The Crush Part 25

In the right hands, a Phillips screwdriver would do that to a person. Lozada's lips curled into a smirk of gratification.

"Was the wound potentially fatal?"

"In my opinion, yes. Lifesaving measures were taken immediately. Our trauma team did an excellent job."

"Was this attack related to the unsolved murder of Mr.

Threadgill's brother three years ago?"

"I don't know anything about that."

"Is Wick Threadgill still on leave from the police department?"

"That's a question for the police."

"Is he--"

She held up her hands for quiet. "I responded to an emergency call this morning. For a time, I didn't even know the patient's name. I don't know anything about Mr.

Threadgill's career or his family history. I did my job. Beyond that, I can't tell you anything more."

The video ended there. The talking head returned

with a brief summation and then moved on to the next story.

Lozada switched off the TV set but sat there and thought about Rennie's statement, "I did my job."

Of course! She hadn't saved Threadgill because she liked him. She had only been doing her job. He'd had nothing against most of the people he'd killed. He hadn't even known them, but that hadn't stopped him from doing what he was paid to do. Rennie had simply been going about her work with the same professional detachment he had when he went about his.

And wasn't she fantastic, the way she'd handled the media? Coolly professional, unfazed and unimpressed by the media exposure. She was extraordinary.

Oh, she was tired. He could tell that. He'd seen her looking better. But even disheveled and fatigued she was still beautiful and desirable. He wanted her. He would have her soon. Surely after this she would appreciate the depth of his devotion to her.

Suddenly he was ravenously hungry and felt like going out.

He poured himself a tequila and took it with him into the black marble shower. After showering and shaving his head and body, he let the water stream for another ten minutes. Following that thorough rinsing he disa.s.sembled the drain, cleaned every component of it with disposable wipes, then flushed them down the toilet.

He replaced the drain. He wiped the shower stall dry with a towel and placed it in a cloth bag. On his way out he would drop the bag into a chute that emptied into a bin in the building's bas.e.m.e.nt. A laundry service collected the bags twice daily. He never left a used towel in his bathroom.

He finished his drink while dressing in a pair of hand-tailored linen slacks and a silk T-shirt. He liked the feel of the silk against his skin, liked the way it caressed his nipples, as soft and sensual as a woman's tongue. He hoped Rennie would like his tattoo.

He topped off the outfit with a contrasting sport coat.

He was overdressing for the Mexican restaurant, but he felt like celebrating. He called down to the parking valet and asked that his Mercedes be brought from the garage.

Before leaving his condo he placed one more call.

The valet had the Mercedes waiting for him and was holding the driver's door open. "Have a good evening, Mr.

Lozada."

"Thank you."

Knowing that he looked great and that the young man probably envied him, Lozada tipped him generously.

Chapter 18.

The instant she stepped off the elevator she saw the roses.

It would have been impossible for her to miss them.

The bouquet had been placed on the ledge of the nurses'

station. Nurses and aides had obviously been awaiting her arrival to see her reaction. All were wearing expectant smiles.

"They're for you, Dr. Newton."

"They were delivered about half an hour ago."

"You could barely see the delivery boy behind them.

Aren't they gorgeous?"

"Who's your secret admirer?"

"He's not a cop." This from the policeman that Wesley had posted outside Wick's ICU. "No cop could afford them, that's for sure."

Rennie didn't give the bouquet another glance.

"There must be some mistake. They're not for me."

"B-but there's a card," one of the nurses stammered.

"It's got your name on it."

"Get rid of the roses and the card. The vase. All of it."

"You want us to throw them away?"

"Or distribute them among the patients. Take them to the lobby atrium, the chapel, put them on the dinner menu. I don't care. Just get them out of my sight. I need Mr. Threadgill's chart, please."

The group, no longer smiling, dispersed. The policeman slunk back to his post. One of the nurses carried away the heavy arrangement. Another pa.s.sed Rennie the requested chart and bravely followed her into Wick's cubicle.

"He's been waking up for longer periods of time," the nurse told her. "He hates the spirometer." Patients were forced to blow into the machine periodically to keep their lungs clear.

His vitals were good. She checked the dressing covering his incision. He moaned in his sleep when she peeled the bandage off to take a look. After replacing the bandage, she asked the nurse if he'd had anything to drink.

"Just the ice chips."

"If he asks for something again, let him have sips of Sprite."

"Widschumburohn."

Rennie moved to the left side of the bed, the one he lay facing. "Come again?"

"Burohn. In the schpirte." Barely moving his head, he tried to locate her with his single eye. To make it easier on him, she sat on the edge of the chair beside the bed.

"Do bourbon and Sprite mix?"

"Don' care."

She smiled. "I think you're well medicated already."

"Not enough."

The nurse bustled out to get the Sprite. Wick read

justed his head so that his face wasn't half buried in the pillow. "Did you do this to me, Rennie?"

"Guilty."

"Then you're off--he winced, sucked in his breath-- "off my Christmas card list."

"If you can joke you must be feeling better."

"Like hammered s.h.i.t."

"Well, that's what you look like."

"Ha-ha." His eye closed and it remained closed.

Rennie stood up and applied her stethoscope to several spots on his chest.

"Are you getting a beat?" he asked, which surprised her because she thought he had drifted off again.

"Loud and strong, Mr. Threadgill." She sat back down in the chair. "Your lungs sound clear, too, so keep blowing into the spirometer when the nurses ask you to."

"Sissy stuff."

"But pneumonia isn't."

"Rennie?"

"Yes?"

"Was I shot?"

"Stabbed."

He opened his eye again.

"With a screwdriver," she told him.

"Damage?"

"Considerable but reparable."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"My b.a.l.l.s hurt."

"I'll see that you get an ice pack for them."

It surprised her that a single eye could pack such malice into a dirty look.

"They're swollen," she explained. "Blood collects in the t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es after an injury like yours."

"But they're okay?"

"They're okay. This is a temporary condition."

"You swear?"

"Give them a few days. They'll return to normal."