The Crush Part 7

"She's on a roll now," someone in the background said.

"The so-called evidence against Mr. Lozada was entirely circ.u.mstantial," she said. "He could not be placed at the scene of the crime. And he had an alibi."

"A guy he probably paid to lie for him."

"There were no eyewitnesses. There were--"

"Tell me, Rennie, did all the jurors put this much thought into their decision?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you're Miss Precision. You would've lined up all the facts in a neat little row, and G.o.d forbid that you take the human element into account."

"Of course I did."

"Yeah? Then tell me this, when you took that first vote, before you even began deliberation, how many voted guilty and how many not guilty?"

"I won't discuss what happened in that jury room with you."

He glanced around the ring of faces as though to say, "I knew it." "Let me guess, Rennie. You--"

"I deliberated the case once, Lee. I don't want to do so again."

"You were the conscientious objector of the group, weren't you? You led the charge for acquittal." He stacked

his hands over his heart. "Our own Dr. Rennie Newton, crusader for the freedom of career criminals."

The argument ended there with their listeners' laughter. It was the last verbal skirmish she and Lee would ever have. As always, they'd parted friends. As she said good night to him and Myrna, he'd given her a quick hug. "You know I was only teasing, don't you? Of all the jurors who ever sat on any trial, you would work the hardest at getting it right." Yes, she had tried to get it right. Little had she known what an impact that d.a.m.n jury summons, the trial, and its outcome would have on her personally. She had counted on it being an inconvenience. She hadn't counted on it being catastrophic. Did Detective Wesley really consider her a suspect? Her lawyer had dismissed her concerns. He said because the police had absolutely no clues, they had thrown out a wide net and were interrogating everyone with whom Lee Howell had any interaction, from hospital orderlies to his golfing buddies. At this point everyone was suspect. Insinuation and intimidation were standard police methods, the attorney a.s.sured her. She shouldn't feel that she'd been singled out. Rennie had tried to rea.s.sure herself that he was right and that she was overreacting. But what her lawyer didn't know was that when it came to being questioned by police, she had a right to be a little jittery. Wesley's interrogation had been in the forefront of her mind this afternoon when the hospital board of directors invited her to join their weekly meeting and offered her the position tragically vacated by Dr. Lee Howell. "I appreciate your consideration, but my answer is no thank you. You had months to consider me before, and you chose someone else. If I accepted now, I would always feel as though I were your second choice."

They a.s.sured her that Dr. Howe had received only one more vote than she and that none of them thought she was an inferior candidate. "That's not the only reason I'm declining," she'd told them. "I admired Dr. Howell professionally, but I also regarded him and Myrna as friends. To benefit from his death would feel . . . obscene. Thank you for the offer, but my answer is no." To her surprise, they refused to accept that answer and pressed her into thinking it over for a day or two more. While flattered and gratified by their persistence, she was now faced with a difficult decision. She had wanted the position and knew she was qualified, but it would feel wrong to get a career boost from Lee's death. Wesley was another factor to take into account. Were she to a.s.sume the position he considered a motive for murder, his suspicions of her involvement might be heightened. She wasn't afraid of his finding anything that would implicate her. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, connecting her to Lee's murder. But before Wesley determined that, she would be put through a rigorous police investigation. That was what she feared and wanted to avoid. With all this weighing on her mind, her head actually felt heavy. Reaching back, she slid the coated rubber band from her hair and shook out her ponytail, then ma.s.saged her scalp, pressing hard with her fingertips. She had performed four major surgeries before lunch. The waiting room outside the operating room had been filled with anxious friends and family not only of her patients, but of other patients. Immediately following each operation, she had come out to speak briefly with the patient's loved ones, to report on the condition of the patient, and to explain the procedure she'd done. For some she was even able to show color photographs taken during the surgery. Thankfully all the patients' prognoses had been good, all the reports positive. She hadn't had to break bad news to anyone today. Thanks to her able staff, things had gone smoothly in her office this afternoon. Rounds at the hospital had taken a little longer than usual. She had the four post-op patients to see, and three more to brief before their scheduled surgeries tomorrow morning. One had to be sweet-talked into his pre-op enema. The frazzled nursing staff had given up. After Rennie talked to him, he surrendered quietly. Then, just before she left for the day, she had received the telephone call. The reminder caused her to shudder. Quickly she finished the bottle of water and tossed it into the trash compactor. She rinsed out the soaking carafe of the coffeemaker, then prepared it for tomorrow morning and set the timer. She knew she should eat something, but the thought of food made her nauseous. She was too upset to eat. She left her handbag on the table--she didn't think she had the strength to lift it--and turned off the kitchen light. Then, as she started toward the living room, she paused and switched the light back on. She had lived alone all her adult life, and this was the first time she could remember ever wanting to leave the lights on.

