Mortal Crimes 1

by Various Authors

  But he gently pulled away.

  “You should get some sleep,” he said. “Big day in court tomorrow.”

  The disappointment in her expression was so palpable that he once again felt the sting of guilt, even though he’d done nothing to lead her on.

  She stepped back and away from him, lowering her eyes. “I… I’m sorry, I… “

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I’m flattered, believe me, and tempted too. Very tempted. But I don’t think the timing is right.”

  She looked up suddenly, releasing a sharp, humorless laugh. “Timing? Who gives a damn about timing?”

  “I’m just thinking that with the trial and every—”

  “I’m not asking you to marry me, Hutch. I’m only looking for a comfort fuck—and I thought you might be, too.”

  Her tone was abrupt and abrasive, and for reasons he didn’t quite understand, this made her all the more attractive to him. And somehow more vulnerable.

  But he knew she was lying. This would be much more than a simple comfort fuck, and he needed to walk away. Now. He didn’t want her to be a substitute for Jenny. That was just wrong, on far too many levels.

  But before he knew it, he was pulling her toward him and pressing his mouth against hers, tasting her, feeling the heat of her tongue, his hands roaming, fingers probing, as they moved together toward the couch and fell onto the cushions.

  And it wasn’t just a sip.

  He drank the whole goddamn bottle.

  ________

  LATER, AS THEY lay in bed, her warm breasts pressed against his arm, Ronnie said, “What if they convict me? What am I gonna do?”

  He reached over, stroked her hair. Ran his hand along her jaw. “You can’t think like that.”

  Yet he’d been thinking the very same thing.

  “Can’t I? We point at the evidence and moan about how ridiculous it is, but there’s no guarantee the jury will see that. Some of those women look at me as if I’m the Devil incarnate—and the trial has barely even started.”

  “Then we’ll just have to prove that Langer’s the one who should be on trial.”

  She sighed. “Let’s be realistic. What you proposed tonight sounded like something from a bad TV show.”

  “Good thing I have a lot of experience with that.”

  “I mean it, Hutch. The only way I’m getting out of this is if the jury votes for acquittal or Langer miraculously confesses—assuming he’s even done anything. I’m still not convinced he’s the bad guy.”

  “He’s a stalker, we know that much.”

  “Do we?”

  “Come on, Ronnie. He’s obviously been obsessed with you ever since he saw you at school. And I’ve seen the way he looks at you in the courtroom. Everything in my gut tells me he’s our guy.”

  “And what if your gut is wrong?”

  “Then we just have to hope the jury sees through Detective Meyer’s bullshit. Maybe you’ll feel better after Waverly does her cross.”

  She turned onto her back now and brought her forearm over her eyes, trying to hide the tears that were forming. “I am so screwed…”

  Hutch got up on his elbow. “You have to think positive, kiddo. It’ll all work out. We’ll make it work.”

  She took her arm away and wiped at the tears. “How?”

  A good question. The logistics of what he had proposed tonight had been loosely worked out, but when it came down to it, they were a bunch of amateurs and they were flying blind.

  “We’ll find a way,” he said. “I promise.”

  She nodded and tried to smile, tried to put on a brave face, but her eyes were full of doubt and he didn’t blame her. Then she said in a small, tentative voice, “What if there’s another way to beat this? A way that has nothing to do with Langer or the jury.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I could disappear,” she said. “Take Christopher and run. Do what Langer did and create false identities. You could even come with us if you—”

  “Stop,” he said. “Don’t say another word.”

  She got quiet for a moment, then started to cry again. “I can’t go back to jail, Hutch. Not for something I didn’t do. And these bastards want to put me away for the rest of my life.”

  “And running only makes you look guilty.”

  “So what? Everyone already thinks that.”

  “I don’t,” Hutch said. “And neither do your friends.”

