________
“YOU’RE NOT GONNA believe this,” Matt said. “Wait till you see what I’ve got.”
He and Andy were standing in the lobby as the night man held the door open for Hutch and Ronnie. He had a manila folder tucked under one arm and Hutch could tell that he was excited as a kid with a brand new bicycle.
He was also sporting a small, dark bruise near his jawline.
“What the hell happened to you?” Hutch asked.
Andy smirked. “He ran into a fist.”
“One of old man Keating’s pals,” Matt said. “Apparently the bastard likes the way things are progressing and doesn’t want us gumming up the works.” He looked at Ronnie. “He doesn’t think much of you, my dear.”
“And why am I not surprised?”
“I should’ve warned you,” Hutch said to Matt, still feeling the ache in his side. He had peed at a gas station, relieved to discover there wasn’t any blood in the stream. “They made a run at me, too.”
“I’m a big boy. And I’ve got a big boy lawyer that Keating’ll be hearing from when this shit blows over. Never could stomach that supercilious fuck.” He patted the folder under his arm. “What do you say we head upstairs?”
“By all means,” Hutch said.
A few minutes later, Matt dropped the folder on the dining room table. The tinny sound of audience laughter rose from the living room, where Lola Baldacci was watching Leno on Hutch’s big screen, little Christopher curled up next to her on the sofa, fast asleep.
Lola ran a loving hand over the boy’s head as she greeted them all with a polite “hello” and a mild look of disapproval. And although she had never met Matt or Andy, no introductions were made, and that seemed to be just fine with her.
Hutch thought about his conversation with Ronnie on the train, the phrase Dysfunction Junction coming to mind. Lola Baldacci was an oddly cold woman, whose muted reaction to everything around her—except Christopher—was strikingly counter to her daughter’s often unbridled emotionality. She was one of those people who were difficult to read, and he didn’t doubt that she had bottled her emotions up tight the day her son died, and had never again let them loose.
Maybe his death had broken something inside of her. Or maybe she had always been this way. Hutch didn’t care to guess.
While Ronnie scooped up Christopher and carried him into the spare bedroom, Andy laid claim to the last Double Diamond in the fridge, and was busy guzzling it down when the phone rang.
Hutch answered it and Maurice told him that Tom and Monica had arrived.
When they joined Hutch, Matt and Andy in the dining room, the mood much more somber than the previous night, Matt flipped open the folder to show them another stack of computer printouts.
At the top of the stack was the familiar photocopy of Langer’s Illinois state ID.
“I spent the afternoon showing this thing around. I was hoping to get a hit at the apartment building across from the lot where Jenny was found.”
“Any luck?” Hutch asked.
“A complete bust. Nobody I talked to saw him. Not before, not after.”
“So the only connection we have between him and Jenny is the sighting at the law office. We need that surveillance tape. Maybe I should give the receptionist a little nudge.”
“Give her time,” Matt said. “I think she’ll come through.”
“I hope so.”
Ronnie came back from the bedroom and went into the kitchen to draw herself a glass of water. “Did I miss anything?”
“Not really,” Hutch said, then looked at Matt. “I’m hoping we’re about to get to the good part.”
And so they did. If you could call it good.
“I had breakfast with a source of mine who’s ex-FBI,” Matt told them. “He agreed to cash in a favor and run Langer’s photo through facial recognition to see if he got a hit.”
“And did he?” Ronnie asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Andy said. “And then some.”
Matt took several sheets from the stack and handed them to Hutch and Ronnie. Hutch looked down at a printout of another state ID, this one from Wisconsin, showing Langer’s face and the name Robert Edward Schlipp. The next sheet featured a Massachusetts ID issued to Alan Matthews. And the third showed Langer as Thomas Keel from Albany, New York.
Hutch looked over at Ronnie’s stack and saw at least three more aliases.
“Holy shit,” he murmured. “This guy’s all over the place.”
“How many identities does he have?” Monica asked.
“So far we’ve found seven,” Matt said, “including Frederick Langer. And all seven use the same ploy—stealing the identity of a dead child. Looks like he’s been doing this for at least eight years.”
She frowned. “So which one is he?”
“Probably none of them.”
“But it gets worse,” Andy said. “A lot worse. Tell them about the girls, Matt.”
Tom raised his eyebrows. “Girls?”
Matt reached to the folder again and took out the remaining sheets of paper. “I did an Internet search, trying to match the dates that the IDs were issued, with any violent crimes in the area during a six month window. I figured it was a long shot, but I got five hits in four of the states. And all but one of those hits originated from the same city that Langer was living in at the time. Two of them were in Boston.”
