Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (265 page)

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 doppelgänger 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."

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

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.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

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.