Robert Gregory Browne

Trial Junkies

— 1 -

They found her body in Dearborn Park.

She had been left to die in a vacant lot on Clark Street, lying in a pool of her own blood, multiple stab wounds to her chest and abdomen, her face slashed, her throat slit ear to ear.

Hutch hadn't seen or spoken to Jenny in nearly ten years, but she had never been far from his mind. And the thought that some mad man had mutilated the woman he had once loved-still loved, if you wanted the God's honest truth-sent him rushing to his trailer to relieve himself of the Spanish omelet the craft service had served for breakfast.

Hutch hadn't received any phone calls about this. No old college pals breaking the bad news in a distant, halting voice. Chances were pretty good that most of them would hear about it exactly the way he had-a simple, unassuming headline on the opening page of the Chicago Post website:

LOCAL ATTORNEY STABBED TO DEATH

Hutch was a Chicago native and surfed the Post daily, but this was the kind of story he would usually pass over on his way to the sports page. He was living and working in Hollywood these days and had decided long ago that it was best to ignore such things. He had a pretty good life here and was still selfish enough to want to tune out any outside interference. No point in upsetting the balance he had struggled so hard to regain these last few months.

But then he saw Jenny's photograph and the world tilted sideways. She looked older, but just as beautiful as ever, those clear, intelligent eyes staring up at him as if to say-

Where were you, Ethan?

Why didn't you return my calls?

He was in the make-up chair when he saw it, Christine applying a nasty-looking bruise to the side of his face. He didn't bother to excuse himself. Didn't bother to say anything. Just looked into those eyes, tossed his iPad to the counter, then jumped up and bolted across the sound stage toward his trailer.

By the time he staggered out of the bathroom, wiping a sleeve across his mouth, his assistant Sonya was waiting for him, frowning in disapproval.

"Rough night?"

Hutch had a bit of a reputation, but her assumption was wrong. He had spent the night at home, hammering out pages of a novel that he knew in his gut would never be published. But writing it allowed him to step out of his skin for a while and stretch his creative muscles in a new and different way. A kind of self-administered therapy designed to keep his mind occupied.

That was the theory, at least. Truth was, he had no real writing talent, but just enough of an ego left to think he could pull it off. Whatever the case, he hadn't spent the night drinking, as his performance in the bathroom might suggest.

He hadn't had a drink in six months.

"I'm done for the day," he told her.

Sonya looked bewildered. "Done? We haven't even started."

"Make an excuse for me. I'll be at home."

"You're kidding, right? You're in the middle of a shoot, Hutch. You can't just walk out."

"Tell them I'm sick. Tell them I have food poisoning."

"Do you seriously think Tony's gonna buy-"

Hutch held up his hands, cutting her off. "Look, I know the studio's paying you good money to make sure I'm on my best behavior. And when the shit hits the fan I'll be sure to tell them how hard you tried. But I'm out of here. Tony can shoot around me today."

He had half a mind to walk for good. He'd only taken this gig because both his agent and manager had insisted on it. An actor needs to act, they said. Stay in the public eye. And this could go a long way toward erasing all the negative publicity he'd gotten after the meltdown.

But he knew that the chances of making it to series were pretty much nil. The network was shooting eleven pilots this season and had only two slots to fill. He was up against Selleck, a teen zombie drama, and a reboot of an old, but very popular cop show set in Miami.

His money was on Selleck and the zombies.

Sonya said nothing for a moment, looking at him with her patented scowl. Then her expression shifted as if she suddenly realized that there was something more at work here than a simple alcohol-fueled puke fest.

She softened. "What happened, Hutch? What's wrong?"

"My past just reared up and bit me in the ass, is all."

"Meaning what?"

He slumped to the sofa. "I just found out an old girlfriend of mine was murdered."

"What?"

He looked up at her. "So, if you don't mind, I'd like to go home and grieve for a few hours before I start subjecting myself to Tony's torture."

Sonya studied him blankly, then stepped toward him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You're serious, aren't you? You're telling me the truth."

He ignored her. He didn't want her sympathy. All he could think about was Jenny and those eyes looking up at him, and how badly he had ended things.

And now it was too late to make good.

He got to his feet. "Have Eddie pick me up at the main gate, will you?"

A moment later he was out the door.

— 2 -

Hutch had never been good at funerals.

The last one he had attended had been his parents' memorial service, two years after he left Chicago. They had died in a plane crash-a story that gained huge traction in the media-and his appearance there had created such a stir with the paparazzi that he vowed he would never attend another, no matter who might be lying in the casket.

This was back when the paparazzi were actually interested in him. Nowadays they looked at him as little more than a washed-up curiosity. A source of ridicule and scorn.

Not that he cared.

In the three days since he'd read about Jenny's death, he had been through the usual gamut of emotions-denial, anger, an almost unbearable sense of guilt and regret. He had printed out the photograph from the Post web page and carried it on the flight to Chicago, taking it from his shirt pocket every so often to look into Jenny's eyes.

Where were you, Ethan?

Why didn't you return my calls?

Would calling her have changed anything? Would she still be alive?

There was no way to know, but in his gut he felt as if he were somehow to blame for what had happened to her. A feeling that fed into his addictive tendencies with an unrelenting singularity of purpose.

But he hadn't taken a drink. Hadn't snorted any coke. Even when he desperately wanted to.

That was something, wasn't it?

Now, he stood in the loft of St. Angela's Cathedral in the heart of his home town, hiding those emotions behind the darkest pair of dark glasses he could find. He had no idea if anyone would recognize him-his celebrity wattage had dimmed considerably-but he saw no point in taking chances. The last thing he wanted was to turn Jenny's service into a circus. Better to keep his distance and pay his respects in private.

Down below, the church pews were starting to fill up with friends and family. He saw faces he knew and felt a sudden tug of nostalgia, remembering better days, when he and his friends had been so full of hope and promise.

But what drew his attention was the shrouded casket in front of the altar and the thought that Jenny lay inside, her body stitched up but apparently too gruesome to be put on display.

Which was just fine with Hutch. He didn't need to see her like that.

But at that moment, he felt consumed by hatred. Hatred for whoever had done this to her. The police had been remarkably discreet over the last few days, news reports speculating that they had a suspect, but no names had come forward. No faces. And Hutch wished he had that suspect in front of him right now, so that he could do to the beast what the beast had done to Jenny.

Retribution was what he wanted. Retribution for the woman he had loved.

And had thrown away.

Where were you, Ethan?

Why didn't you return my-

"You gonna hide up here all afternoon?"

Startled, Hutch turned and saw a familiar face. He hadn't heard her come up the stairs and was thrown slightly off-kilter, immediately slipping into his old standby-the movie star smile. It wasn't appropriate for the moment, but he had little else to fall back on, and it helped cover the rage that was percolating inside him.

"Nadine," he said. "How've you been?"

The years had been good to her, but there was a hardness in her expression he'd never seen in their college days. "Let's play catch up later. Why don't you come down and join the rest of us?"

Then she turned and started down the stairs, pausing briefly to glance back at him. She and Jenny had been best friends once and had always resembled each other-so much so that people often mistook them for sisters. She had those same intelligent eyes that bore into you as if you were a hostile witness caught in a lie.

Now they were colored by sorrow.

"Well?" she said.

His smile gone, Hutch merely nodded, then followed her down the stairs.

— 3 -

If there'sone thing the Catholics know how to do, Matthew Isaacs thought, it's put on a good show.

Not that his own people couldn't tap dance with the best of them, but these folks had a knack for turning a ritual into an art form, complete with gaudy costumes, a full choir, and a kind of solemn pomposity that put most other religions to shame.

As he took in the pageantry from his fifth row pew, Matt wondered how they'd managed to throw this Mass together so quickly after Jenny's death. Apparently someone had made a hefty donation to the local diocese. Probably daddy dear. He had enough money to buy the whole church and half the block it stood on.

Judging by what Jenny had told them all in college, her father was very serious about his faith. But Jenny herself had been a lapsed Catholic. Was pretty much agnostic. In all the years Matt had known her, she'd never made a secret of her beliefs. Or lack thereof. He hadn't seen her in quite a while, but he doubted she had changed.

Not many people do.

But funerals are never really about the dead. They're designed to give your loved ones closure. A sense that the deceased's spirit is traveling to a better place, to a world where violence and disease and old age don't exist.

As much as he wanted to, Matt didn't believe any of it. Just like Jenny. In fact, he'd say he believed it even less than she had, convinced that religion and faith and dreams of an afterlife were nothing more than a panacea for fear. To his mind, when you were gone, you were gone, and no ritual created by man would change that simple fact.

Part of him hoped he was wrong. But he doubted it. And his lack of faith certainly didn't keep him from appreciating a good show.

It had started right on time, the choir launching into an appropriately solemn tune, sung in Latin, the voices of angels echoing through the cathedral. They were several stanzas into it when Andy McKenna nudged Matt in the ribs and whispered, "Alert the media. Look who the cat just dragged in."

Matt followed Andy's gaze and turned his head slightly to see two people moving toward them up the aisle-a man and a woman.

The woman was their old friend Nadine Overman, whom he had just spoken to outside. He knew she had taken Jenny's death hard, but she looked as stoic as ever.

The man, however, was a surprise. A guy wearing glasses so dark it was impossible to see his eyes.

Didn't matter. Matt would recognize him anywhere.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he murmured.

"Can't believe he has the nerve to show up here after all these years," Andy said. "You know I sent that asshole a screenplay and he completely ignored me? Didn't say boo about it."

Matt frowned. "Since when did you start writing screenplays?"

"Hey, you think all I do is crunch numbers all day? I got aspirations."

"You and twenty billion other people. The question is, do you have any talent? And I'm guessing no."

Andy frowned. "Remind me again why we're friends?"

"Because I'm the only one who puts up with you."

They faced forward as Nadine and Hutch moved past them to a pew on the left and sat down. Matt started counting to ten, wondering if Hutch would have the decency to take off the dark glasses. At the count of eight he did, focusing his attention on the priest who was stepping out in front of the altar as the choir continued to sing.

Matt was about to tell Andy what a narcissistic prick he thought Hutch was-even the way he sat seemed arrogant-but then he decided to keep his mouth shut. He didn't really know that to be the case at all. That was merely projection based on supposition and Matt liked to believe he was an objective observer, a rarity in the news business these days. He relied on facts to do his job and he really had no idea what kind of man Hutch was anymore.

Matt didn't pay much attention to celebrity gossip, but the last he'd heard, the poor guy was coming out of his second stint at rehab and was trying to revitalize a sagging career-a humbling experience for anyone. So maybe he should cut Hutch some slack, even if the guy had abandoned his friends the moment his star caught fire.

When it came down to it, Matt himself hadn't been all that communicative with the group over the years. Except for Andy. While most of them had stayed in Chicago, they had all moved on to their own careers, their own lives, marriages, divorces, kids…

Maybe the only reason they resented Hutch was because he was the most visible of them all. There was a time when you couldn't turn on the TV without seeing his face, or hearing about some new movie he had signed to star in.

Their reaction was a classic case of crabs in the bucket syndrome. They'd all seen Hutch climbing out and wanted to pull him back in. And when he finally broke free, they resented him for it.

Matt had seen it time and again at the Post. Just recently, Jim Kelsey, one of their top political reporters, started doing guest spots on CNN, and the rest of the staff almost went nuts with envy. Considered him a traitor.

But not Matt. He knew the newspaper business was a rotting carcass that hadn't yet been buried and he didn't begrudge Kelsey his success. Or Hutch, for that matter.

Why should he?

But he'd never say any of this to Andy. The entire dynamic of their friendship centered around the cynical put-down, an act they'd been perfecting since the moment they were thrown together in a dorm room in college. Jenny had quickly labeled them the Curmudgeon Twins, and it was a role they both enjoyed playing. So Matt figured that admitting to Andy that underneath the crust was a soft, doughy center, would probably crush the poor bastard.

And with this in mind, he dismissed all the nonsense he'd been thinking for the last few seconds and nodded toward Hutch, saying, "Look at the guy. He even sits like an arrogant douche."

Andy grinned. "Probably the stick up his ass."

Matt gave his friend an appreciative chuckle, then caught himself and remembered where they were and why they were here.

It wouldn't do to disrespect Jenny. She was one of the sweetest people he'd ever known.

He looked around at all the somber faces and saw that most of the old gang was present, including Monica Clawson, who had lost some weight but still had those glorious tits. Tom Brandt, who was teaching history at Circle, their alma mater-or the University of Illinois to virgin ears.

And, of course, Nadine and Hutch.

The only one missing was Ronnie. Matt had no idea what she was up to these days, no idea if she was even alive, but he was pretty sure he would've heard if anything bad had happened to her.

She and Jenny had never really gotten along-mostly because they had both been madly in love with Hutch. (What else was new?) But when Matt had talked to Nadine, Nadine had been pretty certain that Ronnie would show.

So where the hell was she?

Late, as usual.

Further proof that most people don't change.

— 4 -

You'd miss your own damn funeral.

It was a phrase her mother had pretty much worn out over the years. Just another one of the many cliches Mom liked to pull out of her butt in her never-ending quest to harass and belittle her only daughter.

But as the cab turned onto State Street and found itself stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, that cheerless, put-upon voice popped uninvited into Ronnie Baldacci's head, and she couldn't help but laugh.

She was about to miss a funeral, all right.

Not hers, but that was a mere technicality.

The driver heard the laugh and glanced at her in his rearview mirror as he gestured to the crush of cars in front of them. "You think this is funny?"

"I think I'll get out here," she told him, then tossed a ten dollar bill onto the front seat. The meter had already ticked past nine-fifty, so there wasn't much of a tip, but Ronnie wasn't exactly Donald Trump, either. She figured the guy was lucky to get that much out of her.

Before he could make any snide remarks, she slung her backpack over her shoulder, threw her door open and bolted up the street, hoping to cover the three remaining blocks to the cathedral in record time.

Ronnie had come straight from work and wasn't really dressed for the occasion. That fat bastard Raymond had refused to let her leave more than half an hour early, so she'd had just enough time to finish blow drying Mimi, Mrs. Bowman's nasty little poodle, before taking a quick pee and jumping into the cab.

She didn't think too many people would care that she was wearing only jeans, a V-neck and a hoodie, but if they did, screw 'em. The ones who mattered would understand. It was either this or not show up at all-and not showing up wasn't an option.

Ronnie was sweating and winded by the time she reached the front steps of St. Angela's, which led to a huge, ornate old ragstone structure that made her feel puny and insignificant. An insect at the mercy of the world around her.

But then most things made her feel that way. Her life was overwhelming in its insignificance, and she'd be lying if she said she'd never considered taking the express route into the great unknown.

When she read about what had happened to Jenny, she was shocked and mortified and saddened, but just a tiny bit envious, too. Not about the way she had died-nobody wanted that, for chrissakes-but the fact that Jenny no longer had to deal with the multitude of disappointments life had to offer the average human animal.

Problem was, even in her most self-destructive frame of mind, Ronnie had too many reasons not to follow through on the impulse to do herself in-not the least of which was that she was too much of a coward to do the deed. The idea of physical pain terrified her, and she couldn't see how it was possible to off yourself without it. Something she'd just as soon avoid.

But there was another, more compelling reason to stay alive. One she had spent the last several months fighting for.

One she would never stop fighting for.

Struggling to breathe, she glanced down at her chest and noticed her Canine Cuttery name badge was still pinned above her left breast. She had half a mind to toss it to the sidewalk and stomp it to a fine dust (while imagining it was Raymond's head), but she simply unclipped it and stuck it in her back pocket.

It would be safe enough there. She'd lost one already and that cheap bastard Raymond had told her he'd charge her for another replacement.

Jerk.

Jeez, Ronnie, get a grip. You keep carrying on like this, people are gonna think you're unhappy.

She laughed again and some nitwit in a business suit looked at her as if she were crazy. She stuck her tongue out at him, then sucked in a deep breath and hurried up the steps of the cathedral and went inside.

To her dismay, the Mass was already in full swing. The doors creaked loudly as they closed behind her and several heads swiveled in her direction. She glanced around and spotted Matt Isaacs gesturing for her to join him.

Quickly moving up the aisle, she squeezed in next to him and nodded to Andy McKenna as she sat down. She couldn't remember ever seeing the two of them apart. Especially back in college. If she didn't know they were both avowed heterosexuals-especially Matt-she'd have to wonder.

"It ain't a date if Ronnie isn't late," Matt murmured.

"Hey, I'm here, aren't I?"

He squeezed her hand. "You are indeed. Good to see you, babe."

"Likewise," she said, squeezing back. "What's it been-two years? Shame it takes something like this to get us all to-"

Someone shushed her and Ronnie whirled around, looking for the offender. An old woman with a couple extra chins was scowling at her, and Ronnie resisted the urge to flip her off. Instead, she smiled sweetly, then turned her attention to the front of the cathedral, staring blankly at the casket as the priest stood over it, mumbling something in…

Holy crap, she thought.

The casket.

Jenny's casket.

Despite her morbid interior monologue a moment ago, Ronnie had been having a hard time getting her head around the idea that Jenny was really gone. Ever since she'd heard the news, it had felt like an abstract notion, a concept so surreal that she had found herself unable to feel anything but a kind of detached numbness.

Until now. Looking at that casket.

Jesus.

Not that she and Jenny had been all that close. Some might say they didn't even like each other. But that wasn't strictly true.

Oh, they'd had their troubles in the past, no doubt about it, but even when you were envious of Jenny, even when you knew that she was as close to perfection as a human being could get, that she had been blessed by all the angels in Heaven-for a while, at least-there was something about the girl that made it impossible to dislike her.

In short, she was the exact opposite of Ronnie, and her death was a testament to how seriously screwed up the universe truly was.

Matt squeezed Ronnie's hand again, then leaned toward her, keeping his voice low. "Check it out. Third row. Left side."

Ronnie shifted her gaze and felt her heart kick up a notch, surprised to see none other than Ethan Hutchinson sitting close to the aisle, looking much better than he had in, like-forever.

Not that she could tell all that much from this angle. But the last she'd seen of him was a clip on Celebrity Death Watch, when he'd been too zonked to even realize he was on camera. She hated the show, thought it was unnecessarily cruel and invasive, but she'd been riveted to the screen like a rubbernecker at a train wreck, and her heart had broken for the guy.

It didn't help that she'd always had a bit of a crush on him.

She had heard that he had finally gotten his act together, but she had to admit she'd been skeptical-and wrong, apparently. Because here he was. Looking good. Almost like the old Hutch.

Ronnie didn't know why she was surprised to see him here. He had been head over heels for Jenny since the day they met, and she knew there had to be a storm raging inside of him right now.

Because the simple truth of the matter was that Jennifer Keating had not deserved to die. Not by a long shot.

And Hutch had to be feeling it more than any of them.

— 5 -

When the mass was over, when the songs had been sung, the prayers spoken, the memories shared, Hutch breathed a sigh of relief.

Thank God it was behind him now.

He wasn't sure how much more he could take.

He had been touched by the outpouring of love for Jenny, the friends and family who had spoken of their affection for her, telling stories about her childhood, her teenage years, her work in the community, the cases she had tried and won…

And more than once, he wished he hadn't removed his sunglasses. Found himself unable to hold back tears when Jenny's father spoke about the death of his wife, and about the time they had almost lost Jenny to influenza as a child. How grateful he was that she had been spared, if only for a short time.

"She was, and always will be, my little angel," Keating said. "But I take comfort in knowing that she's with her mother now, in the Lord's Kingdom. And I know that one day I'll join them in the arms of God."

Surprisingly, none of the old gang had gotten up to speak, but Jenny's father had never really approved of them. He had apparently decided that her years as an undergrad were to be erased from her history.

Yet Jenny's life, her womanhood, had been defined by those years, and to discard or deny them only proved how little Keating knew about his own daughter. For all of the talk, all of the memories that had been presented here today, none of the people who spoke had captured the essence of who she really was.

Not to Hutch's mind, anyway.

Ten years may have been a long time not to be in contact, yet he felt as if he had known Jenny better than any of them. And if he had returned her calls, if he had gotten together with her for lunch or a drink-or whatever-that instant chemistry they had always shared would have kicked in immediately. That deep understanding of each other that no one else could grasp.

And as he sat there in the pew, listening to the drone of the organ music, Jenny's friends and family getting to their feet around him, Hutch suddenly realized why he hadn't returned her calls.

He had been afraid to. Because Jenny had known him far too well. Could see into him with a razor sharp precision that cut past all the Hollywood bullshit and went straight for the soul.

The life he had been leading was a fraud, one he had lucked into. And there was no doubt in his mind that she would have called him on it. Would have forced him to see himself for exactly what he was-a lost, insecure man in search of something-anything-that would define him as a human being.

Hutch had never set out to be an actor or a celebrity in the first place. Had never studied drama or tried out for any school plays. Had been nothing more than a twenty-one year old pre-law undergrad, trying to figure out what to do with his life, when he was "discovered" at a keg party in University Village by a local casting director hunting for new faces.

His, she told him, was just made for TV.

An arguable comment at best.

At her urging, Hutch auditioned for a supporting role in an upcoming series pilot about a Chicago medical examiner who investigated cold cases. And to everyone's surprise-including his own-he got the part.

Before he knew it, he was on a Hollywood sound stage, completely out of his element, playing the snarky young lab assistant, spouting lines that would make even a third-rate pulp writer wince in pain. But for reasons known only to the Gods, the show was picked up and became an instant hit.

Hutch moved to Los Angeles, where most of the series was shot, and his character got so popular that the storylines started focusing on him rather than the designated star, an old television veteran named Jack Van Parkes.

Needless to say, this made for an unpleasant working situation, but he slogged on simply because he had nothing better to do.

Then, of course, there was the money.

And the fame.

The cars. The women. The booze.

The drugs.

Within a couple years of getting the gig, Hutch was a show business cliche. Had left the show and moved on to features and become a spoiled, over-privileged brat with enough yes men around him to get him believing the hype. And when his first three movies tanked, followed by another three that went straight to DVD, he was too busy getting blitzed to know that his so-called career was on a downward slide.

Then, late one drug and alcohol-fueled night, he turned to the woman lying next to him in bed, her bare ass peppered with traces of the coke he had just snorted off it, and he suddenly realized he had no idea who the hell she was.

Or who he was, for that matter.

Not only had he lost control of his life, he was completely alone. His parents were dead, his friends were bought and paid for, and the only people he had ever really cared about-his old college pals-had long ago given up on him.

All except Jenny.

She had left a message on his voice mail shortly after the incident with the paparazzi. The fistfight outside The Viper Room that had gotten so much airplay. He was so coked out of his mind that night that he couldn't remember any of it, and had awakened in a jail cell that smelled of booze, old urine and industrial antiseptic.

When his manager bailed him out and he collected his belongings at the front desk, he found Jenny's message waiting on his phone. He had no idea how she'd gotten the new number, but Jenny had always been a resourceful woman.

"You can't keep doing this, Ethan. You need help. Please don't ignore me this time."

But he had. Because it hurt too much not to. She was a reminder of everything he had thrown away-and for what? A face on a movie screen? A half dozen cars in his garage? A line of coke on the ass of some flavor-of-the-week starlet?

Looking at it from a distance, it might have seemed like every man's fantasy. But it was a lifestyle that started to consume you after a while. To control you. And once you lose control you're bound to crash.

Which was exactly what Hutch had done.

More than once.

"I need a drink," Nadine said.

Hutch had forgotten she was sitting next to him. He looked at her now and saw that her eyes mirrored his, red and full of tears.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I'll live, but only if I can get my hands on a rum and Coke. Old man Keating opted for a private burial, so a bunch of us are heading over to The Monkey House instead. You game?"

The Monkey House. Their old hangout near UIC. Hutch couldn't remember the last time he'd been inside the place, but he wasn't sure if tagging along was a good idea. He reached into his pocket, brought out his AA coin and showed it to her. The one that said KEEP IT SIMPLE.

"Six months sober," he told her. "And I'd like to keep it that way."

"So order a club soda."

"I hate club soda."

"A root beer, then. A glass of water. I don't care as long as you come with."

"I thought I was persona non grata with you guys."

She shrugged. "So now's your chance to prove you're not a complete asshole."

"You assume far too much."

"Hell, most of us figured you wouldn't even bother showing up today, so you're already ahead of the game." She paused. "Look, all I know is that Jenny loved you, and I'm pretty sure she'd like to see us all back together again. This'll give us a chance to celebrate her life the way she'd want us to."

Hutch thought about it a moment, that sense of nostalgia coming back to him, stronger than ever. He glanced around and saw a few of his old friends huddled together near the cathedral entrance-Ronnie, Matt, Andy… And now Monica Clawson heading up the aisle toward them, her arms outstretched for a bear hug.

Then Ronnie caught his eye, giving him a bright smile and a waggle of her fingers. She was dressed pretty casually for the occasion and looked a little frazzled, her dark hair even wilder than he remembered it. But she was refreshingly real-the exact opposite of ninety-percent of the women he knew in Hollywood-and he'd always had a soft spot for her.

It would be good to talk to her after all these years.

It would be good to talk to all of them. Make him feel just a little bit closer to Jenny. The Jenny who wasn't included in today's Mass.

"Well?" Nadine asked. "Are you in or out?"

Hutch slipped the coin back into his pocket and nodded. "Root beer it is."

— 6 -

Despite its name, The Monkey House was your typical Irish pub, located in the heart of University Village.

Stepping inside was like stepping through a portal into the past. The place had a kind of worn, old world feel to it, accompanied by the nearly overpowering smell of stale beer. You half expected to see a bunch of weathered old coots bellying up to the bar.

But, as always, it was packed with college students, many of whom were under the legal drinking age-not that it mattered. In the name of commerce, management had always been pretty lax about checking IDs.

They all looked like babies to Hutch. He sometimes felt as if he had aged thirty years in less than a decade.

On the cab ride over, as he watched the city streak by, he had started to reconsider this little excursion. Had wondered if he was making a mistake by accepting Nadine's invitation. While Ronnie and Nadine seemed happy to see him, he doubted Matt or Andy or any of the others would be all that thrilled about making room for him at the table.

He was a stranger to them now, no longer part of their world, and he knew they must resent him for his failure to stay in contact. He hadn't helped matters much by quickly exiting the church after promising Nadine he'd catch up with them. But he'd needed to be alone. Wanted to walk the streets for a while and reacquaint himself with the city he loved.

Then halfway through the cab ride, he had almost told the driver to turn around and take him to the apartment in Lincoln Park. His parents had left him the place and he had decided to stay there tonight rather than grab a late flight out. It had sat dormant for years and he had been meaning to sell it for some time now, but it was the one small piece of his folks-and the city-that he still had left, and he was reluctant to let it go.

There was a time when he had dreamed about moving into the place with Jenny. He had just finished a movie in France-a miserable experience for everyone concerned-and was back in L.A. feeling a little lost and a lot lonely, and had thought about chucking it all and giving Jenny a call.

But he was only halfway serious. He had been two weeks away from shooting another movie and he knew that Jenny was involved with someone-a guy from the Chicago District Attorney's office. He may not have kept in contact with her, but he did keep tabs. His life never felt complete without knowing how she was getting on, and he'd freely admit to occasional Google searches to find out. She was a fairly well-regarded corporate attorney and he was never surprised by the number of hits he found.

But he hadn't called-then, or in all the months that followed. And as he rode in the back of that cab, he kept wishing there was a way to take it all back, to erase all of the mistakes he'd made.

This wasn't possible, of course, but maybe meeting up with his old friends was a way to make up for some of it. To atone for his sins.

So, instead of telling the cabbie to turn around, Hutch had remained silent, lost in his thoughts as he rode toward University Village. Less than twenty minutes later he was walking through that portal into the past, a knot in his stomach as he instinctively moved toward their old table in back.

He was halfway there when he heard a familiar voice behind him say, “Hey, stranger…” and a pair of hands grabbed hold of him and spun him around. And there was Ronnie, pulling him into a hug, the faint smell of lavender wafting off her skin as she kissed his cheek.

Then she held him at arm's length, looking at him with tear-stained eyes. "I thought you might've chickened out and caught the next flight back to L.A."

"No such luck," he told her. "In fact, I may even stick around for a couple days."

The thought hadn't really occurred to him until that very moment, but seeing The Monkey House after all these years made him realize just how much he missed living here.

Seeing Ronnie may have had something to do with it as well.

"Hell of a thing, isn't it?" she said.

Hutch assumed she was talking about Jenny. "She didn't deserve it. Not this."

"Who does?"

"The guy who did it to her, that's who. I'm not usually vindictive, but I'd like five minutes alone with the bastard."

"Assuming they ever catch him."

Hutch's eyebrows went up. "I thought they had a suspect?"

She shrugged. "Depends on who you ask. They're working on some leads, but I figure something like this, it's gotta be some kind of serial killer. And if Jenny was a random victim, how the hell will they ever find him?"

"Please don't say that. You don't know how badly I need them to catch this guy."

Ronnie's eyes teared up again and she gave him another hug. "Oh, Hutch, you poor thing. Don't even listen to me, okay? Nobody else does."

"Then who do I listen to? Matt? Is he still with the Post?"

"Last I heard, although they're cutting staff like crazy."

Hutch pulled away from her. "Is he coming by tonight?"

She nodded. "They're parking the car. I rode over with him and Andy."

"That must've been an interesting trip."

She grinned. "Did you feel your ears burning?"

"No. Should I have?"

"Let's just say your name came up once or twice."

"But in a good way, right?"

Her grin widened. "You really want me to lie?"

Maybe he did. Maybe he wanted her to tell him that he was still well loved by all his old friends, because thinking that might make him believe that coming here hadn't been a mistake. "So how many times was the term 'jerk off' used?"

"We're talking about Matt and Andy, so use your imagination." She gave his arm a squeeze and said, "God, it's good to see you. Come on, let's go grab our old table before the young'ns do."

"Young'ns?"

She gestured. "I don't know if you noticed, but we're senior citizens around here."

She grinned again, then moved through the crowd, pulling him along with her. He got a few surprised stares along the way, but he ignored them and let Ronnie drag him to the back of the bar where the old table was miraculously empty.

Then he saw the RESERVED sign and realized someone had called ahead.

"Thank God for Nadine," Ronnie said, then slid onto a chair and patted the one next to her. "Don't think you're getting away from me for the rest of the night."

Hutch wasn't sure he wanted to. He was relieved to discover that Ronnie and he had slipped quite easily into their old personas, the camaraderie between them familiar and comfortable. If he hadn't been obsessing over Jenny, he might have noticed how attractive she'd grown over the last few years.

Maybe he did anyway.

But before he could sit down they were suddenly assaulted by two fast-moving figures, the first of which-Andy McKenna-slid onto the chair that Hutch was about to occupy. "Sorry, dude, this is my spot."

Ronnie tried to shove him away. "Jesus, Andy, do you always have to be so rude?"

"You don't want to sit next to me?"

"I'd rather sit next to somebody civilized, thank you."

Andy looked at Hutch. "You see how it is? Without the movie star looks, all I get is the cold shoulder."

What Hutch saw was that nothing had changed. Andy McKenna, God love him, was just as boorish as he'd always been. The only reason anyone had ever tolerated him was because he was Matt's best friend, and everyone loved Matt.

Speaking of whom, Matt himself scraped a chair back and sat across from Andy, telling him to "Quit being a douche, all right?" Then he looked at Hutch and nodded his head toward the chair next to him. "Have a seat, stranger. It's good to see you."

In light of his conversation with Ronnie, Hutch wasn't sure how sincere the words were, but he told himself to take them at face value. They shook hands and he sat down. "How've you guys been?"

Andy shrugged. "How do you think? I'm stuck in a cubicle all day. Ain't like I'm rolling around in the sheets with a hottie-of-the-month like Gina Wakefield."

Hutch had expected comments like this. The sheets in question had been on a Paramount sound stage, surrounded by a lighting crew, a continuity girl, a DP and an obsessive-compulsive director who had no idea what he was doing. Oh, and most of the shots had involved a body double named Bridget whose voice was so high and whiny it was like a knife to the skull. But Hutch didn't bother to point that out.

Ronnie frowned. "Jeez, Andy, can't you dial it back for just a few minutes?"

"Buy me a drink, hot stuff, and I'll do whatever you want." Then he turned to Hutch, a sullen look on his face. "I've got a bone to pick with you, Hutchinson."

Here we go. "Oh? Why's that?"

"I sent you a script about a year back, and you never said a word. If it sucks, it sucks, but you could at least give me the courtesy of picking up the phone and telling me."

Matt said, "Give it a rest, Shakespeare. This little soiree isn't about you."

"No, no," Hutch said, "that's okay." He looked at Andy. "Thing is, this is news to me. Where did you send it?"

"To your agent, with a nice little note telling her I'm a friend of yours."

Hutch frowned. "Do you realize how many emails my agent gets every week from so-called friends of mine? I have a two-minute conversation with a car wash attendant and we're suddenly long lost buddies."

"So?"

"So I never got it. And knowing my agent, it went straight into her trash folder."

"What the hell kind of agent is that?"

"The kind who's trying to protect him," Ronnie said, "from morons like you."

Andy shot her a look and Hutch asked, "So do you still want me to read this thing?"

Andy's eyes brightened. "Hell, yeah."

Hutch hadn't known the guy was a closet writer, and was skeptical that the script would be any good. Ninety percent of the screenplays that managed to get past his agent were complete dreck. But it wouldn't kill him to take a look. "I'm thinking I might stick around for a couple days, so if you can get it to me before I leave…"

"Are you serious?"

"Absolutely."

Andy stood up. "Hell, I'll go get it right now."

"Oh, for chrissakes," Matt said, "give the guy a break. You can email it to him later."

"I'm like six blocks from here. I'll pop it on a thumb drive and be back before you finish your first drink."

There was a sudden desperate eagerness to Andy's demeanor that made it impossible to discourage him. Hutch had seen it a million times before-people on the outside looking for a way in. And despite his agent's love of the trash folder, he figured everyone deserved a shot. Even Andy.

"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."

— 7 -

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 sitting 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 amp; the Papas-a favorite of Nadine's father.

"To Mama J," everyone repeated, then clinked their glasses and drank their drinks.

— 8 -

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

— 9 -

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 seconds, 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.

"Ethan. Ethan!" one of the reporters called. "Is it true you were sleeping with Ms. Keating?"

"Ethan!" another shouted over the first. "How long have you known Veronica Baldacci?"

Hutch ignored them and stayed on course, hurrying up the courthouse steps as they moved alongside, in back, and in front of him, pointing their cameras and extending their microphones.

"Ethan! Are you here in support of Ms. Baldacci?"

This was the question that finally made Hutch lose his rhythm, just as he was reaching the lobby doors.

How the hell could anyone ask him that?

As the doors opened in front of him, he turned, not sure which reporter had fired the missile, but determined to set him straight.

The crowd got quiet with anticipation and he said, "I want to make one thing very clear. I am not here to support Veronica Baldacci. As far as I'm concerned, the bitch should be roasted alive for what she's done. And that's the last I'll have to say on the subject."

A flurry of follow-up questions came at him, but Hutch ignored them and went into the building, reveling in the feel of the cool, refrigerated air.

But he was still burning up inside.

Are you here in support of Ms. Baldacci?

Fuck you, Hutch thought.

Fuck. You.

— 10 -

When the defendant made her first appearance in court, nearly four months ago, the judge asked her if she was willing to waive her right to a speedy trial.

Under state and federal statutes, once a suspect was arrested, the court had a hundred and twenty days to put her in front of a judge and jury. The idea being that they didn't want a prisoner rotting in jail for a decade before anyone remembered she was there.

If the defendant waived that right, and was free on bail, a few weeks or even months were tacked on to the deadline to accommodate the court's schedule and give the prosecution and defense additional time to prepare for trial.

This could work to the advantage of both parties.

But because Ronnie had been charged with a capital offense, bail was set at two million dollars, and there was little chance she'd be able to raise the ten percent bond to set her free. So not only had she offered the judge a resounding "Not Guilty" at her arraignment, she had demanded that she get her day in court as soon as the law permitted.

Today was that day.

Hutch knew all of this because he'd been at that arraignment. Sat in the back of the courtroom as she gave her plea.

That night outside The Monkey House he had stood there speechless as the police had recited Ronnie's Miranda rights and escorted her to the cruiser, Ronnie glancing back at him with wide, unblinking eyes, as if to say, get me out of this-please.

And that had been Hutch's first instinct. To help her.

He couldn't fathom why they'd be charging her with Jenny's murder. At the time, it just didn't make any sense to him. He had immediately run inside to tell the others, then they all jumped into their cars and headed down to central booking, where Hutch had every intention of bailing Ronnie out.

But when they got there, they had been turned away, told that the police would be holding her until her arraignment three days later. Nobody was allowed to see or speak to her, except for her lawyer.

But what lawyer?

Hutch doubted she had one on retainer.

Still in a state of denial, he had decided he'd find her a good one. But then Nadine and Tom Brandt pulled him aside in the station house lobby and Nadine said, "You sure you want to do that?"

Hutch had frowned at her. "What do you mean?"

"We were talking about this on the ride over. And let's face it, like Matt told us, the cops have had somebody in mind for this for several days now. They wouldn't have arrested her if they didn't think she was guilty."

"We're talking about Ronnie, remember? Our Ronnie."

"She hasn't been our Ronnie for years. And if you don't think she's capable of this, don't forget that story she told us back in college. About how she sent her mother to the emergency room."

"With a kitchen knife," Tom said.

Hutch remembered the story and shook his head. "She was defending herself. Brought the knife up when her mother went to slap her. She was doing the dishes at the time."

"That's her side of it," Nadine said. "Maybe her mother has a different story."

Tom nodded. "Let's look at this logically. By her own admission Ronnie has a history of violence, she and Jenny never really got along, and Ronnie herself said they'd been in contact recently."

Hutch balked. "One night. At a play."

"Maybe it's been more than that."

"Even if that's true, why would she kill Jenny? What's the motive?"

Nadine thought it over, shrugged. "Envy, maybe?"

"Envy?"

"Jenny was everyone's golden girl, and look at Ronnie. She's a dog groomer, for godsakes."

"So? You're a real estate developer, Tom's a professor, I'm a washed-up actor. What's the difference? We're all servicing somebody."

Nadine studied him impatiently. "That isn't how Ronnie sees it, okay? She was envious of Jenny. First with you-"

"Me?"

"Don't pretend you don't know she always had a crush on you. But that's just part of it. She looked at Jenny and saw the life she wanted but would never get."

"So she kills her?"

"Maybe she cracked. Maybe she's had issues for years and they all just came to the surface when she saw Jenny at the Godwyn."

Hutch couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You're serious about this."

"All I know is about a month before the murder, she called me out of the blue and started rambling on about Jenny. Sounded a little obsessive and borderline incoherent."

"Or maybe she was just drunk," Hutch said. "Believe me, I know the territory."

"Maybe. But as much as I hate to say it, the first name that popped into my head when I found out about the stabbing, was Ronnie's."

"It all fits together if you ask me," Tom said.

Hutch shifted his gaze between the two of them. "Are you even listening to yourselves? We all envied Jenny, we've all done some crazy shit, and by your logic, any one of us could have killed her."

Tom nodded, looking solemn. "Except Ronnie's the one they arrested."

— 11 -

When it finally came down to it, Hutch hadn't listened to his friends. Call it a massive character flaw, but he always wanted to think the best of people, even when he was bitching and moaning about them.

Even when they'd been arrested for killing the woman he loved.

Matt, Andy and Monica hadn't heard the conversation with Nadine and Tom, and Hutch didn't bother sharing it with them. Andy looked completely stunned and Matt kept shaking his head over and over, saying, "This can't be right. Ronnie wouldn't hurt a fly."

"If we don't get her a lawyer," Andy said, "they'll stick her with a public defender. And if that happens, you might as well throw away the key right now."

Hutch had agreed. "I'll take care of it."

So he had called his lawyer right there from the station house lobby, got a referral for a top flight criminal defense firm, and asked them to send someone over.

The associate who showed up was a tall, athletic blonde named Karen Waverly, who seemed slightly annoyed that her evening had been interrupted.

"Which one of you is Ethan Hutchinson?" she asked.

Nadine laughed. "You're kidding, right?"

"Why would I be kidding?" Waverly was all business.

"You don't watch TV? Go to the movies?"

"I prefer books," she said, then scanned their faces. "Is this supposed to be top secret or are you going to tell me which one of you-"

"I called you," Hutch said, stepping forward, his hand outstretched. "Ethan Hutchinson."

She shook the hand. "All right, Mr. Hutchinson, just so you know, there's not a whole lot I can do tonight. I'm going to go in there, and with any luck they'll let me sit in on the interview."

"Luck?" Andy said. "Don't they have to let you? You're her lawyer."

"Not officially, not yet. If she doesn't outright ask for representation, they may play games to keep me out of there. And if that happens, we can only hope she keeps her mouth shut. They'll use every trick they have to pull a confession out of her."

"Unless she didn't do it," Hutch said.

Waverly paused, giving him a tight smile. "There's always that possibility, but that doesn't mean they won't try anyway. I've seen more than one innocent person confess to a crime they didn't commit."

"That's nuts," Andy said. "Why would anyone do that?"

"Some people don't hold up well under the strain of interrogation. After a while they'll say pretty much anything just to get the cops to leave them alone."

"Just tell us this," Nadine said. "Would the police have arrested Ronnie if they didn't have some kind of evidence against her?"

Matt swiveled his head and shot Nadine a look.

"If all they had was a potential suspect," Waverly told her, "they might call her in for an informal interview. But the fact that they arrested her usually indicates that they feel they have a pretty strong case. And if they can secure that confession, your friend's future doesn't look promising."

Hutch studied her a moment. "You think she's guilty."

"Doesn't matter what I think. My job is to represent a defendant to the best of my ability and that's what I intend to do."

"I get that," Hutch said, "but you do think she's guilty."

"I can't make a determination of guilt or innocence without the facts in front of me, and it's a question I never ask a criminal defendant. But if you want my gut feeling about this or any other case that goes to trial, let's just say the police don't usually get it wrong."

Hutch glanced at Nadine and Tom, and for the first time, wondered if they were right about Ronnie.

Could she really have done this?

— 12 -

As the last of his sweat finally dried up and he went through the courthouse security scanner, Hutch kept thinking about that night and the few days that followed.

Waverly had explained that even if she could get in to see Ronnie, attorney-client privilege would prevent her from telling them anything, so they might as well go home. She had Hutch's cell phone number and would have her office contact him about any financial arrangements. And if Ronnie authorized it, Waverly could discuss the case with him after that.

When they all got outside, Matt had immediately spun on Nadine, saying, "What the hell was that all about? You think Ronnie did this?"

"It was just a question," she said. "Don't get your panties in a wad."

But Matt clearly wasn't happy with this response and the next thing Hutch knew there was a full scale argument going, right there on the station house steps, the group split down the middle over the question of guilt or innocence.

Monica sided with Nadine and Tom, while Matt and Andy were both outraged that they could even think one of their friends was a stone cold killer.

"Jenny and Ronnie may have had their problems," Matt said, "but Ronnie would never hurt anyone. It just isn't in her nature."

When Nadine reminded them about the incident with Ronnie's mom, they had reacted with the same skepticism Hutch had shown earlier. An accident, nothing more.

Matt turned to Hutch. "So where do you come down on this? Are you falling for this bullshit?"

Hutch, now firmly on the fence, wasn't sure how to answer him. He wanted to believe in his friend, but the truth was, he hadn't seen her in ten years. A lot could happen to a person in that amount of time.

He was certainly a testament to that.

Much to Matt's disgust, Hutch had remained noncommittal. And in the days just prior to arraignment, the police department and prosecutor's office started privately leaking information while publicly denying it.

"A little bit of pre-trial jury persuasion," Waverly had called it.

And it was persuasive.

Hairs found at the crime scene. A black INCUBUS sweatshirt with Jenny's blood on it found in Ronnie's trash. A flurry of phone calls from Ronnie to Jenny just prior to the murder.

If you wanted to taint a jury, this was just the kind of evidence to do it with. And while it might seem like a stretch that Ronnie would be stupid enough to leave incriminating evidence in her own trash, Hutch thought she was just scattered and impulsive enough to do exactly that. People do the damnedest things in the face of panic.

By the time of the arraignment, he was no longer on the fence. The evidence against her was simply too overwhelming, and he was now convinced that Nadine and Tom and Monica had indeed been right. That, as painful as it might be to admit, Ronnie really had done this.

She had stabbed Jenny to death.

Brutally.

Without mercy.

He didn't want to believe that his friend was a killer-the mere thought of it filled him with remorse-but what choice did he really have? What was the point in refusing to see the truth, as heartbreaking as it might be?

And as this realization set in, as he accepted that truth, Hutch once again felt rage growing inside him.

Three days later, he had sat in the arraignment, staring heatedly at the back of Ronnie's head, wanting more than anything to press the barrel of a gun against it and pull the trigger. The thought that he had shown this woman sympathy, had actually stood there chatting with her the night Jenny's funeral-had even found himself attracted to her-made him sick to his stomach.

He had immediately withdrawn his financial support, and had expected Waverly's firm to drop the case. But with the growing publicity, they must have smelled opportunity, and continued representing Ronnie pro bono.

Hutch had gone back to his life in L.A., only to see the pilot he'd shot shit-canned by the network. He did a couple of minor guest shots on CSI and Criminal Minds, auditioned for a three-episode arc on The Mentalist that never materialized, and spent the rest of the time waiting.

Waiting for this day to come.

So now here he was, nodding thanks to the security screeners and working his way down the crowded hallway to courtroom 128, where jury selection was about to begin.

State vs. Veronica Baldacci.

Murder One.

The bitch should be roasted alive for what she's done.

The moment Hutch saw her sitting at the defense table, all dolled up for the proceedings, he thought of Jenny and how much he had loved her.

