"I'm surprised they aren't all over you right now. The tabloids, that is."
Hutch downed another shot, ignoring Matt's look of disapproval. "I've become an expert at subterfuge and misdirection."
"They'll show up here sooner or later. You know they will."
Hutch shrugged. "So be it. I'll be too drunk to care."
He signaled to the bartender again and Matt said, "How's Ronnie's mother doing?"
"Waverly says she wasn't seriously hurt. But she's pissed. Pretty much volunteered to testify against Ronnie when they catch her."
"You think they will?" Andy asked.
Hutch chuckled. "Is that a serious question?"
Lola Baldacci had only suffered a minor head bruise when she tried to stop Ronnie from taking Christopher out of Hutch's apartment. She had been treated at Chicago Memorial and released, then went back home to her house in Roscoe Village—which was undoubtedly under siege right now by the aforementioned tabloids.
As much as he hated the circumstances, Hutch was glad to see Lola gone. He was pretty sure she considered him the spawn of Lucifer and he was relieved he wouldn't have to put up with any cold, judgmental stares. He got enough of that when he looked in the mirror.
He did, however, regret that he'd never again taste that amazing pasta.
"So with Ronnie out of the picture," Matt asked, "what happens to the trial?"
"Waverly says O'Donnell will probably declare a mistrial. Then Abernathy'll tack some additional charges onto the indictment and be able to start clean with the murder weapon as his centerpiece." He shook his head in disgust as he reached for the glass of whiskey. "A murder weapon that was planted," he added, then looked at Matt. "Did Langer ever show up to admire his handiwork?"
"No sign of him all day."
Hutch knocked the scotch back. "So no matter how you slice it, Ronnie's fucked."
"No pun intended, right?"
No pun intended.
HUTCH WAS FIVE shots in when Matt finally convinced him to call it a night and go home. He had assumed the taste of the whisky would destroy every bit of willpower he possessed, but the truth was, all he really wanted was to get some sleep.
What he probably should have done was find the nearest AA meeting, but the desire to abuse himself had abandoned him somewhere around shot number three-point-five, and he didn't think he was in danger of a binge. Not tonight, at least.
What surprised him was that even when he got to his feet, he didn't feel drunk. He had assumed that so many months on the wagon would weaken his resistance. But it hadn't.
Or maybe he was deluding himself.
It was a little after ten when he stumbled past the night man, rode the elevator to his apartment, then fell across the still unmade bed, the faint but unmistakable scent of Ronnie's lavender cologne rising up at him from the sheets. He pictured her in his mind, rolling on top of him, her body slick with sweat as she moved her hips, pressing and pulling, pressing and pulling, bringing them both to the brink.
Then later, clinging to the side of the bed like a lost child.
He thought he had talked her out of running, but he couldn't really blame her for ignoring his advice. He couldn't blame her for much of anything, really. She was caught up in circumstances that were beyond her control and her impulse to flee was understandable.
Foolish, but understandable.
He imagined her scared and vulnerable, clutching little Christopher's hand as they boarded a plane or a train or a bus. Or maybe even a boat. She would need false identification, and he wondered if she had been working on it since the moment he'd posted her bond.
He didn't know when she would have made the arrangements, or who she would have made them with, but there was no reason he should. It could very well have been through someone she'd met in jail. An emailed photograph and a small transfer of funds would likely yield all the identification she needed.
Or maybe one of their friends had helped her.
Andy perhaps? He and Ronnie had taken enough car rides together over the last few days.
Or what about Matt, her closest friend and former lover?
When it came down to it, did it really matter? She was gone and Hutch missed having her in his bed, feeling her pressed up against him as he stroked her hair and tried to reassure her that everything would be fine. That he would somehow fix things.
What a joke that had turned out to be.
And a sad, sorry, unfunny one at that.
Hutch rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, thinking that maybe he was a little drunk after all. He had nearly drifted to sleep when his cell phone bleeped and he jerked awake, fumbling to retrieve it from his pants pocket.
He squinted at the screen but didn't recognize the number. Putting the phone to his ear, he murmured a groggy hello, and was surprised to hear Gus's voice on the line. "You awake, kid? You sound like you're half asleep."
"I just crawled into bed," Hutch said.
"Rough day, I know, but you'd better crawl back out. You're gonna want to meet me as soon as possible."
Gus was a good old guy, but the last thing Hutch wanted was company right now. He could barely keep his eyes open. "Why?" he said wearily. "What's going on?"
"Just ran into a friend of ours out here in the River District."
"Friend of ours?"
"Come on, buddy boy—wake the hell up. I'm talking about Freddy Langer. He's standing outside that little waitress's apartment as we speak."
Hutch sat up, his heart starting to pound. "Where can I find you?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
— 56 —
GUS'S CAR WAS a twenty year-old faded blue Volvo sedan parked in the darkness between two street lights on North Wood, just around the corner from West Fulton. Both streets were dotted with warehouses.
Hutch had told the cab driver to drop him off a block away, then gave Gus a call, letting him know he was in the vicinity. Gus told him where to look and Hutch had walked until he found the car. He checked to make sure it was occupied, then gave Gus a quick wave and opened the passenger door.