In her bedroom she switched on the lamp and sat down on the edge of her unmade bed. Ordinarily it would have bothered her that she hadn't had time to make her

bed before leaving that morning. Now that seemed a trivial, even silly concern. An unmade bed was hardly worth fretting about.

With dread, she opened the drawer of her nightstand.

The card was beneath the box of stationery her receptionist had given her last Christmas. She had never even broken the cellophane wrapping. Pushing the stationery box aside, she stared down at the small white card.

She had been making notations on the charts of her post-op patients when the duty nurse had informed her that she had a call. "Line three."

"Thanks." She cradled the receiver between her cheek and shoulder, leaving her hands free to continue the final task of a very long day. "Dr. Newton."

"h.e.l.lo, Rennie."

Her writing pen halted mid-signature. Immediately alarmed by the whispery voice, she said, "Who is this?"

"Lozada."

She sucked in a quick breath but tried to keep it inaudible.

"Lozada?"

He laughed softly, as though he knew her obtuseness were deliberate. "Come now, Rennie, we're hardly strangers.

You couldn't have forgotten me so soon. We spent almost two weeks together in the same room."

No, she hadn't forgotten him. She doubted that anyone with whom this man came into contact would ever forget him. Often during the trial his dark eyes had connected with hers across the courtroom.

Once she had begun to notice it she had avoided looking at him. But each time her gaze happened to land on him, he'd been staring at her in a way that had made her uncomfortable and self-conscious. She was aware that

other jurors and people in the courtroom also had noticed his unwelcome interest in her.

"This call is highly inappropriate, Mr. Lozada."

"Why? The trial's over. Sometimes, when there's an acquittal, defendants and jurors get together and have a party to celebrate."

"That kind of celebration is tasteless and insensitive.

It's a slap in the face to the family of the murder victim, who still have no closure. In any event, you and I have

nothing to celebrate or even to talk about. Goodbye." "Did you like the roses?" Her heart skipped several beats, then restarted, pounding double-time. After dismissing every conceivable possibility, it had occurred to her that he might have been her secret admirer, but she hadn't wanted to acknowledge it even to herself. Now that it had been confirmed, she wanted to pretend that she didn't know what he was talking about. But of course he would know better. He had placed the roses inside her house, making certain she would receive them, leaving no margin for error. She wanted to ask him how the h.e.l.l he had gotten inside her home but, as Lee Howell had pointed out to her, Lozada was a career criminal. Breaking and entering would be child's play to a man with his arrest record. He was incredibly intelligent and resourceful or he couldn't have escaped prosecution for all his misdeeds, including the most recent murder for which he'd been tried and that she fully believed he had committed. It just hadn't been proved. He said, "Considering the color of your front door I guessed red might be your favorite." The roses hadn't been the color of her front door.

They'd been the color of the blood in the crime-scene photos entered as evidence and shown to the jury. The victim, whom it was alleged that Lozada had been hired to kill, had been choked to death with a garrote, something very fine yet so strong that it had broken the skin of his throat enough to bleed. "Don't bother me again, Mr. Lozada." "Rennie, don't hang up." He said it with just enough menace to prevent her from slamming down the telephone receiver. "Please," he said in a gentler voice. "I want to thank you." "Thank me?" "I talked to Mrs. Grissom. Frizzy gray hair. Thick ankles." Rennie remembered her well. Juror number five. She was married to a plumber and had four children. She seized every opportunity to bore the other eleven jurors with complaints against her lazy husband and ungrateful children. As soon as she learned that Rennie was a physician, she had run down a list of ailments she wanted to discuss with her. "Mrs. Grissom told me what you did for me," Lozada said. "I didn't do anything for you." "Oh, but you did, Rennie. If not for you, I'd be on death row."

