The Crush (13 page)

The fact was indisputable, but Oren was too good a friend to say so. Instead, he smiled ruefully.

"I still miss him."

"Yeah." Wick sat forward and planted his elbows on his knees. He dragged his hands down his face. "So do I."

"Remember that time--you'd just graduated from the academy. Wet behind both ears. Joe and I were staking out that illegal gambling parlor on the Jacksboro highway. Coldest night of the year, freezing our nuts off. You thought you'd be a good rookie and surprise us with a pizza."

Wick picked up the story from there. "I showed up in a squad car, marked you for damn sure.

Joe didn't know whether to horsewhip me for blowing your cover or eat the pizza before it got cold." He shook his head with chagrin. "Y'all never let me live that one down."

Joe and Oren had attended the police academy together and shortly after their graduation had been made partners. Joe had been with Oren when both his daughters were born. He'd waited with Oren through anxious hours when Grace had a cyst in her breast biopsied. He'd traveled with him to Florida to bury his mother. Oren had cried with Joe when the woman he loved broke their engagement and his heart.

They had trusted each other implicitly and entrusted one another with their lives. Their bond of friendship was almost as strong as the one Wick and Joe had shared as brothers.

When Joe was killed Oren had assumed the role of Wick's big brother, and later his partner, although each acknowledged that no one would ever fill the void that Joe had left in their lives.

Almost a full minute of thoughtful silence elapsed before Oren slapped his thighs and stood up. "If it's all right with you, I'm gonna shove off."

"Sure. Tell Grace thanks for the ham and potato salad. It'll go down good tonight after all those lousy sandwiches. Give the girls hugs."

"Sorry you have to spend your Saturday night here."

"No problem. I--" He stopped, remembered something, glanced at his watch.

"What's the date?"

"Uh, the eleventh. Why?"

"Nothing. Just lost track of my days. You'd better move along. Don't want Grace to get pissed at you."

"See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, see ya." Wick slumped down in his chair and stacked his hands on the top of his head, trying to look casual and bored.

He waited until he heard Oren's car pull away, then he scooped up his keys and followed him out. He climbed into his pickup and drove past Rennie's house. No signs of her. No hint of her plans for the evening. What if his hunch was wrong? If it was, and Lozada paid a call to her house tonight, Oren would have his head on a pike by daybreak.

But he was going to gamble that he was right.

* * *

He made it to the church with three minutes to spare. He jogged from the parking lot toward the sanctuary and barely made it into a seat in the last row before the steeple bells tolled the hour of seven.

Upon leaving the surveillance house, he'd driven like a madman to the nearest mall, entered the department store at a dead run, and had thrown himself on the mercy of a haberdasher who was looking forward to the end of his long Saturday shift.

"Forgot the damn thing until half an hour ago," Wick explained breathlessly. "There I am at the Rangers game, having a cold beer and a chili dog, and it hits me." He smacked his forehead with his palm. "Left the game, and wouldn't you know it? For once the Rangers were leading."

So far the elaborate lie had moved the haberdasher to do nothing except sniff in boredom. Some embellishment was required.

"If I don't go my mom'll never forgive me. Her back went out last Thursday. She's laid up popping muscle relaxers and fretting over missing this thing. So I shot off my big mouth and said, "Don't worry about it, Mom.

If you can't go, I will." I hate like hell to break a promise."

"How much time do you have?"

Ah! Everybody had a mom. "An hour."

"Hmm, I just don't know. You're awfully tall. We don't keep that many longs in stock."

Wick flipped out his credit card and a fifty-dollar bill. "I'll bet this you can find something."

"A challenge," said the haberdasher as he pocketed the fifty, "but by no means impossible."

With the assistance of a tailor who muttered deprecations in an alien dialect while he marked the needed alterations, they outfitted Wick for the occasion, including a pale blue shirt and matching necktie.

"The monochromatic look is in."

Apparently the haberdasher had determined, as Lozada had, that he needed some fashion guidance.

While the suit pants were being hemmed and the jacket nipped in at the waist, Wick went into the mall and had his boots shined. Luckily he'd worn his black ostrich pair today.

Next, he located a men's room and wet his hair. He combed it back with his fingers. Time didn't allow for barbering.

Now, as he settled into the pew, he didn't believe anyone would guess that he'd been assembled for the affair in under sixty minutes.

The ceremony began with the seating of the mothers.

Next came the bridesmaids decked out in dresses the color of apricots. Everyone stood for the bride's grand entrance.

Wick used the advantage of his height to search as many faces as he could. He was on the verge of thinking he'd gone to a hell of a lot of trouble and expense for nothing when he spotted her about a third of the way down the sanctuary. Best he could tell, she didn't have an escort.

He stared at the back of her head for the duration of the ceremony. When it concluded, he kept her in sight as the guests filed out of the church and returned to their cars for the drive to the country club. He was glad to see that her Jeep wagon joined the processional headed toward the reception.

The wedding invitation had been among her opened mail the day he'd searched her house. He'd read it, memorized the day, time, and place, thinking that the information might come in handy. When Oren mentioned this being Saturday night, it had sparked his memory. He had taken a chance on Rennie attending the wedding and had made an instantaneous decision to watch her up close rather than from afar through binoculars.