The interior light came on, briefly illuminating the old man's weathered face and a night vision scope clutched in his right hand. It looked a lot like the one Hutch had used in an indie action-thriller he'd done called With No Remorse.
Gus glanced over briefly as Hutch climbed in and closed the door, then handed him the scope and pointed past the intersection toward Fulton. "Check out the auto body shop. Coupla cars parked in the driveway in front of the roll-up. You'll see him standing there."
Hutch hefted the scope. "You just carry one of these around, do you?"
"Trunk of my car. Never know when it might come in handy."
Hutch raised it to his eye, seeing a glowing field of green, and just as promised, he was able to make out a shadowy figure at the edge of a pool of street light.
"Is one of the cars his?"
"Nope. He's on foot."
"So what's he up to?"
"You can't see it from this angle," Gus said, "but the little gal's apartment house is right across the street. He's been watching it for close to an hour now."
Hutch squinted and adjusted the lens. "You sure it's him?"
"Hell, yes. I followed him from the restaurant. He waited outside until she got off work, then walked her home."
"From a distance, I take it."
"Is there any other way for a guy like this?"
"I wouldn't know," Hutch said. "I'm not exactly an expert on creepazoid behavior."
"Trust me, I've seen quite a few of these perverts over the years. They're all pretty much the same."
Hutch kept the scope on Langer. "I'm surprised the waitress walked home alone. Ronnie warned her the guy might be stalking her."
"People make all kinds of compromises when they're trying to save a penny."
"He's gonna kill her, isn't he? Just like the other women. Ronnie was a bust, so he's moved on. That's why he wasn't in court today."
> "Butcher her is more accurate. But not tonight. I'm guessing he's a slow burner. Takes his time watching them before he—"
Hutch's cell phone bleeped. Startled, he handed the scope back to Gus and fumbled for the phone.
It wasn't a call, but a text message coming in. He was about to dismiss it when he saw the name associated with it—Cynthia Coe. The receptionist from Jenny's law firm.
He checked the message:
Sorry this took so long. Here's the photo you wanted.
She was talking about the surveillance photo. The one of Langer sitting in the Treacher & Pine lobby—proof that he had been trying to get close to Jenny. Why she was sending it at this hour was anybody's guess, but Hutch wasn't about to quibble.
He touched the screen and the photo came into view, showing a somewhat murky image of a man with glasses sitting on one of the Treacher & Pine couches.
There was only one problem.
It wasn't Frederick Langer.
He looked similar, all right, but he was too big and thick to be the creep. And the glasses were different.
Damn.
Hutch frowned, disappointment sweeping through him as he pocketed the phone. If they couldn't show a connection between Langer and Jenny, what else did they have? How could they ever hope to prove that he'd slaughtered her?
"Looks like our boy's up to something," Gus said. "What the hell is he doing?"
He handed the scope to Hutch and Hutch put it to his eye, pointing it toward the auto body shop. Revulsion welled up inside him as he realized Langer was moving one of his hands in an all too familiar way.
"Oh, shit," he murmured. "This guy doesn't just watch."
"What's he up to?"
"Tenderizing the beef, as Andy would say."
Gus groaned. "Son, I could've gone the rest of my years without you sharing that particular tidbit of information."
"Hey, you asked." Hutch lowered the scope. "I think I'll let him do his business in private. Way he's going at it, it shouldn't take long."
"Christ on a cracker," Gus said.
They were silent, sitting there in the darkness as they waited for Langer to be done, Hutch thinking about all the time this guy had spent stalking Ronnie. A slow burner, as Gus had said. And if Langer had indeed changed up his modus operandi with her, that was a good thing. Otherwise Ronnie might not be alive today.
Then again Jenny would be, wouldn't she? She'd be in her apartment right now, maybe working on a case or getting ready for bed. Maybe even worrying about Hutch out there in Lala Land, wasting his life away.
Where were you, Ethan.
Why didn't you return my calls?
Hutch decided it was best not to think about these things. He had no desire to turn this into some kind of Sophie's choice moment between Jenny and Ronnie.
Thankfully, Gus broke the silence. "You heard anything about Veronica?"
"Nothing new."
"Way she's being railroaded, I don't blame her for taking off."
"Except we both know she'll be caught," Hutch said. "And when that happens..."
"Don't give up just yet, son. We still got a bonafide pervert to wrangle and that could change the whole rodeo." He gestured. "Speaking of which, you'd better check on him. See if he's done floggin' the dog."
Hutch nodded and raised the scope, pointing it toward the auto body shop.
His heart froze.
Langer wasn't there.
"Fuck," he said, adjusting the lens and panning the street. "The son of a bitch is gone."
"Are you kidding me? Give me that thing."
Hutch handed over the scope and Gus pressed it to his eye, panning and focusing, trying to get a bead on Langer. From the look on his face, he wasn't having any luck.
He lowered the scope. "We might have a very serious problem on our hands."
"Meaning what?"
