The Crush (11 page)

It was during the hot summertime. They were exploring the empty warehouse for lack of something better to do. Boredom had placed them there and boredom had gotten Tommy killed.

Tommy had been walking several steps ahead of Lozada when it suddenly came to him how easy it would be to grab Tommy from behind, reach around his neck, and jab his pocketknife into his friend's jugular.

He'd done it just to see if he could. Tommy had proved he could.

He'd been smart to attack from behind because Tommy had spouted blood for what seemed like forever. It had been a challenge to keep it off him. But overall, killing Tommy had been incredibly easy. It had been just as easy to get away with it. He'd simply walked to Tommy's house and asked his mom if Tommy was at home. She told him no, but he was welcome to come inside and wait; Tommy was bound to show up sooner or later.

So Lozada had passed the time after killing Tommy playing Tommy's stereo in Tommy's room, in delicious anticipation of the hell that was about to break loose inside Tommy's house.

A knock interrupted Lozada's fond recollections. Out of habit, he approached the door cautiously, a switchblade flattened up against his wrist. He looked through the peep hole and, seeing a familiar uniformed woman, released the lock and opened the door.

"Turndown service, Mr. Lozada?"

Living in the building came with perks, including the parking valet, the concierge, and twice-daily maid service. He motioned her inside. She went into his bedroom and set about her chores.

Lozada refreshed his drink and returned to a chair near the window, setting his switchblade on the table within reach. He stared down at the movie marquee across the street, but none of the featured film titles registered with him.

His mind was on the telephone conversation he'd had with Rennie Newton earlier that evening. He smiled over her poor attempt at playing hard to get. She truly was adorable.

The maid approached him. "Do you want me to draw the drapes, Mr. Lozada?"

"No, thanks. Did you leave chocolates on the pillow?"

"Two. The kind you like."

"Thank you, Sally."

She smiled down at him and then began undoing the top of her uniform. He had never solicited personal information from her. In fact, he wouldn't even know her name if she hadn't volunteered it.

She had been eager to tell him that this housekeeping job was strictly temporary. Her ambition was to become an exotic dancer in a men's club.

She had the tits for it, maybe. But not the ass. Hers was as broad as a barn.

When she began to dawdle playfully over the buttons of her uniform, he said, "Never mind that," and pulled her between his thighs, pushing her to her knees.

"I could give you a lap dance first. I've been practicing in front of a mirror. I'm good, even if I do say so myself."

By way of answer, he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers. She looked disappointed that he didn't want to see her performance, but she applied herself to pleasing him. She unbuttoned his shirt and spread it open. She fingered the tattoo on his chest. A bright blue dagger with a wicked blade appeared to be spearing his nipple.

Tattooed drops of blood spattered his ribs.

"That gets me so hot." Her tongue, as quick and agile as a snake, flicked the tip of the dagger.

He had gotten the tattoo when he was sixteen. The tattoo artist had suggested he get his nipple pierced at the same time. "With this dagger, a ring through your nipple, that'd look cool, dude."

Lozada remembered the fear in the man's eyes when he had grabbed him by his Adam's apple and lifted him off his stool. "You think I'm a fag?"

The guy's eyes bugged. He'd choked out,

"Naw, naw, man. I didn't mean nothin' by it."

Lozada had gradually released him. "You'd better do a fucking good job on those blood drops or it'll be your last tattoo."

By now Sally's avid mouth had worked its way down to his crotch. "Condom," he said.

"I don't mind."

"I do."

He never left DNA evidence. Nail clippings were flushed down the toilet. He shaved his entire body every day. He was as hairless as a newborn, except for his eyebrows. Vanity prohibited him from shaving them. Besides, without the eyebrow, the scar wouldn't be as noticeable, and he wanted that scar to show like a banner.

Thankfully he had a perfectly formed cranium. It was as smooth and spherical as a bowling ball. Add to that his olive complexion and he looked very handsome with a bald head. He used a handheld vacuum on his bed and dressing table twice a day just in case dry skin was sloughed off. He'd had his fingerprints burned off years ago.

From the experience with Tommy, he'd learned that a victim's blood could be troublesome. He had
been afraid that someone would ask to see his pocketknife, and he wasn't sure that he'd been able to scrub away all the blood. No one ever considered him a suspect, and eventually he'd gotten rid of the knife, but from there on he tried to leave the weapon at the scene. He used common, ordinary things--nothing exotic, recently purchased, or traceable to him. Sometimes his hands were the only weapon necessary.

He had a social security number. Like a good citizen he paid taxes on the income he earned from a TV repair service. An old rummy who'd been drunk since they invented televisions ran the place for him. It was in a bad neighborhood where few bothered to have a broken TV repaired. They simply went to a good neighborhood and stole a newer one.

Nevertheless it was a legitimate, if not very lucrative, business.

His real source of income left no trail an IRS auditor--or officer of the law--could follow.

Sally ripped open the foil packet with her large teeth. "You must be awful rich. Having this place. That sweet Mercedes."

