The Crush (32 page)

Readjusting his head on the pillow, he yawned. "Nighty-night."

"Good night, Mr. Threadgill. Rest well."

DARKNESS HAD FALLEN BY THE TIME
Lozada let himself into his condo. He was pleased to see that his instructions had been carried out. His home was as quiet and serene as a church.

Upon hearing from his lawyer that it had been searched, he had known what to expect. He'd had residences searched before, as early as high school when narcs came into his house one night with a search warrant, hoping to find drugs. They had succeeded only in looking like fools and terrorizing his parents and idiot brother. Since then, he'd had other houses searched with the same storm-trooper enthusiasm.

So he had made arrangements from his jail cell through his lawyer for a cleaning service to put his condo back together, then to sanitize it against police contamination. He had also arranged to have it swept for electronic surveillance devices.

"It's clean," his lawyer had reported as they celebrated his release over drinks at the City Club. "In every sense of the word."

The attorney never inquired as to Lozada's guilt or innocence. Lozada paid him an exorbitant annual retainer, which enabled him to represent Lozada exclusively and play a lot of golf. He could also afford to live the lifestyle of a rich playboy. Lozada's culpability was last on his list of priorities.

"But it's clean only for the time being," he warned. "Be careful who goes in and out of your place from now on."

Lozada didn't need to be cautioned about that.

Already he had notified the building's concierge that he would no longer be availing himself of the housekeeping services it provided. He had hired his own housekeeper, who came highly recommended by one of his former--and very satisfied-clients. He was assured that the young man brought excellent skills to the position and could be trusted implicitly.

Nor would he entertain women at home-except for Rennie, of course. He had used that stupid girl, that Sally Horton, because she was convenient, a careless indulgence, as it turned out.

He would go out for sex until he had Rennie here with him.

He had been making such good progress with her until Wesley had come charging in, gun drawn
like the main character in a silly detective show. What a laugh. Hadn't he realized how ridiculous he looked?

Rennie hadn't been amused. She had seemed mortified to have a group of clumsy cops invading her home, spoiling the surprise he had staged for her. No, she hadn't looked at all happy about the unannounced arrival of Wesley and company.

After spending a half hour of quality time with his scorpions, he took a long shower to wash away all remnants of jail. He shaved carefully, since he hadn't trusted his skin to the dull razor the county provided, then went through the ritual of cleaning out the drain and disposing of the towels.

He enjoyed a couple of tequilas and ate the dinner he ordered from his favorite restaurant.

Delivery service wasn't extended to any other patrons, but it was included in Lozada's VIP treatment.

Over a nightcap, he dialed Rennie's number. Eventually her voice mail answered.

"This is Dr. Newton. Please leave your name and number. If this is an emergency--"

He hung up. He wanted to see her urgently, but she might not think his desire qualified as an emergency. As he sipped his drink, he tried twice more to reach her, at the hospital and at home, with no success.

Ah well, he thought, tomorrow was soon enough. He would invite her to dinner. It would be their first official date. He smiled at the thought of walking into a fine restaurant with her. He would take her to Dallas. Someplace very upscale, elite. He would buy a sexy black dress for her tomorrow and surprise her with it. He would help her dress, from the skin out, so that everything would be perfect and to his liking. She would be gorgeous, breathtaking. He would wear his new suit. They would turn heads. Everyone would see what Lozada had done for himself.

After spending three nights on a cot with an odorous mattress, he looked forward to sleeping in his own wide bed. Naked, he slid between the silky sheets and luxuriated in their cool caress against his hairless skin. He fell asleep rubbing himself, thinking of the stirring sound Rennie had made when she felt the strength of his erection.

He slept like a baby until he was awakened by the insistent ringing of his doorbell.

SNEAKING OUT OF THE HOSPITAL WAS MUCH
easier than Wick would have thought.

The hardest part was getting into the new pajamas Grace had brought him. By the time he got the damn things on, he was damp with perspiration and so weak he was trembling. He resisted the temptation to lie down and rest for a few minutes, afraid that if he did he wouldn't get up again.

The nurses were too busy performing clerical duties at the central desk to notice when he crept from his room. During his walk down the hall earlier, he had noted the location of the fire exit. Fortunately, it wasn't too far from his room. He made it into the stairwell undetected. Gripping the metal railing every step of the way, he walked down four flights. His knees were rubbery by the time he reached the ground floor.

No one accosted him. The cops posted as guards would have easily recognized him, but he slipped past them unseen. One was flirting with the nurses at the emergency-room admitting desk and the other was napping in his chair.

So much for security.

The nearest commercial area was two blocks from the hospital. He started walking but hadn't gone far when he realized that the two blocks might just as well have been the distance of a marathon. It was as difficult for him to cover that distance as it would have been for him to go twenty-six miles. He was wobbly and faint, and his back throbbed in protest of each step, but he pushed on.

When he entered the 7-Eleven, the turbaned man working the counter regarded him with unconcealed fright.

"I know I look ridiculous," Wick said quickly. "Can you believe it? The wife's pregnant. Got a craving for a Butterfinger fifteen minutes after I fell asleep. So I'm driving here in my PJ'S to get her a damned Butterfinger--I mean, hell, we have Snickers in the pantry, but, no, it had to be a Butterfinger. Anyhow, I ran out of gas up there on the freeway about fifty yards from the exit ramp. Had to walk down, and it's hotter than hell outside even at this time of night." Sweat had stuck the pajama jacket to his chest. He pulled it away from his skin and fanned himself. "Can I please use your Yellow Pages? I need to call a taxi."

