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For Darren
APRIL 25, 1985
It had once been a lovely apartment building, but the crackheads had changed all that. Graffiti covered the old brick walls and the front doors were badly in need of a new coat of paint. Most of the windows—the ones that weren’t broken—had mismatched bedsheets as curtains, and the courtyard in front of the building looked and smelled like a garbage dump.
The light Seattle rain drizzled down steadily, covering Captain Edward Shank’s face with a fine mist that felt good. Twenty feet away from the apartment’s entrance, he stood still in the dark, feeling secure, if a little warm, under the weight of the Kevlar vest hugging his torso. Several other police officers flanked him on either side, and though they weren’t touching, he could feel the tension in their bodies cutting through the cool night air.
He spoke to them in a low, commanding voice and gripped his weapon tighter. “Nobody moves till I move.”
The only light in the area was weak and yellow, seeping from a bare bulb over the doorway to the building. A striped cat with missing patches of fur moved quietly through the shadows and into the walkway light, pausing to sniff the air. The front door to the apartment building opened and the cat scampered away. A middle-aged man, potbellied and wearing a too-tight wifebeater-style tank top and a pair of saggy denim shorts, stepped out.
Edward Shank moved forward, aiming his weapon at the man’s chest. “Rufus Wedge!” His voice, strong and authoritative, carried easily into the quiet night. “This is Captain Edward Shank from the Seattle Police Department. Don’t move. You’re under arrest. Get on your knees and place your hands in the air.”
Startled, Wedge turned in the direction of Edward’s voice. His left hand crept toward his back pocket.
Without hesitation, Edward fired. So did the four other police officers beside him.
The gunfire propelled Rufus Wedge backward. The man hit the door hard before slumping to the ground, bright spots of blood immediately appearing in several places across his torso, stark against the white cotton of his shirt. The man’s grizzled jaw went slack, the few stray hairs from his comb-over falling across his pink, shiny forehead in moist wisps. As the light went out of his eyes, the dull yellow bulb above him cast a golden, almost angelic glow on his face.
An interesting contradiction. Edward almost felt guilty.
Almost.
“We got him, Captain,” someone said. Edward recognized the voice but didn’t turn to look. He couldn’t bring himself to take his eyes off Rufus Wedge, so he nodded without averting his gaze. “We finally nailed the Butcher. Thank fucking Christ.”
From somewhere in the dark, the striped cat yowled.
The officers around Edward rushed forward to check the man’s vitals, as was protocol, guns still drawn. Their captain stayed behind, unmoving, under the cover of the darkness, his eyes fixed on Wedge’s dead body.
Rufus Wedge, otherwise known as the Beacon Hill Butcher, had been the most wanted man in the Pacific Northwest for a long time. The manhunt was now over.
Holstering his weapon, Edward let out a long, slow breath. Wiping his brow, slick from the rain, he stepped forward into the light toward the dead man. Wedge stared up at him with blank, glossy eyes.
“No more now,” Edward said quietly. He wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular, except maybe himself. “No more.”
1
PRESENT DAY
The ornately carved 1890 Mathushek upright piano was the only thing left in Edward’s house, and here it would stay. There was no way to bring it with him to the old folks’ home, because the goddamned piano had to weigh at least five hundred pounds.
He would miss it.
Once upon a time, the Mathushek lived in a saloon somewhere in Texas. It was originally a player piano that could belt out seventeen different tunes without anyone’s help, which must have seemed like magic back then. The saloon closed after a Mexican gang shot the place up, and the piano was brought to the owner’s house, where it stayed until he died of a heart attack while fucking his mistress, a former singer in the saloon. The mistress then inherited the piano, and it stayed in her family until her adult grandchildren decided to sell it at auction. By then, the Mathushek was in terrible shape, dented and scratched and out of tune, and it had taken almost a year to restore it to its original beauty.
Or so the story went, according to the man who’d refurbished it and sold it to Edward Shank thirty years ago for twice what it was probably worth. The guy could have been lying, as most salesmen did. Anyway, who gave a rat’s ass? It didn’t matter now.
The bay window in the living room where the piano sat had a clear view of Poppy Lane, and Edward stood in front of it, smoking a cherry-flavored cigar, watching, waiting. He didn’t have much time left in this house, and after fifty years as its sole owner, the thought wasn’t pleasant. He didn’t want to move out, but at eighty years old, the house was becoming harder to keep up. He was still in good shape, but the fall that had bruised his hip badly a month ago hadn’t helped anything. All good things had to come to an end, and while this was something he understood well, it was also something he dreaded. He could see a faint reflection of himself in the clean window. Some days he simply didn’t recognize the thinning mop of white hair and leathery lined face staring back at him.
His hand, still strong but dotted with sun spots, stroked the burl walnut wood of the antique piano lovingly. He traced the rose carvings with a finger that ached from arthritis, his bad hip throbbing slightly, though he refused to sit down. Edward would miss this house. He would miss this piano. Memories of his late wife and daughter were everywhere, and he could still recall the fresh smell of their apple-scented shampoo when he kissed the backs of their heads as they played “Heart and Soul” on the beautiful Mathushek. A lifetime ago. In just a few hours, he would be an official resident of the Sweetbay Village Retirement Residence, and from then on the most exciting thing in his life would be bingo tournaments on Saturday afternoons, and Mac ’n’ Cheese Wednesdays.
