by Debra Webb
If that were the case, technically she could tell Patton what O’Neill had said without outing him as still being alive since they would already know.
Eventually the final row in front of her emptied and her opportunity to file into the aisle presented itself.
Outside, the sun blazed like Hades itself. Black wasn’t exactly a great color in the heat of a Miami summer day. But then, no well-groomed lady went to a funeral or memorial service wearing anything else. Black dress, scoop neck, capped sleeves and just above the knee in length. Alex had chosen her favorite pair of heels, black-and-white zebra pattern on the outside, contrasted by a red lining inside. Hitch would have approved. That too-familiar pang of regret tugged at her.
Miami’s esteemed mayor as well as every high-ranking member of Miami-Dade brass mingled in the parking area. She’d heard various and sundry comments about what a shame the accident had been, and asides as to how much Louis Hitchcock would be missed.
Alex shook her head. All those cops and not one had a clue that Hitch had been murdered.
It seemed impossible. Whoever was behind the murders knew how to fool everyone. Patton’s hasty dash out of the church slid to the front of her thoughts. Maybe there had been a new development.
“About damn time,” she muttered. She almost bit her tongue when she considered that she was scarcely out the door of God’s house and she was swearing.
She glanced skyward and mumbled a sorry. Not that He wouldn’t expect her to swear. She’d learned how to cut a guy off at the knees with nothing more than her razor-sharp tongue long ago. Despite her career, she considered herself antiviolence. Maybe that would count for something even though about the only time she came to church was when someone died. Except for the christening of Shannon’s children. Even Marg went to church at least once a month. They’d only gone to church at Christmas and Easter when Alex was a kid. She couldn’t recall exactly when her mother had decided to grace the doors more often.
“One of the great mysteries of the universe,” she mumbled as she strolled across the lot to her SUV.
“Damned hot day for wearing black.”
Alex’s head came up and her gaze collided with a stranger leaning against a black Mercedes parked next to her 4Runner. Not just any Mercedes, mind you. One of those sporty two-seaters that cost a small fortune. As she watched, he reached up and removed a pair of aviator sunglasses.
The black suit he wore was expensively cut. She didn’t have to touch it to recognize the fabric was silk and would no doubt sport a designer label. A narrow black tie contrasted a white shirt that looked crisp and fresh in spite of the sweltering humidity. About the only clue the guy wasn’t blessed with his own personal bubble of refrigerated air was the fine beads of sweat gathered on his forehead.
And what a nice forehead he had. Broad, but not too much. Square jaw, long, straight nose. Eyes so pale blue they were almost silver. Nice lips, though she doubted they smiled often. His expression was too… something. Not exactly hard or rigid... controlled. Yes. That was the word for this stranger. Controlled.
The beach bum blond hair was short and thick. The image of her running her fingers through his hair while making him lose control abruptly flashed in her naughty mind.
Jesus. First she was swearing not twenty feet from the church doors, now she was having sexual fantasies halfway across the parking lot.
She was definitely going to hell.
“Can’t wear anything else to a memorial service.” She walked past him, feeling the weight and heat of his stare, and paused at the driver’s side door of her vehicle to dig for her keys.
“You have a flat tire.”
Startled that he’d followed her around to the other side of her vehicle, she jumped a little. The reaction ticked her off. Or maybe it was that he recognized her response that annoyed her.
His words penetrated her irritation and she stared down at her rear tire. Flat. The rim sat all the way down on the asphalt. Damn. How had that happened? And why hadn’t she noticed? Because she’d been too busy checking out the handsome stranger.
All four tires had been fine when she’d arrived.
“That’s why I was hanging around.” He strolled closer, his hands in his pockets. “I thought whoever owned this SUV might need some assistance.”
“I have Triple-A.” She reached into her bag and fished out her phone. “Thanks anyway. Besides, I wouldn’t want you to soil your nice suit.”
“I don’t mind at all.” He shrugged. “Triple-A could take hours to get here.”
Unfortunately, the remark was far too accurate. She’d once sat on the causeway for ninety minutes waiting for the serviceman to arrive. Then again, the serviceman had been a great date that same night.
Not about to let the guy think he could do something she couldn’t, she clarified the situation. “I could change it myself if not for the dress.” No point in giving the good folks lingering around St. Mary’s a show to watch.
