Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (260 page)

And before they could utter a word of protest, she turned on her heels and vanished.

________

"CALL ME CRAZY," Cynthia said, "but I think I may have seen this guy."

Hutch felt a bump in his heart rate.

She had signaled to them as they headed for the elevator, asking—rather shyly—if she could take a look at the photo, and Matt had dropped it on the counter in front of her.

Now she stared at it and nodded. "A few months back, when they were hiring a new file clerk up in the tax department. I think he may have applied for the job."

Hutch's heartbeat kicked up another notch. "You're sure?"

"This picture's not that great, but Human Resources is on this floor, so he would've had to come here to get an application. I wasn't on the desk then, but Lucy asked me to come pick up some mail and there was a guy who looked like this sitting in that chair over there with a clipboard and pen. I only remember him because he was kinda weird."

Matt was now looking at Hutch with a
holy shit!
expression on his face. If Cindy was right, this pretty much sealed the deal. Langer was their man. He had applied for a job here in an attempt to get closer to his prey. What other reason could their be?

"Did they hire him?" Matt asked.

She laughed. "No, they got some college kid. And I think he only lasted about a month."

Hutch looked around and spotted a surveillance camera in a far, high corner of the lobby, a tiny red light signaling that it was recording them at that very moment.

He turned to Cynthia. "How far back do your surveillance tapes go?"

She looked puzzled, then glanced at the camera and said, "Oh, right, I always forget it's there." She thought about it. "I think everything's recorded straight to a hard drive, so it probably goes back at least a year."

"Any chance you could get us a copy from that day? I just want to confirm he's our guy."

"And get myself fired? I don't think so."

Hutch gave her the smile. "Cindy to the rescue, remember? This would mean a lot to me."

She flushed again, but shook her head. "I don't know…"

"You have a pen and paper?"

She opened a drawer and fished around in it until she found a notepad, then gave it to Hutch along with a pen.

He wrote on the top sheet, then tore it off, folded it and handed it to her. "This is my private cell phone number. I'm trusting you not to give it out to anyone. If there's any way you can get that video clip, call me and I'll pick it up."

Matt leaned toward her now. "And if you're worried about downloading the file to a disk, just play it on the monitor and record it with your phone. Then you can text it straight to Hutch and nobody'll be the wiser."

"Why do you want it?" she asked. "Who is this guy?"

"He's what the police call a person of interest. I can't tell you any more than that."

She looked doubtful. "They keep that computer in a locked room and I think only Ms. Weeks has the key. And even if I could get in, it would take me a while to find the part you want. I'm not even sure what day it was."

"You look pretty resourceful to me," Hutch said. "But no pressure. If you can't, you can't. I don't want you to lose your job. But if you can…" He reached forward and squeezed the hand holding the folded sheet of paper, acutely aware that
he
was the manipulator now. "…I'd owe you big time."

CHAPTER FORTY

HUTCH WAS LESS than a block from the courthouse when they hijacked him.

He and Matt had parted ways outside the law office building, both buoyed by their conversation with Cindy. Matt had decided that his next stop was the scene of the crime, where he hoped to question some of the residents of the neighboring apartment building to see if Langer had been spotted there, as well.

Hutch had decided to hoof it back to the courthouse, wanting to walk off the taco lunch and prepare himself for the afternoon session. He was used to sitting around a lot—life on a sound stage was seventy percent waiting—but in the months during his recovery he had begun exercising a lot, trying to purge the toxins from his body.

Since returning to Chicago, however, he'd been slacking off, and it felt good to stretch his muscles. He had just crossed onto California Avenue when a dark sedan pulled to the curb in front of him and two men in suits emerged, stepping onto the sidewalk.

He was about to veer around them when one of them stepped sideways and blocked his path. "Good afternoon, Mr. Hutchinson."

Hutch stopped short, looking them over. They weren't reporters, or paparazzi, and he didn't get a cop vibe from them. If anything, they reminded him of the ex-mercenaries the studio had hired to handle security on that miserable shoot in France. Humorless and hard-muscled.

Hutch tried to remain cool. "What can I do for you gentlemen? Autographs?"

Not even a hint of a smile. "Get in the car, please. Someone wants to talk to you."

Hutch nearly laughed. This was like a scene straight out of Code Two-Seven. "You're kidding me, right?"

But he could see by their eyes that they weren't. And one of them proved it by opening his coat to give him a glimpse of a shoulder holster and gun.

Hutch's face must have shown his alarm, because the other one said, "Nobody wants to hurt you, Mr. Hutchinson. This is merely a request for a private conversation."

"With who?"

"The man we work for."

"Really?" Hutch said. He didn't even trying to hide the sarcasm. "I'm glad you told me that, because I don't think I could've figured it out on my—"

A hand reached over and gripped his elbow. "Get in the car, Mr. Hutchinson. We don't have much time before court convenes."

The grip was just firm enough to let him know that this wasn't the time or place to argue about it.

Hutch smiled and got in the car.

________

SEVERAL MINUTES LATER they pulled into the underground parking lot of a sleek glass building located about ten blocks north of the courthouse. They found a space, got out of the sedan, then rode the elevator to the top floor.

