The Crush Part 5

"What's that?"

"Her address."

Wick knew what that implied, what Oren was asking of him. He shook his head. "Sorry, Oren, but you haven't convinced me. What you've got on her is thin. Wray too thin. Speculation at best, and nothing substantive. Certainly nothing concrete. There's no just cause for--"

"You heard about Lozada's most recent trial, right? Or is your head buried too deep in Galveston sand?"

"Sure I heard. Capital murder. Another acquittal,"

Wick said bitterly. "Same song, tenth verse. What of it?"

Oren leaned forward and spoke in a stage whisper.

"The jury that acquitted him . . . ?"

"Yeah?"

"Guess who was forewoman."

Chapter 4.

Wick wore running shorts, a tank top, and athletic shoes.

If he b.u.mped into a nosy neighbor, he could always pretend to be a jogger who was looking for a place to take a leak. That might not go over well, but it was better than the truth: that he was doing his cop friend a favor by illegally breaking into a suspect's house for the purpose of obtaining information.

To make the guise believable, he ran several laps around the city park a few blocks away from Rennie Newton's house. By the time he vaulted the fence that separated her backyard from the rear alley, he had worked up a plausible sweat.

From several houses down came the hum of a lawn mower. Otherwise the neighborhood was quiet. They'd picked this time of day for him to break in. It was too early for most people to be returning home from work and too hot for stay-at-homers to be doing outdoor ch.o.r.es or activities.

He went up her back steps and unzipped the f.a.n.n.y pack strapped to his waist. From it he removed a pair of latex gloves and slipped them on, which he might have difficulty explaining to a nosy neighbor in the I'm-just taking a-leak scenario. But better a neighbor than a judge with an indisputable fingerprint match. Next he took his MasterCard from the zippered pouch. In under three seconds the back door was unlocked. With Oren's final warning echoing through his mind-"If you get caught I never heard of you"--he slipped inside. Rarely was Wick stunned into silence and left without a clever comeback. But last night, when Oren had told him about Rennie Newton's recent jury duty it was several moments before he found his tongue, and all it could manage was an ineloquent, "Huh." Oren had baited him and knew he had him hooked. Now inside the former juror's house, he paused to listen. They hadn't expected a security system. Oren had checked city records for the required registration. No such registration was on file, and no electronic beep alerted Wick now that a system had been breached. All that came back to him was the hollow silence of an empty house. For almost a week Dr. Newton had been under police surveillance. They knew she lived alone, and Oren had said you could set your clock by her schedule. She didn't return for the day until after making evening hospital rounds. According to him, there was rarely more than twenty minutes' variance in her ETA. The back door had placed Wick in the kitchen, which was compact and spotlessly clean. Only two items were in the sink: a coffee cup and the coffeemaker carafe. Each held an inch of soapy water.

In the drawer nearest the stove, cooking utensils were lined up like surgical instruments on a sterile tray. Among her knives was a filleting knife. It had a hilt made of some synthetic material that matched the others in the set. Inside the bread box was half a loaf of whole wheat, tightly resealed and clamped. Every opened cereal box in the pantry had the tab inserted into the slot. The canned vegetables weren't alphabetized, but the neatness of the rows was almost that extreme.