He laid five sheets of paper onto the table top as if he were dealing out the river cards in a hand of Texas Hold’em. Each one featured a photograph of a young woman, and each of those women had dark hair and the same basic facial structure, looking very much like the waitress that Langer had been staring at just a couple hours ago.
And, of course, Ronnie.
They all looked just like Ronnie.
“This can’t be a coincidence,” Matt said. “Two of these women are missing and presumed dead, and the other three were found stabbed to death in their own homes.”
They were all silent for what seemed a very long time, and Ronnie’s face went pale, looking as if she were about to faint. Hutch reached over and steadied her with a hand, rubbing her shoulder—a move that wasn’t lost on Andy.
“Bottom line,” Matt said, “Langer’s a serial perp. He moves around state to state to keep the pattern from emerging. And he was targeting Ronnie when he signed up for that pet grooming class.”
They all looked at her, but she said nothing, clearly jolted by the news.
“That waitress you two saw must be his back-up,” Andy added. “Or he’s planning a double, like he did in Boston.”
On the ride up in the elevator, they had told Matt and Andy about their night, Hutch conveniently leaving out the part about his nearly lethal encounter with Langer.
But something here didn’t make sense, and Hutch was surprised by a creeping feeling of skepticism.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “If Langer was targeting Ronnie, then why did he kill Jenny? She’s not even close to his type.”
Andy waved a dismissive hand. “Who the fuck knows how this guy’s brain works? Maybe it was an impulse thing. He saw Jenny and Ronnie at the Godwyn Theater and felt like getting his rocks off before he made the big move.”
Hutch shook his head. “So he waits almost a month to kill her? Doesn’t sound like much of an impulse.”
“Maybe it takes him a while to get it up.”
“But what about the calls?” Hutch said, glancing from Matt to Andy. “Why would he make all those phone calls, pretending to be Ronnie?”
Matt shrugged. “This could be some new kind of game for him. He’s ramping it up. Rather than go after Ronnie himself, he does Jenny, sets Ronnie up, then sits back and gets off on his handiwork.”
“Guy’s probably jerking off in the courthouse men’s room every chance he gets,” Andy said. “And just in case that’s not enough for him, he’s got the waitress in reserve.”
It still didn’t make sense to Hutch, but Andy was right. Who knew how this guy’s br
ain worked? What they did know was that he was warped and dangerous and they needed to expose him.
Hutch surprised himself again. “We’ve gotta call the cops.”
Andy laughed. “A lotta good that’ll do.”
“We can show them the photos. They’ll have to listen to us now.”
“We’ve already talked about this,” Matt said. “Printouts from the web don’t really prove anything and, believe me, these idiots are too proud to admit when they’ve made a mistake. It doesn’t help they’ve got that fascist Keating breathing down their necks.”
“What about your FBI friend?” Tom asked.
“Ex-FBI. And while he agrees Langer’s a problem, he thinks the bureau’s too busy chasing Islamic bogey-men to care. They might run a check, but it would be low priority.”
Hutch said, “You think I could hire him to look into it?”
Matt shook his head. “He made it clear this was a one-time favor and nothing more. I can’t even tell you his name.”
“So it’s back to us,” Hutch said, once again thinking about Langer’s knife at his throat. He wanted more than ever to tag this freak, and next time he’d get it right. He just hoped he hadn’t spooked Langer enough to make him run.
Spooked?
Who was he kidding? If anyone was spooked it was him.
But he was still convinced that Langer hadn’t recognized him. That the darkness and his meager attempt at a disguise had done their job. The real test, however, would be when he walked into that courtroom tomorrow morning, assuming Langer bothered to—
A sharp, horrified shriek rose from the living room.
“You stupid, stupid fool!”
They all swiveled their heads to find Lola Baldacci jumping to her feet as she stared at the TV screen. Then she turned a pair of accusing eyes on Ronnie and shouted, “What did you do? What the hell did you do?”
They all scrambled out of their seats and into the living room, their gazes falling on the widescreen as BREAKING NEWS! played across the bottom in bold white letters, the newscaster telling them that one Daniel Tillman had been found shot to death, an apparent suicide, in his Sedona, Arizona home.
Hutch was at a loss.
He had no idea why Lola—normally a cold fish—was so upset by this. Or why she had shouted at Ronnie. Or why something that had happened over sixteen hundred miles away would be considered newsworthy enough to interrupt Leno.
But when he looked at Ronnie, her face had lost all color as she stumbled back, knees buckling, grabbing at the wall to keep herself from falling, her eyes suddenly filling with tears.
And then it hit him.
Sedona, Arizona.
The dead man was little Christopher’s father.
Ronnie’s ex-husband.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
THE 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.
________
COURT 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.”
________
HUTCH 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 tol
d 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.”
________
THEY 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.”
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