‘Because Linnea’s face is all over the news,’ he snapped. Luckily, it was her old face, before she’d arrived in Cincinnati. A teenager’s face, round and young. She’d been about fifteen in the photo that the cops had posted all over the Internet as a person of interest.
They couldn’t have gotten the photo from Andy because everything he’d owned was gone, obliterated by the fire. The picture had to have been supplied by Shane Baird. Who, according to his resources inside CPD, had been interviewed, then whisked away to a safe house. Which meant that until he either figured out where that was or until Shane was moved elsewhere, he couldn’t get his hands on the kid either. Which meant he had nothing with which to draw Linnea out.
Butch shrugged. ‘She don’t look like that picture no more. She’s used up. Gone hard.’ He grimaced. ‘Haggard. She was comin’ up on her ex date anyway.’
‘Which was why I picked Andy for the job yesterday. He cared for her enough to want to save her, but nobody else wanted her.’ Even with her rates drastically discounted. So Linnea had become a liability. ‘Which doesn’t really matter anymore. Eventually somebody’s going to recognize her and call the cops.’
Butch heaved a sigh. ‘And if whoever calls in remembers seeing her with any of the girls, the cops will focus in on them as a connection. I get it. But do we have to get rid of them all? Can’t we keep one or two?’
Butch had issues getting women because he was a cruel SOB – but that had been true even before the meth lab fire that had left him with a face only a mother could love. Actually, Butch’s mother hadn’t loved him, either, so that left nobody. Their girls had been . . . unwillingly cooperative partners. If they didn’t cooperate, they experienced Butch’s cruelty firsthand. Just as Linnea had on Friday night.
He drew a breath and tried to be patient, because when Butch got his feelings hurt, he tended to pout. Not an attractive look for him and not a productive mode for either of them. He needed to get this job done. ‘We’ll get you more, Butch. Don’t worry.’
Butch appeared unhappy nevertheless. ‘Can I at least do the deed once more with ’em, before I, uh, do the deed?’
He aborted a laugh, snorting instead. ‘No. You’ll have to make it fast. Three of them are due in’ – he checked his watch – ‘right about now.’
‘And then?’
‘And then we go to the next hotel and do it again.’
Butch rolled his eyes. ‘What a waste. Just sayin’.’
‘We never keep them long. You know that.’ The half-dozen girls who worked the university circuit never lasted more than a year. One or two of them were actual college kids. Most were simply hookers who had looked fresh-faced enough when they started.
Most of them quit on their own. Those who got old and haggard but wouldn’t quit were cut loose by his business manager, Jolee. Most of them hit the streets solo. He didn’t care. None of them had seen him and if they ever threatened Jolee with either violence or exposure, Butch took care of them and nobody was ever the wiser.
But having Linnea’s face all over the news changed that. Somebody was going to recognize her sooner or later.
And with Voss’s account ledgers falling under the microscope of Kimble and Triplett’s murder investigation, it was only a matter of time before his blackmail payments were exposed. Voss wouldn’t have stood up to the strain of interrogation. He liked to beat up women, but sitting under the lights in an interview room? He’d spill details in a hot minute. Which was no longer a problem, thanks to Uncle Mike.
Still, having six women disappear all at once was going to be tricky.
He pulled three capped syringes from his pocket. ‘You ready, Butch?’
Butch scowled. ‘Yeah. Let’s do it. Still say it’s a fucking waste.’
His patience splintered. ‘Yes,’ he bit out. ‘But necessary. Hurry up. I have to be at church by eleven.’
Butch’s expression was the same as when he ate Brussels sprouts. ‘Why? You did the cantina thing last night.’
He snorted again, his impatience evaporating because Butch could always make him laugh. ‘Cantata, not cantina. A cantina is that bar in Star Wars where Han Solo first met Luke and Obi Wan. Today’s just a normal choir thing.’ And an alibi. ‘Get in the closet.’
Butch obeyed, just as the knock came at the door.
He opened the door, smiling at the three women standing on the other side. He didn’t know their names. They matched the photographs sent to him by Jolee.
Jolee recruited new employees, made sure they were trained and showed up where and when they were supposed to. She managed the website through which their clients booked appointments and paid, and she handed out the cash to the girls on payday.
He paid her well and she never seemed to regret selling her body or selling out her fellow classmates. Older than the women she managed, she didn’t hit the field as often anymore. Still, she was a team player when needed. She was to be joining the group they were to meet at the second hotel, taking up the slack left by the disappearance of Linnea.
He was going to miss Jolee. She’d been damn good at her job.
‘You were sent by Jolee?’ he asked. Three nods. One girl smiled back, but the other two looked bored. Well, the two bored ones would have been tagged to be terminated anyway. Employing bored hookers was no way to run a business. ‘Please come in.’
They did, sitting on the edge of the bed when he motioned them to it. The smiling girl appeared to be their spokesperson. ‘We were told you’d be hosting a party?’ She looked around doubtfully. ‘Are we early?’
‘No, not at all.’ With a nod aimed over their heads, he slipped his hand into his pocket and removed the cap from the syringe needle. Butch crept out of the closet, an uncapped syringe in both hands. Ambidexterity was just another one of Butch’s lesser known skills. He could also move surprisingly soundlessly for a huge guy.
Butch jabbed the syringes in the necks of the two bored girls while he took care of the smiling one. Quickly stuffing gags in their mouths, it wasn’t too difficult to hold them down until the sedative took effect.
They searched them, checking their cell phones to be sure they hadn’t told anyone outside their little group where they were going. The hotel was one of the seedy ones where nobody watched what you carried in or out because they did not care, but he wasn’t taking any chances on being captured by surveillance cameras from the local businesses.
‘Let’s load ’em up,’ he said and Butch unzipped the three suitcases they’d brought with them. They hefted the women into the suitcases, Butch manipulating their bodies so that they fit. Butch had seen a six-foot-three college kid stuff himself into a suitcase on YouTube a few years back and this was now one of his favorite tricks.
‘This never gets old,’ Butch said, zipping up the third girl. ‘Like doin’ a puzzle.’
‘So glad I could entertain you,’ he said dryly. ‘Mike’ll be by later to pick up the cars.’
‘Is he gonna need me to ride shotgun?’
‘Probably. Here, give me a hand with this one.’ He grabbed the handle of the largest bag with his right hand as his left arm still throbbed, courtesy of Linnea’s blade. He’d make sure she knew pain before he killed her. ‘This one’s heavy,’ he warned as he and Butch pulled the suitcases from the hotel room to their waiting SUV.
‘Jolee’s been feedin’ ’em too good,’ Butch grunted as he loaded the suitcases into the cargo bay. Once they picked up the other three, it would be Butch’s job to dispose of all six.
By the time the women were dead, he’d be suited up in a choir robe singing Handel’s Messiah. As alibis went, it was a good one. Hallelujah.
Seventeen
Cincinnati, Ohio,
Sunday 20 December, 12.30 P.M.
‘Thank you,’ he said for the hundredth time as the hundredth person shook his hand. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it. Merry Christmas to you too.’