“Have at it,” he said. “I’m here for the duration.”
Andy clapped a hand on his shoulder, a transformed man. “Thanks, Hutch. You’re a pal.” Then he was threading his way through the crowd and out the door.
“He seems pretty chipper for a guy who just came from a funeral,” Ronnie said.
Matt shrugged. “Everyone has their own way of coping.”
“Or he’s just an egocentric jackass.”
“There’s that, too,” Matt said, then turned to Hutch. “You do realize you just made my life a living hell.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because no matter how this turns out, I’m never gonna hear the end of it.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
ANDY WAS LESS than a minute gone when a chorus of voices called out to them.
Three familiar faces emerged from the crowd—Monica Clawson and Tom Brandt, with Nadine Overman pulling up the rear.
Hutch rose from his chair and the next few seconds were filled by hugs and kisses and shaking hands. He felt a sudden warmth envelope him, his trepidation about coming here melting away with each new embrace. They all seemed genuinely glad to see him, and he felt the same.
Back in college there had been others who had fallen in and out of their little tribe—boyfriends, girlfriends, hangers-on—but the core members were here tonight, and it reminded Hutch how much he missed those days. He didn’t want to be one of those maudlin jerks who dwelled too much on the past, but tonight was different. Tonight he could allow himself to wallow a little without feeling foolish.
When they were finally done greeting one another, chairs scraped back and everyone sat down.
“Where was McKenna rushing off to?” Tom asked.
“Chasing a dream,” Matt murmured. “He’s got a script he wants Hutch to read.”
“That’s intriguing,” Monica said. “Any idea what it’s about?”
“Not a clue. Today was the first I’ve heard about it.”
Ronnie said, “It’s a thriller of some kind. Something to do with a woman trying to fight off a stalker.”
They all turned, Matt asking the obvious question. “And you know this how?”
“From Jenny.”
“Jenny?” Hutch said.
“I ran into her about a month ago. At a play at the Godwyn Theater. We got to talking about you, Hutch, and she mentioned that Andy had called her, wanted her to read a script he’d written, see if she’d be willing to pass it on to you.”
Hutch’s surprise deepened. “Why Jenny?”
“He thought she might still be in touch with you.”
“Or he was just using you as an excuse to call her,” Matt said. “Try to see where her head was at.”
Hutch frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t know? Andy’s had a thing for Jenny for as long as he’s known her, but you kept getting in the way. And after you left, she got involved with that guy from Brooklyn—and they were together, what?”
“Over three years,” Nadine said.
“Then she hooked up with that assistant D.A., and once that went south, Andy probably thought it was time to finally grow some balls and make his move.”
Monica snorted. “As if. No offense, but I don’t see him being Jenny material.”
“I tried to tell him that,” Matt said. “That she was way out his league. But you know Andy. He’s always looking for some new way to humiliate himself.”
This cracked everyone up, but Hutch couldn’t bring himself to join in. Andy could be an overbearing snot, no doubt about it, but that was no reason to laugh at him behind his back.
Besides, there was no “league” when it came to Jenny. Yes, she was beautiful and smart and classy and successful, but she didn’t have a superficial bone in her body. She’d be the last person in the world to discriminate against someone because of some intangible social or personal barrier. And in their attempt to make fun of Andy, they were disrespecting Jenny, as well.
But maybe Hutch was being overly sensitive about all this. He was just coming off of a nearly two-year stint as the butt of everyone’s jokes. Two years full of knowing stares, quiet snickering and snide remarks. There was no doubt in his mind that some of the people here—and even Andy himself—had been part of it. But that didn’t mean Hutch had to join in when someone else was the target.
He had inflicted enough cruelties in his life.
When they were done laughing, a harried-looking waitress finally approached their table. They all ordered the same drinks they had back in college: a pitcher of draft beer for Matt, Ronnie and Tom, a rum and Coke for Nadine, and a kamikaze for Monica.
The only one who deviated was Hutch.
As promised, he ordered a root beer.
When the waitress was gone, he said, “Okay, enough about Andy.” He turned to Matt. “You’re the man with all the police connections. What can you tell us about the investigation into Jenny’s murder?”
Nadine groaned. “Oh, God, must we? I’ve done enough crying for one day. Can’t we talk about the good times?”
“I just want to know how it’s progressing.”
Matt sobered. “It’s not my story.”
“Why not?” Monica asked. She had leaned back in her chair as if to accentuate her breasts, which every male in the group had long ago agreed were quite spectacular.
She had worked her way through college as a webcam stripper, baring those breasts on a private video website to anyone with enough cash to subscribe. She had never made any apologies for what she did, but to keep things civil, she’d asked her employers to block the IP addresses of the school and the house they all lived in, so that none of the guys could join in—much to their chagrin.
The last Hutch had heard, she had long retired, but was running her own web dynasty now, hiring other models to cater to the lost and lonely.
“Seems like a no brainer, to me,” she said to Matt. “Jenny was a friend of yours.”
“That’s exactly the problem. There’s conflict of interest to think about. So my editor assigned the story to another reporter.”
