtain. Light flooded in, nearly bleaching out everything on the desktop with early morning light. Jack pulled a string at the side of the window and dropped down a blind from its recess until it blocked out most of the sun’s glare while still brightening the room.

  "Sorry about earlier," Jack said, rifling through the stacks of papers on the desk to find his notebook—the traditional little black notebook he, and all cops, always carried on the job. He spotted a pen under a folder and pulled it free, checking to make sure it still had ink in it. "You caught me on a bad day."

  "It’s okay. I understand. I imagine you must have a hard time finding good ones these days." Jack shot a glare at the man. "You were all over the news a few years ago. Sorry I didn’t recognize you before. You’ve changed."

  "Let’s talk about your wife." Jack looked around the desk for his cell phone, then remembered it was in his jacket pocket. He rose and went to where the jacket lay on the floor beside the sofa next to last night’s bottle.

  Even before he'd decided to set up his investigative business, he made sure to eq
uip himself with the best his money could afford. For him, it was always the latest Samsung Note series. It always had extended video time with clear imagery, and the camera feature had better resolution than his traditional DSLR. Both features were essential for investigative work. Quick connectivity kept him online with the department, but especially with his family. And he would never complain about the added feature—the stylus. On the very rare occasion he'd been without his notebook, the note-taking feature kept him rolling.

  He grabbed out the Samsung from his jacket pocket and reseated himself at the desk.

  "I hope you don’t mind. I like to record my meetings."

  "I don’t know," Boyd said apprehensively. "Why?"

  "It’s just in case I miss something in my notes," he added, tapping the notepad before him.

  Boyd hesitated. "I suppose it’s all right."

  Jack pulled up the voice recording app on the menu and switched it on before placing the phone on the desk between himself and Boyd. Before beginning the interview, he made a verbal note of the date and time, Boyd’s name, and the reason for the meeting.

  "Let’s begin."

  Boyd kept the cup in his hands after taking the first sip. He didn’t settle back in the chair, but nervously perched on the edge of it, as if waiting to launch himself off it. "Where do I start? I’ve never . . . I mean, this has never happened before. I don’t know—"

  "It’s okay. Start at the beginning. Tell me about her. What’s her name?"

  Boyd set the cup on the desk and stood up, withdrawing his wallet from a back pocket. With shaking hands, he rifled through it then thrust a photograph onto the desk before reseating himself. "That’s Bonnie. You can keep it if you need it."

  Jack’s gaze flicked between the beautiful woman in the photo and Boyd and back again. Bonnie could have been the Saint Pauli Girl with her long, wavy blonde hair, generous smile, and even more generous tits. "Wow!"