Trial Junkies (A Thriller) (26 page)

Hutch thought about that morning and how awkward things had been between them. He'd had no idea what was going through her head, and didn't ask. They'd barely had time to shower and dress before Maurice called, letting them know that Andy was there to give them a ride.

"She seems pretty up after that cross," he said. "She and Waverly are gonna strategize over the break."

"You think she'll spill about Langer?"

"If she does, I can't imagine Waverly'll be too happy about it."

"No kidding. Let's hope she keeps her mouth shut." A pause. "You up for some Mexican food?"

"Works for me," Hutch said.

"I assume you can keep the paparazzi at bay?"

It was a serious question. They both knew that if the press were to get wind of their activities, some major shit would hit the fan. "I've already mapped out my escape route."

"Good," Matt said. "Meet you at Mi Tierra in fifteen."

— 39 —

T
HE RECEPTIONIST AT
the Law Offices of Treacher & Pine smiled pleasantly as they stepped off the elevator. The name plate on the counter told them she was
Lucille Weeks
, but the badge clipped to her ample left breast said
Cynthia Coe.
 

Hutch took a leap and figured she must be the lunchtime relief—although lunch should have been over by now.

"May I help you?" she asked.

The words were barely out of her mouth when her eyes got big, that familiar look of recognition crossing her face.

"Oh my God," she said. "Code Two-Seven. You're..." She stopped herself, as if she knew she was about to commit an egregious breach of office protocol, and immediately went into recovery mode. "Sorry," she said sheepishly. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

Hutch flashed his movie star smile and tapped the name plate. "You don't look like a Lucille to me."

She flushed slightly. "Oh, no, no—Lucy took a late lunch and the girl who usually covers for her is out sick, so..."

"Cindy to the rescue," he said, nodding to her badge. "What do you normally do?"

She followed his gaze and glanced down at her chest, the color in her cheeks deepening. "I'm just a mail clerk. Most of the time I'm stuck in back."

Hutch grinned. "Then you must know where all the secrets are buried."

She laughed, as if this wasn't too far from the truth, then Hutch gestured to Matt and said, "This is my buddy Matt. We were friends of Jennifer Keating."

It took her a moment, but then it hit her and her face fell. With the trial in progress, the office gossip was bound to be centered around Jenny's murder.

"Right..." she said. "I knew that. You went to college together."

"Guilty as charged."

"Oh my God, this is so trippy. I was just watching your show this past weekend. They had a marathon on—"

"We're a little short on time," Matt said. "We'd like to speak to Ms. Keating's secretary, if that's possible."

Cindy flushed again, then nodded and picked up the phone. After it rang a few times, someone answered and she said, "Sorry to bother you Ms. Weeks, but could you come to the front, please? There are a couple of gentlemen here asking for Ms. Keating's secretary."

She listened a moment, then said, "No, it's Ethan Hutchinson and a gentleman named Matt. They were friends of Ms. Keating."

She listened again, then hung up. "Someone will be with you in a moment."

"Someone meaning Ms. Keating's secretary?" Matt asked.

"No, she's out today, too. It's kind of an epidemic around here. Ms. Weeks is the office manager."

The two men exchanged looks, then Hutch thanked her and he and Matt moved away from the desk to wander the large expanse of the lobby. Judging by the marble floor and the sleek, expensive furniture, Jenny had done all right for herself. This was not a poor man's law firm.

Back in college she had often talked about getting a law degree, but such talk had always been accompanied by the naive idealism they'd all shared in those days. Her goal was to work for Legal Aid, then start her own practice, helping the poor and disenfranchised get their day in court.

He supposed that somewhere along the line she realized she needed to make a living as well—a point that was likely hammered into her by her father. Hutch sincerely doubted the old man would approve of anything that smacked of altruism beyond regular donations to the Catholic church.

He wasn't sure how she had wound up here, but it wouldn't surprise him if daddy had pulled a few strings.

"I'm Carolyn Weeks," a voice said. "May I help you?"

They turned to find a severe looking woman in a severe looking suit standing in a doorway near the reception counter.

Hutch moved to her, holding out a hand. "Ms. Weeks, I'm Ethan Hutchinson."

"I can see that," she said, shaking it. "Jenny spoke about you often."

"Did she?"

Weeks nodded. "She was very concerned about you, but it looks as if she had nothing to worry about. She kept a photograph of you—" She looked at Matt "—all of you, actually—on the credenza behind her desk."

"Oh?" Matt said. "Do you still have that photo?"

"I'm not sure," she told him. "Her secretary, Carlene, cleaned out her office months ago. Most of her belongings were sent to her father."

And her father would have promptly dumped the photo in the trash, Hutch thought. He tried to remember when such a photograph might have been taken. Any group shots would likely have been snapped by a waitress at The Monkey House.

All at once he was overcome by a profound sense of sadness.

"We were hoping," Matt said, "to get a chance to speak to Carlene."

"May I ask why?"

"We wanted to talk to her about those phone calls she received. And we also wondered if she's ever—"

"Even if she
were
here, she wouldn't be able to help you," Weeks said. "I believe the District Attorney's office gave her strict instructions not to speak to anyone about the case until after the trial."

"Even old friends of Jenny's?" Hutch asked.

