The Crush Part 12

"You particular?" Someone knocked; Oren turned.

The punctual maid was at the threshold with her cart. "Go away," he barked and slammed the door.

"Hey, I live here, remember," Wick said.

"You said she was a pest."

"But now she might not come back all day."

"Like you're Mr. Clean."

'Jeez, you're in a foul mood. Take a load off." He motioned Oren into the room's only chair. "I apologized for waking you up last night. You told me to call if anything happened, so when something happened, I called. When I saw Rennie Newton rolling out of her garage, I didn't know she was going to the hospital for an emergency.

"Did my call interrupt something? You and Grace dancing the horizontal tango? She put fresh batteries in the vibrator? What? Or maybe Grace wasn't in the mood.

Is that why you're so grumpy this morning?"

"Shut up, Wick. Just shut up." Glowering, Oren took

back the sack and plunged his hand inside, coming up with a doughnut.

Laughing at his ill-tempered friend, Wick dropped his towel and pulled on a pair of boxers. He reached for the sack, got himself a glazed doughnut, took a bite that demolished half of it, and said around the mouthful, "No coffee to go with it?"

"Tell me about last night."

He swallowed. "I already did. The doctor got a call a little after one. She left her house within two minutes of getting the call. I nearly broke my G.o.dd.a.m.n neck running down those dark stairs while trying to get my boots on. Caught up with her on Camp Bowie three blocks from her house. Followed her straight to the hospital. She was there until five-ten. I followed her home. That's where she was when I turned it over to Thigpen. Who, by the way, showed up fifteen minutes late this morning." Oren tossed him the manila envelope. He caught it against his bare chest. He finished the doughnut and licked the sugar off his fingers before opening the envelope and sliding out the eight-by-ten photographs. There were four of them. He studied them one by one, then held one up to Oren. "This one's pretty good of me even though it's not my best side." Oren s.n.a.t.c.hed back the black-and-whites and threw them on the table beside his chair. "That's all you've got to say?" "Okay, you caught me. I'm busted. What do you want me to say? Congratulations, Detective. Outstanding police work. Or do you want me to kneel and beg forgiveness? Kiss your ring? Kiss your a.s.s? What?" "What the h.e.l.l were you doing, Wick?" "Undercover investigation of a suspect."

"Bulls.h.i.t." Oren picked up the most compromising photo. It was a rear shot of Wick and Rennie outside the country club walking toward her car. He was looking down at her and his hand was pressed against the small of her back. "Don't insult me." Wick stewed under his accusatory glare. Finally he said, "We weren't getting anywhere by watching her house, were we? I've been sitting around for a week doing absolutely nothing. I've trimmed my fingernails three times for lack of anything else to do. I've sat so long my a.s.s is growing as wide as Thigpen's. So I thought that maybe, if I exercised a little initiative, I could do us some good." "By hitting on a suspect?" "It wasn't like that." "No? Then you tell me, Wick, what was it like? What was it like to be up close and personal with Dr. Rennie Newton?" To avoid Oren's incisive glare, he reached into the bag for a second doughnut. "She's an ice maiden. She takes to being touched no better than a rattlesnake. In fact, she hissed at me." "You touched her?" "No. That," he said impatiently, pointing to the telltale photo, "and a handshake were the extent of touching. She showed her fangs when I tipped the parking valet."

"He'll give you back your five."

Wick looked at Oren, shook his head with disbelief, snorted, "He was ours? That pimply kid?"

"Rookie. Good with a camera. One of those fountain pen-looking things."

"That explains how you got the photos. How'd you know she was going to the wedding?"

"We didn't until she checked in with the hospital. She

stopped by there on her way to the church. We hustled. By the time she reached the reception we had this guy in place.

"Why didn't you tell me all this?"

"Well, now, see, I tried. I even went back to the house to explain where she was going and to tell you that I had someone else covering her, just in case you wanted to take a break, go out for a good dinner, maybe see a movie. I was feeling bad about you being cooped up on a Sat.u.r.day night. Imagine my surprise when I discovered the house empty and you nowhere to be found."

"I was buying a suit."

"Conveniently, your cell phone was turned off."

"There was sign at the church asking that cell phones and pagers be turned off before entering the sanctuary."

"It doesn't vibrate?"

"Yeah, but... It..." For once he couldn't think of a plausible excuse or lie. So he took another tack. "I don't know why you're so upset, Oren. I minded my manners.

Didn't have a single drink at the reception. I even took a set of steak knives to the happy couple. n.o.body there would've guessed I wasn't invited." He finished his doughnut then stretched out on his back on the bed and bunched the pillows beneath his head. "No harm was done."

Oren looked at him hard for a few moments. "As I sit here, I'm trying to decide whether to continue this conversation or get up and walk out and to h.e.l.l with you or come over there and knock the s.h.i.t out of you."

"You're that p.i.s.sed? Because I spent twenty minutes, a half hour tops, with Rennie Newton?"