And he once again wanted blood.

— 13 -

It wasn't until the third day of jury selection that Ronnie asked to see him.

The process had been long and boring and Hutch had almost bailed a few times, but convinced himself to stick it out. He wanted to see everything there was to see here. Watch as every member of the jury pool was questioned by the prosecutor, by Waverly, and even the judge.

He made a game of it, starting his own mental scorecard, trying to figure out who would secure a permanent seat in the box.

The guy with tattoo on his neck?

Not a chance.

The old lady who kept blowing her nose in the middle of the prosecutor's questions?

Nope.

What about the professional "dancer" with the platinum blonde hair who claimed to have a PhD in psychology?

Not likely.

There were, however, a couple of potential jurors Hutch thought were perfect for the defense-a woman of about thirty, with a subtle motherly vibe, and a sixtyish father of three who kept looking at Ronnie as if his heart was breaking. They both struck Hutch as no-brainers, and he hoped the prosecutor-a burly guy named Abernathy-would quickly bump them.

But to his surprise, Waverly did it first. For cause.

And the "dancer" got the nod from both parties.

So much for Hutch's instincts.

Earlier that morning he had looked around the courtroom and saw that he wasn't the only one here for the duration. Next to the usual reporters and family and friends, the place was full of what were commonly known as court watchers or trial junkies. People with nothing better to do, hooked on the promise of courtroom drama. Most of them middle-aged or older. Retirees, drop-outs, medical cases.

Hutch figured he was kind of a retiree himself. Had money in the bank, a place to live, and a desire to do nothing but sit here and see Jenny get her justice.

"I guess that makes me something of a trial junkie, too," he told one of the regulars, who had introduced himself as Gus. About sixty-five and built like an ex-marine, he was once a bailiff in this very courthouse.

Gus shook his head. "You been here-what? Two, three days now? Some of these people been coming here every day for years. Treat it like a job."

"Never mind, then," Hutch said. "It's just the one trial for me."

"Mmm-hmm. I've heard that before. You just be careful you don't get hooked."

Hutch almost smiled. Replace one addiction with another, he thought.

Maybe it would help him stop smoking.

The trial junkies came and went as the jury selection droned on. Another regular was a much younger man than usual, maybe twenty-five or so, who kept to himself. A pasty-looking guy, with thick black-rimmed glasses and a crewcut, who always had a book bag slung over his shoulder and spent his time during breaks buried in the pages of a book.

If Hutch were casting a movie, he'd immediately hire this guy to play the weird neighbor or the creepy stalker. But in truth, he was probably just another lonely soul, looking to fill his time with other people's problems.

When they broke for lunch that third day, Karen Waverly brought Hutch a note from Ronnie.

Hutch and Gus were sitting on a hallway bench, eating vending machine sandwiches-purportedly roast beef-when she approached and said, "You probably don't want hear this, but my client wants a face-to-face."

Hutch couldn't say he was all that surprised. He'd figured it would happen sooner or later, with Ronnie seeing him sitting there in the gallery every day.

He stared at the folded slip of paper in Waverly's hand, then took it from her and opened it. There was only one word written across it in flat black ink:

Please

Suddenly overcome by both anger and regret, Hutch crumpled the note and tossed it to the floor.

How dare Ronnie play with him like this.

"You could get a hefty fine for that," Gus told him. "Littering on government property."

"I can afford it."

Gus seemed to sense the tension and got to his feet, saying, "See you inside."

Then he shuffled off toward the courtroom.

Hutch looked up at Waverly. "Was there something else you wanted?"

"I ran a background check on you."

"You did, did you?"

"Now I understand why your friend was so shocked at the station house that first night. When I didn't know who you were."

"If this is a pitch for money, you can go to hell."

Waverly didn't flinch. "I wouldn't dream of asking you for money, Mr. Hutchinson. And neither would Ronnie. You made your feelings very clear after the arraignment."

"Then what do you want?"

"I'm just passing along a message," she said. "But I also wanted to tell you that I may've made a mistake."

"About what?"

"About what I said at the police station. When you asked me if I thought Ronnie was guilty."

"I don't think there's any question about it at this point. Do you?"

She shrugged, and Hutch got the sense that maybe she'd had a change of heart as well. The exact opposite of his. Which would mean she surely knew something he didn't, because the evidence he'd read about was pretty damning.

"Well?" he said. "Do you?"

"I can't say any more than that. But I really do think you need to see her. She's a bit of a mess right now."

"Good," Hutch said, then got to his feet. He dumped what was left of his sandwich in a nearby trash bin, then started back toward the courtroom.

He was halfway down the hall when he stopped himself.

What was he doing?

Why was he being so obstinate?

Why not go see Ronnie?

It would give him a chance to tell her one-on-one exactly how he felt. To let her know how her actions had affected his life. All of their lives. How he would applaud when the guilty verdict came down, and would make sure to attend her execution. Sit right next to Jenny's old man and give him a high five when all was said and done. It wasn't quite the same as a bullet to the brain, but he'd gain some satisfaction from it. Small but significant.

Of course, the moment these thoughts came forward, the usual Hutchinson guilt kicked in. It was a trait he'd inherited from his mother, who had constantly second-guessed every decision she made.

But why feel guilty? He hadn't asked for any of this, had he?

It was all on Ronnie.

He turned around and saw Waverly still standing by the bench, watching him. As if she had known he'd reconsider.

"When and where?" he asked.

"After court today. Downstairs in the lockup."

"Tell her I might say some things she doesn't want to hear."

"I think she has a pretty good idea where you stand."

"Just tell her," Hutch said, then turned and walked toward the courtroom.

— 14 -

At 5:25 that afternoon, Hutch said goodnight to Gus and met Waverly at the mezzanine elevators.

They had a car to themselves, and as they rode down to the basement, Waverly said, "A word of warning. They're only letting you in because they think you're assisting me with the defense. So please don't do anything to get me in trouble here."

Hutch wasn't quite sure how to take this. "What do you think I'm gonna do?"

"I don't know, Mr. Hutchinson. Hopefully, just listen. And talk. But you don't strike me as the most agreeable man in universe."

"Gee, I wonder why."

She studied him patiently. "Look, I know you've had a loss here. And I know you think Ronnie's to blame for that loss-"

"Which makes two losses, if we're counting."

She paused. "Right. The point is, all I'm asking is that you be on your best behavior and try to have an open mind."

"What does that mean?"

"I didn't want to say anything upstairs, but now that we have a little privacy, I just want you to know that the evidence against Ronnie is not as cut and dried as the nightly news makes it seem."

"I thought you didn't watch television?"

"I don't, but I've seen enough to know what they're saying about Ronnie, and I can tell you that most of it's wrong."

"Except for the part about her killing Jenny, right?"

Waverly sighed. "You're just being difficult for the sake of it, aren't you? What is it-some kind of actor thing?"

Hutch frowned. "Actor thing?"

"You've been playing the part of the grieving former boyfriend so long, God forbid you ever break character. No wonder I don't watch television."

Hutch reached over and punched the STOP button on the elevator panel and the car braked to a halt. Waverly's eyes widened slightly.

"You know, I'm doing you and Ronnie a favor here. She asked to see me and I agreed. I didn't have to do that."

"I know," she said.

"So if you're offended by the way I present myself, then I'm sorry, but this isn't an act. You don't think I'm agreeable? Fuck you. I'm here, aren't I? But if you want me to turn around, I'll be happy to do that, too."

She was quiet a moment. "How about if I just keep my mouth shut and let you talk to Ronnie?"

Hutch hit the button again and the car resumed its decent. "Sounds like a plan."

A moment later the elevator came to a stop, then the doors slid open and they stepped into a small room with a reception desk. A Sheriff's deputy was stationed there-an older guy with a thick wall of glass and a security door behind him.

Hutch could see the cell block beyond.

The deputy smiled and said hello to Waverly, then gestured to the registration book in front of him. "Sign in, please. And put your keys and cell phones in the tray."

They both did as they were told, the deputy eyeing Hutch carefully.

Hutch knew what was coming next.

The deputy's eyes brightened. "Hey, you're that guy, right? The one from Code Two-Seven?"

"That's right," Hutch said.

"You did a couple movies, too. That one with Bruce what's-his-name-you played the bad guy. The guy with the limp."

"That was me," Hutch said.

"So, you still acting?"

Apparently the man didn't follow the tabloids. Hutch shot Waverly a glance. "Some people seem to think so."

"Wait till I tell my wife I met you. We used to watch Code Two-Seven all the time. Still catch the reruns when we can. We're big fans of Jack Van Parkes. What's he up to these days?"

"Collecting social security would be my guess. Not that he needs it."

The guard chuckled. "No shit. Guy's been in show business what-fifty years?"

"Something like that."

"So what's he like? Nice guy?"

Hutch couldn't remember how many times he'd been asked this question, and he always answered with a lie. "One of the nicest I've ever met."

"I figured as much. He's got that look, you know? Even when he was younger. Got a friendly face like that Marcus Welby guy. You remember him?"

"I think he was a little before my time," Hutch said.

The deputy nodded thoughtfully. "Now you-you got that dangerous look. The kind the women always go for." He gave Waverly a wink. "Isn't that right, Karen?"

"Right as rain, Sam. He's a regular Hollywood bad boy. Can we go in now?"

The deputy nodded again, then reached under the edge of his desk. A bell rang somewhere beyond the glass, then the door clacked open and Waverly stepped toward it.

"Let's do this," she said.

As Hutch started to follow her, the deputy called out after him. "So is this what you do now?"

Hutch turned. "What's that?"

"Between acting jobs. You work for Karen?"

Hutch hesitated. "Yeah," he said. "Gotta pay the rent."

The deputy smiled. "Don't you worry, hot shot, you'll be back on top again. I can feel it. If it means anything to you, the wife is gonna be thrilled when I tell her. Who knows, I might even get a little action tonight."

The thought gave Hutch pause. Not an image he wanted inside his head.

"Good luck," he said, then followed Waverly through the doorway.

— 15 -

The courthouse lock-up was small but efficient, nothing more than a couple rows of cells that were occupied by defendants waiting to be returned to jail after their day in court.

Ronnie was in cell number six, no longer wearing the business suit she wore during jury selection. Now it was an orange jumper with the letters CCDOC stenciled in black above her left breast. Cook County Department of Corrections.

The make up was gone, too, and she looked pale and drawn and a little smaller than usual. Beaten down. Defeated.

The last time Hutch had seen Ronnie like this was in their sophomore year, after she'd gone through a very bad break up. Some mysterious guy none of them had ever met, whom Matt had always suspected was an English professor named Wyler.

Only this wasn't about a break up, was it?

This was much, much worse.

Hutch instantly felt sorry for her-couldn't help himself-and had to wonder if hatred and sympathy were mutually exclusive. All the rage he'd built up over the last few months began to dissipate the moment he saw her pitiful, forlorn face, and he had to remind himself why he was here. What she had done.

After another deputy opened her cell and escorted them all to an interview room, Waverly made a face and turned to leave, claiming she'd forgotten the case file in her car.

"Better make it fast," the deputy told her. "Bus leaves in fifteen."

Waverly assured him she would hurry, then nodded to Hutch and Ronnie and exited.

After the guard left, closing the door behind him, Ronnie said softly, "Thank you for coming, Hutch."

He perched himself on the edge of the interview table, trying to figure out how he felt. Now that they were face-to-face, his big plan to tell her how much he despised her seemed childish and pointless.

"To be honest," he said. "I'm not sure why I did."

She nodded. "Karen told me what you said to the reporters. Pretty strong words."

"Can you blame me?"

"Not with all the lies they've been spreading."

Here it comes, he thought. She was about to make this easy for him. "And which lies are those?"

She started pacing. "The hairs. The sweatshirt. The phone calls."

"So you're saying that's all bullshit?"

"I didn't kill her, Hutch. I swear to God. Why would I even want to?"

It was a question he'd been pondering for months now. Why? Why had she done it? Had her brain somehow begun to misfire, making her view Jenny as some kind of threat to her?

Hutch sighed. "Look, Ronnie, I have no idea what motivates you, but one thing I do know is that I didn't come here to listen to this. You might as well face it, they've got you nailed. You did it, everyone knows it, and this trial is just a formality. You're about to be convicted of murder."

"But I didn't murder anyone!" She stopped pacing and spun on him as she said it, her eyes full of heat and desperation. "Jenny was a friend of mine. Why would I… You have to listen to me, Hutch. Somebody has to listen to me."

"That's what Waverly's for."

"Oh, fuck her. All she cares about is the PR. She never uses the word hopeless, but I can see it every time she looks at me. I feel like a goddamn cancer patient."

Hutch shrugged. "The vibe I've been getting is that she's starting to think you're innocent."

"It doesn't matter what she thinks, it's what she can prove. She says the investigation was a complete joke. That the police went for the easy target because of those phone calls-which I did not make."

"Then who made them?"

"How the hell do I know? Somebody out to get me. And just about anyone could've planted that shirt. Do you think if I actually killed her I'd be stupid enough to put incriminating evidence in my own trash?"

"So… what? You're saying you were set up?"

"What else could it be?"

"By who?"

"I don't know-the cops, maybe? The guy who arrested me was a first-class prick."

"That doesn't make any sense," Hutch said. "Didn't those phone calls came before the murder?"

"Yes, but… I don't know-maybe they fudged that, too, somehow. The cops have been under a lot pressure to solve this case. Jenny's dad has a ton of influence in this town and I'll bet he's been hounding their asses from the get-go."

Hutch eyed her skeptically. "Does Waverly have any evidence of this?"

Ronnie looked at the floor. "No," she said. "I don't know… She mentioned something about getting our own DNA expert, but that costs a lot of money and it might not convince the jury. Which means I'm screwed."

There were tears in her eyes now, but Hutch was unmoved. The rage had begun to creep up on him again as he imagined Jenny lying in that vacant lot in Dearborn Park, her throat slit, her body bloodied by a dozen or more knife wounds.

Knife wounds that Ronnie had inflicted.

Set up? He doubted it.

Part of him wanted to grab her right now and get this whole thing over with. To stop these ridiculous denials and spare the state the time and expense of putting her on trial.

He tried to calm himself. "So, in other words," he said, not bothering to hide the contempt in his voice, "you've got nothing. Just some bullshit defense tactic to keep the jury guessing."

Ronnie was quiet for a long moment, just staring at him, the tears now rolling down her cheeks. She looked like a kid from one of those Feed the Children commercials.

"You're never gonna believe me, are you?"

"Not likely."

"What can I do to change your mind?"

"Not a whole lot."

Another pause. More tears.

"Just tell me this," she said. "What was your first instinct when they arrested me? What did you think?"

"Does it really matter?"

She reached for his arm. "Of course it does. Our first instincts are usually the best ones. You hired a lawyer for me, so you must have thought the police had made a mistake. That I could I never hurt Jenny. I could never hurt anyone."

Hutch remembered Matt saying those very words. But where was Matt now? He hadn't seen or heard from the guy since that night outside the police station.

He hadn't heard from any of them except Nadine, who promised she'd be taking time off work to watch the trial with him, as soon as the jury was selected.

Hutch pulled his arm free. "The thing of it is, any instincts I might have about you are ten years old. All I know is that you quit smoking, you still drink draft beer, you groom dogs for a living, and you haven't figured out what you want to be when you grow up. But what does that tell me? Not a goddamn thing."

"I didn't kill her, Hutch. I swear to you I didn't."

Hutch had to admit this was an Emmy-winning performance. "Trust me, I want to believe you, but it just isn't happening."

"What if I can prove it to you?"

He hesitated. "How?"

She looked for the watch on her wrist and realized it wasn't there. "What time is it?"

"I don't know," he said, wondering why it mattered. "I gave my phone to the guy at the desk-maybe quarter to six or so."

She nodded. "Good, then there's time."

"For what?"

"I need you to do me a favor."

Hutch balked. "Come on, Ronnie, why are we even bothering with this dance?"

"I mean it, Hutch. I want you know why it's impossible for me to have done what they're accusing me of. What you're accusing me of. I need you to see what's at stake for me."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I want you to go to my mother's house."

Hutch sighed. "Come on, Ronnie…"

"You don't have to go inside. Just park out front and wait. But get there before seven o'clock."

"You can't just tell me what this is about?"

"No," she said. "You have to see for yourself. If you want to know who I am now and understand why I could never hurt anyone, then you have you do this. Please."

There was that word again.

He hated that word.

"I haven't seen your mother in court," he said. "Does she think you're guilty, too?"

Ronnie's eyes flashed in anger, but she caught herself before going off on him. "I told her to stay home. I don't want her seeing all this. She has enough to worry about."

"So why send me to her house?"

"I told you. You have to see for yourself."

Hutch shook his head. "What exactly do you expect to gain from this, Ronnie?"

"Maybe someone who believes in me. I just want someone to believe."

Someone with cash, no doubt. Despite the publicity, Waverly's firm might not be anxious to shell out much capital on what was ultimately a losing case, especially the kind of money it took to hire a private DNA expert. This was a pro bono charity job and Waverly's time alone was already enough of a financial hit.

Hutch, on the other hand, had money to burn. And in the unlikely event that Ronnie could get him back on her side, he might be willing to part with some of it.

He wanted to tell her to dream on, but his curiosity was piqued. And somewhere in the back of his mind, the reminder that she was once his friend kept niggling away at him like a paper cut.

Should he do as she'd asked? Call her bluff?

"All right," he said. "I'll go to your mother's house. But I doubt it'll do any good. Whatever you're up to, it won't change my mind."

She almost smiled then. Not quite, but he saw traces of one around the edges of her mouth. Wistful but relieved.

"Thank you, Hutch. I knew I could count on you."

— 16 -

"So how long are we supposed to sit here?" the cab driver asked.

They were parked at the curb just across the street from Lola Baldacci's house, a typical old Chicago bungalow in Roscoe Village that-even at night-looked in serious need of some tender loving care. Most of the surrounding neighborhood had been cleaned up and gentrified during the last decade or so, but apparently the Baldaccis hadn't gotten the memo.

Standing in the shadow of the elevated train tracks, the house boasted fading paint, a badly scarred front door, and concrete steps leading up to the porch that were full of cracks.

The porch light was on and there were no cars in the driveway, which indicated to Hutch that no one was home.

This was a complete waste of time.

So why had he agreed to come here?

He studied the house from the back seat of the cab and said, "Just a couple more minutes and we're history."

The driver nodded. "Not that I mind the meter running. I mean, it's your money. But I hope you aren't getting me involved in some kind of stalker thing."

"That's exactly what I'm doing."

The driver turned now, fully looking at Hutch for the first time. "You're messin' with me, right?"

Hutch smiled. "Right."

The driver grinned and was about to turn back when he stopped himself. "Do I know you?"

Hutch stifled a sigh. How should he play this?

"Not unless you've been to Australia," he said.

"Australia? You don't sound like you're from Australia."

"What does an Australian sound like?"

The driver shrugged. "I don't know. Different. Like an English guy or something."

"My parents were American," Hutch said. "I'm relocating to Chicago next year and I'm thinking about buying this house. I heard the best way to get to know a neighborhood is to park your car at different times of the day and just observe for a while."

"Yeah? Well, I hope the asking price is reasonable, because this place is a dump. Plus you got the L tracks right overhead. That can't be pleasant."

"Beats Australia," Hutch said.

"Oh? How's that?"

"No kangaroos."

The driver chuckled and turned back around, then reached for his rear view mirror and adjusted it slightly, to get a better view of his passenger.

Hutch had seen that look a hundred times before, the guy thinking he knows you from somewhere but he's unable to place you.

Sooner or later it would come to him, but Hutch hoped the cab ride would be over before that happened.

You'd think that most actors would be thrilled to be recognized, but that feeling wears off pretty fast. Especially when you've had your dinner at your favorite restaurant interrupted by an overenthusiastic fan who gets upset when you politely ask her for a little privacy.

She can't understand why you don't want to sign her napkin or her menu or the dimple above her right ass cheek. She's your biggest fan and she's spent a lot of money on you. Bought all your movies. Downloaded your TV shows off the Internet.

After a while you stop being polite. Or you do what the megastars do-stay home most of the time. Eat in and invite your family and friends over.

For the big names it isn't just a matter of vague recognition. Everybody and his brother knows exactly who you are.

A few years back, Hutch had been on the threshold of that kind of stardom but never quite got there-unless you counted all the tabloid fodder. Now he was happy to be a has-been, an also-ran, a burn-out. The guy who reminds them of somebody they once knew. Maybe a distant cousin or something. A former co-worker they used to see in the lunch room.

Most encounters he had with the public these days were friendly-like the one with the deputy at the courthouse. But every time he was recognized by someone, his gut immediately tightened. You never knew where it would lead. And you could never be sure if you were dealing with a genuine member of the public, a psycho, or some tabloid jerk trying to suck you dry.

Hutch checked his cell phone. It was closing in on seven o'clock and he figured he'd already given this a lot more time than it deserved.

He had no idea what Ronnie wanted to show him, and he didn't much care anymore. His curiosity had waned.

He was about to tell the driver to take him home, when a Chevy sedan rolled up the street and pulled into the Baldacci driveway. The car, a ten year old Malibu, was much like the exterior of the house-worn and in need of some serious body work. As it came to a stop, the engine rattled and died, and the driver's door creaked open.

A weary-looking woman of about fifty-five-whose dyed brown hair failed to disguise her age-climbed out, slung a purse strap over her shoulder, then reached back inside, saying, "Come on. Let's go get some supper."

And all at once Hutch realized why he was here.

He watched as a boy of about five grabbed hold of her hand and climbed out after her. A gangly, tow-headed kid who couldn't have been more than three feet tall, and was the spitting image of his grandmother.

And of his mother-Ronnie.

"Can we have mac and cheese?" the boy asked.

"You gonna help me make it?"

He smiled. "Uh-huh. But I want bow ties instead of curly cues."

"You got it, sweetie. Bow ties it is."

She was a clever one, Ronnie. Wanting Hutch to see the boy first hand. Wanting to slam the message home with a clear and convincing visual.

This is why, she was telling him. This was why she could never hurt anyone. Because this child, this boy, was her life. And to do anything to destroy that life-and the boy's along with it-would not only be foolhardy, but unconscionable.

Ronnie had made no mention of being a mother, and Hutch had no idea who or where the father was, but her message to him had been received as intended.

He watched as the two worked their way up those broken steps, the boy stopping a moment to poke his toe into one of the cracks. His grandmother gave him a loving pat on the head, then took hold of his hand again and pulled him toward the front door.

As they went inside, Hutch sat there, trying to absorb what he'd just seen.

Then he turned to the driver and said, "Okay, I'm done. Let's get the hell out of here."

— 17 -

Jury selection was wrapped up early the following day, with the trial phase scheduled to begin Monday morning at nine a.m. sharp.

Hutch sat in his usual spot on the prosecution side of the gallery, watching as the final panel was selected, still thinking about what he'd seen the night before.

Ronnie didn't once turn to look at him. She was again dressed in a business suit, keeping her eyes on the jury members as they were sworn in. Her stage was the defense table and they were her only audience.

Still, her words tumbled through Hutch's brain.

I need you to see what's at stake for me.

Her message had been powerful. No question about it. Seeing that small boy, a child any parent would cherish-would die to protect-had certainly done what she had intended it to: create doubt in Hutch's mind.

But was it reasonable doubt?

Hutch may not have been a member of the jury, but he figured it didn't hurt to follow the same standard they were being sworn to. And when it came down to it, having a child did not necessarily mean that you were incapable of murder. A lot of killers had children. A lot of killers ruined their children's lives along with their own. And some killers even killed their own children.

Did they have any less at stake than Ronnie?

No.

So the thought that she was guilty of this crime despite having a son who loved and needed her was not entirely unreasonable. And any way you sliced it, she was at least guilty of crass manipulation. It reminded Hutch of some of the desperate Hollywood hustlers he'd had to deal with over the years, and the thought grated.

Was last night's show the act of an innocent woman, or was it a calculated ploy to get him on her side and open up his checkbook?

Maybe both.

Hutch left the courtroom before the jury was even dismissed for the day. He walked for a while, then caught a train, which he rode for nearly two hours. Then, a little past four o'clock, he hailed a cab and went to the apartment in Lincoln Park.

As he stepped through the lobby doors, the doorman, a cheerful, elderly guy named Maurice, moved to his desk and waved an envelope at him.

"Fella dropped this off for you," he said. "I'd tell you what's in it, but I haven't had a chance to steam it open."

Maurice had been manning this post for a good thirty years and Hutch had known him for more than half that. When Hutch was thirteen, Maurice had given him a baseball signed by several of the Cubs, including hall-of-famer "Ryno" Sanberg. Hutch still had that ball in a glass display case in his condo in Los Angeles.

He smiled. "You want me to go away for a while, give you a little extra time?"

"Nah," Maurice said. "Guy didn't look all that interesting anyway, and I'm too lazy to break out the kettle."

"He happen to mention his name?"

"Matt something. Said he'd been trying to get hold of you but didn't have your private number. Couldn't get your agent to give it up."

Hutch wasn't surprised. He was very careful about maintaining his privacy these days and let his agent field any inquiries. Since Matt was with the media, it was likely that any messages he left were immediately round filed and forgotten about.

"I played dumb," Maurice continued. "Told him your name didn't sound familiar, but he wasn't buying. Said he was a friend of yours and left the envelope anyway."

Hutch took it from him and turned it in his hands before tearing it open. Inside was a business card-Matthew W. Isaacs, Chicago Post-with a note scribbled on back:

Call me.

A phone number was written underneath this.

"See? What'd I tell you?" Maurice said. "Not worth firing up the kettle."

Hutch smiled and thanked him, then pulled his phone out and dialed as he walked toward the elevator.

Matt picked up after the second ring. "Isaacs."

"It's Hutch. What's up?"

"You're a tough man to get hold of."

"I have my reasons."

"No shit," Matt said with a laugh. "I've been out of town on assignment for the last few weeks, but our crime watch editor says you've been in the courtroom every day since they started jury selection. Says you had some pretty strong words about Ronnie."

Hutch's gut tightened. "Are we on the record right now?"

"Come on, man, give me some credit. I feel pretty bad about how we left it the night Ronnie was tagged, so I'm hoping you'll let me buy you a drink. Non-alcoholic, of course."

Hutch had no problem with that. He'd always respected Matt, despite any differences of opinion.

"When and where?" he asked.

"You free now?"

Hutch was at the elevator and stopped just short of pressing the call button. "I was about to climb in bed with a harem of starlets, but I think they'll give me a rain check."

"Yeah? Ask 'em if they'll give me one, too."

— 18 -

Hutch ordered a root beer, then looked at Matt and said, "Where's your wing man?"

It was just after five p.m. and The Monkey House was oddly devoid of college students, most of whom were on summer break.

Hutch and Matt sat across from each other at a corner table, Hutch trying to remember the last time he'd seen Matt without Andy McKenna hovering somewhere nearby. He hated terms like bromance, but thought it might be appropriate when it came to the Curmudgeon Twins.

"He's working late tonight," Matt said. "Some kind of accounting emergency, I guess."

Hutch smiled. "I read his script, you know. When I was back in L.A."

"Oh?" Matt's eyebrows shot up. "Believe it or not, he hasn't said anything about it since that night. Guess I dodged a bullet."

"I haven't talked to him yet. Been a little distracted."

"Haven't we all," Matt said. "Thing any good?"

"Honestly? It's probably better than most of the scripts I've read."

"You gotta be shittin' me."

Hutch shook his head. "Your old buddy actually has some talent. He's got the structure down, snappy dialogue, good visuals, and a pretty good little story. Better than the novel I'm working on, that's for sure."

Matt looked at him. "You're writing a novel?"

"Probably more of a memoir than anything else-and not a very interesting one."

"Never really been a book man myself. I like stories I can read in one sitting. I like writing 'em, too. Unfortunately nobody's interested in newspapers anymore."

"Maybe you should start a blog."

Matt chuckled. "Might have to, if things keep going the way they're going. Whoever thought trees would become obsolete?"

"It's not just trees. I haven't bought a CD or a DVD in years."

"It's all about streaming and downloads now," Matt said. "You can't go into the crapper these days without a charged battery and a wireless connection."

They both laughed and the waitress brought their drinks, smiling politely as she set them on the table.

It felt good to laugh.

"Can I get you boys anything else?"

"That'll do it for now," Hutch said, and when she was gone, he sobered, took a sip of his root beer and looked again at Matt. "I don't think you called me here to gripe about emerging technology and the erosion of traditional business models."

Matt shook his head, then stared at the beer in front of him for a moment without touching it. "I want to apologize, Hutch. That night at the station house, I got pretty hot when I realized you were thinking Ronnie did this thing."

"That was mostly Nadine and Tom. They're the ones got me started in the first place. But, as we soon discovered, they did have a point."

He nodded. "Now that I've had some distance and a little time to consider it-"

"You think Ronnie's guilty."

He hesitated. "I'm not ready to go that far. But I can see why people would think that. And the prosecution has a pretty damn good case against her."

"You mean the sweatshirt?"

"That's just the start of it," Matt said. "We're getting all kinds of leaks."

"Do you think they're accurate?"

"I know some of them are. For a while it was enough to make me wonder if my instincts about Ronnie were completely wrong. That maybe she isn't the sweet little girl we once loved."

His words reflected the very same thoughts Hutch had been struggling with for months now. He understood the pain Matt had to be going through.

"Is that why you've been scarce, lately?"

Matt shook his head again. "Like I told you, I've been out of town on assignment. Our foreign guy quit and my editor didn't want to use a stringer. So he tagged me to fill in. Spent a month in Somalia and three weeks in Tehran."

"Jesus."

"Tell me about it. That blog is sounding pretty good right now." He paused. "Anyway, I just got back and when I talked to our crime guy about the trial, it was pretty depressing."

"The new leaks?"

He nodded. "Some we haven't been able to corroborate and some we have."

"Like what?"

"Did you know that Ronnie was arrested before?"

Hutch was surprised. "When?"

"Few years back. When she was living in Arizona."

"Arizona?"

Matt smiled. "See what happens when you disappear for nearly a decade? She married some biker yahoo she met in a bar here. Can't remember his name. Anyway, they moved to his home town, and three years into the marriage, Sedona police arrested her for spousal battery. You'll read all about it in tomorrow's Post."

Hutch's surprise deepened. "You're sure about this?"

Matt nodded. "Saw the police report myself. She divorced the guy two months later and Chicago PD didn't catch it until they ran a search for priors under her married name."

"Wouldn't they have done that right up front?"

"Apparently some bureaucrat fucked up and they missed it the first time out. Turns out she caught her ex in bed with another woman and went after him with a butcher knife. He got it away from her, but she smacked him pretty good a couple times before the girlfriend pulled her off him."

Hutch said nothing. The kernel of doubt he'd carried with him since Ronnie's little show and tell was starting to waver and fade. Quickly.

He took another sip of his root beer. "What else do they have?"

"A custody battle, that's what. Ronnie has a five-year-old kid and the ex wants him back. Claims she's too unstable to raise him."

Hutch nodded. "I've seen the kid. He's with his grandmother. Ronnie tried to use him to pull me to the dark side." He paused. "But what does any of this have to do with killing Jenny?"

"The assault against her husband doesn't, but the police and DA's office think it demonstrates Ronnie's propensity for violence. Even so, it won't be used in court."

"Why not?"

"It's what they call a prior bad act-just like the thing with her mother. In the state of Illinois, the prosecution can't use it unless the defense opens the door during testimony-and that isn't likely to happen." He paused. "But it doesn't matter. They won't need it."

"Why not?"

"Because they can still use the custody battle. That's where motivation comes in."

"I don't understand," Hutch said.

Was this the why that he had been waiting for?

Matt finally picked up his beer and took a long sip. Then he set the glass down, wiped a trace of foam from a corner of his mouth and said, "Jenny's law firm was representing Ronnie's ex."

— 19 -

"That doesn't make any sense," Hutch said. "Jenny knew Ronnie. Isn't that a conflict of interest?"

Matt shook his head. "Not really. Jenny worked for Treacher and Pine, one of the oldest and largest law firms in Chicago. She was a senior associate in the corporate law division. Handled fraud cases, real estate, things like that."

"And?"

"Family court matters are handled by an entirely different set of lawyers over there. They're not even on the same floor, and they don't cross-pollinate."

"So no conflict," Hutch said.

"Not in the court's eyes. But according to the prosecution's theory of events, that didn't keep Ronnie from thinking Jenny had some kind of pull."

Hutch waited as Matt took another sip of his beer.

"You remember she told us about bumping into Jenny at the Godwyn Theater? Talked about Andy trying to get that screenplay to you?"

Hutch nodded.

"Well, turns out that's not the only thing they talked about. Ronnie brought up the custody case, and apparently Jenny wasn't even aware it existed until Ronnie confronted her."

"Confronted?"

"That's how Jenny's boss characterized it in his witness statement. He says Jenny called him right after the encounter to let him know about it. Wanted everything above board."

"That's our Jenny," Hutch said.

"The boss says he wasn't concerned about it until things started getting a little hairy."

"In what way?"

"Those phone calls you heard about? The ADA says that was Ronnie calling Jenny's office, demanding that she use her influence to get her ex to back off. Most of the calls were fielded by a secretary, who tried to explain that Jenny had nothing to do with the case, but apparently it got pretty nasty. Ronnie didn't take kindly to being ignored."

"She told me she didn't make those calls."

"Well they're saying she did, and they're claiming it's enough to show frame of mind. Their theory is that Ronnie was so afraid of losing her kid, she must have cracked-and Jenny got the brunt of it."

Hutch couldn't help seeing the irony here. The very thing Ronnie claimed was her reason for not killing Jenny was the prosecutor's idea of a perfectly plausible motive.

And Hutch didn't disagree. Yet even with all this evidence, Matt still seemed to be leaning toward Ronnie's innocence.

"I don't get it," Hutch said. "You tell me you're not willing to go as far as saying Ronnie's guilty, but this all sounds pretty convincing to me."

"Because I still can't believe it. I can't believe Ronnie would do something so drastic."

"Maybe you need to readjust your thinking."

Matt shook his head. "You haven't been around her in years. But I have. Seen her several times-even had a little thing with her after her divorce."

"Seriously?"

He shrugged. "Didn't last long. I was on the tail end of my first marriage and things happened. But we both quickly realized it was a mistake. We're better friends than lovers." He paused. "But you get that close to someone, you start to know how her mind works. What she's capable of."

Hutch had to admit this was true. Despite the distance between he and Jenny he'd felt the same way about her.

"And I have to tell you," Matt continued, "I meant what I said outside the station house. Ronnie isn't capable of hurting anyone."

"I think her ex-husband would disagree."

"That was an anomaly. And her ex is a scumbag, so who knows how much of what he told the cops was the truth? Ronnie says it's mostly bullshit."

Hutch had been staring at his half-empty glass and looked up sharply. "You spoke to her about this?"

Matt nodded.

"When?"

Matt seemed uncomfortable under Hutch's gaze. "I went out to the jail a couple days back, but in the interests of full disclosure, I've gotta tell you we've been in contact ever since she was arrested."

Full disclosure? What was going on here?

It took Hutch all of about fifteen seconds to put it together.

"Jesus Christ," he said. "You guys have been tag teaming me from the start."

"She didn't do it, Hutch. I know in my gut she didn't do it. I only told you all this stuff because Ronnie wants you to know exactly where things stand."

"Oh, really?" Hutch was incensed. "So I sat in that interview room, Ronnie crying about wanting somebody to believe in her-and there you were all the time. Talk about bullshit."

"No," Matt told him. "She meant what she said. Sure, she's got me-and Andy, too-but neither one of us has the resources she needs to-"

"Are you fucking kidding me? Is that really what this is about? Money?" Hutch scraped his chair back and shot to his feet. "I mean, I had my suspicions, but-"

"Don't make it sound so goddamn crass."

"How the hell else does it sound?"

"Look," Matt said, "Waverly's bosses have her on a short leash. They're only riding this thing for the publicity and don't give a damn about Ronnie. They'll do the minimum required to look good for the cameras, but won't spend a dime on her defense." He sighed. "Ronnie was making fifteen bucks an hour, for chrissakes-half of which went to that idiot she hired to handle the custody case. I've chipped in a little, and so has Andy, but we both have pretty hefty debts-"

"— And I'm the millionaire movie star, right?"

"This is isn't just about money, Hutch. It's about support."

"Support? You want me to support a killer?"

"I'm telling you, she didn't do it. I saw the crime photos. The condition Jenny was in-there's no way Ronnie did that."

"That's just wishful thinking. They've got Jenny's blood on her sweatshirt, Matt. D-N-fucking-A evidence. How do you get around that?"

"That's one of the reasons we need an expert to-"

"They found her hair in Jenny's car," Hutch said. "The proof is irrefutable."

Matt's jaw tightened. "Don't believe everything you read."

"So you're telling me that's bullshit, too?"

"Yes and no. It's not what you think."

Hutch shook his head in disgust. "I'm not gonna stand here and listen to this."

Turning, he moved away from their table and headed for the door, angrily shoving it open, fishing for a cigarette as he stepped outside. He'd never needed a smoke so badly.

He barely had it to his lips when Matt filled the doorway behind him, saying, "It was dog hair, Hutch. They're gonna try to convict her with goddamn dog hair."

Hutch pulled the cigarette from his mouth and turned. "What?"

"They conveniently didn't leak that part. Tried to make it sound like they had something substantial. Get a city full of potential jurors thinking Ronnie's toast before she even walks into the courtroom."

"That's ridiculous," Hutch said.

"It worked on you, didn't it?"

"You're sure about this?"

Matt let the door swing shut behind him and moved toward Hutch. "Ronnie got the police report when they turned over discovery. I saw it myself. The hair they found in Jenny's car belonged to a canis lupus familiaris. A goddamn domesticated dog. That's the only thing they have that ties her directly to Jenny's car. They're gonna make the claim that because she was a dog groomer, the hairs must've come from her clothes."

"I've gotta admit that's pretty thin," Hutch said, "but they still have her sweatshirt. The blood."

But he himself had questioned the careless disposal of that sweatshirt, and had attributed it to Ronnie's panic.

Was he wrong to have judged her so quickly?

"What if it was planted by some overzealous cop?" Matt asked. "Ronnie says the hoodie looks like one she used to wear, but insists it can't be hers. And they found it in a trash can in the alley behind her house. Anyone could have dropped it there. That's why we need an expert. To confirm that there's no trace of Ronnie's DNA on the shirt. No sweat, no skin, nothing."

"Can't you get that from the prosecution's expert?"

"Waverly says she can try on cross, but putting our own guy on the stand only reinforces the message. Most jurors go into a case thinking like Nadine. If the police arrested the defendant, she must be guilty. So the prosecution always has an advantage. And the only way to counter that is to put our own expert on the stand."

Hutch said nothing, feeling as if he were on an emotional seesaw. Up, down, up, down-one minute he wanted to throttle Ronnie, the next he was leaning toward believing her.

She had been right about his initial instincts. The girl of their college days may have had her problems with Jenny, but violence was out of character. And the one thing Hutch was any good at was understanding character. His process as an actor required a certain amount of insight into what made people tick-insight he used when preparing for a role.

And these revelations, along with Matt's steadfast belief in Ronnie, had him back on the fence, wondering which side to choose.

A large part of him wanted to follow Matt's lead, but what if Matt was wrong?

Hutch suddenly felt as if he had been confronted with the biggest, most important decision of his life and he wasn't sure he could make it. And for the first time in months he considered going back inside that bar and ordering himself a Jameson's.

Just one to take the edge off.

He put the cigarette back to lips and lit it, inhaling deeply.

"She needs your help, Hutch. But not just your money. She needs you to believe in her. More than any of us."

Hutch blew a stream of smoke into the air. "Why me?"

"That's just the way it is. The way it's always been."

"Then she went about it all wrong. You both did. I don't like being manipulated, Matt. I get enough of that in L.A."

"You turned against her so quickly, we didn't think we had a choice. She had to get your attention somehow."

"She got that when she slit Jenny's throat."

Matt closed his eyes as if he were trying to center himself, to keep from exploding, lashing out. Then he opened them again and said in a flat, even tone, "We'll be in court first thing Monday morning-me and Andy-sitting on the defense side of the aisle. I'll save a seat for you, if you're interested."

Then he stepped past Hutch and headed for the parking lot.

Three days later, as the bailiff called out "All rise," Hutch moved down the courtroom aisle, nodding to Gus, then scanned the crowd until he found Matt and Andy standing in the front row on the right side of the gallery.

As promised, there was an empty space next to Matt.

Hutch filled it, and as they all waited for the judge to appear, he said, "I called Waverly last night. Told her she's got a blank check."

Matt swiveled his head. "You mean it?"

"First on the list is getting Ronnie out on bond."

Matt smiled and shook his hand. "You're doing a good thing, buddy. You won't regret this."

Hutch hoped to hell he was right.

— 20 -

Matt Isaacs had seen quite a few trials over the course of his career, and Assistant District Attorney Edwin Abernathy was one of the better song and dance men he'd come across.

Anyone who has spent time on a jury-or watched a few trials on cable TV-knows that, more often than not, the verdict comes down to one simple thing:

Presentation.

Sure, you've got the evidence, you've got the witnesses, but if things are really cooking, and the parties have prepared, you can sometimes see a well-choreographed performance that's as compelling as good theater. That performance is designed to sway the jury, and a finding of guilt or innocence often depends on the showmanship skills of the attorneys involved.

Abernathy wasn't a particularly handsome man, but he made up for it with a rich baritone, a hint of style and a carefully nuanced sincerity that seemed unforced and genuine.

Matt had missed Jury Selection, but he knew the moment Abernathy opened his mouth that Ronnie was in trouble.

"Ladies and gentleman, I want to take a moment to introduce myself to you again. Jury selection was a long, tedious process, and I realize most of you only look at me as the guy who asked a lot of personal questions. Some of them pretty invasive."

He paused, offering them a smile.

"So let's start over. My name is Edwin Abernathy, and I've been a prosecuting attorney for fourteen years. Signed on with the DA's office straight out of law school and haven't regretted a moment of it."

Matt didn't doubt that was true. The guy was a senior deputy who had racked up a long string of convictions.

"My job," Abernathy continued, "is to represent the State of Illinois. When one of our citizens has been taken from us, has been brutally murdered-as in the case before you today-my only concern is bringing her murderer to justice."

He paused, letting that sink in. Then he turned, gazing at Ronnie.

"Now, when you look at the defendant, Ms. Veronica Baldacci, if you're anything like me, you see an attractive young woman who doesn't look all that dangerous. Truth is, she could be my next door neighbor. A wife, a mother, a daughter, somebody's best friend. She is, under the eyes of the law, an innocent woman. And that's exactly how I'd like you see her. Innocent until proven guilty."

Matt frowned. By saying this, Abernathy was stealing some of Waverly's thunder, since she had undoubtedly planned to cover similar ground in her opening statement. Abernathy was talking like a defense attorney right now and that, to Matt's mind, was genius.

"Innocent until proven guilty," the ADA repeated as he turned back to the jury. "I say this because I believe that anyone accused of a crime deserves her day in court. Deserves to have the evidence against her weighed and evaluated by a jury of her peers-which in this case is you."

He paused again, looking thoughtful. Matt knew that every pause, every syllable that Abernathy uttered this morning had been carefully rehearsed.

Unfortunately, it didn't seem that way.

"But it is also my sincere belief that when you've heard and seen that evidence, when you've listened to the testimony of the witnesses the State of Illinois intends to put on the stand, you'll realize, as I did, that what you have before you is a vindictive, scornful woman. A desperate mother who was so afraid of losing custody of her only child that she lashed out in anger against a woman she believed had betrayed her: Ms. Jennifer Keating. Jenny to her friends and loved ones."

Matt glanced at Hutch now, who sat stiffly beside him, watching Abernathy. He didn't know what had changed Hutch's mind about Ronnie-and he wasn't about to question it. But he did worry that once Abernathy was done, Hutch might again withdraw his support.

That's how good this guy was.

Matt felt bad about the way they had manipulated Hutch. But his old friend was a complex, conflicted man, and they'd known it would take a certain amount of persuasion for him to see things the way they did.

Matt wouldn't have bothered if it weren't so important to Ronnie. Not just for the money-as Hutch had rightfully suspected-but because Hutch was the one person whose support was most important to her. This, despite the fact that she hadn't seen nor heard from him in years.

Matt found this perplexing, but then women had always been one of the great mysteries of his life. Hence the two divorces. But he knew that a dozen Matts and Andys wouldn't amount to a single Hutch in Ronnie's eyes. Especially when he thought back on what had ended his own brief affair with her.

What Andy would call a major boner killer.

It was an embarrassing moment for both of them, and enough to make them realize the futility of what they were doing. And as much as he had enjoyed being with Ronnie, had enjoyed her ferocity in bed (the woman had moves he'd never dreamed of), he knew it had a been a mistake.

Having another man's name hurled at you in the throes of passion-Hutch's name, to be precise-tends to make you see things a little more clearly. Even so, Matt did care about Ronnie. Enough to let her go despite the loneliness of those days just prior to his divorce-and enough to believe in her now, even when the rest of the world didn't.

A cynic might think that Ronnie was manipulating Matt, but he refused to allow himself to go there. It was true that she had her share of problems-as they all did-but she wasn't a conniver any more than she was a murderer, despite what the Assistant District Attorney had to say about her.

And he certainly wasn't holding back.

"Contrary to appearances," Abernathy continued, "as the evidence will show, the defendant, Veronica Baldacci, is a brutal killer who stalked and harassed Ms. Keating for nearly a month, before luring her from her car and attacking her in a fit of rage. The evidence will show that the defendant, Veronica Baldacci, stabbed her victim fourteen times in the chest and thighs before slitting her throat and leaving her to bleed to death in a vacant lot."

