Page 18

CHAPTER 18

Max

T he morning after my date with Ben, I arrange to meet with London to fill her in on what had happened over the last few days. And, if I'm honest, I'm worried about her. I'm hoping she's been able to trace the finger we found and also get to the bottom of The Butcher’s whereabouts. London's ability to access information that usually stays hidden from view in the deep, dank, recesses of the internet is her specialty.

As I walk into the Espresso Emporium in West Hollywood, I keep my sunglasses on to hide my bruise and take a deep breath. The aromas in the air bring all of my senses back to life. It’s still early. Considering the way my date ended last night, my headache will not easily be vanquished—not even with a hit of caffeine. However, by the way my mouth begins to water at the scent of the freshly brewed coffee and hot-out-of-the-oven pastries; I'm going to give it a shot.

“Maximo!” London hollers at me from across the room. She sits in the back where the only two comfy chairs are located. I admire her ability to pull together a bright pink jumpsuit, oversized glasses, and white sneakers. No matter what she wears, she makes it seem couture. She waves me over, urging me to leave the line and order later. I look back at the line in front of me, just two more people to go before it's my turn.

“Max!”

My shoulders slump as I resign myself to have to wait a bit longer for the sweet nectar of the gods.

“Hey, London,” I say as I walk up to her table. “Did you put in your coffee order already?”

“Sure did.” She snaps her bubble gum. “Oh, here it comes now.”

“But I haven’t ordered yet. I’ll be right back.”

“Hold your horses,” she says.

“Double mocha iced coffee with whip, blended, and two shots of espresso,” the barista says, placing the drink in front of her.

“That sounds wonderful,” I say. “I’m going to get one of those too.”

“You’re in luck; she ordered two. I’m assuming this one’s for you.” He places it on the table. “Do either of you need anything else?”

“Thank you, we’re good.” London hands the waiter a cash tip and smiles. “Bestie, I wouldn’t make you wait in line. Sit, let’s chat. I feel like we haven’t hung out in so long other than at school. Boring.” She takes a sip of her coffee.

I sit next to her in the other plush, thick-cushioned, leather seat. She's acting like we hadn't already talked about the serial killer stalking me. What was going on? Were we being watched? Best to play along, I think. “Thanks for ordering. This looks fantastic.” I take a sip. “Damn, and tastes even better than I expected. Wow, so good.”

“Good, I’m glad you like it. Tell me what’s up?” She turns her seat to look me head-on. “You sounded kind of upset on the phone. ”

“I texted you. ‘Let’s meet for coffee, we need to chat’.”

“Yeah, but a best friend can always tell. Does this have to do with the date from last night?” Her attention is split as she looks over my shoulder every minute or so.

Normally, I would have turned to see who she was looking at, but something about how she was acting felt off, like she was trying to warn me. I lower my sunglasses, revealing the bruising and abrasions I incurred during the attack.

London chokes on her coffee, spitting into the cup what was left in her mouth, and jumps up from her seat. She wipes her chin with a napkin before slowly turning toward me once again. “That piece of shit hit you? Where’s he at? I’m going to kick his ass.”

I glance around the room, embarrassed by her outburst, but don’t notice anyone looking. “No, please sit. It’s not what it looks like.”

She lowers herself back into the chair. “What it looks like is you got your face smashed in by some psycho.”

I feel my cheeks flush hot. “Then I guess it kind of is what it looks like.”

The little vein in the center of London’s forehead bulges with anger. Her normally flawless, light brown skin, is blotchy and reddening by the second. “What the-?”

I raise my hands to stop her cascade of rage. “London… London.” I reach for her wrist to prevent her from standing again. “I’m fine, and it wasn’t Ben.”

“Who was it then?”

“It has to do with… you know.” I lower my voice even more.

“No, I don’t know,” she says, cocking her head to the side looking at me with wide eyes that slowly narrow. “Wait… that mother fucker did this?”

The Butcher. That Mother Fucker. Synonymous and correct . “It’s one of the reasons we need to talk this morning. Get to the bottom of what’s been going on.”

