Trial Junkies

'My brother. He would've been happy you're looking out for me. Protecting me. I feel like I've been alone for such a long time.'

'What about your mother? Your son?'

'Christopher's a godsend, but my Mom and I have never been the same since my brother died. My dad left because of it. And I sometimes think she wishes it was me who pulled the plug instead. Not that I haven't thought about it.'

'Stop that,' Hutch said.

Ronnie smiled. 'Dysfunction Junction. That's where I've been living for the last fifteen years.'

Before Hutch could respond, a voice on the intercom announced the next stop and the train braked to a slow halt. Langer shut his textbook, got to his feet, then waited until the doors slid open and headed outside without a backward glance.

A moment later they followed.

— 46 -

Hutch had seen his share of spy movies in his time, had even starred in one-a direct-to-DVD stinker filmed in Romania called The Counterfeit Coffin. But neither he nor Ronnie were experts in even the most rudimentary surveillance techniques, a point well proven by their recklessness on the train.

Instead of turning this into a group project, executed by a bunch of laymen-an idea that Ronnie had rightfully mocked as bad TV-Hutch probably should have hired a professional. Someone with real expertise. Someone less visible. Someone who hadn't spent his days parked in a courtroom chair directly across the aisle from the very man they were trying to surveil.

If he had, maybe he wouldn't have come so close to getting himself killed.

But the truth was, Hutch's ego-his vanity-had gotten the better of him. He wanted to be the star, the hero. He wanted to prove his instincts right and save the damsel in distress. He wanted to be the one to tag Jenny's killer, if only to make up for his failure to be there for her when she was alive.

Besides, if he had gone with a professional, who would he have hired?

He didn't know any surveillance specialists or private investigators or retired cops here in Chicago. The ones he'd befriended in Los Angeles considered him a drunken loser. And the kind of man who was willing to take money for a questionable exercise like this one, was probably not the kind of man you should trust. Or depend on.

There was always Waverly, of course, who could undoubtedly make some calls. But she would have asked all kinds of questions-and what would Hutch have told her? How would he have convinced her that Langer was their man?

So here they were. He and Ronnie. Several blocks from the train station, foolishly following a possible psycho killer down a busy sidewalk, thinking they could pass themselves off as an anonymous couple out for an after dinner stroll.

Problem was, Langer didn't stroll. He moved quickly and with purpose, his book bag bouncing against his hip, an urgency in his gait that suggested he was late for an important appointment.

A job, maybe?

Hutch and Ronnie were walking at an accelerated pace past a row of outdoor cafes, the clink of dinnerware and the murmur of conversation punctuated by occasional peels of laughter. Langer was less than forty yards ahead of them-a man on a mission-and all Hutch could think was-

Don't turn around

Don't turn around

Don't turn around

— Then Langer came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the sidewalk, right in front of one of the cafes.

Hutch and Ronnie nearly collided as they, too, came to a stop. They quickly turned toward the crowded restaurant next to them and pretended to peruse a menu mounted on a post near the entrance.

Using Hutch as a shield, Ronnie chanced a glance in Langer's direction and said, 'What the hell is he up to? He's just standing there.'

'Please tell me he isn't looking at us.'

'No, he's staring at the people eating dinner on the patio. Like he's catatonic or something. What a nut job.'

'I think we've already established that fact.'

'Wait now, wait-he's going inside.'

'You think he works there?'

'I highly doubt it,' she said. 'Would you hire that freak?'

With Langer out of view, they started to walk again, moving slowly toward the next cafe, which was adjacent to the one Langer had entered. They stopped to study the menu, Hutch once again providing cover for Ronnie.

'He's taking a seat,' she said. 'Looks like he's gonna have dinner.'

'You're kidding me.'

'Hey, psychos have to eat, too, don't they?'

Hutch shuddered as an image of Hannibal Lecter popped into his head, but he quickly squelched it. Taking a glance at Langer, he nodded toward the cafe in front of them and said, 'How do you feel about a cup of coffee?'

'Here?'

He gestured to the patio. 'If we work it just right, we'll be able to watch him without drawing any attention to ourselves.'

'In that case,' she said, 'I'd love one.'

Then she hooked his arm and they headed inside.

'What's he doing now?' Ronnie asked.

They had been sitting there for a full forty minutes, strategically positioned with Ronnie's back to the adjacent cafe's patio, blocking Hutch from Langer's line of sight.

Hutch nursed his coffee, looking past her left shoulder at Langer, who was quietly cutting into what appeared to be a grilled chicken breast. He again sat alone, but for once in his life didn't have his face buried in a book.

No, something else had caught his attention.

'Earth to Hutch,' Ronnie said.

'He's doing the same thing he was doing the last time you asked.'

'Is he still looking at her?'

'Oh, yes.'

For nearly all of those forty minutes, Langer had been watching a petite, dark-haired waitress as she moved about the patio taking orders, clearing up dishes, smiling and laughing with her customers.

Normally, Hutch wouldn't think much of this behavior. He could remember a time or two that he himself had been mesmerized by a beautiful waitress (and had wound up taking her home to bed), but there were two additional factors here that gave him pause.

First, this was Langer they were talking about.

And second… the waitress in question looked a helluva lot like Ronnie.

'I hate not being able to see him,' she said.

'Just keep looking at me. The view's better anyway.'

She laughed. 'Normally, I'd give you hell for a comment like that, but this time you get a pass. What's he doing now?'

Hutch sighed. 'Will you quit asking me that?'

What Langer was doing was finishing up the last bite of his chicken, his gaze still fixed on the waitress, who was pouring iced tea at a neighboring table. Then she turned and Langer immediately looked away, pretending to peer at the foot traffic on the sidewalk.