The Crush (10 page)

Now, inside her own bedroom, lying in her own bed, she was afraid. And not just for her safety.

Lozada posed more than a physical threat.

Detective Wesley had mentioned his trial, had insinuated ...

"Oh my God."

Gasping, Rennie sat bolt upright. She covered her mouth and heard herself whimper involuntarily. A chill ran through her.

Lozada had tried to impress her with a lavish bouquet of roses in a crystal vase.

Personally delivered. What else had he done in an attempt to curry her favor?

The answer to that was too horrible to consider.

But obviously the homicide detective had considered it.

Wick opened another Coke, hoping it would wash away the unpleasant aftertaste of the tuna sandwich.

Rennie had retired for the night. It had been thirty-two minutes from the time she got home until she had turned out her bedroom light. Not long. No dinner. No leisure activity. Not even a half hour of TV during which to unwind after a hard day.

She had spent some of that thirty-two minutes at the kitchen sink, appearing to be lost in thought. Wick saw her shake her hair loose and massage her scalp. She'd had the aspect of someone weighted down by a major problem, or suffering a severe headache--or both.

Which didn't surprise him. She'd worked her ass off today. He had arrived at the family waiting room at seven that morning, knowing the day began early in the OR. Nobody questioned his being there. It was assumed that he belonged to one of the families who had set up temporary camp with magazines and cups of vending-machine coffee.

He chose a chair in the corner, pulled his straw cowboy hat low over his brow, and partially hid behind an edition of USA Today.

It was 8:47 before Dr. Newton made her first appearance.

"Mrs. Franklin?"

Mrs. Franklin and her retinue of supporters clustered around the surgeon. Rennie was dressed in green scrubs, the face mask lying open on her chest like a bib. She wore a cap. Paper slippers covered her shoes.

He couldn't hear what she was saying because she kept her voice at a confidential pitch to ensure the family's privacy, but whatever she said made Mrs. Franklin smile, clasp her hand, and press it thankfully. After the brief conference, Rennie excused herself and disappeared through the double swinging doors.

Throughout the long morning she had made three other visits to the waiting room. Each time she gave the anxious family her full attention and answered their questions with admirable patience. Her smiles were reassuring. Her eyes conveyed understanding and compassion. She never seemed to be rushed, although she must have been. She was never brusque or detached.

Wick had found it hard to believe that this was the same guarded, haughty woman on Oren's videotape.

He had stayed in the OR waiting room until his stomach started rumbling so loudly that people began looking at him askance. The crowd had thinned out too, so the tall cowboy sitting all alone in the corner with a newspaper he'd read three times was beginning to attract attention. He had left in search of lunch.

Oren thought he'd been sleeping through the day in his dreary motel room. He hadn't told him about
going to the hospital. Nor did he tell him that after grabbing a burger at Kincaid's he had staked out Rennie Newton's private office. It was located near the hospital on a street that had formerly been residential but had been given over largely to medical offices.

The limestone building was new looking and contemporary in design, but not ostentatious. The office had done a brisk business all afternoon, with patients going in and coming out at roughly fifteen-minute intervals. The parking lot was still half full when Wick left to go break into her house.

Yeah, Rennie had put in a full day.

To reward herself she'd drunk a bottle of water. That was it. When she moved out of the kitchen, she had switched off the light, then turned it back on almost instantly, which he thought was strange.

She had left that light on when she went into the bedroom, where she sat slumped on the edge of the bed, loose hair falling forward. Her whole aspect had spelled dejection. Or terrible trouble.

Then she'd done another strange thing. She had opened her nightstand drawer and, for the next several minutes, stared into it. Just stared. She didn't take anything out or put anything in--she just stared into it.

What had she been looking at? he wondered.

He concluded that it had to be the enclosure card.

What fascination could an unopened box of stationery hold for her? Her mother's obituary might be something she would read occasionally, maybe in remembrance of her. But he was putting his money on the card. And that made him damn curious about its origin and significance.

Eventually she had closed the drawer and stood up. She'd unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it off. She was wearing an unadorned bra. Maybe the sheer lacy ones were reserved for the days when she didn't perform four surgeries. Or for the man who had sent her the card.

Next she had removed her slacks.

That was when Wick had realized he was holding his breath and admonished himself to resume breathing normally--if such a thing were possible. Could any heterosexual man breathe normally when he was watching a woman take off her clothes? He didn't think so. He didn't know of one. The question might warrant a scientific study.

Conducting his own test, he had inhaled deeply, then exhaled an even stream of carbon dioxide.

And in that instant, almost as if she had felt his breath against her bare skin, she looked toward the windows with alarm. Immediately the bedside lamp was extinguished. A vague silhouette of her appeared momentarily at the windows, then the slats of the blinds were closed tightly, blocking her from sight.

The light in her bathroom had come on and remained on for ten minutes, long enough for her to bathe using one of the scented gels. She might've used the pink razor, too. She'd probably brushed her teeth and rolled the tube of toothpaste up from the bottom before replacing it in the cabinet above the sink that had not one single water spot.

Then the house had gone dark except for the light in the kitchen. Wick surmised that she had probably gone straight from her bath to bed.

And now, after thirty-two minutes, she was probably sleeping between the pale yellow sheets, her head sunk deeply into the down pillow.

He remembered that pillow. He had stared at it for a long time before peeling off the latex gloves and lifting it from the bed. He'd held it close to his face. Only for a second, though. Only for as long as any good detective would.

He hadn't told Oren about that, either.

