Trial Junkies (A Thriller) (39 page)

"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 —

G
US 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.

T
HE 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?"

Gus nodded. "Probably a good idea. You take the back."

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.

Was Langer watching him now? Waiting for him?

I see you again, I smell you, you die.

Hutch swallowed dryly, remembering the blade pressed against his neck, those dead eyes staring at him. Bracing himself, he decided to let Gus's confident command serve as his inspiration. The old guy hadn't hesitated, seemed to show no fear, and Hutch couldn't help but admire him for it.

Just play the character, he thought. Pretend you aren't scared shitless. After all, nobody fucks with a man holding a two pound boom stick—right?

Right?

He was in a hallway now, another door to his left. Deciding to chance it, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket again and briefly flicked it on, shining it at the door.

Faded block letters said
STAIRS.
 

Hutch killed the light and checked the knob.

It turned freely.

Come on
, he told himself. Pick up the pace. Langer could be breaking into the girl's apartment at this very moment.

He opened the door, relieved to find light trickling down from somewhere far above. The smell of urine was nearly overpowering here and he again wondered why the waitress would live in a hovel like this.

Could she really be that desperate?

But this wasn't the time for questions. Hutch needed to keep moving or the only question he'd be asking was why had he let a madman kill an innocent woman? There had been enough of that already, and he wasn't about to let it happen again.