"Twelve of us arrived at the verdict. No one was singly responsible for the decision to acquit you." "But you led the campaign for my acquittal, didn't you? " "We looked at the case from every angle. We reviewed the points of law until we unanimously agreed on their interpretation and application."

"Perhaps, Rennie," he said with a soft chuckle. "But Mrs. Grissom said you argued my side and that your arguments were inspired and . . . pa.s.sionate." He said it as though he were stroking her while he spoke, and the thought of his touching her made her skin crawl. "Don't contact me again." She had slammed down the telephone receiver but continued to grip it until her knuckles turned white. "Dr. Newton? Is something wrong? Dr. Newton, are you all right?" Drops of perspiration beaded on her face as though she were performing the most intricate and life-threatening surgery. She thought she might throw up. Taking a deep breath through her mouth, she let go of the telephone receiver and turned to the concerned nurse. "I'm fine. But I'm not going to take any more calls. I'm trying to wrap up here, so if someone wants me, tell them to have me paged." "Certainly, Dr. Newton." She had quickly completed her chart notations and left for home. As she walked across the familiar doctors' parking lot, she glanced over her shoulder several times and was rea.s.sured by the presence of the guard on duty. She'd heard that the young man who had discovered Lee's body was taking some time off. On the drive home, she kept one eye on the road and another in the rear view mirror, half expecting to see Lozada following her. d.a.m.n him for making her feel paranoid and afraid! d.a.m.n him for complicating her life when she had finally gotten it exactly as she wanted it. Now as she stared at the hateful little card in her nightstand drawer, her resentment increased. It made her furious that he dared speak to her in s.e.xual overtones and with implied intimacy. But it also frightened her, and that was what she hated most--that she was afraid of him. Angrily she closed the nightstand drawer. She stood up and removed her blouse and slacks. She wanted a hot shower. Immediately. She felt violated, as though Lozada had touched her with his sibilant voice. She couldn't bear to think about his being here inside her house, invading her private s.p.a.ce. Worse, she felt a presence here still, although she told herself that was just her imagination, that it had been thrust into overdrive. She found herself looking at every object in the room. Was each item exactly as she'd left it this morning? The cap on her body lotion was loose, but she remembered being in a hurry this morning and not replacing it securely. Was that the angle at which the open magazine had been left on the nightstand? She told herself she was being silly. Nevertheless, she felt exposed, vulnerable, watched. Suddenly she glanced toward the windows. The slats of the blinds were only partially drawn. Moving quickly, she snapped off the lamp and then went to the windows and pulled the louvers tightly closed. "d.a.m.n him," she whispered into the darkness. In the bathroom, she showered and prepared for bed. When she turned out the light, she considered leaving it on, but only for an instant before deciding against it. She wouldn't give in to her fear even to that extent. She had never been a coward. On the contrary, her courage when she was a child had caused her mother to wring her hands with concern. As a teen, her bravery had escalated into deliberate recklessness. In recent years she had traveled to war-and famine-plagued corners of the world. She had defied despots, and raging storms, and armed marauders, and contagious disease in order to provide medical treatment to people in desperate need of it, always with little or no regard for her personal safety. 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 G.o.d." 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 c.o.ke, 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 ma.s.sage 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 a.s.s off today. He had arrived at the family waiting room at seven

that morning, knowing the day began early in the OR. n.o.body questioned his being there. It was a.s.sumed 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 cl.u.s.tered 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 rea.s.suring.

