The Crush Part 41

Although he disliked Wick Threadgill hanging up on him, Lozada was chuckling as he clicked off his cell phone. The call had accomplished what he'd wanted.

The only thing more gratifying would be to hear the conversation going on between them now. He would love to

know if the seeds of doubt he'd planted had taken root in Threadgill's mind.

Rennie had probably been listening in. She would be denying everything and Threadgill would be finding her denials hard to believe. Especially since he knew all, if not more, of what Lozada's own investigation had uncovered about the young Rennie Newton.

In another life he might have been a cop, he thought philosophically. He definitely had the instincts of an undercover detective. He had turned these intuitive skills one hundred eighty degrees to serve his own needs, but he would have made as good an investigator as Oren Wesley or Joe Threadgill or little brother Wick. And, unlike them, he wasn't constrained by conscience or legality.

For instance, had the waitress at the Wagon Wheel Cafe in Dalton not been so cooperative, he might have followed her home and tortured answers out of her before killing her.

As it turned out, however, Crystal had been a gus.h.i.+ng fountain of information. At first she had thought it curious that he was the second man in so many weeks to inquire about Rennie Newton.

"Funny that you're askin' 'bout her."

Lozada had picked at his plate of greasy enchiladas and said nonchalantly, "How so?"

"There was another fellow in here not long ago. I think it was a Sunday. He'd known her in college, he said. He was a real cutie pie." She winked. "Rennie missed out on him, same as she did on you, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome."

"Thank you. What did the other guy look like?"

She had described Wick Threadgill from his mop of blond hair to his scuffed cowboy boots. When he told

Crystal that this dreamboat was a cop, she had been miffed. "Now that p.i.s.ses me off," she exclaimed. "I fell for every word of his BS!"

He told her that Wick was an investigator for a sleazy medical malpractice lawyer. "His sole job is to dig up dirt on defending doctors." Crystal fell for the story just as she'd fallen for whatever line Threadgill had given her.

"Don't blame yourself, Crystal. He can be very convincing."

"Dadgum right. Must've been those big blue eyes of his." Her gaze turned wary. "You some kind of investigator too?"

He gave her his best smile. "I'm a freelance writer. I'm doing an article on Dr. Newton. About her volunteer work in underprivileged countries."

"Well, if you ask me, all her volunteering won't make up for her past shenanigans," she said with a righteous sniff. Then for the next half hour she had regaled him with stories about the licentious Rennie Newton. "Don't guess we should've been surprised when she shot poor ol' Raymond."

Oh, yes, his trip to Dalton yesterday had been very worthwhile and informative. He had even come away with a complementary piece of chocolate meringue pie, packed up for carryout.

Weenie Sawyer had come through for him. The threat with the scorpion had rendered all kinds of information, such as new and useful facts regarding Wick Threadgill, including the place of his last credit-card charge, which happened to be located in the town where, according to other computer data, Rennie Newton had been born and reared.

He had also learned how much property tax she paid

on her ranch in a neighboring county, that she was quite a horsewoman, and that she had competed in rodeo barrel racing in her hometown. That is, when she wasn't f.u.c.king for sport.

Now, feeling flush with the success of his phone call to the former cop, he turned up the volume on the CD player in his SUV and inhaled deeply, wondering when he would catch the first whiff of coastal air.

Wick unlocked the door and it swung open on rusty hinges. He motioned her inside. "Don't expect too much."

"It'll be fine."

"I don't earn a six-figure surgeon's salary."

"I said it's me."

"Kitchen's there. Bedroom and bath through there.

Make yourself at home." "I'd like to shower." "I don't guarantee hot water. Clean towels--if there are any--will be in the cabinet above the commode." Without another word she went through the door into the bedroom, closing it behind her. "Never mind, Your Highness, I'll bring in the bags by myself," he muttered. He returned to the pickup, consciously telling himself to act naturally and not to look around for the police personnel posted to watch them. He hauled the two bags from the bed of the pickup, wincing at the pinching pain in his back. Twice Rennie had offered to drive. The first time he had declined the offer and politely thanked her for the courtesy. The second time he had snapped at her. That was after Lozada's call, when their strained silence had turned into hostile coexistence. The last three hours of the trip had seemed like thirty. The tension had found his weak spot and settled in. Every time he felt so much as a twinge, he cursed Lozada. With no regard for his guest's privacy, he pushed open the bedroom door and went in. He could hear the water pipes knocking in the bathroom. A naked and soapy Rennie would be the best thing ever to grace that sorry shower, but he'd be doing himself a favor not to think about Rennie either naked or soapy or at all. He tossed the bags onto the bed, then went to the bureau and opened the bottom drawer. Beneath a jumbled pile of his oldest and most comfortable shorts he located the mike and transmitter that had been planted there for him. Wesley had told him where they would be hidden. They would keep him in constant communication with the surveillance team. He inserted the earpiece and spoke into the minuscule microphone. "We're here." "Ten-four. We see you." "Who's this?" "Peterson. I'm heading the operation." "Threadgill." "Pleased to meet you." "Where are you?" "Best you don't know," Peterson said. "Don't want to tempt you into looking for me and giving us away." "Hey, Wick, how was your trip?" "Long. Who's this?" "Plum." "Hey, Plum. I didn't know Oren had sent down any of his guys." "It's a coordinated effort between Fort Worth and Galveston PDs. Lozada was a suspect in a murder case here. Organized crime bigwig who was trying to get legalized gambling in here. Some said a church group hired Lozada."

