He tossed the bags onto the bed, then went to the bureau and opened the bottom drawer. Beneath a jumbled pile of his oldest and most comfortable shorts he located the mike and transmitter that had been planted there for him. Wesley had told him where they would be hidden. They would keep him in constant communication with the surveillance team.
He inserted the earpiece and spoke into the minuscule microphone. "We're here."
"Ten-four. We see you."
"Who's this?"
"Peterson. I'm heading the operation."
"Threadgill."
"Pleased to meet you."
"Where are you?"
"Best you don't know," Peterson said.
"Don't want to tempt you into looking for me and giving us away."
"Hey, Wick, how was your trip?"
"Long. Who's this?"
"Plum."
"Hey, Plum. I didn't know Oren had sent down any of his guys."
"It's a coordinated effort between Fort Worth and Galveston PD'S. Lozada was a suspect in a murder case here. Organized crime bigwig who was trying to get legalized gambling in here. Some said a church group hired Lozada."
"I'd vote for a competing organized crime bigwig."
"Me too," Plum said. "No church group could afford Lozada. Anyhow, it's an unsolved murder on their books down here, so they were willing to help us out."
"Glad to have you, Plum. Thank God it's you and not Thigpen."
"Kiss my ass, Threadgill."
"Oh, Jesus," Wick groaned. "Tell me no."
"And, while you're at it, kiss the doctor's sweet ass for me."
"I'd volunteer for that," said an anonymous voice.
"Animals," growled a distinctly female voice, obviously a policewoman.
Thigpen said, "Hey, Threadgill, leave the mike on. We want to hear everything."
"Okay, that's it," Peterson cut in sharply. "Shut up, all of you, unless you've got something to report."
"Bye-bye, boys and girls. Have fun,"
Wick taunted.
"Up yours," he heard Thigpen whisper.
He kept the earpiece in so he could hear their warnings, but he turned off the mike. Rennie emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel.
When she saw him, she pulled up short. "I forgot that my bag is still--" He motioned toward the bed. "Oh. Thank you."
He could have taken it to her. He didn't. He could have excused himself and left the room. He didn't. Instead, he let her cross the room and get her bag and carry it into the bathroom with her, which she did with amazing dignity for a woman who was wet from head to toe and covered only by one of his skimpy towels.
The rear view was just as good as the front, and he enjoyed the hell out of it, although he wondered uneasily if he was turning into a slimmer, cleaner version of Pigpen.
Wick was in the kitchen when Rennie rejoined him.
"Did something die in here?"
He glanced at her over his shoulder. "An opened package of bologna. Found it in the bottom drawer of the fridge. Real slimy. Do you want to eat out or in, honey?"
"Whatever."
"No, you decide, sweetheart."
"All right, since you asked, I'd rather eat in so I don't have to dress up."
"Do you like steak?"
"Filet mignons."
"Naturally," he said as he added filets to what she had determined was a grocery list. "Only the best for you."
"Is this how you're going to be, Wick?"
He looked over at her and asked innocently.
"How am I being?"
"Sarcastic. Snide. Because if so, I'm leaving. You, Wesley, and Lozada can go to the devil. I don't know why I consented to this.
Lozada probably won't even show."
Wick turned away from her and stared through the salt-encrusted window. "You're wrong, Rennie.
He'll show. I don't know how or when, but he'll show. You can count on it."
The dark conviction with which he spoke made her wish for a return of his sarcasm.
At least the solemn reminder of why they were there leveled the chip on his shoulder that had been there since the call from Lozada. He insisted that she go with him to the supermarket. As he ushered her to his pickup, he said, "Lovers on a getaway do chores and run errands together."
She was glad he had insisted she go along. The house was a dreary place, and she hadn't relished the thought of being there alone, anticipating an appearance by Lozada and knowing that she was under constant observation by undercover officers.
Even sitting in the passenger seat of Wick's truck she felt conspicuous. When they stopped for a traffic light she said, "I haven't noticed anyone watching us."
"They're there."
"Can they hear us?"
"Not if I don't engage the mike."
He had explained the tiny, clear earpiece he was wearing. "Are they saying anything now?"
"The blue van two cars back just passed us off to the gray Taurus over there signaling to turn left."
She forced herself not to look and instead leaned forward to change the station on the radio.
"Very good, Rennie."
"I'm trying." As she sat back she smiled at him. He surprised her by reaching across the seats and stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers.
"What's that for?"
"For show. Just in case the cops aren't the only ones who have us in their sights."
That was an unnerving possibility, so she didn't protest when Wick threw an arm across her shoulders and stayed close as they walked from the parking lot into the store where he played the role of attentive and affectionate lover. He smiled at her a lot, and nudged her shoulder playfully, and asked her opinion about everything he placed in the basket, and showed off for her by juggling a trio of oranges.
They shared a cone of frozen yogurt, and when they were in line to check out, he held a Sports Illustrated in one hand and read an article while his other hand massaged her neck with the absentmindedness of someone accustomed to doing it. Had she been observing them, she would have been convinced that they were two people in love and comfortable with the relationship.
The sun was going down by the time they returned to the house. "I'll start the charcoal. While it's smoldering, let's go down to the water."
"I didn't think to bring a suit."
"Then I guess you'll have to skinny-dip."
She shot him a retiring look and headed for the bedroom. "I brought some shorts. They'll do."