Her eyes conveyed understanding and compa.s.sion. 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 ol her. But he was putting his money on the card. And that made him d.a.m.n curious about its origin and significance. Eventually she had closed the drawer and stood up. She'd unb.u.t.toned 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 heteros.e.xual 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 pinata 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 nnejo, 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 b.u.t.ter. 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. The 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 free standing pieces were upholstered in either leather or animal pelts. The main feature of his living room was a large gla.s.s 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 n.o.body 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 Crntruroides 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 ancjo 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 skysc.r.a.pers. He raised a mock toast to the Tarrant County Justice Center. Then he turned in the opposite direction and raised his gla.s.s in a heartfelt salute to the warehouse across the railroad tracks. These days the building housed a business that customized RVs 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. It was during the hot summertime. They were exploring the empty warehouse for lack of something better to do. Boredom had placed them there and boredom had gotten Tommy killed. Tommy had been walking several steps ahead of Lozada when it suddenly came to him how easy it would be to grab Tommy from behind, reach around his neck, and jab his pocketknife into his friend's jugular. He'd done it just to see if he could. Tommy had proved he could. He'd been smart to attack from behind because Tommy had spouted blood for what seemed like forever. It had been a challenge to keep it off him. But overall, killing Tommy had been incredibly easy. It had been just as easy to get away with it. He'd simply walked to Tommy's house and asked his mom if Tommy was at home. She told him no, but he was welcome to come inside and wait; Tommy was bound to show up sooner or later. So Lozada had pa.s.sed the time after killing Tommy playing Tommy's stereo in Tommy's room, in delicious antic.i.p.ation of the h.e.l.l that was about to break loose inside Tommy's house. A knock interrupted Lozada's fond recollections. Out of habit, he approached the door cautiously, a switchblade flattened tip against his wrist. He looked through the peephole and, seeing a familiar uniformed woman, released the lock and opened the door. "Turndown service, Mr. Lozada?" Living in the building came with perks, including the parking valet, the concierge, and twice-daily maid service. He motioned her inside. She went into his bedroom and set about her ch.o.r.es. Lozada refreshed his drink and returned to a chair near the window, setting his switchblade on the table within reach. He stared down at the movie marquee across the street, but none of the featured film t.i.tles registered with him. His mind was on the telephone conversation he'd had with Rennie Newton earlier that evening. He smiled over her poor attempt at playing hard to get. She truly was adorable. The maid approached him. "Do you want me to draw the drapes, Mr. Lozada?" "No, thanks. Did you leave chocolates on the pillow?" "Two. The kind you like." "Thank you, Sally." She smiled down at him and then began undoing the top of her uniform. He had never solicited personal information from her. In fact, he wouldn't even know her name if she hadn't volunteered it. She had been eager to tell him that this housekeeping job was strictly temporary. Her ambition was to become an exotic dancer in a men's club. She had the t.i.ts for it, maybe. But not the a.s.s. Hers was as broad as a barn. When she began to dawdle playfully over the b.u.t.tons of her uniform, he said, "Never mind that," and pulled her between his thighs, pushing her to her knees. "I could give you a lap dance first. I've been practicing in front of a mirror. I'm good, even if I do say so myself." By way of answer, he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers. She looked disappointed that he didn't want to see her performance, but she applied herself to pleasing him. She unb.u.t.toned his shirt and spread it open. She fingered the tattoo on his chest. A bright blue dagger with a wicked blade appeared to be spearing his nipple. Tattooed drops of blood spattered his ribs. "That gets me so hot." Her tongue, as quick and agile as a snake, flicked the tip of the dagger. He had gotten the tattoo when he was sixteen. The tattoo artist had suggested he get his nipple pierced at the same time. "With this dagger, a ring through your nipple, that'd look cool, dude." Lozada remembered the fear in the man's eyes when he had grabbed him by his Adam's apple and lifted him off his stool. "You think I'm a f.a.g?" The guy's eyes bugged. He'd choked out, "Naw, naw, man. I didn't mean nothin' by it." Lozada had gradually released him. "You'd better do a f.u.c.king good job on those blood drops or it'll be your last tattoo." By now Sally's avid mouth had worked its way down to his crotch. "Condom," he said.

"I don't mind."