He paused to let this sink in, and Matt knew that the image of a broken, bloodied body was forming in the minds of everyone in that courtroom. For some, that image included Ronnie, standing over Jenny with a knife in her hand.

"That's what this trial is all about," Abernathy said. "Evidence, motive and the ability for you, as jurors, to see past any preconceived notions you might have about what a murderer looks like. The defendant may well seem innocent on the surface, but I think that by the time you begin your deliberations, you'll all agree with the State of Illinois that she's guilty of murder in the first degree."

With a final glance at Ronnie, Abernathy stepped away from the podium and went back to his table.

Matt looked at the jurors, a diverse mix of Chicagoans, and he knew that the ADA had scored some major points-all in a few simple words.

That simplicity was the beauty of Abernathy's opening. He had primed the pump without giving anything away, and it would take all of Waverly's skill as a defense attorney to reverse his momentum.

She looked eager to try.

When Judge O'Donnell-a stern-faced man with heavy jowls-gave her the nod, she shot to her feet. "Thank you, Your Honor." Then she turned to the jury and said, "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen."

Several of jurors nodded as others murmured "hello" in response.

"I'd introduce myself to you again," she said, "but I don't think that's necessary, do you? Who I am is not important, because this trial-this miscarriage of justice-is not about me."

Bam, Matt thought. A line drive right out of the box. He glanced at Abernathy, but the prosecutor seemed unfazed.

Waverly waited a moment, then said, "Defendant. You heard Mr. Abernathy use that term a number of times during his opening statement in reference to my client, Veronica Baldacci. The defendant."

She paused, squeezing Ronnie's shoulder.

"But, you see, I have a problem with that word. Because labeling the accused the defendant implies that she has something to defend. Yet under the eyes of the law, the accused is not required to defend herself at all. The accused is not required to do or prove anything. The burden of proof lies solely with the prosecution."

She paused again, scanning their faces. "Think about that. The State of Illinois must prove that the accused is guilty of a crime. Guilty beyond a reasonable doubt."

She moved away from the defense table now, stepping up to the podium.

"Mr. Abernathy talks of scorn and vindictive behavior, of harassment and stalking and desperation, but his words are nothing more than smoke and mirrors. Attempts to cloud your perception of Ms. Baldacci before you've even had a chance to hear the truth. But the truth is, ladies and gentlemen, that none of the evidence the state intends to parade in front of you actually proves that Veronica Baldacci committed a crime. As Mr. Abernathy himself told you, Ronnie Baldacci is indeed innocent until proven guilty, and what you will see and hear over the next few days does not meet that burden of proof. Not even close."

Matt and Andy exchanged a grin, and now Hutch turned to them and whispered, "She's good," as if to reinforce what they were already feeling.

"But I won't lie to you," Waverly continued. "Some of what you'll hear will certainly seem damning. The so-called DNA evidence. The phone calls. But as we all know from recent events in the news, DNA evidence can often be tainted. DNA evidence is only as reliable as the people who handle it-some of whom are desperate to close a case. To find a killer."

Waverly turned now, gesturing to Ronnie.

"But as Mr. Abernathy himself said, Ronnie Baldacci does not look like a killer. And why is that? Because Ronnie Baldacci is not a killer. Ronnie Baldacci is nothing more than a good woman struggling to raise a child, doing the best she can to make it in this world. The police came after her because she was an easy target. Because her presence in Jennifer Keating's life-tangential as it was-made it easier for them to close yet another case in a city where so many murders go unsolved."

She stared intently at the jurors now.

"As you'll soon discover, this is a classic rush to judgment. The kind of move only the most cynical and lazy law enforcement officers make. And because of that cynicism, because of that laziness, Jennifer Keating's real killer remains at large."

She gestured to the gallery.

"For all we know, he could be sitting in this courtroom today, or watching on TV, or reading about it online or in the papers. And he knows the one thing that I know. What the police and prosecutor should have known, and what every one of you will soon know once Mr. Abernathy has finished presenting his case." She paused, staring intently at the jurors. "That Veronica Baldacci is not guilty."

As Waverly returned to her seat, Matt smiled inwardly. It was a brilliant strategy. If you convict Ronnie Baldacci, the real killer will go free. A powerful deterrent to anyone with an itchy trigger finger.

Whether or not the jury would buy this strategy was difficult to say, however, and as Matt studied their faces, he got nothing from them.

Judge O'Donnell said, "Thank you, Ms. Waverly," then turned to the prosecutor. "Mr. Abernathy, please call your first witness."

Abernathy nodded and got to his feet. "Your Honor, the state calls Detective Jason Meyer to the stand."

And so it begins, Matt thought.

— 21 -

They kept the cop on the stand for nearly three hours before breaking for lunch.

Detective Meyer had that subtle swagger that so many of these guys carry like a well-worn accessory. His every expression, his every mannerism, sent an underlying message to the courtroom-I've seen it all and I know the truth.

Hutch had studied a number of cops over the years. Had met a few in his drunk and disorderly days, had done a couple ride-alongs while preparing for roles, and he recognized that familiar attitude of superiority. Had noticed it the first time he saw Meyer, outside The Monkey House, as Meyer slapped the cuffs on Ronnie, saying the words that had been like a punch to the gut.

We're charging you for the murder of Jennifer Keating.

Meyer was big and hard-bodied, about six-three or so, with broad swimmer's shoulders. Not a guy you wanted to square off against. Physically or mentally. Not that he struck Hutch as a mental giant, but he seemed to carry a tenaciousness of spirit that didn't give him room to back off, no matter what the circumstances. And if you got too smart for your own good, he'd simply stare you down until you shut the fuck up.

After quickly running through Meyer's credentials, Abernathy got straight to the heart of the matter. "Detective, please tell us how you first became involved in this case."

As Meyer spoke, his tone was infused with a solemn authority. He was the grown-up here and the courtroom was full of clueless children who needed to sit back and listen. "We got a call-out at approximately eleven p.m.," he said. "A DB in Dearborn Park, discovered by an apartment owner walking his dog."

"DB?"

"Dead body."

The prosecutor nodded. "Go on."

"So my partner Charlie Mack and I headed out that way and found the victim in the middle of a vacant lot on Clark street. She had multiple stab wounds and a severe throat laceration."

"And you were able to identify her as Jennifer Keating?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Her car was parked at the curb and her purse and driver's license were inside."

"And once you determined this, what did you do next?"

"Detective Mack waited for the crime scene techs to arrive while I briefed the responding officers and we started canvassing the neighborhood, looking for any possible witnesses to the crime."

"And did you find any?"

"Just one. A Ms. Rita Culberson, who told me she was awakened at approximately 10:40 p.m. by what she thought was a scream. She lives in an apartment with a window that faces the lot."

"Did she see anything?"

"No, but her statement gave us an approximate time of death and helped us work out a timeline."

Hutch knew he should be paying attention here-Meyer was a critical witness, after all-but he found himself quickly tuning the guy out. Kept thinking about something Waverly had said during her opening statement.

For all we know, he could be sitting in this courtroom today.

Meaning the killer, of course. The real killer.

It had taken Hutch a while to come around to the idea that Ronnie had been unjustly accused. He'd still had some lingering doubt when he walked into the courtroom this morning, especially after the ADA had done his thing. But Waverly's performance had been magnificent, managing to sum up in only a few words what had taken Hutch weeks to realize: that, just as Ronnie had suggested, he should trust his initial instincts. That the wrong person was on trial here.

He could admit to himself now that he'd gone a little crazy over Jenny's death. The funeral had set him on edge and in the days following the arrest he had allowed himself to fall prey to the prosecution's propaganda.

He didn't much like himself for it. Ronnie had deserved better from him. And he hoped that in the days to come he could somehow make up for it.

But if Ronnie wasn't the killer, who was?

It was a question that gnawed at Hutch. Who would want Jenny dead?

For all we know, he could be sitting in this courtroom today.

Instead of listening to Meyer recite the facts as he saw them, Hutch let his mind and eyes wander, glancing around the gallery, sizing up the various spectators.

There was the man in the far right corner on the prosecution's side, a button-down type who, for all Hutch knew, may have known Jenny quite well. May have worked with her at the law firm. May even have shared a drink or two with her, dreaming about getting her into bed.

May even have succeeded.

Or been rejected.

Then there was the seedy looking guy in the third row right, with the two-day stubble and the frayed collar. He seemed to be killing time between sessions of his own trial, and Hutch had no idea why he was here or what his relationship to Jenny might be. Was he a friend of hers? A former client? Was he yet another trial junkie? How exactly did he fit in?

But why limit this guessing game to men? What about the woman who sat directly across from Hutch and defined the word battle-ax? She was overdressed and wore too much make-up, neither of which disguised the fact that she had a face that looked as if it had been smashed by a quite few frying pans. Her frown was so unyielding, the crease between her brows seemed to have been tattooed in place.

Why was she here? Could she be the killer, enjoying the spectacle of her handiwork? She certainly looked as if she could wield a knife with the best of them.

Or what about Jenny's father, Nathaniel Keating? He had come here every day without fail, sitting not in the front row but in the far right corner, his face stony and humorless as he watched the proceedings. He had never once acknowledged Hutch's presence here, but Hutch wasn't surprised. They had only met twice, and the old man had never liked him. Keating was the kind of guy who needed to control everyone around him and had considered Hutch a bad influence on his child. Jenny and her father had argued many times when she'd failed to take his advice, and Hutch knew that she had always been a little afraid of him.

But was it possible he had killed his own daughter?

That didn't seem likely.

Then there was Hutch's new friend Gus. He was also sitting in back today, looking like the harmless old coot he seemed to be. But then millions of television viewers thought Jack Van Parkes was a harmless old coot, and Hutch knew that wasn't true. Jack Van Parkes was a horn dog of the highest magnitude who had a thing for high school girls, and had spent a considerable amount of his residuals paying off angry parents.

So was Gus also hiding something? Hutch barely knew him, so anything was possible.

And what about his old friend Andy McKenna? Sitting just two seats over, watching Meyer testify with rapt attention. On the night of Jenny's funeral, Matt had mentioned that Andy had a thing for her, and everyone had gotten a good laugh out of it.

But what if it wasn't all that funny to Andy? What if he had propositioned Jenny and been turned down?

Was he capable of slicing her up in retaliation?

Hutch sighed, wishing he had a cigarette, letting his focus return to Meyer, who was now telling the jury about his visit to Jenny's law firm, and the questioning of Jenny's secretary that had led him to pull the phone records detailing Ronnie's calls.

"And the records showed that these calls came from Ms. Baldacci?" Abernathy asked.

"Not all of them. Several originated through a hotel switchboard, indicating that a house phone was used."

"Which hotel?"

"The Dumont, which is directly across the street from the victim's office building."

Abernathy nodded. "How did you establish that they came from the defendant?"

"During the witness interview. Ms. Keating's secretary told us that Baldacci identified herself and insisted on being connected to Ms. Keating's line. The secretary made a notation on her calendar each time the defendant called."

"Did she give you any indication as to why Ms. Baldacci was trying to contact the victim?"

"She told us that the defendant's husband had filed for sole custody of their son and that the firm was representing him. She said that Baldacci was under the mistaken impression that the victim was one of the attorneys involved."

"And was she?"

"Objection," Waverly said from her chair behind the defense table. "I'm curious to know who exactly is testifying here-Ms. Keating's secretary or Detective Meyer?"

"Your Honor," Abernathy said patiently, "Detective Meyer is simply trying to recount the investigation for us, and part of any good investigation involves questioning those who may have pertinent information. We fully intend to put Ms. Keating's secretary on the stand, and defense counsel will be free to cross-examine either of these witnesses as she sees fit."

The judge mulled this over for all of two milliseconds, then nodded. "Overruled."

Abernathy continued on as if there had never been an interruption. "So was Ms. Keating one of the attorney's involved in this custody case?"

"No," Meyer told him. "The husband was represented by an attorney in another department."

"I see," Abernathy said. “So these phone calls were largely a waste of time.”

"It appears that way."

"And how many of them were there?"

“Nineteen.”

Abernathy's eyebrows went up. “Nineteen? Over what time period?”

“Throughout the month of April," Meyer said. "The number of calls escalated toward the last week.”

“Meaning what?”

“That most of the calls were made a day or two prior to the attack on Ms. Keating. And the majority of those came from the Dumont.”

“And did you find this significant?”

Meyer nodded. “It indicated to us that the defendant may have been stalking Ms. Keating and the sudden increase in volume seemed to suggest that Baldacci was growing more and more-"

"Objection," Waverly said, getting to her feet this time. "I think we can all see where this is going, Your Honor, and I doubt very seriously that there's any significant correlation between the frequency of phone calls and the caller's emotional state. Any testimony of that nature would be purely speculative and highly prejudicial, especially in light of the fact that Detective Meyer is neither a mind reader nor an expert in psychology."

"Sustained," the judge said immediately.

Waverly gave Abernathy a tight smile, then sat back down.

It was a good move, Hutch thought, if a little late. It was obvious that the prosecutor was hoping to establish that Ronnie had grown more and more frantic in the days just prior to the murder, and while the logic didn't necessarily connect, that thought had already been planted in the minds of the jury. Had Waverly jumped in a handful of seconds earlier, she may have prevented this from happening.

It suddenly occurred to Hutch just how crucial the timing was in a trial of this kind. A tiny mistake like this could change the whole dynamic of the beast, and he hoped Waverly would be a little quicker on her feet in the future.

He and Matt exchanged a look and he knew that Matt was thinking the same thing.

They waited for Abernathy to continue, but the ADA glanced at his watch and said, "Your Honor, it'll be a while before I'm finished with this witness and I'm thinking now may be a good time to break for lunch."

Of course it would, Hutch thought. Leave the jurors mulling over those phone calls as they eat their Big Macs.

"You read my mind," Judge O'Donnell said, then turned to the jury. "Ladies and gentlemen, I want to remind you that you're not to discuss this case with anyone, including each other. You're also reminded not to read any newspapers or watch any news programs during the lunch hour. And I expect you all to be back in your seats and ready to proceed by one-thirty this afternoon. Understood?"

The jurors nodded, several saying, "Yes, Your Honor."

"Good," O'Donnell said. "We're adjourned for lunch."

— 22 -

"Mind if we join you? Or is this table pro-defense only?"

Hutch looked up, surprised to see Monica Clawson and Tom Brandt approaching their booth. He, Matt and Andy had taken one that faced the entrance of a crowded bar and grill called The Jury Box, which was located about a block from the courthouse. Matt had suggested the place, and Hutch figured it would be a nice change from his usual vending machine sandwich.

Over the last several days he had been reluctant to venture outside the courthouse at lunchtime, for fear he'd be hounded by aggressive reporters and their video cameras. But to his surprise-and relief-their interest in him seemed to have waned. He wasn't sure why, but figured there must be some other poor fool, much higher on the celebrity food chain than him, who had gotten himself in trouble and would be dominating the news tonight.

Probably some human train wreck vying for a reality show.

The Jury Box was nothing more than a glorified hamburger joint, but its close proximity to the courthouse-and its name, no doubt-made it the lunchtime hotspot for attorneys, trial watchers, jurors and even judges. With their booth facing the door, Hutch saw several people from the courtroom wander in, searching for a place to sit, but had somehow missed Tom and Monica.

"We promise not to bite," Monica continued, then smiled. "Unless you want us to."

"Speak for yourself," Tom said.

Andy, who was staring openly at Monica's chest, patted the spot next to him. "I've got no problem with it. Have a seat."

Matt didn't seemed too thrilled by this intrusion, but they had plenty of room and he said nothing as Monica slid in next to Andy, and Tom took the spot next to Hutch.

"When did you guys get here?" Hutch asked. "I didn't see you in the courtroom."

"We couldn't find a seat," Monica said. "Place was packed."

Andy's eyebrows went up. "And you stuck around anyway?"

"We hit a couple museums to kill some time. Figured we might be able to squeeze in after lunch." She looked at Hutch. "So is it true? You're back on Ronnie's team?"

"How did you know?"

Tom said, "We saw the three of you coming out of the courthouse together, so we figured you'd had a change of heart."

Hutch nodded.

"Mind telling us why?"

"Mostly because of Matt here," Hutch said. "He's seen the police reports first hand and the evidence is largely circumstantial and doesn't really hold up. But I think what really sealed the deal is when I realized how much of what the prosecution has been doing over the last four months is nothing but crass PR."

"What do you mean?" Monica asked.

"Think about it. It's as if they've been running a political campaign rather than looking for justice. Leaking just enough information to pique our interest, but always in control of the message. They painted the picture of Ronnie they wanted us to see and the media gobbled it whole like the careless bastards they are." He looked at Matt. "No offense."

Matt shook his head. "None taken."

"So," Hutch went on, "I had to step past all that and realize that, at her core, Ronnie will always be Ronnie and she just isn't capable of doing what was done to Jenny."

Andy nodded agreement. "She may be nuts, but she isn't that nuts."

They all looked at him.

"What? I can't say something nice once in a while?"

Hutch just shook his head. "Anyway, it's been a bit of a roller coaster, but I'm finally on steady ground."

Tom smiled. "It's funny, but you aren't the only one riding that roller coaster. You've pretty much summed up exactly the way we've been feeling."

Matt looked surprised. "Seriously?"

Monica said, "Do you know how many meals we've shared with Ronnie. How many times we've laughed together? Cried? So what if we haven't seen each other in a few years? She's still Ronnie and God knows she's never judged me." She paused. "I'm ashamed I ever doubted her."

They sat in silence a moment, then Hutch said, "So we're all in agreement now? That she didn't kill Jenny?"

Nods around the table.

"So then the question remains," he said. "Who the hell did?"

— 23 -

They spent the entire meal contemplating the question.

Hutch told them how he had sat in the courtroom, looking around at the faces of the spectators in the gallery, wondering if any of them could be the culprit-as Waverly had suggested.

The idea seemed pretty ludicrous on its surface, but it was an intriguing one.

Monica said, "I think Ronnie may have been right. That this was a random murder. Some slasher who saw Jenny and killed her to get his rocks off."

"Which makes it unlikely he'd be in the courtroom," Tom said. "Why would he bother?"

"Why else?" she snorted. "To get his rocks off again. Relive the moment. Trust me, I've been running a cam girls website long enough to see some pretty screwed up people."

They all thought about that, then Hutch said, "That's only one of the possibilities. Do any of you know if Jenny had any enemies?"

Matt shook his head. "Not that I can think of. But we weren't exactly bosom buddies anymore. What about you, Andy? You were probably the last one of us to talk to her."

Andy looked surprised. "You know about that?"

"Ronnie told us. Said Jenny told her."

"That was a few months back. But it was just a phone call. I was trying to see if she knew how to get hold of Hutch."

"You sure it wasn't more than that?"

Andy frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Matt said. "It's not important."

"Well you sure as hell meant something by it. So why don't you illuminate us?"

Matt suddenly looked uncomfortable. "It was just a stupid joke. I know you always had a thing for her, so…"

Andy's face reddened. "So… what? Now all of a sudden I'm a suspect?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Then why even bother bringing it up?"

Matt seemed at a loss for words, but Andy was all too happy to supply them.

"I get it," he said. "Sweet little Ronnie can't be the bad guy, but that Andy, he's got killer written all over him, right? Jesus Christ, Matt, I thought we were friends."

Remembering his own suspicions-and not feeling good about it-Hutch held his hands up. "Take it easy, man, nobody thinks you're-"

"Excuse me, I gotta take a leak."

Andy gestured and Monica slipped out of the booth. Everyone was silent as he stepped past her and headed across the room toward a sign marked RESTROOMS. Hutch could tell by his walk that he was too pissed off for words.

And who could blame him?

Hutch looked at Matt. "Aren't you gonna go apologize?"

Matt shrugged. "For what? I never said I thought he killed her. That's just Andy getting his back up like he always does. He'll get over it."

"You're his best friend, man."

"Believe me, I'm well aware that. It's a burden I've lived with for years."

"Fine," Hutch said. "I'll go talk to him."

Tom got out of his way and he climbed out and crossed the room to a short hallway, heading for a door marked GENTLEMEN. When he got inside, Andy was at the urinal, doing his business.

Hutch said, "You okay, man?"

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just standing here thinking about who my next victim'll be."

"Look," Hutch said, "Matt wasn't accusing you of anything."

"Whatever." He zipped up, flushed, then moved to the sink and started rinsing his hands. "But I want it on record that I'm not the only jerk sitting at that table."

"Duly noted."

They were silent as Andy reached for a paper towel, then Hutch said, "By the way, I've been meaning to tell you, I read your script when I was back in L.A."

Andy turned. "I've been wondering about that. Figured you didn't like it."

"Actually, it's pretty damn good. I sent it to a friend of mine, a Swedish director who does crime thrillers, looking to break into the American market. I figured it was right up his alley."

Andy's face lit up. "Seriously? Are you fucking with me?"

"He's got some juice, so if he likes what he sees you may get lucky."

"That's fantastic! Jesus."

"You got talent, man. A lot more than I ever will. Don't ever let anyone tell you different."

Andy suddenly went quiet. It may have been a trick of the light, but it looked as if he had tears in his eyes. Then he quickly finished drying his hands and held one out, saying, "Thanks, man, I really appreciate this."

Hutch shook it. "I just call 'em like I see 'em." He paused as a thought occurred. "You have anything against writing for television?"

"Uh… no. Why would I?"

"If you want, I can pass the script along to some of the show runners I know, see if it can generate some TV work."

Andy stood there looking shell shocked.

"Just be warned," Hutch said. "This business is full of asshats who'll use and abuse you without a second thought."

"Ha," Andy barked. "That's true of every job I've ever had."

"Point taken. Now get the hell out of here before people start talking."

His friend smiled and thanked him again, then headed outside as Hutch stepped over to the urinal and unzipped. He'd had two root beers during lunch and felt as if he were about to burst.

He stood there ruminating on the simple pleasure of taking a much needed pee, when a toilet flushed and the booth door flew open. A young guy with a crewcut and thick, black-rimmed glasses emerged, stepping toward the sink. Hutch remembered him from the courthouse, one of the trial junkies who regularly sat in on Ronnie's trial. The pasty-looking guy he'd pegged as the creepy next door neighbor.

He had a large hardback book tucked under his arm, which he shoved into his book bag and set on the counter as he washed his hands with more soap than he needed. He spent a good half minute or so, scrubbing them thoroughly, as Hutch zipped and flushed and waited to use the sink.

The guy glanced in the mirror, and for a moment, their gazes met. And in that moment, Hutch felt a sudden sense of dread run through him. Outside of a few agents he'd known, this guy had the deadest eyes he'd ever seen. Black and shark-like, magnified by those thick, coke-bottle lenses.

He quickly looked away, and a moment later the guy was finished and gone.

It was only then that Hutch realized he'd been holding his breath.

"You're right," Tom said, "He does look like a creep, but what are you thinking?"

Hutch was back in the booth now and it seemed that Matt and Andy had kissed and made up. Maybe the good news had done the trick.

The man with the black glasses was sitting alone at a table across the room, nursing a Pepsi and half a club sandwich as he lost himself in the pages of his book.

Hutch shrugged. "I'm not really thinking anything. Just making an observation."

"Maybe we should be putting him on our list of suspects," Monica said. "Along with Andy, of course."

Matt winced and Andy flicked a middle finger at her. "Nice try, thunder tits, but I'm bulletproof right now."

"You point that thing at me, McKenna, you better know how to use it."

"You had your chance back in college. You shoulda let me join one of your little web chats."

She cupped her breasts and jiggled them at him. "Dream on, buster."

It was a move Monica was famous for and everyone laughed. Hutch was glad to see that the old college camaraderie had returned, something he doubted the guy with the black glasses had ever experienced. Which, in a way, made Hutch feel sorry for him.

But then he'd always had a bit of a soft spot for people he saw eating alone. He knew it happened every day-hell, he'd done it enough himself-but there was a kind of inherent loneliness in the act that couldn't be denied.

That said, the creep didn't seem to be having a problem with it. Looked quite content with his book for company.

Hutch thought about those dead shark eyes and somewhere in the back of his mind he did exactly what Monica had suggested. Put him on the list with the Businessman, the Battle-Axe, Two-day Stubble, and just about everyone else who sat in that gallery every day.

He was thinking about this when he realized that the others had moved on with the conversation, and were now talking about Nadine, who remained the only hold out. The one person in the group who still thought Ronnie was guilty.

"So where is she?" he asked. "She promised me she'd be in the courtroom once the trial started."

"Busy getting rich," Tom said. "Some big real estate development she's been working on for months. Plus, she couldn't watch the trial even if she wanted to."

Andy frowned. "Why not?"

"Because she's a witness for the prosecution."

— 24 -

"Witness?" Hutch said. "What the hell did she witness?"

Tom picked at the crumbs on his plate. "You remember that call she told us about? The one from Ronnie?"

It took Hutch a moment to retrieve the memory. Then he saw himself huddled with Tom and Nadine in the police station lobby, Nadine telling them about Ronnie's nearly incoherent phone call the day after she ran into Jenny at the Godwyn Theater.

"They want her to testify about that?"

Tom nodded. "I guess they think it's relevant. A way of demonstrating Ronnie's frame of mind."

"Frame of mind? The way Nadine described it, it sounded more like a classic drunk-dialing mishap than anything significant. How did they even find out about it?"

"How else?" Tom said. "Nadine contacted the detective in charge."

Matt shook his head in disgust. "What the hell is wrong with her?"

"She and Jenny were still pretty close," Tom said. "Not like the old days, but I think Jenny was doing some legal work on that big real estate deal. Nadine puts up a good front, but she was pretty busted up by the murder."

Monica huffed. "Like that's exclusive territory."

"Look," Hutch said, feeling the mood shifting. "Let's not forget that Nadine's a friend, too, and she's gonna believe what she wants to believe. I'm not the only one here who knows what that feels like."

Tom and Monica nodded.

"But I'll see if I can get hold of her tonight. Try to talk some sense into her."

"Appeal to her insecurity," Andy said. "She never did like being the odd man out."

Hutch doubted such an appeal would make much difference. During all those years at college, Nadine had always been very protective of Jenny, played big sister to her-even though Jenny was six months older. When Ronnie and Jenny got into it back then, Nadine would always side with her best friend. So it wasn't much of a surprise that the tradition had carried through to the present.

Hutch knew that once Nadine took the stand she'd be talking about the volatile history her two friends had shared. But there wasn't really anything to it. Occasional eruptions that had never amounted to much. Nothing more than what they'd just witnessed between Matt and Andy.

Like most friends, Ronnie and Jenny had fought sometimes. Maybe a little more than usual, but Hutch had never sensed any real animosity between them. And when he and Jenny were alone together, she had never once complained about it.

To Hutch's mind, Nadine was letting grief distort her memory, and he'd have to do his best to get her thinking straight. Just as Matt had done with him.

"You think she'll come around?" Monica asked.

Hutch didn't have an answer.

The second half of the day was more of the same. Abernathy and Meyer picking up pretty much where they left off, letting everyone know what an efficient and hard-working cop Meyer was.

The next three and a half hours were a flurry of testimony, objections and sidebars-not as dramatic as what you'd see on a television crime show, but just as compelling in its own way.

Anyone used to watching those shows would be amazed that a single witness could be on the stand for such a long time. Yet, for Hutch, those three hours rocketed by, playing like some of the most fascinating theater he had ever seen. Maybe he felt this way because there was so much at stake, but whenever he looked at the jurors, he saw that he wasn't alone.

It was impossible to know, however, how much of what Meyer had to say rang true to these people. Was his arrogance as obvious to them as it was to Hutch?

It was a trait that he hoped Waverly would exploit during cross-examination-which he didn't expect to happen anytime soon, since Abernathy seemed reluctant to relinquish the stage.

Watching them, Hutch got the notion that they'd done this dance many times before, and their timing was impeccable.

"All right," the ADA said to Meyer as the end of the day approached. "Let's circle back to the defendant. You've said that despite the phone records and the statement of Ms. Keating's secretary, you weren't immediately convinced that Ms. Baldacci was the perpetrator."

"That's right," Meyer said.

"Why is that?"

He shrugged. "Because at that particular point in the investigation, Detective Mack and I felt she was merely a person of interest. One among many."

"Oh? So there where others you suspected?"

Meyer nodded. "Of course. We always try to put out as wide a net as possible, and the victim had a large circle of friends and business associates."

"Who else were you looking at?"

"Ex-boyfriends and family members for the most part. The nature of the assault seemed to suggest that this was a rage killing. That the perpetrator held some sort of personal animosity toward-"

"Objection," Waverly said. "I'd like to remind the court that such characterizations are beyond the scope of the defendant's expertise. He isn't a forensic psychologist."

Abernathy looked indignant. "Your Honor, as Detective Meyer testified earlier, he has investigated dozens of homicides over the course of his career. If that doesn't qualify him as an expert in criminal behavior, I don't know what does."

The judge nodded. "I'll allow it. You may continue, Detective."

"Thank you, Your Honor." Meyer paused, returning his attention to Abernathy. "So, as I was saying, because of the nature of the assault, we felt it prudent to concentrate on those who were closest to Ms. Keating and might hold a personal grudge against her."

"And what did you find?"

"Nothing substantial. From all accounts, Ms. Keating was a well-loved individual and even her exes held her in high regard. Which left us searching for a motive."

"So you're saying that none of these potential suspects had a reason to want her dead?"

"It didn't seem that way," Meyer said. "Not only that, the majority of them had solid alibis for the night in question, and whenever we hit a dead end, we came back around to Ms. Baldacci."

"Why is that?"

"Because of the phone calls and her mistaken belief that the victim was somehow involved in her custody case. She and Ms. Keating were friends at one time, back in college, so it was our thinking that she may have felt betrayed. And in my experience as a homicide investigator that's a pretty strong motive for murder."

"I see," Abernathy said. "So did you interview Ms. Baldacci?"

"We tried, but we weren't able to contact her. And we got the distinct impression that she didn't want to be-"

"Objection," Waverly said. "There's nothing in evidence that suggests that Ms. Baldacci even knew the police were trying to contact her. The witness is once again making assumptions."

"Sustained."

Abernathy shot Waverly a look, then said to Meyer, "How did you attempt to contact Ms. Baldacci?"

"First, we tried calling her, but her most recent phone number had been disconnected. So we went out to her last known address-an apartment near Wicker Park-but were told that she'd moved."

"Any idea where?"

"Not at the time," Meyer said.

"What about her place of employment?"

"That's where things got interesting."

Abernathy feigned surprise. "Oh? In what way?"

"Forensics sent us a list of evidence that was retrieved from the victim's car. When we found out where Ms. Baldacci was employed, one of the items on that list came into sharp focus."

Abernathy nodded. "I'll be going over those items with the forensic specialist. Where is Ms. Baldacci employed?"

"At a pet grooming establishment called The Canine Cuttery."

"Pet grooming," Abernathy repeated. "And did you try contacting her there?"

"We did, but we got an answering machine. The shop was closed for the day."

They were playing it just right, Hutch thought. By concentrating on Ronnie's place of employment but withholding the significance of the mysterious item on the forensics list, Abernathy was using a tried and true storytelling technique to hook the jury. And he was handling it brilliantly.

"So what did you do next?" he asked Meyer.

"We checked public records to see who owned the establishment and contacted a Mr. Raymond Hardwick, who told us the defendant had left work early that day to attend a funeral Mass."

"The victim's funeral?"

"Yes."

"Did you then try to speak to her there?"

Meyer hesitated. "We considered tracking her down at St. Angela's for questioning, but out of respect to the victim's family and friends, we decided to hold off and not create a spectacle."

"I see," Abernathy said. "What did you do then?"

"When we spoke to him earlier, the defendant's employer gave us her current address."

"And where was this?"

"Her mother's house in Roscoe Village. We went there shortly after the funeral in hopes of getting there around the time the defendant arrived home."

"And did you have any luck?"

"No," Meyer said. "She hadn't returned yet."

"So what did you do at that point?"

"We went to the door, identified ourselves, and asked her mother, a Ms. Lola Baldacci, what time she expected her daughter to come home. She said the defendant had gone out with some old college friends and probably wouldn't return until much later that night."

"Was that the extent of your conversation?"

"No. We asked the mother about the defendant's whereabouts four nights earlier."

"And what did she say?"

"That Ms. Baldacci had come home after work, but went out again around nine o'clock."

"Did she know where?"

"No," Meyer said.

"And what time did Ms. Baldacci return?"

"The mother didn't know. She'd already gone to bed by then."

"What about the defendant's son? Was he staying there at the time?"

Meyer nodded. "Christopher. We were told he was asleep by the time Ms. Baldacci left."

"Did you question him at all?"

"No. We didn't want to upset him unnecessarily."

Nice touch, Hutch thought. Meyer wasn't making any enemies with this testimony.

Abernathy was quiet for a long moment, then said, "So at this point, when you decided to seek out Ms. Baldacci at her home, how many days into the investigation were you?"

Meyer made a quick mental calculation. "Four."

Abernathy's eyebrows went up. "Four?"

"Starting from the day immediately following the murder," Meyer said.

"Not exactly what you'd call a rush to judgment, was it?"

Before Meyer could respond, Waverly was on her feet. "Objection," she said loudly, looking more annoyed than Hutch had yet seen her. Abernathy was taking a jab at her opening statement and, unfortunately, all the objections in the world couldn't negate his point.

Judge O'Donnell frowned at him. "Keep the editorializing to yourself, counsel."

"But it's a valid argument, Your Honor."

"Then find another way to make it. Objection sustained."

Abernathy pretended to be upset by the ruling, but to anyone paying attention, he'd already done what he'd set out to do. He thanked the judge and moved on. "So what happened next, Detective Meyer? After interviewing her mother, did you seek the defendant out?"

"Not immediately, no."

"Why not?"

"Because while I was speaking to Mrs. Baldacci, Detective Mack made a discovery."

"Oh? What sort of discovery?"

"He thought he saw something in the defendant's garbage and decided to investigate."

"And this was inside the house?"

"No," Meyer said. "The trash receptacle in the alley. The next day was collection day and the can had already been taken out."

"How did you know it was the defendant's trash?"

"Because it sat directly behind the house, had the address painted on it and there were several pieces of junk mail inside addressed to Lola Baldacci."

Abernathy frowned. "Don't you need a warrant to go through someone's trash?"

Meyer shook his head. "Under the law, once it hits the alley, all privacy rights are waived and it's considered public property. No search warrants necessary. Besides, the trash receptacle had been knocked on its side and half its contents were spilling out. That's why my partner saw what he saw."

"And what did he see?"

Meyer gestured to the prosecution table. "I believe you have it right there."

Abernathy turned and took a clear plastic bag from the table. He held it up for everyone to see. "Is this the item?"

"Yes."

"Your Honor, I'd like to enter this into the record as people's exhibit one." Abernathy looked at Meyer. "And would you please tell the court what it is?"

Even though Hutch knew what was coming, he couldn't deny the power of Meyer's words, or the visual that went along with them:

"A black hooded sweatshirt covered with the victim's blood."

— 25 -

As she sat in the courthouse lockup, Ronnie Baldacci couldn't quite believe how shitty this day had been. One of the worst of her life.

Despite the jitters, the lack of sleep, the missing appetite-it had started out pretty well. When Waverly broke the news this morning that Hutch had finally come to his senses and the paperwork for her release was being prepared, Ronnie's spirits had lifted. Hutch's sudden turnabout gave her nearly as much joy as the thought of her impending freedom.

In her rational mind, she knew there were a lot more important things to worry about than an old college crush, but she wasn't exactly thinking rationally these days. She didn't care about Hutch's money, but for some unknown reason, his opinion about her guilt or innocence was all-important to her. For some unknown reason, she couldn't bear the thought that…

Oh, who was she kidding?

There was nothing unknown about it.

Time to stop lying to herself and finally admit that this wasn't any crush. She had been hung up on the guy for nearly a decade. Had wanted him back in college and all the years since, her heart soaring when she saw what a success he had become, and breaking when he'd started his downward slide. If she'd had any guts at all, she would've tried to help him, would've called him up with a "Hey, guess who?" — assuming he'd even take her calls.

But Ronnie had never been the gutsiest girl in the room.

Far from it.

And while she was admitting things, she might as well cop to the fact that she had only married her ex Danny because he had reminded her so much of Hutch. The same good looks and easy smile. The same naturally athletic body. The ability to get her motor running by the slightest brush of a hand.

And for a while she'd felt satisfied and happy.

Then she realized Danny had been sticking his key in someone else's ignition, and that was the end of that.

So it was back to Hutch. The memories. The fantasies.

In college, she used to watch them from afar-Hutch and Jenny-and envy the hell out of her. It was no surprise that someone so smart and beautiful and downright bewitching had managed to snare the golden boy of their little group, but that hadn't stopped Ronnie from hoping for a break up, even if it meant she'd be the rebound girl. She may not have been the beauty queen Jenny was, but she had a decent face and a pretty good bod, and had turned more than a few heads in her time. Unfortunately, none of those heads much interested her.

Oh, she'd slept with her fair share-a girl has her needs, after all-but every time she closed her eyes she imagined it was Hutch lying against her, nuzzling her neck, scraping his teeth along her earlobe. Then she'd open them again and realize who she was in bed with, and couldn't wait for him to finish up and get the hell out of her room.

Pretty pathetic, when you thought about it, but then Ronnie more or less defined pathetic.

So, yeah, with the news about Hutch and freedom only hours away, the day had started out pretty damn good. But any optimism she might have felt was quickly squelched once the trial started and reality set in.

When Detective Jason Meyer took the stand.

The night he arrested her, Meyer had been a thuggish prick. Had sat her down in an interview room and given her a hard, soulless stare, telling her she might as well face it, that she was in very deep doodoo unless she cooperated and answered all of his questions.

"The court likes defendants who own up to what they've done," he'd said. "You tell us what happened in your own words, you might only be looking at a manslaughter beef. But if you make things difficult for us, we'll go all out. Murder One. And we've got the evidence to prove it."

At first Ronnie had balked. Had figured she had nothing to fear and had freely answered his questions about where she'd been the night of Jenny's murder, and the nature of their relationship. But as it became more and more clear that he didn't believe her, that he really did think she was a killer, she had stopped talking altogether, refusing to answer any more questions. She knew from her experience in Sedona that cops have a way of twisting every word to their advantage. Of making you look and feel guilty, even when you've done nothing wrong.

And Meyer was no different.

When she asked for a lawyer, he had immediately said they were taking a break and had shut off all recording equipment, including the video camera that had been pointed at her from a corner of the room. Then he got to his feet and spent the next hour hovering over her, berating her, telling her a lawyer wouldn't do her an ounce of good, that he'd beat a confession out of her and tell the prosecutor she'd slipped and fell in the bathroom. That she was a little piece of nothing, a brutal murderer who didn't deserve the usual protections provided by the law.

It was all bluff, of course, but the man had terrified her, and it had taken every ounce of internal fortitude she could muster to keep from breaking down right there in that claustrophobic little room.

Meyer was nothing short of a bully, and she wasn't about to give him even an inch of satisfaction.

Not one inch.

The Detective Meyer in court, however, was a completely different animal. Well-mannered, professional, a bit full of himself but charismatic and likable just the same.

The jury loved him. She could see it in their faces. Some of the women had that same look that she got whenever she was around Hutch.

And that didn't bode well for Ronnie Baldacci.

During the lunch break she had been so distraught that she had sat weeping in her cell. She had never been big on tears-it took a lot to get the waterworks running-but the moment the door clanged shut behind her, someone turned the faucet on full force and she collapsed to her bunk, unable to hold them back.

She was only halfway through her first day of trial and she knew that this jury-those women-were going to convict her. Meyer and that smug little ADA were already painting her as some kind of obsessive nut case and she knew it was working.

But by the time her lunch break came to an end, she had told herself not to be so pessimistic. Had wiped her eyes and put on her brave face and even smiled at the jury as they filed into the courtroom.

None of them smiled back.

Then, toward the end of the day, when the ADA brought out that black hoodie, Meyer claiming it was the one she had worn while stabbing Jenny repeatedly, she was once again convinced that she was doomed. That she would be convicted of murder and would spend the rest of her life away from little Christopher-who would surely be sent to Arizona to live with Danny.

And if that happened, she'd never see or hear from him again.

No visits. No phone calls. No letters.

So maybe shitty was the wrong word to describe her day.

Shitty was inconsequential compared to this.

This day was so far beyond shit that she couldn't find an adequate way to express just how bad it was.

But at least Hutch believed her now, and she'd be free for a while. Could spend some time with Christopher before they locked her up for good.

And as she sat there in her cell, waiting for Hutch to post bond, and for the guard to tell her that she was free to go, Ronnie had a sudden thought.

What if she walked out that door and never came back? Grabbed Christopher and disappeared off the face of the earth?

Go to Italy maybe. France. Brazil. Ecuador.

It sounded like yet another Ronnie Baldacci fantasy.

But maybe she could make this one come true.

— 26 -

The bailbondsman was a guy named Leon Johnson who looked as if he could snap you in two just by thinking about it. He reminded Hutch of a young Ving Rhames-an actor he'd long admired and had always wanted to work with-and he figured this was about as close as he'd ever get.

He was sitting in Johnson's office about three blocks from the courthouse, a pre-fab two-room suite that had been sublet from a local dentist. Hutch could hear the whine of a drill coming from one of the other rooms.

Johnson's desk was a metal monstrosity that took up most of the real estate, but Johnson himself made it look like furniture built for dwarves.

"You understand how this works?"

"Yes," Hutch said.

"Once you sign these papers and hand over a check, I don't want you coming back bitchin' about it. You lay down two hundred large, you better be damn sure you know what that means."

"I know what it means."

"So tell me."

"It means I don't get the money back. That this isn't a deposit or collateral for a loan, it's a nonrefundable fee that I'll never see again."

Ten percent of Ronnie's bail, was what it was. And for that amount, Johnson-or more likely his insurance carrier-would pony up the two million needed to spring her. It was also, coincidentally, the exact amount Hutch had been paid per episode during the last two seasons of Code Two-Seven, minus agent and managerial fees.

Almost criminal, when you thought about it.

"You also understand," Johnson said, "that if she decides not to show up for court, I will hunt her down and throw her ass back in the can."

The thought of being manhandled by this guy gave Hutch a little shiver. He figured most of Johnson's clients probably made the decision not to run the moment they saw the size of his biceps. And his chest. Neck. Forearms. Hands.

"That won't be a problem."

Johnson snorted. "I've heard that before."

"She's got no reason to skip," Hutch told him. "She's not guilty."

"I've heard that one, too."

Two hours later, Hutch, Matt and Andy waited as Waverly escorted Ronnie out of the judge's private elevator into the underground parking lot-an escape route that was often used by high-profile defendants.

After a quick round of hugs and a few tears, they hustled Ronnie into the back of Andy's Mustang. Hutch climbed in next to her and they drove in near silence to the house in Roscoe Village, circled the block twice to make sure there weren't any reporters around, then pulled up to the curb.

"You guys want to come in?" Ronnie asked.

Hutch shook his head. "You spend time with your family."

"You're my family, too."

"Your son doesn't need a bunch of strangers stomping around his house. Spend some time with him, eat a decent meal and get some sleep for once. Andy'll pick you up in the morning."

She looked at him for a long moment, a trace of tears in her eyes. "Thank you, Hutch. Thank you so much."

Without warning, she threw her arms around him and kissed him square on the mouth. Hutch stiffened with surprise, then went with it, kissing her back.

Then she pulled away, looking slightly embarrassed as she got out of the car and crossed the sidewalk to the front steps.

Hutch gave her a wave goodbye, and as they pulled away from the curb, Matt-who sat up front next to Andy-craned his neck to look at him, a slight smile on his face. "So how does it feel to be the knight in shining armor?"

If he was any kind of knight at all, Hutch thought, it was a tarnished one.

But he nodded.

"Not bad," he said. "Not bad at all."

— 27 -

Nadine didn't seem surprised to see him.

After they left Ronnie's house, Matt had asked Hutch if he wanted to grab a bite to eat, but Hutch had declined. Told them to drop him off back at the courthouse instead.

Grabbing a beef from a nearby sandwich shop, he caught the train to Kenwood, where he knew Nadine kept an apartment in an old condominium her firm had bought and refurbished.

He didn't know if she'd be home, and didn't bother to call, but he figured if he came up dry, at least he'd get a nice little train trip out of it.

Hutch had always enjoyed riding the train. Back in college he'd grab whatever book he'd been assigned to read and jump on the L, losing himself in the clatter of the wheels as he rode back and forth for hours-crowded, empty, he didn't care. This was his way of grabbing some alone time, away from campus and the house on Miller Street, and the noise of the people he lived with.

These trips grew more and more frequent during their senior year, and Hutch knew it was his way of preparing himself-and maybe everyone else-for the inevitable parting of the ways that comes after graduation. Even though most of the gang had plans to stay in Chicago (or return after grad school), Hutch knew that their little bubble would start to burst the moment they tossed their caps into the air.

Jenny had sensed him pulling away and they'd fought about it, but neither of them had known at the time that he'd be gone before the semester was over.

Their last night together had ended in an argument. Hutch telling her he was moving to L.A. for the show and Jenny devastated, as if she hadn't known this was coming. As if she hadn't encouraged him to try out after the casting agent handed him her card.

She had wanted him to postpone the move until they finished school, then they could go out to the coast together, find a place to live. But Hutch had no interest in finishing, wanting to get on with his life now, not later.

She'd called him selfish and cruel and that probably wasn't far from the truth-but what choice did he have? Once the show started shooting he'd be needed on the set.

Couldn't she understand that?

The next day he was gone. Called a cab for the airport shortly after she left for school, not a word spoken between them. He left a note, promising to call, that he'd be back for graduation and make arrangements for her to move in with him.

