The Crush Part 8

Eventually she would need to be taught that what Lozada wanted, Lozada would have.

Chapter 7.

Wick approached the table where Lozada was having breakfast. "Hey, a.s.shole, the glare reflecting off your head is blinding me."

Lozada's fork halted midway between his plate and his mouth. He looked up with anger-controlling slowness. If he were surprised to see Wick, he gave no indication of it, but rather treated him to an unhurried once-over. "Well, well. Look who's back."

"For about a week now," Wick said cheerfully.

"Is the Fort Worth Police Department so hard up they invited you to rejoin their miserable ranks?"

"Nope. I'm on vacation."

Wick pulled a spare chair from beneath the corner

table, turned it around, and straddled it backward. Other customers in the hotel's dining room would think him rude, but he didn't care. He wanted to get under Lozada's skin. If the tick in the other man's cheek was any indication, he was succeeding.

"Say, those pancakes look good." He dipped his finger in the pool of maple syrup on Lozada's plate and licked it off. "Hmm. Right tasty."

"How did you know I was here?"

"I just poked my head out the window and followed the stench."

Actually this hotel coffee shop was known by the department to be one of the killer's favorite breakfast places.

The son of a b.i.t.c.h had never kept a low profile. In fact, he jeered at his would-be captors from the driver's seat of his fancy car and the panoramic windows of his penthouse, material luxuries that gave the cops all the more reason to despise him.

"Are you having something, sir?"

Wick turned toward the young waitress who had approached the table. "Fun, darlin'," he said, sweeping off his cowboy hat and placing it over his heart. "Just having a little fun here with my old friend Ricky Roy."

Lozada despised his first two names and hated being addressed by them, so Wick used them whenever an opportunity presented itself. "Have you two met?" He read the waitress's name off the plastic tag pinned to her blouse. "Sh.e.l.ley--pretty name, by the way--meet Ricky-Roy.

Ricky Roy, this is Sh.e.l.ley."

She blushed to the roots of her hair. "He comes in here a lot. I know his name."

In a stage whisper, Wick asked, "Is he a good tipper?"

"Yes, sir. Very good."

"Well now that's nice to hear. And somewhat surprising.

See, actually, Ricky Roy has very few redeeming qualities."

He tilted his head thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, being a good tipper might be his only redeeming quality."

The waitress divided a cautious look between them that eventually landed on Wick. "Would you like some coffee?"

"No thanks, Sh.e.l.ley, but you're a sweetheart for asking.

If I need anything I'll let you know." He gave her a friendly wink. She blushed again and scuttled away. Coming back around to Lozada, he said, "Now, where were we? Oh, yeah, long time no see. Sorry I missed your trial. Heard you and your lawyer put on quite a show."

"It was a waste of everybody's time."

"Oh, I agree. I surely do. I don't know why they would

bother with a trial for a sack of s.h.i.t like you. If I had my way, they'd skip the folderol and you'd go straight to death row." "Then lucky for me my fate isn't up to you." "You never know, Ricky Roy. One day soon it just might be." Wick flashed him a wide grin and the two enemies a.s.sessed one another. Eventually Wick said, "Nice suit." "Thank you." Lozada took in Wick's worn jeans, cowboy boots, and the hat he had set on the table. "I could give you the name of my tailor." Wick laughed. "I couldn't afford him. Those look like expensive threads. Business must be good." He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Whacked anybody interesting since that banker fellow? I'm itching to know who hired you for that one. His daddy-in-law maybe? Heard they didn't get along. What'd you use on him, anyway? Piano wire? Guitar string? Fishing line? Why not just the old one-two with your trusty blade?" "My breakfast is getting cold." "Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to stay so long. No, I just stopped by to say h.e.l.lo and let you know I was back in town." Wick stood up and reached for his hat. He turned the chair around and pushed it back into place. Then he leaned across the table as far as he could reach and spoke for Lozada's ears alone. "And to let you know that if it's the last thing I do, I'm gonna carve my brother's name on your a.s.s."

"I'm not sure that was a smart move, Wick." "It did my heart good." "In fact, I'm certain it was a dumb move." Wick had miscalculated. Oren hadn't found the account of his meeting with Lozada funny. Not in the slightest. "Why's that?" "Because now he knows we're watching him." "Oh, like that's a shocker," Wick said sarcastically. "He knows we're always watching him." He'd been irritable to start with, and Oren's disapproval wasn't helping his mood. He lunged from his chair and began to pace. He snapped the rubber band against his wrist. "That slick-headed b.a.s.t.a.r.d doesn't care if we've got a whole division watching him twenty-four/seven. He's been mooning the police department and the DA's office every day of his career. 1 wanted him to know that I hadn't forgotten what he did, that I was still after him." "I can appreciate how you feel, Wick." "I doubt that." At that Oren got p.i.s.sed, but he bit back a retort and remained calm. "You shouldn't have placed your personal feelings above the investigation, Wick. I don't want either Lozada or Rennie Newton to get wind of our surveillance.

