story."
"A clean one, I hope," Grace said.
He shot her his most wicked grin. "I can edit as I go."
"Thanks for the tea," Oren said.
"Close the door behind you, please."
This was a familiar scene. Before moving to the coast, Wick had often spent evenings at the Wesleys' house. It was a happy house because Grace and Oren's happiness with each other permeated the place.
They'd met in college and married upon graduation. Grace was a student counselor and vice-principal at a public junior high school. With each year her responsibilities increased and became more complicated, but she never failed to have a hot evening meal for her family and mandated that everyone be there for it.
Their home was noisy and active with the girls and their friends trooping up and down the stairs, in and out of the kitchen. Neighbors stopped by with or without an invitation, knowing they'd be welcome. The house was as clean as a U.s. Navy vessel but cluttered with the trappings of a busy family. When Grace was at home, chances were very good that the washing machine would be chugging. Reminder notes and snapshots were stuck to the refrigerator with magnets. There were always cookies in the cookie jar.
Wick had been a guest so often he was considered one of the family and pitched in when it came time to do the dishes or take out the garbage.
He teased Grace about doing her best to domesticate him. The joke wasn't far off the mark.
Following dinner and cleanup, it had been his and Oren's habit to seclude themselves in the living room to discuss troublesome cases. Tonight was no exception.
"I've got a video I want you to see."
Oren inserted a tape into the VCR, then carried the remote control back to the sofa and sat at the opposite end from Wick. "Recorded this afternoon."
"Of?"
"Dr. Rennie Newton."
The video picture came on the screen. It was a wide shot of an interrogation room. Wick had watched a hundred such video recordings.
The camera, he knew, had been mounted on a tripod situated behind Oren. It was aimed at the chair occupied by the individual being questioned. In this case it was the woman in the photos Oren had shown him yesterday.
Wick was surprised. "She's a doctor?"
"Surgeon."
"No shit?"
"I called her after leaving your place. She came in for questioning today."
"In connection with the Howell homicide?"
Once he had agreed to come to Fort Worth, Oren had given him the basic facts of the case, scarce though they were.
"She agreed to being videotaped, but she also brought along her attorney."
"She's no fool."
"No. In fact she was ... well, you'll see."
Dr. Newton's lawyer was standard issue.
Height, average. Weight, average. Hair, white. Suit, gray pinstripe. Eyes, wary and cunning. It took only one glance for Wick to assess him.
He then directed his attention to Dr. Rennie Newton, who didn't come even close to standard issue. In fact if someone had ordered him to conjure a mental picture of a surgeon, the woman on the tape would not have been it. Not in a million years.
Nor was she typical of someone being questioned about a felony offense. She wasn't sweating, nervously jiggling her legs, drumming her fingers, biting her nails, or fidgeting in her seat.
Instead she sat perfectly still, her legs decorously crossed, arms folded at her waist, eyes straight ahead and steady, a portrait of composure.
She was dressed in a cream-colored two-piece suit with slacks, high heels in a tan reptile skin, matching handbag. She wore no jewelry except for a pair of stud earrings and a large, no-nonsense wristwatch. No rings on either hand. Her long hair was pulled into a neat ponytail. He knew from the surveillance photos that when it was down, it reached the middle of her back. Pale blond, which looked as genuine as the diamonds in her earlobes.
Oren stopped the tape. "What do you think so far? As a connoisseur of the fairer sex, your first impression."
Wick shrugged and took a sip of tea.
"Dresses well. Good skin. You
"A clean one, I hope," Grace said.
He shot her his most wicked grin. "I can edit as I go."
"Thanks for the tea," Oren said.
"Close the door behind you, please."
This was a familiar scene. Before moving to the coast, Wick had often spent evenings at the Wesleys' house. It was a happy house because Grace and Oren's happiness with each other permeated the place.
They'd met in college and married upon graduation. Grace was a student counselor and vice-principal at a public junior high school. With each year her responsibilities increased and became more complicated, but she never failed to have a hot evening meal for her family and mandated that everyone be there for it.
Their home was noisy and active with the girls and their friends trooping up and down the stairs, in and out of the kitchen. Neighbors stopped by with or without an invitation, knowing they'd be welcome. The house was as clean as a U.s. Navy vessel but cluttered with the trappings of a busy family. When Grace was at home, chances were very good that the washing machine would be chugging. Reminder notes and snapshots were stuck to the refrigerator with magnets. There were always cookies in the cookie jar.
Wick had been a guest so often he was considered one of the family and pitched in when it came time to do the dishes or take out the garbage.
He teased Grace about doing her best to domesticate him. The joke wasn't far off the mark.
Following dinner and cleanup, it had been his and Oren's habit to seclude themselves in the living room to discuss troublesome cases. Tonight was no exception.
"I've got a video I want you to see."
Oren inserted a tape into the VCR, then carried the remote control back to the sofa and sat at the opposite end from Wick. "Recorded this afternoon."
"Of?"
"Dr. Rennie Newton."
The video picture came on the screen. It was a wide shot of an interrogation room. Wick had watched a hundred such video recordings.
The camera, he knew, had been mounted on a tripod situated behind Oren. It was aimed at the chair occupied by the individual being questioned. In this case it was the woman in the photos Oren had shown him yesterday.
Wick was surprised. "She's a doctor?"
"Surgeon."
"No shit?"
"I called her after leaving your place. She came in for questioning today."
"In connection with the Howell homicide?"
Once he had agreed to come to Fort Worth, Oren had given him the basic facts of the case, scarce though they were.
"She agreed to being videotaped, but she also brought along her attorney."
"She's no fool."
"No. In fact she was ... well, you'll see."
Dr. Newton's lawyer was standard issue.
Height, average. Weight, average. Hair, white. Suit, gray pinstripe. Eyes, wary and cunning. It took only one glance for Wick to assess him.
He then directed his attention to Dr. Rennie Newton, who didn't come even close to standard issue. In fact if someone had ordered him to conjure a mental picture of a surgeon, the woman on the tape would not have been it. Not in a million years.
Nor was she typical of someone being questioned about a felony offense. She wasn't sweating, nervously jiggling her legs, drumming her fingers, biting her nails, or fidgeting in her seat.
Instead she sat perfectly still, her legs decorously crossed, arms folded at her waist, eyes straight ahead and steady, a portrait of composure.
She was dressed in a cream-colored two-piece suit with slacks, high heels in a tan reptile skin, matching handbag. She wore no jewelry except for a pair of stud earrings and a large, no-nonsense wristwatch. No rings on either hand. Her long hair was pulled into a neat ponytail. He knew from the surveillance photos that when it was down, it reached the middle of her back. Pale blond, which looked as genuine as the diamonds in her earlobes.
Oren stopped the tape. "What do you think so far? As a connoisseur of the fairer sex, your first impression."
Wick shrugged and took a sip of tea.
"Dresses well. Good skin. You
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