But none of the promises were kept, and he never spoke to her again.

And now he never would.

Where were you, Ethan?

Why didn't you return my calls?

Yeah, Hutch, why didn't you return her calls?

You stupid fool.

As luck would have it, Nadine immediately answered the security buzzer, then let him into the lobby.

When he got off the elevator, she was waiting in her open doorway, giving him that wry look that was so much like Jenny's that it nearly made his throat lock up.

It didn't help that she was wearing a faded red and gray UIC Flames T-shirt that looked just like the one Jenny wore the last time he saw her.

Who knows, maybe it was Jenny's. The girls were always swapping clothes back then.

"I wondered when you'd decide to drop by," she said. "Are you here to convince me what a misguided fool I am?"

"I guess you've heard I switched teams."

"Oh, I've heard, and so has the rest of the world."

Hutch had no idea what she was talking about, and the look on his face must have reflected this.

Nadine looked surprised. "You haven't seen it, have you?"

"Seen what?"

She gestured and he followed her into the living room. Her apartment was small and modestly furnished, modern in style, but not quite what he had expected for a real estate developer.

Maybe her demands were few. He knew of at least one obscenely rich comedian who still lived in a one bedroom walk-up in West Hollywood and drove a fifteen year-old Volvo. Of course the guy owned the apartment building, but that wasn't the point.

Nadine moved to her coffee table, grabbed the open Macbook waiting there and showed it to him.

"Welcome back to the limelight," she said.

On screen was a garish and all-too-familiar website-The Gab Bag-one that had been virulently anti-Ethan Hutchinson during the worst parts of his extended lost weekend. The page was laid out like a typical New York tabloid, a headline screaming-

FORMER TV STAR HOOKS UP WITH KILLER!

Just below this was a series of grainy rapid-fire telephoto shots of Hutch and Ronnie in the back seat of Andy's Mustang, lit up by a nearby street lamp, engaged in what looked like a very passionate lip lock. They were both clearly identifiable.

"What the fuck?" Hutch said.

Nadine snorted softly. "My sentiments exactly."

"This isn't what you think it is."

"Does it matter?"

Hutch felt anger creeping up on him. "How the hell did they get this? We dropped Ronnie off less than two hours ago and there wasn't a reporter in sight."

"Read the blog entry. Apparently her neighbor is an amateur photographer. He saw something going on across the street and grabbed his camera. Probably pissed his pants when he realized what he had. Gab Bag pays five grand for photos like this."

"Son of a bitch," Hutch said.

"Gotta love the Internet, don't you?"

Hutch just stared at the web page. He didn't really give a damn about the photos, but he had real issues with the vultures who made money invading people's privacy. He'd felt the sting of it more times than he could remember.

That some random douche nozzle could take these shots and, within seconds, broker a deal and see them posted online with such unbridled, sophomoric glee, made him wonder what the hell had happened to the world.

Had it always been like this?

But his bigger concern right now was Ronnie. These photos would only accelerate the media's already rabid interest in her. Now that they knew she was back home, reporters and news vans would be flocking to her house, setting up camp, making her life-and her mother's and son's-a living hell.

"Fuck," Hutch muttered, then snapped the Macbook shut, nearly tossing it across the room.

Nadine grabbed hold of it. "Easy, cowboy, I paid good money for this thing."

"I've gotta get Ronnie out of that house."

She waved the laptop. "Looks to me like you're more interested in getting her out of her pants."

He frowned. "I told you, it's not what you think. We were dropping her off and she planted a kiss on me. End of story."

Nadine set the computer on the coffee table, then moved to a wet bar in the corner and poured some coke into a glass filled with ice. "I like the way you skipped around the whole posting her bail thing."

"You have a problem with that?"

"Of course I do. I think she's guilty. I've said that from day one."

"You're wrong," Hutch told her.

Nadine doctored the coke with a healthy splash of rum, then turned. "I doubt that very much. And I hate to see her seducing you into thinking-"

"Seducing me?"

"What else would you call it?"

"Believing in a friend," he said. "The same way I'd believe in Matt or Andy or you."

She snorted again, then swirled the ice and took a sip of her drink. "You want a soda or something?"

"I'm fine," he said.

She nodded, then took another sip and sank into a nearby chair.

"Look," she told him, "Tom called me earlier tonight and I know I'm the odd man out now. I know you came here thinking you could change my mind about her, but trust me, it isn't going to happen."

"And why's that?"

"Because I know the real Ronnie, okay? You share a room with someone, you tend to get to know them better than anyone else."

"That was ten years ago."

"She's no different now than she was in college, and back then she was a manipulative little bitch. Not to mention borderline psychotic."

"Come on, Nadine, that's ridiculous."

"Is it?" She took another sip of her drink. "Did I ever tell you about the night she nearly shot me?"

"What?"

"Okay, to be fair, it wasn't a real gun, just one of those air pistols that looks like the real thing. You remember that kid she dated for a while? Liam?"

"The one who wanted to be a cop?"

She nodded. "He used to carry one in his backpack and pull it out every once in a while, flashing it around like he was Mel Gibson or something. One night he left without his pack and Ronnie fished out the gun and started waving it at Jenny and me, saying, 'Watch out, girls, I'm armed and dangerous.'"

"That's it?" Hutch said. "That's nothing."

"Yeah, except later that same night-or I guess I should say early the next morning-I woke up and saw Ronnie sitting on the edge of her bed, playing with the gun again. I don't know if she knew I was awake, but all of a sudden she gets this look in her eyes, then points it at me and pulls the trigger. It wasn't loaded, but still…"

Hutch thought about this a moment, then shook his head. "That's all you've got?"

"You didn't see that look."

"It's a wonder you did-unless you sleep with a light on."

"We were on the far side of the house, remember? A lot of moonlight coming in through the window."

"Uh-huh," Hutch said. "You're not exactly convincing me here."

"I know what I saw, and it scared the hell out of me."

"Then why didn't you say anything?" He shook his head again. "I have a feeling it scares you more now than it did then. Back then it was just a stupid prank, but you're filtering the memory through what's happening today and reading all kinds of significance into it-whether it's warranted or not."

She raised her glass. "Thank you, Dr. Hutchinson."

"I'll send you a bill."

He knew he could stand here and debate with her all night, but she wasn't about to budge. Unlike himself, she wasn't a flip-flopper, and he had to give her that. There was something admirable in her ability to take a stand and stick with it, even if they disagreed. Even if it isolated her.

Another trait she shared with Jenny.

She drained the glass and got to her feet. "You sure you don't want something to drink?" She teetered slightly and he suspected the one in her hand wasn't the first of the night. Far from it.

"I think I'll head out."

She squinted at him. "I'm sorry, did I scare little Ethan away? You just got here."

Hutch shrugged. "Like you said, I came to change your mind, stop you from testifying against Ronnie. But I can see that isn't gonna happen, so what's the point?"

"We can talk about something else. About Jenny, if you like. I'm sure you're feeling pretty guilty lately."

That wasn't the half of it, but he had no interest in discussing it with her. "I'm done talking. Time to start doing."

"Meaning what?"

"I wish I knew. But despite what you think, Jenny's killer is out there somewhere and I feel like I need to do something about it."

Nadine balked, a mocking tone in her voice. "Like what? Play detective? This is real life, Hutch, not one of your movies."

He turned and started for the door. "Thanks for the reminder."

"Stop letting your dick do your thinking for you."

He paused mid-step, turned. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's all right there in the photos."

"I told you, it's not what it-"

"You can protest all you want," she said, offering him an inebriated, know-it-all smile that annoyed the hell out of him. "But words don't really matter, do they? Your body's saying something completely different."

Then she dismissed him with a wave and crossed to the bar to pour herself another drink.

— 28 -

He caught the train back to the courthouse district, needing time to decompress, not wanting to take the direct route home. He stood on the platform waiting for his connection, and thought about heading down the steps, stopping in one of the nearby bars and ordering himself a single malt. Preferably Jameson.

He wasn't sure why he suddenly felt the urge. Maybe it was seeing Nadine well on her way to that special place where everything in the world seemed so crystal clear, even as it swirled around you. Where the doubts melted away with each sip, and the instinctive being took over-the one without fear, the one who knew right from wrong, fact from fiction, and didn't hesitate to express himself.

The invincible drunk.

But Hutch had seen that guy immortalized on video enough times to know that, beneath the cocky exterior, he was pretty much an inbred idiot. Their friendship had been brief, fruitless, and often destructive, and Hutch had no desire to revisit it.

So he resisted the urge and quietly waited for his train. Fished a cigarette out of the crumpled pack in his pocket and lit up, thinking it wasn't much of a substitute for booze, but it would do.

He stood there wondering why Nadine hated Ronnie so much. She had always been fiercely protective of Jenny, but there seemed to be more to it than that-and the incident with the air gun was complete bullshit. Not even worth considering.

Had something else happened between them back in college? Something only the girls had known about?

Jenny certainly had never talked about it. But then Hutch and Jenny hadn't spent a lot of time discussing the other people in the house. Especially not in their first year or so together. They were too caught up in the excitement of a new and blossoming relationship, and external conflicts rarely caught their attention.

And when Hutch thought about it, if Nadine had a problem with anyone, you'd think it would be Jenny herself. They had been best friends when Hutch came along, and Nadine had been promptly relegated to third wheel. Not intentionally, of course, but that was just the way things worked.

Still do.

If anything, Nadine and Ronnie should have bonded at that point. Because Ronnie had been Hutch's friend and had suffered a similar fate. Why they hadn't immediately become BFFs was a mystery to him.

A clash of personalities, he supposed. Although it seemed to have worked for Matt and Andy.

As he stood there, wondering about all of this, these thoughts were forcefully wrenched from his brain when two things happened simultaneously:

First, his train, the green line, came roaring to a stop in front of him, its doors hissing open. And at that very same moment, he saw a familiar figure scurrying up the steps to the train platform.

It was the creepy guy with the crew cut and thick black glasses, his ever present book bag slung over a shoulder as he made a beeline for the opening doors.

He was in a hurry, but didn't seem stressed, his black eyes showing about as much emotion as the battered Chatty Cathy doll that Jenny had inherited from her aunt. The thing had sat atop her dresser in the room she and Hutch shared, staring blankly at them as they made love, looking like something spawned in hell.

Funny he should think of that now.

He pulled back as the creep swept past him and found a seat in the nearly empty car.

Ditching his cigarette, Hutch stepped aboard and moved down the narrow aisle as the doors closed behind him and the train lurched into motion. He nodded politely to the guy as he passed, but the creep merely blinked at him behind those glasses, then opened the bag and pulled his book onto his lap, dropping his gaze to it.

Hutch glanced at the title, but most of it was obscured by the guy's left hand. The word DEATH was clearly visible, however, and the thing had the plain, dry look of a textbook without its dust cover, an old-fashioned tome like the ones you'd find in the archives section of the UIC library.

Whatever it was, Hutch doubted he'd be able to buy a copy at his local Barnes and Noble, and that one word-DEATH-summoned up an irrational sense of dread that was hard to ignore. Hutch wasn't sure why he felt this way, but it was strong enough to compel him to take the seat directly behind the guy, in hopes of getting a closer look at that book.

The creep was sitting close to the aisle, so Hutch slid all the way over to the right side of the seat, then glanced around quickly before leaning forward an inch or so to peer over the guy's shoulder. He was trying like hell not to be obvious about it, but the creep was so absorbed in what he was reading it probably didn't matter.

And what Hutch saw made him wish he hadn't been so goddamn curious.

His stomach lurched, the beef sandwich he'd eaten earlier doing a quick and nasty three-sixty before worming its way up toward his esophagus.

He stared at the pages just long enough to see two images that could never again be unseen. The kind that take the direct route from eye to brain, burn themselves onto the cerebral cortex and remain there like scar tissue for the rest of your natural life. On those pages were two of the most gruesome photographs he had ever laid eyes on, each rendered in a stark, clinical black and white-which only intensified the horror.

The first was a photo of a blond woman who must have been in a devastating car accident, because there was a steering wheel embedded in her face-so deep that it looked as if her flesh was growing around it.

And if this wasn't enough to get the upchuck express on the move, the photo on the page facing it featured a corpse of indeterminate origin whose body was half eaten away by maggots, several of which had nested in what was left of the victim's right nostril.

Hutch slammed back in his seat, squeezing his eyes shut, feeling his gorge rise, the acidy burn of bile in his throat. But closing his eyes was a bad idea, because the imprint of what he'd just seen was still floating in the darkness behind his lids. He immediately opened them again and looked out the window at the night rushing by, trying to focus on the lights in the distance.

Jesus H. Christ and all his disciples.

He sat there, trying to purge himself of this optic assault, when something unexpected happened-even more unexpected than the sight of those horrific photographs.

Beneath the clatter of the wheels on the tracks, he heard a faint, high-pitched mewling sound. A quiet keening whimper that wasn't truly a keen or a whimper. A sound not fueled by pain, but by…

…Well… by joy. That was the only way he could describe it.

What. The fuck?

Realizing it was coming from the creep, Hutch once again gave into his curiosity and turned from the window, taking another look over the guy's shoulder. He knew he shouldn't do it, but couldn't help himself.

What he saw this time made him shudder with revulsion. Made him want to jump to his feet and run screaming from the train car.

All of the creep's attention was focused on a new page, a new photograph-this one in garish, living color. And Hutch had been wrong about black and white upping the intensity of the images.

Color was worse.

Much, much worse.

The page was filled with a shot of a naked woman lying face up in an alleyway, her eyes glazed, her throat slit, her bloodied body covered with raw, gaping knife wounds, two of which had been judiciously placed where her nipples should have been.

And as he made that strange, joyful mewling sound, the creep carefully ran his fingertips over the image as if he were caressing the body of a willing and beautiful lover.

— 29 -

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Matt said. "You want to pass that by me again?"

They were standing in his living room, Matt wearing a threadbare terrycloth robe, fresh from a shower and still toweling his hair. He seemed a little distracted, but Hutch was pretty sure he'd heard every word.

Hutch had called the moment he got off the train, then headed straight over. What he'd seen was something that needed to be shared. Immediately.

"I'm telling you, the guy's a freak. A fucking psycho."

"This is the guy we saw at lunch, right?"

"Right. Crew cut, black glasses. He's a regular. One of the trial junkies."

This was the first time Hutch had been to Matt's apartment and it was obvious by the clutter-endless stacks of books, piles of newspaper, dirty clothes strewn about-that he lived alone, a confirmed bachelor after a nasty divorce. One of their friends had mentioned that Matt was in the midst of an ongoing relationship with a very much married flight attendant from Boston, but there was no evidence that she'd been around lately. If ever.

"All right," Matt said, tossing the towel to the floor, "let's think this through."

"What's to think about?"

"Just calm down a sec. The book this guy was reading-what did it look like?"

"You mean besides all the dead bodies?" Hutch felt another wave of revulsion shudder through him. "I don't know, like a textbook of some kind."

Matt nodded. "Probably an autopsy manual. There's a guy at the Post, keeps one in his desk. Drags it out whenever he wants to get a rise out of someone. Pretty disgusting stuff."

"Disgusting doesn't even come close to describing it," Hutch said.

"But maybe there's an innocent explanation. Maybe this guy's a medical student, studying forensic pathology."

"And maybe he holds tea parties every Saturday and makes regular donations to the Red Cross. That still doesn't explain what I saw. And heard."

"So he gets off on the photos. So what? I've seen some pretty weird stuff in my day, and a freakazoid with a death fetish is probably about a three on a scale of ten."

"You're kidding, right? A three?"

"Have you ever seen that video on the web-Two Girls, One Cup? Now that's some seriously screwed up shit-no pun intended."

"I don't think you get it," Hutch said. "The woman in that photograph might as well have been Jenny. Slit throat, knife wounds and all. And if he's a medical student, what's he doing at the courthouse every day? He's been there since the start of jury selection."

Matt snorted, reminding Hutch of Nadine. "So what are you saying? That this guy's the real killer? That's pretty fucking convenient."

"All I'm saying is that it's worth exploring."

"And how are we supposed to do that?"

Hutch spread his hands. "You're the reporter. Are you telling me you've never done a background check?"

"It usually helps to have a name."

"So we get it somehow."

"How? Walk up and ask him?" Matt snorted again. "Hey, buddy, we think you might be the guy who should really be on trial here. You want to give us your name so we can pass it on to the cops?"

"I'm serious," Hutch said.

"Oh, I know you are. But as much as I'd like to think you're right about this guy, we can't be checking up on everyone in that courtroom who gives us a bad vibe."

"Bad vibe?" Hutch said, shaking his head. "The guy gets off on dead bodies. Dead bodies that look just like Jenny. He's been sitting in on the trial from day one and he's just about the sickest son of a bitch I've ever encountered. And I live in Hollywood. That ain't a bad vibe, Matt. It's a Richter magnitude earthquake."

Matt held up his hands. "Okay, you've made your point. I doubt if it'll come to anything, but it doesn't hurt to check him out. And now that I think about it, there might be a fairly painless way to get his name-assuming we have a little help."

"From who?"

"That old guy you were talking to during the breaks yesterday. One of the other trial junkies."

"Gus?"

"That's the one. Didn't you say he used to be a bailiff there?"

Hutch nodded. "Thirty years. In that very same courtroom."

"So it stands to reason he's pretty friendly with the security staff. The gatekeepers in the lobby."

"He's pretty friendly all around. What do you have in mind?"

"Nothing too devious," Matt said. "But if Gus and his buddies go along, I think it just might work."

It took Hutch a moment to figure out what Matt was getting at, but once he did, he couldn't help but smile.

Nice, he thought.

Very nice.

— 30 -

"Empty your pockets, please. Keys, wallets, cell phones in the tray. Backpacks, briefcases, purses on the belt."

It was a daily ritual-twice a day, if Hutch left the courthouse for lunch. And because Ronnie's trial was getting a lot of play, the security lines would often stretch out the doors and into the courtyard. It usually took a good ten to fifteen minutes to get inside the building.

The guards manning the scanners were very thorough, and courteously mistrustful of everyone who entered: staff, attorneys, spectators and defendants alike.

But they always had a broad smile and a friendly word for Gus, former bailiff and resident trial junkie.

He was one of the boys.

First thing that morning, the second day of testimony, Hutch had approached Gus in the upstairs hallway, just outside the courtroom, asking him a question related to the trial. He couldn't remember now what that question was, but Gus had known immediately that there was something else on his mind.

"I sure hope you're a better actor when the camera's pointing at you."

There weren't many people on the planet who had a genuine twinkle in the eye, but Gus was one of them.

"I'm afraid this is about as good as it gets," Hutch told him.

"Well, at least it pays. I saw the news about you posting bond for the defendant."

"You and a few thousand other people."

"Saw the reporters, too. Coming after you when your cab pulled up outside. Looked like a pack of cheetahs chasing after a gazelle."

"Cheetahs don't usually travel in packs," Hutch said, wondering how he even knew that.

Gus grinned. "I stand corrected, professor."

"So does it bother you?"

"What-the reporters, or you reminding me how little education I've had?"

Hutch shook his head. "Me posting bond."

"Now why would it bother me? It's your money. And it's no secret that you and that little gal are friends. Maybe more than friends if you believe those photos they printed in the papers this morning."

When he saw the Post, Hutch had found himself getting angry all over again, but he played it down.

"Much ado about nothing," he said with a shrug. "Just a thank you kiss."

"I had a young lady thank me like that, once. We went on to raise three kids together-may she rest in peace. But let's not get too far off point. You've got something you want to ask me, and I figure you might as well come out with it."

Hutch hesitated. When you're about to try to get someone to do something a little sketchy, it isn't easy to just come out with it. And when you're trying to get him to get someone else to do something a little sketchy, well, you want to play that tune with a very light hand.

"So what do you think about her?" he asked. "Veronica. You think she's guilty?"

"Well now," Gus said. "I suppose it would be politically prudent of me to tell you it's a bit premature to be asking me that question. I don't have the benefit of being her friend. Or seeing the evidence."

"…But?"

Gus gestured to the closed courtroom doors, which wouldn't be unlocked until five minutes before trial started. There was already a crowd forming, people anxious to get the seats that hadn't been reserved for friends and family.

"I ran that courtroom for nearly three decades and I saw a lot of defendants come and go. You see that many faces, you tend to learn to read them pretty fast."

"Makes sense," Hutch said.

"Damn right. Now I don't have any statistics or science to back me up, but I figure a good eighty percent of the people who sit at that defense table did exactly what the cops and the prosecution say they did. Maybe more. And nine times out of ten, I can predict who's guilty just by looking them in the eye."

"And Ronnie?"

"She ain't no killer, son. I knew that the moment she walked into the courtroom." He checked his watch, then gestured to the doors again. "But if you don't tell me what's on your mind pretty soon, it's gonna have to wait until morning recess. I need to queue up."

Hutch had waited with the crowd many times himself, but now that he was siding with the defense, Waverly was making sure he and the rest of Ronnie's supporters had seats. The courtroom was easily the largest one in the building, but if yesterday's proceedings were any indication, it would be filled to capacity.

Considering Gus's connection to the place, it was a bit surprising he didn't have a reserved seat himself, but maybe he played by the rules-and that could be a bad thing.

"You can sit with us," Hutch said. "Even if you say no to what I'm about to ask you."

Gus was still twinkling away. "So don't keep me in suspense. What's on your mind?"

Hutch took a deep breath and told him. About what he'd thought during Waverly's opening statement. About the encounter with the creep in the restroom, and later that night, on the train. About the book and the photographs and that awful, goosebump-inducing mewling sound.

He told Gus about Matt's idea, a way to find out who this psycho was and run a background check on him. And to Hutch's surprise, Gus didn't blink. Didn't hesitate for a moment.

"Sounds to me like you've got the bug, boy. I warned you it would happen if you stuck around long enough."

"What bug is that?"

"The junkie bug, that's what."

"I told you, I'm here for the one trial. I'm just trying help a friend."

Gus chuckled. "You think Ms. Waverly's the first defense attorney to suggest the real killer might be sitting in the courtroom? You think I haven't spent a good amount of my time speculating about the guy sitting across from me, or the woman three rows over? Or the witness on the stand, claiming he saw the whole damn thing when I know good and well he's lying? Sure, you've got a personal stake in this particular event, but I can see that look in your eye. The excitement when you talk about this fella. You're an addictive personality, my friend, and you're as good as hooked."

Hutch wasn't sure he was ready to cop to that just yet, but he didn't figure it would hurt his cause for Gus to think it.

"Maybe," he said, "but that doesn't answer my question. Will you help us out or not?"

The grin returned. "Hell, I'd be crazy not to. I've had my doubts about the little twerp myself, and I've always loved a good mystery."

Gus couldn't guarantee that his buddies would go along with it, but with the promise of a saved seat, he went back down to the security station to see what he could do. Hutch didn't know what Gus had told them-he doubted it was the truth-but the old guy came back still grinning, giving Hutch a hearty thumbs up.

Everything had been arranged for the lunch recess.

Now here they were, standing in the long post-lunch line to get back inside the building (after once again fighting off a platoon of reporters), the creep not four feet in front of them, dropping his wallet and keys into a tray and his book bag on the belt.

Gus caught the eye of the security man up front, gave him a subtle nod, then waited for their target to pass through the gate, which beeped loudly and unexpectedly.

"Step this way," the guard said, then pulled the creep to the side and started passing a wand over him.

While the creep stood blinking behind those thick black glasses, another guard scooped up the tray with his wallet and keys, then disappeared behind the scanner.

A moment later it was done, and when Gus and Hutch passed through the gate and retrieved their own personal effects, Gus found a small slip of paper neatly folded inside his wallet, which he promptly handed to Hutch.

As they made their way to the elevator, Hutch unfolded it and saw a hastily scribbled note-name, date of birth, and a twelve digit ID number issued by the State of Illinois.

"You get what you need?" Gus asked.

Hutch nodded. "And then some."

A moment later he was on the phone to Matt.

— 31 -

Other than the post-lunch subterfuge at the security gate, the bulk of the day was uneventful.

Before Waverly's cross-examination of Detective Meyer could even begin that morning, there was a flurry of defense and prosecution motions, no doubt cooked up in the middle of the night by the two sleepless legal teams.

The jury was sent away as the parties had argued over things that Hutch didn't completely comprehend. Once the legalese started flying, he had turned inward, and judging by the looks on the faces of Andy and Monica, they'd done the same. Monica got up twice to use the ladies room and took her time returning.

Tom and Gus were the only ones who seemed to be following along, and Hutch had made a mental note not to ask them about it later. Legal maneuvers didn't do much for him. He was far more interested in the drama of confrontation, attorney against witness, and he wished they'd put that smarmy fuck Meyer back on the stand so Waverly could have a go at him.

He was reminded, not for the first time, that there was a vast difference between a real trial and what you see on TV.

Hutch spent much of this time studying the creep, who sat not twenty feet away, watching the trial with the rapt attention of a child mesmerized by his favorite cartoon show. As the lunch hour had grown closer, he realized he had butterflies in his stomach in anticipation of what he and Gus had planned.

He was relieved when it all went smoothly.

The afternoon session was more of the same-a fresh new flurry of legal motions, Waverly and Abernathy getting quite heated at times. And Hutch once again found himself sneaking glances at the creep, who now had a name:

Frederick Langer.

It sounded pretty innocuous, but at this very moment, Matt was chasing down as much information as he could find on Langer, and he and Hutch and the others had made plans to meet at the Lincoln Park apartment to discuss what Matt had discovered.

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 riff-raff 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."

— 32 -

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 stood 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."

— 33 -

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."

It took a moment, then Tom said, "So the name's a fake. He stole the child's identity."

"Bingo," Matt told him, and they all looked at one another in slack-jawed surprise, Hutch now knowing that he was right to trust his gut.

"I've seen this before," Gus said in disgust, after a long sip of his Double Diamond. "This kinda nonsense grinds my beans. Guy pays a few dollars to get a birth certificate, then uses it to generate new forms of ID, like a social security number, credit cards, driver's license. Anyone checks him out, he's completely legit."

"As long as they don't look too hard," Andy said.

"Problem is, nobody does."

Monica was perplexed. "But why the fake address? What's the point in that?"

"An extra layer of protection," Gus told her. "If anyone comes calling-like a debt collector, or the boys with badges-they trace him straight to a vacant lot."

They all thought about that, then Tom turned to Matt. "So what's the third red flag?"

Matt flipped to the next sheet of paper, a photocopy of a credit statement. "Gus is right about the credit cards. Our guy has racked up quite a few purchases over the last few months." He gestured to the page. "These are from his second month here."

Tom frowned, looking at the photocopy. "This is confidential information. How did you get it?"

"Ve haf our vays…" Matt said, with a German accent.

"Meaning bribery was involved."

"Or sexual favors," Andy said. "In the right light, with the right amount of booze in you, our boy Matty here is nearly impossible to resist."

Gus's eyebrows went up. "You speaking from experience?"

They laughed again, then Monica said to Matt. "What happened to all your big talk about reporters and ethics?"

"It's an ideal, not a rule. Anyway, if you look at the purchases on this sheet, you'll find one of the biggest red flags of all."

Hutch reached to the table and grabbed the photocopy, carefully reading the list.

Bockwinkel's

Food 4 Less

Food 4 Less

Bockwinkel's

Food 4 Less

(He was sensing a pattern here…)

Target

Rite-Aid

Food 4 Less

Food 4 Less

Bockwinkel's

Hutch stopped cold when he saw the next item on the list. Felt something wet and slimy slither up his spine, laying eggs along the way. And all at once he knew that his suspicions about Langer were no longer just a hunch, but inching ever closer to a cold, dead certainty.

The others must have seen this reflected in his expression, because more than of one them said, "What is it? What does it say?" The loudest and most urgent voice came from Ronnie, who had been largely silent until now.

What he saw on the page would seem innocuous to anyone not watching the trial or privy to the discovery files. To them, it might even be comical. But to those in the know-to Hutch and to most of the people in this room-it was nothing short of a bombshell.

"It looks like a tuition payment," he told them. "Our boy spent some time getting an education. Which in itself isn't that big of a deal. It's the school in question that raises the flag."

Andy frowned. "Jesus, Hutch, spit it out already."

Hutch tore his gaze from the photocopy and looked at them. "It's a two thousand dollar payment to the Wyndham Academy of Pet Grooming."

— 34 -

"Pet grooming?" Gus said with a frown.

Hutch nodded. "Unless this is some kind of donation, Langer went to pet grooming school."

Gus turned to Ronnie. "I don't follow. Is that where you work?"

Ronnie shook her head, but Hutch could see that she was only half listening. She had something else on her mind. "I work at The Canine Cuttery. Or I used to, until my fat bastard of a boss fired me."

"Canine Cuttery, that's right. I remember the testimony. But I guess I don't see the significance, other than this boy Langer looking to take up the same line of work. Probably just a coincidence."

"It's more than that," Matt said. "You remember all that talk about the hairs the cops found in Jenny's car? The ones that supposedly place Ronnie at the crime scene?"

Gus shrugged. "I learned a long time ago not to pay too much attention to pre-trial leaks, but, yeah, I remember something about that."

"Well, if you read the forensics report, it turns out those hairs didn't come from Ronnie. They came from a dog."

Gus looked bewildered. "So that's why Abernathy and Meyer made such a fuss about where she worked?"

Matt nodded.

"Hell," Gus said, "that's about as thin as my cousin Gerda's ass. Anyone who sat in that car coulda had dog hairs on him." He looked at Ronnie again. "Your attorney'll blow a hole right through that pile of horseshit."

"One can hope," she said absently.

Hutch waved the photocopy. "But maybe it isn't horseshit after all. We've got a mental case with a death fetish who apparently practices the same profession. And I'm guessing he's the one who left the hairs."

They all exchanged glances again as the weight of this settled. Then Ronnie surfaced from whatever distant pool she'd been swimming in and said, "Maybe, maybe not, but there could be even more to it than that."

"What do you mean?" Hutch said.

She gestured to the photocopy. "When did he pay that tuition?"

Hutch checked the sheet. "About seven months ago."

"That's what I was afraid of."

"Why?"

"Because that's the same school I went to, before getting the job at the Cuttery. A four week all-inclusive course. Seven months ago. Do you have a picture of this guy?"

It was only then that Hutch remembered that, unlike the rest of them, Ronnie hadn't yet seen Langer, except possibly among the sea of faces in the courtroom gallery. She had no real idea who they were talking about beyond Hutch's attempt at a description, which had been greeted with a wide, blank stare.

Matt grabbed the folder, leafed through the papers, then found what he was looking for and handed it across to her. "Here's a printout of his state ID."

She took it and lowered her gaze to page. Something shifted in her eyes. "Christ…"

"You know him?" Hutch asked.

She moved her head, but it was barely a nod. "He was in my class."

Monica brought a hand up to her chest. "Oh my God…"

"There were about twenty of us, and he always sat in a back corner. We never said a word to each other. Half the time I forgot he was there." She paused. "In fact, I didn't even remember him until I saw him a few weeks later, standing across from the Cuttery. I thought he might be there to apply for a job, but I don't think he ever did."

"Jesus Christ," Andy said. "Bastard was stalking you. Still is."

Ronnie shook her head. "We don't know that for sure."

"You've never noticed him in the courtroom?" Hutch asked.

"No," she said. "You feel all those eyes on you, you tend to not want to look back."

"Well, he's there every day and has been since jury selection started, and he's not one of the regulars like Gus."

"No, ma'am," Gus said.

"So if that's not a stalker, I don't know what is."

No one spoke for a long moment, and Ronnie got to her feet, moving to the row of windows across the living room. Below, beyond the park-which could barely be seen in the darkness-headlights streaked along Lakeshore Drive, the moon playing across the surface of Lake Michigan.

"Okay," she said, "let's say you're right. That still doesn't make him a killer."

Groans around the room.

Could she be serious?

"You're forgetting the dog hairs," Andy said. "Dog hairs we know didn't come from you. If the guy was studying to be a pet groomer, it stands to reason-"

Ronnie cut him off. "Like Gus said, those hairs could've come from anybody. I mean, think about it, you're jumping to the same conclusion the police did about me. And if I weren't on trial for my goddamn life, I'd be laughing about it. The whole thing is ridiculous."

"People have been convicted for less," Tom said. "Look at the West Memphis Three."

"Yeah? Well that's just sad. If there's anything this whole ordeal has taught me, it's that we can't just look at this guy and think he's guilty, even if he's a little strange, and even if he has been stalking me. I mean, why would he kill Jenny of all people? Why not me?"

"Because he thought he was protecting you," Hutch said.

This brought the conversation to a halt. More exchanged glances as everyone processed Hutch's words, which were the product of an epiphany that had hit him only milliseconds before they were spoken.

"Maybe Langer is an industrial strength stalker," he continued. "Maybe he has some of the same resources Matt does. Knows all about your son, the custody battle, Jenny's law firm. He might even have been there when you talked to her about it at the Godwyn. And, who knows, maybe he's the one who made those infamous phone calls."

"What?"

"Meyer testified that most of them came from the Dumont Hotel house phone. He could have disguised his voice somehow, pretended he was you."

"But why?"

"Maybe he thought he was doing you a favor. Helping you out."

"Maybe, maybe, maybe," Ronnie said, then took a breath and scanned their faces. "Look, guys, I really appreciate what you're all trying to do. You'll never know how much it means to me. And, believe me, I want to believe he's our guy. More than anything. But when it comes down to it, you've got nothing on Langer other than he's a fruitcake. And, I'm sorry, as much as I'd like it to be true, it just doesn't translate to guilty."

They were all silent again, Hutch thinking about this and realizing she was right. And despite her situation, despite what had to be utter desperation at a time like this, if Ronnie was unwilling to make the leap, then maybe they should listen.

But that feeling of certainty wouldn't go away.

The creep was the culprit. He was almost sure of it. And it didn't really matter to him what Ronnie thought. This was about Jenny. His Jenny.

And Frederick Langer had slaughtered her.

"Okay," he said, trying to tamp down the rage that was once again building inside. "We don't have any evidence against him. But what if we could get some?"

"And how do you propose we do that?" Tom asked.

"There are six of us and one of him. We could tag team the guy, follow him in shifts. Find out where he lives, what he does in his spare time, where the hell he came from. And we can question some of the prosecution's witnesses, Jenny's colleagues, and see if they recognize Langer." He looked at Ronnie. "There's never been any mention of the murder weapon-the knife. Did they find one?"

She shook her head. "They practically tore my mom's house apart looking for one, but Waverly says they don't need it to convict me."

"So if Langer is our guy, what if he still has it? Maybe it's in his home, wherever that is." He turned to Matt. "You've read the discovery files. Was there any mention of Jenny missing something? A necklace, a watch, maybe? The guy might have taken a trophy."

"Not that I know of," Matt said, "but I can check."

"Good. And if we find that…"

Ronnie moved away from the window now. "Come on, Hutch, we're not cops, for godsakes. And if Langer really is dangerous, someone could get hurt."

"Do you want me to tell the cops, then?"

"They wouldn't believe you. They think they already have their killer."

"What about Waverly?"

Ronnie laughed. "She has enough to worry about right now. No offense, but I highly doubt she'd be very receptive to the whims of a movie star and his old college pals, even if you are footing the bill."

Hutch turned to the others. "What about the rest of you? What do you think? Should we do this?"

"Hell yeah," Andy said. "Count me in."

"Me, too," Matt said.

Hutch looked at Monica and Tom, and each of them nodded in turn, adding a yes to the chorus.

Then Gus also nodded, saying, "I know I'm the outsider here, and I tend to agree with Ronnie-you can't judge a horse by its harness. But in this case, I think you may be right. I'd like to make it seven, if you'll let me."

Hutch smiled.

"Seven it is," he said.

— 35 -

"I'm not a fool," Ronnie told him, after the others were gone. "I know you aren't doing this for me."

Hutch stood at the windows, watching the headlights streak along Lakeshore Drive. Over his objections, Ronnie had insisted on cleaning up the mess on the dining table and was now wiping her hands with a dish towel as she approached him. Her mother and son wouldn't be moving in until tomorrow, so it was just the two of them tonight.

Hutch looked at her reflection in the glass and pulled himself from his thoughts of Jenny. He had once again been wallowing in his guilt over how he'd left it with her.

Where were you, Ethan?

Why didn't you return my calls?

After things went bad, after he'd fled college for what he'd hoped would be a better life-a more exciting one, at least-he had still believed that somewhere down the line he would see her again. Even after he'd failed to contact her, and that bullet train of a decade rocketed past, he had never for a moment thought that he'd be standing here in his childhood home, mourning her loss.

Ronnie moved up alongside him. "I know it's about Jenny," she said. "I think about all those years living in that house and how I used to look at the two of you on nights like this, curled up on the sofa as we all watched a movie." She shook her head. "God, how I envied her."

Hutch wasn't sure how to respond to this.

"You were the magic couple," Ronnie went on. "The two who got it right while the rest of us were stumbling through a post-adolescent haze."

"But we didn't get it right," Hutch said. "Not in the end. Not me, at least."

He thought about his parents' funeral, when Jenny had come to pay her respects. He had known she was there, but with the paparazzi hovering, he had left the church as soon as the service was over, and he hadn't looked back.

"I'm talking quality, Hutch. And intensity. Maybe too much intensity. Maybe that's what scared you away."

He shot her a look, surprised by her sudden insight. "You're psychoanalyzing me now?"

"I don't have a right to be psychoanalyzing anyone. I can barely hold it together myself. But I know a kindred spirit when I see one. I know you've probably spent a lot of time trying to figure out who the hell you are, always afraid that you'll be a disappointment to the people around you. People like Jenny."

He took a breath. "Careful, doc, you're cutting a little too deep."

"What can I say? I spent a lot of time in a jail cell thinking about this stuff. About how scared we all are-every single one of us. Only some of us disguise it better than others."

"And some of us bury it with booze and drugs."

He had once again been thinking about finding a bar, or drinking the leftover Double Diamond in the fridge. It was getting increasingly harder to resist.

One sip, Hutch.

One tiny little sip.

Ronnie reached over and took hold of his hand. "I'm so sorry she's gone. And if I can help you stop thinking about her for a while, it would be the least I could do."

He faced her now, looking into her dark eyes, seeing what he hadn't seen all those years ago, what he'd noticed at the The Monkey House the night she was arrested.

Just how beautiful she truly was.

He wanted to lean down and kiss her. But he couldn't. Not like this. Not with Jenny still on his mind.

"Let me help you," she said. "Like you've helped me. You can pretend I'm her if you want-I don't care. God knows I've pretended enough with other men."

He didn't have to ask what she meant by this, considering Matt's insistence that she had always been in love with him. But should he take her up on her offer?

If he did, it meant that Nadine's warning was right. That he was thinking with his dick.

But was that really so bad?

Was it?

Yes, he thought-and he resisted. Just as he resisted that Double Diamond, calling out to him.

One sip, Hutch.

One tiny little sip.

Over the last ten years, Hutch had slept with more than his share of women, had even taken on a long-term relationship or two. But he'd never felt as if he'd been completely present in any of them. Had always held back, careful not to give too much of himself. He didn't want anyone falling in love with him, because he knew he couldn't return that love. It had always been "friends with benefits" for him, an arrangement that rarely ended well.

He remembered once being described in People magazine as "Hollywood's Biggest Catch!" and nearly laughed out loud when he saw the issue on a newsstand.

Some catch. All he offered was disappointment. He'd even disappointed the one woman he had allowed himself to love.

"Let me help," Ronnie whispered again. And as he stood there looking into her eyes-eyes that were asking as much as offering-he felt his body stirring.

One sip, Hutch.

One tiny little sip.

She moved closer to him now, her breasts brushing against his chest, her own body (if Matt was to be believed) filled with a decade's worth of pent-up desire. The now familiar smell of lavender filled his nostrils and he imagined himself pressing his mouth against the nape of her neck, tasting her, breathing her in.

But he gently pulled away.

"You should get some sleep," he said. "Big day in court tomorrow."

The disappointment in her expression was so palpable that he once again felt the sting of guilt, even though he'd done nothing to lead her on.

She stepped back and away from him, lowering her eyes. "I… I'm sorry, I… "

"There's nothing to be sorry about. I'm flattered, believe me, and tempted too. Very tempted. But I don't think the timing is right."

She looked up suddenly, releasing a sharp, humorless laugh. "Timing? Who gives a damn about timing?"

"I'm just thinking that with the trial and every-"

"I'm not asking you to marry me, Hutch. I'm only looking for a comfort fuck-and I thought you might be, too."

Her tone was abrupt and abrasive, and for reasons he didn't quite understand, this made her all the more attractive to him. And somehow more vulnerable.

But he knew she was lying. This would be much more than a simple comfort fuck, and he needed to walk away. Now. He didn't want her to be a substitute for Jenny. That was just wrong, on far too many levels.

But before he knew it, he was pulling her toward him and pressing his mouth against hers, tasting her, feeling the heat of her tongue, his hands roaming, fingers probing, as they moved together toward the couch and fell onto the cushions.

And it wasn't just a sip.

He drank the whole goddamn bottle.

Later, as they lay in bed, her warm breasts pressed against his arm, Ronnie said, "What if they convict me? What am I gonna do?"

He reached over, stroked her hair. Ran his hand along her jaw. "You can't think like that."

Yet he'd been thinking the very same thing.

"Can't I? We point at the evidence and moan about how ridiculous it is, but there's no guarantee the jury will see that. Some of those women look at me as if I'm the Devil incarnate-and the trial has barely even started."

"Then we'll just have to prove that Langer's the one who should be on trial."

She sighed. "Let's be realistic. What you proposed tonight sounded like something from a bad TV show."

"Good thing I have a lot of experience with that."

"I mean it, Hutch. The only way I'm getting out of this is if the jury votes for acquittal or Langer miraculously confesses-assuming he's even done anything. I'm still not convinced he's the bad guy."

"He's a stalker, we know that much."

"Do we?"

"Come on, Ronnie. He's obviously been obsessed with you ever since he saw you at school. And I've seen the way he looks at you in the courtroom. Everything in my gut tells me he's our guy."

"And what if your gut is wrong?"

"Then we just have to hope the jury sees through Detective Meyer's bullshit. Maybe you'll feel better after Waverly does her cross."

She turned onto her back now and brought her forearm over her eyes, trying to hide the tears that were forming. "I am so screwed…"

Hutch got up on his elbow. "You have to think positive, kiddo. It'll all work out. We'll make it work."

She took her arm away and wiped at the tears. "How?"

A good question. The logistics of what he had proposed tonight had been loosely worked out, but when it came down to it, they were a bunch of amateurs and they were flying blind.

"We'll find a way," he said. "I promise."

She nodded and tried to smile, tried to put on a brave face, but her eyes were full of doubt and he didn't blame her. Then she said in a small, tentative voice, "What if there's another way to beat this? A way that has nothing to do with Langer or the jury."

"I don't understand."

"I could disappear," she said. "Take Christopher and run. Do what Langer did and create false identities. You could even come with us if you-"

"Stop," he said. "Don't say another word."

She got quiet for a moment, then started to cry again. "I can't go back to jail, Hutch. Not for something I didn't do. And these bastards want to put me away for the rest of my life."

"And running only makes you look guilty."

"So what? Everyone already thinks that."

"I don't," Hutch said. "And neither do your friends."

"I'll try to remember that when I'm exercising in the prison yard." She rolled onto her side, putting her back to him. She was quiet for a long time, then she said, "If I run, at least I'll be with my son."

"And where would you go?"

"I don't know. Mexico, maybe. South America. Somewhere remote."

Hutch sighed.

Was that what this night had really been about? Ronnie manipulating him again, saying she wanted to help him forget, when what she really wanted was his help in running away?

Stop letting your dick do your thinking for you.

He needed to bring her back to reality, pronto.

"This is the twenty-first century, Ron. Nobody disappears anymore. It isn't possible. Everyone has cell phones, cameras, Internet connections, Twitter feeds. You'd have the FBI and Interpol circulating your photos around the world and sooner or later they'd find you. I'm guessing sooner."

"What about Langer? He did it. Changed his identity."

"Yeah, but it took Matt-what? — less than a day to figure out he wasn't kosher. And Langer's a nobody. With the kind of publicity you've been getting, how long do you think you'd last?"

"I told you, I could go somewhere remote."

"And do what? Herd sheep for a living?"

"If I have to."

Hutch sat up now, looking down at her, wondering if she really meant what she was saying. She must have known the idea was absurd. She wasn't a stupid woman.

He swung his legs around and got to his feet. "I know I said I'd help you, Ronnie, but not like this. I won't do this."

"I wasn't serious about you coming along."

"I hope you aren't serious at all. Running isn't the answer."

She looked up at him. "Isn't it?"

He studied her a moment-her wounded eyes, her naked frame perched at the edge of the bed as if she was already preparing to run. Her body was compact, toned, her skin as soft and flawless as a child's. And that's what she looked like right now. A forlorn, frightened child.

But she wasn't one. Far from it.

There had been a fierce desperation to their lovemaking, but it had felt right, more right than Hutch had anticipated, with none of the requisite awkwardness that accompanied a first time together. He moved around the bed and crouched in front of her, smoothing her dark hair with his hand, remembering how it had dangled toward his chest as she had worked her hips atop him.

"It'll all work out," he said. "You have to trust me."

"I want to. I really want to."

"Promise me you won't do anything crazy."

She said nothing. Merely reached out and put her arms around his neck, urgently pulling him toward her.

A few moments later he was inside her again.

And for a short time, all was right with the world.

Later still, as Ronnie slept quietly beside him, their legs entangled, her head resting against his shoulder, Hutch thought he saw Jenny standing near his bedroom window, hiding in the shadows there, watching them.

Then he realized he was dreaming, and in the dream she stepped forward into the moonlight, wearing only the faded UIC Flames t-shirt that Nadine had worn two nights ago.