“He attacked you?”

“No, I think it was either one of his minions or a follower. Someone who is a copycat kind of psycho. He even had an ankh carved into his belly.” I sit back in the chair. “Self-inflicted? An old wound?”

“Or fresh,” London says.

“Exactly.”

London relaxes back into her chair and remains quiet for a few moments. Then, leaning forward, she whispers, “There have been a few developments in what we were researching. My concern is that there might be someone here listening. If you’re a target… I might be too. Were we followed? It’s hard to tell.”

I rub my hands through my hair. “I don’t know what to think anymore. Last night was crazy. I never expected the attack. It was brutal.”

“What did Dr. Dimples say? Does he know about it?”

“Yes. There was no way to keep it from him. Honestly, I would have. It’s embarrassing, but he took it really well. We kind of even kissed.”

She slaps the table, but then quickly looks around. “You did? How was it?” Her eyes sparkle with excitement.

“Nice, actually.” I smile. “The only problem is that every time I close my eyes to think about that moment, one that should be awesome, I see The Butcher’s face.” I lean in. “Get this. I could have sworn I saw him sitting at the bar. Then after I had a mild freak out, I excused myself to the restroom, and that’s when I was attacked.”

London winces as she looks at my bruised cheek. “I’m sorry, Max. What a horrible way to end the night.”

“The weird thing is that while I know serial killers have fans and copycats, it usually all happens when the killer is still alive. It’s like they are trying to win favor with their god or something. Which makes me think even more so that he’s lurking around here somewhere.” I shrug. “How he survived and was never discovered is beyond me. Has he really been able to keep himself from killing anyone in that time?”

“Well, that’s probably where I come in,” London says. “Those are some really great questions, and I think we need to spend some time together in a secure setting to answer them.”

I lean in, to whisper plans to meet up at her grandmother’s home, but London taps her finger on the table as if to stop me from talking. I meet her gaze, and she narrows her eyes a touch. I straighten back up in my chair and take a sip of coffee.

Her expression softens as she glances over my shoulder and then toward the restrooms. I fight the urge to look in the direction she indicated. Who was she watching?

“What did Ben say?” she asks. “I mean, you didn’t ditch him at the restaurant… did you?”

“Of course not,” I say, allowing her to change the subject. “He wanted me to call the police.”

“No-brainer there.”

“Yes, but I have such a history with the department. They already think I’m crazy since I was too damaged to come back to the force. It would have led to nothing anyway since I have no actual proof of anything.” I steal a glance toward the restrooms. Again, I don’t see anyone.

“I’m sorry you went through that. I have so many questions related to the actual date, but I assume you’d rather not talk about that right now.”

I nod.

“I think we should go sit outside,” she says with a fake smile. “It’s a bit chilly in here for me.”

I grab my coffee and stand. We walk outside and find a set of chairs as far from the entrance as we could. Heavy traffic speeds by us as we take the only table that faces the roadway. “If we keep our voices low the traffic will cover us.”

I sit and lean in. “Who were you watching inside? I didn’t see anyone out of the ordinary.”

“I’ve had a feeling of being followed since I accessed The Butcher’s official police file. Not only that, but the FBI files on the guy are quite extensive. Max… they’re still looking for him.”

“The cops?”

“The FBI. And from what I can tell, they have not looped in the local police.”

I let her words sink in for a few seconds. “I guess that makes sense. This is confirmation he’s still alive, but they must not want the cops who screwed up his takedown to know.”

“Right,” she says. “From what I was able to read, his body was never found.”

“I knew that part… but I felt him get shot. I saw it with my own two eyes. There was no way he survived. To make it even harder on him, it was storming that night. The L.A. River was a torrent.”

She nods. “Yep, which is actually what saved him.”

“How so?”

“From the report, the FBI suspect that the police assumed his death and didn’t want to put an effort into searching for his body. Since the river was so high and running at top speed straight into the ocean that night, they let it go. Chalked it up as an unrecoverable body.” London leans forward. “Word is the FBI suspect him to be behind three ritualistic killings in Los Angeles in the past month.”

