It took a moment, then Tom said, “So the name’s a fake. He stole the child’s identity.”
“Bingo,” Matt told him, and they all looked at one another in slack-jawed surprise, Hutch now knowing that he was right to trust his gut.
“I’ve seen this before,” Gus said in disgust, after a long sip of his Double Diamond. “This kinda nonsense grinds my beans. Guy pays a few dollars to get a birth certificate, then uses it to generate new forms of ID, like a social security number, credit cards, driver’s license. Anyone checks him out, he’s completely legit.”
“As long as they don’t look too hard,” Andy said.
“Problem is, nobody does.”
Monica was perplexed. “But why the fake address? What’s the point in that?”
“An extra layer of protection,” Gus told her. “If anyone comes calling—like a debt collector, or the boys with badges—they trace him straight to a vacant lot.”
They all thought about that, then Tom turned to Matt. “So what’s the third red flag?”
Matt flipped to the next sheet of paper, a photocopy of a credit statement. “Gus is right about the credit cards. Our guy has racked up quite a few purchases over the last few months.” He gestured to the page. “These are from his second month here.”
Tom frowned, looking at the photocopy. “This is confidential information. How did you get it?”
“Ve haf our vays…” Matt said, with a German accent.
“Meaning bribery was involved.”
“Or sexual favors,” Andy said. “In the right light, with the right amount of booze in you, our boy Matty here is nearly impossible to resist.”
Gus’s eyebrows went up. “You speaking from experience?”
They laughed again, then Monica said to Matt. “What happened to all your big talk about reporters and ethics?”
“It’s an ideal, not a rule. Anyway, if you look at the purchases on this sheet, you’ll find one of the biggest red flags of all.”
Hutch reached to the table and grabbed the photocopy, carefully reading the list.
Bockwinkel’s
Food 4 Less
Food 4 Less
Bockwinkel’s
Food 4 Less
(He was sensing a pattern here…)
Target
Rite-Aid
Food 4 Less
Food 4 Less
Bockwinkel’s
Hutch stopped cold when he saw the next item on the list. Felt something wet and slimy slither up his spine, laying eggs along the way. And all at once he knew that his suspicions about Langer were no longer just a hunch, but inching ever closer to a cold, dead certainty.
The others must have seen this reflected in his expression, because more than of one them said, “What is it? What does it say?” The loudest and most urgent voice came from Ronnie, who had been largely silent until now.
What he saw on the page would seem innocuous to anyone not watching the trial or privy to the discovery files. To them, it might even be comical. But to those in the know—to Hutch and to most of the people in this room—it was nothing short of a bombshell.
“It looks like a tuition payment,” he told them. “Our boy spent some time getting an education. Which in itself isn’t that big of a deal. It’s the school in question that raises the flag.”
Andy frowned. “Jesus, Hutch, spit it out already.”
Hutch tore his gaze from the photocopy and looked at them. “It’s a two thousand dollar payment to the Wyndham Academy of Pet Grooming.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“PET GROOMING?” GUS said with a frown.
Hutch nodded. “Unless this is some kind of donation, Langer went to pet grooming school.”
Gus turned to Ronnie. “I don’t follow. Is that where you work?”
Ronnie shook her head, but Hutch could see that she was only half listening. She had something else on her mind. “I work at The Canine Cuttery. Or I used to, until my fat bastard of a boss fired me.”
“Canine Cuttery, that’s right. I remember the testimony. But I guess I don’t see the significance, other than this boy Langer looking to take up the same line of work. Probably just a coincidence.”
“It’s more than that,” Matt said. “You remember all that talk about the hairs the cops found in Jenny’s car? The ones that supposedly place Ronnie at the crime scene?”
Gus shrugged. “I learned a long time ago not to pay too much attention to pretrial leaks, but, yeah, I remember something about that.”
“Well, if you read the forensics report, it turns out those hairs didn’t come from Ronnie. They came from a dog.”
Gus looked bewildered. “So that’s why Abernathy and Meyer made such a fuss about where she worked?”
Matt nodded.
“Hell,” Gus said, “that’s about as thin as my cousin Gerda’s ass. Anyone who sat in that car coulda had dog hairs on him.” He looked at Ronnie again. “Your attorney’ll blow a hole right through that pile of horseshit.”
“One can hope,” she said absently.
Hutch waved the photocopy. “But maybe it isn’t horseshit after all. We’ve got a mental case with a death fetish who apparently practices the same profession. And I’m guessing he’s the one who left the hairs.”
They all exchanged glances again as the weight of this settled. Then Ronnie surfaced from whatever distant pool she’d been swimming in and said, “Maybe, maybe not, but there could be even more to it than that.”
“What do you mean?” Hutch said.
She gestured to the photocopy. “When did he pay that tuition?”
Hutch checked the sheet. “About seven months ago.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s the same school I went to, before getting the job at the Cuttery. A four week all-inclusive course. Seven months ago. Do you have a picture of this guy?”
It was only then that Hutch remembered that, unlike the rest of them, Ronnie hadn’t yet seen Langer, except possibly among the sea of faces in the courtroom gallery. She had no real idea who they were talking about beyond Hutch’s attempt at a description, which had been greeted with a wide, blank stare.
