by Debra Webb
Jimmy Patton answered after only the second ring.
“This is Alex Jackson.”
She didn’t actually have to bother with her full name, most of the detectives knew her, but she’d felt the need to make this sound official.
“What’s up, Jackson? Oh damn. I was supposed to call you about the memorial service. It’s been crazy all day. I’m just now getting away from work. I’m headed to the hospital to see my wife and baby girl.”
Alex heard the pride in his voice. He had a family now. She swallowed, steadied her voice, and took the plunge. “Anything new on Hitch’s accident?”
Silence.
Could he possibly already know foul play was involved? Would he find her question suspicious? After all, she was one of the last people to talk to Hitch last night.
“What was that?” he asked. “You cut out for a sec.”
Wetting her lips, she tried her best not to let her voice reverberate with the tension gripping her throat. “Any news on Hitch’s accident?”
“So far, it looks like an accident. No reason to suspect otherwise. We’re still waiting for the final report on the car.” He hesitated. “What’s going on, Jackson? Why do you sound so nervous?’
Damn. Alex cringed. “What’s the time and location of that memorial service?” She hoped like hell the abrupt question would derail his suspicion.
“Tomorrow, four-thirty. St. Mary’s over on Second Avenue. The family’ll have a private funeral mass and burial later, after the autopsy.”
What did she say now? “Thanks. I... I just can’t believe he’s gone.”
Patton made a knowing sound in his throat. “Had you and Hitch... you know... talked about getting back together?” He chuckled good-naturedly. “It was no secret he still had a thing for you.”
Would he tell her more if he thought she and Hitch were involved again? She wasn’t about to lie like that about a friend, especially a dead one.
“No, we were just friends,” she confessed. “I guess I’m stunned that he’s gone. That’s all. He sounded fine to me last night, and then I wake up this morning to learn he’s dead.”
“Look, Jackson,” Patton said, his voice somber. “We all look for some way to explain an unexpected death like this. Hitch was a top-notch detective and a great friend. He’ll be sorely missed. If there was anything at all besides Fate that played a hand in his death, I’ll find it. You don’t need to worry.”
She didn’t doubt his sincerity, but was sincerity enough? Could she convince Patton of what she suspected without Timothy O’Neill to back her up? If she did tell him everything and passed this thing—she glared at the plastic bag—on to him, would his life be in danger, as well?
What about his wife and child?
How could she knowingly endanger his family? Look at what had just happened to Timothy O’Neill’s friend.
Could she just pretend the explosion and this damned thing had nothing to do with Hitch’s murder? It had been murder. O’Neill had heard the whole thing. He’d seen the bastard dragging Hitch to his car. Undoubtedly the same bastard who’d blown up Timothy’s house.
Now or never. “Remember I told you there was something funny about that guy Crane’s suicide scene? And that I’d given Hitch a piece of evidence I thought might be relevant to his death.”
“What was this evidence again? Something about his eye?” Horns blared in the background. Patton muttered a curse.
Alex bit her lip. Did she tell him everything? Risk involving him despite what she knew could happen? So far the people who’d touched this whatever the hell it was had either been murdered or nearly so.
Except her.
And that might very well only be because she’d just regained possession of the damned thing.
Okay. The decision was far too monumental to make in the next twenty or so seconds. Maybe she should sleep on it. She could talk to Patton after the memorial service tomorrow.
“It was... it was...” She scrambled to think of how to answer his question without telling him the truth. “Part of an artificial eye.” She winced at how lame that sounded.
“Artificial eye?” The incredulity echoed in his voice.
“Yeah. I guess it turned out to be nothing.”
She hoped he’d let it go at that. Obviously he hadn’t really been listening to her when she’d visited him at the station, which might actually be a good thing. She needed to think about this some more.
“Wait a minute. You said he called you. That he was excited about this eyeball. What gives, Alex? You’re sure there isn’t something you’re not telling me?”
Hell. He’d called her Alex. None of the guys ever called her Alex unless they were suspicious or pissed. Doing the right thing suddenly felt all wrong. She’d almost gone too far to back out. Somehow she had to take a major step back… at least for now.
“You know, Patton, I’d had a couple of beers last night. Maybe I misunderstood. I guess I was just so shocked to hear about his death that I got confused. I should let you go. Give my best to your wife and daughter.”
She hit the off button before he could argue.
She cursed herself for being so wishy-washy. She should have told him, but then he might end up dead, too.
“Stick with your plan, Alex,” she muttered. She would sleep on it tonight and make a decision in the morning. The memory of the pile of rubble that used to be O’Neill’s home zoomed into vivid focus.
Maybe she and Marg should go to Shannon’s house tonight. And take the danger to her best friend?
Not a good idea.
At moments like this Alex really wished she owned a gun. She was usually anti weapons. You couldn’t clean up cranial fragments and massive amounts of blood, which were usually the result of the use or misuse of firearms, and not be a little gun-shy.
She laid the phone back on the sink. First thing she had to do was hide the evidence.
If the guy who’d killed Hitch showed up at her house he would likely know how to conduct a thorough search. The idea that he might be from some government agency crossed her mind again, but she refused to blame this on the good guys until she knew more.
