Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (263 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

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 in 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.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

"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."

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

"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.