Matt grabbed the folder, leafed through the papers, then found what he was looking for and handed it across to her. “Here’s a printout of his state ID.”
She took it and lowered her gaze to page. Something shifted in her eyes. “Christ…”
“You know him?” Hutch asked.
She moved her head, but it was barely a nod. “He was in my class.”
Monica brought a hand up to her chest. “Oh my God…”
“There were about twenty of us, and he always sat in a back corner. We never said a word to each other. Half the time I forgot he was there.” She paused. “In fact, I didn’t even remember him until I saw him a few weeks later, standing across from the Cuttery. I thought he might be there to apply for a job, but I don’t think he ever did.”
“Jesus Christ,” Andy said. “Bastard was stalking you. Still is.”
Ronnie shook her head. “We don’t know that for sure.”
“You’ve never noticed him in the courtroom?” Hutch asked.
“No,” she said. “You feel all those eyes on you, you tend to not want to look back.”
“Well, he’s there every day and has been since jury selection started, and he’s not one of the regulars like Gus.”
“No, ma’am,” Gus said.
“So if that’s not a stalker, I don’t know what is.”
No one spoke for a long moment, and Ronnie got to her feet, moving to the row of windows across the living room. Below, beyond the park—which could barely be seen in the darkness—headlights streaked along Lakeshore Drive, the moon playing across the surface of Lake Michigan.
“Okay,” she said, “let’s say you’re right. That still doesn’t make him a killer.”
Groans around the room.
Could she be serious?
“You’re forgetting the dog hairs,” Andy said. “Dog hairs we know didn’t come from you. If the guy was studying to be a pet groomer, it stands to reason—”
Ronnie cut him off. “Like Gus said, those hairs could’ve come from anybody. I mean, think about it, you’re jumping to the same conclusion the police did about me. And if I weren’t on trial for my goddamn life, I’d be laughing about it. The whole thing is ridiculous.”
“People have been convicted for less,” Tom said. “Look at the West Memphis Three.”
“Yeah? Well that’s just sad. If there’s anything this whole ordeal has taught me, it’s that we can’t just look at this guy and think he’s guilty, even if he’s a little strange, and even if he has been stalking me. I mean, why would he kill Jenny of all people? Why not me?”
“Because he thought he was protecting you,” Hutch said.
This brought the conversation to a halt. More exchanged glances as everyone processed Hutch’s words, which were the product of an epiphany that had hit him only milliseconds before they were spoken.
“Maybe Langer is an industrial strength stalker,” he continued. “Maybe he has some of the same resources Matt does. Knows all about your son, the custody battle, Jenny’s law firm. He might even have been there when you talked to her about it at the Godwyn. And, who knows, maybe he’s the one who made those infamous phone calls.”
“What?”
“Meyer testified that most of them came from the Dumont Hotel house phone. He could have disguised his voice somehow, pretended he was you.”
“But why?”
“Maybe he thought he was doing you a favor. Helping you out.”
“Maybe, maybe, maybe,” Ronnie said, then took a breath and scanned their faces. “Look, guys, I really appreciate what you’re all trying to do. You’ll never know how much it means to me. And, believe me, I want to believe he’s our guy. More than anything. But when it comes down to it, you’ve got nothing on Langer other than he’s a fruitcake. And, I’m sorry, as much as I’d like it to be true, it just doesn’t translate to guilty.”
They were all silent again, Hutch thinking about this and realizing she was right. And despite her situation, despite what had to be utter desperation at a time like this, if Ronnie was unwilling to make the leap, then maybe they should listen.
But that feeling of certainty wouldn’t go away.
The creep was the culprit. He was almost sure of it. And it didn’t really matter to him what Ronnie thought. This was about Jenny. His Jenny.
And Frederick Langer had slaughtered her.
“Okay,” he said, trying to tamp down the rage that was once again building inside. “We don’t have any evidence against him. But what if we could get some?”
“And how do you propose we do that?” Tom asked.
“There are six of us and one of him. We could tag team the guy, follow him in shifts. Find out where he lives, what he does in his spare time, where the hell he came from. And we can question some of the prosecution’s witnesses, Jenny’s colleagues, and see if they recognize Langer.” He looked at Ronnie. “There’s never been any mention of the murder weapon—the knife. Did they find one?”
She shook her head. “They practically tore my mom’s house apart looking for one, but Waverly says they don’t need it to convict me.”
“So if Langer is our guy, what if he still has it? Maybe it’s in his home, wherever that is.” He turned to Matt. “You’ve read the discovery files. Was there any mention of Jenny missing something? A necklace, a watch, maybe? The guy might have taken a trophy.”
“Not that I know of,” Matt said, “but I can check.”
“Good. And if we find that…”
Ronnie moved away from the window now. “Come on, Hutch, we’re not cops, for godsakes. And if Langer really is dangerous, someone could get hurt.”
“Do you want me to tell the cops, then?”
“They wouldn’t believe you. They think they already have their killer.”
“What about Waverly?”