"What if I'm wrong? What if this boy isn't a slow burner after all? That little move he just made could've been the beginning of something. Maybe his particular perversion is to relieve himself, then punish the girl for making him do it."
"Holy shit," Hutch said. His heart started thumping, going into overdrive.
"Holy shit, indeed," Gus murmured, then jerked his door open.
— 57 —
GUS MOVED QUICKLY to the trunk of the car, then opened it and rummaged around inside. "You ever use a firearm?"
Hutch suddenly felt less than adequate. "Just in the movies."
"Close enough," Gus said, then handed him a battered revolver that looked like something Clint Eastwood would carry. Hutch was used to prop guns or feather-light polymer weapons, but this one was big, bulky and weighed half a ton.
"Where the hell did you get this thing?"
"Had it for years. It might not look like much, but it'll stop anything that moves."
"No shit," Hutch said.
He glanced toward the auto body shop, which was shrouded in darkness. He wondered if Langer had merely changed positions or maybe left the area altogether. But every instinct he possessed told him no, that Gus was right. That Langer's little masturbatory exercise had been the prelude to a much darker scenario. One that was playing out at this very moment.
They needed to get inside that apartment house.
"Just point it and squeeze the trigger," Gus was saying. "But use both hands and watch out for the kick."
"Should we call the police?"
"We could, but she'll probably be dead by the time they get here. I think it's up to us."
Gus had always struck Hutch as a solid, self-sufficient guy, but the sudden transformation from retired bailiff to no-nonsense vigilante was surprising. He spoke with purpose and authority, like a man who had seen a bit of action in his time and remembered all the moves.
Gus stuck another battered revolver into his waistband and closed the trunk. "Langer seems like he's a little on the timid side, so I figure even if he's in the building, he'll still be working up the courage to act. The faster we move, the better chance we have of stopping him before he does the deed."
"So let's get going, then."
"Easy, now, partner. We can't just go in there blasting. We need a battle plan. I took a drive past that apartment house when they first got here. Saw the waitress go inside. The place is small, only eight or so units in the building, with a lobby on the first—"
"You call this moving fast?"
Gus glowered at him. "The point is, we don't know which unit she's living in and he does. I figure if we split up, take the front and back, we can cover more ground."
"Or we could check the mailboxes in the lobby."
"Good idea, genius. You know the little gal's name?"
Hutch gave him a weak smile and decided it might be best to let Gus run the show.
"Front and back it is," he said.
THE APARTMENT BUILDING was so old and rundown it could easily qualify as a slum. If Hutch had passed the place at random, he would have assumed it was abandoned. Or close to it.
Did the waitress actually live here?
As the old saying went, desperate times, desperate measures, but Hutch thought she'd have to be pretty destitute to take up residence in a glorified landfill like this. Of course, this came from a guy with a door man and three thousand square feet overlooking the lake, not to mention the house in Malibu and the high-rise in Century City.
Sometimes Hutch had to remind himself just how fortunate he was.
He and Gus stood in the darkness of the body shop driveway, a few short yards from where Langer had stood making his offering to the gods of perversion. A streetlight began to stutter and buzz nearby, as if somehow sensing what they were up to. The apartment building was dotted with windows, but only one of them was lit, on the very top floor.
"That could be anybody's apartment," Gus whispered, "but I figure it's the window he was watching, so it's probably our best bet. How far up is that?"
"Looks like five floors. You still want to do the front-back thing?"
Hutch returned the nod, adjusted the revolver in his waistband, then crossed toward the building, heading into an alleyway along its left side.
He remembered his last encounter with Langer but willed the thought away, moving as quickly as he could, aided by the flickering streetlight. A row of overflowing trash cans lined the wall of the building, and he nearly ran into one, stopping just short of impact.
Stepping around it, he continued through the alley, the stink of the garbage and the smell of stale urine filling his nostrils. He gagged and held his breath, felt stickiness beneath his shoes.
You take the back, Gus had told him.
Thanks, pal. Thanks a lot.
It was dark this far in—too dark. Hutch pulled his phone from his pocket and lit the screen, using it as a makeshift flashlight. At the far end of the building was a dilapidated metal door, nearly falling off its hinges. The knob was missing, with no lock in evidence, and the door stood open a crack, revealing nothing but darkness beyond.
Once again remembering his previous encounter with Langer, a sudden thought occurred to Hutch. What if, like the other night, Langer knew he was being followed? What if this was another one of his games and he was waiting for them somewhere inside the building, switchblade in hand?
Hutch immediately doused the cell phone and stuck it in his pocket.
No point in giving the guy a target.
Pulling the revolver from his waistband—damn, this thing was heavy—he waited for his eyes to adjust. Then he moved forward, hooked the hole where the knob should be and gently pried the door open.
The hinges groaned faintly, but to Hutch's ears it might as well have been a scream. He tightened his grip on the gun and stepped through the threshold, straining to see in the dark. He was suddenly reminded of the first time he'd watched the movie Psycho, and how he'd had to navigate his way to his bedroom after he'd shut off the TV, feeling the burn of Norman Bates's gaze with every step he took.
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