Chapter 4
Wick wore running shorts, a tank top, and athletic shoes. If he bumped into a nosy neighbor, he could always pretend to be a jogger who was looking for a place to take a leak. That might not go over well, but it was better than the truth: that he was doing his cop friend a favor by illegally breaking into a suspect's house for the purpose of obtaining information.
To make the guise believable, he ran several laps around the city park a few blocks away from Rennie Newton's house. By the time he vaulted the fence that separated her backyard from the rear alley, he had worked up a plausible sweat.
From several houses down came the hum of a lawn mower. Otherwise the neighborhood was quiet. They'd picked this time of day for him to break in. It was too early for most people to be returning home from work and too hot for stay-at-homers to be doing outdoor chores or activities.
He went up her back steps and unzipped the fanny pack strapped to his waist: From it he removed a pair of latex gloves and slipped them on, which he might have difficulty explaining to a nosy neighbor in the I'm-just-taking-a-leak scenario. But better a neighbor than a judge with an indisputable fingerprint match. Next he took his MasterCard from the zippered pouch. In under three seconds the back door was unlocked.
With Oren's final warning echoing through his mind--"If you get caught I never heard of you"--he slipped inside.
Rarely was Wick stunned into silence and left without a clever comeback. But last night, when Oren had told him about Rennie Newton's recent jury duty it was several moments before he found his tongue, and all it could manage was an ineloquent, "Huh."
Oren had baited him and knew he had him hooked.
Now inside the former juror's house, he paused to listen. They hadn't expected a security system. Oren had checked city records for the required registration. No such registration was on file, and no electronic beep alerted Wick now that a system had been breached.
All that came back to him was the hollow silence of an empty house. For almost a week Dr. Newton had been under police surveillance. They knew she lived alone, and Oren had said you could set your clock by her schedule. She didn't return for the day until after making evening hospital rounds. According to him, there was rarely more than twenty minutes' variance in her ETA.
The back door had placed Wick in the kitchen, which was compact and spotlessly clean.
Only two items were in the sink: a coffee cup and the coffeemaker carafe. Each held an inch of soapy water.
In the drawer nearest the stove, cooking utensils were lined up like surgical instruments on a sterile tray. Among her knives was a filleting knife. It had a hilt made of some synthetic material that matched the others in the set.
Inside the bread box was half a loaf of whole wheat, tightly resealed and clamped. Every opened cereal box in the pantry had the tab inserted into the slot. The canned vegetables weren't alphabetized, but the neatness of the rows was almost that extreme.
The contents of the refrigerator indicated that she was a conscientious eater but she wasn't a fanatic weight watcher. There were two half-gallon cartons of ice cream in the freezer. Of course the ice cream could have been for a guest.
He checked the drawer in the small built-in desk and found a laminated list of emergency telephone numbers, a ruled notepad with no doodles or notes, and several Bic pens, all black. Nothing personal or significant.
Through a connecting door he entered the living room. It could have been a catalog layout.
Cushions were plumped and evenly spaced along the back of the sofa. Magazines were in neat stacks, the edges lined up like a deck of cards. The TV'S remote control was squared up with the corner of the end table.
"Jesus," Wick whispered, thinking about the condition in which he'd left his shack in Galveston. When he'd left his motel room this morning it looked like it had sustained storm damage. Midway down the short hall was a small room she obviously used for a home study. He hoped it would prove to be a treasure trove of information and insight into this woman. It didn't. The titles of the medical books on the shelves were as dry as dust. There were a number of atlases and travel-guide books, a few novels, mostly literary, nothing racy, certainly nothing to suit his unsophisticated reading taste.
On top of the neat desk her mail had been separated into two metal baskets, one for opened, the other for unopened. He scanned the ho-hum contents of both. In the deeper drawer of the desk he discovered an expandable file of receipts--a labeled compartment for each month.
He looked through them but did not find a paid invoice for a contract killer tucked into the accordion folds.
It was in her bedroom that he received his first surprise. He stood on the threshold, giving it one swift survey before assimilating it more slowly. By comparison, this room was messy. This room wasn't occupied by a surgeon. It was lived in by a person. By a woman.
He had expected to find a bed that would meet military standards, one you could bounce a quarter off of. But, oddly, the bed had been left unmade. He moved past it to the window, where he knew Oren and Thigpen could see him from the second-story window of a house two houses down and behind Rennie Newton's. He gave them the finger.