He didn’t know whether to kill himself, or someone else.
He sighed. Maybe he’d go for a drive later this week, and go hunting. Hunting used to always cheer him up. He still had his old cabin down in Raymond, though he hadn’t been there in years and had no idea what shape it was in. One day those two hundred acres of densely wooded forest in Raymond would be Matthew’s, too.
But not yet.
Moving away from the window, Edward glanced at the wall above the piano. It was bare now, save for the little scuffs left behind from the various framed photos that used to hang there. He’d already brought all of his pictures over to the old folks’ home—sorry, retirement community for active seniors—but he knew the exact spot where his favorite photo used to hang. It was taken the day the mayor of Seattle awarded him a medal for taking down the notorious Beacon Hill Butcher back in April of ’85. The day Captain Edward Shank had become a hero and Seattle legend. The case, nationally known, had almost single-handedly made his career. You didn’t become chief of police for writing speeding tickets and catching petty thieves. The Butcher had been the case of a lifetime, and he still got requests for interviews about it every now and again.
Though he was alone, Edward grinned, running his tongue over the smooth white dentures that made up his smile.
There was a sizable dent in the corner of the piano, and his sore finger traced the rough edges
where the wood had chipped and cracked. The dent hadn’t been there long, and it was a damned shame it existed at all, because otherwise the instrument was in wonderful condition. Marisol, his late wife, had seen to that. She’d been diligent about keeping the Mathushek in tip-top shape, moisturizing it regularly with wood polish and hiring a professional piano tuner once a year.
The ivory keys were slightly worn in places, but still soft to the touch. Edward could play the piano a little, though the arthritis was making it harder. Taking a seat at the leather bench, he rested his cigar on the ceramic ashtray on top of the piano and flexed his fingers. He made it halfway through Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata before his aching fingers forced him to stop.
Disappointing, but not a big deal. Marisol had been the musician in the family, a graduate of Juilliard and a pianist in the Seattle symphony for a few years. She’d also taught piano right up until the day she died, and Edward had always been content to be her captive audience. Their daughter Lucy had been talented too, only she hadn’t lived long enough to develop her mother’s skill.
His hip burned and he rubbed it gingerly. He stood carefully by the window once more, watching, waiting, six-foot-four frame erect and ready. If anyone strolling down the sidewalk looked up, he or she would see a sprightly eighty-year-old man standing ramrod straight in the window, dressed in a plaid button-down shirt and pressed trousers, cigar smoke swirling around neatly combed silver hair. One must always present himself well. First impressions mattered.
But Poppy Lane was quiet on this rainy Sunday afternoon, at least until his grandson Matthew arrived with the U-Haul and his friends. Matthew was moving in today, and Edward knew his job would be to stay out of his grandson’s way until the young men had unloaded everything. Then he would take the boys out for burgers before heading over to the old folks’ home for good.
Watching. Waiting. Edward had been a police detective for close to forty years, and patience was indeed his virtue.
The white U-Haul truck finally rounded the bend, bouncing down the street, another car following behind it. The boys were here. Soon it would be time to go.
At best, it was bittersweet.
Taking one final look around, Edward’s gaze once again lingered on the antique piano. His eyes misted as memories of Marisol came rushing back. God, how he missed his wife. The house hadn’t been the same without her these past few months. Reaching out, he once again touched the dent on the side of the Mathushek, left there from when he’d smashed her head into it four months ago.
At least he’d managed to get all the blood out of the carved roses before calling 9-1-1, despite his arthritic hands.
One must always be careful cleaning up after a kill.
2
There were three things Matt loved most in the world: adobo, the Seahawks, and Samantha. He didn’t think it made him a dick that his girlfriend was third on that list; at least he was honest about it. Most guys weren’t, and that’s why so many relationships ended (in his not-so-humble opinion).
Adobo was a traditional Filipino dish infused with vinegar, soy sauce, and garlic. Every family—hell, every individual Filipino—had their own unique recipe, and no two dishes ever turned out exactly alike. Matt’s recipe was based on the version his Filipino grandmother—his lola—used to make as he was growing up, which included brown sugar, bay leaves, peppercorns, and a secret ingredient that Matt would take to his grave. After all, adobo was his signature dish, the dish that had made his food truck the most popular stop at the Fremont Food Fair every Sunday, and the dish that had ultimately allowed him to open up his own restaurant in the heart of Seattle. Appropriately named, of course, Adobo.
Matt had inherited his grandfather’s height, build, and personality, but his love for food and cooking was all from his grandmother. Marisol Perez had met Edward Shank in 1962 when the Chief was in the air force and stationed at Clark Air Base in the Philippines. When recounting the story of how they’d met, the Chief liked to joke that Filipino women were their country’s greatest export. Kind of an awful thing to say, but his lola had always laughed it off. She’d always believed that her husband was complimenting her, and Matt had never had the heart to tell her that his grandfather was not.