"No, Wick. I'm upset because I saw you f.u.c.k up once.

And you f.u.c.ked up huge. And now you've made me real

scared that you're about to tuck up again. Huger than before."

Wick saw red. "Don't let the door hit you in the a.s.s on your way out, Oren."

"Oh no, I'm not leaving. You need to be reminded what that mistake cost you. You think I don't know what that rubber band around your wrist is for?"

"It's a habit I've taken up." "Yeah, right." It looked to Wick like he still might hit him. "For those of us who care about you--G.o.d knows why--it hurt to watch the disintegration you went through after what happened. "It's a credit to your stamina that you stayed on the force another two years before you took leave. Looking back, I see how dangerous you were to have around and to be around. Don't you remember all that c.r.a.p, Wick?" "How could I forget it with you reminding me of it all the d.a.m.n time?" "I'm reminding you because I don't want you to make the same kind of mistake again." "I'm not!" "The h.e.l.l you're not!" Wick jackknifed into a sitting position. "What? Because I went to a wedding reception and shared a gla.s.s of water and some polite conversation with a suspect? Come on, Oren." Wick's anger wasn't directed at his friend so much as it was at the accuracy of what he was saying. If Wick had followed procedure three years ago, they could have had Lozada for Joe's murder. He was breaking with procedure again--blatantly by leaving the surveillance house and approaching Rennie Newton at the wedding reception, and not so blatantly by failing to tell Oren about the telephone call she had received last night. The first call, the one that had upset her. At least she had appeared to be upset when she rushed to her window with phone in hand and peered out into the darkness as she talked. The call, whatever its nature, had left her distressed. Was it fear, frustration, or anguish that had caused her to throw the telephone down onto the bed, cover her face with her hands, and give every appearance of a woman on the verge of unraveling? After that call she'd been totally different from the calm, cool, and collected woman who had capably rejected him only a few hours before. Who the h.e.l.l had called? Friend? Foe? Lover? The person who wrote "I've got a crush on you" on that small white enclosure card? Whoever it was had rocked her world. Oren needed to know about it. But Oren had barged in here like a fire-breathing evangelical laying out all his transgressions for review, so he wasn't feeling very obliging toward his friend right now. Anyhow, that's how he rationalized not sharing everything he knew. Some of it could wait until both had cooled off. While he'd been processing this, Oren had been looking at him as though waiting for an explanation for his behavior.

"I'm a free agent on this case, Oren, remember? You recruited me to help out. So okay, I'm helping out. In my style." "Just make sure your 'style' helps and doesn't hurt my case." "Look, my tan is beginning to fade. I miss the sound of the surf. 1 even miss sc.r.a.ping gull s.h.i.t off my deck. I'd just as soon return to the beach, hang out, go after that shrimper's sister, and forget you ever came knocking. So if you don't want my help anymore, please just say so."

Oren regarded him closely for several moments, then shook his head. "And give you an excellent excuse to go after Lozada alone? Uh-huh. No way." He stood up, gathered the photographs, and extended them down to Wick. "Want these for your sc.r.a.pbook?" "No thanks. The encounter was unremarkable." Oren grunted. "You've never had an unremarkable encounter with a woman." He stuffed the pictures back into the envelope, picked up the sack with what remained of the doughnuts, and on his way out, said, "See you this evening. Have a good sleep." "Oh, I will." He had no intention of sleeping.

Chapter 10.

"What're you havin', hon?" Wick closed the laminated menu and looked across the lunch counter at the waitress. They must breed them like this somewhere and ship them all to Texas, he thought. Bleached hair was stacked into an intricate tower. Eyebrows appeared to have been stenciled on with a black crayon. Fluorescent pink lipstick was bleeding into the smoker's lines radiating from her thin lips, which had formed a wide smile for him. "What do you recommend?" "You Baptist or Methodist?" "I beg your pardon?" "This is Sunday. The Baptist go back to church tonight, so I don't recommend the Mexican platter for lunch. Heartburn and gas, ya see. They're better off stickin' to the chicken-fried steak, pork chops, or meat loaf. But the Methodist can skip the evenin' service without fearin' h.e.l.lfire and d.a.m.nation, so they're fine with hot and spicy."

"What about us heathens?"