  “I’ll try to remember that when I’m exercising in the prison yard.” She rolled onto her side, putting her back to him. She was quiet for a long time, then she said, “If I run, at least I’ll be with my son.”

  “And where would you go?”

  “I don’t know. Mexico, maybe. South America. Somewhere remote.”

  Hutch sighed.

  Was that what this night had really been about? Ronnie manipulating him again, saying she wanted to help him forget, when what she really wanted was his help in running away?

  Stop letting your dick do your thinking for you.

  He needed to bring her back to reality, pronto.

  “This is the twenty-first century, Ron. Nobody disappears anymore. It isn’t possible. Everyone has cell phones, cameras, Internet connections, Twitter feeds. You’d have the FBI and Interpol circulating your photos around the world and sooner or later they’d find you. I’m guessing sooner.”

  “What about Langer? He did it. Changed his identity.”

  “Yeah, but it took Matt—what?—less than a day to figure out he wasn’t kosher. And Langer’s a nobody. With the kind of publicity you’ve been getting, how long do you think you’d last?”

  “I told you, I could go somewhere remote.”

  “And do what? Herd sheep for a living?”

  “If I have to.”

  Hutch sat up now, looking down at her, wondering if she really meant what she was saying. She must have known the idea was absurd. She wasn’t a stupid woman.

  He swung his legs around and got to his feet. “I know I said I’d help you, Ronnie, but not like this. I won’t do this.”

  “I wasn’t serious about you coming along.”

  “I hope you aren’t serious at all. Running isn’t the answer.”

  She looked up at him. “Isn’t it?”

  He studied her a moment—her wounded eyes, her naked frame perched at the edge of the bed as if she was already preparing to run. Her body was compact, toned, her skin as soft and flawless as a child’s. And that’s what she looked like right now. A forlorn, frightened child.

  But she wasn’t one. Far from it.

  There had been a fierce desperation to their lovemaking, but it had felt right, more right than Hutch had anticipated, with none of the requisite awkwardness that accompanied a first time together. He moved around the bed and crouched in front of her, smoothing her dark hair with his hand, remembering how it had dangled toward his chest as she had worked her hips atop him.

  “It’ll all work out,” he said. “You have to trust me.”

  “I want to. I really want to.”

  “Promise me you won’t do anything crazy.”

  She said nothing. Merely reached out and put her arms around his neck, urgently pulling him toward her.

  A few moments later he was inside her again.

  And for a short time, all was right with the world.

  ________

  LATER STILL, AS Ronnie slept quietly beside him, their legs entangled, her head resting against his shoulder, Hutch thought he saw Jenny standing near his bedroom window, hiding in the shadows there, watching them.

  Then he realized he was dreaming, and in the dream she stepped forward into the moonlight, wearing only the faded UIC Flames t-shirt that Nadine had worn two nights ago.

  She studied Hutch with mild disapproval, then said, “Really, Ethan? I’m dead four months and you’re already sleeping with her?”

  “A moment of weakness,” he told her. “It doesn’t really mean anything.”

  “It
does to her.”

  He turned and looked at Ronnie then, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow, her naked form curled up beside him. Clinging to him.

  Had he made a mistake?

  When he looked at Jenny again, she was gone, and a sudden ache filled his gut. He sucked in a sharp breath and held it, wondering if the pain would ever leave him.

  Where were you, Ethan?

  Why didn’t you return my calls?

  Then he opened his eyes, awake now, and tried very hard not to cry.

  PART THREE

  Objection Sustained

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  IT DIDN’T TAKE long to figure out what Waverly’s trial strategy was.

  Hutch had seen it before, when he was fifteen years old and OJ Simpson was foremost in the news. He and his parents had watched snippets of the spectacle on TV as Johnnie Cochran and company had turned the tables on their adversaries and put the LAPD itself on trial.

