Chapter 17
When Lozada first heard about it on TV news, he'd been furious.
How could Rennie have saved Wick Threadgill's life after he had gone to so much trouble and placed himself at such risk to rid her of him? Women! He would never understand them. Nothing you did for them was ever enough.
Whenever any cop was killed, it made news. Other cops rallied. The black armbands were brought out. Pictures of the widowed and the orphaned made the front page. The general public grieved as though they'd lost a friend. The fallen man was hailed a hero.
But to hear them tell it on TV this morning, Wick Threadgill could walk on water. The reports cited various crimes that Threadgill had solved, seemingly all by himself, Batman and Dick Tracy rolled into one. He had been all but drummed off the force, but that was downplayed.
Rennie was touted as the gifted surgeon who had worked valiantly to bring him back from the brink of death. She brought to the operating room at Tarrant General the trauma-treatment experience she had gained in war-torn countries while participating in international programs like Doctors Without Borders.
Lozada had been so upset by these blatantly biased news stories that he couldn't even enjoy playing with his scorpions. His worst enemy was receiving accolades. Rennie was working against him.
He hadn't felt this frustrated since a paramedic had saved his baby brother after he'd shoved a ball down his throat.
It had been Christmas morning of his sixteenth year. His brother was thirteen but had the mind of a two-year-old. One of his gifts from Santa had been a foam baseball and a plastic bat. He was playing with them beneath the decorated tree. Their parents were in the kitchen checking on the Christmas ham.
Lozada had sat watching his brother for several minutes and decided that his world would be so much nicer without him in it. The idiot had thought it was a game when Lozada crammed the foam ball into his mouth. He hadn't uttered a sound. He put up no resistance whatsoever.
The life had almost gone out of his brother's trusting eyes when Lozada heard his parents returning from the kitchen. He started hollering for them to come quickly, that baby brother had put his new baseball in his mouth. Nine-one-one was called and the kid was spared. His parents had wept with relief, held the boy close all day, and said over and over again what a blessing he was.
It had been a rotten Christmas Day. Even the ham had burned.
Ironically, he could have saved himself the trouble of
trying to kill his brother. A mere six months later, his parents had been flying the kid to Houston to consult with yet another witch doctor --didn't these people know when to quit?--when their commuter plane crashed into an East Texas swamp during a thunderstorm. Everyone on board perished. How had he gotten so lucky?
But Lozada wouldn't leave Wick Threadgill to fate.
For one thing, he wouldn't deny himself the satisfaction of killing him. Already he'd had to sacrifice the leisurely planning of it.
Only yesterday he had resolved to take his time and devise something special for Threadgill. But last night it had become clear that he must act without delay. He hated like hell having to accelerate his plans. You didn't drink a decanter of Louis XIII like a can of soda.
He was being deprived of the savoring. But if it meant Threadgill would be dead sooner rather than later, he could accept that.
Although faced with a few tactical problems last night, he had planned quickly and acted swiftly. The would-be exotic dancer had been easy to entice. She had believed him without question when he told her he had a friend who liked threesomes--was she game? "If he's as cute as you, you bet!"
She had balked at taking her car instead of his, but she had consented quickly enough when he said,
"On second thought, let's just forget about it."
He knew where Threadgill was staying. It was the rathole where the FWPD normally stashed paid trial witnesses, visiting law enforcement personnel, new recruits, and such. For verification all he'd had to do was call and ask to be connected to Wick Threadgill's room.
He'd hung up while the phone was ringing, but he had confirmed Threadgill's lodging.
He had Sally park in a supermarket parking lot two blocks away from the motel, and they'd gone the rest of the way on foot. When she asked why, he told her he wanted to surprise his friend. She bought it.
Wick's pickup was parked outside Room
121. Lozada scanned the parking lot to make certain no one else was about. Most of the rooms were dark. The few where lights were on had the drapes drawn.
He motioned the girl forward. "You go first. I want you to be the first thing he sees when he opens the door."
She knocked, but after waiting for several seconds, she pressed her ear to the door. "I think I hear the shower."
She'd been impressed when he opened the lock with his credit card. Signaling for her to be very quiet, he ushered her inside and told her to lie down on the bed. She obliged him and had been suppressing a fit of giggles when he shot her twice in the forehead. He considered cutting out her tongue as he had promised to do if she talked about him, but it would have been messy. Besides, the shower faucets were turned off.
In hindsight, he should have used the silenced pistol on Wick, too. One pop in the ear as he came out of the bathroom, another between the eyes to make sure. But where was the fun in that? He'd wanted Wick to realize that he was going to die.
On the other hand, the screwdriver was a good choice. He'd found it in an old toolbox in the rear storage room of his TV repair shop.
Practical, rusty, antiquated, untraceable.
Another thing he might do differently: He would have made that jab fatal instead of recreational.
