Trial Junkies (A Thriller) (33 page)

And then it hit him.

Sedona, Arizona.

The dead man was little Christopher's father.

Ronnie's ex-husband.

— 49 —

T
HE DETAILS OF
Daniel Tillman's death were sketchy at best, but that didn't stop the local news media. They played it up in their usual fashion, pushing innuendo over fact, aided by a hysterical girlfriend who was convinced this wasn't a suicide.

"Danny hated guns," she said between sobs. "Somebody did this to him... Somebody wanted him dead."

"Are you saying he was murdered?

"What else would I be saying?"

"A murder for hire?"

The field reporter worked for the Sedona affiliate, but was on special assignment to
WTBW
, their sister station in Chicago. Nobody in Arizona was likely to even see this report. A local suicide wasn't exactly a ratings magnet.

But here in Chicago, this was big news. And the reporter was doing his job by pushing the scenario that had already been decided on by a roomful of executives.

The girlfriend, who seemed a bit thrown by the question, sobered slightly and said, "That's makes sense, doesn't it? All Danny wanted was raise his boy, to bring him out here where he belongs, but that murdering bitch couldn't let that happen, could she?"

"You're talking about his ex-wife. Veronica Baldacci. The woman on trial for killing one of Mr. Tillman's attorneys."

Not quite right, but close enough for
WTBW
.

"Who else would I be talking about? Don't you think it's convenient that Danny winds up dead while they're still in the middle of a custody battle? Everybody already knows she's crazy." She paused to wipe at her nose with a soiled Kleenex. "And think about it—her name's Baldacci. I'll bet she hired some mob guy to take Danny out." She turned and looked into the camera, black mascara running down her face. "Are you happy now, Ronnie? Are you happy?"

Except for the fact that Veronica Baldacci was on trial for murder, not a single word of this could be substantiated, of course.

But that didn't matter.

It sure made great television.

C
OURT WAS DELAYED
the next morning.

It had been a long, emotionally wrenching night and Ronnie was understandably fragile and out of sorts. When Andy dropped them off in the underground parking lot, they were greeted at the judge's private elevator by Karen Waverly.

"Police want to talk to you both," she said.

Ronnie looked weary. Defeated. "About Danny?"

Waverly nodded. "I assume you had nothing to do with it?"

A spark of life. Anger. "How can you even ask me that?"

"That's not really an answer, but I'll take it as a no. The Sedona Sheriff's Department is calling it a suicide for now. But they aren't completely closed to the idea that it might have been more than that."

Hutch said, "Are you talking about that bullshit the press has been pushing? That it was a hired hit?"

"That's the vibe I'm getting."

"So why do they want to talk to me?"

She smiled. "Because you're the one with the money."

H
UTCH COULDN'T QUITE
believe this was happening, but he understood the reasoning behind it. When a possible crime has been committed, you look at the person most likely to benefit from that crime, and as much as he hated say it, the death of Ronnie's ex-husband did seem awfully convenient.

Even if she were to be convicted of Jenny's murder, Ronnie no longer faced the threat of losing her son to a man she despised. She would see Christopher on visiting days, and watch him grow up, even if only for brief moments. And if the jury went for a lesser charge, like manslaughter, it was conceivable that she would be out of prison before her son went to high school.

When it came down to it, killing Daniel Tillman made a lot more sense than killing Jenny—who, despite what
WTBW
might think, really had nothing to do with the custody case.

That said, Hutch didn't believe for even a millisecond that Ronnie had anything to do with either of these deaths. He was long past the doubting phase.

He was, however, disturbed by the effect the news report had had her mother.

You stupid, stupid child!

What did you do? What the hell did you do?

As he and Ronnie lay in bed last night, the phrase
Dysfunction Junction
once again pushed its way to the front of his mind, and he had asked Ronnie about it.

How could Lola say such a thing?

Why would she think her own daughter was somehow involved?

Ronnie hadn't answered right away. She was cried out and exhausted and lost in thought and he wasn't sure she had even heard him.

Then she said, "I don't know if you've noticed, Hutch, but my mom isn't exactly Mother Theresa. She blames me for everything."

"Are you saying she thinks you killed Jenny?"

Ronnie gave him a weak shrug. "She hasn't said one way or another, but I wouldn't be surprised. I lied about not wanting her in court. Truth is, she never showed any desire to be there. She watches after Christopher, cook us meals, gives us a place to live, but if I'm looking for emotional support, I might as well shop at K-Mart."

"I'm sorry," Hutch said.

"I'm used to it. I told you, she's been treating me like tainted goods ever since my brother died. I think she blames me for that, too."

"Why?"

"Because he was the good boy who played sports and got scholarships and helped old ladies cross the street, and I was the little skank who smoked dope and embarrassed her. I went to visit Chris a few days before he hung himself, and she thinks I must have influenced him somehow. Driven him to the dark side. It's all part of some weird guilt trip she's got going." She rolled onto her side and ran a hand along his chest. "It's probably why I'm so goddamned needy."

"But you're a grown woman," he said. "Why do you put up with it? Why not just leave her out of your life?"

Ronnie heaved a shaky sigh. "Because she's my mother, Hutch, and Christopher's grandmother. She's probably the best thing that ever happened to that boy. And believe it or not, I still love her."