Hutch tried to tell himself that he had nothing to worry about, that this was merely another adventure he could use as inspiration for his work—assuming he ever bothered to go
back
to work—an exercise in emotional turmoil that would serve as a sense memory he could summon up at will.

But the moment the elevator doors slid open, he relaxed, knowing exactly who had summoned him for this little confab.

The apartment beyond was one that even a rich man would drool over—which, technically speaking, included Hutch. It featured a bank of bay windows overlooking the city, furniture as sleek and modern as the building they occupied, and even—get this—an indoor lap pool.

That pool was currently occupied by a tall man taking long, luxurious strokes through the clear blue water, his body fairly taut and well-muscled for a guy in his early sixties. When he finished the lap, he stopped, stood up in the water and slicked back his white hair.

As Hutch stepped into the room, his captors giving him space, the man said, "Thank you for coming on such short notice, Ethan."

Hutch stiffened at the sound of his given name. Of the people he knew, only Jenny and his parents had called him that and he resented hearing it come out of this guy's mouth.

But he was all too happy to give back. "No problem, Nate."

Nathaniel Keating bristled, studying him with vaguely hostile eyes. Eyes that had never bothered to look in his direction during the last week and a half in court. Had never once acknowledged his presence, not even at the funeral four months ago, despite the fact that the two men had something in common—their love of Jenny.

So why the acknowledgement now?

As Keating climbed out of the pool, an attractive Filipina in sweats appeared out of nowhere and handed him a towel, saying, "Five minutes."

Keating nodded, began patting himself dry and looked again at Hutch. "Nice of Judge O'Donnell to extend the lunch hour, wasn't it? After your friend's attorney decimated that idiot cop on the stand, I was in desperate need of a workout. Hopefully things will go better this afternoon."

"What do you want, Keating?"

He smiled. "I want what everyone wants. What I assume you would want. Justice for my little girl. The girl you supposedly once loved, remember?"

Hutch sighed. "Is this gonna be one of those exercises where you take forever to get to the point? Because I'd just as soon be back in the courthouse right now."

"As would I," Keating said. "But, you see, I got a disturbing phone call a short while ago. About you and one of your college friends trying to stir up trouble at my daughter's law firm."

So that was what this was about. Apparently the office manager had Keating on speed dial.

"Nobody's stirring up anything," Hutch told him. "We're just looking for the truth."

Keating laughed. "The truth? I assume you're not speaking philosophically."

Hutch said nothing.

"If you want the truth, Ethan, it's in that courtroom. As much as I might admire your loyalty to an old friend, it's severely misplaced, and it offends me that you and your college pal seem to be going out of your way to… well, to be honest, I'm not sure
what
you're up to. And I'd like to know."

Hutch spread his hands. "Like I told you…"

Keating nodded. "The truth. And what does the man in the photograph have to do with that?"

Hutch debated how much he should tell him. If he told Keating about his hunch, his gut feeling, would the old guy jump in with a
rah-rah-sis-boom-bah
?

Doubtful. Like everyone else, he thought Ronnie was guilty. This trial was merely a formality. Hutch could try to dissuade him of that notion, but why bother? The guy wasn't known for his pliancy.

"Well?" Keating said. "Who is the man in the photograph?"

"Probably no one. We're just looking for alternate suspects for the crime and—"

"The crime?" Keating barked. "The crime? Is that how you see it? Some abstract point of fact that needs to be examined and dissected the way that bitch dissected my little girl?"

"That isn't exactly what I—"

"Shut the hell up."

He nodded to the two mercenaries and they stepped forward, grabbing Hutch by the arms. Then he tossed the towel aside and moved in close, the hostility in his eyes no longer vague.

"This may not come as a surprise to you, Hutchinson, but I've never approved of you. Back when you and Jenny were in college, I don't know how many times I tried to persuade her to move out of that house and come back home. But she'd found her…
independence
… and wouldn't listen to me, even when I threatened to cut off her funding."

He was right. None of this was news to Hutch.

"I'd only met you a couple times," Keating went on, "but I knew immediately what kind of man you were. Getting my daughter into your bed wasn't enough to satisfy you. You smelled her money and wanted it, too."

Hutch's anger was instant and unrelenting. "That's complete bullshit, you son-of-a—"

An explosion of pain blossomed in his left kidney. Pain so acute that his knees buckled and he would have dropped to the floor if it hadn't been for the two men holding his arms. The blow had come from the Filipina towel girl, who had somehow managed to circle around behind him as they spoke. He had been so focused on Keating that he hadn't even realized she was still in the room.

As the pain rocketed through Hutch's body, Keating said, "Don't even try to deny it, you little fuck. You smelled her money and I knew the only way to protect my daughter was to dangle another carrot in front of you. A more exciting carrot. One that few people would say no to."

Hutch coughed. Tried to breathe. "…What are you talking about?"

"Are you really that clueless? Did you think you were approached by that casting agent because of your good looks and winning personality? Did you think you got the job because of your raw acting talent?"