She studied Hutch with mild disapproval, then said, "Really, Ethan? I'm dead four months and you're already sleeping with her?"

"A moment of weakness," he told her. "It doesn't really mean anything."

"It does to her."

He turned and looked at Ronnie then, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow, her naked form curled up beside him. Clinging to him.

Had he made a mistake?

When he looked at Jenny again, she was gone, and a sudden ache filled his gut. He sucked in a sharp breath and held it, wondering if the pain would ever leave him.

Where were you, Ethan?

Why didn't you return my calls?

Then he opened his eyes, awake now, and tried very hard not to cry.

PART THREE

Objection Sustained

— 36 -

It didn't take long to figure out what Waverly's trial strategy was.

Hutch had seen it before, when he was fifteen years old and OJ Simpson was foremost in the news. He and his parents had watched snippets of the spectacle on TV as Johnnie Cochran and company had turned the tables on their adversaries and put the LAPD itself on trial.

Ronnie's claims that she'd been set up played in Hutch's mind, and he no longer doubted this was true. It stood to reason that a couple of overzealous cops, getting pressure from above, had taken it upon themselves to ensure the conviction of a woman they thought was guilty, by planting the bloody sweatshirt in her garbage bin.

Who else would have done it?

Certainly not Langer, if Hutch was right about him. His motive was to protect Ronnie.

And Hutch doubted anyone alive today would have trouble with the notion that cops can sometimes be corrupt. Five minutes on YouTube would settle that argument.

The morning began with Detective Meyer on the stand, once again playing the cocky charmer, the smile on his face saying he was looking forward to his encounter with Waverly. Facing off with a defense attorney-especially a female defense attorney-was a sport for him. One he most certainly excelled at.

But if Waverly's body language was to be believed, she was more than up to the challenge. Once Judge O'Donnell reminded Meyer that he was still under oath, Waverly bounced to her feet and nearly charged the podium.

"Detective Meyer, when you're investigating a homicide-not just this one, but any homicide-how do you determine who might be a suspect?"

"How else?" Meyer said, then gave Waverly a look that suggested that this was possibly the dumbest question he'd ever been asked. "We follow the evidence and see where it leads."

"Isn't it true that statistics show most murders are committed by someone close to the victim, like a friend or a family member?"

"Objection," Abernathy said. "The witness isn't an expert in statistics."

"But he is a veteran homicide investigator, Your Honor, and is well aware of such things. I believe Mr. Abernathy made that very same claim during his direct."

"She has a point," the judge said to Abernathy. "Answer the question, Detective Meyer."

Meyer nodded, then looked at Waverly. "It all depends on the case, but yes, most murders are committed by someone close to the victim."

"Like a spouse or a lover?"

"Oftentimes, yes."

"And did you find such a person in Ms. Keating's life?"

"According to her family and friends, she wasn't attached to anyone at the time of her death."

"What about former boyfriends? Did you speak to any of them?"

Meyer's expression made it clear that this was another stupid question. "As I testified on Monday, we took a careful look at her exes."

"Including the most recent one?"

"Yes, of course."

"Can you tell the court his name?"

"Objection," Abernathy said. "What's the point of all this?"

"Your Honor, during direct examination, Mr. Abernathy spent a great deal of time having Detective Meyer recount the steps of his investigation. I'm merely trying to delve a little deeper into the subject."

"Overruled," the judge said.

"Thank you." Waverly turned to Meyer. "So can you tell us his name, Detective? The name of the victim's most recent boyfriend?"

"Warren Lutz," he said.

Waverly's eyebrows went up in surprise. It was an act, but an effective one. "Would that be Assistant District Attorney Warren Lutz?"

"It would."

"And when you spoke to him, did you consider him a suspect?"

Hutch knew that Jenny had dated this guy Lutz for several years, and remembered seeing a photo of them on a news site, having dinner and drinks at a local hot spot. As she looked into the camera, however, Jenny's smile had seemed forced-the same smile she wore whenever she was around her father. Based on that photo alone, Hutch had known that the relationship wouldn't last, but he'd never for a moment thought Lutz was her killer, and he doubted Waverly did either.

"Detective Meyer? Did you consider him a suspect?"

There was a flicker of movement in Meyer's eyes, a subtle glance toward Abernathy. He hesitated for what couldn't have been more than a couple milliseconds, then said, "In the early stages of an investigation like this, the suspect list tends to be very long."

"That doesn't answer my question. Did you consider ADA Lutz to be a suspect or not?"

"We entertained the notion, of course, but like most of the other possibilities, it didn't pan out."

"And why is that?"

Meyer shrugged. "Mr. Lutz and Ms. Keating hadn't been together for months, and their break-up was amicable."

"And you know this how?"

"Mr. Lutz told us."

"Really?" Waverly said. "And you believed him?"

"We had no reason not to. He seemed genuinely distraught over Ms. Keating's death. And when we checked with friends and colleagues, no one contradicted his statement."

"I assume you asked him where he was on the night of Ms. Keating's murder?"

"We did."

"And his response?"

"He was at home, preparing for a trial."

"Alone?"

Meyer nodded. "That's what he told us."

"And you, of course, believed him," Waverly said. "How would you characterize your relationship with ADA Lutz?"

"Objection," Abernathy said. "Relevance?"

Waverly didn't flinch. "I think that'll be clear in a moment, Your Honor."

The judge waggled a finger at her. "Proceed."

Waverly thanked him, then looked at Meyer and asked the question again. "How would you characterize your relationship with ADA Lutz?"

"Professional," Meyer said.

"You've worked together on cases?"

"Several. He's the head of the major crimes unit at the District Attorney's office."

"So is it possible you dismissed him as a suspect because of your relationship?"

"No," Meyer said. "When you're investigating a crime you learn very quickly that the evidence is all that matters."

"So you've said. Yet here you had a man who fit the statistical profile to a T. He had a prior intimate relationship with the victim, and no alibi for the night in question."

Meyer chuckled. "Like I told you, we follow evidence, not statistics. Besides, when you've been a cop as long as I have, you learn how to spot a liar very quickly. And not only is ADA Lutz not a liar, he's a man of great integrity. He recused himself from the case the moment he found out who the victim was."

"A man of great integrity," Waverly repeated with some doubt in her voice. Then she said, "What about Ms. Baldacci?"

"What about her?"

"When you arrested her and brought her down to the station, I assume you questioned her?"

"Yes," Meyer said. "Until she requested a lawyer."

"Did you ask her about her relationship with Ms. Keating?"

"Yes," Meyer said.

"And how did she characterize it?"

Meyer thought a moment. "She said they were friends and housemates in college, but hadn't really kept in touch. She claimed the last time she'd seen Ms. Keating was when they ran into each other at a play, about a month before the killing."

"And what about an alibi? Did she have one for the night in question?"

"On the contrary," Meyer said. "Her mother told us she'd gone out that night."

"And what did Ms. Baldacci say?"

"That she'd had a lot on her mind and went out for a drink. She couldn't remember the name of the bar, so there were no witnesses to corroborate."

"But your super-duper built-in lie detector told you she was lying, correct?"

"Objection, Your Honor."

"I'll rephrase," Waverly said, still looking at Meyer. "Did you think Ms. Baldacci was lying?"

"At that point I knew she was."

Waverly nodded, then said, "So let's explore this a moment. You had two people without alibis. Mr. Lutz had recently been intimately involved with Ms. Keating, while my client hadn't had any significant contact with her in years. Yet you targeted Ms. Baldacci as your prime suspect?"

Meyer nodded. "Based on the evidence, yes."

"Which evidence was that?"

"The forensics and the phone calls."

"Yet you've testified that, except for those calls, none of this evidence came to light until the day you arrested Ms. Baldacci."

"Which is why we arrested her."

"But you also previously testified that whenever you hit a dead end, you went back to Ms. Baldacci as a potential suspect, isn't that right?"

"I believe that's what I said, yes. Because of the phone calls."

"And when you checked the victim's phone records, did you notice any calls from ADA Lutz?"

Meyer hesitated. "A few, yes."

"What do you mean by a few? Two, three?"

"More than that."

"Five, ten or more?"

"I can't be sure. I'd have to check the records."

"Did you ask ADA Lutz about these calls?"

Meyer shook his head. "Like I said, they parted amicably, so they were still friends. Friends call each other."

"I see," Waverly said. "Yet you didn't feel Ms. Baldacci deserved the same benefit of the doubt?"

"Not when I saw the forensics."

"But you've now testified twice that you kept going back to Ms. Baldacci as your potential prime suspect. Which would indicate to me that you'd had her in mind even before you had the forensics report or found the sweatshirt in her garbage bin. Is that a fair characterization of your thinking?"

"We had several people in mind, but yes, she was the one who stuck out."

"But doesn't that contradict your earlier testimony, detective?"

Meyer frowned. "How so?"

"You've said several times that when you investigate a crime, you learn very quickly that the evidence is all that matters. That you follow it to see where it leads."

"That's right," Meyer said.

"Yet early in this investigation, when you had only a few phone calls to go on, it was Ms. Baldacci who, as you said, stuck out. And even though ADA Lutz had called the victim several times himself and fit the statistical profile to a T, you almost immediately dismissed him as a potential-"

"Is there a question in there somewhere?" Abernathy barked.

Judge O'Donnell said, "I assume you have one, Ms. Waverly?"

"I do, Your Honor." She looked at the witness. "Detective Meyer, prior to the discovery of the forensic evidence-in fact, prior to even questioning my client-why did you consider her a suspect over Mr. Lutz?"

Meyer opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. For the first time he seemed to be at a loss for an answer, his cocksure demeanor vacating him like smoke up a chimney.

"Detective Meyer?"

Hutch could almost see the gears grinding inside Meyer's head. He regained his composure, then said, "Because of the nature of those phone calls. Ms. Keating's secretary said they were quite heated."

"Yet you didn't feel it was necessary to ask Mr. Lutz about the nature of his. You just assumed they were friendly, isn't that right?"

Meyer was again at a loss for a response, and Hutch could see the anger rising inside him. He hoped the jury could see it as well.

"You seem to be struggling for answer, Detective, so I'll withdraw the question and ask you another. You've stated several times that your experience as an investigator has taught you how to spot a liar, correct?"

"I don't know about several times," Meyer said. "But, yeah. Most people aren't very good at it."

"What about a woman by the name of Rebecca Tyler? Was she a liar, too?"

Abernathy jumped to his feet. "Objection, Your Honor. Detective Meyer's previous cases have no bearing on these proceedings."

The judge waved a hand at him. "Sit down, Mr. Abernathy. We've been over this ad infinitum and I'm allowing it."

"I want my objection noted for the record."

"That's why we have a court reporter. Now sit down, please."

Abernathy made a show of his unhappiness, demonstrating for the jury the unfairness of it all, then sat back down.

"Detective Meyer?" Waverly said. "Was Rebecca Tyler a liar?"

"The Tyler case was complicated."

"Oh? Can you give us the particulars, please?"

"This was about seven years ago," Meyer said. "A child abduction case. Ms. Tyler's daughter Kayla went missing from her home, and Ms. Tyler was convinced that her ex-husband-the girl's former stepfather-had taken her. Three days later Kayla's dismembered body was found in a supermarket dumpster in Bronzeville."

Several of the jurors' faces blanched in horror, while others nodded their heads as if remembering the event. Hutch had no memory of it himself, but it had happened after he'd left for California, and apparently had never gotten any national airplay.

Waverly said, "And you were the lead detective, correct?"

"Yes."

"Did you question the girl's former stepfather?"

"Of course. Based on Tyler's statements, he was initially our prime suspect."

"Yet he wasn't immediately arrested, was he?"

"No," Meyer said.

"Why not?"

"He had a solid alibi for the time of Kayla's disappearance. He had been fishing with his father and brother, both of whom corroborated."

"So you turned your attention to the mother, correct? Rebecca Tyler."

"Yes."

"And why was that?"

"A number of reasons."

"Can you give us an example?"

Meyer cleared his throat. "Well, we're back to statistics again, but studies have shown us that the mother is most often culpable for the murder of a child under the age of five, a phenomenon known as maternal filicide. Kayla was six, but that was close enough in my book."

"But you've already told us that you don't rely on statistics-at least not as they apply to the case at bar. Was there any other reason you focused on Ms. Tyler?"

Meyer nodded. "Every witness we spoke to said that she was a terrible mother. She drank a lot, smoked marijuana, had multiple boyfriends. She would often put Kayla to bed at night, then go out and party."

"That may be poor judgment," Waverly said, "but it doesn't make her a murderer. Did she have an alibi for the night her daughter disappeared?"

"Yes. She claimed she went out clubbing with her friends and when she came home, Kayla was gone."

"And did her friends corroborate?"

"Yes."

Waverly frowned. "Then I don't understand. Why was she detained? You didn't believe them?"

"No, I didn't," Meyer said. "Not for a New York minute."

"You thought they were covering for her?"

"Yes."

"Lying?"

"Yes."

Waverly mulled this over for a moment, then said, "So please explain something to me, Detective Meyer. Why is it that you didn't believe Ms. Tyler's friends, yet the moment her ex-husband's brother and father gave him an alibi, you dismissed him as a suspect?"

Meyer shrugged. "I considered them more credible witnesses."

"Why? Because they were men, not slutty little party girls?"

Abernathy was on his feet again. "Objection, Your Honor. This is outrageous."

"Sustained," the judge said, glowering at Waverly. "Reign yourself in, counsel."

"My apologies, Your Honor." As she turned to glance at Ronnie, however, she had a slight smile on her face. "Detective Meyer, did you have any physical evidence against Ms. Tyler?"

"No," Meyer said.

"Nothing to prove that she had murdered her daughter?"

"No," Meyer said.

"Yet isn't it true that you pushed for her continued detention, forcing her attorney to seek a writ of habeas corpus for her release?"

"I believed she was guilty."

"That's not really an answer, Detective, but it'll do. Can you tell me what the ultimate outcome of the case was? Were any formal charges against Ms. Tyler ever filed?"

"No," Meyer said.

"And why is that?"

Meyer shifted uncomfortably now. "A witness came forward and confessed to his involvement in the crime."

"And who was that witness?"

Meyer shifted again. "The ex-husband's brother."

"The very same brother who had corroborated the alibi? The one you felt was so credible?"

Meyer was silent.

"Detective?"

"Yes," he said reluctantly. "The same man."

"And what exactly was his involvement in the crime?"

"He helped dispose of the body."

"And who did he help?"

It was clear by Meyer's expression that he didn't want to answer this question. "Kayla's former stepfather. The ex-husband."

"So Ms. Tyler's suspicions about her ex turned out to be correct? That he had kidnapped the child from her home?"

"Yes," Meyer said.

Waverly paused, then said, "So tell me this, Detective. Based on your experience with the Tyler case, and the case currently at bar, would you say that your self-professed ability to spot liars often demonstrates a bias against women?"

"Objection!" Abernathy said, jumping to his feet once again. "This is a specious attempt at character assassination, Your Honor, and-"

"I'd like to hear his answer," the judge said. "Overruled."

Abernathy's jaw tightened and he sat down as Waverly repeated the question.

Trying his best to look unruffled, Meyer said, "My instincts aren't always perfect. But every case is different. I'm not a woman hater, if that's what you're implying."

Waverly smiled slightly and shrugged. "I'm just looking at the evidence, Detective. Trying to see where it leads."

There were titters around the courtroom as the jab sank in, then Waverly crossed to the defense table and picked up a small stack of paper.

"Detective Meyer, is it true that approximately four months after the Rebecca Tyler case was concluded, you appeared on a late night radio talk show called The Danger Zone?"

Hutch saw something flicker in the detective's eyes. Meyer hadn't been expecting this and glanced at Abernathy as if to say, Stop her. This won't be good.

"Uh… yes," he managed.

Waverly handed one of the sheets of paper to the court clerk. "Your Honor, I have here an excerpted transcript of that radio show, which I'd like to enter into evidence as Defense Exhibit A."

Abernathy shot her a look and began thumbing through the stack of binders in front of him on the table. "Objection," he said. "This transcript wasn't provided to us."

"Keep looking," Waverly told him. "We have proof of service."

Gus, who had been sitting next to Hutch, leaned toward him now and whispered, "Looks like a good old game of hide and seek."

When Hutch pulled a blank, Gus explained that attorneys sometimes played fast and loose with discovery. They'd place potentially volatile material amid the more innocuous documents that normally received only a cursory glance. If opposing counsel wasn't diligent in its review of what was sometimes a mountain of paperwork, he might be the victim of a surprise attack.

As Abernathy continued to search, Waverly stepped over to him and dropped a copy of the transcript on the table. "Free of charge."

Looking agitated, Abernathy snatched it up, glanced at it and said, "Your Honor, I don't see the relevancy of this document in regard to these proceedings."

"Its relevance will become clear in just a moment," Waverly told the judge. "The court ruled that the defendant would be allowed to explore the witness's previous cases, and this is part of that exploration."

Judge O'Donnell nodded. "Please continue, counsel."

Waverly looked at Meyer. "Detective, can you tell us the nature of the show you appeared on?"

"I believe it was a call-in show about politics and current events."

"And what was the topic under discussion that night?"

Meyer shifted again. "That was a long time ago. I don't really remember."

"May I approach the witness, Your Honor?"

"By all means."

Waverly moved to the witness box and handed Meyer a copy of the transcript. "Maybe this will refresh your memory."

Meyer took it reluctantly, then glanced down at it.

"If you look at the top left corner," she said, "there's a show number, the date, and the title of that night's show. Can you please read that title for the court?"

Meyer fished for a pair of glasses and put them on. "'The Ones Who Got Away,'" he read.

"Not very original, but does it refresh your memory at all?"

He nodded. "The host wanted to talk about criminal cases throughout history in which the prime suspect was either acquitted by a jury or was never charged with the crime."

"People like Lizzie Borden and OJ?"

"Yes."

"And Rebecca Tyler?"

He hesitated. "Yes."

"Which is why you were invited on the show, correct? To talk about the case."

"Yes," Meyer said, looking like a man in a desperate search for his swagger.

Waverly paused, then pointed to the transcript in Meyer's hand. "Detective, there are numbers on the side of that document. Lines thirty-two through thirty-four are a comment and question posed by the host of the show, a Mr. Alan Crane. Can you read that passage aloud for us, please?"

Meyer hesitated, then dropped his gaze to the transcript. Then he read, "'Crane: It looks to me like it all worked out, Detective Meyer. The brother confessed. The ex-husband got twenty to life for what he did. You got your man. So why do you seem so dissatisfied with the outcome?'"

Waverly nodded and gestured to the sheet of paper again. "Now can you read your response? Lines thirty-five through thirty-nine."

"Objection!" Abernathy shouted, seeming to have forgotten the famous dictum, never let them see you sweat.

"Overruled," Judge O'Donnell said immediately. "Read the passage Detective."

Meyer once again shifted in his seat and stared down at the page. All the fight had gone out of him. "'Meyer: Yeah, I'm dissatisfied, because I don't think the guy and his brother were the only ones involved. I think that little slut manipulated him into murdering her kid, so she could go out and party all night and screw anyone who winked at her.'"

The courtroom was silent. Even though Meyer had read it in a weary monotone, the statement said more about him than the hours of testimony preceding it, and his claim of not being a woman hater had been rendered as hollow as a bamboo saxophone. The women on the jury were looking at him in a whole new way now.

This didn't negate the fact that the prosecution still had some pretty damning evidence against Ronnie, but Waverly had successfully managed to remove Meyer's teeth and set the stage for a wrongful prosecution rap. And everything Meyer had said, everything he would say from here on out, would be regarded with deep suspicion.

Bravo, Hutch thought. She had played it expertly.

"Isn't it true, Detective, that you were reprimanded and suspended for this remark?"

"Yes," Meyer said.

"And didn't Ms. Tyler's attorney threaten a lawsuit against both you and the department for defamation of character against his client?"

"Cops get threats all the time," Meyer said. "Most of them don't amount to much."

"What about this one? What was the outcome?"

"It was eventually withdrawn after a deal was made by the city's Corporation Counsel."

"And what were the terms of that deal?"

"Objection, Your Honor. I doubt those terms are for public consumption."

"Overruled."

"The terms, Detective?"

Meyer shifted once again. "Ms. Tyler agreed to forego the suit in exchange for a small sum of money and a personal apology."

Waverly arched a brow. "I think you've left something out. What else did Ms. Tyler ask for?"

Meyer clearly didn't want to answer, but knew he had no choice. "My enrollment in a two-week gender sensitivity class."

"Gender sensitivity," Waverly said with a nearly imperceptible smile. "I think I'll leave it to the jury to decide whether or not it was effective."

— 37 -

"If you ever need a helping hand," Matt's father used to say, "you'll find one at the end of your arm."

It was a Yiddish proverb that his old man, a strong believer in self-sufficiency, would drag out whenever times were tough. And Matt's family had certainly seen their share of tough times over the years.

Matthew Isaacs, Sr. was a bank clerk who never quite worked his way up past the halfway point of the ladder, and when Matt was fourteen years old, his father was laid off in the midst of a restructuring deal. A couple of very lean years had followed, with Matt Sr. struggling to get any job he could find-mostly temporary day labor that involved his hands more than his brain, and paid just enough to keep them a half-step ahead of the bill collector. But he was a proud man who refused to take any kind of assistance.

Matt himself wasn't a stranger to tough times. Two marriages and divorces in the span of eight and a half years tend to take their emotional toll. And with the death knell of the newspaper business ringing loudly around the world, and his year-long relationship with a married woman coming to an abrupt and messy end (surprise, surprise), he felt as if he needed to regain some control of his life.

Channeling his energy into Ronnie's survival was his way of doing just that.

Last night, when Hutch had proposed that they all do what the cops had failed to do-what the cops had no real interest in doing-that Yiddish proverb had immediately come to mind.

If you ever need a helping hand, you'll find one at the end of your arm.

In short, Hutch was right. They couldn't rely on fate or Waverly's legal team to get Ronnie out of this mess. They'd have to do it themselves.

So, first thing this morning, as the others cued up at the courtroom to watch the trial, Matt paid a visit to the Wyndham Academy of Pet Grooming.

The place was run by an officious little bitch (and, yes, that was the appropriate word here) whose disdain for reporters, or men, or both, seemed to run very deep. It was a case of detest at first sight, and all the ammo in Matt's charm locker couldn't penetrate this woman's Kevlar. Matt didn't know who had done her wrong, but he'd done it good.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Isaacs," she'd said through lips pursed so tight you could use them for a band seal, "but I don't see how that's any of your business."

He had just finished showing her his Post credentials and a photo of Frederick Langer, telling her (to the accompaniment of several barking dogs) that he was trying to locate the man for a human interest story. Did she perhaps remember Langer or anyone he may have interacted with while he was a student at her school?

"Our records are private," she said. "And they'll stay that way as long as I'm here."

The woman wouldn't acknowledge that Langer had even attended the academy, and Matt had left the place with nothing but sympathy for anyone who did.

His next stop was a late breakfast meeting with a retired FBI agent named Jerry Galvin, whom he had profiled several years back for a story on bank robberies. They'd been friends ever since.

They met at the Over Easy and played catch up over coffee, eggs and red potato hash. Galvin had retired only on paper and was currently consulting for a private security firm. His connections to the Bureau were still strong, however, and Matt, being Matt, was hoping to exploit those ties.

"I'm looking for information on a man who seems to be a ghost," Matt told him. "I can trace him back a few months, then I've got zip."

"What's your interest?" Galvin asked.

Matt had debated whether or not to tell Jerry the truth, and had decided he'd rather not compromise their friendship by lying. So he filled him in on what he and Hutch and the others were up to, and Galvin huffed a chuckle.

"You can't be serious," he said.

"The cops aren't gonna help us. Ronnie's already been tried and convicted in their minds."

"And you're sure she didn't do what they say she did?"

"I wouldn't be sitting here if I wasn't."

Galvin sighed and shook his head. "You realize I can't endorse this kind of witch hunt. The chances of this guy Langer being your man are about as likely as the Pope showing up at a bar mitzvah."

"There's definitely something hinky about him."

"Hell, you ask me, there's something hinky about the Pope, too, but you don't see me running a background check on him."

"Maybe you should," Matt said.

Galvin chuckled again and sipped his coffee. "I like you, Matthew. Have since the minute we met. But if this thing blows up in your face, I don't want my name anywhere near it."

"No reason it should be."

"I assume you have a photo of this man?"

Matt dug into his satchel and brought out a photocopy of Langer's state ID-the same one that Ms. Wyndham Academy had scowled at.

Galvin squinted at the photo and said, "I'll need something clearer than this, but I can download the original, no problem."

"Then what's the next step?"

"I've got a friend at the Bureau who'll run this through facial recognition, no questions asked. It might take some time, but if this guy's in any of the usual databases, we're bound to get a hit."

Galvin had mentioned biometric facial recognition in the past. The software compared key features of a subject-nose, eyes, eyebrows, mouth, face shape-to the faces stored in law enforcement and DMV databases, and when a requisite number of features matched, it spit out the results. The software wasn't perfect, but its proponents called it a breakthrough as significant as the introduction of fingerprint technology.

Matt didn't know if that was true, but he was more than happy to take their word for it if it brought him any closer to finding out who Langer really was.

"I'll call you when I've got something," Galvin said. Then he added, "I'd warn you not to do anything stupid, but I guess it's too late for that."

Matt's next stop was the Dumont Hotel, which was located across the street from Jenny's law firm. It was what was often called a boutique hotel, small but well-appointed, with just a touch of the upturned nose.

The front desk clerk, a knockout Eurasian woman who didn't seem to know just how beautiful she was, glanced at Matt's credentials, listened as he told her what he was looking for, then smiled politely and said, "Let me get the manager."

Matt would much rather have talked to her, but he supposed it could wait.

A few moments later, a well-coiffed gentleman in his mid-fifties, wearing a custom tailored gray suit and a neatly knotted blue tie emerged from a doorway behind the counter.

"I'm Harold Longbaugh," he said with a smile. "How may I help you?"

"I'm doing a background story on the trial of Veronica Baldacci, trying to fill in the details surrounding the crime in question. I take it you're familiar with the case?"

"Only what I've read in the papers."

"Really? So you're not aware that your establishment was mentioned during testimony on Monday?"

The smile faltered slightly, then he said, "Perhaps we should take this into my office."

Matt followed him into a small but efficient space that housed a desk, a computer, a couple of chairs, a row of carefully dusted file cabinets and several plaques on the wall to remind the guy what a managerial genius he was. He invited Matt to sit and Matt took him up on the offer, dropping his satchel on the floor beside him.

Longbaugh sank into the chair behind his desk. "You were saying?"

Straight to business.

"According to the testimony, there were several phone calls made from your house phone to the law offices across the street. The victim's firm. They believe those calls were made by the woman on trial."

"I'm not really at liberty to talk about that."

"Oh? You must have invited me into your office for a reason. I assume you're very sensitive about the idea that a killer may have harassed her victim from the lobby of this hotel."

"Of course we are."

"Well, there's not much you can do about it at this point, but I doubt it's the kind of thing you'd want publicized any further. When I write my story, I can either downplay it or go for the gold. The choice is yours."

Longbaugh studied him a moment then offered him a tight smile. "What do you wish to know?"

"I'm guessing the police subpoenaed your records?"

He nodded. "Both phone and guest records for the time in question."

"Was Ms. Baldacci ever a guest here?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

"I assume they talked to your staff as well," Matt said. "Asked if anyone had ever seen Ms. Baldacci wandering around the lobby?"

"They did."

"And?"

"I'm afraid none of us ever saw her. We must have been quite busy at the time."

It was the answer Matt had wanted to hear, but he eyed him skeptically. "We're talking about several days."

Longbaugh showed him his empty hands in response.

"What about surveillance cameras?" Matt asked.

"We only use them in the upstairs hallways, but as far as I know, the police didn't find anything worthwhile on them."

"How many desk clerks do you employ?"

"Just a few," Longbaugh said, "and they work in shifts."

"Does the woman out front usually handle the day shift?"

Longbaugh nodded. "Monday through Friday until three o'clock. We have different crews for nights, graveyard and weekends."

"Can I talk to her?"

"I don't imagine that's really necessary, is it?"

Matt reached down beside him and opened the flap of his satchel, bringing out the photocopy of Langer's state ID. He put it on the desktop and slid it toward Longbaugh.

"I'd like to ask her about this man."

Longbaugh studied the photo. "What about him?"

"Does he look familiar at all? Could he have been a guest here?"

"What does this have to do with the Baldacci case?"

"Possibly nothing," Matt said. "But I believe in following all leads."

Longbaugh frowned. "I don't understand."

"We have information that this man may be a friend of Baldacci's. Does he look familiar or not?"

Longbaugh studied the photo again. "I'd have to say that, based on this photograph, he doesn't strike me as our typical guest."

"What about the name? Frederick Langer. Could you check your records to see if he may have taken a room around that time?"

Longbaugh hesitated, looking as if he were about to resist, but then his eyes shifted slightly as if an internal sensor had just been switched on. "You're thinking Ms. Baldacci may have been staying in his room?"

"Something like that."

"I'm not quite sure how she'd get around the cameras up there, but I have to admit I'm intrigued."

"Intrigued enough to check your records?"

Longbaugh thought it over, then turned to his computer and quickly typed in an entry. He studied the screen, then shook his head in obvious disappointment. "I'm afraid there's no record of him. Not under that name, at least."

"Do you mind if I show this photo to your clerk? See if she remembers him?"

Longbaugh hesitated again, then said, "You'll print your story without mentioning the name of the hotel, yes?"

"I'll be as discreet as humanly possible," Matt told him.

Longbaugh got to his feet. "Then by all means."

He moved to the door and pulled it open. The desk clerk was facing away from them and from where he sat, Matt had a view of her nearly perfect ass.

He willed himself to remain professional.

"Addie?" Longbaugh said. "Could you please come into my office a moment? I'll watch the desk."

It turned out that the desk clerk, whose name was Addie Wright, had never seen Langer, and assured Matt that it was a face she would have remembered. There was a grace and good humor and openness about her (the polar opposite of Ms. Wyndham Academy), and as they spoke, Matt couldn't help feeling attracted to her-even took a glance at her left hand to see if she was wearing a ring.

He didn't need to go down that road again.

When he ran out of questions to ask-quite a few of which had been frivolous and unnecessary-he thanked her and shook her hand and gave her his card, promising himself he'd find an excuse to come back again. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw a spark of interest in her eyes.

Jesus, Matt, get a grip.

He was supposed to be helping Ronnie, but all he could think about was that face and that ass and everything that went along with them.

He was a dog, was what he was. In desperate need of grooming.

Maybe there was some irony in that.

— 38 -

"How did Waverly do on cross?" Matt asked.

Hutch plugged one ear with a finger and pressed his cell phone against the other. The judge had just adjourned for lunch and the hallway outside the courtroom was crowded and noisy.

He said, "Meyer was nearly a blubbering mass of ectoplasm by the time she was done with him. How about you? How are you doing out…"

Hutch paused as Frederick Langer walked by, clutching his book bag. There was no way he could know what they were up to, but Hutch suddenly felt uncomfortable having this conversation.

He waited for Langer to reach the elevators. A moment later, Tom and Monica followed. Then Andy and Gus. The plan was for each team to take turns watching Langer during the lunch hour, so he wouldn't get suspicious.

Matt's voice filled his ear. "Yo Brando. You still there?"

"Sorry," Hutch said. "I was about to ask you if you're making any progress?"

"I think I may be in love, if that counts."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Never mind. So far I've got bupkis. The grooming school was a bust and the hotel wasn't much better. Next stop is Jenny's firm, but I figure they're at lunch right now. You wanna grab something eat, maybe go in with me?"

"Sounds like a plan. The judge extended the break an extra hour. Some kind of personal emergency-although Andy's convinced it's an afternoon hook-up."

"He would be," Matt said.

Hutch laughed, glad he wasn't the only one who thought this. To his mind, Andy was convinced everyone in the world was hooking up-except him-and during the morning recess he'd grilled Hutch about last night, asking if he'd been properly thanked after they left.

Hutch didn't dignify the question with a response. Remembering his dream, he still wasn't sure how he felt about what had happened. And even if he was, Andy was the last guy in the world he'd share it with.

Matt said, "What about Ronnie? How's she doing?"

Hutch thought about that morning and how awkward things had been between them. He'd had no idea what was going through her head, and didn't ask. They'd barely had time to shower and dress before Maurice called, letting them know that Andy was there to give them a ride.

"She seems pretty up after that cross," he said. "She and Waverly are gonna strategize over the break."

"You think she'll spill about Langer?"

"If she does, I can't imagine Waverly'll be too happy about it."

"No kidding. Let's hope she keeps her mouth shut." A pause. "You up for some Mexican food?"

"Works for me," Hutch said.

"I assume you can keep the paparazzi at bay?"

It was a serious question. They both knew that if the press were to get wind of their activities, some major shit would hit the fan. "I've already mapped out my escape route."

"Good," Matt said. "Meet you at Mi Tierra in fifteen."

— 39 -

The receptionist at the Law Offices of Treacher amp; Pine smiled pleasantly as they stepped off the elevator. The name plate on the counter told them she was Lucille Weeks, but the badge clipped to her ample left breast said Cynthia Coe.

Hutch took a leap and figured she must be the lunchtime relief-although lunch should have been over by now.

"May I help you?" she asked.

The words were barely out of her mouth when her eyes got big, that familiar look of recognition crossing her face.

"Oh my God," she said. "Code Two-Seven. You're…" She stopped herself, as if she knew she was about to commit an egregious breach of office protocol, and immediately went into recovery mode. "Sorry," she said sheepishly. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

Hutch flashed his movie star smile and tapped the name plate. "You don't look like a Lucille to me."

She flushed slightly. "Oh, no, no-Lucy took a late lunch and the girl who usually covers for her is out sick, so…"

"Cindy to the rescue," he said, nodding to her badge. "What do you normally do?"

She followed his gaze and glanced down at her chest, the color in her cheeks deepening. "I'm just a mail clerk. Most of the time I'm stuck in back."

Hutch grinned. "Then you must know where all the secrets are buried."

She laughed, as if this wasn't too far from the truth, then Hutch gestured to Matt and said, "This is my buddy Matt. We were friends of Jennifer Keating."

It took her a moment, but then it hit her and her face fell. With the trial in progress, the office gossip was bound to be centered around Jenny's murder.

"Right…" she said. "I knew that. You went to college together."

"Guilty as charged."

"Oh my God, this is so trippy. I was just watching your show this past weekend. They had a marathon on-"

"We're a little short on time," Matt said. "We'd like to speak to Ms. Keating's secretary, if that's possible."

Cindy flushed again, then nodded and picked up the phone. After it rang a few times, someone answered and she said, "Sorry to bother you Ms. Weeks, but could you come to the front, please? There are a couple of gentlemen here asking for Ms. Keating's secretary."

She listened a moment, then said, "No, it's Ethan Hutchinson and a gentleman named Matt. They were friends of Ms. Keating."

She listened again, then hung up. "Someone will be with you in a moment."

"Someone meaning Ms. Keating's secretary?" Matt asked.

"No, she's out today, too. It's kind of an epidemic around here. Ms. Weeks is the office manager."

The two men exchanged looks, then Hutch thanked her and he and Matt moved away from the desk to wander the large expanse of the lobby. Judging by the marble floor and the sleek, expensive furniture, Jenny had done all right for herself. This was not a poor man's law firm.

Back in college she had often talked about getting a law degree, but such talk had always been accompanied by the naive idealism they'd all shared in those days. Her goal was to work for Legal Aid, then start her own practice, helping the poor and disenfranchised get their day in court.

He supposed that somewhere along the line she realized she needed to make a living as well-a point that was likely hammered into her by her father. Hutch sincerely doubted the old man would approve of anything that smacked of altruism beyond regular donations to the Catholic church.

He wasn't sure how she had wound up here, but it wouldn't surprise him if daddy had pulled a few strings.

"I'm Carolyn Weeks," a voice said. "May I help you?"

They turned to find a severe looking woman in a severe looking suit standing in a doorway near the reception counter.

Hutch moved to her, holding out a hand. "Ms. Weeks, I'm Ethan Hutchinson."

"I can see that," she said, shaking it. "Jenny spoke about you often."

"Did she?"

Weeks nodded. "She was very concerned about you, but it looks as if she had nothing to worry about. She kept a photograph of you-" She looked at Matt "-all of you, actually-on the credenza behind her desk."

"Oh?" Matt said. "Do you still have that photo?"

"I'm not sure," she told him. "Her secretary, Carlene, cleaned out her office months ago. Most of her belongings were sent to her father."

And her father would have promptly dumped the photo in the trash, Hutch thought. He tried to remember when such a photograph might have been taken. Any group shots would likely have been snapped by a waitress at The Monkey House.

All at once he was overcome by a profound sense of sadness.

"We were hoping," Matt said, "to get a chance to speak to Carlene."

"May I ask why?"

"We wanted to talk to her about those phone calls she received. And we also wondered if she's ever-"

"Even if she were here, she wouldn't be able to help you," Weeks said. "I believe the District Attorney's office gave her strict instructions not to speak to anyone about the case until after the trial."

"Even old friends of Jenny's?" Hutch asked.

She showed him a tight smile. "I've seen the tabloids, Mr. Hutchinson, so I know where your allegiance lies. If you really were a friend of Jenny's-as I was-then you'd be doing everything in your power to make sure her killer spends the rest of her life behind bars."

Ouch.

Hutch and Matt exchanged another look, then Matt said, "Working for a law firm, you'd think you'd believe in an antiquated little precept called innocent until proven guilty."

Weeks shrugged. "I don't believe there's anything left to prove."

Matt reached into the satchel that hung at his shoulder and pulled out a sheet of paper. Unfolding it, he handed it to Weeks. "While you're busy condemning one of my best friends, maybe you can take a look at this photo and tell me if you've ever seen this guy."

She gave the page a cursory glance and handed it back to Matt. "Can't say I have. Who is he?"

"That's what we're trying to find out. If you'd put us in touch with Carlene-"

"I don't think so," she said. "Carlene has enough on her mind right now, and as I told you, she's been warned not to speak to anyone. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I believe we're done here."

And before they could utter a word of protest, she turned on her heels and vanished.

"Call me crazy," Cynthia said, "but I think I may have seen this guy."

Hutch felt a bump in his heart rate.

She had signaled to them as they headed for the elevator, asking-rather shyly-if she could take a look at the photo, and Matt had dropped it on the counter in front of her.

Now she stared at it and nodded. "A few months back, when they were hiring a new file clerk up in the tax department. I think he may have applied for the job."

Hutch's heartbeat kicked up another notch. "You're sure?"

"This picture's not that great, but Human Resources is on this floor, so he would've had to come here to get an application. I wasn't on the desk then, but Lucy asked me to come pick up some mail and there was a guy who looked like this sitting in that chair over there with a clipboard and pen. I only remember him because he was kinda weird."

Matt was now looking at Hutch with a holy shit! expression on his face. If Cindy was right, this pretty much sealed the deal. Langer was their man. He had applied for a job here in an attempt to get closer to his prey. What other reason could their be?

"Did they hire him?" Matt asked.

She laughed. "No, they got some college kid. And I think he only lasted about a month."

Hutch looked around and spotted a surveillance camera in a far, high corner of the lobby, a tiny red light signaling that it was recording them at that very moment.

He turned to Cynthia. "How far back do your surveillance tapes go?"

She looked puzzled, then glanced at the camera and said, "Oh, right, I always forget it's there." She thought about it. "I think everything's recorded straight to a hard drive, so it probably goes back at least a year."

"Any chance you could get us a copy from that day? I just want to confirm he's our guy."

"And get myself fired? I don't think so."

Hutch gave her the smile. "Cindy to the rescue, remember? This would mean a lot to me."

She flushed again, but shook her head. "I don't know…"

"You have a pen and paper?"

She opened a drawer and fished around in it until she found a notepad, then gave it to Hutch along with a pen.

He wrote on the top sheet, then tore it off, folded it and handed it to her. "This is my private cell phone number. I'm trusting you not to give it out to anyone. If there's any way you can get that video clip, call me and I'll pick it up."

Matt leaned toward her now. "And if you're worried about downloading the file to a disk, just play it on the monitor and record it with your phone. Then you can text it straight to Hutch and nobody'll be the wiser."

"Why do you want it?" she asked. "Who is this guy?"

"He's what the police call a person of interest. I can't tell you any more than that."

She looked doubtful. "They keep that computer in a locked room and I think only Ms. Weeks has the key. And even if I could get in, it would take me a while to find the part you want. I'm not even sure what day it was."

"You look pretty resourceful to me," Hutch said. "But no pressure. If you can't, you can't. I don't want you to lose your job. But if you can…" He reached forward and squeezed the hand holding the folded sheet of paper, acutely aware that he was the manipulator now. "…I'd owe you big time."

— 40 -

Hutch was less than a block from the courthouse when they hijacked him.

He and Matt had parted ways outside the law office building, both buoyed by their conversation with Cindy. Matt had decided that his next stop was the scene of the crime, where he hoped to question some of the residents of the neighboring apartment building to see if Langer had been spotted there, as well.

Hutch had decided to hoof it back to the courthouse, wanting to walk off the taco lunch and prepare himself for the afternoon session. He was used to sitting around a lot-life on a sound stage was seventy percent waiting-but in the months during his recovery he had begun exercising a lot, trying to purge the toxins from his body.

Since returning to Chicago, however, he'd been slacking off, and it felt good to stretch his muscles. He had just crossed onto California Avenue when a dark sedan pulled to the curb in front of him and two men in suits emerged, stepping onto the sidewalk.

He was about to veer around them when one of them stepped sideways and blocked his path. "Good afternoon, Mr. Hutchinson."

Hutch stopped short, looking them over. They weren't reporters, or paparazzi, and he didn't get a cop vibe from them. If anything, they reminded him of the ex-mercenaries the studio had hired to handle security on that miserable shoot in France. Humorless and hard-muscled.

Hutch tried to remain cool. "What can I do for you gentlemen? Autographs?"

Not even a hint of a smile. "Get in the car, please. Someone wants to talk to you."

Hutch nearly laughed. This was like a scene straight out of Code Two-Seven. "You're kidding me, right?"

But he could see by their eyes that they weren't. And one of them proved it by opening his coat to give him a glimpse of a shoulder holster and gun.

Hutch's face must have shown his alarm, because the other one said, "Nobody wants to hurt you, Mr. Hutchinson. This is merely a request for a private conversation."

"With who?"

"The man we work for."

"Really?" Hutch said. He didn't even trying to hide the sarcasm. "I'm glad you told me that, because I don't think I could've figured it out on my-"

A hand reached over and gripped his elbow. "Get in the car, Mr. Hutchinson. We don't have much time before court convenes."

The grip was just firm enough to let him know that this wasn't the time or place to argue about it.

Hutch smiled and got in the car.

Several minutes later they pulled into the underground parking lot of a sleek glass building located about ten blocks north of the courthouse. They found a space, got out of the sedan, then rode the elevator to the top floor.

Hutch tried to tell himself that he had nothing to worry about, that this was merely another adventure he could use as inspiration for his work-assuming he ever bothered to go back to work-an exercise in emotional turmoil that would serve as a sense memory he could summon up at will.

But the moment the elevator doors slid open, he relaxed, knowing exactly who had summoned him for this little confab.

The apartment beyond was one that even a rich man would drool over-which, technically speaking, included Hutch. It featured a bank of bay windows overlooking the city, furniture as sleek and modern as the building they occupied, and even-get this-an indoor lap pool.

That pool was currently occupied by a tall man taking long, luxurious strokes through the clear blue water, his body fairly taut and well-muscled for a guy in his early sixties. When he finished the lap, he stopped, stood up in the water and slicked back his white hair.

As Hutch stepped into the room, his captors giving him space, the man said, "Thank you for coming on such short notice, Ethan."

Hutch stiffened at the sound of his given name. Of the people he knew, only Jenny and his parents had called him that and he resented hearing it come out of this guy's mouth.

But he was all too happy to give back. "No problem, Nate."

Nathaniel Keating bristled, studying him with vaguely hostile eyes. Eyes that had never bothered to look in his direction during the last week and a half in court. Had never once acknowledged his presence, not even at the funeral four months ago, despite the fact that the two men had something in common-their love of Jenny.

So why the acknowledgement now?

As Keating climbed out of the pool, an attractive Filipina in sweats appeared out of nowhere and handed him a towel, saying, "Five minutes."

Keating nodded, began patting himself dry and looked again at Hutch. "Nice of Judge O'Donnell to extend the lunch hour, wasn't it? After your friend's attorney decimated that idiot cop on the stand, I was in desperate need of a workout. Hopefully things will go better this afternoon."

"What do you want, Keating?"

He smiled. "I want what everyone wants. What I assume you would want. Justice for my little girl. The girl you supposedly once loved, remember?"

Hutch sighed. "Is this gonna be one of those exercises where you take forever to get to the point? Because I'd just as soon be back in the courthouse right now."

"As would I," Keating said. "But, you see, I got a disturbing phone call a short while ago. About you and one of your college friends trying to stir up trouble at my daughter's law firm."

So that was what this was about. Apparently the office manager had Keating on speed dial.

"Nobody's stirring up anything," Hutch told him. "We're just looking for the truth."

Keating laughed. "The truth? I assume you're not speaking philosophically."

Hutch said nothing.

"If you want the truth, Ethan, it's in that courtroom. As much as I might admire your loyalty to an old friend, it's severely misplaced, and it offends me that you and your college pal seem to be going out of your way to… well, to be honest, I'm not sure what you're up to. And I'd like to know."

Hutch spread his hands. "Like I told you…"

Keating nodded. "The truth. And what does the man in the photograph have to do with that?"