“Really? I haven’t heard anything about that on the news.”

“Not surprising.” She sits back and crosses her arms. “The FBI has put the killings together, but the cops haven’t. Each body was found in a different jurisdiction, and you know how cops are… they don’t like to share information.”

I nod. That was very true. Unless they have concrete evidence that they had the same suspect, each department wants to be the hero. It isn’t necessarily a bad thing, it’s just how it is.

“With everything that’s going on right now, the cops wanting to be heros makes sense. And if the FBI has put all this shit together, along with the information I found earlier this morning, things are heating up. From what I could tell, the FBI think The Butcher will strike again and soon. Max, I don’t have to tell you… you’re in danger. Clearly, he has his sights set on you and he’s been able to access you on multiple occasions. I would have called you to warn you as soon as I discovered this, but there’s no way to tell if your phone is being tapped. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet. But what I can tell you is I’m not going to sit around and wait to be attacked. Would you be okay if I came over to your place in the next day or so and we searched the dark web, and whatever else you’re able to do with your outrageously good computer skills, so we can access and find him ourselves?”

She smiles. “You want me to hack someone, don’t you?”

“It’s more of a need than a want at this point.”

London crosses her arms and looks at me quietly. “I have a few errands to run for my grandmother, but I can come over and help later this evening. Would that work?”

“You think it’s best to do it from my apartment?” I ask.

“For now,” she says. “He already knows where you live so it won’t be giving up any of our secret hideouts… we can save them for later if needed.”

“Sounds great.” I feel a rush of relief at the idea that London is there by my side helping me. There’s no one I trust more. “I should be home around 3:00pm. We can order food, watch a movie, and get to it after that if you want? It can be like old times before I got this full-time curator job.”

“That museum gets in the way of all our fun,” she says. “Just you wait until I graduate, and we start working together. It’ll be so great.”

The chances we’d get to work together at the same museum once London graduated would be remote; curator jobs don’t come along every day, but it would be fun if we could pull it off. “I can’t wait.”

“Okay,” London says. “I need to chill for a few minutes. I’ve been worked up about this for days.” She lets out a deeply held breath. “Let’s discuss our weekend as if you’re not being hunted by a mad serial killer.”

We sit and laugh like old times for what seems like forever, but also no time at all. When London checks the time on her phone, we’ve been here at least three hours. Spending time with her is like being at Disneyland. She can bring light and life to the dullest of rooms.

“I really have to get these errands done for Nana or she’s going to have my head.” London stands and slings her Louis Vuitton over her shoulder.

“Please give her a hug from me.”

“For sure,” London says. “She always asks about you. Wants to know if you’ve found the perfect guy yet.”

“Oh gosh, and what do you tell her?”

“I told her all about the hot doc, and she says she needs details, or you won’t be getting any of her sweet potato pie at Thanksgiving.”

“Damn,” I say. “Nana doesn’t play around. Okay, you tell her you’ll get the whole scoop with no detail left out.”

“Love you, Max.” London gives me a long hug. “I really will kick whoever’s ass did that to your sweet face.”

“Love you too,” I say. “Thanks for always having my back. ”

“We’ve got each other.”

I walk with her to the parking area where we part ways. I look back once to see she made it to her car, but then keep going to my own. I need to stop by the museum and grab some of the textbooks from my locker. They will be worth a lot of money when I sell them back, and it will help me buy this week’s groceries.

The drive to the museum often feels like a chore; congested freeways and never enough time, but today feels different. I'm lost in thought and don’t even remember getting to the parking lot. I pull into my usual space in the designated employee parking and let the car sit, my trance broken when the Prius battery drops too low, and the gas engine kicks on with a rough grumble.

I look at the time on the dash, estimating I’ve been sitting there for fifteen minutes. My thoughts are a swirl of questions—namely where was The Butcher hiding, who’s investigating from the FBI, and how was this all going to turn out in the end?

