Hutch had no idea if their little attempt at playing detective would amount to much of anything, but his gut led him to believe that there was definitely something off about this guy, far beyond what he’d seen and heard on the L last night.
His suspicion was solidified when he realized that Langer’s rapt attention had shifted from the proceedings—
—to Ronnie herself.
His gaze was fixed on her as she sat at the defense table, watching the attorneys argue vigorously before the judge.
Hutch recognized that look immediately. It was the same expression he’d seen on the faces of teenage girls as he walked the red carpet at a premiere, or the Emmys. A kind of impassioned worship that, while completely unfounded, was as powerful as a drug and potentially as dangerous—to the object of their affection, that is. Hutch had often wondered what would have happened to him if those screaming girls had ever been let loose.
And what, he wondered, was behind Langer’s fascination with Ronnie?
Was he enthralled by the thought that this woman might very well be convicted of a crime he had committed? Or was he imagining her laying face-up in an alleyway, her broken body peppered with knife wounds?
________
HUTCH HAD SPOKEN only briefly with Ronnie that morning. Although it came with the territory, he was still a little angry and embarrassed by the way the press had played up their kiss.
But Ronnie wasn’t fazed by it.
“They’ve already printed enough lies about me,” she’d told him. “What’s one more? I’m just happy to be free.”
“I’m not sure free is the right word. They’re probably camped out in your front yard by now.”
“And the alley,” she’d said with a nod. “Don’t forget the alley. I got up to take a pee in the middle of the night and saw some bastard digging through my trash. When I shouted at him, he pointed a camera at my window and started flashing away.”
“Jesus,” Hutch murmured.
“And when Andy came to pick me up, I was worried we might not make it to the car. We just put our heads down and kept walking.”
“That’s the only way to do it. Or never come out of your house.”
“If only I had that choice.”
They had let that percolate a moment, then Hutch said, “I’ve been thinking, maybe you need to come out to Lincoln Park for a while. You and Christopher and your mom.”
She looked surprised. “Seriously?”
“There’s plenty of room for all three of you and I’ve got a doorman who’ll be more than happy to keep the riffraff out, or call the cops if he has to. There’s even underground parking, so we can get you to court without having to run the gauntlet.”
She had smiled then. “Boy, when you commit, you commit.”
“Let’s just say I feel bad for doubting you all these months.”
“You’ve already done enough, Hutch.”
He shrugged. “So let me do a little more.”
________
HE HADN’T TOLD her about his suspicions regarding Frederick Langer, or what he and Gus were planning for the lunch hour. He doubted she even knew who Langer was. Most of the time she had her back to the gallery, and if she did turn around, Langer was merely one in a sea of faces.
They arranged for Andy to take her straight to Hutch’s apartment after court, and when the reporters got a clue and realized she wasn’t coming home, her mother would wait for them to disperse, then pack a few necessities, grab her grandson and follow. Hopefully, their nosy neighbor wouldn’t be paying much attention.
Hutch knew that sooner or later the media would find out where Ronnie was staying—which would fuel even more rumors about them—but with a fifteenth floor apartment, at least nobody would be pointing cameras toward the bathroom window.
The afternoon was cut short when the judge, looking like he’d much rather be vacationing in Bermuda, decided to take the arguments into chambers. The current point of contention was a defense motion asking the court to allow Waverly to question Detective Meyer about a number of his previous cases—a motion Abernathy strenuously objected to—and Waverly had come armed with enough supporting case law to keep them all busy for quite some time.
For all his cries of boredom, Hutch was disappointed when they shut down early. His daily routine had been interrupted and he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He briefly considered following Langer, who had left the moment the gavel fell, but decided that this probably wasn’t a wise idea until they knew exactly who they were dealing with.
Waverly had invited Ronnie into chambers and wanted to meet with her after court, so Ronnie told the others there was no point in sticking around.
Monica suggested they go for a drink, but Hutch declined, telling them he’d meet them at his apartment later that evening. After his visit with Nadine last night, he’d nearly had a lapse in judgment, and hanging out in a bar was probably not a wise thing to do.
He said to Andy, “You’ll be back for Ronnie, right? Help her pack her things and bring her to my place?”
Andy smirked. “No, I thought I’d leave her here for the night.”
“Anybody ever tell you you’re a world class smart ass?”
“It’s come up once or twice.”
When they were gone, Hutch asked Gus what he did to fill the void at times like this.
“What else?” The old guy said with a shrug. “Find another trial.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
AFTER SPENDING THE rest of the afternoon watching an assault trial that was nearing its foregone conclusion (judging by the faces of the jurors and defense attorney, that is), Hutch had called it a day and gone straight home to take a much needed nap.
The Lincoln Park apartment was a spacious three-bedroom co-op, with high ceilings and wooden floors, that had been Hutch’s family home for as long as he could remember. The park, the conservatory and the lake were directly across the street, and just two blocks behind the building was a variety of restaurants and bars, a grocery store, a pharmacy, two dry cleaners and a romper stomper preschool.
It was an insular world and there was no real reason to ever leave it—a sentiment his parents had clung to until the day they died. The irony of their death was that the plane crash that killed them had been the start of their first vacation in nearly fifteen years.