Hutch debated how much he should tell him. If he told Keating about his hunch, his gut feeling, would the old guy jump in with a rah-rah-sis-boom-bah?

Doubtful. Like everyone else, he thought Ronnie was guilty. This trial was merely a formality. Hutch could try to dissuade him of that notion, but why bother? The guy wasn't known for his pliancy.

"Well?" Keating said. "Who is the man in the photograph?"

"Probably no one. We're just looking for alternate suspects for the crime and-"

"The crime?" Keating barked. "The crime? Is that how you see it? Some abstract point of fact that needs to be examined and dissected the way that bitch dissected my little girl?"

"That isn't exactly what I-"

"Shut the hell up."

He nodded to the two mercenaries and they stepped forward, grabbing Hutch by the arms. Then he tossed the towel aside and moved in close, the hostility in his eyes no longer vague.

"This may not come as a surprise to you, Hutchinson, but I've never approved of you. Back when you and Jenny were in college, I don't know how many times I tried to persuade her to move out of that house and come back home. But she'd found her… independence… and wouldn't listen to me, even when I threatened to cut off her funding."

He was right. None of this was news to Hutch.

"I'd only met you a couple times," Keating went on, "but I knew immediately what kind of man you were. Getting my daughter into your bed wasn't enough to satisfy you. You smelled her money and wanted it, too."

Hutch's anger was instant and unrelenting. "That's complete bullshit, you son-of-a-"

An explosion of pain blossomed in his left kidney. Pain so acute that his knees buckled and he would have dropped to the floor if it hadn't been for the two men holding his arms. The blow had come from the Filipina towel girl, who had somehow managed to circle around behind him as they spoke. He had been so focused on Keating that he hadn't even realized she was still in the room.

As the pain rocketed through Hutch's body, Keating said, "Don't even try to deny it, you little fuck. You smelled her money and I knew the only way to protect my daughter was to dangle another carrot in front of you. A more exciting carrot. One that few people would say no to."

Hutch coughed. Tried to breathe. "…What are you talking about?"

"Are you really that clueless? Did you think you were approached by that casting agent because of your good looks and winning personality? Did you think you got the job because of your raw acting talent?"

Hutch was at a loss for words.

"I know a lot of people, Ethan. Powerful people. And some of those people owe me favors. It was no different back then." He paused. "Of course, none of us could have known that you'd actually wind up with a hit TV show. I mean, Jack Van Parkes, for godsakes? Give me a fucking break. All I wanted was get you out of Chicago and away from my daughter. And to prove to her you were the loser I thought you were. Game, set, match."

The pain finally subsided a bit, but it had been replaced by such a feeling of dismay that Hutch still couldn't find the words to respond. He had known his career was a fluke, but could this asshole really be the great and powerful Oz he claimed to be? Had he engineered that very first audition? Had he called in a favor to get Hutch the job?

And was it possible that, somewhere down deep, Hutch had known this all along? Had sensed it?

It might explain a lot of things. His rejection of Jenny. His descent into booze and drugs. All because he'd known Keating was right. That he was a loser. The type who would chase temptation and forget everyone around him. Those who mattered to him.

Keating smiled now, as if reading his mind. "How's that for truth?"

"Fuck you," Hutch managed, but it was said without much fire.

He half expected another blow to the kidney, but it didn't come. Instead, Keating said, "Here's what I want from you now. I want you to butt out of this. Forget your alternate suspects, forget your old college friends, and go back to Los Angeles where you belong. Lose yourself in that insular little world they have out there, and leave my Jenny alone."

Hutch eyed him defiantly. "And if I don't?"

"Then I'll have to put you on a plane myself."

They dropped him off where they had picked him up, a little less than a block from the courthouse.

Hutch's kidney still ached as the car door slammed behind him and the sedan pulled away, Keating in back now, giving him one last look before dismissing him from his mind. They would circle around and pull up in front of the courthouse and Keating would once again play the stoic, grieving father as he walked up the steps past the throng of reporters and video cameras.

For the briefest of moments, Hutch entertained the idea of leaving Chicago. He thought about running away with Ronnie, and for a millisecond, even considered herding sheep somewhere in South America.

Or he could do as Keating had suggested and simply go back to L.A.

But then he looked down the block toward the courthouse and asked himself, what would Jenny want him to do? And he knew that she would want him to stay. Just as she had before. She would want him to fight for Ronnie, to help prove that this trial was a severe miscarriage of justice.

But she would also want him to prove her father wrong.

And with this in mind, Hutch ignored the ache in his side and started walking toward the courthouse, determined to stare the old man down as he strode into the gallery, give him a look that said, you can try, but you won't succeed.

Not this time.

Ten minutes later, Hutch did exactly that.

— 41 -

"What's with old man Keating?" Andy asked. "Guy's really giving you the evil eye."

Hutch shook his head. "Long story. Apparently a lot longer than I thought."

Monica, Tom and Gus were seated on either side of them and they all looked at Hutch curiously. But before they could hammer him with any questions, the bailiff called out, "All rise!" and they got to their feet.

As the door behind the bench opened and Judge O'Donnell took a seat in his high-backed chair, Andy whispered, "See? What did I tell you? Dude definitely got laid during the break."

Andy quietly sang the first two lines of Afternoon Delight, and Monica snickered. So did Tom and Gus. And despite himself, Hutch joined in, thinking he could use a laugh just about now.

His kidney still ached and he was afraid he'd be pissing blood tonight.

He felt Keating's gaze on him and wondered what the old man's next step would be. Send out the Filipina towel girl to do more damage? Or was it all bluff in hopes that Hutch would tuck his tail and flee?

Judge O'Donnell shot a look in their direction, nearly provoking another wave of snickers, then said, "With all present and accounted for, court is back in session. Mr. Abernathy, please call your next witness."

Ronnie turned now, making brief eye contact with Hutch, and he knew he'd made the right decision in ignoring Keating's threat. If any of the old guy's lackeys came within ten feet of him, he'd call the cops.

Hopefully no one would have to call the paramedics.

Abernathy stood up, looking fully recovered from the morning session. "I'd like to call Ms. Carlene Harding to the stand."

So that's why Jenny's secretary was out.

A guard moved to a door, pushed it open and said something to the person waiting behind it. A moment later a tall black woman wearing a stylish but conservative skirt suit stepped into the courtroom and made her way to the witness box. She was movie-star pretty, and it looked to Hutch as if she'd spent some time in the makeup chair before driving to court today.

Everyone waited as she was sworn in and stated her name, then Abernathy approached the podium.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Harding."

She smiled warmly. "Hello." No case of the jitters for this witness. In fact, she looked so calm and collected that Hutch had to wonder if she was on something.

"Ms. Harding, where are you currently employed?"

"The Law Offices of Treacher and Pine." There was a hint of pride in her voice.

"And what is your occupation?"

"I'm a legal secretary."

Abernathy nodded. "And what exactly does that job entail?"

"I have a number of duties. I keep the court calendar for my attorneys, schedule appointments and depositions, prepare briefs, take dictation, and handle any written correspondence that may be needed."

"And for which attorneys do you do all this work?"

"I'm currently assisting Curtis Tobin and Mitchell Clark in contracts."

"What about four months ago? Who were assisting then?"

Harding's eyes clouded slightly. "Mr. Tobin and Ms. Keating, in the same department."

"Jennifer Keating? The victim in this case?"

She nodded solemnly. "Yes."

"And how long did you work for Ms. Keating?"

She thought about this, then said, "Jenny came aboard about a month after I started, so approximately four years."

"I see. And how would you characterize your relationship with her?"

"Unlike some attorneys I've worked for, Jenny never looked down on the support staff. We didn't really socialize outside the office, but I like to think we were friends."

Abernathy nodded then checked the notepad in front of him on the podium. "I assume your duties were the same for Ms. Keating as they are for Mr. Tobin and Mr. Clark?"

"Yes," she said.

"Did you also handle her phone calls?"

"Only the calls that came through the office switchboard. Jenny had a cell phone that she used quite frequently."

"Was that a business phone?"

"Not technically, no. It was her personal line. The office used to supply cell phones for the attorneys, but the practice became cost prohibitive and the attorneys were encouraged to use their own."

"So would the cell phone be a number she would normally give out to clients?"

Harding shook her head. "No. That number was private and would only be given to close friends or work associates. Any calls from clients would have gone to her office phone, if they knew her direct extension, or be routed through me."

"I see," Abernathy said. "So if I needed to talk to Ms. Keating and didn't have her cell number, how would I have contacted her?"

"Call the firm's main number and the operator would transfer it to me. Once I determined who was calling and why, I'd buzz Jenny and ask if she was available."

"And if she wasn't?"

"I'd take a message."

"What if Ms. Keating herself needed to call a client. Did she ever have you make the call, then connect to her once the party answered?"

"That was part of my job, yes."

Abernathy bobbed his head and spent a short moment formulating his next question. Then he said, "Ms. Harding, you say that you and Ms. Keating didn't really socialize outside the office, but is it fair to say that you knew a good deal about her social life?"

"I think so, yes."

"And how is that?"

"Like I told you," Harding said, "we were friends. Office friends. She'd sometimes talk about her private life and the people she knew outside work."

"Assistant District Attorney Warren Lutz, for example?"

"Yes, they were in a romantic relationship for quite some time."

"Did she ever talk about that relationship?"

Harding nodded. "Sometimes. Not often. More toward the end, when they decide to call it quits."

"Is that how she characterized it? That they had decided to call it quits?"

"Yes," Harding said. "She told me it was a mutual decision. She said the relationship had run its course and they had both decided to move on."

"Did she ever tell you why?"

"Objection," Waverly called out. "Is this a murder trial or a soap opera?"

This got a few laughs from the gallery.

"Your Honor, defense counsel opened this door this morning when she inferred that ADA Lutz was the one who should be on trial here."

"I inferred no such thing, Your Honor. I was merely pointing out the deficiencies in Detective Meyer's-"

"Oh, please," Abernathy snapped. "You as good as accused the man of-"

"All right, children, that's enough." O'Donnell waved an impatient hand at them. "Objection overruled, let's keep moving."

The two attorneys took a moment to calm down, then Abernathy repeated his question. "You can answer Ms. Harding. Did Ms. Keating ever tell you why she and Mr. Lutz decided to move on?"

"Not really. I have my suspicions, but-"

"Objection."

"Sustained."

Abernathy smiled at the witness. "I appreciate your honesty, but let's try to avoid any hint of conjecture in your answers. Tell us only what Ms. Keating told you."

"She said they just realized they were better off as friends."

Abernathy nodded. "And when they were more than just friends, did Mr. Lutz ever call her?"

"I don't know about her private number, but yes, of course, he would sometimes call the office complaining that she'd turned off her cell, wanting to know if she was in a meeting or stuck in court."

"And after they 'moved on'?"

"I didn't notice any change in the frequency of calls."

"What about Ms. Keating? Did she ever have you call Mr. Lutz during this period?"

"Yes, many times," Harding said, then showed the glimmer of a smile. "I once asked her how she could stay friends with a man who had shared her bed-it's not something I could do-and she told me that she still found him intellectually stimulating and saw no point is shutting down an entire relationship simply because they were no longer having sex."

Abernathy nodded and fiddled with his notepad, pausing to let the jury ponder this notion. He was no doubt hoping that he had repaired some of the damage Waverly had done this morning.

Then he said, "Ms. Harding, when was the first time you heard the name Veronica Baldacci?"

"About a month before Jenny was killed."

"And in what context did you hear it?"

"Jenny came into the office and said she'd run into an old college roommate the night before. I asked her if it was one of the friends in the photo that she kept on her credenza and she said 'yes' and pointed Ms. Baldacci out to me."

"Did she talk at all about this chance meeting?"

"Yes."

"And what did she say?"

"That at first she was happy to see Ms. Baldacci, but things had gotten awkward."

Abernathy nodded. "Did she say why?"

"Yes. Over the course of their conversation, Jenny mentioned that she was working for Treacher and Pine and Ms. Baldacci became visibly upset by this revelation."

"Objection," Waverly said. "Hearsay as to my client's frame of mind."

"Sustained."

"What about Ms. Keating?" Abernathy asked. "Did she say she was upset about the meeting?"

"She said she felt surprised and uncomfortable because she hadn't realized that the firm was representing Ms. Baldacci's ex-husband in their custody case."

"I don't understand," Abernathy said. "If Treacher and Pine was representing the ex-husband, wouldn't it stand to reason that Ms. Keating would know this?"

Harding shook her head. "Treacher and Pine is a very large law firm with over a hundred and fifty attorneys in several different departments on three separate floors. Jenny worked in contracts, not the family law division, and the firm is very strict about client confidentiality. Unless there's a legal question involved, sharing of case files is strongly discouraged."

"So Ms. Keating wouldn't have access to the ex-husband's files?"

"No," Harding said. "In fact, Jenny was a stickler about ethics and stayed as far away from the case as humanly possible. To the point where she instructed me to refer any calls she might get from Ms. Baldacci to the attorney handling it."

"Even though there was no real conflict of interest?"

Harding shrugged. "Like I said, she was a stickler."

"And did she get any calls?"

"Yes, several."

"When was this?"

"The first came about two days after their encounter, when I was out sick."

Abernathy's eyebrows went up. "If you were out sick, then how did you know about it?"

"Because the woman who replaced me that day didn't know about Jenny's instructions, and mistakenly sent the call through to her. When I saw Jenny the next day, she was quite upset about the whole thing. Said she hated to treat Ms. Baldacci like a leper, but felt she had no choice until the case was resolved."

"Did she characterize the nature of the call?"

"Objection."

"Overruled. Answer the question, Ms. Harding."

Harding looked at Abernathy. "She said it was contentious, but she didn't go into detail."

"Fair enough," Abernathy said. "But you told us there were several calls. Did you personally receive any of them?"

Harding nodded. "All of them."

"And did you make any kind of notation's regarding these calls?"

"Not at first," Harding said. "But after a while I started marking them on my computer calendar."

"And when was this?"

"In the week before Jenny was murdered."

Abernathy moved to the prosecution table and picked up a stack of papers. Holding them up he said, "Your Honor, I have here a printout of the calendar in question, which I'd like to enter into the record as State's Exhibit 2."

"So entered," O'Donnell said.

Abernathy handed a copy to the court clerk, then turned to his witness. "Ms. Harding, can you elaborate on these phone calls?"

Harding took a breath. "They were fairly innocuous at first. Ms. Baldacci called, identified herself, and I told her Jenny wasn't available, then transferred her to the family law department."

"You say they were innocuous at first. Did that change?"

"Oh, yes," Harding said. "Very much so."

"In what way?"

"Ms. Baldacci became increasingly hostile and demanding on the phone and began calling with more frequency, several times a day, asking to be put through to Jenny. That's why I started marking it down."

"And what do you consider hostile behavior?"

"Calling me names, for one thing."

"Oh?" Abernathy said. "Can you give us an example?"

Harding seemed to steel herself, no longer the unruffled witness she was when she first sat in the box. "The worst one was about two days before Jenny was murdered. It was late in the afternoon and I had already fielded several calls from Ms. Baldacci during the day. Then she called again, and while I can't be sure what was going through her mind, she was very frank about what she thought of me."

"What did she say?"

Harding straightened in her chair, looking directly at the jury. "She said-and I'm quoting here-'Put me through to Jenny you uppity black bitch or I'll gut you where you sit.'"

For a moment the courtroom seemed frozen in time. Not a sound was uttered, all eyes on Ronnie as the words sank in.

Then Abernathy turned to Waverly, a small, self-satisfied smile on his face. "Your witness, counsel."

— 42 -

"Put me through to Jenny, you uppity black bitch, or I'll gut you where you sit," Waverly repeated as she got to her feet and moved to the podium. "Did the caller really say that?"

Looking wary, Harding sat up even straighter, and Hutch could see that she was bracing for an attack. "Yes. Yes she did."

"Those exact words?"

"Yes. It's not something I'm likely to forget. It frightened me."

"I don't blame you. I think we can all agree it's a pretty disgusting thing to say. But are you sure it was my client who said it?" She gestured to Ronnie. "Ms. Baldacci?"

Harding cocked a brow at her as if to say, you're kidding right?

"Why wouldn't I be? She called at least five times that day. And more than twice that during the week."

"That's a lot of calls," Waverly said. "But let's go back for a moment. You testified that the first time you heard the name Veronica Baldacci was about a month before Ms. Keating was killed. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And Ms. Keating pointed her out in a photograph on her desk."

"Her credenza," Harding said forcefully, as if she were a teacher correcting a student.

"Her credenza," Waverly repeated with a nod. "And that was the first time you heard the name Veronica Baldacci. But what about the first time you actually met her? When was that?"

Harding looked confused. "I beg your pardon?"

Waverly gestured to Ronnie again. "When did you first meet my client?"

"I've never met her," Harding said. "We've never even been in the same room together until now."

Waverly frowned. "I don't understand. Detective Meyer testified that the majority of the phone calls came from the Dumont Hotel, directly across the street from your office."

"So they tell me."

"Yet in all that time, Ms. Baldacci never once crossed the street to try to speak to Ms. Keating in person?"

"Not that I'm aware of, no."

"So let me get this straight," Waverly said. "Are you claiming, under oath, that you've never met or spoken to my client face to face? In the flesh, so to speak?"

Harding stiffened, a quiet hostility creeping into her eyes, as if she thought her integrity were being impugned. "Not a claim, it's the truth."

Waverly nodded, then said, "So tell me this, Ms. Harding. If you've never seen or spoken to my client before today, how could you possibly know that the person on the telephone was Veronica Baldacci?"

Murmurs rumbled through the courtroom, Hutch and his friends exchanging looks. Waverly had played this one perfectly.

But Harding had an answer. "Because she identified herself, that's how."

"Oh? In what way?"

"She said, 'This is Ronnie Baldacci, put me through to Jenny.'"

"Really? Exactly like that?"

Harding shrugged. "More or less. Sometimes she said, 'This is Ronnie Baldacci, don't transfer me to that other clueless bitch, let me talk to Jenny.' This was usually accompanied by a several expletives."

"So you're saying she identified herself every time she called?"

"I can't swear to it, but it certainly seemed that way. Believe me, I got awfully tired of hearing the name."

Scattered laughter rang out but quickly died when Judge O'Donnell shot his gaze toward the gallery.

Waverly said, "Doesn't it seem strange to you that someone who was desperate to have her calls put through to Ms. Keating would always state her name, even after she'd repeatedly been denied?"

"I wouldn't know, but that's what she did."

"If you were making such calls yourself, wouldn't you resort to some type of subterfuge to get through?"

"Objection, Your Honor. The witness's opinion in that regard is irrelevant to these proceedings."

"Sustained. Move it along, counsel."

Waverly nodded to him. "Sorry, Your Honor. Ms. Harding, did you ever speak to your boss about these calls?"

"To Jenny? Yes, of course."

"And what did she say?"

Harding sighed. "She told me to keep transferring them to the family law department. It was a bit frustrating, to say the least. I just wanted to be rid of them. I was tired of dealing with it and I thought she should speak to Ms. Baldacci and make it clear that she should no longer try to contact her."

"So she never took any of the calls?"

"Not that I know of, other than that first one, when I was out sick."

Waverly paused. "So let me understand this. The one person who knew Ronnie Baldacci and could positively identify her voice had never taken any of the calls you handled. Is that correct?"

"Yes," Harding said.

"Yet when this caller identified herself as Ronnie Baldacci, you assumed she was telling the truth. Is that right?"

"Yes," Harding said, looking impatient now. "Why wouldn't I?"

"No reason you shouldn't. But if I were to call you up and identify myself as Martha Stewart, would you believe that as well?"

Laughter in the courtroom. Even the judge joined in this time.

"Of course not," Harding said. "That's ridiculous."

"Why?"

"Because I know you're not her. I know what you sound…" She caught herself, her expression shifting, growing uncertain.

"Yes, Ms. Harding? Please continue."

Abernathy jumped to the rescue. "Objection. I've been fairly tolerant until now, but this game is getting tedious. These questions have been asked and answered numerous times already."

"I tend to agree," the Judge said. "Ms. Waverly, either find a new angle or wrap it up."

"Just a couple more, Your Honor, and I'll be done with this witness."

"Make it quick."

Waverly thanked him, then said, "Ms. Harding, you've testified quite adamantly that you've never met my client face to face. That you've never been in a room together before today."

Harding sighed again. "That's right."

"So, please, tell the jury this," Waverly said. "In light of that testimony, how could someone who continually claimed to be Ronnie Baldacci possibly know to use such a hateful slur as uppity black bitch?"

— 43 -

It wasn't a slam dunk, Hutch thought, but it was close.

Waverly had succeeded in sowing the seeds of doubt about who had made those phone calls, and had even introduced the possibility that Ronnie had somehow been set up. It didn't quite play into the theme of police corruption-they couldn't have framed her beforehand, after all-but that didn't matter. Anything that raised red flags in the minds of the jurors was good for the defense.

Waverly and Harding went back and forth a while longer, Harding theorizing that something in her voice must have tipped the caller to her ethnicity. But that wouldn't wash. All during her testimony, she had spoken in a flat, colorless accent that might be classified as business neutral or "General American," as Hutch's old dialect coach would call it. And he saw more than one juror closing her eyes to test out Harding's theory.

All and all, it had been a good day for Ronnie so far, but the biggest hurdle was yet to come: dealing with that damn bloody sweatshirt. And Tom had been right. People had been convicted with far less evidence.

If you talked to the folks at the Innocence Project-a non-profit devoted to disputing wrongful convictions-they'd tell you that such convictions aren't all that rare. Right here in Illinois, for example, three men had been sentenced to at least eighty years in prison each for the rape and murder of a fourteen year old girl, even after DNA evidence-recovered by the Illinois State Crime Lab-had clearly shown that none of them were guilty.

So Ronnie was far from being out of the proverbial woods. And to Hutch's mind, it all came down to the man across the aisle from him.

Frederick Langer.

Was he, as Hutch had suggested earlier, the one who made those phone calls to Jenny's office? Not to frame Ronnie, but in a twisted, misguided effort to help her with her custody case?

Was it possible for a man to convincingly disguise his voice as a woman's?

Hutch knew very well that it was. Especially over the phone. One of his friends in L.A. was so good at it that he'd spent the months between his acting gigs working for a sex call hotline.

"A gig's a gig," he'd told Hutch, then slipped into a sultry falsetto that would fool just about anyone who wasn't staring him straight in the face. "These poor idiots already have a picture in their mind of what I look like, honey, so it's an easy sale. And the money's fantastic."

Hutch had never actually heard Langer speak, other than those weird, high-pitched mewling sounds, but for his money, anything was possible. And it took everything he had to keep himself from crossing the aisle and…

And what?

Considering what the bastard had done to Jenny, making him fully understand her pain seemed like a reasonable conclusion to this saga.

One that Hutch would relish for the rest of his life.

— 44 -

"We're still in the library," Monica said, her voice strangled by a bad cell connection. "This boy really likes his books."

Just an hour earlier, after a concerted effort on re-direct to repair the damage done to Harding's testimony, Abernathy had called a couple more witnesses from Jenny's law firm. Neither of them had met or spoken to Ronnie, or could verify that she had made the phone calls, but both had claimed that Jenny had been upset about the situation. Was even worried about her physical safety.

This was a new twist that would have been a bombshell, had it been true.

On Waverly's expert cross-examination, however, it became clear that Jenny-being Jenny-was worried more about Ronnie's welfare than her own, and the safety issue had merely been witness speculation. Or flat-out invention.

Hutch was guessing the latter.

Much to Abernathy's frustration, both witnesses quickly backtracked under Waverly's grilling, and in the end, their testimony was little more than a feeble attempt to bolster Harding's.

When court was adjourned for the day, Nathaniel Keating gave Hutch a look that said their business was far from over, but Hutch had decided that, short of sending out a hit squad, there wasn't much Keating could do to him. Not without winding up in court himself-assuming he got caught.

Now, as promised, Operation Creep was in motion, each of them taking part as time, work and family obligations would allow. Monica and Tom had volunteered for the first shift, and had followed Frederick Langer to the public library.

"What section is he in?" Hutch asked.

He was calling from his living room as Ronnie helped her mother and son get settled into the apartment. Lola Baldacci didn't seem pleased to be here, especially after she saw that only one bed had been slept in, but any remarks had been reserved for Ronnie's ears, not Hutch's.

Not surprisingly, Christopher was a little shy, but Hutch had at least provoked a smile from the boy when he showed him an old coin trick his father had taught him. When Hutch produced a quarter from Christopher's ear, the boy giggled and said, "Do it again."

So Hutch once again made the coin disappear and reappear from the other ear, then took Christopher's hand and dropped the quarter on his palm.

"Put that in your piggy bank," Hutch said, and the boy's eyes lit up in surprise and delight.

There was a rustling sound on the line and Hutch heard Monica say to Tom, "What section is he in?" Then, to Hutch: "Science and Medicine."

"Surprise, surprise."

"No kidding. Why couldn't this jerk be a normal pervert like the guys who visit my chat site?"

"I assume you're aware that we've all checked it out at one time or another."

"Exactly. Like I said-normal. I mean, all guys are perverts, but I shudder to even think about the kind of websites this weirdo goes to. Necrophiliacs-R-Us?"

"Ugh," Hutch said, remembering the photos in that book. "Let me know when he leaves the place, and as soon as I'm done here, I'll take over."

"Roger," she told him, then hung up.

They were nearing the end of dinner when Hutch got the call.

Lola had insisted on cooking and took over the kitchen, recruiting Christopher as her sous chef, the two falling into what was obviously a standard routine. The boy dutifully fetched ingredients from the pantry and refrigerator as Lola directed him like a stern but loving drill sergeant.

"That used to be my job," Ronnie said to Hutch. "But I think Chris enjoys it a lot more than I ever did. Those two are nearly inseparable."

When Lola and Chris were done, they had rustled up an impromptu chicken and capers pasta dish that had Hutch wondering why Lola didn't own a restaurant.

"With dishes like this," he told her, "you'd make a fortune."

"Money isn't everything, young man. You should remember that. Spend a little time in a poor man's shoes and you might learn to appreciate the life God gave you and not waste your precious days on earth worshipping the almighty dollar."

Hutch smiled stiffly. "I'll keep that in mind."

Lola had remained distant during the meal, and despite Hutch's efforts at conversation, it was obvious she didn't approve of him. He wasn't quite sure why, although the unmade bed in his room probably had something to do with it. Ronnie's mother struck him as a conservative religious woman who frowned on any activities that weren't church vetted and approved. Especially when they involved her daughter.

And apparently Hutch's money was another black mark against him. According to Ronnie, her mother had spent her life working in factories, most of it on the assembly line at the local Pepsi bottling plant. So her resentment toward a rich boy with very little talent, who had gotten even richer through luck and happenstance, was completely understandable.

None of this negated her skill in the kitchen, however. As he ate Lola's fettuccine, which was high on the nirvana scale, Hutch did his best not to moan after every bite. But it was a struggle. And considering the reason Lola was here in the first place, he almost felt guilty for enjoying it so much.

He was polishing off a glass of cranberry cocktail-a distant second to the Pinot the Baldacci women were drinking-when his phone rang. Checking the screen, he saw that it was Tom, and knew that this was his cue to get moving.

"He's got some new books and he's at the checkout counter," Tom said. "Start heading in this direction and I'll tell you where to meet us."

Less than a minute later Hutch was pulling on a hoodie when Ronnie appeared in his bedroom doorway. "I'm going with you."

"No," he said. "You've had a long day. Stay here with your family."

"And listen to the Wrath of Lola all night long? I don't think so."

"What about Christopher?"

"He can barely keep his eyes open. I'll make it up to him tomorrow."

Hutch nearly told her that she might not have too many tomorrows, but he bit his tongue. The whole point of this exercise was to make sure she did.

Snatching an old UIC baseball cap off a hook in his closet, he tugged it on, then pulled his hood up over it, hoping he'd pass as just another college student. "Right now you're a more visible target than even me," he said. "And if Langer catches us following him, he may react violently."

"But he's my number one fan, remember?"

Hutch frowned. "This isn't funny, Ronnie. If I'm right about him, he's a very dangerous man."

"Then I guess we'll just have to make sure he doesn't catch us."

Heaving a sigh, Hutch moved to the dresser and found a gray woolen cap he'd brought with him from Los Angeles. It wasn't much, but it might cut down on the recognition factor.

He tossed it to her. "Has anyone ever told you you have a stubborn streak?"

"You're just noticing this now?"

"I'm just noticing a lot of things about you."

She pulled the cap on and grinned at him. "Better late than never."

— 45 -

"So much for getting caught," Ronnie said. "This guy's oblivious. Like my brother was, whenever he got hold of a comic book."

They were standing in the vestibule between two train cars, the clatter of the tracks beneath them as they looked through the window at Langer. He was seated facing the aisle, and as usual, had his head buried in a textbook.

They'd made the switch with Tom and Monica at the very same train stop where Hutch had seen Langer two nights before, and they had been watching him for several minutes now.

"You have a brother?" Hutch said.

"Had. I don't talk about him much. He died when I was seventeen."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"So was I. He hung himself in his dorm room just before Thanksgiving. We had a hell of a family get-together that year."

"Jesus," Hutch said, and thought about Lola Baldacci. First her son, now this. Quite a burden to carry. For Ronnie, too. "What was his name?"

She smiled wistfully. "Christopher."

The train braked to a stop and they stepped back slightly, afraid Langer might suddenly look up from his book.

"We'd better get out of this vestibule," Hutch said. "Ride in the car behind. It's probably not safe here, anyway."

"And risk him leaving the train without us knowing it?"

"Better than getting spotted. We can always try again tomorrow."

"Forget that," Ronnie said, then quickly adjusted the wool cap, pulling it down close to her eyes, as she pushed the bar on the door in front of her. It hissed open and she stepped through to the next car, sliding onto the first seat she saw-facing forward, not fifty feet from where Langer was sitting. The car was well populated, but there was no one in the aisle and his line of sight was clear.

Hutch's stomach clutched up, but he felt he had no choice. Stepping quickly through the doorway, he slid in next to her.

"You're a maniac," he murmured as they huddled together, keeping their heads low. Hutch felt exposed and vulnerable, worried that Langer would spot them at any moment.

"You didn't seem to mind in bed last night."

It was the first time either of them had mentioned what had happened between them, and Hutch wasn't sure he wanted to go there. But she was right-she had been a maniac in bed. And desperate. And needy. And attentive.

It was the kind of thing he could get used to.

But this? Not so much.

When a flurry of passengers had come and gone, the train lurched into motion again. Hutch took a peek at Langer and relaxed a bit. The guy was still caught up in his textbook, as oblivious as ever.

For now, at least.

Ronnie said, "Waverly tells me Raymond the rat is probably gonna testify tomorrow."

"Who?"

"My old boss at the Cuttery."

Hutch furrowed his brow. "Why?"

"In the month before Jenny was killed I took a lot of time off. Couple hours here and there around lunch, and it's all on my time cards. They're gonna try to show it corresponds with the calls from the Dumont, which is only about six blocks from the shop."

Hutch stared at her, incredulous. "And you didn't feel the need to mention this? That doesn't look good, Ronnie."

"I know, I know. But all I was doing was running errands, getting stuff together for the custody case. I swear to you, Hutch, I didn't go anywhere near the Dumont and I didn't-"

"I believe you, okay? That's not what I'm saying. But if Langer is our guy and he was timing those calls to your schedule, it makes me think this wasn't just some misguided attempt to help you, but a calculated maneuver. He's not doing this to protect you, but to screw with you."

"So maybe he is. What difference does it make?"

"Think about it. What if he's the one who planted that hoodie and not the cops? And what if he's keeping the knife somewhere, ready to throw it into the mix? A last minute discovery that seals the coffin?"

Ronnie suddenly looked sick. "My god, I hadn't even thought about that."

"We need to nail this guy, Ronnie. And we need to do it fast."

She nodded, absently, and they rode in silence for a moment. Hutch peeked up the aisle again, but Langer still hadn't moved.

His ability to focus was uncanny.

Then Ronnie said, "Nadine will probably testify tomorrow, too."

"We all knew that was coming. What do you think she'll say?"

"I know what she'll say. That I called her up after I ran into Jenny at the theater and ranted about how Jenny was a two-faced bitch and I knew they both had always hated me." She sighed. "But I was drunk, Hutch. Stupid drunk. I think you know what that's like."

He did indeed-along with half the population. And hopefully that would work in Ronnie's favor.

"I called her the very next day and apologized," she said. "Profusely. Offered to take her and Jenny out to lunch to make amends-even though I was flat broke. I called Jenny, too. The one call I actually did make to her office. But do you think Nadine'll testify to any of that?"

Hutch thought about his visit to her apartment. "Waverly might have to coax it out of her."

"Assuming she even tells the truth."

"Come on, Ronnie. She may have her problems with you, but she's not vindictive."

She looked at him in disbelief. "Problems? She thinks I'm guilty."

Her voice had risen in pitch and volume and Hutch touched her knee, trying to calm her. "Easy," he said, glancing toward Langer. "Let's not forget who we're riding with."

She lowered her voice. "Sorry… I'm sorry. I just get so crazy about this stuff. One minute I'm laughing, the next I'm screaming at the sun."

"It's called being human. And this isn't exactly an ordinary situation."

They were silent again, Ronnie struggling to regain her composure. Then she took hold of his hand and squeezed it, that wistful smile returning. "He would have liked you, you know."

"Who?"

"My brother. He would've been happy you're looking out for me. Protecting me. I feel like I've been alone for such a long time."

"What about your mother? Your son?"

"Christopher's a godsend, but my Mom and I have never been the same since my brother died. My dad left because of it. And I sometimes think she wishes it was me who pulled the plug instead. Not that I haven't thought about it."

"Stop that," Hutch said.

Ronnie smiled. "Dysfunction Junction. That's where I've been living for the last fifteen years."

Before Hutch could respond, a voice on the intercom announced the next stop and the train braked to a slow halt. Langer shut his textbook, got to his feet, then waited until the doors slid open and headed outside without a backward glance.

A moment later they followed.

— 46 -

Hutch had seen his share of spy movies in his time, had even starred in one-a direct-to-DVD stinker filmed in Romania called The Counterfeit Coffin. But neither he nor Ronnie were experts in even the most rudimentary surveillance techniques, a point well proven by their recklessness on the train.

Instead of turning this into a group project, executed by a bunch of laymen-an idea that Ronnie had rightfully mocked as bad TV-Hutch probably should have hired a professional. Someone with real expertise. Someone less visible. Someone who hadn't spent his days parked in a courtroom chair directly across the aisle from the very man they were trying to surveil.

If he had, maybe he wouldn't have come so close to getting himself killed.

But the truth was, Hutch's ego-his vanity-had gotten the better of him. He wanted to be the star, the hero. He wanted to prove his instincts right and save the damsel in distress. He wanted to be the one to tag Jenny's killer, if only to make up for his failure to be there for her when she was alive.

Besides, if he had gone with a professional, who would he have hired?

He didn't know any surveillance specialists or private investigators or retired cops here in Chicago. The ones he'd befriended in Los Angeles considered him a drunken loser. And the kind of man who was willing to take money for a questionable exercise like this one, was probably not the kind of man you should trust. Or depend on.

There was always Waverly, of course, who could undoubtedly make some calls. But she would have asked all kinds of questions-and what would Hutch have told her? How would he have convinced her that Langer was their man?

So here they were. He and Ronnie. Several blocks from the train station, foolishly following a possible psycho killer down a busy sidewalk, thinking they could pass themselves off as an anonymous couple out for an after dinner stroll.

Problem was, Langer didn't stroll. He moved quickly and with purpose, his book bag bouncing against his hip, an urgency in his gait that suggested he was late for an important appointment.

A job, maybe?

Hutch and Ronnie were walking at an accelerated pace past a row of outdoor cafes, the clink of dinnerware and the murmur of conversation punctuated by occasional peels of laughter. Langer was less than forty yards ahead of them-a man on a mission-and all Hutch could think was-

Don't turn around

Don't turn around

Don't turn around

— Then Langer came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the sidewalk, right in front of one of the cafes.

Hutch and Ronnie nearly collided as they, too, came to a stop. They quickly turned toward the crowded restaurant next to them and pretended to peruse a menu mounted on a post near the entrance.

Using Hutch as a shield, Ronnie chanced a glance in Langer's direction and said, "What the hell is he up to? He's just standing there."

"Please tell me he isn't looking at us."

"No, he's staring at the people eating dinner on the patio. Like he's catatonic or something. What a nut job."

"I think we've already established that fact."

"Wait now, wait-he's going inside."

"You think he works there?"

"I highly doubt it," she said. "Would you hire that freak?"

With Langer out of view, they started to walk again, moving slowly toward the next cafe, which was adjacent to the one Langer had entered. They stopped to study the menu, Hutch once again providing cover for Ronnie.

"He's taking a seat," she said. "Looks like he's gonna have dinner."

"You're kidding me."

"Hey, psychos have to eat, too, don't they?"

Hutch shuddered as an image of Hannibal Lecter popped into his head, but he quickly squelched it. Taking a glance at Langer, he nodded toward the cafe in front of them and said, "How do you feel about a cup of coffee?"

"Here?"

He gestured to the patio. "If we work it just right, we'll be able to watch him without drawing any attention to ourselves."

"In that case," she said, "I'd love one."

Then she hooked his arm and they headed inside.

"What's he doing now?" Ronnie asked.

They had been sitting there for a full forty minutes, strategically positioned with Ronnie's back to the adjacent cafe's patio, blocking Hutch from Langer's line of sight.

Hutch nursed his coffee, looking past her left shoulder at Langer, who was quietly cutting into what appeared to be a grilled chicken breast. He again sat alone, but for once in his life didn't have his face buried in a book.

No, something else had caught his attention.

"Earth to Hutch," Ronnie said.

"He's doing the same thing he was doing the last time you asked."

"Is he still looking at her?"

"Oh, yes."

For nearly all of those forty minutes, Langer had been watching a petite, dark-haired waitress as she moved about the patio taking orders, clearing up dishes, smiling and laughing with her customers.

Normally, Hutch wouldn't think much of this behavior. He could remember a time or two that he himself had been mesmerized by a beautiful waitress (and had wound up taking her home to bed), but there were two additional factors here that gave him pause.

First, this was Langer they were talking about.

And second… the waitress in question looked a helluva lot like Ronnie.

"I hate not being able to see him," she said.

"Just keep looking at me. The view's better anyway."

She laughed. "Normally, I'd give you hell for a comment like that, but this time you get a pass. What's he doing now?"

Hutch sighed. "Will you quit asking me that?"

What Langer was doing was finishing up the last bite of his chicken, his gaze still fixed on the waitress, who was pouring iced tea at a neighboring table. Then she turned and Langer immediately looked away, pretending to peer at the foot traffic on the sidewalk.

The waitress came over to his table and said something to him, gesturing with the pitcher, but Langer just shook his head, unwilling or afraid to look her in the eye. And judging by her expression, that was just fine with her.

But the moment she dropped the check on his table and walked away, his gaze once again shifted in her direction. And while Hutch couldn't read the guy's mind, he didn't doubt that he was paying special attention to the way the fabric of her uniform played along the curve of her ass.

A feeling of dread washed through Hutch. He didn't like what he was seeing here, convinced it was far more than a man admiring a woman's anatomy. At least not in a way any normal man would.

He could imagine Langer thinking about those photographs in his book. Thinking about that poor waitress lying face up in a pool of her own blood. Thinking about what he'd done to Jenny.

"This isn't the first time he's been here. He's stalking her."

Ronnie looked stricken. "You think?"

"I'd bet my so-called career on it. And the fact that she looks just like you makes it all that more horrifying."

"Thanks," Ronnie said, turning a little green. "Should we warn her?"

"She'll probably think we're nuts."

"Like my mom always says, better safe than sorry."

Langer was on his feet now, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. He dropped it to the table, picked up the check, then headed inside the cafe to pay the bill.

"He's on the move," Hutch said. "But I think you're right, and you're probably not gonna like this idea."

"What?"

"I think you should stay here and settle the tab, then go next door and tell your doppelganger she could be in very serious trouble."

He could see that she didn't like the idea, but she nodded. "What do I say to her?"

"Ask her if Langer's a regular and if she says yes, tell her you think he's stalking her the way he stalked you, and that she needs to be very careful. Her friends, too. Remember it was Jenny he slashed."

"Thanks for the reminder. You think she'll believe me?"

"I hope so."

As Hutch stood up, Langer emerged from the cafe next door and continued down the street.

Ronnie frowned. "I probably don't need to ask this, but where will you be while I'm having all this fun?"

"Following the sick son-of-a-bitch home."

— 47 -

But that was easier said than done.

By the time Hutch got out of the restaurant, Langer was a good half block away and nearly lost in a crowd of pedestrians moving along the sidewalk. A red light at the intersection should have slowed him down, but Langer ignored the signal and darted across the narrow street before any cars could get moving.

Hutch had to scramble to catch up-causing the ache in his kidney to come back-and got stuck at the light as cross traffic whizzed by. He still had Langer in sight, but wouldn't for long, and he could feel the adrenalin pumping as he waited for the traffic to clear.

Come on, come on, come on…

Then Langer turned a corner and Hutch knew he couldn't wait any longer. He darted into the middle of the street, let a honking car pass, then beelined it for the other side.

As he reached the corner, his cell phone rang.

Shit.

He pulled it from his from his pocket, saw Ronnie's name, and clicked it on as he turned the corner and scanned the sidewalk ahead, looking for Langer.

"Not now," he said. "I may have lost him. I'll call you back."

"You sound out of breath. Have you been running?"

The ache was even worse. "Yes, and I'm gonna hang up now."

"Wait, wait-I'm with the waitress. She says Langer's only been here a couple times, but she thinks she saw him standing outside her apartment the other night. She figured it was just her imagination, but now she's not so sure." Ronnie lowered her voice. "I think I scared the hell out of her."

"Good," he said. "She should be scared. I've gotta go."

Then he hung up. He hated being abrupt with her, but he still hadn't spotted Langer. There was a movie theater up ahead, people milling near the box office, but Langer wasn't among them.

Had he gone inside?

Hutch picked up his pace, moving at a trot now, but just as he reached the theater, he glanced to his left and saw that Langer had crossed to the other side. He was walking along the sidewalk past a row of parked cars, headed for the adjacent street.

Hutch immediately slowed down and fell back slightly as Langer reached the opposite corner and took a left. Then Hutch sprinted across the street, paused a moment to pull his hood back up over the baseball cap, and turned the corner.

Langer was about twenty yards ahead now, moving into a less populated area, where old brick factory buildings lined either side of the street. There were fewer street lamps here, as well, the block bathed in shadow, and the scene looked like something out of a forties film noir.

Langer was little more than a silhouette, distinguishable only because of the book bag still hanging at his shoulder. Moving at a clip, he crossed the street again, cut through a pool of light and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

All Hutch could see of him now were a few shifting shadows. He picked up speed and followed, crossing under the light until he reached the sidewalk. But when he looked in the direction that Langer had gone, he saw nothing. No sign of the guy.

He looked toward the next corner, which was still quite a distance away, but Langer was nowhere to be found.

What the hell?

He spun around, wondering if Langer had doubled back somehow-but no, there was still no sign of him.

So where was he?

Hutch turned again, looking toward the corner, and that's when he saw it-

— an alleyway.

A narrow sliver of darkness separating two of the factory buildings.

That had to be where he had gone.

Hutch moved toward it, feeling his adrenalin rise again, his heart thumping in his ears, a dull throbbing in his side.

What if Langer had spotted him and was waiting for him in there?

Hutch had grown up on a diet of horror films, and now several of the more gruesome scenes played through his mind, all of them starring the creep as the slasher. He imagined Langer carrying an axe or a chainsaw or a machete, ready to swing it into action the moment Hutch stepped into that dark alleyway.

It was a ridiculous notion, of course, but it persisted as Hutch pushed on, getting closer and closer to his destination. The pounding in his ears grew louder with every step.

He had almost reached the alley when his cell phone rang again.

Fuck!

Goddamn it, Ronnie!

Why hadn't he put it on vibrate?

Scrambling to pull it from his pocket before it rang again, he fell back against the brick wall and jabbed the screen, his voice a whisper as he put the phone to his ear. "This is not a good time."

"Hutch?"

But it wasn't Ronnie. It was Matt Isaacs.

"Jesus, Matt. I'm in the middle of something here. I'll have to call you back."

"Make sure you do," Matt said, "because I've got news."

"What kind of news?"

"Something that'll blow your mind. In fact, it's better we don't talk about this on the phone. Where can we meet?"

"My place," Hutch whispered. "But wait until I call you back before you head over there."

"You got it."

Then the line went dead.

Hutch's heart was hammering. His side throbbing. Putting the phone on vibrate now, he pocketed it, sucked in a long breath, then turned again toward that narrow sliver of darkness.

He was about to start forward, but stopped short when a figure appeared in the mouth of alleyway, looking directly at him.

Frederick Langer.

Oh, shit.

"Why do you follow me?" Langer asked.

An accent.

Scandinavian?

Hutch took a stepped backwards. "I… I wasn't following you," he managed-

— But before the words were completely out of his mouth, Langer rushed forward with unexpected speed and agility. The next thing Hutch knew, his back was slamming against the wall and a switchblade snicked open in front of his face.

"Who are you?" Langer repeated, pressing the flat of the blade against Hutch's neck. "Why do you follow me?"

His voice was darker now. More guttural. Dangerous. And as those black, soulless eyes stared at him from behind the thick lenses, Hutch felt an almost irrepressible urge to evacuate his bladder.

Yet the odd thing was, Langer didn't seem to recognize him. The darkness, coupled with the cap and the hood, must have made him difficult to identify.