T
HEY PUT THEM
in separate rooms. Waverly went with Ronnie and Detective Charlie Mack, while Meyer decided to tackle the interview with Hutch.

Meyer kept him waiting in an unoccupied office cubicle with a barren desk and three straight-backed chairs. After what seemed an eternity, the door opened and Meyer came in with another guy in a suit, this one sporting an Arizona tan.

"Mr. Hutchinson, this is Deputy Gerard Thomas of the Sedona Sheriff's homicide division and he'll be joining us for this interview. It's my understanding that you've waived your right to counsel?"

"I've got nothing to hide," Hutch said.

The two cops exchanged a glance as they scraped chairs back and sat. Meyer took a digital recorder from his pocket and placed it on the desk in front of Hutch. But he didn't turn it on.

"Before we start," he said, "I just wanted to tell you I've watched several episodes of Code Two-Seven on Netflix. Pretty good show, even if it's mostly bullshit."

"Most of them are," Hutch said, wondering if this was an attempt to soften him up.

"You still making money off it? Residuals, they call 'em?"

"I'm not sure that's any of your business."

Meyer held up his hands. "You're right, you're right. Just a friendly question. But I figured a guy who has time to sit in court all day, must be making money somehow. It's not like you have much of a career left."

So much for the softening part.

"Are we gonna start this interview? Or is this part of it?"

Meyer smiled and reached for the recorder, flicking it on.

A tiny red light shone.

"All right, let's make this official. This is Detective Jason Meyer of the Chicago Police Department, along with Deputy Gerard Thomas of the Sedona Sheriff's Department, interviewing witness Ethan Hutchinson. Are you here of your own free will, Mr. Hutchinson?"

"More or less," Hutch said.

"You've waived representation, and your answers to these questions are not coerced in any way, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Thank you," Meyer said. "Can you tell us what you know about Daniel Tillman of Sedona, Arizona?"

"He was the ex-husband of a friend of mine and the father of her child."

"Is that friend Veronica Baldacci?"

"Yes," Hutch said.

"And are you aware that Mr. Tillman was found dead in his home last night under questionable circumstances?"

"It's my understanding that he shot himself."

"And how did you come by that understanding?"

"It was on the news last night."

"And when did you first become aware of Mr. Tillman's death?"

"On the news last night."

"You're sure about that?"

Hutch frowned. "Yes, I'm sure."

Meyer and Thomas exchanged another glance.

"Mr. Hutchinson," Meyer said, "is it true that you're helping finance the defense in the matter of State vs. Veronica Baldacci?"

"I'm not sure that's any of your business, either."

"All right. What about the nature of your relationship with the defendant?"

"What about it?"

"How would you characterize it?"

"Like I told you," Hutch said, "we're friends."

"But isn't it true that she moved out of her previous residence and is living with you at an apartment here in Chicago?"

So much for keeping
that
bit of news under wraps.

"Along with her mother and son, yes. But only for the duration of the trial."

"Sounds like more than friends to me," Meyer said, then glanced at Thomas. "What do you think, Deputy?"

Thomas spoke in a soft baritone. "I'm the fish out of water, here, but I tend to agree."

Meyer grinned at Hutch. "Not that I blame you—she's a nice little piece of furniture. But I gotta ask you this. How can you live with the woman who's about to be—"

"Don't call her that again," Hutch said, feeling his chest tighten.

"Call her what?"

"A piece of furniture."

Meyer assessed him for several seconds, then said, "I can see this is making you uncomfortable, Mr. Hutchinson, so let's change course a little. How many years have you worked in Hollywood?"

"Why is that relevant?"

"Humor us."

Hutch choked out a laugh. "Okay," he said. "Close to ten years. Do you want a list of my credits, too?"

"I don't imagine it's all that long, but I'm sure I can get it on IMDB, should I ever care. What I'm interested to know is this: in the course of your work over the years, have you come in contact with a lot of experts?"

"Experts?"

"You know," Meyer said, "like stunt men, fight choreographers, weapons handlers, security consultants, guys like that."

"Sure," Hutch told him. "I do a lot of action stuff."

"They're pretty tough guys, huh?"

"Some of the toughest."

"But everyone knows," Meyer said, "how difficult it is to make a living in the movie business. You think any of these tough guys you've met do work on the side?"

Hutch was no dummy. He saw exactly where this was headed.

"I'm sure they do," he said. "But not the kind of work you're suggesting."

"And what kind of work is that?"

Hutch sighed. "Come on, Detective, if you want accuse me of something, just come out and say it."

Meyer grinned again, leaning toward Hutch. "Nobody's accusing anyone of anything, Ethan. We're just asking questions. But if you're trying to tell us something, we'll be all too happy to listen."

"Are we done yet? Because this is getting ridiculous."

Meyer leaned back again. "You're right, you're right—the stunt man thing is probably a stretch. But what about drug dealers? You've got a pretty well-documented history of narcotics abuse. I'll bet you've met some shady characters in your time."

Hutch bristled. "I'm ten months sober and you're way out of line."

"Am I? We're cops, Ethan, and part of our job is to look at the world from several different angles. And when somebody gets dead, we have to consider the circumstances surrounding that death. Was it violent? Did he have enemies? Is the trajectory of the bullet in his skull off just enough to suggest it may not have been suicide?"