The Crush (6 page)

"Well there you go."

"Maybe Dr. Newton thought his getting that position was one joke on her too many."

Wick stood up and began to pace.

"Recap the facts for me."

"On the homicide? According to Mrs. Howell, the party broke up about midnight. They were in bed by one. The house phone rang at two-oh-seven.

She's definite on the time because she remembers looking at the clock.

"Dr. Howell answered the phone, talked for several seconds, then hung up and told her he was needed at the hospital, said there'd been a major freeway accident with multiple casualties.

"He dressed and left. His body was found beside his car in the doctors' parking lot at two-twenty-eight. That's when the nine-one-one came in. Which was just long enough for him to make the drive from home. The security guard had seen Howell drive in minutes earlier, so he was popped the moment he got out of his car. His wallet was intact. Nothing taken from or off his car.

"Cause of death was massive hemorrhaging from a stab wound beneath his left arm. The murder weapon was left in the wound. Your average filleting knife. The manufacturer says they haven't produced wood hilts in twelve years, so this knife could've come from anywhere. Grandma's kitchen, flea market, you name it. No prints, of course.

"The blade went through Howell's ribs clean as a whistle and burst his heart like a balloon.

Best guess is that he was attacked from behind, probably around the neck. Reflexively he reached up, the assailant stabbed him with his left hand. It happened like that," he said, snapping his fingers. "Whoever did him knew what he was doing."

"Like another doctor?"

Oren shrugged.

"Yesterday you mentioned a potential eyewitness."

"The parking-lot security guard. One ..."

Oren opened the binder and scanned a typed form until he located the name. "Malcomb R.

Lutey. Age twenty-seven."

"Did you check him out?"

"Considered and eliminated as a suspect. He called in the nine-one-one. Scared shitless, and he wasn't faking it. Threw up four times while the first officers on the scene were trying to get information out of him.

"Hasn't missed a day of work since he's had the job. Works holidays. Has never caused anybody any trouble. Not even a traffic ticket on record. Yes-sirred and no-sirred everybody. Kind of a geek. Take that back. He's a full-fledged geek."

"He didn't see or hear anything?"

"Like I told you, Wick, nothing. Once this kid stopped hurling chow, he cooperated fully.

Nervous as hell, but Mom was responsible for that.

Scary old bat. She made me nervous too.

Believe me, he's not our man."

"And the freeway accident?"

"No such accident occurred. Everyone on the hospital staff denies calling Howell.

Telephone records indicate that the call originated from a cell phone."

"Let me guess. Untraceable."

"You got it."

"Male or female?"

"The caller? We don't know. Dr. Howell was the only one who spoke to him. Or her."

"What does the wife get by way of an estate?"

"Plenty. Howell was insured to the hilt, but the missus came into the marriage with money of her own and stands to inherit more when her daddy passes."

"Good marriage?"

"By all accounts. They were trying to have another kid. There's one seven-year-old boy. Ideal American family. Churchgoers, flag-wavers. No drug abuse or alcoholism. He made small wagers on his golf games and that was the extent of his gambling.

Not even a hint of marital infidelity, and especially not with his colleague Rennie Newton."

Oren rattled the ice in his glass, shook a cube into his mouth, chomped on it noisily.

"The doc never had a malpractice suit filed against him. No outstanding debts. No known enemies. Except Rennie Newton. And I've just got a gut feeling about her, Wick."

Wick stopped pacing and looked at Oren, inviting him to elaborate.

"Don't you think it's a bit tidy and damn convenient that her rival gets popped within days after he's appointed to a position she wanted?"

"Wild coincidence?" Wick ventured.

"I could concede that except for the phone call that put Howell in that parking lot in the middle of the night. Besides, I don't believe in coincidences that wild."

"Me neither. I was playing devil's advocate." He sank back into the cushions of the sofa and placed his hands behind his head. He stared into the TV at the surgeon's calm face, which was freeze-framed on the screen. "Stabbing?

True, she'd know right where to stick you to make it fatal, but I dunno." He frowned. "Just doesn't seem like something this lady would do."

"I don't think she did it herself. Somebody did it for her."

Wick turned and looked hard at his former partner. "Lozada is into knives."

"On occasion."

"But he once used a flare gun."

Oren made a face. "Jesus, was that a mess."

Body parts of that victim had been discovered floating over several acres of Eagle Mountain Lake. Lozada had also used a tire tool once to bash in a skull. That hadn't been a contract kill, as were most of his murders. That poor bastard had just pissed him off. Of course they could never prove that he had committed any of these crimes. They just knew it.

Wick came off the sofa again and moved to the fireplace. He looked at the pictures of Stephanie and Laura on the mantel. Then he went to the window and peered through the blinds. He ambled back to the mantel before returning to the sofa. "You think this Dr. Newton hired Lozada to eliminate her competition? Or had Lozada kill him out of spite? Is that basically it?"

"It's his kind of kill. Silent. Quick.

Leaving the weapon."

"I'm not disputing that, Oren. It's her involvement I have a problem with." He gestured toward the TV. "She's a surgeon with a good reputation and no doubt a six-figure income.

She seeks out a scumbag--that we all know Lozada to be no matter how fancy he dresses himself up--and hires him to kill her colleague? No way. Sorry, but I ain't buying it."

"What? She's too educated? Too well dressed? Too clean?"

"No, she's too ... dispassionate. I
don't know," Wick said impatiently.

"Is there any evidence of a connection between her and Lozada?"

"We're looking."

"That means no."

"That means we're looking," Oren stressed.