When she came out a few minutes later, Wick had exchanged his jeans for a pair of baggy shorts with a stringy hem. The low-slung shorts made his chest look even wider, his waist more tapered. She made a point of not looking at his tanned, muscled calves.
He, on the other hand, took one look at her and said a soft but emphatic, "Damn."
Her face turned warm. She had changed into a black knit top with thin straps and a pair of faded denim shorts. The outfit--or perhaps Wick's reaction to it--made her feel more self-conscious than she had wearing only the towel.
"Let's go." He turned and headed for the door.
"What about those?" She pointed to the communication apparatus he'd left lying on the coffee table alongside his pistol.
"Shit. Almost forgot."
He had to put his shirt back on so he could clip the mike inside the collar and hide the thin cable to the earpiece. He stuck his handgun into the waistband of the shorts. It was covered by his long shirttail.
Holding hands, they walked to the shore and waded into the strong tide of the Gulf. It was twilight.
Only a few stragglers were on the beach.
"Afraid of sharks?" he asked.
"In water this shallow?"
"That's where most attacks occur."
"Don't we have a better chance of getting struck by lightning?"
"Or getting popped by Lozada."
She tugged on his hand, pulling him to a stop.
When he was facing her, she said, "He was lying, Wick. Those things he said were not true."
"Shh." Apparently someone was speaking to him through the earpiece. He pulled her into a close embrace and nuzzled her neck. "There's a man moving at seven o'clock, but don't turn around.
Keep up the act. But if something happens, if all hell breaks loose, you hit the surf, Rennie. Got that?"
She nodded.
He angled back, but kept his hands loosely on her waist. The current surged against their legs. Their bodies swayed together. For balance, he assumed a wider stance, placing her feet between his. He kissed her cheek just beneath her ear. His hands moved down to her hips. Another wave caught them just behind the knees. Reflexively she reached for him so she wouldn't lose her balance.
She could feel the tension in his biceps. He was playing his role well, but he was primed for action.
Then he said, "Not our man."
It had been a false alarm, but they remained as they were, with her hands resting on his upper arms and his on her bottom. Beneath her feet, the sand shifted with the current. She felt like she was losing ground and that the only solid thing in the universe at the moment was Wick's blue stare.
"He was lying, Wick."
"I know. I--"
"Do you?"
"For a few minutes there--"
"You believed him."
"Not really. Okay, for maybe half a second he had me going. He probably guessed that you were listening and said those things to embarrass you. But even if you weren't listening, he knew they would rile me. And they did. He got to me, and I acted like a jackass. I realized it about ninety seconds later, but was--"
"Too bull-headed to admit it."
"Am I allowed to complete a sentence here?"
"I'm sorry. What did you want to say?"
"I wanted to say that the way he talked about you is reason enough for me to want to kill him. And that ..."
"What?"
"That I'm going to kiss you now and make it look like I mean it."
He dipped his head and settled his mouth on hers. His tongue slipped easily past her lips and moved against hers in what felt like a mating ritual, ancient and elemental. A wave took her unawares from behind and pushed her against him.
Middles bumped together. And stayed.
"Oh man," he groaned. His fingers flexed tighter on her hips, held her firmly against him.
A burst of heat spread through her center. It all felt too good. So she pulled back.
"Wick, I can't ..." The words stuck in her throat. "I can't keep my balance."
He set her away from him. "That's enough for now anyway."
But as they walked back toward the house, his face was hard and set, his stride was long and angry, and she didn't believe for an instant that it had been enough.
Chapter 29
They were so ridiculously transparent.
Did those undercover yahoos think he wouldn't spot them? They might just as well be wearing neon vests. The stocky bitch and her hairy companion sweeping their metal detector across the sand.
Please. And the fat guy fishing from the pier. His hat was too new and his technique too clumsy.
The three guys and a girl having a tailgate cookout were working way too hard at having a good time. The others were just as obvious.
Lozada had spotted them all from the passenger seat of the realtor's van. She was fiftyish, friendly, and eager to please. He had seen the billboard advertising her as Galveston Island's most successful real estate broker.
He had called her from his car.
Thanks to Weenie Sawyer's research, he knew the location of Wick's house. He mentioned the vicinity to the realtor as an area where he was interested in buying a lot on which to build a beach house for his wife and four children. He had requested a late evening appointment. They had met at her office and she had driven him here in one of the company's vans. The logo painted on the side was a familiar sight; it was plastered all over the island. Police wouldn't give the van a second glance.
Now, while she prattled on about the excellent investment opportunities of beachfront property, Lozada picked out the cops on the beach.
He dismissed them as insignificant amateurs and focused on Rennie and Wick.
Walking in the surf. Holding hands. How sweet. How romantic. All staged to draw him out and slap him with some trumped-up charge.
But what really rankled was that this newfound romance of theirs wasn't just a futile police operation, as he had originally thought. It was real and, as such, it was an affront. His blood pressure soared when he saw Wick groping her. Even from this distance he could tell their kiss wasn't playacting. Which only affirmed that Rennie was a whore.
She had been a whore from her youth. She had spread her legs for every lout in that miserable little town where she'd grown up, and now she was spreading them for Wick Threadgill, days after Lozada had professed his affection. He sorely regretted that now. Why hadn't he realized sooner that she was a whore, undeserving of him and his attention?