When he arrived at the country club, he opted to park himself and take his keys with him rather than turning his pickup over to a valet. It was faster, and he wanted to be inside the club ahead of Rennie. The haberdasher had called the bridal department of the store and arranged a wrapped gift for him. He carried it in with him and left it on the table draped in white fabric.

A pretty young woman was attending the guest book. "Don't forget to sign it."

"My wife already did."

"Okay. Have fun. Bar and buffet are already serving."

"Great." And he meant it. He had feared it might be a seated dinner, in which case there would be no place card with his name on it and he would be forced to leave.

But he didn't go to either the bar or the buffet.

Instead he took up a position against the wall and tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

He saw Rennie the moment she entered the ballroom and for the next hour he tracked her every move.

She chatted with anyone who engaged her, but for the most part she stood alone, an observer of the festivities more than a participant. She didn't dance, ate sparingly from the buffet, declined the wedding cake and champagne, preferring instead a glass of clear liquid on the rocks with a lime twist.

Wick gradually made his way toward her, keeping to the fringes of the crowd and avoiding the principals of the bridal party lest one of them introduced himself and asked to whom he belonged.

Rennie was concluding a conversation with a couple, backing away from them with promises of another dinner date soon, when Wick saw his opportunity.

He put himself in her path; she bumped into him.

Coming around quickly, she said, "Oh, I'm so sorry. Please excuse me."

Chapter 8

"No problem." Wick smiled and nodded down at her hand. "You're the one who got wet.

Allow me?"

He took her glass from her and signaled a waiter, who not only took away the glass but also provided napkins for her to use to dry her hands. "Thank you," she said to Wick when the waiter moved away.

"You're welcome. Let me get you another drink."

"I'm fine, really."

"My mom would disown me if I didn't."

Mom again. "Besides, I was about to get one for myself.

Please." He motioned toward the bar.

She hesitated, then gave a guarded nod of assent. "All right. Thank you."

He steered her toward the bar and when they reached it, he said to the bartender, "Two of whatever the lady is having."

"Ice water with lime, please," she told the young man. Then she glanced up at Wick, who was tugging on his ear and smiling with chagrin.

"And here I thought I was being so suave by letting you order for me."

"You're under no obligation to let the order stand."

"No, no, ice water is just what I wanted. Tall, cold, and refreshing. August weddings are thirsty work." The bartender slid the two glasses toward him. Wick passed one to her and then clinked the glasses together. "Don't drink it too fast or it'll go to your head."

"I promise I won't. Thanks again."

She stepped away so other guests could get to the bar. Wick pretended not to recognize a brush-off line when he heard one and fell into step beside her. "I wonder why January and February aren't the big wedding months?"

She looked at him with misapprehension. He didn't know if she was surprised he hadn't taken the hint and left her alone or if she was confused by the random question.

"What I mean is," he rushed to say, "why do so many couples get married in the summer months when it's so blasted hot?"

"I'm not sure. Tradition?"

"Maybe."

"Convenience? Those are vacation months. That makes it easier for out-of-town guests to attend."

"You?"

"From out of town?" Her hesitation wasn't long, but long enough to be noticeable. "No, I live here."

Although she didn't look all that interested, he told her he also was a local. "Are you here on behalf of the bride or the groom?"

"The groom's father and I are colleagues."

"My mother is second cousin to the bride's mother," he lied. "Something like that. Mom couldn't come but felt that someone from our branch of the family ...

You know how these things go."

She began moving away from him again. "Have a nice time. Thanks again for the ice water."

"My name's Wick Threadgill."

She stared down at his extended right hand, and for several seconds he believed she wasn't going to take it. But then she reached out and clasped it, firmly, but only for an instant before withdrawing.

It didn't give him time to register much except that her hand was colder than his, probably from keeping a death grip on her water glass, which she had done since he handed it to her at the bar.

"Did you say Wick?"

"Yes. And I haven't got a speech impediment."

"That's an unusual name. Is it short for something?"

"No. Just Wick. And you?"

"Rennie Newton."

"Is that short for something?"

"Doctor Rennie Newton."

He laughed. "Pleased to meet you, Dr.

Rennie Newton."

She glanced toward the exit as though locating the nearest escape route should the need for one arise.

He got the feeling that at any moment she was going to bolt, and he wanted to keep the conversation going for as long as possible.

Even if she hadn't been the subject of a homicide investigation he would be curious. If they'd met innocently, he would still want to know why a woman who appeared sophisticated was this damned nervous over carrying on a conversation with a stranger in the harmless environment of a wedding reception with hundreds of people around.

"What kind of doctor?" he asked.

"Medical."

"Do you specialize?"

"General surgery."

"Wow. I'm impressed. Do you do trauma surgery? Shootings, stabbings, the kind of stuff you see on TV?" The kind of stuff that landed your rival colleague in the morgue? He watched for telltale signs of guilt in the incredibly green eyes, but if she was an accomplice to that crime her eyes didn't give her away.

"Mostly it's scheduled, routine procedures.

I sometimes get a trauma case if I'm on call." She patted her beaded handbag. "Like tonight. I've got my pager."

"Which explains your tee
totaling."

"Not even a champagne toast when I'm on call."

"Well, I hope there won't be any emergencies that call you away tonight." His tone of voice, and the manner in which he was looking at her, made his meaning unmistakable. And his unmistakable meaning made her unmistakably uncomfortable.