Trial Junkies

— 37 -

"If you ever need a helping hand," Matt's father used to say, "you'll find one at the end of your arm."

It was a Yiddish proverb that his old man, a strong believer in self-sufficiency, would drag out whenever times were tough. And Matt's family had certainly seen their share of tough times over the years.

Matthew Isaacs, Sr. was a bank clerk who never quite worked his way up past the halfway point of the ladder, and when Matt was fourteen years old, his father was laid off in the midst of a restructuring deal. A couple of very lean years had followed, with Matt Sr. struggling to get any job he could find-mostly temporary day labor that involved his hands more than his brain, and paid just enough to keep them a half-step ahead of the bill collector. But he was a proud man who refused to take any kind of assistance.

Matt himself wasn't a stranger to tough times. Two marriages and divorces in the span of eight and a half years tend to take their emotional toll. And with the death knell of the newspaper business ringing loudly around the world, and his year-long relationship with a married woman coming to an abrupt and messy end (surprise, surprise), he felt as if he needed to regain some control of his life.

Channeling his energy into Ronnie's survival was his way of doing just that.

Last night, when Hutch had proposed that they all do what the cops had failed to do-what the cops had no real interest in doing-that Yiddish proverb had immediately come to mind.

If you ever need a helping hand, you'll find one at the end of your arm.

In short, Hutch was right. They couldn't rely on fate or Waverly's legal team to get Ronnie out of this mess. They'd have to do it themselves.

So, first thing this morning, as the others cued up at the courtroom to watch the trial, Matt paid a visit to the Wyndham Academy of Pet Grooming.

The place was run by an officious little bitch (and, yes, that was the appropriate word here) whose disdain for reporters, or men, or both, seemed to run very deep. It was a case of detest at first sight, and all the ammo in Matt's charm locker couldn't penetrate this woman's Kevlar. Matt didn't know who had done her wrong, but he'd done it good.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Isaacs," she'd said through lips pursed so tight you could use them for a band seal, "but I don't see how that's any of your business."

He had just finished showing her his Post credentials and a photo of Frederick Langer, telling her (to the accompaniment of several barking dogs) that he was trying to locate the man for a human interest story. Did she perhaps remember Langer or anyone he may have interacted with while he was a student at her school?

"Our records are private," she said. "And they'll stay that way as long as I'm here."

The woman wouldn't acknowledge that Langer had even attended the academy, and Matt had left the place with nothing but sympathy for anyone who did.

His next stop was a late breakfast meeting with a retired FBI agent named Jerry Galvin, whom he had profiled several years back for a story on bank robberies. They'd been friends ever since.

They met at the Over Easy and played catch up over coffee, eggs and red potato hash. Galvin had retired only on paper and was currently consulting for a private security firm. His connections to the Bureau were still strong, however, and Matt, being Matt, was hoping to exploit those ties.

"I'm looking for information on a man who seems to be a ghost," Matt told him. "I can trace him back a few months, then I've got zip."

"What's your interest?" Galvin asked.

Matt had debated whether or not to tell Jerry the truth, and had decided he'd rather not compromise their friendship by lying. So he filled him in on what he and Hutch and the others were up to, and Galvin huffed a chuckle.

"You can't be serious," he said.

"The cops aren't gonna help us. Ronnie's already been tried and convicted in their minds."

"And you're sure she didn't do what they say she did?"

"I wouldn't be sitting here if I wasn't."

Galvin sighed and shook his head. "You realize I can't endorse this kind of witch hunt. The chances of this guy Langer being your man are about as likely as the Pope showing up at a bar mitzvah."

"There's definitely something hinky about him."

"Hell, you ask me, there's something hinky about the Pope, too, but you don't see me running a background check on him."

"Maybe you should," Matt said.

Galvin chuckled again and sipped his coffee. "I like you, Matthew. Have since the minute we met. But if this thing blows up in your face, I don't want my name anywhere near it."

"No reason it should be."

"I assume you have a photo of this man?"

Matt dug into his satchel and brought out a photocopy of Langer's state ID-the same one that Ms. Wyndham Academy had scowled at.

Galvin squinted at the photo and said, "I'll need something clearer than this, but I can download the original, no problem."

"Then what's the next step?"

"I've got a friend at the Bureau who'll run this through facial recognition, no questions asked. It might take some time, but if this guy's in any of the usual databases, we're bound to get a hit."

Galvin had mentioned biometric facial recognition in the past. The software compared key features of a subject-nose, eyes, eyebrows, mouth, face shape-to the faces stored in law enforcement and DMV databases, and when a requisite number of features matched, it spit out the results. The software wasn't perfect, but its proponents called it a breakthrough as significant as the introduction of fingerprint technology.

Matt didn't know if that was true, but he was more than happy to take their word for it if it brought him any closer to finding out who Langer really was.

"I'll call you when I've got something," Galvin said. Then he added, "I'd warn you not to do anything stupid, but I guess it's too late for that."

Matt's next stop was the Dumont Hotel, which was located across the street from Jenny's law firm. It was what was often called a boutique hotel, small but well-appointed, with just a touch of the upturned nose.

The front desk clerk, a knockout Eurasian woman who didn't seem to know just how beautiful she was, glanced at Matt's credentials, listened as he told her what he was looking for, then smiled politely and said, "Let me get the manager."

