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?”
“Are you saying Ronnie’s ex was murdered?”
“Maybe, maybe not. You tell me.”
Hutch stared at him. “This interview is over.”
Meyer stared right back for a moment, then smiled again and reached to the table for the recorder. He flicked it off. “You want to know what I think, Ethan? I think you’re up to your neck in poisonous pussy and you don’t even realize it.”
Hutch felt the tension in his chest deepen.
“I think that girl has sucked your little wee-wee so dry it’s got you all messed up in the head. So messed up that you were willing to make a phone call to one of your douche-bag friends out there in Lala Land and promise him a nice bundle of that movie star money you’ve got languishing in the bank. All he had to do was hop a plane to Sedona and handle a job for you.”
“Go to hell,” Hutch said.
“Oh, I’m not the one going hell, my friend. You and your little fuck bitch already have that particular piece of real estate reserved, with a nice view of the fiery pit. And I will send you there. That’s a promise.”
It took every bit of Hutch’s self-control not to put a fist in Meyer’s face. But he wouldn’t allow himself to be baited. Not by this idiot.
Instead he smiled and said in a tight, even voice, “You have a nice day now.”
Then he stood up and walked out the door.
CHAPTER FIFTY
“WHAT THE HELL happened?” Andy said. “I dropped you off almost an hour ago.”
He, Matt and Gus were waiting for Hutch in the hallway outside the courtroom. The doors were still closed and the crowd wasn’t happy about it. There seemed to be more people here than ever, no doubt drawn by the recent turn of events in Arizona.
Hutch kept his head down as he approached his friends, hoping none of the reporters in the crowd would pay any attention to him. Up until now he’d felt fairly safe in the courthouse, but that would change if anyone leaked that he’d been questioned by the police. And he wouldn’t put it past Meyer to do just that.
Ronnie, Waverly and Abernathy were now in Judge O’Donnell’s chambers, trying to decide how Danny Tillman’s death—and the publicity surrounding it—might affect the proceedings. Waverly would likely ask for a mistrial, claiming that the jury would be swayed by the news coverage, but Hutch doubted her request would be granted. The judge would remind her that the jury had been instructed several times to stay away from the news, and that would be that. The trial would continue.
“Well?” Andy said.
“I’ll fill you in on all the gory details at lunch,” Hutch told him, then looked around. “No Tom and Monica today?”
Matt shook his head. “Tom’s gotta do some prep work for the upcoming semester and Monica’s website crashed. She’s been up all night with her tech crew trying to get it back online.”
/> Andy smirked. “Can’t have all those ladies sitting around bare-assed with nothing to do.”
“What about Langer?” Hutch asked. “You seen him this morning?”
“No sign of him,” Andy said. “I’d check the men’s room, but if he’s in there, I don’t want to interrupt his morning session.”
Gus glanced at his watch. “Not like that boy to be late. He’s usually the first one in line.”
Hutch wondered now if Langer had recognized him in that alleyway. It would explain the absence. He said to Gus, “Did Matt and Andy clue you in on what happened last night?”
“They told me that you and Ronnie followed our boy on the train. Found him stalking some poor girl in a restaurant.”
“They tell you about the other women?”
“They did indeed. And if Matt’s right, we’ve got a very serious situation on our hands. We need to take it to the police. If you want, I could talk to the boys downstairs, maybe even get the judge involved.”
“Not until we’ve got something solid.”
Hutch thought about those two cops staring at him from across the table. They didn’t seem all that interested in solid evidence.
He looked down the hallway and saw Nathaniel Keating huddled with his two bodyguards. Keating caught Hutch’s gaze and smiled, ever so slightly, as if he knew exactly what Hutch had just been through.
Hell, he was probably the one egging the cops on.
Gus said, “Matt tells me you lost Langer somewhere in the Fulton River District. What do you bet he’s squatting in one of the old meatpacker’s warehouses out there?”
“Makes sense when you look at all his credit card purchases,” Matt said. “A lot of them originated nearby.”
Gus nodded. “If he doesn’t show up in court, maybe we can go down there tonight, start poking around. Who knows, we might get lucky.”
“Or we might get dead,” Andy told him. “Guy’s a fuckin’ psycho.”
Hutch thought about Langer’s switchblade pressed against his throat and certainly didn’t disagree.
________
AS HUTCH HAD predicted, the judge denied the motion for a mistrial and court was in session by ten-thirty that morning.
At Waverly’s request, the jury was polled to make sure none of them had watched the news or read the papers. As they all swore under oath that they hadn’t, Hutch looked each one of them in eye, trying to determine who was—and wasn’t—telling the truth.
Unlike Detective Meyer, however, he didn’t have a built-in lie detector. And his faith in humanity had not quite reached the level of Judge O’Donnell’s. To Hutch’s mind, there was a subtle but unmistakable current of electricity running through that jury box, and he suspected that one or more of them had heard the news about Ronnie’s ex-husband.
An easel, sporting a blank piece of art board, stood near the podium, angled for maximum visibility. Apparently the ADA was planning a little show and tell.
Abernathy’s first witness was Raymond Hardwick, who was sworn in and introduced to the court as the owner-operator of The Canine Cuttery.
Hardwick looked about forty-five and was slightly overweight, but was groomed to the point of fastidiousness. His thick eyebrows—easily his most animated feature—were neatly tweezed and sculpted into perfect, symmetrical arches. He wore a crisp green shirt, a leather jacket and black stovepipe jeans that somehow worked despite his bulk, and he spoke with a faint British accent that was about as real as the tan he sported.
Hutch knew that Ronnie didn’t think much of the man, but on first impression, he didn’t strike Hutch as a guy with an axe to grind.