If I'm going to be back at my place by 3:00 to meet London, I’d better pull myself together and get my ass in gear. I exit the car and hurry to the front entrance. The museum is packed with visitors. If the lines of older people all wearing matching-colored stickers to keep them in their tour group is any indication, the local retirement communities are having an outing. When this happens, there’s almost always an incident. Usually a fall, but sometimes a medical emergency. Staff are trained to keep an eye peeled for possible issues. Days like today are often considered chaotic, only usurped by grade-school tours. Busloads of kids, dropped at the museum with an overly taxed teacher, screaming, running, and terrorizing the other unsuspecting visitors. The museum tries to help keep order, but it’s often barely controlled chaos .

“Excuse me,” I say as I push through the line of people blocking the side door leading to the employee locker room.

“Okay, everyone. Can you please move to the side, so we aren’t blocking emergency exits?” Bob says, waving his hands to get their attention. He’s helping the museum tour guides keep a handle on the crowd, but even his loudest bellow is barely heard over the guests.

I sigh when I see how red the man’s neck is as he tries to yell to draw attention to himself. “Bob, you’re going to have a heart attack. Let me help you.”

Not one to normally accept help or even be nice to me, Bob nods and mouths, ‘ thank you ’.

“I got you,” I say. “May I have everyone’s attention?” I use the stern, authoritative voice I often implemented during crowd control as an officer. The group turns to look in my direction. “Thank you all for coming today. My coworker here, Bob, will help guide you through the museum, but his main job is to keep you and the exhibits safe. So, please… pay attention to him and follow his directions. Okay?”

A chorus of yeses thunders back.

“They’re all yours,” I say.

“Thank you,” he says. “I owe you one.” Bob pushes his way through the group and makes his way to the front where the official tour guide is standing. The two of them begin ushering everyone into the large Hall of Extinction, so I hurry to get to my locker before I get sucked into something else I shouldn’t have to handle on my day off. As I push my way through the crowd, sliding past people without concern for personal space, I feel someone touch my ass. I try to crane my neck enough to look around, but I am surrounded by people. Price to be paid, I suppose , I think. At least whoever did it hadn’t squeezed my cheeks too hard.

I enter the locker room and go straight to my locker. Taped to the front is a folded piece of white paper. I pull it free and open the handwritten note. It reads: Maximo you have a package that was delivered to the museum. I’ll keep it in my office until you’re able to pick it up . The note is signed– Catherine Nakamura. I hadn’t ordered anything online in weeks and had no idea who would have sent me something. Unless… would my stalker have sent me another package so soon? And at work? Wouldn’t that have increased his chances of getting caught by sending it through the mail?

I turn the combination lock until it opens and pull the locker door wide. The metric ton of college textbooks, or at least it feels like it, are stacked up like kindling at the bottom of the locker. The only one I plan on keeping has full-page colored pictures of some of the greatest artworks from the Byzantine Empire down to modern day.

“Isn’t it your day off?” Bretton says as he walks up behind me.

I turn and smile. Bretton is wearing a black tailored jacket, dark jeans, and a white shirt, no tie, top button undone. “I needed to get some of my old textbooks. They’re gold on the black market.”

“Black market, huh?” he says with a wink. “What’s a goodie-goodie like you know about the black market?”

I close my locker. “Just a figure of speech. Why? What do you know about it?” My tone comes out a bit harsher than I’d meant.

He puts up his hands in surrender. “Jokes, my friend,” he says as he walks over to the sinks and mirror.

“Anyway, what are you doing all dressed up?”

“I’ve got a date,” Bretton says as he musses up his hair. “A friend is setting me up on a blind date. Truth be told, I have no real interest.”

I can’t help but wonder if it's a man or woman he is meeting. “I hope you have fun with whoever it turns out to be… considering all the effort you’re putting in.”

“I try and play it cool, but actually I’m a little nervous, if I’m to be honest.” He turns to face me, putting his hands on his hips and plastering a smile across his face. “How do I look?”