The restaurant had been his lifelong dream, and Matt had busted ass to make it a reality. And finally, his hard work was paying off. The food truck was still kicking ass at the food fairs every week, and he’d been profiled in Seattle magazine and Bon Appétit. Several of his recipes (not his adobo, of course—that was sacred) had been published in O magazine, People, and Martha Stewart Living. His food truck had also been featured on the popular Food Network show Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.
Which was why the Fresh Network, the Food Network’s prime competition, wanted to produce a reality show about him. And why wouldn’t they? When you were on fire, everybody wanted you, and Matt had no problem claiming credit for his own success. There was no place for insecurity in this business, or in any aspect of life, for that matter. His grandmother, may she rest in peace, had always believed in him, even when the Chief—perpetually disappointed that his grandson hadn’t chosen a career in law enforcement—hadn’t. Matt only wished his lola had lived long enough to see him shine. She would have been the proudest Filipino grandmother ever.
And now, inheriting his grandparents’ house was just the icing on the cake. He’d been born and raised in that house, and everything about moving back into it felt exactly right.
When Matt had told his girlfriend about his grandfather’s decision to move into the old folks’ home and give him the house on Poppy Lane—a real house, with a backyard, a working fireplace, and four large bedrooms—Sam had started decorating it in her head. She’d automatically assumed that her boyfriend of three years was taking their relationship to the next level, and that she was included in Matt’s grand plan to give up the bachelor pad he rented in Belltown to move into the gorgeous old Victorian in the prestigious neighborhood of Sweetbay, where the grass was greener, the incomes higher, and everybody was married with a couple of kids and a dog.
She couldn’t have been more wrong.
First, Matt wasn’t ready for kids anytime soon. Hell, he barely had the time to spend with Elmo, his five-year-old Abyssinian cat.
Second, he wasn’t ready for cohabitation. Matt didn’t want to live with anybody right now, not even Sam. He’d had roommates in college, and had been utterly turned off to having other bodies sharing his living space. He couldn’t wait to spread out, cook for himself in a proper kitchen, and buy an obnoxiously large stainless steel barbecue for backyard get-togethers. He most certainly didn’t want pastel bedsheets, a living room that smelled like vanilla candles, and long strands of brown hair all over the bathroom floor.
And lastly, doing this on his own was just really important to him. He’d always been this way, and he was getting tired of having to explain it to people. The Chief had refused to take a dime from Matt for the house, citing that it was his inheritance anyway, but Matt would happily have taken out a mortgage if that’s what his grandfather had wanted. He didn’t ever want to feel like someone had given him a handout. He didn’t believe in taking shortcuts to the finish line.
Maybe he was being a bit overzealous about it, but it was honestly how he felt. His explanation to Sam, of course, was much more subtle.
“There are things I need to do on my own, and this is one of them.”
This had hurt Sam, probably more than she was letting on, but she said she understood and let it go. For a while, anyway. But as the weeks passed, and she listened to him talk about the house and all the renovations he was planning, she became more and more vocal about why it was exactly the right time for them to live together, and how she was certain they were ready to take the next step.
“We love each other and we’ve been together for three years. I’m clean, I’m financially responsible, and I still have sex with you three times a week,” Sam said. They were lying in her bed, naked and sweaty
. “I don’t understand what you’re so worried about. I’m not even asking for a ring.”
Her timing was irritating. She knew damned well she’d just drained him of all usable body fluids, and now she was hitting him up with this conversation yet again.
“I’m not worried.” Matt was careful with his tone. He was in no mood to argue. Frankly, he didn’t have the strength. “It’s not about you, or us. It’s about me. I need to do this. After ten years of busting my ass with nobody’s help, things are finally going in the direction I want them to. I need to keep doing things on my own.”
“So I don’t get a say at all?” Sam’s hair was plastered to her face, her cheeks still flushed. Despite her aggravation, he thought she looked sexy as hell.
“Honestly, I don’t see why you would.” Matt hated the wounded look on her face, but he felt cornered and vulnerable. He pulled the sheets over his exposed body. “Don’t take it like that. That’s not what I mean. All I’m trying to say is, this doesn’t change anything between you and me.”
“But what if I want things to change?” she said in a small voice.
“You’re still my girlfriend. I’m one hundred percent devoted to you. But there are things I need to do first before we change things.”
“It’s always about you.” Sighing, she turned away. “I don’t know why I’m even surprised.”
He flinched. She wasn’t wrong, and he wasn’t sure how to respond. “Just be patient,” he finally said. “We’ll get there.”
Pushing the sheets off her naked body, she headed to the bathroom. “I’m already there.”
A few days later, Sam had brought Jason into the ongoing argument, and that was the last straw. Jason Sullivan was Matt’s closest friend, but Sam had known him longer; they’d been friends since childhood, and he was like a big brother to her. A big, overbearing, intrusive brother. She’d told Jason everything, and of course their mutual friend, who at times wasn’t so mutual, agreed with Sam. Jason, normally a laid-back and open-minded guy, seemed awfully opinionated about Matt and Sam’s relationship.