She showed him a tight smile. "I've seen the tabloids, Mr. Hutchinson, so I know where your allegiance lies. If you really were a friend of Jenny's—as I was—then you'd be doing everything in your power to make sure her killer spends the rest of her life behind bars."

Ouch.

Hutch and Matt exchanged another look, then Matt said, "Working for a law firm, you'd think you'd believe in an antiquated little precept called innocent until proven guilty."

Weeks shrugged. "I don't believe there's anything left to prove."

Matt reached into the satchel that hung at his shoulder and pulled out a sheet of paper. Unfolding it, he handed it to Weeks. "While you're busy condemning one of my best friends, maybe you can take a look at this photo and tell me if you've ever seen this guy."

She gave the page a cursory glance and handed it back to Matt. "Can't say I have. Who is he?"

"That's what we're trying to find out. If you'd put us in touch with Carlene—"

"I don't think so," she said. "Carlene has enough on her mind right now, and as I told you, she's been warned not to speak to anyone. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I believe we're done here."

And before they could utter a word of protest, she turned on her heels and vanished.

"C
ALL ME CRAZY
," Cynthia said, "but I think I may have seen this guy."

Hutch felt a bump in his heart rate.

She had signaled to them as they headed for the elevator, asking—rather shyly—if she could take a look at the photo, and Matt had dropped it on the counter in front of her.

Now she stared at it and nodded. "A few months back, when they were hiring a new file clerk up in the tax department. I think he may have applied for the job."

Hutch's heartbeat kicked up another notch. "You're sure?"

"This picture's not that great, but Human Resources is on this floor, so he would've had to come here to get an application. I wasn't on the desk then, but Lucy asked me to come pick up some mail and there was a guy who looked like this sitting in that chair over there with a clipboard and pen. I only remember him because he was kinda weird."

Matt was now looking at Hutch with a
holy shit!
expression on his face. If Cindy was right, this pretty much sealed the deal. Langer was their man. He had applied for a job here in an attempt to get closer to his prey. What other reason could their be?

"Did they hire him?" Matt asked.

She laughed. "No, they got some college kid. And I think he only lasted about a month."

Hutch looked around and spotted a surveillance camera in a far, high corner of the lobby, a tiny red light signaling that it was recording them at that very moment.

He turned to Cynthia. "How far back do your surveillance tapes go?"

She looked puzzled, then glanced at the camera and said, "Oh, right, I always forget it's there." She thought about it. "I think everything's recorded straight to a hard drive, so it probably goes back at least a year."

"Any chance you could get us a copy from that day? I just want to confirm he's our guy."

"And get myself fired? I don't think so."

Hutch gave her the smile. "Cindy to the rescue, remember? This would mean a lot to me."

She flushed again, but shook her head. "I don't know..."

"You have a pen and paper?"

She opened a drawer and fished around in it until she found a notepad, then gave it to Hutch along with a pen.

He wrote on the top sheet, then tore it off, folded it and handed it to her. "This is my private cell phone number. I'm trusting you not to give it out to anyone. If there's any way you can get that video clip, call me and I'll pick it up."

Matt leaned toward her now. "And if you're worried about downloading the file to a disk, just play it on the monitor and record it with your phone. Then you can text it straight to Hutch and nobody'll be the wiser."

"Why do you want it?" she asked. "Who is this guy?"

"He's what the police call a person of interest. I can't tell you any more than that."

She looked doubtful. "They keep that computer in a locked room and I think only Ms. Weeks has the key. And even if I could get in, it would take me a while to find the part you want. I'm not even sure what day it was."

"You look pretty resourceful to me," Hutch said. "But no pressure. If you can't, you can't. I don't want you to lose your job. But if you can..." He reached forward and squeezed the hand holding the folded sheet of paper, acutely aware that
he
was the manipulator now. "...I'd owe you big time."

— 40 —

H
UTCH WAS LESS
than a block from the courthouse when they hijacked him.

He and Matt had parted ways outside the law office building, both buoyed by their conversation with Cindy. Matt had decided that his next stop was the scene of the crime, where he hoped to question some of the residents of the neighboring apartment building to see if Langer had been spotted there, as well.

Hutch had decided to hoof it back to the courthouse, wanting to walk off the taco lunch and prepare himself for the afternoon session. He was used to sitting around a lot—life on a sound stage was seventy percent waiting—but in the months during his recovery he had begun exercising a lot, trying to purge the toxins from his body.

Since returning to Chicago, however, he'd been slacking off, and it felt good to stretch his muscles. He had just crossed onto California Avenue when a dark sedan pulled to the curb in front of him and two men in suits emerged, stepping onto the sidewalk.

He was about to veer around them when one of them stepped sideways and blocked his path. "Good afternoon, Mr. Hutchinson."

Hutch stopped short, looking them over. They weren't reporters, or paparazzi, and he didn't get a cop vibe from them. If anything, they reminded him of the ex-mercenaries the studio had hired to handle security on that miserable shoot in France. Humorless and hard-muscled.

Hutch tried to remain cool. "What can I do for you gentlemen? Autographs?"

Not even a hint of a smile. "Get in the car, please. Someone wants to talk to you."

Hutch nearly laughed. This was like a scene straight out of Code Two-Seven. "You're kidding me, right?"

But he could see by their eyes that they weren't. And one of them proved it by opening his coat to give him a glimpse of a shoulder holster and gun.