She gave his arm a playful slap. "Had you pegged for one the minute you sauntered in. I said to myself, n.o.body that good-lookin' can be a saint." She propped her hand on her hip. "Anything we got and you want, you can have." Winking at her, he said, "I'll start with the chicken-fried steak." "Gravy with that?" "You bet. Extra on the side." "My kinda man. The Sunday plate lunch comes with your choice of strawberry shortcake or banana pudding." "Can I let you know?" "Take all the time you need, sugar." She glanced at the neon wall clock. "It's past noon. How 'bout a beer while that steak's fryin'?" "Thought you'd never ask." "If you need anything else, just holler for Crystal. That's me." The Wagon Wheel Cafe was typical of small-town Texas. Situated two miles off the interstate highway on the outskirts of Dalton, the restaurant served hearty breakfasts twenty-four hours a day. Truckers from everywhere knew the place by name. The coffee was always hot and fresh, the beer always cold. Almost everything on the menu was deep-fried, but you could get a sixteen-ounce T-bone grilled any degree from still mooing to charred. The restaurant catered to the after-church crowd on Sundays and to the sinners on Sat.u.r.day nights. The Rotary and Lions Clubs met in its "banquet" room, and adulterous lovers rendezvoused in its gravel parking lot. The booths were upholstered in red vinyl and each had a mini jukebox linked to the vintage Wurlitzer in the corner, which was bubbling even on this Lord's day. There was a counter with chrome stools for folks in a hurry or parties of one, like Wick. Diners seated at the counter had a view into the kitchen--too good a look and it could spoil your appet.i.te. But as the sign outside boasted, "Open Since 1919 ... And We Ain't Kilt n.o.body Yet." The game schedule for the high school football team was taped to the cash register and the civic baseball team's first-place trophy for '88 stood next to a dusty jar in which contributions were collected for the local SPCA. Wick's beer tasted good after the hot, three-hour drive from Fort Worth. The miles had put him at a sale distance from his friend's advice against making up his own rules of law enforcement as he went along. To Wick's way of thinking, proper procedure put a crimp in creative flow. Rules for just about anything were kept in his personal "major pain in the b.u.t.t" file.

Everything Oren had said was right, of course, but he didn't dwell on that.

He did justice to the steak, which was fork-tender beneath the crispy breading. He decided on the banana pudding.

Crystal poured him a complimentary cup of coffee to go with it.

"First time in Dalton?"

"Yeah. Just pa.s.sing through."

"A good place to pa.s.s through."

"Looks like a nice town. Lots of civic pride." He used his spoon to point at the posters taped to the front windows announcing upcoming local events.

"Oh, I guess it's as okay as anywhere," Crystal said.

"When 1 was a kid I was bent on leaving soon as I could, but, you know." She shrugged philosophically. "Married this sorry-a.s.s because he looked a little like Elvis. He up

and left soon's the third kid came along. Life got in the way of my big plans to seek my fortune somewhere else."

"So you've lived in Dalton your whole life?"

"Ever' f.u.c.kin' day of it."

Wick laughed, then took a sip of coffee. "I knew a girl in college who hailed from here. Her name was. . .

hmm . . . something unusual. Regan? No. Ronnie? h.e.l.l, that's not it either, but something like that."

"Your age?"

"Thereabout."

"You don't mean Rennie Newton, do you?"

"That was it! Rennie. Yeah, Rennie Newton. Did you know her?"

She snorted with disdain. "Was she a good friend of yours?"

"Knew her by sight, that's all."

"That's a surprise."

"How come?"

"Because Rennie made it her life's ambition to know every man around." One of the oily eyebrows arched eloquently.

"You were one of the few men that never knew her--if you get my drift."

He did. But he was having trouble reconciling Crystal's drift with what he knew of Dr. Rennie Newton the ice maiden. "She got around?"

"That's a nice way of putting it."

"What's the un-nice way?"

That was all the encouragement Crystal needed. She leaned across the counter and spoke softly. "That girl screwed everything in pants and didn't care who knew it."

Wick stared at her blankly. "Rennie Newton? She put out?"

"And then some, honey."

The grin he forced felt stiff. "Son of a gun."

"The way guys talk among themselves, I would've thought you'd know her reputation."

"Just my rotten luck, I guess."

Crystal patted his arm consolingly. "You were better off. Believe me."

"She was bad news, huh?"

"She was an okay little kid. Then about the ninth grade, about the time she blossomed, you might say, she turned bad. Soon as her woman parts started showing up real good, she learned how to use 'em. She just went hog wild. Tore her mama up, the way she s.l.u.tted around.

"One day I was standing right here behind this very counter filling the ketchup bottles and heard all this racket outside. Rennie came blazing past in the new red Mustang convertible her daddy had given her. She was honking her horn and waving to one and all--nekkid as a jaybird. On the top anyway.

"Seems her and some friends were out swimming at the reservoir. Their horseplay got a little rowdy. One of the boys stole the top of Rennie's swimsuit and wouldn't give it back, so Rennie said she'd teach him not to mess with her. She told him she was gonna drive straight to his daddy's insurance office and tattle on him, and d.a.m.ned if that's not what she did. Went sashaying in there, walked right past a secretary and into that man's private office.

Bold as bra.s.s. Wearing nothing but her bikini bottoms and a smile. You ready for more coffee?"

Wick's mouth had gone dry. "I'll take another beer."

Crystal checked on two more customers before bringing him back another long-neck. "Be glad you never got tangled up with that one," she said. "You married?"

"No."

"Ever?"

"Nope."

"Why not? You're sure cute enough."

"Thanks."