Hutch himself had been so anxious to get out of Lincoln Park that he fled the moment he graduated from high school, even though his college of choice was only a few miles away.
The same had been true for many of his friends. All but Monica and Tom had been raised in Chicago, but they’d chosen to abandon their family homes in favor of independence. By their second year of college they were all rooming in a large, rundown house on Miller Street, and asserting that independence with loud and unbridled enthusiasm.
Except for stints at grad school, only Hutch had moved away from the city after college. Yet here he was now, once again living in the family home. The home he’d been unwilling to let go.
There was certain irony in that as well.
After his nap, he smoked a cigarette and looked around, thought about the condition of Matt’s apartment, then spent the next two hours cleaning the place up. He hadn’t yet removed all of the protective plastic that had covered the furniture for years—dust tarps that had been placed there shortly after his parents’ funeral. There were at least two loads of dirty dishes in the sink, and a fair amount of dirt tracked across the Oriental rug in the living room.
By the time Maurice called up to tell him that the first of his visitors had arrived, the place was spotless, with fresh sheets on the beds, a stack of laundered towels in the hall closet, and the faint smell of Lysol in the air. There was also a feast of sandwiches, pasta and pizza on its way from Rocco Ranalli’s, just down the street. He had ordered more than they’d need, but figured he wouldn’t encounter any resistance when it came time to dole out the leftovers.
At seven p.m. the doorbell rang and Andy s
tood in the hallway with Ronnie in tow. She immediately went to Hutch and pulled him into a hug, once again whispering “thank you” in his ear. And judging by her body language he was starting to believe his get-out-of-jail-free card may have bought him a lot more than he had anticipated.
He had to admit he didn’t mind the heat of her breath, and the feel of her breasts crushed against him, the faint aroma of lavender on her skin. But he hadn’t sprung her from jail to buy her affection, and had no real desire to prove the tabloids right.
Or Nadine.
Her admonition popped into his brain: stop letting your dick do your thinking for you, and just as Andy gave him an attaboy look, he gently extricated himself from Ronnie’s embrace and led them into the living room.
“Food’s on the way,” he said.
Ronnie sighed. “Good, I’m starving. I was so wound up in court today I couldn’t eat lunch.”
“What happened when you guys went into chambers?”
“The judge finally allowed Waverly to bring in some of Meyer’s old cases. She says she’ll crucify him tomorrow, during cross.”
“Why his old cases?” Hutch asked. He gestured to the sofa and chairs atop the newly vacuumed rug and they all sat.
“To show a pattern of false arrest and prejudice against women. He’s got a nice smile in court, but he’s a first class misogynist and I’ll be happy to see the looks on the faces of all those female jurors when they finally realize it.”
“Some of them might like it,” Andy said.
They both shot him a look, then Hutch said, “Sounds like that cop from the OJ case. The one who lied about using the ‘N’ word and pleaded the fifth when they asked him if he planted evidence.”
Ronnie nodded. “Exactly. Waverly’s theory is that he let his bigotry dictate his actions. And she thinks I’m right about Jenny.”
“Meaning what?”
“That her death has all the earmarks of a random rage killing. Some lunatic who shares Meyer’s sentiments toward women, but carried it to the nth degree.”
Hutch and Andy exchanged a glance and Andy gave him a subtle shake of the head. He hadn’t told her about Frederick Langer. A bit surprising considering his usual lack of tact.
Hutch said, “That’s part of the reason I invited everyone over tonight. I could be wrong, but I think Jenny’s killer might—”
The phone rang, cutting him off.
“Might what?” Ronnie asked.
Hutch got to his feet. “Let me get that. We’ll talk about this when everyone’s here. It all comes down to Matt now.”
“What comes down to Matt? What are you talking about?”
Hutch crossed to the ringing telephone—which was mounted on the wall next to his front door—and grabbed the receiver. “Hey, Maurice.”
“My boy, you’ve got about a boatload of food and bunch more visitors down here waiting to grace your presence.”
“Send ‘em up,” he said. “And tell the delivery guy one of the meatball sandwiches is for you.”
“Really?”
“You think I’d leave you out? Party hearty, my friend.”
He hung up and turned and saw that Ronnie was on her feet and coming toward him. “Are you gonna tell me what the hell’s going on?”
“Maybe nothing,” he said. “Depends on what Matt was able dig up.”
She got a look in her eyes that wasn’t quite characteristic of the Ronnie he knew. None of the desperation she’d shown in her jail cell, but a trace of anger mixed with frustration. “That doesn’t answer my question. What’s going on?”
All Hutch had was a feeling. A hunch. But at that moment, what he was about to tell her felt so right that he didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate.
He said, “I’m pretty sure I’ve found your lunatic.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
BY THE END of the evening, it was Ronnie who tried to put the kibosh on the whole thing.
Matt, Tom and Monica had arrived in a hail of hugs and hellos as Hutch tipped the delivery man.
Gus had come too, at Hutch’s invitation, and after a brief moment of awkwardness, the old guy settled in with the group as if he were thirty years younger and had shared a semester or two with each and every one of them.