Turning back into the room, he began his search with her bureau drawers. Undies were folded and stacked, panties in one drawer, bras in the one below it. She had divided the non-frilly from the frilly.
When she opened those drawers, he wondered what determined her selection. Daytime, nighttime?
Work, play? Did her mood dictate which stack she chose from, or vice versa?
He rifled through the garments, looking underneath for keepsakes, letters, photographs that would give him a hint into the personality of Rennie Newton. Was she a woman who would link up with a noted criminal, as Oren suspected?
His search of the bureau drawers yielded several scented sachets but no clues. Nor did her closet, which was as neatly arranged by category as her lingerie drawers. He found nothing in shoe boxes except shoes.
He moved to her nightstand. A fitness magazine had been left open to an article about exercises one could do throughout the day to relieve neck tension. The cap on a bottle of body lotion hadn't been securely replaced. He picked up the bottle, sniffed. He didn't know one flower from another, but it said Goldleaf and Hydrangea, so he supposed that was what it was. Whatever, it smelled good.
Taking the cordless phone from its stand, he listened to the dial tone. It wasn't the broken tone indicating messages on her voice mail.
As long as he was here he wished he had a bug to plant, but Oren had nixed the suggestion.
"We'd need a court order, and no judge is going to give us one until we can show probable cause."
"We could learn a lot by monitoring her calls."
"It's illegal."
Wick had laughed. "So's breaking and entering.
We can't ever use anything I find in there."
"Yeah, but it's different."
He failed to see the difference but Oren was adamant, and it was Oren's show. He replaced the telephone in the recharger and opened the nightstand drawer. Inside he found a box of stationery, still wrapped in clear cellophane, unused. There was also a tear sheet from a newspaper. He took it out of the drawer and unfolded it.
It was an obituary page. One of them was for Eleanor Loy Newton. Daughter Rennie was listed as her only survivor. He recognized the name of the town on the masthead. Dalton, Texas. Carefully refolding the sheet, he replaced it in the drawer.
As he did, he noticed a small white triangle barely visible beneath the box of unused stationery. He picked up the box. Under it lay a small card with only one line typed on it:
"I've got a crush on you."
It was unsigned, unaddressed, and undated, making it impossible to know if Rennie Newton had received it or if she had considered sending it before changing her mind. It looked like a gift-enclosure card. Had it accompanied a gift she'd received recently, or was it a keepsake from a high school beau, a former lover, last Saturday's one-night stand?
It obviously held some significance for her or it wouldn't be in her nightstand drawer along with her mother's obituary.
Curious, but not criminal.
He replaced the card exactly as he'd found it and went next into the adjoining bathroom. He located a damp towel in the clothes hamper along with a pair of boxer shorts and a ribbed tank top. Her sleeping attire last night?
Probably. A recent girlfriend had preferred comfy over sexy. Actually he had thought the comfy was pretty damn sexy.
An array of bath salts and gels was lined up on a shelf above the tub. And they weren't just for show. They'd been used often. The room smelled flowery and feminine. The tub was spanned by a wire rack, a resting place for a scented candle, a sponge, a razor, and a pair of reading glasses. She liked to lounge in the tub. But alone; it wasn't large enough for two.
Inside the mirrored medicine cabinet he found her toothbrush and a glass, a tube of toothpaste rolled up from the bottom--he didn't know anybody who actually did that--and mint-flavored dental floss. There was an assortment of cosmetics and night creams, a bottle of aspirin, and a blister-pack of antacid tablets. No prescriptions. Under the sink were rolls of toilet tissue and a box of tampons.
He stepped back into the bedroom and for a long time stood looking at the unmade bed. The pale yellow sheets were rumpled and the duvet was half on, half off. Unless he was very wrong, Rennie Newton not only bathed alone, she slept alone. At least she had last night.
"Took you long enough," Oren said when Wick rejoined them in the second-story room of the stakeout house.
"Yeah, what were you doing in there all that time, trying on her panties?"
That from Thigpen, whom everyone called Pigpen because that was what he looked like. He was crude and sloppy and, in Wick's opinion, unforgivably stupid.
"No, Pigpen, I stopped on my way back for a blowjob. Your wife says to pick up bread on your way home."