Possibly the only words of the whole monologue that the foreign gentleman understood were

"Yellow Pages." He slid a well-worn copy across the counter along with a soiled and sticky telephone.

After placing his call, Wick sat down to wait on a folding fishing stool and passed the time by perusing the wide selection of body-builder magazines. Only one other customer came in.

He bought a pack of cigarettes and left without giving Wick a second glance.

When the taxi pulled into the parking lot, Wick said, "Much obliged," and waved good-bye. He didn't know who was more relieved to see the taxi, him or the nervous cashier. He left without a Butterfinger.

Luckily, the Wesleys' house was dark.

What Oren didn't know was that he kept a spare key in a magnetized box on the underside of his pickup's fender. He retrieved it, although getting up and down was an effort that caused him to gasp in pain. Several times he was forced to pause for fear of passing out.

He unlocked his truck and rummaged through the pockets of his packed clothing in search of money.

Finally he scrounged up enough to cover his cab fare.

The series of delays hadn't set too well with the driver, who peeled away with an angry spate of obscenities and an even angrier squeal of tires.

Wick waited in the shadow of the house to see if the noise had awakened Oren. He gave it a full five minutes, but no one came out to investigate. Wick got into his truck and turned the ignition key. The engine growled to life. He got the hell out of there.

He drove to the empty parking lot of an elementary school, where he exchanged the pajamas for street clothes and the slippers for a pair of athletic shoes. He was constantly on the lookout for Oren's car, or a police patrol unit, but apparently he had made good his escape.

From the elementary school he drove straight to Rennie's house and parked at the curb. The front porch light was on, but the house was dark.

"Too bad." She was about to be awakened. He eased himself from the cab of his truck with all the agility of an octogenarian invalid.

At her door, he leaned heavily on the bell, and, when that got no response, he banged the brass knocker. He waited thirty seconds before pressing his ear to the door and listening through the wood. Nothing but silence. "Dammit!"

But if he were in Rennie's situation, would he be answering the front door in the middle of the night?

He moved toward the garage and studied the horizontally sectioned door. Having followed Rennie home last Sunday, he knew she had an automatic opener. He tested the handle anyway. Without the programmed transmitter, the door was secure.

He slipped around the corner of the house--hoping that an insomniac neighbor didn't mistake him for a thief--and moved along the side of the garage toward the rear of the house. His exploration was rewarded. There was a door into the garage from the backyard. Miracle of miracles, it had a window.

Cupping his hands around his eyes, he peered inside. It was dark, but he knew that had her car been inside he would've been able to see it. The garage was empty. She wasn't at home.

Trembling with fatigue, he retraced his steps to his truck. The task of climbing inside seemed insurmountable, but he managed it--barely. His skin was clammy, and he feared he might toss his cookies. Literally.

Stephanie and Laura's homemade chocolate chips. The headrest was tempting. He hurt too bad to sleep, but if he could just close his eyes and rest for a few minutes ...

No, he had to move and keep moving until he found Rennie.

Second on his list of places to look:
Trinity Tower.

LOZADA'S FACE WAS A MASK OF COLD FURY
when he opened the door to his condo.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Lozada, but I have an urgent message for you." The concierge extended to him a sealed envelope with the building's discreet logo embossed in gold in the upper left corner.

Lozada had been having a delicious dream about Rennie. The first peal of his doorbell had jolted him awake. A handgun was weighting down the pocket of his robe. Shooting the messenger became a literal temptation.

He snatched the envelope from the man. "What kind of message? Who's it from?"

"He didn't give me his name, sir. I asked, but he said you would know him."

Lozada ripped open the envelope, removed a stiff note card, and read the so-called message. There was no question who had written the succinct poem.

"He was here?"

"Only a few minutes ago, Mr. Lozada. He left after writing that and asking that I hand-deliver it to you immediately. The man didn't look at all well. When he first came in, I thought he was intoxicated. He was certainly confused."

"In what way?"

"Initially he said he had a message for your guest."

"Guest?"

"That's what I said, Mr. Lozada. I told him that to my knowledge you had come in alone this evening and that no visitors had been announced except for the food delivery. I checked the log book to be sure."

Threadgill had played this moron like a fiddle.

"I offered to ring you, but he said no, then asked to borrow the stationery and a pen."

"All right, you've delivered the message."

Lozada was about to close the door when the concierge raised his hand.

"One more thing, Mr. Lozada." He coughed lightly behind his fist. "You'll receive an official notice in writing, but I suppose this is as good a time as any to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"I've been appointed to advise you that the building's homeowners' association convened earlier today and voted unanimously that you ... that they ..."

"What?"

"They want you out of the building, sir. In light of recent allegations, they're demanding that you vacate within thirty days."

Lozada wasn't about to demean himself by arguing with this nobody. "You can tell the other homeowners to go fuck themselves. I own this penthouse and will live here for as long as I fucking well please."

He slammed the door in the man's face. Striding angrily to the built-in slate bar, he poured himself a straight shot of tequila. He didn't know which had made him madder and insulted him more, being asked to move out of the prestigious address or Wick Threadgill's juvenile dare:

The roses were red;

My blood, too.

Come get me, asshole.

I'm waiting for you.

Chapter 22

When Rennie arrived at her ranch, the first thing she did was saddle Beade and go for a long, galloping ride. Following that, she spent two hours in the barn grooming the horses. They didn't need grooming, but it was therapeutic for her.