"I do." He never left DNA evidence. Nail clippings were flushed down the toilet. He shaved his entire body every day. He was as hairless as a newborn, except for his eyebrows. Vanity prohibited him from shaving them. Besides, without the eyebrow, the scar wouldn't be as noticeable, and he wanted that scar to show like a banner. Thankfully he had a perfectly formed cranium. It was as smooth and spherical as a bowling ball. Add to that his olive complexion and he looked very handsome with a bald head. He used a handheld vacuum on his bed and dressing table twice a day just in case dry skin was sloughed off. He'd had his fingerprints burned off years ago. From the experience with Tommy, he'd learned that a victim's blood could be troublesome. He had been afraid that someone would ask to see his pocketknife, and he wasn't sure that he'd been able to scrub away all the blood. No one ever considered him a suspect, and eventually he'd gotten rid of the knife, but from there on he tried to leave the weapon at the scene. He used common, ordinary things--nothing exotic, recently purchased, or traceable to him. Sometimes his hands were the only weapon necessary. He had a social security number. Like a good citizen he paid taxes on the income he earned from a TV repair service. An old rummy who'd been drunk since they invented televisions ran the place for him. It was in a bad neighborhood where few bothered to have a broken TV repaired. They simply went to a good neighborhood and stole a newer one. Nevertheless it was a legitimate, if not very lucrative, business. His real source of income left no trail an IRS auditor-or officer of the law--could follow.

Sally ripped open the foil packet with her large teeth. "You must be awful rich. Having this place. That sweet Mercedes." He loved his possessions, even more now than before he had languished for eight months in the Tarrant County jail while awaiting trial. That taught one to appreciate the finer things in life. Of course those months had also cost him revenue. But he wasn't worried. He had been well paid for the job on the banker. His money was tucked away in interest-bearing accounts in banks all over the world, places he'd never been or intended to go. He could retire anytime he wanted and live very well for the rest of his life.

But retirement never occurred to him. He didn't do what he did for the money. He could make money any number of ways. He did what he did because he was good at it and liked doing it. He loved doing it. "Those scorpions sorta creep me out, but I love your apartment. You've got awesome stuff. That bedspread is real mink, isn't it?" Lozada wished she would shut up and just suck him. "Are you as dangerous as people say?" He grabbed a handful of her dyed black hair and yanked her head up. "What people?" "Ouch! That hurts." He twisted her hair tightly around his fist, pulling it tighter. "What people?" "Just the other girls who work here in the hotel. We were talking. Your name came up." He looked into her eyes but could see no signs of treachery. She was too stupid to be a paid informant. "I'm only dangerous to people who talk about me when they shouldn't." He relaxed his hand. "Jeez, no need to get so touchy. It was just girl talk. I had bragging rights and wanted to brag." She grinned up at him. If only she knew how repugnant that smile was to him. He despised her for her stupidity and coa.r.s.eness. He would have liked to hurt her. Instead he pushed her face back into his lap. "Hurry up and finish me." She was here only because she was convenient. He could always get a woman. Women were easy to come by. Even attractive ones would do anything for a little of his attention and a fifty-dollar tip. But the easy ones weren't the kind of woman he wanted. He wanted the kind he'd never had before. In school he'd been a punk who ran with a rough crowd. He was always in trouble either with school officials or the police, or both. His parents weren't interested enough to care. Oh, they complained about his bad behavior but never really did anything to correct it. His baby brother had been born with a severe birth defect. From the day his parents brought the baby home from the hospital, Lozada might just as well have ceased to exist, because in his parents' hearts and minds he had. They devoted themselves exclusively to his little brother and his special needs. They'd a.s.sumed that their handsome, healthy, precocious older son didn't have any needs. Around age four he had gotten angry over their neglect, and he'd never stopped being angry at them for favoring baby brother over him. He learned that being disobedient won him a little of Mommy and Daddy's attention, so he did every mischievous and mean thing his young mind could devise. He had been a h.e.l.lion as a boy, and by the time he became a teenager he was already a murderer. In high school the popular girls didn't date guys like him. He didn't use drugs, but he stole them from the dealers and sold them himself. He went to illegal c.o.c.k fights rather than the Friday night football games. He was a natural athlete but didn't play team sports because he couldn't play dirty and where was the thrill in playing by the rules? Besides, he would never have sucked up to an a.s.shole with a whistle who called himself Coach. The popular girls dated guys who proudly wore their letter jackets and would go on to UT or Southern Methodist and major in business or law or medicine, like Daddy. The desired girls went steady with the boys who drove BMWs to the country club for their golf lessons. The girls who dressed well and partic.i.p.ated in all the extracurricular activities, the cla.s.sy girls who held school offices and were members of academic clubs, avoided him, probably fearing they would be compromised if they so much as looked twice. Oh, he had turned their heads all right. He'd always been good-looking. And he had that element of danger about him that women couldn't resist. But his raw s.e.xuality scared them. If he looked at one too long, too hard, too suggestively, she got the h.e.l.l away from him. He could never get near the nice girls. Nice girls like Rennie Newton. Now there was a cla.s.sy woman. She was all the women he'd ever wanted wrapped in one beautiful package. Each day of his trial he couldn't wait to get into court to see what she would be wearing and how her hair was styled. Several times he'd detected a light floral scent and knew it must be hers, but he never got close enough to be certain.