"Asshole. We got pictures of you flipping us the bird. Very professional, Threadgill."
"I stoop to the level of the people I'm with."
"I'm gonna add that photo to my gallery."
Thigpen hitched his thumb toward the wall where he had taped the more revealing eight-by-tens of Rennie Newton.
Wick glanced at the pictures of which Thigpen was so proud, then angrily grabbed a bottle of water and twisted off the lid. He drank all of it before taking a breath.
"Well?" Oren asked.
Wick sat down and toed off his running shoes.
"In a word?"
"For starters."
"Neat. As a pin. Obsessively clean."
He described the kitchen, living room, and study. Of the bedroom he said, "It wasn't quite as tidy. The bed was unmade but everything was in its place. Maybe she was in a rush this morning before she left for the hospital." He itemized what he'd found in the nightstand drawer.
"Was the card in an envelope?" Thigpen asked.
"I told you, no. It was a plain white card. Small. One typed line."
"She's from Dalton," Oren confirmed when Wick told them about the newspaper obituary.
"Grew up there. Her father was some bigwig cattleman and businessman. Community leader.
An iron in every fire. She was an only child."
"With no living relatives, apparently. She was listed as her mother's only survivor." Which would explain why she had an unopened box of stationery, Wick thought. Who would she write to?
"Did you find anything to indicate--"
"An alliance with Lozada?" Wick asked, finishing Oren's question for him. "Nada. I don't think she has a relationship of any kind with anybody. Not one single photograph in the place, no personal telephone numbers scribbled down. Our lady doctor appears to live a very solitary life."
When he paused, Oren motioned for him to expand.
"Definitely no sign of a masculine presence, criminal or otherwise. No men's clothing in her closet or drawers. The only razor in the bathroom was pink. One toothbrush.
No birth-control pills or condoms or diaphragm. She's a nun."
"Maybe she's a dyke."
"Maybe you're a cretin," Wick fired back at Thigpen.
Oren looked at him strangely, then turned to the other detective. "Why don't you knock off early today?"
"Don't have to ask me twice." Thigpen stood and hiked up his slipping khakis, which rode well below his belly. Giving Wick a sour look, he grumbled, "What's your problem, anyway?"
"Don't forget the bread."
"Fuck you."
"Thigpen!" Oren looked at him reprovingly. "Report back at seven tomorrow morning."
Thigpen shot Wick another annoyed look, then lumbered down the stairs. Neither Wick nor Oren said anything until they heard the front door of the empty house close, then Oren said,
"What is your problem?"
"I need a shower."
His answer didn't address the question, but Oren let it go for the time being. "You know where it is."
As bathrooms went, it was sadly lacking. The towels they'd brought in were hardly worth the bother.
They were cheap and small and didn't absorb.
Wick had contributed soap he'd pilfered from his motel room. There was no hot water. But his bathroom in the Galveston house was no great shakes either. He was accustomed to an unreliable hot-water heater. He barely noticed the absence of amenities.
The vacant house was a perfect location for the department's surveillance of Rennie Newton since it afforded a clear view of both her backyard and the side driveway of her home. The house had been in the process of being remodeled when a dispute arose between the contractor and the non-resident owner. The squabble had turned nasty and was now in litigation.
FWPD had asked both parties if the house could be used, and both had agreed to it, for a small stipend. Its being a construction site made it easy for them to come and go dressed more or less as tradesmen and craftsmen, and to carry in supplies and equipment without attracting unwanted attention from neighbors who were used to having houses in their neighborhood undergoing renovation.
Wick emerged from the bathroom and rummaged in the duffel bag he'd brought along so he would have a change of clothes. He dressed in a pair of jeans and a souvenir T-shirt from an Eagles concert he had attended in Austin years before. He raked back his wet hair with his fingers.
Oren had taken up Thigpen's post at the window. He gave Wick a critical glance over his shoulder. "Strange uniform for a cop."
"I'm not a cop."
Oren merely grunted.
"I guess beer is against house rules."
"Thigpen would rat us out. There're Cokes in the ice chest."
Wick got one, popped the top, and took a long swallow. "Want one?"
"No thanks."
He kicked his running shoes in the general direction of the duffel bag and dropped into a chair. He took another long pull on the soda can. Oren was regarding him closely, watching every move. Finally Wick said, "What?"