“Mr. Hardwick,” Abernathy said from the podium, “how long have you owned The Canine Cuttery?”
Hardwick took a moment to respond. “I believe it’s been… let me think now… close to fourteen years. But I worked there for nearly a decade before the previous owner died.”
“So then it’s safe to say that you’re an expert in the art of pet grooming?”
Hardwick laughed. “I prefer the term stylist. But, yes, I’m a graduate of the Manhattan Academy.”
Hutch heard a few snickers behind him in the gallery, but Hardwick didn’t seem to notice.
Abernathy said, “Can you tell us what’s typically involved in… styling a dog?”
“I’m not sure there’s such a thing as typical when it comes to my profession. The Cuttery is a high-end establishment and we take special care of our clients.”
“Just give us a general description of what’s involved.”
“Well, it all depends on the client, of course. His or her size, temperament and needs. But the stylist will usually give the client a shampoo and cut and, if necessary, trim the nails, clean the ears.”
“And what type of tools are normally used?”
“Well, there are shedding and dematting rakes, brushes and combs, and hair cutting tools, of course—electric clippers and a good pair of shears.”
“So in using these tools during the course of a day, is it uncommon for stylists to get hair on their clothes?”
“Oh, Lord, no. I must spend half my income on lint rollers.”
More snickers—heard by the judge this time, who gave the people in the gallery an admonishing look, quickly shutting them up.
“Mr. Hardwick,” Abernathy said, “can you tell us how many employees you have?”
“There are six stylists in addition to myself, and a young girl who shampoos the clients and does general cleanup.”
“And during the month of April of this year, was Veronica Baldacci one of those stylists?”
“Yes.”
“So do you think it’s reasonable to assume that, in the course of her duties, Ms. Baldacci had the same problem with dog hair that you did?”
“Oh, of course. Probably more, in fact.”
“Why is that?”
“Well,” Hardwick said, “she was always a bit wardrobe challenged. I’m not quite sure she knows exactly what a lint roller is.”
Laughter rippled through the courtroom, and Hardwick seemed quite pleased with himself. But the smile on his face disappeared when Waverly shouted over the noise. “Objection!”
“Settle down,” O’Donnell told the crowd. “Settle down.” And as they did, he added, “The objection is sustained—the jury will ignore the witness’s last statement.” He eyed Hardwick sternly. “Mr. Hardwick, we’ll have no more jokes at the defendant’s expense in this courtroom. Is that understood?”
“Your Honor, I meant no offense. I was simply answering the—”
“Is that understood?”
Hardwick stiffened. “Yes. Of course.”
Abernathy checked his notes. “Let’s take a moment to look at Ms. Baldacci’s history with you as an employee. How long did she work for you?”
“Approximately two months.”
“And during her employment, did she ever take any time off?”
“Yes. Quite a bit, actually.”
“Were these absences full days, partial days…”
“A couple of full days,” Hardwick said, “but usually partial. Half an hour or so here and there to extend her lunch hour. To be frank, I was becoming quite perturbed by it, because it wasn’t time she had earned.”
“So this was unpaid leave?”
“Oh, most definitely. She hadn’t been with the shop long enough to accrue any paid vacation.”
“Did you keep a record of this?”
“Yes,” Hardwick said. “All employees are required to clock in and out using a computerized time card system.”
“And how does that work?”
“We have a station near the employee entrance that’s dedicated to timekeeping. Each employee is assigned a PIN number for privacy, which they key into the computer to clock in and out. Every two weeks the data is transferred to our payroll service for processing.”
“Am I correct in assuming that the software allows you to print out payroll reports, including the dates and times
the employee clocked in and out?”
“Yes,” Hardwick said.
Abernathy moved to the prosecution table and picked up a sheet of paper. “On the third of last month you responded to a subpoena from the State requesting such a report in regard to the defendant, did you not?”
“I did.”
Abernathy turned to O’Donnell. “May I approach the witness, Your Honor?”
“You may.”
Abernathy moved to the witness box and handed the sheet of paper to Hardwick. “Mr. Hardwick, is this the report we requested?”
Hardwick studied it a moment. “Yes.”
Abernathy moved back to the prosecution table, picked up another sheet of paper and crossed to the court clerk. “Your Honor, I’d like to enter this document into the record as State’s Exhibit B.”
“So entered,” O’Donnell said.
Now the ADA moved to the easel and flipped the piece of art board over to reveal an enlargement of a computer calendar. The heading read THE LAW OFFICES OF TREACHER & PINE, and below this, the week of April fifteenth was displayed with squares representing Monday through Friday. Each square had notations typed in, and in the lower bottom corner of the board were the words, STATE’S EXHIBIT A.
Hutch assumed that this was the printout of Carlene Harding’s calendar that had been entered into evidence yesterday.
Abernathy quickly confirmed that assumption. “Mr. Hardwick, I have here a blow-up of the calendar of phone calls that was provided to us by the victim’s secretary, Carlene Harding. I’m going to call out some dates and times, and ask you to check the payroll report of Ms. Baldacci’s attendance to see if it shows a corresponding date and time. A perfect match isn’t necessary. Whatever comes close.”
“All right,” Hardwick said, looking down at the papers in his hands.
Pulling a laser pointer from his pocket, Abernathy shone a red beam toward the first square on the calendar, which held the notation: V. BALDACCI 11:55 A.M.
Abernathy called out the date and time and Hardwick checked the sheet. “The closest I have is a clock-out at 11:30 that morning.”
Abernathy pointed the beam at the next square, this one showing three V. BALDACCI notations. “What about twelve fifteen, one twenty-two or four forty-three p.m. on Tuesday, the seventeenth of April?”
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