Ronnie smiled. “You mean they still have ethics in the news business?”
“Just barely. Although you wouldn’t know it if you turned on a TV.”
“You might not be assigned to the story,” Hutch said, “but I doubt that you’re out of the loop. Do they have a suspect or not?”
Matt shrugged. “Our sources at CPD are playing this very close to the vest—which is unusual. And that leads me to believe the hammer has come down and come down hard. I figure they’ve got someone in the pipe for this, and they don’t want any leaks.”
“So what’s the delay? Why haven’t they arrested the bastard?”
“This isn’t like your old TV show,” Matt told him. “Murder investigations take time and expertise, and in a city this size, that could mean days, rather than hours. And if they do have somebody on the hook, they’ll want to be sure they’ve got a solid case against him before they make an arrest.”
“My money’s still on some random maniac,” Ronnie said. “He saw, he wanted, he took.”
Nadine hugged herself as if the room had suddenly gone cold. “My God… If that’s true, then it could’ve been anyone in that casket. One of us.”
“It was one of us,” Hutch said.
“You know what I mean.”
Tom Brandt, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke up. “I know you’re all hoping for a tidy end to this saga, but if you look at the stats, the Chicago PD only clears about thirty-five percent of its homicide cases in a given year. So the prognosis is fairly bleak.”
Tom had been something of a pretty boy in College, but was now a slightly rotund man with very little hair and pasty, indoor skin. He had always, however, been a pessimist, and Hutch refused to allow that pessimism to get to him.
“No,” Hutch said. “That’s unacceptable. They’ll catch this son of a bitch, and the minute he goes on trial, I’ll be sitti
ng there in the front row.”
“So will I,” Ronnie said.
Several of the others nodded their heads solemnly as the waitress approached with a tray full of drinks and started passing them around.
Then glasses were raised and Nadine said, “To Mama J.”
It was a nickname Hutch had forgotten about. Given to Jenny because of her striking resemblance to a young Michelle Phillips, one of the members of an old sixties rock group, The Mamas & the Papas—a favorite of Nadine’s father.
“To Mama J,” everyone repeated, then clinked their glasses and drank their drinks.
CHAPTER EIGHT
OVER THE COURSE of the next couple hours the drinks kept coming and the conversation flowed, moving on to other, less painful topics—memories, new careers, relationships, travel, sports—several of the conversations branching off as they often do.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Andy showed up carrying a thumb drive, trembling slightly as he handed it to Hutch, saying, “Just give it an honest read. That’s all I ask.”
Hutch had never seen him so vulnerable. Felt as if he may be catching a glimpse of the real Andy McKenna.
“You took your sweet time getting back here,” Matt told him. “You might’ve missed your golden opportunity.”
“I decided it needed a few tweaks. Couple clarifications in the second act. The killer’s motive seemed a little murky, so I figured I’d—”
“No spoilers,” Hutch said. He wanted to smile, but resisted. “I like to read a script fresh.”
Andy nodded. “Totally get that, man. I feel the same way.” But he stayed on his feet as if he expected Hutch to somehow pop the thumb drive into an invisible computer and start reading.
“Don’t worry,” Hutch said. “I’ll check it out before I head back to L.A. and read the rest on the plane.”
This seemed to satisfy Andy and he finally found a chair and sat down. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem,” Hutch told him, hoping like hell he could get past the first five pages. It wasn’t likely, but he was willing to try.
As the conversations changed course again, Hutch switched chairs with Tom and finally got a chance to sit next to Ronnie. They chatted for a moment, then Hutch said, “You still smoke?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“It’s the one addiction I haven’t been able to conquer. I’m down to two a day and I’m due. You mind stepping outside with me?”
“Be glad to,” she said.
“Fair warning—I have a bit of a reputation. You might not want to be seen with me.”
She smiled. “I’ll take my chances. If anyone looks, I’ll pretend I don’t know you.”
A moment later, they excused themselves and went outside. The sky had grown dark and the air felt crisp and clean—and there Hutch was, about to destroy it all with cigarette smoke. The booze and the drugs had been a cakewalk compared to nicotine, so he’d decided to wean himself. Slowly.
So far it seemed to be working. He only felt the craving a couple hundred times a day.
He dug a pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket, then lit up and took a deep drag, careful not to blow the smoke in Ronnie’s direction.
“So Nadine tells me you’re grooming pets these days.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, God, I’m so embarrassed.”
“Why?”
“Because clipping dog hairs isn’t exactly what I had in mind for a career path in college. I feel like such a failure.”
“Don’t,” Hutch told her. “Failure has nothing to do with how you pay your rent, and things don’t always go the way we planned. I’m a shining example of that.”
She smiled wanly. “Thing is, I’ve never had any real plans. I went to pet grooming school on a lark, and I’m still not sure what I want to be when I grow up. Hell, I’m not even sure I want to grow up.”
“Believe me, I know the feeling. Sometimes I think I never will.”
On this note, they both fell silent, Hutch wondering what he’d do with himself if he ever decided to leave L.A. for good. He had no real skills other than acting, and that one was questionable at best. Maybe Ronnie and he could shampoo dogs together.