Wait… maybe he already had. She thought of how her things had felt out of place last night. She’d blamed her mother, but what if it had been whoever was looking for this thing?
Alex shuddered. She needed a place most people wouldn’t look.
She got down on her knees and dug around inside the sink cabinet until she found a box of tampons. Carefully, she pulled open one end and slid out the tampon. She removed the lower portion of the insertion tube, and then gingerly slipped the contact lens from its plastic bag. She held her breath as she lightly squeezed the pliable contact lens into a u-shape and tucked it into the larger section of the tube that had held the tampon. She pushed the lower portion of the tube back into place and returned the whole thing to its plastic sleeve. She then tucked it, sealed end up, into the box, which she placed under the sink once more.
She stood and, as she dusted her palms together, got a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She didn’t like the uncertainty she saw in her eyes. For about two seconds she almost called Patton back and gave him the whole story.
All right, she was getting paranoid here. Stay calm. Extra precautions were necessary, that was true, but there was no need to panic just yet. In spite of her determination to stay calm, trepidation fizzled along her nerve endings.
Bracing herself, she headed for the front door. She needed to check on Marg. It was one thing for Alex to decide to risk her own safety, another entirely to risk her mother’s. Her mother had never been very good at taking care of herself. Case in point, her taste in men. Marg had met Alex’s father at a spring break binge. She’d sworn she was eighteen, and the college-freshman-turned-dropout who’d become Alex’s father hadn’t argued. The two had been bad for each other, plummeting into a hell-raising place of no return. Despite fifteen years of trying to survive together, he had ultimately chosen to l
eave not only his little family, but the planet. Alex wasn’t sure she would ever forgive him. If a girl couldn’t count on her own father, who could she count on?
Speaking of which, her mother’s unexplained absences today could mean trouble.
Alex locked the door behind her, something she never did when her destination was just up a flight of stairs to Marg’s apartment. The idea that whoever had killed Hitch might be watching her was enough to have her taking a few precautions.
Someone had definitely been watching her. She scanned the street. No sign of the sporty car she’d noticed last night. Maybe whoever it was had decided she didn’t know anything.
Alex hustled up the steps to her mother’s door and knocked. The evening news blared from the television so she knocked again just in case the first one hadn’t been loud enough.
The door opened and her mother looked startled as if she hadn’t expected anyone to be at the door. “Alex?”
The purse hanging from her mother’s shoulder and the keys dangling from her hand told Alex that she was going out for the evening. None of that surprised her, what did, however, was the state of her dress. Sweatpants and a t-shirt. Marg Jackson never wore sweatpants or a tee unless she was going to the gym, which she had not done in ages.
“Were you on your way out?” Seemed like a good starting place.
Marg blinked. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
Well there was an informative answer. “Plans with a new guy?” Impossible. The sweatpants alone negated that possibility, but maybe the question would prompt an answer.
“No.” Marg scooted out the door, forcing Alex to step aside. She locked up and turned to her daughter. “You know, Alex, I never ask you about the men you date. I certainly don’t attempt to keep tabs on your comings and goings. I believe I deserve the same respect for my privacy.”
Alex opened her mouth to give her a load of reasons why it wasn’t the same thing, but her mother held up a hand to silence her.
“I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” Marg went on, “but I’m on my feet now. I can take care of myself. I don’t need a babysitter.”
Alex took a breath. Decided not to start an argument. “I worry, Mom, so shoot me.”
Her mother gave her a pointed look.
“Marg,” Alex amended. From the day she became a widow at the ripe old age of thirty, her mother had insisted that Alex was to call her Marg. Come to think of it that was about the same time their roles had seemingly reversed.
Marg hitched the strap of her purse a little higher on her shoulder. “We’re not that different, Alex. You just don’t want to see it. If you look really close you’ll see just how much alike we are.”
Too flabbergasted to speak, Alex watched her mother descend the stairs and cross the street to where she’d left her car at the curb. Today had been strange and unnerving in a lot of ways, but outside of Hitch’s death nothing about it had rattled her as badly as this.
If you look really close you’ll see just how much alike we are.
They were nothing alike. Why couldn’t Marg see that?
Alex stamped back down to her front door.
She had been working hard her entire adult life to show just how different she and her mother were. Marg would never even consider facing danger to prove a friend had been murdered. She would run like hell.
Alex wasn’t running, by God.
Chapter 11
Wyatt remained in the shadows as Alex Jackson stormed back into her house. She and her mother had quite an unusual relationship. He rarely paid attention to the personal interactions of his targets unless it was somehow relevant to the mission. The Jackson family dynamics reminded him far too much of his own. His mother had died when he was an infant and his father had spent most of the next eighteen years as a cross-country truck driver—anything to avoid being a father. Wyatt had joined the military the day he graduated high school. After that, the only time he’d heard from his father was when he needed bailing out of trouble. Ten years into his military career, Wyatt had been on a Special Forces mission in a third world country when he received word his father had died.
