"Will you arrest Lozada now?"
"When I get my hands on enough evidence to back up an arrest and indictment."
"What do you mean when? This morning my hands were soaking in all the evidence you need. Wick's blood. And I've handed you the weapon."
"It'll be thoroughly analyzed by the lab, and as we speak detectives are hot on the trail of its origin, but I can tell you what they'll find.
They'll find that it is decades old and that, when new, it could've been bought at any hardware store on the continent and probably beyond. Between then and now, God knows how many hands have come into contact with it. It won't be traced to anybody."
"The girl was shot. What about the gun?"
"Left at the scene and in our possession. But it'll be like the screwdriver. It's cheap and it's old and reliable only at close range. In this case four to six inches. The user knew we couldn't trace it to him. We'll try, but it won't do any good."
"You know it was Lozada," she cried softly.
"Wick can identify him."
"Can he? I don't question that Wick suspects him. He would be the number one suspect on anyone's list. He and Wick are bitter enemies."
Judging by Lozada's tone of voice whenever he spoke Wick's name, she had gathered as much.
"What happened between them?"
"It's a police matter."
A matter he obviously chose not to divulge to her. "Can't you at least take Lozada into custody for questioning?"
He scoffed at that. "With no probable cause?
He'd love that. It would virtually ensure he would never be tried. I'll only arrest him if Wick can positively identify him as his assailant. But I can almost promise you that Wick didn't see him.
"And just as I expected, that motel room is so chock-f of trace evidence it could belong to Lozada or to anyone else who's ever cleared the threshold of that room, me included. Anything we retrieve from there would never hold up in court.
"Even evidence we retrieved off the other victim, the girl, is no good to us. Dozens of people saw her having physical contact with several men in that bar, including Wick. We cleaned her fingernails and got only grit. There was nothing on her that she couldn't have picked up by casual contact."
"She was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Definitely, but that's not all. She had a connection to Lozada," Wesley said. "Her job was cleaning his penthouse and she bragged to her co-workers that they were intimate."
"Then what more proof do you need?"
"Oh, we've got lots of proof that she came into daily contact with Lozada's clothing, his bed linens, his carpet, his everything. That's more a liability than an advantage. All his defense lawyer would have to argue is that she could have picked up the evidence at any time, and he would be right. So much for our proof."
He gave her a wry look. "Why don't you tell me what kind of proof a jury would need to convict Lozada, Madam Forewoman?"
"What about blood on his clothing?"
"You know better than I do that all the significant bleeding was internal because he didn't withdraw the weapon. If Lozada got any on him, which is doubtful, by the time we got a search warrant he would have destroyed the clothing.
There was blood from the victim's neck in the previous case. Was the prosecution able to produce it on any of Lozada's belongings?"
"No," she replied. "And his defense attorney made certain we jurors knew that."
She was thoughtful for several seconds, then asked,
"What about DNA? That would be virtually indisputable. What about semen? Saliva?"
He shook his head. "He would never be so careless. But even if he were, he and the girl could have been together earlier in the day, not necessarily in that motel room."
He didn't say whether they'd found Wick's DNA on the girl, and Rennie didn't ask.
"It seems I've wasted your time."
She stood and pulled open the door, killing all chatter in the room beyond. Every head turned.
She hesitated, but Wesley nudged her forward.
"Before you go I'd like you to see something."
He directed her back to his desk, where he picked up a photograph. "The girl's name was Sally Horton. She was twenty-three."
She had to ask. "Had Wick known her long? were they friends?"
"For about twenty minutes. The bartender saw her approach him and introduce herself. Wick left the bar with me. I'll have to ask him what happened after that. But whatever went down and regardless of the length of time she spent with Wick, Lozada disapproved." He passed her the photograph.
Rennie witnessed death on a routine basis.
She had seen the havoc that disease or machine or a weapon could wreak on a human body. Often the damage defied belief and looked like something out of a gruesome horror movie made by a producer with a vivid and sick imagination.
She expected a photograph similar to the ones the jury had been shown during the trial. A bloated face, protruding tongue, bulging eyes. But Sally Horton appeared untouched except for two dark spots in her forehead.
Rennie returned the photograph to Wesley's desk. "If I had told you about Lozada earlier, he might have been in jail and she wouldn't have been killed. Is that why you showed me the picture?"
"That, yeah. But also to warn you."
"I already know that Lozada is dangerous."
"So is getting involved with Wick."
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."