Trial Junkies (A Thriller) (30 page)

None of this negated her skill in the kitchen, however. As he ate Lola's fettuccine, which was high on the nirvana scale, Hutch did his best not to moan after every bite. But it was a struggle. And considering the reason Lola was here in the first place, he almost felt guilty for enjoying it so much.

He was polishing off a glass of cranberry cocktail—a distant second to the Pinot the Baldacci women were drinking—when his phone rang. Checking the screen, he saw that it was Tom, and knew that this was his cue to get moving.

"He's got some new books and he's at the checkout counter," Tom said. "Start heading in this direction and I'll tell you where to meet us."

Less than a minute later Hutch was pulling on a hoodie when Ronnie appeared in his bedroom doorway. "I'm going with you."

"No," he said. "You've had a long day. Stay here with your family."

"And listen to the Wrath of Lola all night long? I don't think so."

"What about Christopher?"

"He can barely keep his eyes open. I'll make it up to him tomorrow."

Hutch nearly told her that she might not
have
too many tomorrows, but he bit his tongue. The whole point of this exercise was to make sure she did.

Snatching an old UIC baseball cap off a hook in his closet, he tugged it on, then pulled his hood up over it, hoping he'd pass as just another college student. "Right now you're a more visible target than even me," he said. "And if Langer catches us following him, he may react violently."

"But he's my number one fan, remember?"

Hutch frowned. "This isn't funny, Ronnie. If I'm right about him, he's a very dangerous man."

"Then I guess we'll just have to make sure he doesn't catch us."

Heaving a sigh, Hutch moved to the dresser and found a gray woolen cap he'd brought with him from Los Angeles. It wasn't much, but it might cut down on the recognition factor.

He tossed it to her. "Has anyone ever told you you have a stubborn streak?"

"You're just noticing this now?"

"I'm just noticing a lot of things about you."

She pulled the cap on and grinned at him. "Better late than never."

— 45 —

"S
O MUCH FOR
getting caught," Ronnie said. "This guy's oblivious. Like my brother was, whenever he got hold of a comic book."

They were standing in the vestibule between two train cars, the clatter of the tracks beneath them as they looked through the window at Langer. He was seated facing the aisle, and as usual, had his head buried in a textbook.

They'd made the switch with Tom and Monica at the very same train stop where Hutch had seen Langer two nights before, and they had been watching him for several minutes now.

"You have a brother?" Hutch said.

"
Had
. I don't talk about him much. He died when I was seventeen."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"So was I. He hung himself in his dorm room just before Thanksgiving. We had a hell of a family get-together
that
year."

"Jesus," Hutch said, and thought about Lola Baldacci. First her son, now this. Quite a burden to carry. For Ronnie, too. "What was his name?"

She smiled wistfully. "Christopher."

The train braked to a stop and they stepped back slightly, afraid Langer might suddenly look up from his book.

"We'd better get out of this vestibule," Hutch said. "Ride in the car behind. It's probably not safe here, anyway."

"And risk him leaving the train without us knowing it?"

"Better than getting spotted. We can always try again tomorrow."

"Forget that," Ronnie said, then quickly adjusted the wool cap, pulling it down close to her eyes, as she pushed the bar on the door in front of her. It hissed open and she stepped through to the next car, sliding onto the first seat she saw—facing forward, not fifty feet from where Langer was sitting. The car was well populated, but there was no one in the aisle and his line of sight was clear.

Hutch's stomach clutched up, but he felt he had no choice. Stepping quickly through the doorway, he slid in next to her.

"You're a maniac," he murmured as they huddled together, keeping their heads low. Hutch felt exposed and vulnerable, worried that Langer would spot them at any moment.

"You didn't seem to mind in bed last night."

It was the first time either of them had mentioned what had happened between them, and Hutch wasn't sure he wanted to go there. But she was right—she
had
been a maniac in bed. And desperate. And needy. And attentive.

It was the kind of thing he could get used to.

But this? Not so much.

When a flurry of passengers had come and gone, the train lurched into motion again. Hutch took a peek at Langer and relaxed a bit. The guy was still caught up in his textbook, as oblivious as ever.

For now, at least.

Ronnie said, "Waverly tells me Raymond the rat is probably gonna testify tomorrow."

"Who?"

"My old boss at the Cuttery."

Hutch furrowed his brow. "Why?"

"In the month before Jenny was killed I took a lot of time off. Couple hours here and there around lunch, and it's all on my time cards. They're gonna try to show it corresponds with the calls from the Dumont, which is only about six blocks from the shop."

Hutch stared at her, incredulous. "And you didn't feel the need to mention this? That doesn't look good, Ronnie."

"I know, I know. But all I was doing was running errands, getting stuff together for the custody case. I swear to you, Hutch, I didn't go anywhere
near
the Dumont and I didn't—"

"I believe you, okay? That's not what I'm saying. But if Langer is our guy and he was timing those calls to your schedule, it makes me think this wasn't just some misguided attempt to help you, but a calculated maneuver. He's not doing this to protect you, but to screw with you."

"So maybe he is. What difference does it make?"