"What did you find inside her house?"
"I told you."
"Everything?"
Wick spread his arms and raised his shoulders in an innocent shrug. "Why would I hold out on you?"
"Because of your dick."
"Excuse me?"
"For a white woman the doc's pretty good-looking."
Wick laughed, then said, "Okay. So?"
Oren gave him a look that spoke volumes.
"Do you really think ... ach." He swatted down Oren's surmise, shook his head, looked away. When he came back to meet Oren's unflinching gaze he said, "Look, if she's in cahoots with Lozada, it doesn't matter to me if she's Helen of fucking Troy. In heat.
I want that bastard, Oren. You know I do.
I'll use whoever I have to, do whatever it takes to get him."
Far from being reassured, Oren said softly,
"Which is the second reason you might withhold information from me."
"I don't follow."
"Don't turn this into a personal vendetta, Wick."
"Who came knocking on whose door?"
Oren raised his voice to match Wick's.
"I brought you in because I need a good man. Someone with your instincts. And because I thought you deserved to be in on this after what happened between you and Lozada."
"Is there a point floating around in there somewhere?"
Oren wasn't put off by his surliness.
"Don't make me sorry I involved you."
He subjected Wick to a stare as stern as his warning. Wick was the first to look away.
Oren always played by the rules. Wick found rules restrictive, and he seldom abided by them. It was that difference that usually caused them to clash. It was also what each admired most about the other. While Oren often chided Wick for his recklessness and casual approach to regulations, he admired his audacity. Wick rebelled against rules, but he respected Oren for upholding them.
Oren went back to watching Rennie Newton's house. After a short silence, Wick said, "One thing I thought was curious. In her closet. Lots of blue jeans. Not designer shit. Worn ones like mine." He rubbed his hand over the denim that time and a thousand washings had bleached and softened. "Three pair of western boots, too. I didn't expect that."
"She rides."
"Horses?"
"It was in her bio. The Star-Telegram had an extensive file on her. I asked them for a copy of everything. Dr. Newton's been in the newspaper numerous times. Charity events.
Community involvement. Doctors Without Borders."
"What's that?"
A manila folder was lying on the table. Oren picked it up and dropped it into Wick's lap.
"Do your own research. Grace is holding dinner for me."
He got up, stretched, reached for a roll of architectural drawings he was using as props, and headed for the staircase. "We didn't finish the video last night. It's there if you want to watch it, but don't let it distract you from keeping an eye on the house."
"I'd like to see the rest of it. Might pick up something."
Oren nodded. "My pager will be with me. Call if anything out of the ordinary happens."
"Like Lozada showing up?"
"Yeah, like that. I can be here in ten minutes.
See you in the morning."
"Is there any food?"
"Sandwiches in the minifridge."
The stairs creaked beneath Oren's weight. After he left, the house fell silent except for the occasional groan of old wood. The empty rooms smelled like the sawdust left over from the uncompleted renovation. Most would consider it an unpleasant place in which to spend a night, but Wick didn't mind. In fact he had volunteered for the night shift. Oren needed to be with his family. Thigpen, too. Although Wick imagined that Mrs. Thigpen would probably prefer him to be away as much as possible.
He picked up the binoculars and checked Rennie Newton's house. She wasn't home yet. He used the opportunity to check the small refrigerator and found two wrapped sandwiches. Tuna salad. Turkey and Swiss. He selected the turkey and carried it back with him to the table near the window. He put the tape into the combo VCR and monitor, then settled back to watch the video as he ate his sandwich.
The recording started playing at the point where Oren had stopped it the night before. On the video Oren said, "Dr. Newton, did you recently serve on the jury that acquitted an accused killer, Mr. Lozada?"
Her lawyer leaned forward. "Where's the relevance, Detective?"
"I'll get to it."
"Please do. Dr. Newton has surgical patients waiting for her."
"It could become necessary for another doctor to take over her responsibilities."
"Is that a threat that I might be detained?"
Rennie Newton asked.
Oren sidestepped the direct question by saying,
"The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner you can go, Dr. Newton."
She sighed as though finding the proceedings extremely tedious. "Yes, I served on the jury that acquitted Mr. Lozada. You must know that or you wouldn't have brought it up."