Chapter 6

It was the best Mexican restaurant in Fort Worth, making it, in Lozada's opinion, the best restaurant in Fort Worth.

He came here only for the food and the deferential service he received. He could have done without the trio who strolled among the tables strumming guitars and singing Mexican standards in loud but mediocre voices. The decor looked like the effort of someone who had run amok in a border-town curio shop buying every sombrero and pi@nata available.

But the food was excellent.

He sat at his customary table in the corner, his back to the wall, sipping an after-dinner tequila. He'd have shot anyone who offered him one of those frozen green concoctions that came out of a Slurpee machine and had the audacity to call itself a margarita.

The fermented juice of the agave plant deserved to be drunk straight. He favored a clear a@nejo, knowing that what made a tequila
"gold" was nothing but caramel coloring.

He had dined on the El Ray platter, which consisted of enchiladas con carne, crispy beef tacos, refried beans, Spanish rice, and corn tortillas dripping with butter. The meal was loaded with carbohydrates and fat, but he didn't worry about gaining weight. He'd been genetically gifted with the lean, hard physique that people joined health clubs and sweated gallons of perspiration to acquire. He never broke a sweat. Never. And the one time in his life he had lifted a dumbbell he had brained someone with it.

He finished his drink and left forty dollars cash on the table. That was almost double the amount of his bill, but it guaranteed that his table would be available anytime he came in. He nodded good-bye to the owner and winked at a pretty waitress on his way out.

The restaurant was located in the heart of the historic Stockyards area. Tonight the intersection of Main and Exchange Streets was thronged with tourists. They bought trashy Texas souvenirs like chocolates shaped as cow patties or rattlesnakes preserved in clear acrylic.

The more affluent were willing to pay handsomely for handmade boots from the legendary Leddy's.

The tantalizing aroma of mesquite-smoked meat lured them into barbecue joints. Open barroom doorways emitted blasts of cooler air, the smell of beer, and the wail of country ballads.

The streets were congested with every kind of vehicle from mud-spattered pickup trucks to family vans to sleek European imports. Bands of young women and groups of young men prowled the wooden sidewalks in search of one another. Parents had pictures of their children taken sitting atop a bored and probably humiliated longhorn steer.

Occasionally one could spot an authentic cowboy. They were distinguished by the manure caked on their boots and the telltale circle worn into the rear pocket of their Wranglers by the ever-present tin of chaw. They also regarded their counterfeits with an unconcealed and justifiable scorn.

The atmosphere was lightheaded, wholesome, and innocent.

Lozada was none of those.

He retrieved his silver Mercedes convertible from a kid he'd paid twenty dollars to car-sit and drove up Main Street, across the river, and into downtown. In less than ten minutes he left his car with the parking valet, crossed the native-granite lobby of Trinity Tower, and took the elevator up to the top floor.

He had bought the penthouse as soon as the renovated building became available for occupancy. Like most of the buildings in Sundance Square, the exterior had been left as it was to preserve the historic ambience of the area. The interior had been gutted from the foundation up, reinforced to meet current building codes--and, hopefully, to withstand tornadic winds--and reconfigured for high-rise condo living.

After buying the expensive floor space, it had cost Lozada another two million dollars to replicate the apartment he had admired in Architectural Digest. This financial setback was earned back in only three jobs.

He let himself in and welcomed the quiet, cool serenity of the condo after the festive confusion of Cowtown. Indirect lighting cast pools of illumination on the glossy hardwood floors that were softened only occasionally with sheepskin area rugs. Every surface was sleek and polished-lacquered wood, slate, and metal. Much of the furniture was built-in, crafted from mahogany. The freestanding pieces were upholstered in either leather or animal pelts.

The main feature of his living room was a large glass tank situated atop a knee-high pedestal of polished marble. The tank was eight feet square and a yard deep. This unusual display was the only deviation from the apartment he'd seen in the magazine. It was a necessary addition.

Inside the tank, he had created an ideal habitat for his lovelies.

The temperature and humidity were monitored and controlled. To prevent them from killing each other, he saw to it that they had enough prey on which to feed.

Presently the tank contained five, but he had had as many as eight and as few as three.

They didn't have names; that would have been ridiculous, and nobody would ever accuse Lozada of being ridiculous. But he knew each of them individually and intimately and occasionally took them out and played with them.

The two Centruroides he had smuggled out of Mexico himself. He'd had them less than a year. The one that had been living with him the longest was a female of the common Arizona species.

She hadn't been hard to come by, nor was she valuable, but he was fond of her. She had borne thirty-one young last year, all of which Lozada had killed as soon as they had climbed off her back, thereby declaring their independence from her. The other two in the tank were rarer and deadlier. It was hard not to be partial to them because they had been the most difficult and expensive to obtain.

They were the finest scorpions in the world.

He paused to speak to them, but he didn't amuse himself with them tonight. Ever the businessman, he checked his voice mail for messages. There were none. At the wet bar in the living room, he poured another a@nejo into a Baccarat tumbler and carried it with him to the wall of windows that provided a spectacular evening view of the river, for which the building was named, and the neighboring skyscrapers.

He raised a mock toast to the Tarrant County Justice Center. Then he turned in the opposite direction and raised his glass in a heartfelt salute to the warehouse across the railroad tracks.

These days the building housed a business that customized RV'S and vans. But the corrugated-tin structure had been vacant twenty-five years ago when Lozada had committed his first murder there.

Tommy Sullivan had been his pal. He'd had nothing against the kid. They'd never spoken a cross word to one another. Fate had just put Tommy at the wrong place at the wrong time.