The contents of the refrigerator indicated that she was a conscientious eater but she wasn't a fanatic weight watcher. There were two half-gallon cartons of ice cream in the freezer. Of course the ice cream could have been for a guest. He checked the drawer in the small built-in desk and found a laminated list of emergency telephone numbers, a ruled notepad with no doodles or notes, and several Bic pens, all black. Nothing personal or significant. Through a connecting door he entered the living room. It could have been a catalog layout. Cus.h.i.+ons were plumped and evenly s.p.a.ced along the back of the sofa. Magazines were in neat stacks, the edges lined up like a deck of cards. The TV's remote control was squared up with the corner of the end table. "Jesus," Wick whispered, thinking about the condition in which he'd left his shack in Galveston. When he'd left his motel room this morning it looked like it had sustained storm damage. Midway down the short hall was a small room she obviously used for a home study. He hoped it would prove to be a treasure trove of information and insight into this woman. It didn't. The t.i.tles of the medical books on the shelves were as dry as dust. There were a number of atlases and travel-guide books, a few novels, mostly literary, nothing racy, certainly nothing to suit his unsophisticated reading taste. On top of the neat desk her mail had been separated into two metal baskets, one for opened, the other for unopened. He scanned the ho-hum contents of both. In the deeper drawer of the desk he discovered an expandable file of receipts--a labeled compartment for each month. He looked through them but did not find a paid invoice for a contract killer tucked into the accordion folds. It was in her bedroom that he received his first surprise. He stood on the threshold, giving it one swift survey before a.s.similating it more slowly. By comparison, this room was messy. This room wasn't occupied by a surgeon. It was lived in by a person. By a woman. He had expected to find a bed that would meet military standards, one you could bounce a quarter off of. But, oddly, the bed had been left unmade. He moved past it to the window, where he knew Oren and Thigpen could see him from the second-story window of a house two houses down and behind Rennie Newton's. He gave them the finger. Turning back into the room, he began his search with her bureau drawers. Undies were folded and stacked, panties in one drawer, bras in the one below it. She had divided the non-frilly from the frilly. When she opened those drawers, he wondered what determined her selection. Daytime, nighttime? Work, play? Did her mood dictate which stack she chose from, or vice versa? He rifled through the garments, looking underneath for keepsakes, letters, photographs that would give him a hint into the personality of Rennie Newton. Was she a woman who would link up with a noted criminal, as Oren suspected? His search of the bureau drawers yielded several scented sachets but no clues. Nor did her closet, which was as neatly arranged by category as her lingerie drawers. He found nothing in shoe boxes except shoes. He moved to her nightstand. A fitness magazine had been left open to an article about exercises one could do throughout the day to relieve neck tension. The cap on a bottle of body lotion hadn't been securely replaced. He picked up the bottle, sniffed. He didn't know one flower from another, but it said Goldleaf and Hydrangea, so he supposed that was what it was. Whatever, it smelled good. Taking the cordless phone from its stand, he listened to the dial tone. It wasn't the broken tone indicating messages on her voice mail. As long as he was here he wished he had a bug to plant, but Oren had nixed the suggestion. "We'd need a court order, and no judge is going to give us one until we can show probable cause." "We could learn a lot by monitoring her calls." "It's illegal." Wick had laughed. "So's breaking and entering. We can't ever use anything I find in there." "Yeah, but it's different." He failed to see the difference but Oren was adamant, and it was Oren's show. He replaced the telephone in the recharger and opened the nightstand drawer. Inside he found a box of stationery, still wrapped in clear cellophane, unused. There was also a tear sheet from a newspaper. He took it out of the drawer and unfolded it. It was an obituary page. One of them was for Eleanor Loy Newton. Daughter Rennie was listed as her only survivor. He recognized the name of the town on the mast _.

head. Dalton, Texas. Carefully refolding the sheet, he replaced it in the drawer. As he did, he noticed a small white triangle barely visible beneath the box of unused stationery. He picked up the box. Under it lay a small card with only one line typed on it: "I've got a crush on you."

It was unsigned, unaddressed, and undated, making it impossible to know if Rennie Newton had received it or if she had considered sending it before changing her mind.

It looked like a gift-enclosure card. Had it accompanied a gift she'd received recently, or was it a keepsake from a high school beau, a former lover, last Sat.u.r.day's one-night stand? It obviously held some significance for her or it wouldn't be in her nightstand drawer along with her mother's obituary.

Curious, but not criminal.

He replaced the card exactly as he'd found it and went next into the adjoining bathroom. He located a damp towel in the clothes hamper along with a pair of boxer shorts and a ribbed tank top. Her sleeping attire last night?

Probably. A recent girlfriend had preferred comfy over s.e.xy. Actually he had thought the comfy was pretty d.a.m.n s.e.xy.