"That's right, I do. In fact I've interviewed all eleven of your fellow jurors."
"Why?"
"Curiosity."
"About what?"
"It struck me that Dr. Howell's murder looked like a contract kill. His killer didn't rob him. We can't isolate any other motive. Fact is, his only known adversary was you."
Taken aback by that statement, she exclaimed,
"Lee and I weren't adversaries. We were colleagues. Friendly colleagues."
"Who quarreled constantly."
"We had disagreements, yes. That's hardly--"
"You were a friendly colleague of his who recently let a contract killer back onto the streets."
"Mr. Lozada's crime was alleged," the attorney said in typical lawyer fashion.
"Which has no bearing on this matter one way or the other. Dr. Newton, I insist you say nothing more."
Wick fast-forwarded through the argument that ensued between the attorney and Oren, who evidently persuaded the lawyer that it would be in his client's best interest to answer the questions. Cooperation with an investigation went a long way with the FWPD, and so forth. Wick knew the drill. He'd used it a thousand times himself.
He restarted the tape in time to hear Oren say, "All the other jurors told me you were for Lozada's acquittal from the get-go."
"That's incorrect," she said with remarkable calmness. "I wasn't for acquittal. Not at all. I believe Mr. Lozada was probably guilty. But the prosecuting attorney didn't convince me beyond a reasonable doubt. Because of that, and the charge we received from the judge, I couldn't conscientiously see him convicted."
"So it was a matter of conscience that drove you to persuade the other eleven to vote for acquittal."
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "As forewoman, it was my duty to see that every facet of the case was explored. It was a heinous crime, yes, but I encouraged the other jurors not to let their emotions overrule their pledge to uphold the law, even though it may be imperfect. After two days of deliberation each juror voted according to his own conscience."
"I think that sufficiently answers your questions." Once again her lawyer stood up. "That is unless there's another totally unrelated subject you wish to chit-chat about, Detective Wesley."
Oren agreed that at this point he had nothing further to ask, and switched off the recorder, ending the tape.
As it rewound, Wick recalled the last conversation he and Oren had had about the case the night before.
"Lozada seemed to make a ... a connection with her during the trial," Oren had told him.
"Connection?"
"A lot of people noticed it. I asked the bailiff if there was a juror Lozada had especially played to and he said "You mean the forewoman?"' First thing out of his mouth, and I hadn't even mentioned Dr. Newton. The bailiff said our boy stared at her throughout the trial. Enough to make it noticeable."
"Doesn't mean she stared back."
Oren gave him one of his noncommittal shrugs that paradoxically said a lot.
"I'm not surprised Lozada would single out an attractive woman and stare at her,"
Wick had continued. "He's a creep."
"He's a creep who looks like a movie star."
"Of The Godfather maybe."
"Some women get off on that dangerous type."
"Speaking from experience, Oren? I promise not to tell Grace. Details. I want details. The really juicy ones." He had annoyed his friend further by giving him a lascivious wink.
"Cut it out."
It was then that Grace had joined them. She asked what Wick was laughing about, and when he declined to tell her, she reminded him that the girls wouldn't settle for the night until they got their story. He wove them a tale about a sassy rock star and her handsome, dashing bodyguard whose physical description strongly resembled him. He and Oren had no further conversation before he left.
After removing the videotape from the player, he decided to eat the tuna sandwich too. It tasted fishy and old, but he ate all of it, knowing he'd get nothing more until morning. He was dusting crumbs off his hands when he saw a Jeep wagon swing into Rennie Newton's driveway.
He yanked up the binoculars but barely got a glimpse of her before the car rolled into her garage. Less than thirty seconds later the light in her kitchen came on. The first thing she did was slide the strap of her oversized handbag off her shoulder and lower it to the table. Then she pulled off her suit jacket and tugged her shirttail from the waistband of her slacks.
Crossing to the fridge, she took out a bottle of water, uncapped it, and took a drink. Then she twisted the cap back on and stood at the sink, her head down. Wick adjusted the focus on the binoculars. Through the window above the sink, she appeared close enough to touch. A loose strand of hair trailed alongside her cheek and fell onto her chest.
She rolled the cold water bottle back and forth across her forehead. Her expression, her body language, her posture indicated profound weariness. She should be tired, he thought. It had been a long day for her. He knew. He had been there when her day began.