The Crush

by Sandra Brown

  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.

  Chapter 18

  The instant she stepped off the elevator she saw the roses.

  It would have been impossible for her to miss them. The bouquet had been placed on the ledge of the nurses’ station. Nurses and aides had obviously been awaiting her arrival to see her reaction. All were wearing expectant smiles.

  “They’re for you, Dr. Newton.”

  “They were delivered about half an hour ago.”

  “You could barely see the delivery boy behind them. Aren’t they gorgeous?”

  “Who’s your secret admirer?”

  “He’s not a cop.” This from the policeman that Wesley had posted outside Wick’s ICU. “No cop could afford them, that’s for sure.”

  Rennie didn’t give the bouquet another glance. “There must be some mistake. They’re not for me.”

  “B-but there’s a card,” one of the nurses stammered. “It’s got your name on it.”

  “Get rid of the roses and the card. The vase. All of it.”

  “You want us to throw them away?”

  “Or distribute them among the patients. Take them to the lobby atrium, the chapel, put them on the dinner menu. I don’t care. Just get them out of my sight. I need Mr. Threadgill’s chart, please.”

  The group, no longer smiling, dispersed. The policeman slunk back to his post. One of the nurses carried away the heavy arrangement. Another passed Rennie the requested chart and bravely followed her into Wick’s cubicle.

  “He’s been waking up for longer periods of time,” the nurse told her. “He hates the spirometer.” Patients were forced to blow into the machine periodically to keep their lungs clear.

  His vitals were good. She checked the dressing covering his incision. He moaned in his sleep when she peeled the bandage off to take a look. After replacing the bandage, she asked the nurse if he’d had anything to drink.

  “Just the ice chips.”

  “If he asks for something again, let him have sips of Sprite.”

  “Widschumburohn.”

  Rennie moved to the left side of the bed, the one he lay facing. “Come again?”


  “Burohn. In the schpirte.” Barely moving his head, he tried to locate her with his single eye. To make it easier on him, she sat on the edge of the chair beside the bed.

  “Do bourbon and Sprite mix?”

  “Don’ care.”

  She smiled. “I think you’re well medicated already.”

  “Not enough.”

  The nurse bustled out to get the Sprite. Wick readjusted his head so that his face wasn’t half buried in the pillow. “Did you do this to me, Rennie?”

  “Guilty.”

  “Then you’re off”—he winced, sucked in his breath—“off my Christmas card list.”

  “If you can joke you must be feeling better.”

  “Like hammered shit.”

  “Well, that’s what you look like.”

  “Ha-ha.” His eye closed and it remained closed.

  Rennie stood up and applied her stethoscope to several spots on his chest.

  “Are you getting a beat?” he asked, which surprised her because she thought he had drifted off again.

  “Loud and strong, Mr. Threadgill.” She sat back down in the chair. “Your lungs sound clear, too, so keep blowing into the spirometer when the nurses ask you to.”

  “Sissy stuff.”

  “But pneumonia isn’t.”

  “Rennie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Was I shot?”

  “Stabbed.”

  He opened his eye again.

  “With a screwdriver,” she told him.

  “Damage?”

  “Considerable but reparable.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “My balls hurt.”

  “I’ll see that you get an ice pack for them.”

  It surprised her that a single eye could pack such malice into a dirty look.

  “They’re swollen,” she explained. “Blood collects in the testicles after an injury like yours.”

  “But they’re okay?”

  “They’re okay. This is a temporary condition.”

  “You swear?”

  “Give them a few days. They’ll return to normal.”

  “Good, good.” He closed his eye. “Funny conversation.”

  “Not-so-funny pain, though. So I’ve been told.”

  “Rennie?” He reopened his eye. “Did they get him?”

  She shook her head.

  “Fuck.”

  Rennie remained where she was, seated beside the bed. Again she thought he had gone back to sleep when he mumbled, “My face. Hurts like hell. Wha’d he do to it?”

  “Apparently he attacked you from behind.”

  “Right.”

  “You fell forward and landed hard on your cheek. Your chin was busted open, but it didn’t require stitches. You’re bruised and swollen, but no bones were broken.”

  “So I’ll be as handsome as ever?”

  “And as conceited, I’m sure.”

  He smiled but she could tell that any facial expression caused him discomfort.

  The nurse returned with the soft drink in a foam cup and looked at Rennie strangely when she took it from her. Few surgeons ministered to patients this way. She pressed the bent straw against Wick’s lips. He took several careful sips, then angled his head back slightly to signal that he was done.

  “Is that it for now?” she asked.

  “Don’ wanna throw up.”

  Then he remained quiet and she was certain this time that he had gone back to sleep. Even after the nurse left the room, Rennie stayed. The next thing she knew, a soft voice was asking, “How’s he doing?”

  She looked up to find Grace Wesley standing just outside the door. Rennie hadn’t heard her approach, hadn’t noticed anything, hadn’t been aware of the passage of time. How long had she been staring into Wick’s battered face?

  Quickly she came to her feet. “He’s, uh, he’s better, actually. Talking coherently when he wakes up. He had some sips of Sprite.” She set the cup of soda on the rolling bed tray. It seemed incriminating somehow to be caught holding it. “He’s sleeping now.”