Not until he entered her house. It was redolent with the fragrance. Recalling the essences ol her contained in the rooms she occupied made him shiver with pleasure. Mistaking the reason for it, the maid tightened her mouth around him. He closed his eyes and envisioned Rennie Newton. He fantasized that it was she bringing him to climax. As soon as it was over, he told the girl to go. "Don't you wanna--" "No." The sight of her heavy b.r.e.a.s.t.s disgusted him. She was a pig. A wh.o.r.e. Validating his thought, she ran her hands down the front of her body and swayed to silent music. "You're the best-looking guy I've ever been with. Even this is cute." She reached up and touched the scar, still pink, that bisected his left eyebrow. "How'd you get it?" "It was a gift." She looked at him stupidly. Then she shrugged. "Okay, don't tell me. It's still s.e.xy." She stretched upward, and when he realized she was about to kiss his scar, he shoved her away. "Get out of here." "Well excuse me for breathing." Before she could get to her feet, he clamped his fingers around her jaw like a vise, holding it so tightly that her lips became scrunched and protruding. "The next time you talk about me with anybody, anybody, I'll come find you and cut out your tongue. Do you understand?" Her eyes were wide with fear. She nodded. He released her. For a large girl she surprised him by how quickly she could move. Maybe she had a future as an exotic dancer after all. After she was gone, he mentally replayed his telephone conversation with Rennie. He conjured up the pitch of her voice and the cadence of her speech until he could almost hear it. The moment he had spoken her name, she had known who was calling. How silly of her to pretend she didn't. She had told him not to call her again, but that, too, was posturing. That was just the surfacing of a nice girl's innate wariness of the bad boy, and he didn't mind that. In fact, he had enjoyed hearing the trace of fear. His experience with women was vast, but it was also limited in the sense that all had been mindless encounters for the sole purpose of s.e.x. He was tired of that. Picking up women and going home with them could be tedious, especially when they wanted to cling. And he hated whining. Paid wh.o.r.es came with their own set of nuisances. Meeting them in hotel rooms, no matter how upscale, was a tawdry proposition. It was essentially a business transaction, and inevitably the wh.o.r.e believed she was boss. He'd had to kill only one for insisting that she was in charge; they usually submitted to his superiority before it came to that. Besides, wh.o.r.es were dangerous and couldn't be trusted. There was always a chance that the police were using one in an entrapment setup. The time had come for him to have a woman who was of his own caliber. It was the one area of his life that was deficient. He owned the best of everything else. A man of his standing deserved a woman he could show off, one other men would envy him for.

He had found that woman in Rennie Newton.

And she must be attracted to him, or why would she have argued so pa.s.sionately for his acquittal? If he'd had a mind to, he could already have satisfied their physical

longing for each other. He could have waylaid her at any time and, if she had put up some bulls.h.i.t female resistance, eventually subdued her. After he had f.u.c.ked her a few times, she would've come to the understanding, as he had, that they were destined to be a couple.

But he'd wanted to take a more subtle approach. She was different from all the others; she should be wooed differently.

He wanted to court her as a woman like her would expect to be courted. So even before the trial was over he had set out to learn who this glorious creature was and whether she had any enemies. Through his sly attorney the information had been easily obtained.

Killing that other doctor had been almost too easy. It wasn't a sufficient demonstration of his affection. Before calling Rennie, he had felt the need to follow that up with something that would better convey the depth of his feelings for her. Thus the roses. They had struck the perfect romantic note.

He finished his tequila. Chuckling softly, he thought of Rennie's rebuff. Actually, he was glad she hadn't been swept away by these preliminary overtures. Had she given in too soon and too easily he would have been disappointed in her. Her spirit and air of independence were part of her attraction. To a point, of course.