“Stunning.”

Bretton crosses his arms and cocks his head. “Really?”

I shrug. “Compared to how we met with you naked and flat on your back in the shower… yeah, you clean up well.”

Bretton blushed. “Not my finest moment.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” He looks down the second aisle of lockers to make sure we are alone.

“Uh, sure. Everything okay?” I ask. I don’t know Bretton very well, but this doesn’t seem like his usual unbothered self.

“There was a guy lurking around Dr. Nakamura’s office today. He was dressed like a delivery guy, short brown shorts and everything, but something seemed off about him.”

“Like what?”

“Hard to put my finger on it, but he had a package for you. He was talking with Dr. Nakamura about how to get ahold of you and she took charge offering to hold the package until you came to work.”

“How’d the guy react?” My stomach drops.

“At first, he acted like he couldn’t leave the package, but then he agreed to when he realized Dr. Nakamura wasn’t going to bend. The weird part was he didn’t have her sign for the box.” Bretton furrowed his brow. “It just didn’t seem right to me the way he kept asking where you were and what time you would be in to sign for the package.”

“That is strange,” I say. “Did you get a good look at his face?”

Bretton shakes his head. “If I said he was a white guy, greasy black hair, deep set eyes… would that ring any bells?”

At first, my breath catches in my chest as I think about The Butcher and what he looks like. The description is vague, but familiar. Could it have been him? Or a follower who tried to emulate him? I push the image of the madman out of my mind. “I couldn’t say… could have been anyone I suppose.”

“Probably me being paranoid. My wife used to say I always thought the worst first.”

“Oh, you’re married?” I ask, fishing for more information. I’ve already seen what I assume is wedding band, but here he going on a blind date. I need more information.

“I am single, actually. My wife passed away a few years ago.” Bretton crosses his arms and looks away. It's clearly still a difficult topic for him. “She was the love of my life.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, reaching out to offer a comforting touch to his shoulder. He brakes eye contact after a few seconds. I feel for the employee I.D. I stuck in my back pocket and instantly froze.

Bretton notices my change in demeanor. “Are you all right, Max?”

“My work I.D.” I rush back to my locker and ransack my belongings. It isn’t there. I open the backpack and go through each book, still can’t find it. “I usually keep it in my back pocket when I’m not on shift.”

“Could it have fallen out?” Bretton begins scanning the floor.

That’s when I remember my ass being grabbed in the push of the crowd. “Fuck, I think someone lifted it from my pocket.”

Bretton stares at me before saying, “What would anyone want with your I.D.?”

“I don’t know, but there’s a lot of shit going on here that doesn’t make sense. Some weirdo comes to deliver me a package on the same day I get my identification stolen. Maybe whoever it was wants to pretend to be me? Or gain access to parts of the museum off limits to the general public?” I am reeling with emotions. “I’ll definitely have to let Dr. Nakamura know.” Not to mention London. Maybe there is a way to access the museum’s security logs and see if my I.D. is being used and by whom?

“Man, that sucks. Keep me posted on what’s going on.”

“If you see that delivery guy here again, would you be willing to let me know?”

“Sure,” Bretton says. “What’s your number?”

We exchange phone numbers, and Bretton shakes my hand. “Wish me luck tonight.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, I seem to have made it about myself today. I hope you have a blast on your date.”

“See you later,” he says. “Hopefully, we will work together this week.”

“For sure, they have to get this exhibition open by next week so we will be all hands on deck.”

“Great,” Bretton says. “Catch you later.” He smiles and walks out of the locker room.

I go back to double-checking all of my belongings to verify I hadn’t overlooked my identification. Sure enough, it is gone. I pull out my phone and send a group text to Bob and Catherine Nakamura informing them that my I.D. had been stolen. There is no sense in trying to keep that to myself. Maybe Bob would be able to deactivate it and issue me a new one. Either way, The Butcher strikes again , I think. The biggest concern now would be, why did the madman want my identification and what could he do with it?