Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (233 page)

"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.

CHAPTER TWO

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.

CHAPTER THREE

IF THERE'S ONE 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.