"I–I swear to you," he stuttered, "I wasn't fo-"

Langer put more pressure on the blade and leaned in very close, his breath thick and hot and redolent of rotting, maggot-infested corpses.

"I see you again," he said, "I smell you… You die."

Then the knife disappeared and he turned, moving quickly down the street toward the corner.

Hutch just stood there, trembling, heart pounding, side aching, watching him go. Happy to see him go. Joyful with relief, but surprised to be alive.

It took everything he had not to piss his pants.

— 48 -

Hutch was largely silent during the cab ride to his apartment. He was thinking about some of the parts he had played, the tough guys pushed to the limit, who, when confronted by danger, never backed down.

In such stories, everything was carefully scripted. The hero always had the right words to express himself, and when danger arose, he invariably utilized his combat training from his days in the military or his years on the police force or his upbringing among the monks who had schooled him in the deadly art of Kung fucking Fu.

But the movies weren't real life, were they? And Hutch didn't have any combat training to fall back on. His encounter with Langer had proven that he was pretty much ineffectual when confronted by danger. If the guy had decided to gut him right then and there, Hutch doubted he would've been able to stop him.

And if Langer had recognized him, had better night vision, had known Hutch was the guy who sat across from him in court, the guy he had encountered in the bathroom, the guy who seemed to be friends with the object of his obsession-or one of them, at least-Hutch would likely be lying on a sidewalk in a pool of blood.

So much for playing the hero.

Hutch didn't consider himself to be a physically weak man. Before the fall into drugs and alcohol, he had belonged to a gym and had worked out three times a week. Sometimes more. And in the first several months of his recovery, he had once again started lifting weights, this time hiring a trainer to get him back into shape. His newly developed six pack-de rigueur for any leading man these days-had been prominently displayed in several shirtless scenes in the pilot he'd shot back in April.

But physical fitness meant very little if you failed to act-and because of that failure, because he had been too spooked to even move, Hutch felt like a fool.

He had told Ronnie that he'd simply lost Langer in the maze of streets, not bothering to mention the confrontation. Yet she seemed to sense that he was holding back. That something more had happened near that alleyway.

But she said nothing. Didn't question him. Merely took his hand in hers in the back of the cab and pretended he had told the truth.

And for that, Hutch was grateful.

Silent, but grateful.

"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 brain 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.

— 49 -

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 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."

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."

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.

— 50 -

"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 clean-up."

"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 time-keeping. 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 amp; 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?"

"I show a clock-out at noon that day, a return at one forty-five and a final clock-out at four-thirty p.m."

This went on for several minutes, and even though he had been warned that this was coming, Hutch's stomach dropped each time Abernathy pointed to a notation and got confirmation of a corresponding clock-out from Hardwick. By the end of that week in April-the week Jenny had been killed-there had been several calls, all of them clustered around Ronnie's extended lunch breaks or the end of the work day.

Knowing this was all part of Langer's sick game didn't make Hutch feel any better, and he could see by the looks on the jurors' faces, their glances toward Ronnie, that the testimony was making an impact.

Worse still, Ronnie's body language signaled her defeat. She was no longer able to look at the jurors or even sit up straight. Hutch wanted to shout at her, don't let them see your pain, but the twin blows of Danny Tillman's death and this morning's interrogation had left her incapable of fighting.

It was at that moment that Hutch realized just how much Ronnie meant to him now. Not as a substitute for Jenny and not merely as a friend, but as someone he had grown to care about in a way he thought he'd never again experience.

Was it love? He couldn't be sure. But it was close. Very close. And to see her looking so forlorn and defeated broke his heart.

When Abernathy was done with his laser pointer, he put it away and said, "Mr. Hardwick, are you familiar with the Dumont Hotel?"

Hardwick nodded. "Yes, of course. It's one of the oldest in Chicago."

"Do you know where it's located?"

"Yes," Hardwick said.

"And how far is it from your salon?"

"Just a few blocks. I don't know the exact distance."

"Have you ever walked there on your lunch hour?"

"Not to the hotel itself," Hardwick said. "But there's a little sushi place on the same block that I sometimes go to."

"And how long does it take you to get there?"

Hardwick shrugged. "Depends on how fast I'm traveling, but I'd say about ten or fifteen minutes at the most."

"Ten or fifteen minutes," Abernathy said, then thanked Hardwick and turned to Waverly. "Your witness, counsel."

As if to demonstrate that Abernathy's show and tell was much ado about nothing, Waverly didn't get up from her chair. Instead, she flipped open a legal pad and glanced at it.

"Mr. Hardwick, on the subject of dog hair on your clothes, can you think of anyone other than pet stylists who might be subject to this problem?"

"Well, most dog owners, for one," he said. "Dogs shed quite a bit during the course of the average day."

"And how many dog owners would you say there are in the Chicago area alone? Thousands? Millions?"

"Objection," Abernathy said. "Calls for speculation."

"Question withdrawn." Waverly made a quick notation on the pad, flipped the page, and switched gears. "Mr. Hardwick, when Ms. Baldacci clocked out for those extended lunch hours, did she ever tell you why she needed the extra time?"

"She said she had personal business to take care of."

"Did she ever elaborate on the nature of that personal business?"

"No," Hardwick said.

"So you have no way of knowing where she went during her time off?"

"No," Hardwick said.

"Do you have any way of knowing whether or not she walked to the Dumont Hotel?"

"No," Hardwick said.

"In fact, you yourself testified that the walk to the Dumont takes about ten or fifteen minutes. When you went to the sushi restaurant nearby, did you ever need to take an extended lunch hour to get there and back?"

"No," Hardwick said.

"So isn't it possible that the show and tell you and Mr. Abernathy just put on was much ado about nothing?"

"Objection," Abernathy shouted.

"Sustained."

Waverly scribbled something on the legal pad again, then flipped the page and continued. "What about my client's demeanor at work? Was she ever uncooperative or did she show any anger toward you or her follow employees?"

"Not anger, no. And she was never uncooperative. But I did sometimes get the impression that I wasn't her favorite person in the world."

"And why did you get that impression?"

Hardwick shrugged. "Just a feeling I had. I have strict rules and I'm sure there's quite a bit of talk behind my back, but I'm there to run a business, not win a popularity contest."

"Did she ever threaten you or anyone else in the salon with bodily harm?"

"No," Hardwick said. "Not that I'm aware of."

"Did you consider her dangerous in any way?"

"No, not at all," Hardwick said.

"And during the two months she worked for you, did she ever once mention her ongoing custody battle with her ex-husband? Or the name Jennifer Keating?"

"No," Hardwick said. "Beyond work concerns, she didn't really talk to me much at all. She simply did her job."

"So did you ever confront her about these extended lunch hours and express your unhappiness about them?"

"Yes."

"And when was this?"

"I believe it was the day Ms. Keating was laid to rest. Ronnie asked to leave an hour early to attend a funeral and I told her I'd give her thirty minutes and nothing more. That if she wanted a career at the Cuttery, I expected her to do her full eight hours every day from there on out."

"And how did she react to this? Did she protest or complain? Get into an argument with you?"

"No," Hardwick said. "Although I can't imagine she was too happy about it. She did express concern about being late for the funeral, but I stood my ground and she went back to work."

Waverly paused, seeming to mull something over, then said, "Mr. Hardwick, they say an attorney should never ask a question she doesn't already know the answer to, but you strike me as a man of integrity who takes great pride in telling the truth. So I think this next question is worth the risk."

Hardwick straightened in his chair, obviously surprised and pleased by the flattery.

"You worked with Ms. Baldacci nearly every day for two months," Waverly continued. "So when you learned about her arrest for murder, what was your very first reaction? The very first thing that came to mind?"

"Objection."

"I'll allow it," O'Donnell said.

Hardwick hesitated, glancing at Ronnie, then returned his gaze to Waverly. "Well… to be perfectly honest, I couldn't quite believe it."

"And why is that?"

"At the risk of sounding foolish, I work with animals every day and I've learned over the years that people are very much like their canine counterparts. There are those who bite and those who get bitten. And despite what she may have thought of me personally, Ronnie never struck me as the kind who bites."

This, Hutch thought, was the most accurate characterization of Ronnie he'd heard. Hopefully the jury would take it to heart, as well.

Waverly dropped her pen to the legal pad. "Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Hardwick. I have no further questions."

— 51 -

"Your Honor, the prosecution calls Ms. Nadine Overman to the stand."

Hutch, Matt and Andy exchanged glances as the court deputy crossed to the witness room door, opened it a crack and ducked his head inside.

"Here we go," Andy murmured. "Judas is in the building."

Gus leaned toward him. "This woman is a friend of yours, right?"

"Depends on your definition."

Hutch ignored the exchange. He was thinking instead about Abernathy's trial strategy. First, he had presented the lead investigating detective who, despite Waverly's expert cross, had provided two key pieces of evidence that wouldn't be forgotten-the sweatshirt and the phone calls. This was followed by Jenny's secretary, who further hammered home the importance of those calls, then Raymond Hardwick, demonstrating that Ronnie had had ample opportunity to make them.

Now it was Nadine's turn, and she would provide direct evidence against Ronnie's character, proving-in the minds of some, at least-that Ronnie had been hostile toward Jenny.

Hutch figured the forensic testimony would follow, confirming the origin of the blood on the hoodie, as well as digging deeper into the question of the dog hairs. And even though Waverly had managed to point out that those hairs could have come from just about anyone, the jurors were likely to believe the simplest explanation:

That they had originated with the killer.

And that killer was Ronnie.

It was a carefully constructed case full of circumstantial evidence, and by the time Abernathy was done, the jurors wouldn't even remember or care that Detective Meyer was a misogynist pig, or that Ronnie and Carlene Harding had never met face to face, or that Raymond Hardwick had claimed that his one-time employee was not a biter.

Hutch had been hopeful the last couple days, especially in light of Frederick Langer's activities, but the creep hadn't yet made an appearance today. If he'd been scared away, if he was in the wind, Hutch doubted they'd ever find him again.

And now, with Danny Tillman's questionable suicide hanging over them, it was clear that whatever force of nature was coming after Ronnie might very well win.

Hutch was drawn from his thoughts as Nadine emerged from the witness room looking considerably better than she had three nights ago. Her eyes were clear, her hair neatly coiffed, and she was dressed in business wear, a tailored pants suit that said power executive.

But as she crossed to the stand, Hutch noted that she was fighting a case of the nerves. He'd seen stage fright before, had even suffered from it a few times himself, and he knew it when he saw it.

Not that he could blame her. Whatever she might be feeling about Ronnie, she was about to betray a woman she had once shared a room with, someone she had called a friend. And that couldn't be easy.

She didn't look at Ronnie as she passed the defense table, and Ronnie continued staring at her hands, her demeanor unchanged. It wasn't until Nadine was sworn in and seated in the witness box that they made brief eye contact-

— and Hutch saw something he hadn't expected to see in Nadine's eyes.

Sympathy.

He saw sympathy.

But before he could process what this might mean, Abernathy was on his feet and moving to the podium.

"Good morning, Ms. Overman, I appreciate you taking the time from your busy schedule to testify today. Can you tell the jury what it is you do for a living?"

Nadine glanced apprehensively at the jurors, then seemed to steel herself, finding her center. "I'm the CEO of Overman Associates, a real estate development firm here in Chicago."

"And what was the nature of your relationship with the victim in this case? Jennifer Keating?"

"We were friends," Nadine said. "Close friends. But we also had a professional relationship."

"Can you tell us more about that?"

"I'm in the middle of a project that involves the acquisition and development of a large parcel of land in Evanston. I hired Treacher and Pine to oversee the legal details and Jenny was handling the contracts."

"So is it to fair to say that you were in regular communication with Ms. Keating?"

"Yes," Nadine said. "We spoke by phone several times a week and had dinner or lunch together at least twice a month."

"And how long did you know Ms. Keating?"

"We went to high school together. Then college. We lived in the same dorm during our freshman year, then moved into a house near campus."

"This was a house on Miller Street, correct?"

"Yes," Nadine said.

Hutch thought about the first time he'd seen Jenny and Nadine walk into that house. He had passed up the opportunity to dorm and had lived there during his freshman year with Tom and Monica and several other students whose names were lost to him now.

When those students had decided to find other lodgings, the vacancies were filled by Ronnie, whom Hutch had met in a philosophy class, Andy and Matt, who had previously dormed together on campus, and finally Jenny and Nadine, the last to answer the want ad posted on the student housing website.

Hutch had just stumbled out of bed when he saw them from his second-story window, crossing with the landlady, Mrs. Kastner, toward the front door. He was standing in his boxer shorts, looking down at them, when Jenny suddenly glanced upward and caught his gaze.

This was nearly ten years ago, but Hutch could still remember the moment. The slight catch his throat as they made eye contact.

It was like one of those film noir moments, where the beautiful woman emerges from the haze or the staircase or the alleyway, so perfect in every way that any man watching is suddenly re-evaluating his life, asking himself, how can I have that?

Who do I need to kill to have that?

But Hutch hadn't been forced to kill anyone. Within a month, he and Jenny were madly in love and a game of musical roommates was played until they were sharing a room. There was some resentment at first-from Ronnie and Nadine in particular-but they all managed to grow past it and their time in that house became something special. Magical.

Oh, how things had changed.

"Isn't it true," Abernathy said to Nadine, "that you also lived with the defendant at that time?"

"Yes. We shared a room for nearly three years."

"So I'd imagine you came to know Ms. Baldacci quite well."

"Sometimes better than I wanted to," Nadine said and several people laughed.

"What about her relationship with Ms. Keating back then? How would you characterize it?"

"Objection," Waverly said. "I don't see how events of nearly a decade ago have any bearing on today's proceedings."

"I'm merely attempting to provide the jury with some historical background, Your Honor."

"Or color their judgment," Waverly said.

"I'm going to allow it," O'Donnell told them. "I'm sure the jury is capable of evaluating the testimony and deciding for themselves what is and isn't pertinent to the matter at hand."

Abernathy thanked the judge and went on. "You can answer the question, Ms. Overman."

Nadine hesitated. "Could you repeat it?"

"Yes, of course. How would you characterize Ms. Baldacci's relationship with Ms. Keating when you were all living together in the house on Miller Street?"

Nadine took a moment, Hutch knowing that she was about to paint Ronnie as a jealous bitch.

But then she surprised him.

"Fairly typical," she said. "They were friends."

Abernathy seemed surprised as well. "Can you elaborate?"

"Their relationship was the same as everyone else's in the house. They had their close moments, they had their spats, but so did Jenny and I. We were college students-on our own for the first time in our lives-thrown together in a living situation that wasn't always ideal, but was often wonderful."

Hutch could see by Abernathy's expression that Nadine had just strayed from the script.

"Did Ms. Baldacci ever show any animosity toward Ms. Keating?"

"Of course," Nadine said. "She was always a little envious of Jenny's relationship with Hutch." She paused. "That's Ethan Hutchinson, one of our roommates. But then I was envious, too. I think we all were, in a way. They had something special that the rest of us were still searching for."

Hutch didn't look around, but he was certain that several of the people in the gallery were staring at him now. Some of the jurors as well.

Looking a bit concerned by her response, Abernathy pressed on. "Was there ever a moment during that time that you yourself felt threatened by the defendant?"

Hutch assumed he was talking about the late night incident with the air gun, one that would surely paint Ronnie a little crazy, but Nadine simply said, "No."

And that was the moment Hutch knew that something had changed. That Nadine had finally come to her senses. Somehow the message had gotten through to her that her old roommate couldn't possibly have done what she was accused of. That, despite any problems they may have had between them in the past, there was no way Ronnie could be a killer. It was the very same evolution that he and Tom and Monica had gone through.

Hutch didn't know when she had come to this realization. It could very well have been when she and Ronnie made eye contact here in the courtroom, but he suspected that Tom may have called her and told her about Frederick Langer. And that alone may have been enough to get her to reevaluate her feelings.

Abernathy looked like a man who had just been hijacked by pirates. "Ms. Overman, did you not tell me in a recent conversation about an incident with a-?"

"Objection, Your Honor. Leading the witness."

"Sustained."

Abernathy checked his notes, then said, "Ms. Overman, do you recall a time back then when the defendant possessed a weapon?"

"A weapon?"

"A gun," Abernathy said. "Or, more specifically, an air gun."

Waverly was on her feet now. "Objection. Your Honor, I don't really see the point to this testimony."

The judge eyed the ADA. "Mr. Abernathy?"

"I'm simply trying to establish a pattern of behavior that the defendant engaged-"

"And how does a single incident form a pattern?" Waverly asked.

Abernathy glared at her. "It has to start somewhere, doesn't it?"

"All right," O'Donnell said. "Everyone calm down. The objection is overruled. I'm going to allow Mr. Abernathy to proceed. But only with caution."

"Thank you, Your Honor." Abernathy turned to Nadine. "While you were living in that house together, sharing a room, did Ms. Baldacci ever possess an air gun?"

"Only for a day or two," Nadine said. "It belonged to her boyfriend and he forgot it one night."

"And did she ever threaten you with that gun?"

"No," Nadine said. "She didn't."

Abernathy stared at her, his frustration clear. "You're under oath, Ms. Overman."

"Which is why I'm telling the truth," she said.

Her ability to lie so easily was surprising to Hutch. Or had she been lying to him the other night? She certainly wasn't under oath at the time. Had he been right when he'd accused her of exaggerating the incident out of grief?

Abernathy didn't look happy. "So you're saying that the statement you made to me not two months ago was a lie?"

"Objection. Facts not in evidence."

"Sustained."

Abernathy made a show of his irritation, then glanced again at his notes, taking the time to regroup. "Ms. Overman, approximately six weeks ago you called my office and asked to speak to me about the case at bar, did you not?"

"I did," Nadine said.

"And as a result of that call, we agreed to meet at the Ballinger Restaurant in Wicker Park, did we not?"

"We did."

"And did we indeed meet?"

"Yes," Nadine said.

"And what was the topic of conversation during that meeting?"

"It mostly centered around a phone call I received from Ronnie Baldacci about a month before Jenny was murdered."

Abernathy looked relieved. "And can you tell us about that call?"

"I was at home, going over some paperwork for the Evanston development when Ronnie called my cell phone. We hadn't spoken in quite a while, so I was surprised to hear from her."

"And what did she say to you during this call?"

"Well, a lot of it was incoherent. She was obviously drunk."

Abernathy gave her a tight smile. "Tell us about the coherent parts."

"The gist of it had to something to do with a play she'd attended a couple nights before. During intermission she had run into Jenny and I got the impression that the two of them had gotten into a fight over Ronnie's custody case-although this was all coming out in bits and pieces. I had to decipher it as I went along."

"Did Ms. Baldacci threaten you or Ms. Keating during this call?"

Nadine thought about this. "She definitely called me a few names, but I'm not sure any of it could be considered a threat."

"What sort of names?"

"To be honest, I don't recall. The usual assortment, I guess. Like I said, she was drunk."

Abernathy's jaw clenched. "Your Honor, may I have the court's permission to treat this witness as hostile?"

O'Donnell blinked at him. "She seems to be answering your questions openly and honestly, counsel. Request denied."

"But her answers aren't consistent with what she-"

"Objection," Waverly shouted. "How many times do we have to go over these phantom statements my colleague keeps crowing about?"

O'Donnell raised a hand at her. "Calm down, Ms. Waverly, I'm well aware of the problem here." He turned to Nadine. "Ms. Overman, I'm sure you know of the consequences of perjury."

"Yes, Your Honor."

"So is it your contention that the statements you made two months ago to Mr. Abernathy were untrue?"

"Yes," Nadine said.

"Would you mind explaining why you made false statements to an officer of the court in the middle of a murder investigation?"

Nadine looked at Ronnie now, and in that moment seemed to be speaking to her, rather than the court. "My only excuse is that I was extremely upset about losing one of my best friends, and in my grief, I said things to Mr. Abernathy that were either overstated or untruthful. And if that means facing some kind of charge, then so be it. I'm not about to lie under oath."

Abernathy looked as if he were about to burst a blood vessel. "With all due respect, Your Honor, I have to strenuously object to-"

"Stop right there, counsel. It's sounds to me as if you got the answer to the question you've been trying to ask for the last several minutes. I'm sorry if it isn't what you wanted to hear. Now, unless you have anything further, I'd suggest you call it a wash and wrap this up."

Abernathy was silent for a very long time, no doubt weighing his options. Then he heaved a defeated sigh. "I'm done with this witness, Your Honor."

"All right. Ms. Waverly?"

"No questions, Your Honor."

"Very well, then. Ms. Overman, you're excused."

— 52 -

It was a small but significant victory, and Hutch resisted the urge to high-five his friends as Nadine left the witness box and headed for the doorway she had emerged from. More than anything, it was a personal victory, because she was a friend.

Just before she disappeared inside, she threw a wan smile in his direction, as if asking for his approval. He gave her a subtle nod, then she was gone, and he wondered if she would head straight back to her apartment and pour herself another rum and Coke.

When the time was right, when this was over, he would call her and ask if she needed his help. It was hard to read her right now, in this situation, but he sensed that she was adrift-a feeling he knew all too well.

"Who would have guessed it," Andy murmured. "The bitch has a heart after all."

"Shut the hell up," Hutch told him.

What happened next was a surprise to everyone, but its significance didn't become clear until several minutes later. Just as Abernathy was about to call his next witness, Detective Meyer entered the courtroom, moved quickly up the aisle and gestured to him.

"Your Honor," Abernathy said, "may I have a moment?"

"A moment. And make it a quick one."

Hutch watched as Abernathy moved over to the low rail that separated the gallery from the well of the courtroom. Meyer leaned close and whispered in Abernathy's ear, the ADA's eyes widening slightly, a small smile crossing his lips. Whatever the news was, it couldn't be good for Ronnie.

Abernathy nodded, said something to Meyer, then turned toward the bench. "Your Honor, I'd like to request a sidebar."

O'Donnell raised a brow, then said to Waverly. "Any objection, counsel?"

Waverly hadn't seen Abernathy's face and still seemed to be riding the high of Nadine's reversal. She got to her feet. "None whatsoever, Your Honor."

She and Abernathy moved to the bench as O'Donnell cupped his hand over his microphone and leaned toward them, the three speaking quietly. Waverly and Abernathy had their backs to the gallery and their faces couldn't be seen, but it was easy to see that Abernathy was doing most of the talking.

Waverly grew rigid beside him, then it was her turn to talk. They went back and forth for several minutes, O'Donnell cutting in occasionally, then the two attorneys returned to their tables-

— and Waverly's expression said it all.

Something very, very bad had just happened.

As Waverly sat, she leaned toward Ronnie and began whispering in her ear. If Ronnie had looked defeated before, she now seemed absolutely devastated, her body sinking deeper into her chair with each word.

The two spoke quietly-and urgently-for several moments as Abernathy threw papers into a briefcase and Judge O'Donnell conferred with his clerk.

Hutch couldn't imagine what had happened, and he was dying to know. He looked over at Andy, Matt and Gus and they were clearly feeling the same.

"What the fuck…?" Andy whispered.

But before anyone else could chime in, Judge O'Donnell finished with his clerk and said to the jury, "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm going to call a recess as we take this matter into chambers. Please report to the jury room and make sure not to discuss the case with one another."

The jurors all murmured agreement, then got to their feet and filed out of the courtroom, several of them glancing at Ronnie. Then O'Donnell stood up and the bailiff called out, "All rise!"

Waverly rubbed a comforting hand across Ronnie's back as they stood, Ronnie now looking bloodless. Lost. Devastated.

Waverly whispered again into her ear, gave her arm a reassuring squeeze, then joined Abernathy and the judge at a doorway behind the bench.

As they disappeared from view and the spectators began to disperse, Ronnie made a sound and sank into her chair, lowering her head to the table.

People in the gallery turned to stare at her as Hutch moved into the aisle and through the gate, pulling a chair up next to her, putting an arm around her, leaning in close. "What is it? What happened?"

Her voice was barely a croak. "I'm not getting out of this. Not now. There's no way they'll ever acquit me."

"Why? What happened? What's Abernathy up to?"

She looked at him, her face streaked with tears. "You warned me this might happen, Hutch. On the train last night."

"What are you talking about?"

"They think they've found the murder weapon."

Something went cold inside. "You mean the knife?"

"Not a knife," she said, shaking her head morosely. "A pair of grooming shears."

— 53 -

"Grooming shears?" Hutch said. "What the hell are you talking about? Didn't the autopsy report say Jenny was killed with a knife? She had her throat slit."

"I think so, but now they're saying it could have been the scissors."

Hutch was thrown for a loop. "I'm no forensics expert, but wouldn't they be able to figure that out when they examined her?"

"I don't know. Maybe they can't when the scissors are broken. One of the blades was snapped off at the handle. So it might as well have been a knife."

"You've gotta be kidding me."

"I wish I were."

"Where did they find this thing?"

"In the bushes about a block from the crime scene. Some guy was walking his dog last night and the dog started sniffing and scratching and there it was, covered with dried blood."

"Four months later? That's complete bullshit. The cops would've searched there already."

"I know, I know, but…" She trailed off, gesturing helplessly.

"What else did Waverly say?"

"That it looks like it matches the wounds, but they won't be sure it's the murder weapon until they run some more tests. She says she'll try to get the judge to exclude it, but she didn't sound hopeful. And if that blood matches Jenny's…" She paused, rose from her chair. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

Hutch stood up with her. "Easy now. Easy." He stroked her hair. "First off, even if they get a match, that doesn't mean they can tie the scissors to you."

She looked away suddenly, said nothing, and Hutch didn't miss the implication.

"Are you telling me they can?"

The tears began to well again. "They're my scissors, Hutch. At least I think they are. I broke a pair and threw them away a couple days before Jenny was killed."

"Jesus Christ…" he said.

She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "It was Langer, wasn't it? He planted them in those bushes."

Hutch nodded. Who else could it be? This had to be part of his sick little game. He had broken into Ronnie's house or had taken the scissors from her trash and used them to set her up.

But why wasn't he in court this morning to witness his handiwork? Whatever went on in that twisted mind of his, you'd think he'd want to be here to enjoy the show.

Hutch still wasn't convinced that Langer had recognized him last night, but what did it matter at this point? The guy had to be stopped. It was time to quit playing amateur detective and take this to the people who could actually do something about it. Make them see what he and the others saw.

He turned to Andy, Matt and Gus, who were now standing at the rail, eyeing them anxiously. He said to Matt, "Do you have that stuff on Langer with you?"

Matt patted his satchel. "Right here."

"Give it to me."

He frowned. "What are you gonna do?"

"Just give it to me."

Matt dug around in the satchel as he stepped past the gate and approached them, then handed the file folder to Hutch. "You're going to the cops, aren't you?"

"No," Hutch said. "I'm taking this straight to the top."

"What?"

Hutch glanced toward the back of the gallery and saw that the bailiff was holding a door open for the departing spectators, one of whom was Nathaniel Keating. Keating gave him that smile again and for a brief moment Hutch wondered if he could have had something to do with the sudden discovery of the knife.

But no, that didn't make sense. This was all Langer.

As Keating disappeared from sight, Hutch squeezed Ronnie's shoulder. "Sit tight," he said. "I'm gonna fix this."

Then he turned and crossed to a desk near the judge's bench, where the court clerk was busy gathering some paperwork. "I need to speak to O'Donnell."

The clerk looked up at him and blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"The judge. I need to talk to the judge."

She eyed him warily. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hutchinson, but he's in the middle of-"

Hutch didn't wait for her to finish. He stepped around her desk and pushed through the door behind it. Heard her calling out to him in alarm as he moved into a short and narrow corridor.

"Mr. Hutchinson-stop! You can't go back-"

The door closed behind him and he kept moving, heading down the corridor until it opened out into a large room with desks, the judge's support staff busy behind them. They looked up at him in alarm as he quickly scanned the room, spotting a door with flags on either side of it.

"Can I help you with something?" a young guy in a shirt and tie said, getting to his feet. Probably one of the judge's clerks.

"No thanks," Hutch said. "I think I've got this."

Then he beelined it for the judge's door and pushed it open. Inside was a large room with a massive desk, a wall of bookshelves, photos and commendations and law degrees decorating another wall.

O'Donnell was seated behind the desk, Abernathy and Waverly occupying chairs in front of it. Startled, they all looked up at Hutch as he burst into the room and threw the file folder atop the judge's desk.

"There's your killer," he said. "Not Ronnie. This trial is a waste of time."

O'Donnell jumped to his feet, looking like a man who had just witnessed a car wreck. "Who the hell are you and what the hell do you think you're doing?" Then he called toward the doorway. "Ed, get security in here-now."

Waverly was on her feet, too. "Mr. Hutchinson, get out of here, this isn't going to-"

"Look at it," Hutch said, pointing at the file. "His name is Frederick Langer. At least that's the name he's using now. He's been stalking Ronnie for months and sitting in that courtroom every day. We have evidence that he may have killed at least four other women in three different states."

"We?" Abernathy said, then turned to Waverly. "What's going on here?"

"Just look at the file," Hutch said. "We think he may have set this whole thing up to make Ronnie look guilty. The sweatshirt, the scissors-you might even be able to trace the dog hairs back to him."

O'Donnell's face was red with rage. "Young man, I don't know who the fuck you are, but you almost gave me a goddamn heart attack just now, and if you think for a minute that I give a shit about whatever's in this folder, you're sadly mistaken. This is a court of law and you have no right to come barging in here like some goddamn psychopath."

The judge's gaze shifted and Hutch heard voices in the doorway behind him. He turned as three uniformed security men, including the bailiff, rocketed into the room and grabbed him by the arms.

Hutch swiveled his head toward Abernathy. "If you care anything about justice or whatever your office is supposed to stand for, then you'll look at that file. You're prosecuting the wrong-"

"Get this son of a bitch out of here!" O'Donnell shouted. "Lock him up!"

Hutch struggled as they started dragging him toward the doorway. "Do your fucking job," he said to Abernathy. "Veronica Baldacci is not a killer."

"Oh?" Abernathy said, on his feet now. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but I just got a call from the lab with confirmation that not only is Veronica Baldacci a killer, she's one of the most brutal I've ever had the displeasure to meet. I know it, the judge knows it, and so does her attorney. Right Karen?"

Waverly was silent, but the answer was plain on her face.

Abernathy smiled. "So what do you have to say about your girlfriend now, asshole?"

— 54 -

They put him in a cell downstairs.

He sat there for the rest of the morning and late into the afternoon, convinced that the discovery of the scissors would pretty much seal the deal for Abernathy. Ronnie was toast unless Hutch could get the ADA or the judge or even Waverly to listen to reason.

But he'd pretty much blown any chance of that ever happening.

What the hell had possessed him to barge in on them like that? What weird glitch in his thought process had led him to believe they'd be receptive to the ravings of a post rehab has-been?

Hutch had always been a creature of impulse-impulses that had often gotten him into trouble-and now here he was again, a victim of his own irrational behavior. Worse still, Ronnie would suffer because of it, too.

But he refused to give up. There had to be a way to get her out of this.

The question was how?

With Frederick Langer possibly in the wind, how could they ever prove anything against him? Hell, they didn't even know where he lived, for chrissakes-and following him had been an exercise in futility, not to mention humiliation.

Hutch might have his heart in the right place, he might actually (for once in his miserable life) be playing the good friend, but right now Ronnie needed a miracle worker, and Hutch had spent the last nine months just learning to stand up straight and not piss himself.

The truth was, the only thing he'd ever been any good at was acting, and even that had turned out to be a sham perpetrated by Jenny's father. He'd gotten lucky and the show had managed to beat the odds and become a hit, but once he left, his career had spiraled, along with the rest of his life.

So what exactly was he looking for here?

Redemption?

Forgiveness?

He had no fucking clue. He just didn't want to see Ronnie go to jail. To see her spend the better part of her life-maybe her entire life-separated from that little boy, or even the cold fish of a mother who blamed her for everything wrong in her life.

The truth was, Hutch cared far more about Ronnie than he had ever intended, and had actually begun to see the possibility of a future with her. A relationship that wasn't based on benefits, but on-and here was that word again-love.

Jesus.

What the hell did he know about such things? Hutch was a rolling disaster and had proven that quite nicely today, thank you. Even if Ronnie were to go scot-free, why would he inflict himself on her? She may have worshipped him from afar, but all she had to do was get up close and stay there long enough, and the feeling would quickly fade away.

Just look at him now. Sitting here in a jail cell throwing a pity party of the highest magnitude. Who the hell wanted to hang around with that?

Nobody, that's who.

Even Hutch needed a break from himself.

He didn't know what time it was when Waverly showed up. Court was obviously done for the day, but without the benefit of a watch or a window, his timekeeping skills were poor to nonexistent.

He was sitting there still feeling sorry for himself, still wondering how he could fix things for Ronnie, when the gate at the end of the cell block rolled open and a pair of heels clicked down the hallway toward him.

Then Waverly came into view wearing a somber, weary expression. "You look pretty relaxed for a man behind bars."

"Gotta save my energy for the big escape tonight. Did you look at that file?"

"Forget about the file," she said. "I'm not here for that."

"What, then?"

"I spoke to the judge after court and blamed your irrational behavior on your misguided sense of loyalty. When he isn't shouting obscenities, he can be a reasonable man."

"He's letting me go?"

"Only if you agree to cooperate with the police."

Hutch balked. "About what?"

"You sure you don't know?"

There was a look on her face that said he should, but Hutch was clueless. "Are you talking about the Tillman suicide? They already grilled me about-"

"This is a lot more important than Tillman. Or you sitting in a jail cell."

"Okay…" Hutch said, feeling guarded now but not sure why. "Then what are we talking about?"

"They want to know where she is, Hutch."

He frowned. "Where who is?"

She studied him carefully, as if assessing his sincerity. "You really don't know, do you?"

"Know what? I swear to Christ if you don't spit it out I'm gonna reach through these bars and throttle you."

She studied him a moment longer. "During court this afternoon, we took a short break and Ronnie went to the restroom. She never came back."

Hutch gaped at her. "What?"

"She went to your apartment, assaulted her mother, then grabbed her son and took off for parts unknown." Waverly paused. "And the police think you helped her."

PART FOUR

Closing Argument

— 55 -

"Keep them coming," Hutch said. "I'm gonna be here a while."

The bartender splashed single malt into the glass, and as Hutch went to pick it up, a hand reached out from behind him and touched his wrist.

"Easy, Brando. You sure you want to go this route?"

It was Matt. Andy standing next to him. The Monkey House was fairly crowded, but it didn't look as if they'd broken a sweat finding him.

Hutch caught their gazes in the mirror behind the bar, then grabbed the shot glass. "What do I have to lose?"

"Oh, I don't know," Andy said as he slid onto the stool to Hutch's left. "Ten months sobriety?"

"Too little, too late," Hutch told him, then knocked the liquid back and felt its warmth, like the embrace of an old friend.

Matt took the stool to his right. "Don't do this, man. We're all hurting right now, but it doesn't have to come to this."

"What do you know about it?"

Matt tossed an AA coin to the bar. An ancient RIDE CLEAN, RIDE FREE medallion that had spent a lot of time in someone's pocket.

Hutch looked at him in surprise and Matt shook his head. "Not mine, my old man's. He was twenty years sober, then spent his last one at the bottom of a bottle until he plowed into a tree and killed himself and his two passengers. My niece and nephew."

"Jesus," Hutch said. "You're really cheering me up." He set the glass on the bar and signaled to the bartender to hit him again. "How come you never told me about this?"

"I'm sure there a lot of things we don't know about each other, Hutch. We spent all that time in that house, we had a lot of laughs, but how often did we bear our souls? We were too young, dumb and full of cum for any of that nonsense."

Hutch smiled. "Isn't that the truth."

"Hey," Andy said, "I'm not all that old, and I've got the other two covered on a pretty regular basis-so what's your point?"

Hutch laughed now, shaking his head. "I really missed you two idiots, you know that? I missed all of you. I didn't even realize it until I came back. And I sure as hell didn't think I'd wind up falling for one of America's most wanted."

"What happened with the police?" Matt asked. "Do they still think you helped her?"

"Who gives a shit? They hammered me with a bunch of questions, but they didn't have anything to hold me on so they finally let me go. I'm sure the tabloids will say I'm the mastermind and the money behind the whole thing. And the truth is, the way I've been feeling lately, I probably would have been if Ronnie had really pressed it."

"I'm surprised they aren't all over you right now. The tabloids, that is."

Hutch downed another shot, ignoring Matt's look of disapproval. "I've become an expert at subterfuge and misdirection."

"They'll show up here sooner or later. You know they will."

Hutch shrugged. "So be it. I'll be too drunk to care."

He signaled to the bartender again and Matt said, "How's Ronnie's mother doing?"

"Waverly says she wasn't seriously hurt. But she's pissed. Pretty much volunteered to testify against Ronnie when they catch her."

"You think they will?" Andy asked.

Hutch chuckled. "Is that a serious question?"

Lola Baldacci had only suffered a minor head bruise when she tried to stop Ronnie from taking Christopher out of Hutch's apartment. She had been treated at Chicago Memorial and released, then went back home to her house in Roscoe Village-which was undoubtedly under siege right now by the aforementioned tabloids.

As much as he hated the circumstances, Hutch was glad to see Lola gone. He was pretty sure she considered him the spawn of Lucifer and he was relieved he wouldn't have to put up with any cold, judgmental stares. He got enough of that when he looked in the mirror.

He did, however, regret that he'd never again taste that amazing pasta.

"So with Ronnie out of the picture," Matt asked, "what happens to the trial?"

"Waverly says O'Donnell will probably declare a mistrial. Then Abernathy'll tack some additional charges onto the indictment and be able to start clean with the murder weapon as his centerpiece." He shook his head in disgust as he reached for the glass of whiskey. "A murder weapon that was planted," he added, then looked at Matt. "Did Langer ever show up to admire his handiwork?"

"No sign of him all day."

Hutch knocked the scotch back. "So no matter how you slice it, Ronnie's fucked."

"No pun intended, right?"

No pun intended.

Hutch was five shots in when Matt finally convinced him to call it a night and go home. He had assumed the taste of the whisky would destroy every bit of willpower he possessed, but the truth was, all he really wanted was to get some sleep.

What he probably should have done was find the nearest AA meeting, but the desire to abuse himself had abandoned him somewhere around shot number three-point-five, and he didn't think he was in danger of a binge. Not tonight, at least.

What surprised him was that even when he got to his feet, he didn't feel drunk. He had assumed that so many months on the wagon would weaken his resistance. But it hadn't.

Or maybe he was deluding himself.

It was a little after ten when he stumbled past the night man, rode the elevator to his apartment, then fell across the still unmade bed, the faint but unmistakable scent of Ronnie's lavender cologne rising up at him from the sheets. He pictured her in his mind, rolling on top of him, her body slick with sweat as she moved her hips, pressing and pulling, pressing and pulling, bringing them both to the brink.

Then later, clinging to the side of the bed like a lost child.

He thought he had talked her out of running, but he couldn't really blame her for ignoring his advice. He couldn't blame her for much of anything, really. She was caught up in circumstances that were beyond her control and her impulse to flee was understandable.

Foolish, but understandable.

He imagined her scared and vulnerable, clutching little Christopher's hand as they boarded a plane or a train or a bus. Or maybe even a boat. She would need false identification, and he wondered if she had been working on it since the moment he'd posted her bond.

He didn't know when she would have made the arrangements, or who she would have made them with, but there was no reason he should. It could very well have been through someone she'd met in jail. An emailed photograph and a small transfer of funds would likely yield all the identification she needed.

Or maybe one of their friends had helped her.

Andy perhaps? He and Ronnie had taken enough car rides together over the last few days.

Or what about Matt, her closest friend and former lover?

When it came down to it, did it really matter? She was gone and Hutch missed having her in his bed, feeling her pressed up against him as he stroked her hair and tried to reassure her that everything would be fine. That he would somehow fix things.

What a joke that had turned out to be.

And a sad, sorry, unfunny one at that.

Hutch rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, thinking that maybe he was a little drunk after all. He had nearly drifted to sleep when his cell phone bleeped and he jerked awake, fumbling to retrieve it from his pants pocket.

He squinted at the screen but didn't recognize the number. Putting the phone to his ear, he murmured a groggy hello, and was surprised to hear Gus's voice on the line. "You awake, kid? You sound like you're half asleep."

"I just crawled into bed," Hutch said.

"Rough day, I know, but you'd better crawl back out. You're gonna want to meet me as soon as possible."

Gus was a good old guy, but the last thing Hutch wanted was company right now. He could barely keep his eyes open. "Why?" he said wearily. "What's going on?"

"Just ran into a friend of ours out here in the River District."

"Friend of ours?"

"Come on, buddy boy-wake the hell up. I'm talking about Freddy Langer. He's standing outside that little waitress's apartment as we speak."

Hutch sat up, his heart starting to pound. "Where can I find you?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

— 56 -

Gus's car was a twenty year-old faded blue Volvo sedan parked in the darkness between two street lights on North Wood, just around the corner from West Fulton. Both streets were dotted with warehouses.

Hutch had told the cab driver to drop him off a block away, then gave Gus a call, letting him know he was in the vicinity. Gus told him where to look and Hutch had walked until he found the car. He checked to make sure it was occupied, then gave Gus a quick wave and opened the passenger door.

The interior light came on, briefly illuminating the old man's weathered face and a night vision scope clutched in his right hand. It looked a lot like the one Hutch had used in an indie action-thriller he'd done called With No Remorse.

Gus glanced over briefly as Hutch climbed in and closed the door, then handed him the scope and pointed past the intersection toward Fulton. "Check out the auto body shop. Coupla cars parked in the driveway in front of the roll-up. You'll see him standing there."

Hutch hefted the scope. "You just carry one of these around, do you?"

"Trunk of my car. Never know when it might come in handy."

Hutch raised it to his eye, seeing a glowing field of green, and just as promised, he was able to make out a shadowy figure at the edge of a pool of street light.

"Is one of the cars his?"

"Nope. He's on foot."

"So what's he up to?"

"You can't see it from this angle," Gus said, "but the little gal's apartment house is right across the street. He's been watching it for close to an hour now."

Hutch squinted and adjusted the lens. "You sure it's him?"

"Hell, yes. I followed him from the restaurant. He waited outside until she got off work, then walked her home."

"From a distance, I take it."

"Is there any other way for a guy like this?"

"I wouldn't know," Hutch said. "I'm not exactly an expert on creepazoid behavior."

"Trust me, I've seen quite a few of these perverts over the years. They're all pretty much the same."

Hutch kept the scope on Langer. "I'm surprised the waitress walked home alone. Ronnie warned her the guy might be stalking her."

"People make all kinds of compromises when they're trying to save a penny."

"He's gonna kill her, isn't he? Just like the other women. Ronnie was a bust, so he's moved on. That's why he wasn't in court today."

"Butcher her is more accurate. But not tonight. I'm guessing he's a slow burner. Takes his time watching them before he-"

Hutch's cell phone bleeped. Startled, he handed the scope back to Gus and fumbled for the phone.

It wasn't a call, but a text message coming in. He was about to dismiss it when he saw the name associated with it-Cynthia Coe. The receptionist from Jenny's law firm.

He checked the message:

Sorry this took so long. Here's the photo you wanted.

She was talking about the surveillance photo. The one of Langer sitting in the Treacher amp; Pine lobby-proof that he had been trying to get close to Jenny. Why she was sending it at this hour was anybody's guess, but Hutch wasn't about to quibble.

He touched the screen and the photo came into view, showing a somewhat murky image of a man with glasses sitting on one of the Treacher amp; Pine couches.

There was only one problem.

It wasn't Frederick Langer.

He looked similar, all right, but he was too big and thick to be the creep. And the glasses were different.

Damn.

Hutch frowned, disappointment sweeping through him as he pocketed the phone. If they couldn't show a connection between Langer and Jenny, what else did they have? How could they ever hope to prove that he'd slaughtered her?

"Looks like our boy's up to something," Gus said. "What the hell is he doing?"

He handed the scope to Hutch and Hutch put it to his eye, pointing it toward the auto body shop. Revulsion welled up inside him as he realized Langer was moving one of his hands in an all too familiar way.

"Oh, shit," he murmured. "This guy doesn't just watch."

"What's he up to?"

"Tenderizing the beef, as Andy would say."

Gus groaned. "Son, I could've gone the rest of my years without you sharing that particular tidbit of information."

"Hey, you asked." Hutch lowered the scope. "I think I'll let him do his business in private. Way he's going at it, it shouldn't take long."

"Christ on a cracker," Gus said.

They were silent, sitting there in the darkness as they waited for Langer to be done, Hutch thinking about all the time this guy had spent stalking Ronnie. A slow burner, as Gus had said. And if Langer had indeed changed up his modus operandi with her, that was a good thing. Otherwise Ronnie might not be alive today.

Then again Jenny would be, wouldn't she? She'd be in her apartment right now, maybe working on a case or getting ready for bed. Maybe even worrying about Hutch out there in Lala Land, wasting his life away.

Where were you, Ethan.

Why didn't you return my calls?

Hutch decided it was best not to think about these things. He had no desire to turn this into some kind of Sophie's choice moment between Jenny and Ronnie.

Thankfully, Gus broke the silence. "You heard anything about Veronica?"

"Nothing new."

"Way she's being railroaded, I don't blame her for taking off."

"Except we both know she'll be caught," Hutch said. "And when that happens…"

"Don't give up just yet, son. We still got a bonafide pervert to wrangle and that could change the whole rodeo." He gestured. "Speaking of which, you'd better check on him. See if he's done floggin' the dog."

Hutch nodded and raised the scope, pointing it toward the auto body shop.

His heart froze.

Langer wasn't there.

"Fuck," he said, adjusting the lens and panning the street. "The son of a bitch is gone."

"Are you kidding me? Give me that thing."

Hutch handed over the scope and Gus pressed it to his eye, panning and focusing, trying to get a bead on Langer. From the look on his face, he wasn't having any luck.