  Ronnie’s claims that she’d been set up played in Hutch’s mind, and he no longer doubted this was true. It stood to reason that a couple of overzealous cops, getting pressure from above, had taken it upon themselves to ensure the conviction of a woman they thought was guilty, by planting the bloody sweatshirt in her garbage bin.

  Who else would have done it?

  Certainly not Langer, if Hutch was right about him. His motive was to protect Ronnie.

  And Hutch doubted anyone alive today would have trouble with the notion that cops can sometimes be corrupt. Five minutes on YouTube would settle that argument.

  The morning began with Detective Meyer on the stand, once again playing the cocky charmer, the smile on his face saying he was looking forward to his encounter with Waverly. Facing off with a defense attorney—especially a female defense attorney—was a sport for him. One he most certainly excelled at.

  But if Waverly’s body language was to be believed, she was more than up to the challenge. Once Judge O’Donnell reminded Meyer that he was still under oath, Waverly bounced to her feet and nearly charged the podium.

  “Detective Meyer, when you’re investigating a homicide—not just this one, but any homicide—how do you determine who might be a suspect?”

  “How else?” Meyer said, then gave Waverly a look that suggested that this was possibly the dumbest question he’d ever been asked. “We follow the evidence and see where it leads.”

  “Isn’t it true that statistics show most murders are committed by someone close to the victim, like a friend or a family member?”

  “Objection,” Abernathy said. “The witness isn’t an expert in statistics.”

  “But he is a veteran homicide investigator, Your Honor, and is well aware of such things. I believe Mr. Abernathy made that very same claim during his direct.”

  “She has a point,” the judge said to Abernathy. “Answer the question, Detective Meyer.”

  Meyer nodded, then looked at Waverly. “It all depends on the case, but yes, most murders are committed by someone close to the victim.”

  “Like a spouse or a lover?”

  “Oftentimes, yes.”

  “And did you find such a person in Ms. Keating’s life?”

  “According to her family and friends, she wasn’t attached to anyone at the time of her death.”

  “What about former boyfriends? Did you speak to any of them?”

  Meyer’s expression made it clear that this was another stupid question. “As I testified on Monday, we took a careful look at her exes.”

  “Including the most recent one?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Can you tell the court his name?”

  “Objection,” Abernathy said. “What’s the point of all this?”

  “Your Honor, during direct examination, Mr. Abernathy spent a great deal of time having Detective Meyer recount the steps of his investigation. I’m merely trying to delve a little deeper into the subject.”

  “Overruled,” the judge said.

  “Thank you.” Waverly turned to Meyer. “So can you tell us his name, Detective? The name of the victim’s most recent boyfriend?”

  “Warren Lutz,” he said.

  Waverly’s eyebrows went up in surprise. It was an act, but an effective one. “Would that be Assistant District Attorney Warren Lutz?”

  “It would.”

  “And when you spoke to him, did you consider him a suspect?”

  Hutch knew that Jenny had dated this guy Lutz for several years, and remembered seeing a photo of them on a news site, having dinner and drinks at a local hot spot. As she looked into the camera, however, Jenny’s smile had seemed forced—the same smile she wore whenever she was around her father. Based on that photo alone, Hutch had known that the relationship wouldn’t last, but he’d never for a moment thought Lutz was her killer, and he doubted Waverly did either.

  “Detective Meyer? Did you consider him a suspect?”

  There was a flicker of movement in Meyer’s eyes, a subtle glance toward Abernathy. He hesitated for what couldn’t have been more than a couple milliseconds, then said, “In the early stages of an investigation like this, the suspect list tends to be very long.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. Did you consider ADA Lutz to be a suspect or not?”

  “We entertained the notion, of course, but like most of the other possibilities, it didn’t pan out.”

  “And why is that?”

  Meyer shrugged. “Mr. Lutz and Ms. Keating hadn’t been together for months, and their breakup was amicable.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Mr. Lutz told us.”

  “Really?” Waverly said. “And you believed him?”