After a moment, she said, “So how does it feel?”
“How does what feel?”
“Being back home after all these years?” She gestured to the bar. “Especially here. It’s gotta be surreal.”
“Trust me, I’ve seen surreal and this isn’t it. Truth is, despite the circumstances, I feel more comfortable right now than I’ve felt in a long time.”
“But you’re the big Hollywood star…”
She was grinning when she said it, but he still gave her a look. “You’re trying to hurt me, aren’t you?”
“No, that cigarette will hurt you. I’m just giving you a hard time.” She paused, then said, “What happened to you out there, Hutch? If you’re so comfortable here, why did it take Jenny’s death for any of us to see you again?”
It was a serious question, and he knew it. He just didn’t have much of an answer for her. “I guess I’m a victim of my own success.”
“Oh, please. Who do I look like—Oprah? Give me something I can work with, for chrissakes.”
Hutch waggled the cigarette at her. “If you’re gonna bust my balls, I may need to light up another one of these.”
“Sorry,” she said, “but I don’t think you quite get how much we all missed you. You were always the one, Hutch. The one member of the group that everyone gravitated toward. We tried to carry on after you left, but it felt like the engine was missing. So everyone pretty much abandoned the vehicle.”
“It was bound to happen sooner or later.”
“But it wasn’t supposed to happen to us, you know? And I think it sucks that it takes one of us getting stabbed to…”
She left the words hanging, suddenly distracted, her gaze focusing on a spot behind him.
Hutch turned and saw two dark sedans and a police cruiser coming around the corner at a good clip, and to his surprise, they pulled to a stop in front The Monkey House. Doors flew open and several cops emerged, two plainclothes detectives moving purposefully toward the bar entrance.
They were about to reach the door when one of them swiveled his head in Hutch’s direction, then grabbed his partner’s sleeve to keep him from going inside, gesturing to where Hutch and Ronnie were standing.
Hutch assumed he had been recognized. He had played quite a few detectives over the years and it wasn’t unusual for cops to stop and say hello.
Ditching his cigarette, he waited for the two men to approach, but they both moved straight toward Ronnie instead.
“Veronica Baldacci?” the bigger one said.
“Yes. What is it?”
“We’ve had a helluva time tracking you down.”
Ronnie looked worried. “Is something wrong? Is it my family?”
“Your family’s fine,” he said. “In fact your mother’s the one who told us where to find you.”
“I don’t understand.”
His partner brought out a set of cuffs. “We need you to come with us.”
Ronnie’s eyes went wide. “What?”
He moved toward her, spun her around and started cuffing her. “You’re under arrest, Ms. Baldacci.”
Hutch couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
“For what?” Ronnie said. “What did I do?”
The next words that came out of the cop’s mouth didn’t quite register at first. And when they did, Hutch felt as if he had been physically assaulted. Kicked in the gut.
“We’re charging you for the murder of Jennifer Keating.”
PART TWO
Trial and Error
CHAPTER NINE
THE TRIAL OF Veronica Baldacci started nearly four months later, on a day that would go down as one of the hottest in Chicago’s history.
Hutch was assaulted by the stifling heat the moment he climbed out of the cab in front of the courthouse. Within s
econds, even his sweat was sweating, and he couldn’t wait to get through those lobby doors and into an air conditioned courtroom.
There was a crowd of TV and newspaper reporters waiting outside. Ever since Ronnie’s arrest, the story had become the Next Big Deal, and the moment they found out that a bonafide down on his luck movie star had once been college housemates with both the victim and the accused, the vultures suddenly got interested again, looking to pick Hutch’s carcass clean.
When his manager Corey suggested that this was a perfect way for Hutch to elicit sympathy and rehabilitate his career, Hutch had nearly put him through a wall.
He wasn’t about to trade on Jenny’s memory like that.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he’d said. It had taken everything he had to keep from leaping out of his chair and diving across the table. “I mean, seriously—are you fucking kidding me?”
Corey wore L.A. like a badge of honor—perfect haircut, expensive suits, sunglasses molded to his face, bluetooth receiver clipped to his ear. They were lunching at Emilio’s, in Beverly Hills, and sat on the patio. They had chosen a table close to the street so Corey could check out the aspiring actresses who wandered by on a regular basis, hoping to get noticed. He seemed to notice quite a few.
“Look, Ethan, you need this. With the pilot taking a nose dive, you got about as much chance of snagging a part as my sister’s Lamaze instructor. So you’d better wise up, my friend, and exploit the shit out of this.”
Hutch had fired him on the spot. Stood up right there, tossed his napkin on the table and left.
He had no interest in boosting his profile or snagging any parts, now or in the immediate future. So Corey was an appendage he didn’t need.
Not with the trial coming.
Now here it finally was, and Hutch wasn’t three feet out the cab door when the vultures descended. He stayed calm, but he knew he had to move quickly, or it would be impossible to get inside the courthouse.
Charting a course for the lobby doors, he bore down and moved forward like a dolphin set upon by a pod of killer whales.
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