He lowered the scope. "We might have a very serious problem on our hands."

"Meaning what?"

"What if I'm wrong? What if this boy isn't a slow burner after all? That little move he just made could've been the beginning of something. Maybe his particular perversion is to relieve himself, then punish the girl for making him do it."

"Holy shit," Hutch said. His heart started thumping, going into overdrive.

"Holy shit, indeed," Gus murmured, then jerked his door open.

— 57 -

Gus moved quickly to the trunk of the car, then opened it and rummaged around inside. "You ever use a firearm?"

Hutch suddenly felt less than adequate. "Just in the movies."

"Close enough," Gus said, then handed him a battered revolver that looked like something Clint Eastwood would carry. Hutch was used to prop guns or feather-light polymer weapons, but this one was big, bulky and weighed half a ton.

"Where the hell did you get this thing?"

"Had it for years. It might not look like much, but it'll stop anything that moves."

"No shit," Hutch said.

He glanced toward the auto body shop, which was shrouded in darkness. He wondered if Langer had merely changed positions or maybe left the area altogether. But every instinct he possessed told him no, that Gus was right. That Langer's little masturbatory exercise had been the prelude to a much darker scenario. One that was playing out at this very moment.

They needed to get inside that apartment house.

"Just point it and squeeze the trigger," Gus was saying. "But use both hands and watch out for the kick."

"Should we call the police?"

"We could, but she'll probably be dead by the time they get here. I think it's up to us."

Gus had always struck Hutch as a solid, self-sufficient guy, but the sudden transformation from retired bailiff to no-nonsense vigilante was surprising. He spoke with purpose and authority, like a man who had seen a bit of action in his time and remembered all the moves.

Gus stuck another battered revolver into his waistband and closed the trunk. "Langer seems like he's a little on the timid side, so I figure even if he's in the building, he'll still be working up the courage to act. The faster we move, the better chance we have of stopping him before he does the deed."

"So let's get going, then."

"Easy, now, partner. We can't just go in there blasting. We need a battle plan. I took a drive past that apartment house when they first got here. Saw the waitress go inside. The place is small, only eight or so units in the building, with a lobby on the first-"

"You call this moving fast?"

Gus glowered at him. "The point is, we don't know which unit she's living in and he does. I figure if we split up, take the front and back, we can cover more ground."

"Or we could check the mailboxes in the lobby."

"Good idea, genius. You know the little gal's name?"

Hutch gave him a weak smile and decided it might be best to let Gus run the show.

"Front and back it is," he said.

The apartment building was so old and rundown it could easily qualify as a slum. If Hutch had passed the place at random, he would have assumed it was abandoned. Or close to it.

Did the waitress actually live here?

As the old saying went, desperate times, desperate measures, but Hutch thought she'd have to be pretty destitute to take up residence in a glorified landfill like this. Of course, this came from a guy with a door man and three thousand square feet overlooking the lake, not to mention the house in Malibu and the high-rise in Century City.

Sometimes Hutch had to remind himself just how fortunate he was.

He and Gus stood in the darkness of the body shop driveway, a few short yards from where Langer had stood making his offering to the gods of perversion. A streetlight began to stutter and buzz nearby, as if somehow sensing what they were up to. The apartment building was dotted with windows, but only one of them was lit, on the very top floor.

"That could be anybody's apartment," Gus whispered, "but I figure it's the window he was watching, so it's probably our best bet. How far up is that?"

"Looks like five floors. You still want to do the front-back thing?"

Gus nodded. "Probably a good idea. You take the back."

Hutch returned the nod, adjusted the revolver in his waistband, then crossed toward the building, heading into an alleyway along its left side.

He remembered his last encounter with Langer but willed the thought away, moving as quickly as he could, aided by the flickering streetlight. A row of overflowing trash cans lined the wall of the building, and he nearly ran into one, stopping just short of impact.

Stepping around it, he continued through the alley, the stink of the garbage and the smell of stale urine filling his nostrils. He gagged and held his breath, felt stickiness beneath his shoes.

You take the back, Gus had told him.

Thanks, pal. Thanks a lot.

It was dark this far in-too dark. Hutch pulled his phone from his pocket and lit the screen, using it as a makeshift flashlight. At the far end of the building was a dilapidated metal door, nearly falling off its hinges. The knob was missing, with no lock in evidence, and the door stood open a crack, revealing nothing but darkness beyond.

Once again remembering his previous encounter with Langer, a sudden thought occurred to Hutch. What if, like the other night, Langer knew he was being followed? What if this was another one of his games and he was waiting for them somewhere inside the building, switchblade in hand?

Hutch immediately doused the cell phone and stuck it in his pocket.

No point in giving the guy a target.

Pulling the revolver from his waistband-damn, this thing was heavy-he waited for his eyes to adjust. Then he moved forward, hooked the hole where the knob should be and gently pried the door open.

The hinges groaned faintly, but to Hutch's ears it might as well have been a scream. He tightened his grip on the gun and stepped through the threshold, straining to see in the dark. He was suddenly reminded of the first time he'd watched the movie Psycho, and how he'd had to navigate his way to his bedroom after he'd shut off the TV, feeling the burn of Norman Bates's gaze with every step he took.

Was Langer watching him now? Waiting for him?

I see you again, I smell you, you die.

Hutch swallowed dryly, remembering the blade pressed against his neck, those dead eyes staring at him. Bracing himself, he decided to let Gus's confident command serve as his inspiration. The old guy hadn't hesitated, seemed to show no fear, and Hutch couldn't help but admire him for it.

Just play the character, he thought. Pretend you aren't scared shitless. After all, nobody fucks with a man holding a two pound boom stick-right?

Right?

He was in a hallway now, another door to his left. Deciding to chance it, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket again and briefly flicked it on, shining it at the door.

Faded block letters said STAIRS.

Hutch killed the light and checked the knob.

It turned freely.

Come on, he told himself. Pick up the pace. Langer could be breaking into the girl's apartment at this very moment.

He opened the door, relieved to find light trickling down from somewhere far above. The smell of urine was nearly overpowering here and he again wondered why the waitress would live in a hovel like this.

Could she really be that desperate?

But this wasn't the time for questions. Hutch needed to keep moving or the only question he'd be asking was why had he let a madman kill an innocent woman? There had been enough of that already, and he wasn't about to let it happen again.

Not if he could help it.

Using the light to guide him, he headed upward, taking the stairs as quickly as he could without making too much noise. He paused at the first landing, wondering if he should check for any signs of life in the hallway, but decided to trust Gus's instincts and go straight to the fifth floor.

Hutch was in pretty good shape, but by the time he reached the fourth floor landing, he was winded, and he wondered if the alcohol still sluicing through his bloodstream was weighing him down. It didn't help that his side had once again started to ache, an unpleasant reminder of his encounter with Nathaniel Keating.

He took several deep breaths, then pushed on, taking the last flight of steps to the fifth floor landing, where a single incandescent bulb shone from a socket high on the wall.

Tucking the gun in his waistband, Hutch reached up and unscrewed the bulb, plunging the stairwell into darkness.

He didn't want the light to give him away.

He reached for the knob of the stairwell door and turned, opening it just enough to peer out into the hallway.

The hallway was empty, a window at the far end letting in the flickering light from the street, which illuminated graffiti-scarred walls full of gang signs and satanic symbols and profanity. The carpet lining the floor was threadbare, showing dilapidated planks of wood beneath.

The place was old. Too old to be occupied.

How the hell could anyone live like this?

There looked to be only two apartments up here. The door closest to him was closed, but the one at the far end of the hall hung open slightly, a wedge of light spilling out from behind it.

It was the same light they'd seen from the street. And if that was the waitress's apartment, the open door meant Hutch was too late.

Langer was already inside.

Pulling the gun free again, Hutch sucked in a breath and stepped into the hallway.

At the far end, to the left, he saw a worn wooden bannister-stairs that he assumed led up from the front lobby. As he approached, he heard a soft groan and stopped in his tracks.

A dark figure lay on the floor near the bannister.

Oh, shit.

Was it Gus?

Feeling his heart plow its way into his throat, Hutch shot forward and crouched down to find the old guy lying on his side, still alive but breathing rapidly.

"…I'm cut," Gus croaked. "…caught me on the fourth floor landing."

"Jesus," Hutch said.

"Y-you gotta get in there… There's still time. Just point the weapon and squeeze. Point it and… squeeze. Blow that motherfucker away."

Hutch patted him. "You hang in there, old buddy, okay?"

"…Go."

Hutch did as he was told.

Jumping to his feet, he crossed the hallway to the open door, sucking in a breath as he went, telling himself not to hesitate, to the point the weapon and squeeze. Point it and squeeze.

Then he kicked the door open, moved down a short hall toward the light, stepping through an open doorway into a bedroom lit by large, generator-powered work lights.

At the center of the room was a bare, stained mattress, and standing over it was Frederick Langer, the switchblade in hand, looking down at the naked waitress, who was strapped to the mattress with gaffer's tape.

Hutch didn't hesitate. Didn't falter.

Holding the grip with two hands, he raised the revolver, pointed it at the creep and shouted, "Get away from her you sick piece of shit!"

Langer jerked his head up, those black eyes staring through to Hutch's soul, a tiny smile on his lips as he turned to face him, taking a step in Hutch's direction.

I see you again, I smell you, you die…

Hutch wasn't about to let Langer follow through on that threat. Stepping backward, he tightened his grip, then steadied himself for the recoil and pulled the trigger.

The hammer snapped-but nothing happened.

Surprised, he pulled the trigger again.

Click.

What the fuck?

Click. Click. Click. Click.

Jesus Christ. The goddamn thing wasn't loaded.

And as the smile on Langer's bloodless lips widened, Hutch stared at the woman on the bed and finally saw, with growing horror, what he had failed to see in his haste to put Langer down:

That it wasn't the waitress at all.

It was Ronnie.

Ronnie.

And before Hutch had a chance to process this, something hard and metallic slammed into the back of his head. Pain blossomed in his skull as he dropped the revolver and crumpled to the floor.

Then darkness came and carried him away.

— 58 -

As he opened his eyes, hands were slapping at him. "That's right, son-wake up, now. Time to wake up."

The voice had a familiar warmth to it and Hutch blinked, his head pounding, his vision doubling and tripling as he looked up into an equally warm and familiar face-neither of which fully registered in his brain.

He felt as if he had the world's worst hangover.

Then the cobwebs began to clear, his eyes focused, and he realized who was crouched over him.

He blinked again.

It was Gus.

Hutch frowned, struggling to properly assemble a sequence of events that was now scrambled in his mind. He saw a man in the hallway, lying at the top of the stairs, near the worn bannister. Saw himself crouching over this very same man.

Crouching over… Gus.

"I… I thought you were cut," he said.

The old guy smiled. "I'm afraid I took a page out of your book with that one, son. I don't figure I'll win any awards, but I didn't do so bad, did I?"

Hutch felt as if there was something loose jangling around inside his head, making it nearly impossible to think. He tried to move, to get to his feet, only to discover that his wrists and ankles were bound with gaffer's tape.

What the hell was happening to him?

And what was he forgetting?

"Here," Gus said, "let me give you a hand."

But rather than remove the tape, Gus grabbed him by the shoulders, lifted him off the ground and sat him down in a rickety wooden chair, its legs groaning beneath his weight. The movement made Hutch dizzy, and he had to close his eyes to steady himself.

He sat there a moment, then opened them again. He was in a semi-dark room that looked as if it could use a bit of TLC. It was the sparsely furnished living room of an apartment that had seen much better days, and not recently.

He heard the tinny sound of a woman crying and swiveled his head, regretting it the moment he did. His brain jangled again and his vision blurred, but he could make out two flat panel computer monitors that sat on an old wooden table in the corner of the room, their screens aglow.

That was where the sound was coming from.

Then all at once his vision cleared again and on the first screen he saw a familiar-looking stairway and a door with frosted glass just beyond it-the lobby door of an apartment building.

This apartment building.

On the second screen was an overhead shot of Ronnie lying naked on a dirty mattress, swaths of gaffer's tape strapping her to it, her eyes wide with terror, face streaked with tears.

Oh, Jesus. Oh, Christ.

Hutch struggled to make sense of it, then, one by one, the sequence of events began to fall into place and he remembered it all. Climbing the stairwell, bursting into that room, his revolver raised, Frederick Langer standing over the bed-standing over Ronnie-with a switchblade in his hand.

But as Hutch had tried to fire, the gun had betrayed him.

And it was Gus who had given him that gun.

Gus, the kindly bailiff.

Gus, the aging commando.

Gus, the old man who didn't seem quite as old now, smiling at him as if he was aware that Hutch was finally putting it together.

"It was you all along," Hutch said. "You killed Jenny."

"No, son, I'm afraid I can't take credit for that particular accomplishment, as much as I might like to. I've done a lot of terrible things in my time, but Jenny Keating's not one of them. Hell, I didn't even know who she was until she wound up dead."

"Langer?"

Gus shook his head. "That boy couldn't tie his shoes without me telling him what to do. Besides, she's not his type."

Hutch glanced at the second computer screen, Ronnie's sobs rising from a set of speakers next to it. He thought about the disappointing text message he'd received in the car, and the photo showing that it wasn't Langer who had visited Treacher amp; Pine.

Had they been wrong about him all along? He was clearly a psychopath, and there was no doubt he'd been stalking Ronnie. But if Gus was telling the truth, then who had killed Jenny?

"I don't understand," he said. "If you had nothing to do with her death, why are you doing this? How do you even know Langer?"

"You might call him a student of mine."

"Student?"

"Protege, apprentice. Truth is, he's more a source of entertainment than anything else. Just like you, Veronica, and all your little friends. Langer doesn't look like much, but he knows when to do what he's told." Gus gestured to a stack of DVDs next to the monitors. "Thirteen girls in nine different states. Every one of them a delight."

Hutch stared at him blankly and this provoked another smile.

"I can see you don't quite get it yet. You still think I'm Gus the retired bailiff from courtroom two twenty-three. It's amazing how people are so quick to believe anything you tell them. You say it with enough authority and you'll get 'em every time."

"But the guards downstairs. They know you. They're friends of yours. They helped us identify Langer."

Gus chuckled. "Did they now? You saw them wave to an old man, then do their job and hand me my wallet after I went through the security line. Nothing more, nothing less. It's all about perception, Ethan. Like what goes on inside that courtroom."

Gus crossed to the monitors and picked up a backpack that was sitting on the floor beneath the table. He opened it, then grabbed the stack of DVDs and stuffed them inside.

"There was a time I'd do all the footwork myself. I must've had my fun with thirty or forty little gals before I called it a day. Prostitutes, office workers, students. You name it, I've probably done it, and had a helluva good time in the process." He paused. "But as you get older, you get tired, son. You may not lose the desire, but you lose the energy to do anything about it. And that's when you have to make a decision. You either quit having fun, or you find a new way to play the game."

Hutch thought he understood now. "You recruited Langer to do the killing for you."

Gus nodded. "He's not the first and he won't be the last. I always let him pick out the girls, because that doesn't matter much to me. He's the one who has a thing for gals like Veronica, and that waitress and all the others Matt told you about. I think they remind him of his sister, who used to sexually humiliate the poor boy." Another smile. "We started with her."

Hutch glanced at the monitors again, nausea sweeping through him at the sight of Ronnie lying there so helplessly.

"I don't get it," he said. "If Langer picked out Ronnie, then why is she still alive?"

"I told you he's a slow burner and I like to give him room. I'm in no hurry myself." He patted the backpack. "I've got my DVDs to tide me over. But by the time he was ready to do the deed, your ex-girlfriend wound up dead and Veronica got herself arrested for it. And I can't say we were anticipating that particular turn of events. Coincidence is cruel sometimes."

"So why not move on?"

"Trust me, we considered it. Even picked out that waitress you saw. But I have to admit the thought of seeing our little gal on trial for her life got me excited. I do like to watch. And when you and your friends came along, gettin' all riled up about Langer, making all your plans, talking about finding the real killer, well that was a show I just couldn't say no to. Better than any episode of TV I've ever seen. No offense." He gestured to Ronnie onscreen. "And now, here we are, ready to make our own little TV show, and I'm your new director."

"You sick son of a bitch."

Gus laughed. "Oh, that I am, son. That I am. But we haven't even gotten to the good part yet."

Good part? There was a good part?

Hutch couldn't imagine what qualified as good in this psycho's brain, but then a thought suddenly blossomed-an image he'd conjured up as he lay in bed tonight: Ronnie and Christopher standing hand in hand as they waited to board a train.

With sudden ferocity, dread coursed through his veins. Pure unadulterated horror. If Christopher was with Ronnie when Langer and Gus took her, where the hell was he now?

"I can see that mind of yours working, Ethan. Wondering what's about to happen. Are you gonna die? Is Veronica? And what about that boy of hers? What did bad old Gussie do with him?" He waved a dismissive hand. "Don't you worry, I've got him stashed somewhere nice and safe, and I'm thinking he might turn out to be my new protege. That boy is raw material, just waiting to be molded."

Hutch struggled against the bonds. "You motherfucker."

Gus chuckled again. "I confess I've been there, too, right before I killed the old bitch. But that was a long, long time ago and isn't particularly important to the here and now. I know you're thinking this is the end of the line, but that doesn't necessarily have to be so. I wouldn't be a sporting man if I didn't give you a chance to redeem yourself. That is, after all, what you've been after, isn't it?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Gus slung the backpack over his shoulder, then crossed the room and crouched in front of him. "This is your trial, Ethan. A chance for you to make things right. A chance for you to save Ronnie from certain death, save her boy from the likes of me, and prove her innocence all at the same time. So the stakes are high. But I gotta warn you, it isn't gonna be easy. And it all comes down to you, son. It all comes down to you."

The nausea swept through Hutch again. "What are you saying?"

Gus tapped the watch on his wrist. "You have three minutes. And keep in mind these are the most important three minutes of your entire career."

"To do what?"

"Well now, that's up to you, isn't it? You're gonna have to improvise. But you'd better make it an Emmy-winning performance, or your girlfriend is dead, and her little boy spends his life learning a new sport." He gestured to the monitors. "But, lucky you, you'll get to watch the best part in glorious color."

He stood up again and reached into a pocket of his backpack. He pulled out a kitchen knife, showed it to Hutch, then crossed the room and set it on the table, next to the monitors. He gestured to the first screen-the shot of the stairway and the lobby door.

"As you might've guessed by now, we're not in the same apartment that Veronica's currently occupying. That would make things too easy. But to give you a head start, I told our friend Mr. Langer to wait downstairs in the street. You'll have three minutes to stop him from gutting your little whore." He pointed to a camera mounted in a high corner, then pulled a computer tablet from the backpack and showed it to Hutch. "I'll be watching it all from my car."

"You sick, crazy fuck."

"You're pretty hostile for a man who's about to be given a second chance. You should be grateful. Normally, I wouldn't do this." He smiled again. "But I like you, Ethan. Have since the moment we met. And just between you and me, I've grown a little tired of our friend Langer. So, believe it or not, I'm rooting for the good guys this time."

Small comfort, Hutch thought, then glanced at the knife next to the monitors. "You want me to kill him."

"That would be a wonderful thing to see, no doubt about it. Question is, do you have it in you?" He gestured to the image of Ronnie onscreen. "If you do, if you can manage it, you'll find a reward for your services underneath that mattress. Something that'll help answer all your questions, find that little boy, and lead you straight to Jenny Keating's killer."

Gus zipped up the pocket of his backpack and started toward the door. Sudden panic rose in Hutch's chest-and he knew this was it. This would be the start of the clock. But his head was still reeling and he wasn't sure he had it in him to play the action hero. Not for real. He thought again about his encounter with Langer in the alley. About his failure to act.

Would he fail this time?

In his panic and confusion, all he could think to do was stall Gus. Keep him talking. Keep that clock from counting down while he tried desperately to clear his head.

"So it really wasn't you," he said. "Or Langer. Neither one of you killed Jenny."

Gus stopped. "Considering the current circumstances, what on earth makes you think I'd need to lie about that?"

"But you know who did kill her."

"Oh, I've known for some time now, and I think you'll be surprised. Assuming you make it that far."

"Why not just tell me?"

Gus chuckled. "I've never understood you young people and your inability to delay gratification. You've gotta earn it, son. Prove to me you deserve to know."

"And if I do get Langer," Hutch said, "what happens then? Where will you be?"

"On to the next adventure. You'll never see or hear from me again." The twinkle in the old guy's eyes had not disappeared, but now it took on a whole new meaning. "Good luck, Ethan. I mean that quite sincerely. And don't be too hard on yourself for getting it wrong. At least you got one thing right: you've been very entertaining."

He checked his watch and seemed to be counting off the seconds as he circled around toward the door. Then he said, "Aaaaaaaaand-Action!"

And the chair suddenly flew out from beneath Hutch, knocking him to the floor.

— 59 -

Hutch crashed hard, the impact jangling his brain.

Pain radiated through his skull as the apartment door slammed shut behind him. But he didn't waste time thinking about it. He immediately brought his wrists to his mouth and started biting at the gaffer's tape, trying to tear it free.

He glanced at the first monitor, at the shot of the lobby door. If Gus was true to his word, Hutch now had less than three minutes before that door flew open and Langer appeared.

He kept biting at the tape, but it wasn't coming loose. Gus had secured it good and tight and there were several layers to rip through. Hutch tore into it as if he were gnashing on a tough piece of meat, but the tape just wouldn't yield.

Glancing toward the monitors again, he saw Ronnie shaking on the bed, tears streaking down her face.

Her sobs were the only sound in the room.

Hold on, kiddo. Hold on.

He kept tearing at the gaffer's tape, but it was no use. The seconds were ticking by and he'd barely made an inch of progress.

He needed the knife.

Glancing at it atop the table, he rolled onto his side and pressed his hands against the floor, trying to push himself to his knees. But his brain jangled again, dizziness throwing him off balance, and the blow to the head seemed to have sapped him of strength. Try as he might, he couldn't push himself upright.

Fuck.

How much time had passed?

A minute?

More?

He dropped to his side, straightened out, then rolled, heading in the direction of the table. As he reached it, he tried again to get to his knees, but he still didn't have the strength and his body wouldn't cooperate.

Instead, he grabbed hold of one of the table legs and shook it, trying to knock the knife to the floor. He heard it rattle above him, but it didn't fall. He shook the leg again, harder this time, and it suddenly came lose in his hands and broke free, the world crashing down around him.

The table toppled sideways, barely missing him, but one of the monitors beaned him on the head. Pain exploded, radiating through his skull like an electric charge as the monitor tumbled to the floor and landed next to him. For a moment he thought he might pass out again, but he held fast, willing himself to stay conscious.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and looked at the monitor. It was the one showing the lobby door. He thought he saw a shadow onscreen, approaching beyond the frosted glass.

Langer about to enter the building.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

Turning now, he frantically searched the floor, looking for the knife. But the only light in the room had come from the monitors, and the second one had either blown or landed face down. There were too many pockets of darkness around him, and the knife could be anywhere.

Remembering his cell phone, Hutch jammed his hands into his pants pocket, hoping to Christ Gus hadn't taken it. Then his fingers touched plastic. Relief washed through him as he worked the phone free, then touched a button on the side to activate it.

Shining the light from the screen toward the mess around him, he caught the glint of a blade and saw it poking out from beneath the edge of the overturned table.

He dove toward it, ignoring the protests of his aching skull. Scooping up the knife, he shoved the handle into his mouth and clamped his teeth against it, so that the blade pointed to one side. Then he rolled onto his back, turned his head to angle the blade toward the ceiling, and brought his wrists up to the sharp edge, positioning it between them.

Moving his hands back and forth, he frantically sawed through the gaffer's tape, straining to watch the monitor as he worked.

Onscreen, the lobby door was opening, the creep stepping inside.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

Hutch moved his wrists faster, cutting through the thick layers of fibrous tape strand by strand, all the while pulling his wrists apart, trying break them free. The seconds were ticking by and this process seemed to be endless, taking forever. This goddamn tape had to be made of buffalo hide.

On the monitor, Langer was at the stairs now, his dead eyes looking straight into the camera as he mounted the steps. He had five flights to go and he wasn't wasting any time, and all Hutch could hear were Ronnie's terrified sobs.

Hutch watched the creep clear the first landing and disappear from view, and knew he was running out of time. There was no way he could beat the clock.

Then finally, thankfully, the tape came loose and his hands broke free.

Ripping the knife from his mouth, he grabbed the edge of the overturned table and pulled himself upright. The room spun around him. A new wave of nausea swept through him as he leaned forward, using both hands to saw at the bonds around his ankles.

Bile rose in his throat and for a moment he was sure he would puke, but he swallowed hard and forced it back as his hands kept working, kept sawing, kept hacking away, as he flexed his ankles, trying to pull them free.

Finally the tape came lose and he quickly unwound it and tossed it aside, then grabbed hold of the table edge again. Using it for leverage, he pulled himself to his feet. The room tilted sideways, and his knees buckled, threatening to send him sprawling.

Catching his balance, he reached up with one hand, touched the back of his head and found something wet and oozing there, along with a knot about the size of a golf ball.

It was a wonder he could stand up at all.

But he didn't have time to be thinking about this. Listening to Ronnie's sobs rise from the speakers, he steadied his legs, turned, then launched himself toward the front door.

The room was still spinning but he didn't stop. He kept moving forward until he reached the knob, yanked the door open, then staggered out into the hallway.

Across the hall was the door marked STAIRS, and he realized that he was in the first apartment. The one he'd seen when he stepped out of the stairwell.

Turning, he barreled down the graffiti-scarred hallway toward the apartment at the far end, its door hanging open a crack. Langer was nowhere in sight and there were only two possibilities here-either he was already inside, or he hadn't yet made it to this floor.

Hutch much preferred option two.

Stumbling forward, he attacked the apartment door with his body weight, slamming it open, then held the knife in front of him as he barreled inside.

But something felt wrong the moment he passed the threshold.

Something was different.

There should light coming from the bedroom at the end of the hallway.

He should be able to hear Ronnie crying.

He spun around now, grabbing the wall to steady himself, and looked back toward the door he'd just come through.

Either this wasn't the right apartment or Ronnie had been moved.

And he doubted Ronnie had been moved.

As he stood there trying to get his bearings, a faint but familiar sound trickled down from overhead: muffled sobs, coming through the ceiling.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

He was on the wrong goddamn floor.

Gathering himself, he took a deep breath, tried to ignore the throbbing in his head, and went back out into the hallway.

And that was when Ronnie started to scream.

— 60 -

While Hutch would be the first to admit that he was no Bob De Niro, there were times in his career that he had found himself in the zone.

The zone, as he defined it, was that moment when the cameras started rolling and the external world fell away around him. No distractions, no crew members, no hot lights strategically placed to make the visuals pop. He was so singularly focused that he began breathing the character's energy, getting lost in it.

And at that point, the choices made themselves.

When Hutch heard Ronnie scream, he immediately slipped into the zone. He flew across the hallway and ran up the stairs, no longer a victim to such trivialities as pain and fear and dizziness and nausea and a body that didn't want to cooperate. This wasn't a role he was playing, and the stakes here were much, much higher than the Nielsen numbers or a weekend's worth of box office bounty.

He took the stairs two at a time, bounding onto the fifth floor landing and into the hall, then made a straight line for the apartment door-the right apartment this time-Ronnie's terrified screams the fuel that drove him forward.

When he reached the room with the lights and the overhead camera, Frederick Langer was kneeling on the mattress, trying to smother Ronnie's cries as he raised the switchblade-about to plunge it into her naked, heaving chest.

Hutch shouted, "Langer!" then launched himself across the room.

Hutch tackled him, hard, driving him off the mattress, slamming him into the wall. One of the work lights toppled and began to stutter and spark as they bounced to the floor and rolled across the threadbare carpet.

For a moment they were a tangle of flailing limbs and desperate grunts, Hutch struggling to gain momentum. But he was still in that zone, still acutely focused, and he anticipated the creep's moves before Langer even made them. The switchblade arced toward his face, but Hutch deflected the blow with his forearm and brought his own knife down, burying it in Langer's left shoulder.

Langer howled and fell back, pain and rage in his black eyes. He dropped the switchblade and began to cry like a child, clawing at his shoulder, trying to get at the knife, which was still lodged there, as Hutch pulled himself free and staggered to his feet.

He looked at the man without pity and didn't hesitate. Swinging a foot back, he kicked Langer as hard as he could, square in the face. The glasses went flying and bones crunched as the creep's head snapped back and he crumpled to the floor and stopped moving.

Hutch didn't know if the guy was dead or alive and didn't give a damn.

Scooping up the switchblade, he scrambled back to Ronnie and began cutting away the tape that strapped her to the mattress. As he pulled her free, she lurched into his arms, sobbing, and he hugged her tight, smoothing her hair.

"It's okay," he said. "It's okay…"

She trembled uncontrollably. "Christopher… He took Christopher…"

"I know… I know."

"Gus said he wanted to help us get out of town. But then he drove me here and left me with that sick fuck and took Chris with him." The tears were still flowing. "Oh, my God, Hutch. Oh, my God."

"We'll find him," Hutch said, remembering Gus's promise, hoping that he was a man of his word. "Help me with this mattress."

"What do you mean? Why?"

He pulled her to her feet. "There's something underneath it. A gift from Gus."

She eyed him skeptically, but didn't protest. They grabbed hold of the mattress and flipped it up against the wall-

— and laying face down on the carpet was a rectangular piece of white paper or cardboard.

Hutch grabbed it and turned it over, expecting to find a note of some kind.

Instead he saw a familiar photograph: the shot of Ronnie kissing him in the back of Andy's Mustang. The same shot that had been sold to The Gab Bag by one of her neighbors.

Ronnie wiped at her eyes and stared. "What the hell is this supposed to mean?"

Hutch was at a loss, thinking it had to be another of Gus's games.

But then it hit him.

One of Ronnie's neighbors.

One of Ronnie's neighbors had taken this shot.

Hutch knew what this meant. "Find your clothes," he said, digging into his pocket for his cell phone. "I'll try to get hold of Andy. We need a ride out of here."

"Hutch, what's going on? Where are we going?"

"To your neck of the woods," he told her. "Roscoe Village."

— 61 -

There were no paparazzi or tabloid reporters camped out in front of the Baldacci home. No news vans parked at the curb. The buzzards had already picked at the carcass, and satisfied that Ronnie Baldacci wasn't coming home, they'd moved on to the Next Big Story.

For now, at least.

The neighborhood was remarkably quiet, asleep for the night, and as Andy steered his Mustang around the corner, Hutch wasn't surprised to see Gus's blue Volvo parked in the driveway of a two-story bungalow across the street and to the left. Judging by the angle of the photograph, this had to be where the photographer lived.

Ronnie shuddered when she saw the car.

"Oh my God," she said. "He's here. He's waiting for us."

"I don't think so." Hutch slipped an arm around her, remembering what Gus had told him. That he would be long gone, off on another adventure.

Assuming the old psycho had told him the truth, that is.

"He just wanted to make sure we found the right house," Hutch said. "I'm guessing it's a rental?"

Ronnie nodded. "It has been for years. There's been a half dozen different families living there. Do you think Christopher's in there?"

"I hope so, but let's not-"

Before Hutch could finish, and before Andy could even pull the Mustang to a complete stop, Ronnie broke away, threw her door open, and was out of the car.

"Christopher!" she shouted. "Chris!"

Then she tore across the lawn and Hutch followed, his head once again throbbing as he ran after her.

What if he was wrong?

What if Gus was inside?

As she was about to reach the front steps, Hutch caught up to her and grabbed her arm, stopping her, whispering urgently, "Wait. Wait!"

"I need to get in there," she said, trying to break free. "Christopher's in there. I know he is."

Hutch didn't doubt her instincts, but if the boy was in there, was he alive? If Gus had done something to him, if Gus had hurt him or worse, Hutch didn't want her seeing him like that.

He tried to catch his breath. "Just wait here. I'll check it out."

"You can't expect me to-"

He grabbed her by the shoulders. "Look at me, Ronnie. I'm serious. Let me go in first. If I find anything, I'll call you in."

She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it and nodded. She was trembling again, almost uncontrollably. Now Andy was coming toward them, and Hutch gestured to him, sending him a message with his gaze.

Andy immediately moved to Ronnie, putting a comforting arm around her. "Easy now, everything'll be fine."

He and Hutch exchanged looks, then Hutch noticed a pile of gardening tools laying in a nearby patch of dirt. Moving to them, he found a rabbiting spade and hefted it, then returned to the steps, nodded to his friends, and started up them.

He checked the door, found it unlocked, turned the knob.

A moment later he was inside the house.

— 62 -

Two things hit him as he stepped inside.

First was the faint smell of chemicals permeating the air, but it wasn't the mix of disinfectant and polish you might expect in a house like this. He stood in a nicely appointed living room that looked as if it had been furnished and decorated in the 1940's. But that smell was acrid, pungent, and all Hutch could think about were the many crime documentaries he'd seen on cable TV-and the murderers who used lye or acid to dispose of a body.

The second thing that hit him was the music coming from the back part of the house. Frantic, xylophone heavy-old-fashioned cartoon music-which Hutch hoped was a good sign.

Proof that Christopher had been here?

Proof that he was still here?

Or was he the reason for the chemical smell?

The music came from beyond a doorway to Hutch's left. Tightening his grip on the spade, he stepped into yet another hallway.

No graffiti in here, just a faded floral patterned wallpaper. He saw the flickering light of a television coming from another open doorway at the end of the hall, and headed toward it, his heartbeat kicking up as he got closer.

But as he stepped inside a small bedroom, relief washed over him. The television played in a corner, the antics of Tom and Jerry throwing light on a bed across the room. And on that bed was Christopher, his tiny chest rising and falling, rising and falling, fast asleep.

Hutch relaxed, knowing now-knowing for certain-that Gus had been true to his word. Tossing the spade onto a chair, he moved to the bed and hefted Christopher into his arms, calling out to Ronnie and Andy as he stepped back into the hallway.

A moment later, Ronnie came running, crying out in relief when she saw Christopher, then pulled him into her arms and hugged him tight.

The boy came awake, staring groggily at her. "Mommy?"

"It's okay, baby, everything's okay now."

"Grandpa Gus said you went away."

A chill swept through Hutch and by the look on Ronnie's face, he could see that she was feeling it, too. "I'm not going anywhere, hon. Not if I can help it."

But Hutch knew this wasn't over yet. Despite her words, Ronnie still faced the real possibility of going away for a long, long time. Unless, that is, Gus continued to live up to his promise and somehow told them who had killed Jenny.

The answer had to be in this house.

But where?

Andy was the one who answered the question. As he stepped into the hallway behind Ronnie, he sniffed and said, "Smells like we got an old-school camera buff living here. Somebody has a darkroom."

And there it was.

Another reason for the photograph.

Gus had been living here. Gus was the camera buff. And Gus taken the shot of Hutch and Ronnie.

What else could it be?

He had told Hutch flat-out that he liked to watch. And if he and Langer had been watching Ronnie, watching her mother's house, how many other photographs had the old guy taken?

And what story did they tell?

Hutch found the darkroom on the second floor. The upstairs bathroom had been converted-foil covering the windows, bottles of photo chemicals lining the counter, wash trays, tongs, an enlarger in the corner. There was even a laptop computer and a scanner for digitizing the prints.

Gus was old-school, all right.

The room reeked of chemicals, and Hutch had to cover his nose as he stepped inside and flicked on the light. He hadn't wanted Christopher to see whatever was in here. And even though Ronnie was reluctant to confront her mother after their altercation in his apartment, he'd sent her and Andy across the street to wait for him.

But to be honest, Christopher was just an excuse. If Hutch really was about to find evidence pointing to Jenny's killer, he preferred to do it alone. She was never far from his mind-hadn't been for nearly a decade-and he wanted this moment to himself.

He had earned it, as Gus would say. His throbbing skull told him that much.

But as he looked around the room, disappointment began to weigh him down. He had hoped to find a string of photos pinned to the line above the wash trays-a message from Gus.

But it was empty.

He quickly checked through the vanity drawers and found nothing but more developing tools. But then his gaze was drawn again to the laptop. It sat there in the corner, next to the scanner and enlarger, its lid down. If Gus had digitized one of the photographs to send to The Grab Bag, could he have digitized them all?

Stepping over to the computer, Hutch lifted the lid and heard the hard drive whirr to life. The screen brightened and a screensaver filled it-a line of scrolling white text against a blue background that read:

The simplest explanation is usually the right one…

Gus's message. No doubt about it.

Hutch touched a key and the screensaver went away, showing a slideshow application, a single photograph centered on the screen:

— Ronnie standing in her mother's driveway, holding Christopher high in her arms, both laughing uproariously.

Hutch tapped the touch pad and navigated to the next photo:

— Ronnie, Christopher and Lola in the front yard, Christopher clinging to his grandmother's legs, Lola eyeing her daughter with her usual disapproving scowl.

And the next photo:

— Lola and Christopher on the porch, Ronnie on the walkway, talking on the phone.

And the next, this one a night shot:

— A dark figure leaving the Baldacci house, wearing a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up. The same sweatshirt Abernathy had held up in court. The one they'd found covered in blood.

Hutch paused. Didn't like what he was seeing. He waited a moment, then tapped the touchpad and moved on to the next photo, which showed a change of view, this one a grainy night shot through a car windshield:

— Two women standing in a vacant lot, lit only by a nearby streetlight. Too far away to be identified. One wearing a business suit, the other in jeans. And that sweatshirt.

Hutch's gut clinched up. So here it was.

Sucking in a breath, he tapped the touchpad and moved on to the next photo:

— A closer view of the two women, the one in the suit clearly identifiable as Jenny, the other with her back to the camera, hood covering her head.

Was it Ronnie?

Could it actually be Ronnie?

Hutch's stomach rolled as he thought about her attempts to manipulate him, the bruise on her mother's head, her dead ex-husband, the attempt to flee the country…

Were these signs of guilt after all?

Was this the surprise Gus had promised?

Hutch's heart wouldn't stop pounding. He looked at Jenny's face, at those eyes, his gut aching in a whole new way.

His finger hovered over the touchpad… then he tapped it again:

— A wider shot of the two women. Jenny on the ground now, arms thrashing, the other woman crouching over her, a blade flashing in her hand. Blood everywhere.

Hutch swallowed, suddenly sick to his stomach.

Gus had watched a woman die-the woman Hutch had loved-and had done nothing to stop it. And now that Hutch had come this far, he almost wished he hadn't. Wasn't sure he wanted to see what came next.

Maybe he didn't want to know who the woman in the hoodie was.

Maybe the truth would turn out to be inconvenient.

Maybe he had invested too much time and money and a good part of his soul into a lie.

Pushing past his trepidation, he let his finger hover again, then finally tapped the touchpad, bringing the next photograph into view:

— A close-up of the killer crouching over Jenny's body, a bloodied broken scissor blade in hand, her face turned toward Gus's camera, unaware of his presence, and clearly visible in the streetlight.

And Gus had been right. Hutch was surprised by what he saw, the phrase Dysfunction Junction once again springing to the front of his mind.

But he also felt such a feeling of relief that he could barely contain himself. Because it wasn't Ronnie in the photograph.

It was Lola.

Lola Baldacci.

She had killed Jenny. She had set her own daughter up-the phone calls, the dog hairs, the bloody sweatshirt, the broken scissors.

Hutch stood there, trembling, trying to wrap his head around this revelation, trying to figure out why Lola would do something so heinous to her own flesh and blood…

And for the second time that night, he heard Ronnie scream.

— 63 -

The tabloids had a field day. Called her Looney Lola, the doting grandmother who wielded a deadly knife in the dark of night.

Or something along those lines.

In the aftermath of it all, Hutch didn't care what the vultures had to say. His only concern was Ronnie, who, for the second time in her life, had walked into a room to find that someone she loved had taken-as Ronnie herself put it-the express route to heaven.

Or maybe hell in this case.

Dysfunction Junction.

When she and Andy first stepped into Lola's house, Ronnie had been nervous, their confrontation still weighing on her mind. She hadn't meant to hurt her mother. Lola had stumbled as Ronnie wrenched Christopher away from her and had hit her head on a low-hanging lamp. The last time Ronnie had seen her, she was sitting on the sofa holding her forehead with her hand.

So Ronnie had no idea what she was walking into. She had seen a light in the kitchen, and thinking Lola must be awake, had handed Christopher over to Andy. Then she took a deep breath and crossed through the living room, surprised her mother hadn't heard them come in.

As she called out, however, she got no response, hearing only an odd thrashing sound, as if someone were tossing and turning in bed.

"Mom?" she called again, but still got no answer.

She stopped when she stepped through the doorway. Found Lola hanging by a short rope from the light fixture, her face blue, her eyes bulging, her body still swinging.

Ronnie screamed, shot forward, grabbed a kitchen knife and cut her mother down, shouting for Andy to keep Christopher out of there!

Keep him out!

But it was too late for Lola. She was beyond help. Had died right there on the floor. Died in her daughter's arms.

And the note they found on the kitchen table read:

You left me no choice

— 64 -

"I don't get it," Monica said. "Why would Ronnie's mother do that to her? Why would she set her up like that?"

They were all sitting at their usual table at The Monkey House, Ronnie conspicuously absent, Hutch once again back to his root beer regimen, now two weeks sober after resetting the clock.

"She wanted Christopher all to herself," Matt said. He had brought along a friend-a desk clerk he'd met at the Dumont Hotel, who seemed very much enamored with him. "She had always blamed Ronnie for the death of her own son, and I guess she figured this was her way of getting him back and getting rid of the 'rotten' one at the same time."

Tom shook his head sadly. "In a way the cops weren't too far off. It turned out to be a custody case after all, and Jenny had the misfortune to get in the middle of it."

Matt nodded. "When Ronnie complained to her mom that Jenny's firm was representing her ex-husband, Mom must've seen it as an opportunity."

"Looney Lola indeed," Andy said.

"But what about Ronnie's ex?" Monica asked. "Was that Lola, too?"

Matt nodded again. "That seems pretty likely. The cops found search records on the computer in her bedroom related to murder for hire, so they're thinking she must have arranged a hit. And if Ronnie was convicted, Lola would be free and clear to take custody of the kid. They'll know more when they find a shooter."

"If they ever do," Hutch said.

Nadine, who had decided to join them at their invitation despite her lingering feelings of guilt and humiliation, studied her rum and Coke morosely. "I don't know about you guys, but I've certainly learned a lesson from all of this."

"And what's that?" Hutch asked.

"Never ever ever jump to conclusions."

"Amen," he said.

A-fucking-men.

Hutch put Ronnie and Christopher on a plane to Italy that night.

After spending the last two weeks at Hutch's apartment, fending off calls from the media, Ronnie had decided she needed to get away for a while, just her and Christopher. Fortunately, they both had passports they'd gotten for a trip to Canada a few years back.

Hutch had agreed to send them to a small villa he'd rented, with a promise to join them whenever Ronnie was ready.

She had faced the revelations about Lola with courage, but it couldn't have been easy to discover how much her own mother had despised her. This was, after all, the woman she had continued to love despite being blamed for everything wrong in their lives.

Hutch admired her more than ever for that courage. Loved her more than ever-he wasn't afraid to admit that now. He had fallen and fallen hard. And he only hoped that she still felt the same about him.

He supposed only time would tell.

For several days after the discovery of the photos, Abernathy and Meyer had made noise about charging Ronnie with Failure to Appear. She had tried to run, after all, and they felt it would be a miscarriage of justice not to arrest her for it.

They had a sudden change of heart when public and press sentiment against Ronnie did an abrupt one-eighty, painting her as the innocent victim of a crazy woman and an overzealous prosecutor. A martyr who had suffered more than enough these last several months.

So the charge was never made and Ronnie left the country unencumbered.

Hutch never heard from Nathaniel Keating again, although he did sometimes feel a slight ache in his side where the Filipina towel girl had punched him. This was nothing compared to the six stitches in back of his skull, however. The wound seemed to be taking forever to heal and often brought on pounding headaches.

As promised, he never heard from Gus again, either. He had given the police a full description of the old guy, but he doubted it would do them any good. Gus-or whoever he was-didn't strike Hutch as the type to be careless. He would lay low for a while, then find a new state, a new city, a new protege to help him ply his trade.

As for Frederick Langer, when the police arrived at the abandoned apartment building, he was nowhere to be found. It was assumed that he had survived Hutch's punishment and fled, until two days later, when his gutted body was discovered in a warehouse dumpster not six blocks away.

Gus's handiwork, no doubt. Tying up the loose ends. The police were now coordinating with law enforcement in several other states, using Langer's DNA to see if it was a match for any of the murders Matt had discovered through his research.

Whenever Hutch thought of Lola Baldacci hanging herself, he couldn't help wondering about the sheer convenience of the act. He'd seen those proud, judgmental eyes of hers too many times to believe that she was the type to take her own life. And he suspected that this was Gus's handiwork as well. An execution, perfectly timed for maximum impact.

Maybe the old guy had done everyone a favor.

The world certainly wouldn't mourn Lola Baldacci.

After Ronnie and Christopher were gone, Hutch spent his time wandering around his apartment, walking the city streets when he felt restless, riding the train, toying with the novel he knew he'd never finish. He even tried to rid himself of his smoking habit, an ongoing struggle he wrestled with every day.

He sometimes thought about heading back to L.A. to start looking for work, but in the end, he simply stayed put. And to his surprise, when he took those walks, he often found himself standing in front of the criminal courthouse, debating whether or not he should go inside.

It might be fun to watch another trial.

One that wasn't so personal this time.

And maybe if he listened carefully to the evidence and didn't jump to any conclusions, as Nadine had warned…

He might actually get this one right.

Content

Robert Gregory Browne
Trial Junkies

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