An array of bath salts and gels was lined up on a shelf above the tub. And they weren't just for show. They'd been used often. The room smelled flowery and feminine. The tub was spanned by a wire rack, a resting place for a scented candle, a sponge, a razor, and a pair of reading gla.s.ses. She liked to lounge in the tub. But alone; it wasn't large enough for two.

Inside the mirrored medicine cabinet he found her toothbrush and a gla.s.s, a tube of toothpaste rolled up from the bottom--he didn't know anybody who actually

did that--and mint-flavored dental floss. There was an a.s.sortment of cosmetics and night creams, a bottle of aspirin, and a blister-pack of antacid tablets. No prescriptions. Under the sink were rolls of toilet tissue and a box of tampons.

He stepped back into the bedroom and for a long time stood looking at the unmade bed. The pale yellow sheets were rumpled and the duvet was half on, half off. Unless he was very wrong, Rennie Newton not only bathed alone, she slept alone. At least she had last night.

"Took you long enough," Oren said when Wick rejoined them in the second-story room of the stakeout house.

"Yeah, what were you doing in there all that time, trying on her panties?"

That from Thigpen, whom everyone called Pigpen because that was what he looked like. He was crude and sloppy and, in Wick's opinion, unforgivably stupid.

"No, Pigpen, I stopped on my way back for a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b.

Your wife says to pick up bread on your way home."

"a.s.shole. We got pictures of you flipping us the bird.

Very professional, Threadgill."

"I stoop to the level of the people I'm with."

"I'm gonna add that photo to my gallery." Thigpen hitched his thumb toward the wall where he had taped the more revealing eight-by-tens of Rennie Newton.

Wick glanced at the pictures of which Thigpen was so proud, then angrily grabbed a bottle of water and twisted off the lid. He drank all of it before taking a breath.

"Well?" Oren asked.

Wick sat down and toed off his running shoes. "In a word?"

"For starters."

"Neat. As a pin. Obsessively clean."

He described the kitchen, living room, and study. Of the bedroom he said, "It wasn't quite as tidy. The bed was unmade but everything was in its place. Maybe she was in a rush this morning before she left for the hospital." He itemized what he'd found in the nightstand drawer.

"Was the card in an envelope?" Thigpen asked.

"I told you, no. It was a plain white card. Small. One typed line."

"She's from Dalton," Oren confirmed when Wick told them about the newspaper obituary. "Grew up there. Her father was some bigwig cattleman and businessman. Community leader. An iron in every fire. She was an only child."

"With no living relatives, apparently. She was listed as her mother's only survivor." Which would explain why she had an unopened box of stationery, Wick thought. Who would she write to?

"Did you find anything to indicate--"

"An alliance with Lozada?" Wick asked, finis.h.i.+ng Oren's question for him. "Lazada. I don't think she has a relations.h.i.+p of any kind with anybody. Not one single photograph in the place, no personal telephone numbers scribbled down. Our lady doctor appears to live a very solitary life."

When he paused, Oren motioned for him to expand.

"Definitely no sign of a masculine presence, criminal or otherwise. No men's clothing in her closet or drawers. The only razor in the bathroom was pink. One toothbrush. No birth-control pills or condoms or diaphragm. She's a nun."

"Maybe she's a d.y.k.e."

"Maybe you're a cretin," Wick fired back at Thigpen.