Funny thing was, he’d cried that night. Wyatt had never understood how, at the age of twenty-eight, he’d felt compelled to cry for someone he’d hardly known. His grandparents had raised him and they were long gone now. Family wasn’t something a man like him needed. He was forty-two and spent most of his time on foreign soil serving his country.
He and Alex had more in common than he cared to admit. Though she did have more friends than he did. He’d only had one real friend and he was dead now. Didn’t matter. They had lost touch years ago.
His cell vibrated on the console. “Murphy.”
“Have you located the device?”
The Director was growing increasingly anxious. They’d only learned about the breach thirty-six hours ago. “I’ve narrowed down the location, sir. I should have the device in my possession within twenty-four hours.”
“You’ve determined the source of the breach?”
“I have. You’ll have my full report soon, sir.”
“Very well. I’m counting on you, Murphy.”
“I’m aware, sir.”
The call ended and Wyatt turned his attention back to the small house where Alex Jackson resided.
He wondered if the lady had any idea how much danger she was in?
It was time he introduced himself.
Chapter 12
Wednesday, July 23
St. Mary’s Cathedral over on Second Avenue was not only a place of worship it was a beautiful church. Alex had been here only one other time, but she hadn’t forgotten the lovely stained glass windows or the panels of metal, mosaic, and ivory embellishing the huge cathedral’s altar. Handcrafted gold and precious stone illustrations of the life of Christ as well as glass mosaics depicting scenes from Mary’s life adorned the tabernacle.
She wasn’t sure Hitch would have appreciated the impressive setting or the somber atmosphere, but he would have gotten a kick out of all the attention.
The place was packed in every available chamber. Miami Beach’s finest, dressed in their classiest garb, had come out to pay their final respects. The flames dancing atop the lit candles flickered, glinting off the crucifix holding court behind the priest who offered consoling words for the friends and family of the fallen detective. Alex spotted Jimmy Patton near the front as she surveyed the hundreds in attendance.
Could one of the men standing in this very church be the one who’d accompanied Hitch to Timothy O’Neill’s home? Would he be watching her and wondering what she knew or didn’t know?
Since there had been no report in this morning’s headlines of Timothy or his body being found, she could only assume that he’d succeeded in his determination to disappear. Not that she could blame him. Someone had tried to kill him, had killed his friend. Hanging around to see what happened next didn’t seem like the smart thing to do.
She’d thought this whole situation over last night, ensuring that she’d slept very little. Her decision was to give the whole story to Patton, but she would keep the evidence tucked safely in her bathroom for now. She just couldn’t risk letting it out of her possession. It was the only proof she had of what really happened to Hitch. All she really wanted was for Patton to take a closer look at the cause of Hitch’s accident. If he believed the tragedy was no accident, then that would ensure a full investigation.
If he refused to believe her, well then she’d have to regroup and try another tactic. She might very well end up having to give him the lens, but that would be a last resort for now. She had to protect herself while protecting anyone else whose life the lens might endanger. Hitch was dead. As much as she wanted the man responsible for his death to pay, endangering anyone else at this point didn’t feel like the right thing to do. Hitch would agree with her. The lens alone didn’t prove anything. The so-called accident and explosion were the two elements the police needed to focus on. If she could somehow m
ake Patton see the connection that would be a tremendous step in the right direction.
The other big question left up in the air was, did the mystery man who’d killed Hitch and Timothy’s other friend know about her involvement?
Had Hitch told him where he’d gotten the lens?
Probably not, she decided, since no one had approached her. Hitch had likely protected her. She had to see this through for him. She owed it to him. He’d been a great guy and hadn’t deserved to go that way.
She wished now that she had questioned Timothy O’Neill a bit more. Since Hitch hadn’t taken the lens to the police lab and he hadn’t spoken to his partner about it, she had to assume that the analysis O’Neill had done had tipped off the bad guy. O’Neill had either called someone and asked questions or looked for information on the Internet. Whichever strategy he’d used, a red flag had gone up and brought the enemy to his door.
Then again, the enemy had been with Hitch when he returned to O’Neill’s house. So was it something Hitch did or said that prompted the bad guy?
There wasn’t any way for her to know the answer to that question. She doubted she could find O’Neill again if she tried. The cops thought he was dead. There was another thing she couldn’t do. She couldn’t rat out O’Neill. As long as the bad guy or guys thought he was dead the kid was safe. He’d already lost his friend and his home. He deserved a break.
What she could tell Patton was looking less and less substantial.
As the service came to a close a man hurried up the aisle to where Detective Patton now stood. Alex didn’t recognize the guy until he turned slightly to speak with Patton. Detective Winston from the scene where the explosion had taken place. Mr. Dickhead.
He said something for Patton’s ears only and they rushed out of the sanctuary. As if the two men had somehow given the crowd gathered an order of dismissal with their hasty exit, the main aisle suddenly filled.
Alex didn’t bother fighting the crowd to catch up. She could touch base with Patton at his office. Besides, the discussion they needed to have would be best held in private. Then again, Winston could have arrived with news related to the case. Since he had been working the scene of the explosion, maybe he had learned that the victim pulled from the ashes was not Timothy O’Neill.