Matt had a manila folder tucked under one arm, which he discreetly placed under his chair as they grabbed seats at the dining table and began doling out food.
It was a scene reminiscent of those long ago days on Miller Street and Hutch once again felt the warmth of nostalgia wash over him as he and his friends laughed and shared memories and ate pizza and sandwiches and drank the chilled bottles of Double Diamond that Tom had picked up at a local liquor store.
Hutch stuck to his usual root beer.
The absence of Jenny and Nadine was, of course, just one of the many elephants in the room, but nobody mentioned them. Not in the beginning, at least. Just as they didn’t mention their reason for gathering that night.
That first hour was instead devoted to the magic of friendship, a notion that Hutch had somehow managed to lose track of, but was happy to have found again.
Monica began to pester him, asking him what it was like hanging out and working with some of the big names in Hollywood. He had met most of the usual suspects at one time or another—Pitt, Jolie, Clooney, Damon, Johansson, Hathaway—but the truth was, even at the peak of his fame he ran in different circles and knew as little about them as Monica did. Maybe less.
“The thing you’ve gotta understand is that Hollywood isn’t the bubble it used to be. So I may run into somebody at a party once in awhile, but most the time I keep to myself.”
“Yeah,” Monica gushed, “but at least you’ve met them. I think I’d pee my pants if I ever did.”
Andy smirked. “I’d buy tickets to see that.”
Ronnie frowned. “Don’t be such a perv.”
“Gotta stay in character, babe. Don’t want to disappoint the fans.”
Not one to be left out, and possibly sensing Hutch’s discomfort with the current subject, Gus began to tell them stories from his many years as a bailiff, including one about a serial rapist who had fallen out of his intended victim’s window as he tried to break in, then went to trial in a full body cast, over the defense attorney’s strenuous objections.
“She claimed there was no way he could get a fair trial like that, but the judge wouldn’t budge. They wheeled the son of a bitch into the courtroom on a gurney and made him listen to the testimony with one of his legs pointing straight into the air like a plaster-cast erection.” He started to chuckle. “Believe me, I had a helluva time holding it together that week.”
Everyone laughed. They were gathered in the living room by then, occupying the sofa, the chairs, the floor, Tom pounding the palm of his hand on the rug where he sat, saying, “That’s brilliant. That’s just brilliant…”
And while it felt good to be laughing, it wasn’t long before they sobered up and the conversation worked its way around to why they were all here.
Matt retrieved his manila folder and now laid it on the coffee table as they waited to hear what he had to say. “I have to admit I was a bit skeptical when Hutch came to me last night.” He looked at Ronnie. “I assume he told you what he saw?”
“And heard,” Hutch said. “Don’t forget that part.”
He could still hear that odd, joyful mewling sound in the back of his mind. It made him shiver.
Ronnie had seemed a bit subdued ever since he’d told her about Langer, but she nodded to Matt. “Makes my skin crawl just thinking about it.”
Monica agreed. “I knew there was something wrong with that guy the minute Hutch pointed him out.”
“Yeah, well Hutch was pretty wired up last night,” Matt said. “And I can’t say I blame him, but my first thought was, what are the chances that this freak really had something to do with Jenny’s murder? God knows there are a lot of screwed up people in this world, but having a death fetish doesn’t necessarily translate, you know?
”
Tom nodded. “Not everyone with an obsession for astronomy wants to hop aboard the space shuttle.”
“Exactly. But I went along because I could see it was important to Hutch, and thanks to Gus here, we’ve got a name to put with the face.”
Gus gave them a little bow as Matt reached to the coffee table now and flipped open the folder. Inside was a short stack of papers, the first of which was a People Finder printout.
“His name is Frederick Langer, twenty-eight years old, with an address on Radcliff Avenue in Wicker Park, according to his state ID application—which was the first red flag.”
“What do you mean?” Tom asked.
Matt set the page aside to reveal another printout showing a photograph of a street, the focus of which was a vacant lot. “I Google-mapped the address and did a street view. Turns out there’s nothing there. At least there wasn’t when Google did its run. So I took a drive out there to make sure, and nothing’s changed.”
“Maybe it’s a mistake,” Andy said. “Maybe he transposed the numbers on his application.”
“Even if he did, it still doesn’t play out. I tried switching them around and found a gas station, a laundromat and a CPD substation.”
“So he lied,” Hutch said.
Matt nodded. “From the looks of it. But that’s not the only red flag I encountered.”
“Oh?”
“There are two more that I think are pretty telling. First, Langer applied for his state ID card about four months before Ronnie was arrested, and it wasn’t a renewal. There’s no record of any previous applications.”
“He must be new to the state,” Tom said.
“That’s what I thought. So the next question I had was, where did he come from? But when I did a database search—and it was a pretty exhaustive one—the second red flag hit me smack in the face. There are several Frederick Langers, but the only one with this guy’s birthdate was born in Savannah, Georgia.”
“I don’t get it,” Monica said. “How is that a red flag?”
Matt looked at her. “On its own, it isn’t. But the search also brought up a death certificate. He died when he was six months old.”
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