"Think about it. What if he's the one who planted that hoodie and not the cops? And what if he's keeping the knife somewhere, ready to throw it into the mix? A last minute discovery that seals the coffin?"

Ronnie suddenly looked sick. "My god, I hadn't even thought about that."

"We need to nail this guy, Ronnie. And we need to do it fast."

She nodded, absently, and they rode in silence for a moment. Hutch peeked up the aisle again, but Langer still hadn't moved.

His ability to focus was uncanny.

Then Ronnie said, "Nadine will probably testify tomorrow, too."

"We all knew that was coming. What do you think she'll say?"

"I
know
what she'll say. That I called her up after I ran into Jenny at the theater and ranted about how Jenny was a two-faced bitch and I knew they both had always hated me." She sighed. "But I was drunk, Hutch. Stupid drunk. I think you know what that's like."

He did indeed—along with half the population. And hopefully that would work in Ronnie's favor.

"I called her the very next day and apologized," she said. "Profusely. Offered to take her and Jenny out to lunch to make amends—even though I was flat broke. I called Jenny, too. The one call I actually
did
make to her office. But do you think Nadine'll testify to any of
that
?"

Hutch thought about his visit to her apartment. "Waverly might have to coax it out of her."

"Assuming she even tells the truth."

"Come on, Ronnie. She may have her problems with you, but she's not vindictive."

She looked at him in disbelief. "Problems? She thinks I'm
guilty
."

Her voice had risen in pitch and volume and Hutch touched her knee, trying to calm her. "Easy," he said, glancing toward Langer. "Let's not forget who we're riding with."

She lowered her voice. "Sorry... I'm sorry. I just get so crazy about this stuff. One minute I'm laughing, the next I'm screaming at the sun."

"It's called being human. And this isn't exactly an ordinary situation."

They were silent again, Ronnie struggling to regain her composure. Then she took hold of his hand and squeezed it, that wistful smile returning. "He would have liked you, you know."

"Who?"

"My brother. He would've been happy you're looking out for me. Protecting me. I feel like I've been alone for such a long time."

"What about your mother? Your son?"

"Christopher's a godsend, but my Mom and I have never been the same since my brother died. My dad left because of it. And I sometimes think she wishes it was
me
who pulled the plug instead. Not that I haven't thought about it."

"Stop that," Hutch said.

Ronnie smiled. "Dysfunction Junction. That's where I've been living for the last fifteen years."

Before Hutch could respond, a voice on the intercom announced the next stop and the train braked to a slow halt. Langer shut his textbook, got to his feet, then waited until the doors slid open and headed outside without a backward glance.

A moment later they followed.

— 46 —

H
UTCH HAD SEEN
his share of spy movies in his time, had even starred in one—a direct-to-
DVD
stinker filmed in Romania called
The Counterfeit Coffin.
But neither he nor Ronnie were experts in even the most rudimentary surveillance techniques, a point well proven by their recklessness on the train.

Instead of turning this into a group project, executed by a bunch of laymen—an idea that Ronnie had rightfully mocked as bad TV—Hutch probably should have hired a professional. Someone with real expertise. Someone less visible. Someone who hadn't spent his days parked in a courtroom chair directly across the aisle from the very man they were trying to surveil.

If he had, maybe he wouldn't have come so close to getting himself killed.

But the truth was, Hutch's ego—his vanity—had gotten the better of him.
He
wanted to be the star, the hero.
He
wanted to prove his instincts right and save the damsel in distress.
He
wanted to be the one to tag Jenny's killer, if only to make up for his failure to be there for her when she was alive.

Besides, if he
had
gone with a professional, who would he have hired?

He didn't know any surveillance specialists or private investigators or retired cops here in Chicago. The ones he'd befriended in Los Angeles considered him a drunken loser. And the kind of man who was willing to take money for a questionable exercise like this one, was probably not the kind of man you should trust. Or depend on.

There was always Waverly, of course, who could undoubtedly make some calls. But she would have asked all kinds of questions—and what would Hutch have told her? How would he have convinced her that Langer was their man?

So here they were. He and Ronnie. Several blocks from the train station, foolishly following a possible psycho killer down a busy sidewalk, thinking they could pass themselves off as an anonymous couple out for an after dinner stroll.

Problem was, Langer didn't stroll. He moved quickly and with purpose, his book bag bouncing against his hip, an urgency in his gait that suggested he was late for an important appointment.

A job, maybe?

Hutch and Ronnie were walking at an accelerated pace past a row of outdoor cafes, the clink of dinnerware and the murmur of conversation punctuated by occasional peels of laughter. Langer was less than forty yards ahead of them—a man on a mission—and all Hutch could think was—

Don't turn around

Don't turn around

Don't turn around

—Then Langer came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the sidewalk, right in front of one of the cafes.

Hutch and Ronnie nearly collided as they, too, came to a stop. They quickly turned toward the crowded restaurant next to them and pretended to peruse a menu mounted on a post near the entrance.

Using Hutch as a shield, Ronnie chanced a glance in Langer's direction and said, "What the hell is he up to? He's just standing there."

"Please tell me he isn't looking at us."

"No, he's staring at the people eating dinner on the patio. Like he's catatonic or something. What a nut job."