Matt would much rather have talked to her, but he supposed it could wait.

A few moments later, a well-coiffed gentleman in his mid-fifties, wearing a custom tailored gray suit and a neatly knotted blue tie emerged from a doorway behind the counter.

"I'm Harold Longbaugh," he said with a smile. "How may I help you?"

"I'm doing a background story on the trial of Veronica Baldacci, trying to fill in the details surrounding the crime in question. I take it you're familiar with the case?"

"Only what I've read in the papers."

"Really? So you're not aware that your establishment was mentioned during testimony on Monday?"

The smile faltered slightly, then he said, "Perhaps we should take this into my office."

Matt followed him into a small but efficient space that housed a desk, a computer, a couple of chairs, a row of carefully dusted file cabinets and several plaques on the wall to remind the guy what a managerial genius he was. He invited Matt to sit and Matt took him up on the offer, dropping his satchel on the floor beside him.

Longbaugh sank into the chair behind his desk. "You were saying?"

Straight to business.

"According to the testimony, there were several phone calls made from your house phone to the law offices across the street. The victim's firm. They believe those calls were made by the woman on trial."

"I'm not really at liberty to talk about that."

"Oh? You must have invited me into your office for a reason. I assume you're very sensitive about the idea that a killer may have harassed her victim from the lobby of this hotel."

"Of course we are."

"Well, there's not much you can do about it at this point, but I doubt it's the kind of thing you'd want publicized any further. When I write my story, I can either downplay it or go for the gold. The choice is yours."

Longbaugh studied him a moment then offered him a tight smile. "What do you wish to know?"

"I'm guessing the police subpoenaed your records?"

He nodded. "Both phone and guest records for the time in question."

"Was Ms. Baldacci ever a guest here?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

"I assume they talked to your staff as well," Matt said. "Asked if anyone had ever seen Ms. Baldacci wandering around the lobby?"

"They did."

"And?"

"I'm afraid none of us ever saw her. We must have been quite busy at the time."

It was the answer Matt had wanted to hear, but he eyed him skeptically. "We're talking about several days."

Longbaugh showed him his empty hands in response.

"What about surveillance cameras?" Matt asked.

"We only use them in the upstairs hallways, but as far as I know, the police didn't find anything worthwhile on them."

"How many desk clerks do you employ?"

"Just a few," Longbaugh said, "and they work in shifts."

"Does the woman out front usually handle the day shift?"

Longbaugh nodded. "Monday through Friday until three o'clock. We have different crews for nights, graveyard and weekends."

"Can I talk to her?"

"I don't imagine that's really necessary, is it?"

Matt reached down beside him and opened the flap of his satchel, bringing out the photocopy of Langer's state ID. He put it on the desktop and slid it toward Longbaugh.

"I'd like to ask her about this man."

Longbaugh studied the photo. "What about him?"

"Does he look familiar at all? Could he have been a guest here?"

"What does this have to do with the Baldacci case?"

"Possibly nothing," Matt said. "But I believe in following all leads."

Longbaugh frowned. "I don't understand."

"We have information that this man may be a friend of Baldacci's. Does he look familiar or not?"

Longbaugh studied the photo again. "I'd have to say that, based on this photograph, he doesn't strike me as our typical guest."

"What about the name? Frederick Langer. Could you check your records to see if he may have taken a room around that time?"

Longbaugh hesitated, looking as if he were about to resist, but then his eyes shifted slightly as if an internal sensor had just been switched on. "You're thinking Ms. Baldacci may have been staying in his room?"

"Something like that."

"I'm not quite sure how she'd get around the cameras up there, but I have to admit I'm intrigued."

"Intrigued enough to check your records?"

Longbaugh thought it over, then turned to his computer and quickly typed in an entry. He studied the screen, then shook his head in obvious disappointment. "I'm afraid there's no record of him. Not under that name, at least."

"Do you mind if I show this photo to your clerk? See if she remembers him?"

Longbaugh hesitated again, then said, "You'll print your story without mentioning the name of the hotel, yes?"

"I'll be as discreet as humanly possible," Matt told him.

Longbaugh got to his feet. "Then by all means."

He moved to the door and pulled it open. The desk clerk was facing away from them and from where he sat, Matt had a view of her nearly perfect ass.

He willed himself to remain professional.

"Addie?" Longbaugh said. "Could you please come into my office a moment? I'll watch the desk."

It turned out that the desk clerk, whose name was Addie Wright, had never seen Langer, and assured Matt that it was a face she would have remembered. There was a grace and good humor and openness about her (the polar opposite of Ms. Wyndham Academy), and as they spoke, Matt couldn't help feeling attracted to her-even took a glance at her left hand to see if she was wearing a ring.

He didn't need to go down that road again.

When he ran out of questions to ask-quite a few of which had been frivolous and unnecessary-he thanked her and shook her hand and gave her his card, promising himself he'd find an excuse to come back again. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw a spark of interest in her eyes.

Jesus, Matt, get a grip.

He was supposed to be helping Ronnie, but all he could think about was that face and that ass and everything that went along with them.

He was a dog, was what he was. In desperate need of grooming.

Maybe there was some irony in that.