"I'd vote for a competing organized crime bigwig."

"Me too," Plum said. "No church group could afford Lozada. Anyhow, it's an unsolved murder on their books down here, so they were willing to help us out."

"Glad to have you, Plum. Thank G.o.d it's you and not Thigpen."

"Kiss my a.s.s, Threadgill."

"Oh, Jesus," Wick groaned. "Tell me no."

"And, while you're at it, kiss the doctor's sweet a.s.s for me."

"I'd volunteer for that," said an anonymous voice.

"Animals," growled a distinctly female voice, obviously a policewoman.

Thigpen said, "Hey, Threadgill, leave the mike on. We want to hear everything."

"Okay, that's it," Peterson cut in sharply. "Shut up, all of you, unless you've got something to report."

"Bye-bye, boys and girls. Have fun," Wick taunted.

"Up yours," he heard Thigpen whisper.

He kept the earpiece in so he could hear their warnings, but he turned off the mike. Rennie emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. When she saw him, she pulled up short. "I forgot that my bag is still--" He motioned toward the bed. "Oh. Thank you."

He could have taken it to her. He didn't. He could have excused himself and left the room. He didn't. Instead, he let her cross the room and get her bag and carry it into the bathroom with her, which she did with

amazing dignity for a woman who was wet from head to toe and covered only by one of his skimpy towels.

The rear view was just as good as the front, and he enjoyed the h.e.l.l out of it, although he wondered uneasily if he was turning into a slimmer, cleaner version of Pigpen.

Wick was in the kitchen when Rennie rejoined him. "Did something die in here?"

He glanced at her over his shoulder. "An opened package of bologna. Found it in the bottom drawer of the fridge. Real slimy. Do you want to eat out or in, honey?"

"Whatever."

"No, you decide, sweetheart."

"All right, since you asked, I'd rather eat in so I don't have to dress up."

"Do you like steak?"

"Filet mignons."

"Naturally," he said as he added filets to what she had determined was a grocery list. "Only the best for you."

"Is this how you're going to be, Wick?"

He looked over at her and asked innocently. "How am I being?"

"Sarcastic. Snide. Because if so, I'm leaving. You, Wesley, and Lozada can go to the devil. I don't know why I consented to this. Lozada probably won't even show."

Wick turned away from her and stared through the salt-encrusted window. "You're wrong, Rennie. He'll show. I don't know how or when, but he'll show. You can count on it."

The dark conviction with which he spoke made her wish for a return of his sarcasm.

At least the solemn reminder of why they were there leveled the chip on his shoulder that had been there

since the call from Lozada. He insisted that she go with him to the supermarket. As he ushered her to his pickup, he said, "Lovers on a getaway do ch.o.r.es and run errands together."

She was glad he had insisted she go along. The house was a dreary place, and she hadn't relished the thought of being there alone, antic.i.p.ating an appearance by Lozada and knowing that she was under constant observation by undercover officers.

Even sitting in the pa.s.senger seat of Wick's truck she felt conspicuous. When they stopped for a traffic light she said, "I haven't noticed anyone watching us."

"They're there."

"Can they hear us?"

"Not if I don't engage the mike."

He had explained the tiny, clear earpiece he was wearing.

"Are they saying anything now?"

"The blue van two cars back just pa.s.sed us off to the gray Taurus over there signaling to turn left."

She forced herself not to look and instead leaned forward to change the station on the radio.

"Very good, Rennie."

"I'm trying." As she sat back she smiled at him. He surprised her by reaching across the seats and stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"What's that for?"

"For show. Just in case the cops aren't the only ones who have us in their sights."

That was an unnerving possibility, so she didn't protest when Wick threw an arm across her shoulders and stayed close as they walked from the parking lot into

the store where he played the role of attentive and affectionate lover. He smiled at her a lot, and nudged her

shoulder playfully, and asked her opinion about everything he placed in the basket, and showed off for her by juggling a trio of oranges.

They shared a cone of frozen yogurt, and when they were in line to check out, he held a Sports Ill.u.s.trated in one hand and read an article while his other hand ma.s.saged her neck with the absentmindedness of someone accustomed to doing it. Had she been observing them, she would have been convinced that they were two people in love and comfortable with the relations.h.i.+p.

The sun was going down by the time they returned to the house. "I'll start the charcoal. While it's smoldering, let's go down to the water."

"I didn't think to bring a suit."

"Then I guess you'll have to skinny-dip."

She shot him a retiring look and headed for the bedroom.

"I brought some shorts. They'll do."

When she came out a few minutes later, Wick had exchanged his jeans for a pair of baggy shorts with a stringy hem. The low-slung shorts made his chest look even wider, his waist more tapered. She made a point of not looking at his tanned, muscled calves.

He, on the other hand, took one look at her and said a soft but emphatic, "d.a.m.n."

Her face turned warm. She had changed into a black knit top with thin straps and a pair of faded denim shorts.

The outfit--or perhaps Wick's reaction to it--made her feel more self-conscious than she had wearing only the towel.

"Let's go." He turned and headed for the door.

"What about those?" She pointed to the communication apparatus he'd left lying on the coffee table alongside his pistol.