Trial Junkies

— 32 -

After spending the rest of the afternoon watching an assault trial that was nearing its foregone conclusion (judging by the faces of the jurors and defense attorney, that is), Hutch had called it a day and gone straight home to take a much needed nap.

The Lincoln Park apartment was a spacious three-bedroom co-op, with high ceilings and wooden floors, that had been Hutch's family home for as long as he could remember. The park, the conservatory and the lake were directly across the street, and just two blocks behind the building was a variety of restaurants and bars, a grocery store, a pharmacy, two dry cleaners and a romper stomper preschool.

It was an insular world and there was no real reason to ever leave it-a sentiment his parents had clung to until the day they died. The irony of their death was that the plane crash that killed them had been the start of their first vacation in nearly fifteen years.

Hutch himself had been so anxious to get out of Lincoln Park that he fled the moment he graduated from high school, even though his college of choice was only a few miles away.

The same had been true for many of his friends. All but Monica and Tom had been raised in Chicago, but they'd chosen to abandon their family homes in favor of independence. By their second year of college they were all rooming in a large, rundown house on Miller Street, and asserting that independence with loud and unbridled enthusiasm.

Except for stints at grad school, only Hutch had moved away from the city after college. Yet here he was now, once again living in the family home. The home he'd been unwilling to let go.

There was certain irony in that as well.

After his nap, he smoked a cigarette and looked around, thought about the condition of Matt's apartment, then spent the next two hours cleaning the place up. He hadn't yet removed all of the protective plastic that had covered the furniture for years-dust tarps that had been placed there shortly after his parents' funeral. There were at least two loads of dirty dishes in the sink, and a fair amount of dirt tracked across the Oriental rug in the living room.

By the time Maurice called up to tell him that the first of his visitors had arrived, the place was spotless, with fresh sheets on the beds, a stack of laundered towels in the hall closet, and the faint smell of Lysol in the air. There was also a feast of sandwiches, pasta and pizza on its way from Rocco Ranalli's, just down the street. He had ordered more than they'd need, but figured he wouldn't encounter any resistance when it came time to dole out the leftovers.

At seven p.m. the doorbell rang and Andy stood in the hallway with Ronnie in tow. She immediately went to Hutch and pulled him into a hug, once again whispering "thank you" in his ear. And judging by her body language he was starting to believe his get-out-of-jail-free card may have bought him a lot more than he had anticipated.

He had to admit he didn't mind the heat of her breath, and the feel of her breasts crushed against him, the faint aroma of lavender on her skin. But he hadn't sprung her from jail to buy her affection, and had no real desire to prove the tabloids right.

Or Nadine.

Her admonition popped into his brain: stop letting your dick do your thinking for you, and just as Andy gave him an attaboy look, he gently extricated himself from Ronnie's embrace and led them into the living room.

"Food's on the way," he said.

Ronnie sighed. "Good, I'm starving. I was so wound up in court today I couldn't eat lunch."

"What happened when you guys went into chambers?"

"The judge finally allowed Waverly to bring in some of Meyer's old cases. She says she'll crucify him tomorrow, during cross."

"Why his old cases?" Hutch asked. He gestured to the sofa and chairs atop the newly vacuumed rug and they all sat.

"To show a pattern of false arrest and prejudice against women. He's got a nice smile in court, but he's a first class misogynist and I'll be happy to see the looks on the faces of all those female jurors when they finally realize it."

"Some of them might like it," Andy said.

They both shot him a look, then Hutch said, "Sounds like that cop from the OJ case. The one who lied about using the 'N' word and pleaded the fifth when they asked him if he planted evidence."

Ronnie nodded. "Exactly. Waverly's theory is that he let his bigotry dictate his actions. And she thinks I'm right about Jenny."

"Meaning what?"

"That her death has all the earmarks of a random rage killing. Some lunatic who shares Meyer's sentiments toward women, but carried it to the nth degree."

Hutch and Andy exchanged a glance and Andy gave him a subtle shake of the head. He hadn't told her about Frederick Langer. A bit surprising considering his usual lack of tact.

Hutch said, "That's part of the reason I invited everyone over tonight. I could be wrong, but I think Jenny's killer might-"

The phone rang, cutting him off.

"Might what?" Ronnie asked.

Hutch got to his feet. "Let me get that. We'll talk about this when everyone's here. It all comes down to Matt now."

"What comes down to Matt? What are you talking about?"

Hutch crossed to the ringing telephone-which was mounted on the wall next to his front door-and grabbed the receiver. "Hey, Maurice."

"My boy, you've got about a boatload of food and bunch more visitors down here waiting to grace your presence."

"Send 'em up," he said. "And tell the delivery guy one of the meatball sandwiches is for you."

"Really?"

"You think I'd leave you out? Party hearty, my friend."

He hung up and turned and saw that Ronnie was on her feet and coming toward him. "Are you gonna tell me what the hell's going on?"

"Maybe nothing," he said. "Depends on what Matt was able dig up."

She got a look in her eyes that wasn't quite characteristic of the Ronnie he knew. None of the desperation she'd shown in her jail cell, but a trace of anger mixed with frustration. "That doesn't answer my question. What's going on?"

All Hutch had was a feeling. A hunch. But at that moment, what he was about to tell her felt so right that he didn't pause, didn't hesitate.

He said, "I'm pretty sure I've found your lunatic."