Trial Junkies (A Thriller) (2 page)

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 —

I
F 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. 

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 clichés 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.