Robert Browne - Trial Junkies

"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.

The waitress came over to his table and said something to him, gesturing with the pitcher, but Langer just shook his head, unwilling or afraid to look her in the eye. And judging by her expression, that was just fine with her.

But the moment she dropped the check on his table and walked away, his gaze once again shifted in her direction. And while Hutch couldn't read the guy's mind, he didn't doubt that he was paying special attention to the way the fabric of her uniform played along the curve of her ass.

A feeling of dread washed through Hutch. He didn't like what he was seeing here, convinced it was far more than a man admiring a woman's anatomy. At least not in a way any normal man would.

He could imagine Langer thinking about those photographs in his book. Thinking about that poor waitress lying face up in a pool of her own blood. Thinking about what he'd done to Jenny.

"This isn't the first time he's been here. He's stalking her."

Ronnie looked stricken. "You think?"

"I'd bet my so-called career on it. And the fact that she looks just like you makes it all that more horrifying."

"Thanks," Ronnie said, turning a little green. "Should we warn her?"

"She'll probably think we're nuts."

"Like my mom always says, better safe than sorry."

Langer was on his feet now, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. He dropped it to the table, picked up the check, then headed inside the cafe to pay the bill.

"He's on the move," Hutch said. "But I think you're right, and you're probably not gonna like this idea."

"What?"

"I think you should stay here and settle the tab, then go next door and tell your doppelganger she could be in very serious trouble."

He could see that she didn't like the idea, but she nodded. "What do I say to her?"

"Ask her if Langer's a regular and if she says yes, tell her you think he's stalking her the way he stalked you, and that she needs to be very careful. Her friends, too. Remember it was Jenny he slashed."

"Thanks for the reminder. You think she'll believe me?"

"I hope so."

As Hutch stood up, Langer emerged from the cafe next door and continued down the street.

Ronnie frowned. "I probably don't need to ask this, but where will you be while I'm having all this fun?"

"Following the sick son-of-a-bitch home."

But that was easier said than done.

By the time Hutch got out of the restaurant, Langer was a good half block away and nearly lost in a crowd of pedestrians moving along the sidewalk. A red light at the intersection should have slowed him down, but Langer ignored the signal and darted across the narrow street before any cars could get moving.

Hutch had to scramble to catch up-causing the ache in his kidney to come back-and got stuck at the light as cross traffic whizzed by. He still had Langer in sight, but wouldn't for long, and he could feel the adrenalin pumping as he waited for the traffic to clear.

Come on, come on, come on…

Then Langer turned a corner and Hutch knew he couldn't wait any longer. He darted into the middle of the street, let a honking car pass, then beelined it for the other side.

As he reached the corner, his cell phone rang.

Shit.

He pulled it from his from his pocket, saw Ronnie's name, and clicked it on as he turned the corner and scanned the sidewalk ahead, looking for Langer.

"Not now," he said. "I may have lost him. I'll call you back."

"You sound out of breath. Have you been running?"

The ache was even worse. "Yes, and I'm gonna hang up now."

"Wait, wait- I'm with the waitress. She says Langer's only been here a couple times, but she thinks she saw him standing outside her apartment the other night. She figured it was just her imagination, but now she's not so sure." Ronnie lowered her voice. "I think I scared the hell out of her."

"Good," he said. "She should be scared. I've gotta go."

Then he hung up. He hated being abrupt with her, but he still hadn't spotted Langer. There was a movie theater up ahead, people milling near the box office, but Langer wasn't among them.

Had he gone inside?

Hutch picked up his pace, moving at a trot now, but just as he reached the theater, he glanced to his left and saw that Langer had crossed to the other side. He was walking along the sidewalk past a row of parked cars, headed for the adjacent street.

Hutch immediately slowed down and fell back slightly as Langer reached the opposite corner and took a left. Then Hutch sprinted across the street, paused a moment to pull his hood back up over the baseball cap, and turned the corner.

Langer was about twenty yards ahead now, moving into a less populated area, where old brick factory buildings lined either side of the street. There were fewer street lamps here, as well, the block bathed in shadow, and the scene looked like something out of a forties film noir.

Langer was little more than a silhouette, distinguishable only because of the book bag still hanging at his shoulder. Moving at a clip, he crossed the street again, cut through a pool of light and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

All Hutch could see of him now were a few shifting shadows. He picked up speed and followed, crossing under the light until he reached the sidewalk. But when he looked in the direction that Langer had gone, he saw nothing. No sign of the guy.