Ronnie laughed. “She has enough to worry about right now. No offense, but I highly doubt she’d be very receptive to the whims of a movie star and his old college pals, even if you are footing the bill.”
Hutch turned to the others. “What about the rest of you? What do you think? Should we do this?”
“Hell yeah,” Andy said. “Count me in.”
“Me, too,” Matt said.
Hutch looked at Monica and Tom, and each of them nodded in turn, adding a yes to the chorus.
Then Gus also nodded, saying, “I know I’m the outsider here, and I tend to agree with Ronnie—you can’t judge a horse by its harness. But in this case, I think you may be right. I’d like to make it seven, if you’ll let me.”
Hutch smiled.
“Seven it is,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“I’M NOT A fool,” Ronnie told him, after the others were gone. “I know you aren’t doing this for me.”
Hutch stood at the windows, watching the headlights streak along Lakeshore Drive. Over his objections, Ronnie had insisted on cleaning up the mess on the dining table and was now wiping her hands with a dish towel as she approached him. Her mother and son wouldn’t be moving in until tomorrow, so it was just the two of them tonight.
Hutch looked at her reflection in the glass and pulled himself from his thoughts of Jenny. He had once again been wallowing in his guilt over how he’d left it with her.
Where were you, Ethan?
Why didn’t you return my calls?
After things went bad, after he’d fled college for what he’d hoped would be a better life—a more exciting one, at least—he had still believed that somewhere down the line he would see her again. Even after he’d failed to contact her, and that bullet train of a decade rocketed past, he had never for a moment thought that he’d be standing here in his childhood home, mourning her loss.
Ronnie moved up alongside him. “I know it’s about Jenny,” she said. “I think about all those years living in that house and how I used to look at the two of you on nights like this, curled up on the sofa as we all watched a movie.” She shook her head. “God, how I envied her.”
Hutch wasn’t sure how to respond to this.
“You were the magic couple,” Ronnie went on. “The two who got it right while the rest of us were stumbling through a post-adolescent haze.”
“But we didn’t get it right,” Hutch said. “Not in the end. Not me, at least.”
He thought about his parents’ funeral, when Jenny had come to pay her respects. He had known she was there, but with the paparazzi hovering, he had left the church as soon as the service was over, and he hadn’t looked back.
“I’m talking quality, Hutch. And intensity. Maybe too much intensity. Maybe that’s what scared you away.”
He shot her a look, surprised by her sudden insight. “You’re psychoanalyzing me now?”
“I don’t have a right to be psychoanalyzing anyone. I can barely hold it together myself. But I know a kindred spirit when I see one. I know you’ve probably spent a lot of time trying to figure out who the hell you are, always afraid that you’ll be a disappointment to the people around you. People like Jenny.”
He took a breath. “Careful, doc, you’re cutting a little too deep.”
“What can I say? I spent a lot of time in a jail cell thinking about this stuff. About how scared we all are—every single one of us. Only some of us disguise it better than others.”
“And some of us bury it with booze and drugs.”
He had once again been thinking about finding a bar, or drinking the leftover Double Diamond in the fridge. It was getting increasingly harder to resist.
One sip, Hutch.
One tiny little sip.
Ronnie reached over and took hold of his hand. “I’m so sorry she’s gone. And if I can help you stop thinking about her for a while, it would be the least I could do.”
He face
d her now, looking into her dark eyes, seeing what he hadn’t seen all those years ago, what he’d noticed at the The Monkey House the night she was arrested.
Just how beautiful she truly was.
He wanted to lean down and kiss her. But he couldn’t. Not like this. Not with Jenny still on his mind.
“Let me help you,” she said. “Like you’ve helped me. You can pretend I’m her if you want—I don’t care. God knows I’ve pretended enough with other men.”
He didn’t have to ask what she meant by this, considering Matt’s insistence that she had always been in love with him. But should he take her up on her offer?
If he did, it meant that Nadine’s warning was right. That he was thinking with his dick.
But was that really so bad?
Was it?
Yes, he thought—and he resisted. Just as he resisted that Double Diamond, calling out to him.
One sip, Hutch.
One tiny little sip.
Over the last ten years, Hutch had slept with more than his share of women, had even taken on a long-term relationship or two. But he’d never felt as if he’d been completely present in any of them. Had always held back, careful not to give too much of himself. He didn’t want anyone falling in love with him, because he knew he couldn’t return that love. It had always been “friends with benefits” for him, an arrangement that rarely ended well.
He remembered once being described in People magazine as “Hollywood’s Biggest Catch!” and nearly laughed out loud when he saw the issue on a newsstand.
Some catch. All he offered was disappointment. He’d even disappointed the one woman he had allowed himself to love.
“Let me help,” Ronnie whispered again. And as he stood there looking into her eyes—eyes that were asking as much as offering—he felt his body stirring.
One sip, Hutch.
One tiny little sip.
She moved closer to him now, her breasts brushing against his chest, her own body (if Matt was to be believed) filled with a decade’s worth of pent-up desire. The now familiar smell of lavender filled his nostrils and he imagined himself pressing his mouth against the nape of her neck, tasting her, breathing her in.
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