Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (259 page)

"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.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

"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."

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

THE RECEPTIONIST AT the Law Offices of Treacher & 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."