  “Is it okay if I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t want to disturb.”

  “I doubt you will. He’s out of it.”

  Grace Wesley was attractive and slim. She wore her hair in a small chignon on the back of her head, a minimalist style that was flattering only to someone with her high cheekbones and delicate features. Her almond-shaped eyes bespoke intelligence and integrity. She had a quiet and gentle way about her. Earlier, Rennie had noticed that Grace’s slightest touch had a calming effect on her brawny husband.

  She moved to the foot of Wick’s bed and for several moments watched him sleep. “It’s hard for me to believe that’s Wick,” she said, smiling. “I’ve never seen him inert. He never even sits still for more than a few seconds at a time. The man’s in constant motion.”

  “I’ve noticed that too.” Grace turned and looked at her quizzically. “Of course I don’t know him well,” Rennie was quick to qualify. “Not well at all. But I gather you do.”

  “Wick was a senior in high school when Oren, my husband…”

  Rennie nodded.

  “When Oren and Wick’s brother Joe entered the police academy. We became good friends with Joe. He invited us to a high school basketball game ‘to watch my kid brother play,’ he said.” She laughed softly. “Wick fouled out.”

  “He’s an aggressive competitor?”

  “And a hothead. Volatile, easily set off. But when he loses his temper he’s usually just as quick to apologize.”

  They were quiet for a time, then Rennie said, “I didn’t know about his brother until today when a reporter asked me about him.”

  “Joe died three years ago. None of us is over it. Especially Wick. He thought Joe could do no wrong and loved him very much.”

  The nurse came in to replace an IV bag. They suspended their conversation until they were once again alone. “I understand that Joe was…”

  “Murdered,” Grace said bluntly.

  In one blinding instant of clarity, it connected. Rennie said, “Lozada.”

  “That’s right. Lozada.”

  “How’d he get off?”

  “He was never indicted.”

  “Why not?”

  Grace hesitated, then took a step closer to Rennie and spoke more softly. “Dr. Newton, I asked my husband what was going on between the two of you this morning. I sensed the strong undercurrents.”

  “Two weeks ago I served on a jury that acquitted Lozada.”

  “Oren explained that.”

  “Your husband resents me for the outcome of that trial. Especially now. Lozada took one friend from him, and almost took another.” She looked down at Wick. “If the jury had arrived at a different verdict, Wick wouldn’t have been attacked and that young woman who was killed last night would be alive.”

  “May I ask you something?” Grace asked quietly. When Rennie turned back to her, she said, “If you could do it all over again, would you still vote to acquit Lozada?”

  “Based on what I knew then, or on what I know now?”

  “On what you knew then.”

  Rennie gave the question the same degree of consideration she had given that final and fateful vote. “Based strictly on what I knew then and the charge the judge gave us, I would be compelled to vote for acquittal again.”

  “Then your conscience should be clear, Dr. Newton. You can’t be held responsible for Lozada’s attack on Wick.”

  Ruefully she said, “Tell your husband that.”

  “I already did.”

  Rennie was taken aback. Grace smiled her gentle smile and reached out to press Rennie’s hand. “I’ll go now. But when Wick wakes up please tell him that I was here.”

  “I’ll be going soon too, but I’ll leave word with the nurses to be sure and tell him.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be moved to a regular room?”

  “In a day or two, if he con
tinues to do well. I’m watching him closely for any sign of infection.”

  “What can I tell my girls?”

  “You have daughters?”

  “Two. Very lively ones.”

  “How nice for you.”

  “They begged to come with me tonight, but Oren didn’t want them to leave the house.”

  Rennie didn’t need to ask why. Wesley feared for their safety, feared Lozada might not be satisfied with an attempt on Wick’s life. He had posted policemen at various places throughout the hospital, and now she noticed two more on the other side of the glass wall of Wick’s ICU. No doubt they were Grace Wesley’s bodyguards.

  “My girls adore their Uncle Wick,” she was saying. “If there were a poster of him, it would be on the wall of their room along with their other heartthrobs.”

  “Tell them their Uncle Wick is going to be all right.”

  “We have you to thank for that. The girls are dying to meet you.”

  “Me?”

  “I told them all about you. Afterward, I overheard them talking together. They’ve now decided to become surgeons. They want to save people as you saved Wick.”

  Rennie was so touched she didn’t know what to say. Grace must have sensed that. She let her off with a quick good-bye. The two policemen flanked her as they walked to the elevator.

  There was no trace of the roses when Rennie returned to the nurses’ station. Inside the circular enclosure sat several desks, computer terminals, monitoring machines, file cabinets, and general clutter. She didn’t know where to begin looking for what she needed, and apparently she looked at a loss.

  “Can I help you find something, Dr. Newton?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  Several drawers were searched before a tin of medicated lip balm was located. Rennie took it with her into Wick’s ICU. He was still sleeping, breathing evenly. She sat down in the chair at his bedside, but it was at least a full minute before she uncapped the small tin and released a pleasant aroma that hinted of vanilla.

  She had noticed earlier that Wick’s lips were dry and cracked. This wasn’t an unusual side effect of surgery and loss of fluids. In fact it was quite common. But Wick’s lips had looked exceptionally dry. She had thought an application of lip balm might help. What was wrong with that?