Oren looked at him strangely, then turned to the other

detective. "Why don't yon knock off early today?" "Don't have to ask me twice." Thigpen stood and hiked up his slipping khakis, which rode well below his belly. Giving Wick a sour look, he grumbled, "What's your problem, anyway?" "Don't forget the bread." "f.u.c.k you." "Thigpen!" Oren looked at him reprovingly. "Report back at seven tomorrow morning." Thigpen shot Wick another annoyed look, then lumbered down the stairs. Neither Wick nor Oren said anything until they heard the front door of the empty house close, then Oren said, "What is your problem?" "I need a shower." His answer didn't address the question, but Oren let it go for the time being. "You know where it is." As bathrooms went, it was sadly lacking. The towels they'd brought in were hardly worth the bother. They were cheap and small and didn't absorb. Wick had contributed soap he'd pilfered from his motel room. There was no hot water. But his bathroom in the Galveston house was no great shakes either. He was accustomed to an unreliable hot-water heater. He barely noticed the absence of amenities. The vacant house was a perfect location for the department's surveillance of Rennie Newton since it afforded a clear view of both her backyard and the side driveway of her home. The house had been in the process of being remodeled when a dispute arose between the contractor and the non-resident owner. The squabble had turned nasty and was now in litigation. FWPD had asked both parties if the house could be used, and both had agreed to it, for a small stipend. Its being a construction site made it easy for them to come and go dressed more or less as tradesmen and craftsmen, and to carry in supplies and equipment without attracting unwanted attention from neighbors who were used to having houses in their neighborhood undergoing renovation. Wick emerged from the bathroom and rummaged in the duffel bag he'd brought along so he would have a change of clothes. He dressed in a pair of jeans and a souvenir T-s.h.i.+rt from an Eagles concert he had attended in Austin years before. He raked back his wet hair with his fingers. Oren had taken up Thigpen's post at the window. He gave Wick a critical glance over his shoulder. "Strange uniform for a cop." "I'm not a cop." Oren merely grunted. "I guess beer is against house rules." "Thigpen would rat us out. There're c.o.kes in the ice chest."

Wick got one, popped the top, and took a long swallow.

"Want one?"

"No thanks."

He kicked his running shoes in the general direction of the duffel bag and dropped into a chair. He took another long pull on the soda can. Oren was regarding him closely, watching every move. Finally Wick said, "What?"

"What did you find inside her house?"

"I told you."

"Everything?"

Wick spread his arms and raised his shoulders in an innocent shrug. "Why would I hold out on you?"

"Because of your d.i.c.k."

"Excuse me?"

"For a white woman the doc's pretty good-looking."

Wick laughed, then said, "Okay. So?"

Oren gave him a look that spoke volumes.

"Do you really think . . . ach." He swatted down Oren's surmise, shook his head, looked away. When he came back to meet Oren's unflinching gaze he said, "Look, if she's in cahoots with Lozada, it doesn't matter to me if she's Helen of f.u.c.king Troy. In heat. I want that b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Oren. You know I do. I'll use whoever I have to, do whatever it takes to get him."

Far from being rea.s.sured, Oren said softly, "Which is the second reason you might withhold information from me."

"I don't follow."

"Don't turn this into a personal vendetta, Wick."

"Who came knocking on whose door?"

Oren raised his voice to match Wick's. "I brought you in because I need a good man. Someone with your instincts.

And because I thought you deserved to be in on this after what happened between you and Lozada."

"Is there a point floating around in there somewhere?"

Oren wasn't put off by his surliness. "Don't make me sorry I involved you." He subjected Wick to a stare as stern as his warning. Wick was the first to look away.

Oren always played by the rules. Wick found rules restrictive, and he seldom abided by them. It was that difference that usually caused them to clash. It was also what each admired most about the other. While Oren often chided Wick for his recklessness and casual approach to regulations, he admired his audacity. Wick rebelled against rules, but he respected Oren for upholding them.

Oren went back to watching Rennie Newton's house.

After a short silence, Wick said, "One thing I thought was curious. In her closet. Lots of blue jeans. Not designer s.h.i.+t.

Worn ones like mine." He rubbed his hand over the denim that time and a thousand was.h.i.+ngs had bleached and softened.

"Three pair of western boots, too. I didn't expect that."

"She rides."

"Horses?"

"It was in her bio. The Star-Telegram had an extensive file on her. I asked them for a copy of everything. Dr. Newton's been in the newspaper numerous times. Charity events. Community involvement. Doctors Without Borders."

"What's that?"