  “We had no reason not to. He seemed genuinely distraught over Ms. Keating’s death. And when we checked with friends and colleagues, no one contradicted his statement.”

  “I assume you asked him where he was on the night of Ms. Keating’s murder?”

  “We did.”

  “And his response?”

  “He was at home, preparing for a trial.”

  “Alone?”

  Meyer nodded. “That’s what he told us.”

  “And you, of course, believed him,” Waverly said. “How would you characterize your relationship with ADA Lutz?”

  “Objection,” Abernathy said. “Relevance?”

  Waverly didn’t flinch. “I think that’ll be clear in a moment, Your Honor.”

  The judge waggled a finger at her. “Proceed.”

  Waverly thanked him, then looked at Meyer and asked the question again. “How would you characterize your relationship with ADA Lutz?”

  “Professional,” Meyer said.

  “You’ve worked together on cases?”

  “Several. He’s the head of the major crimes unit at the District Attorney’s office.”

  “So is it possible you dismissed him as a suspect because of your relationship?”

  “No,” Meyer said. “When you’re investigating a crime you learn very quickly that the evidence is all that matters.”

  “So you’ve said. Yet here you had a man who fit the statistical profile to a T. He had a prior intimate relationship with the victim, and no alibi for the night in question.”

  Meyer chuckled. “Like I told you, we follow evidence, not statistics. Besides, when you’ve been a cop as long as I have, you learn how to spot a liar very quickly. And not only is ADA Lutz not a liar, he’s a man of great integrity. He recused himself from the case the moment he found out who the victim was.”

  “A man of great integrity,” Waverly repeated with some doubt in her voice. Then she said, “What about Ms. Baldacci?”

  “What about her?”

  “When you arrested her and brought her down to the station, I assume you questioned her?”

  “Yes,” Meyer said. “Until she requested a lawyer.”

  “Did you ask her about her relationship with Ms. Keating?”

  “Yes,” Meyer said.

  “And how did she cha
racterize it?”

  Meyer thought a moment. “She said they were friends and housemates in college, but hadn’t really kept in touch. She claimed the last time she’d seen Ms. Keating was when they ran into each other at a play, about a month before the killing.”

  “And what about an alibi? Did she have one for the night in question?”

  “On the contrary,” Meyer said. “Her mother told us she’d gone out that night.”

  “And what did Ms. Baldacci say?”

  “That she’d had a lot on her mind and went out for a drink. She couldn’t remember the name of the bar, so there were no witnesses to corroborate.”

  “But your super-duper built-in lie detector told you she was lying, correct?”

  “Objection, Your Honor.”

  “I’ll rephrase,” Waverly said, still looking at Meyer. “Did you think Ms. Baldacci was lying?”

  “At that point I knew she was.”

  Waverly nodded, then said, “So let’s explore this a moment. You had two people without alibis. Mr. Lutz had recently been intimately involved with Ms. Keating, while my client hadn’t had any significant contact with her in years. Yet you targeted Ms. Baldacci as your prime suspect?”

  Meyer nodded. “Based on the evidence, yes.”

  “Which evidence was that?”

  “The forensics and the phone calls.”

  “Yet you’ve testified that, except for those calls, none of this evidence came to light until the day you arrested Ms. Baldacci.”

  “Which is why we arrested her.”

  “But you also previously testified that whenever you hit a dead end, you went back to Ms. Baldacci as a potential suspect, isn’t that right?”

  “I believe that’s what I said, yes. Because of the phone calls.”

  “And when you checked the victim’s phone records, did you notice any calls from ADA Lutz?”

  Meyer hesitated. “A few, yes.”

  “What do you mean by a few? Two, three?”

  “More than that.”

  “Five, ten or more?”

  “I can’t be sure. I’d have to check the records.”

  “Did you ask ADA Lutz about these calls?”

  Meyer shook his head. “Like I said, they parted amicably, so they were still friends. Friends call each other.”