He loved his possessions, even more now than before he had languished for eight months in the Tarrant County jail while awaiting trial.

That taught one to appreciate the finer things in life.

Of course those months had also cost him revenue. But he wasn't worried. He had been well paid for the job on the banker.

His money was tucked away in interest-bearing accounts in banks all over the world, places he'd never been or intended to go. He could retire anytime he wanted and live very well for the rest of his life.

But retirement never occurred to him. He didn't do what he did for the money. He could make money any number of ways. He did what he did because he was good at it and liked doing it. He loved doing it.

"Those scorpions sorta creep me out, but I love your apartment. You've got awesome stuff. That bedspread is real mink, isn't it?"

Lozada wished she would shut up and just suck him.

"Are you as dangerous as people say?"

He grabbed a handful of her dyed black hair and yanked her head up. "What people?"

"Ouch! That hurts."

He twisted her hair tightly around his fist, pulling it tighter. "What people?"

"Just the other girls who work here in the hotel.

We were talking. Your name came up."

He looked into her eyes but could see no signs of treachery. She was too stupid to be a paid informant. "I'm only dangerous to people who talk about me when they shouldn't." He relaxed his hand.

"Jeez, no need to get so touchy. It was just girl talk. I had bragging rights and wanted to brag." She grinned up at him.

If only she knew how repugnant that smile was to him. He despised her for her stupidity and coarseness. He would have liked to hurt her. Instead he pushed her face back into his lap. "Hurry up and finish me."

She was here only because she was convenient. He could always get a woman. Women were easy to come by.

Even attractive ones would do anything for a little of his attention and a fifty-dollar tip.

But the easy ones weren't the kind of woman he wanted. He wanted the kind he'd never had before.

In school he'd been a punk who ran with a rough crowd. He was always in trouble either with school officials or the police, or both. His parents weren't interested enough to care. Oh, they complained about his bad behavior but never really did anything to correct it.

His baby brother had been born with a severe birth defect. From the day his parents brought the baby home from the hospital, Lozada might just as well have ceased to exist, because in his parents' hearts and minds he had. They devoted themselves exclusively to his little brother and his special needs. They'd assumed that their handsome, healthy, precocious older son didn't have any needs.

Around age four he had gotten angry over their neglect, and he'd never stopped being angry at them for favoring baby brother over him. He learned that being disobedient won him a little of Mommy and Daddy's attention, so he did every mischievous and mean thing his young mind could devise.

He had been a hellion as a boy, and by the time he became a teenager he was already a murderer.

In high school the popular girls didn't date guys like him. He didn't use drugs, but he stole them from the dealers and sold them himself.

He went to illegal cock fights rather than the Friday night football games. He was a natural athlete but didn't play team sports because he couldn't play dirty and where was the thrill in playing by the rules? Besides, he would never have sucked up to an asshole with a whistle who called himself Coach.

The popular girls dated guys who proudly wore their letter jackets and would go on to UT or Southern Methodist and major in business or law or medicine, like Daddy. The desired girls went steady with the boys who drove BMW'S to the country club for their golf lessons.

The girls who dressed well and participated in all the extracurricular activities, the classy girls who held school offices and were members of academic clubs, avoided him, probably fearing they would be compromised if they so much as looked twice.

Oh, he had turned their heads all right.

He'd always been good-looking. And he had that element of danger about him that women couldn't resist. But his raw sexuality scared them. If he looked at one too long, too hard, too suggestively, she got the hell away from him.

He could never get near the nice girls.

Nice girls like Rennie Newton.

Now there was a classy woman. She was all the women he'd ever wanted wrapped in one beautiful package. Each day of his trial he couldn't wait to get into court to see what she would be wearing and how her hair was styled. Several times he'd detected a light floral scent and knew it must be hers, but he never got close enough to be certain.

Not until he entered her house. It was redolent with the fragrance. Recalling the essences of her contained in the rooms she occupied made him shiver with pleasure.

Mistaking the reason for it, the maid tightened her mouth around him. He closed his eyes and envisioned Rennie Newton. He fantasized that it was she bringing him to climax.

As soon as it was over, he told the girl to go.

"Don't you wanna--"

"No." The sight of her heavy breasts disgusted him. She was a pig. A whore.

Validating his thought, she ran her hands down the front of her body and swayed to silent music. "You're the best-looking guy I've ever been with. Even this is cute." She reached up and touched the scar, still pink, that bisected his left eyebrow. "How'd you get it?"

"It was a gift."

She looked at him stupidly. Then she shrugged. "Okay, don't tell me. It's still sexy."

She stretched upward, and when he realized she was about to kiss his scar, he shoved her away.

"Get out of here."

"Well excuse me for breathing."

Before she could get to her feet, he clamped his fingers around her jaw like a vise, holding it so tightly that her lips became scrunched and protruding. "The next time you talk about me with anybody, anybody, I'll come find you and cut out your tongue. Do you understand?"