Rather than making it instantaneous and stabbing Wick in the heart as he'd done Howell, he'd wanted to play with Threadgill. That turned out to be a bad call. He hadn't had time to finish the job, thanks to the motel maid. Who cleans rooms at 4:30 in the morning?
By the time she had dialed 911, he was back at the supermarket. He'd driven Sally's car to where they'd made the exchange. He had left the keys in it, retrieved his SUV, and parked it in the undesignated space of a garage, then walked to the hotel coffee shop for breakfast. He was having a last cup of coffee when the first reports of the murder appeared on the morning news shows.
All that work and nothing to show for it, he thought now.
The bastard hadn't died. And Rennie had helped him survive. Why? Why had she saved him?
She had been furious with him. She had told him she never wanted to see him again. She hated him.
Or did she?
He remained in his condo all day, too dispirited to go out. He called his ultra-private voice-mail number and had a message that said a job was his for the asking. The contract was so
important to the client that Lozada could name his own price. Ordinarily the prospect would have excited him, but even the promise of a lucrative job with a built-in bonus didn't lift him out of his doldrums.
He was superior to Wick Threadgill in every way. He had class. He doubted Threadgill could even spell it. He was a millionaire.
Threadgill scraped by on a cop's salary.
He wore designer clothes. Threadgill dressed like a saddle tramp. He wanted to place Rennie on a pedestal. Threadgill wanted to use her to get to him.
It simply didn't tabulate. How could she possibly prefer Threadgill to him?
He was still sulking when the early edition of the evening news came on. Nothing had happened that day to supplant the lead story of Sally Horton's murder and the near-fatal attack on Wick. After recapping the morning's events, the talking head said, "A press conference was held today at Tarrant General, where Dr. Rennie Newton answered the questions of reporters."
That segued into videotape of the press conference.
Rennie was standing behind a podium and was flanked by two somber men in dark suits who were probably hospital administrators. She squinted against the glare of video lights as she acknowledged one of the eager reporters.
"Dr. Newton, what's Mr.Threadgill's current condition?"
"He's stable," she replied. "Which is encouraging. He was critical this morning. He had a penetration wound in his back that did a lot of damage to surrounding tissue."
In the right hands, a Phillips screwdriver would do that to a person. Lozada's lips curled into a smirk of gratification.
"Was the wound potentially fatal?"
"In my opinion, yes. Lifesaving measures were taken immediately. Our trauma team did an excellent job."
"Was this attack related to the unsolved murder of Mr. Threadgill's brother three years ago?"
"I don't know anything about that."
"Is Wick Threadgill still on leave from the police department?"
"That's a question for the police."
"Is he--"
She held up her hands for quiet.
"I responded to an emergency call this morning.
For a time, I didn't even know the patient's name. I don't know anything about Mr.
Threadgill's career or his family history.
I did my job. Beyond that, I can't tell you anything more."
The video ended there. The talking head returned with a brief summation and then moved on to the next story.
Lozada switched off the TV set but sat there and thought about Rennie's statement, "I did my job."
Of course! She hadn't saved Threadgill because she liked him. She had only been doing her job. He'd had nothing against most of the people he'd killed. He hadn't even known them, but that hadn't stopped him from doing what he was paid to do. Rennie had simply been going about her work with the same professional detachment he had when he went about his.
And wasn't she fantastic, the way she'd handled the media? Coolly professional, unfazed and unimpressed by the media exposure.
She was extraordinary.
Oh, she was tired. He could tell that. He'd seen her looking better. But even disheveled and fatigued she was still beautiful and desirable. He wanted her. He would have her soon. Surely after this she would appreciate the depth of his devotion to her.
Suddenly he was ravenously hungry and felt like going out.
He poured himself a tequila and took it with him into the black marble shower. After showering and shaving his head and body, he let the water stream for another ten minutes. Following that thorough rinsing he disassembled the drain, cleaned every component of it with disposable wipes, then flushed them down the toilet.
He replaced the drain. He wiped the shower stall dry with a towel and placed it in a cloth bag. On his way out he would drop the bag into a chute that emptied into a bin in the building's basement. A laundry service collected the bags twice daily. He never left a used towel in his bathroom.
He finished his drink while dressing in a pair of hand-tailored linen slacks and a silk T-shirt. He liked the feel of the silk against his skin, liked the way it caressed his nipples, as soft and sensual as a woman's tongue. He hoped Rennie would like his tattoo.
He topped off the outfit with a contrasting sport coat. He was overdressing for the Mexican restaurant, but he felt like celebrating. He called down to the parking valet and asked that his Mercedes be brought from the garage.
Before leaving his condo he placed one more call.
The valet had the Mercedes waiting for him and was holding the driver's door open. "Have a good evening, Mr. Lozada."
"Thank you."
Knowing that he looked great and that the young man probably envied him, Lozada tipped him generously.