Wick expelled a deep breath. "Right.

Lozada could be having meetings with the pope and we'd be the last to know. He's slippery as owl shit."

"The doctor could be just as slippery, just as deceptive. She spends the majority of her time at the hospital, but nobody--and I mean no one--seems to know much about her personal life.

They say she keeps to herself, keeps her private life private.

"That's why everyone laughed at my question about hanky-panky between her and Howell. If she dates at all, nobody knows about it. She's a loner. An excellent surgeon," he stipulated. "On that everybody agrees.

Generally she's very well liked. She's friendly enough. Kindhearted. But she's aloof. Aloof.

That's a word I heard a lot."

"You need more," Wick said.

"I agree."

Reaching into the breast pocket of his shirt, Oren withdrew a slip of paper and laid it on the sofa cushion that separated him and Wick.

"What's that?"

"Her address."

Wick knew what that implied, what Oren was asking of him. He shook his head. "Sorry, Oren, but you haven't convinced me. What you've got on her is thin. Way too thin.

Speculation at best, and nothing substantive.

Certainly nothing concrete. There's no just cause for--"

"You heard about Lozada's most recent trial, right? Or is your head buried too deep in Galveston sand?"

"Sure I heard. Capital murder.

Another acquittal," Wick said bitterly.

"Same song, tenth verse. What of it?"

Oren leaned forward and spoke in a stage whisper. "The jury that acquitted him ...?"

"Yeah?"

"Guess who was forewoman."

Chapter 4

Wick wore running shorts, a tank top, and athletic shoes. If he bumped into a nosy neighbor, he could always pretend to be a jogger who was looking for a place to take a leak. That might not go over well, but it was better than the truth: that he was doing his cop friend a favor by illegally breaking into a suspect's house for the purpose of obtaining information.

To make the guise believable, he ran several laps around the city park a few blocks away from Rennie Newton's house. By the time he vaulted the fence that separated her backyard from the rear alley, he had worked up a plausible sweat.

From several houses down came the hum of a lawn mower. Otherwise the neighborhood was quiet. They'd picked this time of day for him to break in. It was too early for most people to be returning home from work and too hot for stay-at-homers to be doing outdoor chores or activities.

He went up her back steps and unzipped the fanny pack strapped to his waist: From it he removed a pair of latex gloves and slipped them on, which he might have difficulty explaining to a nosy neighbor in the I'm-just-taking-a-leak scenario. But better a neighbor than a judge with an indisputable fingerprint match. Next he took his MasterCard from the zippered pouch. In under three seconds the back door was unlocked.

With Oren's final warning echoing through his mind--"If you get caught I never heard of you"--he slipped inside.

Rarely was Wick stunned into silence and left without a clever comeback. But last night, when Oren had told him about Rennie Newton's recent jury duty it was several moments before he found his tongue, and all it could manage was an ineloquent, "Huh."

Oren had baited him and knew he had him hooked.

Now inside the former juror's house, he paused to listen. They hadn't expected a security system. Oren had checked city records for the required registration. No such registration was on file, and no electronic beep alerted Wick now that a system had been breached.

All that came back to him was the hollow silence of an empty house. For almost a week Dr. Newton had been under police surveillance. They knew she lived alone, and Oren had said you could set your clock by her schedule. She didn't return for the day until after making evening hospital rounds. According to him, there was rarely more than twenty minutes' variance in her ETA.

The back door had placed Wick in the kitchen, which was compact and spotlessly clean.

Only two items were in the sink: a coffee cup and the coffeemaker carafe. Each held an inch of soapy water.

In the drawer nearest the stove, cooking utensils were lined up like surgical instruments on a sterile tray. Among her knives was a filleting knife. It had a hilt made of some synthetic material that matched the others in the set.

Inside the bread box was half a loaf of whole wheat, tightly resealed and clamped. Every opened cereal box in the pantry had the tab inserted into the slot. The canned vegetables weren't alphabetized, but the neatness of the rows was almost that extreme.

The contents of the refrigerator indicated that she was a conscientious eater but she wasn't a fanatic weight watcher. There were two half-gallon cartons of ice cream in the freezer. Of course the ice cream could have been for a guest.

He checked the drawer in the small built-in desk and found a laminated list of emergency telephone numbers, a ruled notepad with no doodles or notes, and several Bic pens, all black. Nothing personal or significant.

Through a connecting door he entered the living room. It could have been a catalog layout.

Cushions were plumped and evenly spaced along the back of the sofa. Magazines were in neat stacks, the edges lined up like a deck of cards. The TV'S remote control was squared up with the corner of the end table.

"Jesus," Wick whispered, thinking about the condition in which he'd left his shack in Galveston. When he'd left his motel room this morning it looked like it had sustained storm damage. Midway down the short hall was a small room she obviously used for a home study. He hoped it would prove to be a treasure trove of information and insight into this woman. It didn't. The titles of the medical books on the shelves were as dry as dust. There were a number of atlases and travel-guide books, a few novels, mostly literary, nothing racy, certainly nothing to suit his unsophisticated reading taste.

On top of the neat desk her mail had been separated into two metal baskets, one for opened, the other for unopened. He scanned the ho-hum contents of both. In the deeper drawer of the desk he discovered an expandable file of receipts--a labeled compartment for each month.

He looked through them but did not find a paid invoice for a contract killer tucked into the accordion folds.

It was in her bedroom that he received his first surprise. He stood on the threshold, giving it one swift survey before assimilating it more slowly. By comparison, this room was messy. This room wasn't occupied by a surgeon. It was lived in by a person. By a woman.