If they were involved in Howell's murder--"

"He might've been. She wasn't."

"Oh. And you're sure of this how?"

Wick stopped pacing and made an arrow of his arm to point out her house two lawns away. "We've been watching

her for a whole friggin' week. She does nothing except work and sleep. She doesn't go out. n.o.body comes to visit. She doesn't see anyone but the people she works with and her patients. She's a robot. Wind her up and she does her job. When she runs out of juice, she goes home, goes to sleep, and recharges."

The second-story room of the vacant house was uncomfortably warm. They'd had the electricity turned on so they could operate the central air-conditioning system, but it was antiquated and inefficient against the brutal afternoon heat.

The room seemed to Wick to be shrinking around him, and the schedule was as confining as the room. Couple his claustrophobia with Oren's stodgy adherence to the rule book and it was enough to drive him nuts. The investigation had turned stale. It was tiresome, and boring to boot.

"Just because we haven't seen them together doesn't mean they're not communicating," Oren said. "Both are too smart to do anything publicly. And even if they haven't made contact since Howell's murder, that doesn't mean they didn't conspire."

Wick threw himself back into the chair, his temper momentarily spent. Dammit, Oren was right. Dr. Newton could have hired Lozada to take out her rival before the police got suspicious and started watching her. It would have required only one phone call. "Have her phone records been checked yet?"

"All were numbers she calls regularly. But you wouldn't expect her to use her home phone to arrange an a.s.sa.s.sination."

Oren sat down across from him. "Okay, enough of this BS. Out with it. What's bugging you?"

Wick pushed back his hair, held it off his forehead for

several seconds, then lowered his hands. "I don't know.

Nothing." Oren gave him a paternal I-know-better look. "I feel like a G.o.dd.a.m.n window-peeper."

"Surveillance work like this has never bothered you before.

What's making this time different?"

"I'm out of practice."

"Could be. What else? You miss the beach? Salt air?

What?"

"I guess."

"Uh-huh. It's more than homesickness for that swell place you have down there in Galveston. You look to me like you're about to claw out of your skin. You're restless and edgy. What's the matter? Is it because this investigation involves Lozada?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"You tell me."

Wick gnawed on the inside of his cheek for several moments, then said, "It's Thigpen. He's a goat."

Oren laughed. "And he speaks so highly of you."

"I'll bet."

"You're right. He thinks you're a jerk."

"Well at least I don't stink. This whole house reeks of those G.o.dawful onion sandwiches he brings from home.

You can smell them the minute you open the door downstairs.

And his b.u.t.t crack sweats."

Oren's laughter increased. "What?"

"Yeah. Haven't you ever noticed the sweat stains on his pants? It's disgusting. And so are these." Again, he came out of his chair like a circus performer shot from a cannon.

He was across the room in three strides, yanking the photographs off Thigpen's "gallery" wall.

He crumpled them and tossed the wadded pictures onto the floor. "How juvenile can you get? He's got the

mentality of an adolescent pervert. He's crude and stupid and . . ." Oren was gazing at him with a thoughtful frown.

"s.h.i.t," he muttered and returned to his chair.

Wick lapsed into a sulky silence and stared out the window at Rennie's house. Earlier she had gone for a run through her neighborhood. As soon as they saw her strike off down the sidewalk, Oren had rushed downstairs and followed her at a discreet distance in his car.

After doing five miles she returned, breathing hard and sweating through her tank top. According to Oren, she had done nothing on the outing except run. "The lady's fit," he'd said.

She hadn't gone out again. Because of the outdoor glare on the windowpanes, it was difficult to see anything inside her house except occasional movement. After nightfall she had started drawing her blinds closed.

Wick sighed. "All right, maybe 1 shouldn't have approached Lozada. But it was hardly a red alert. He knew I would come after him one day. 1 swore I would."

Oren was contemplative for another several moments, then said, "I think he did Howell."

"Me too."

He had read the completed report as soon as it was

available. The CSU had done its detail work, but the crime scene had been as sterile as the victim's operating room.

They had no cause for searching Lozada's condo or car, and even if they did, they would find nothing that connected him to the crime. Experience had taught them that.

"He's a f.u.c.king phantom," Wick said. "Never leaves a clue. Nothing. Doesn't even disturb the air when he moves through it."

"We'll get him, Wick."

He gave a curl nod.

"But by the book."

Wick looked at Oren. "Go on and say it."

"What?"

"You know what. What you're thinking."

"Don't put thoughts in my head, okay?"

"You're thinking that if I'd played by the book, we would've had him three years ago. For Joe."

The fact was indisputable, but Oren was too good a friend to say so. Instead, he smiled ruefully. "I still miss him."