“I’m sure you could handle most anything that came your way, Miss...?” He inclined his head and studied her.
“Alex.” She shifted her phone to her left hand and stuck out her right. “Alex Jackson.”
He gripped her hand. Firm, steady grip. “Wyatt Murphy.”
With her stiletto advantage he was still two or three inches taller than her. Six-one or two. Maybe a hundred eighty pounds. Athletic.
She dropped her phone back into her bag. “I guess I’ll take you up on your offer if you’re sure you don’t mind.”
The jacket came off and she got a tantalizing visual confirmation as to his lean athleticism. The white shirt fit his torso as if it had been tailor-made for him.
“It would be my pleasure.” He passed his jacket to her and set to the task.
Curiosity propelling her, she checked out the label. Versace. Very nice. Who was this guy? She strolled around to the back of her SUV and watched while he removed the spare. When that was done, he grabbed the necessary tools for the job and placed them on the asphalt.
“Excuse me.” He moved around her to crouch by the deflated tire.
“Tell me, Mr. Murphy,” she moseyed on over to continue observing his progress, “what does a guy who wears Versace and drives a car that cost six figures do? Can’t be a cop.”
She was being nosy, but what the heck? A girl could never be wary enough of strangers offering gifts or assistance. Even if said offered assistance was provided on holy ground.
With the SUV jacked up, he started to loosen the lug nuts. He paused to glance up at her. “You think a cop can’t be independently wealthy?”
Okay, he had her there. Miami was the home of the rich and the infamous. He could be the son of some mogul. The thing was she kept an eye on the social pages and she’d never heard of him.
It was her one weakness when it came to current events—she adored celebrity gossip. Whether international royalty, local heiresses, or Hollywood’s elite she couldn’t get enough of reading about them. No one—absolutely no one— knew that little secret. Shannon, who read nothing but the real news and historical romance novels, would never let her live it down. It was an easy addiction to conceal since Marg bought every gossip rag on the newsstand. Marg borrowed Alex’s clothes, and Alex borrowed her magazines and newspapers. The difference was Marg never knew. She thought Alex took care of her recycling so she didn’t have to lug it down the stairs.
“Where’s your gun?” Alex challenged.
He nodded toward his fancy car. “In the console. I didn’t feel it was appropriate to take a weapon into the service. Besides, I’m sure there were plenty of armed officers in attendance.”
“So you’re a cop.” She shifted her weight, planting one stiletto-clad foot slightly in front of her. The move accomplished her goal, his gaze traced a path from her ankle to the hem of her dress. “With Miami-Dade County? Miami Beach? North Beach?”
He loosened the last nut with a firm twist of the lug wench. “Let’s just say my jurisdiction sup
ersedes local law enforcement.”
Oh, ho. The man was a fed. She should have gotten that one. Most feds were classy dressers. Then again, Versace went a little above even a typical fed’s pay grade. She’d dated one once.
“FBI?”
She had to admit she was rather enjoying this little game of twenty questions. Took her mind off the depressing reason she was here.
“You know I’m in law enforcement.” He pulled the flat tire free and set it aside. “Why don’t you tell me what you do for a living?”
She laughed. “Maybe because I’m not sure you’ll believe me.” No one ever guessed her occupation.
He slid the spare tire—a real tire, not the little donut jobs—into place before meeting her gaze. “You’re a professional cleaner.”
The wariness she’d let slide bumped back up a notch. “What makes you say that?”
“I smelled a hint of something stronger than the garden-variety disinfectant when I opened your cargo door.”
As hard as she tried she couldn’t keep her vehicle completely free of the hazards of her work. She’d had a special partition installed between the back seat and the cargo area. At least she could keep any lingering odors out of the passenger compartment.
“You guessed it. I’m a cleaner.” For all he knew she was a maid.
“But not just any kind of cleaner,” he went on as he gave the lug wrench a violent twist to tighten a third nut back into place.
“My turn,” she countered. “You knew Detective Hitchcock?”
“Are we still playing the guessing game or am I supposed to give you a straight answer?”
The more he relaxed the more his silvery blue eyes sparkled. His smile almost looked genuine now. Some of that fierce control had melted. Maybe due to the heat rising from the asphalt.
“A straight answer would be nice.”
“I’m investigating his death.”
No way could she have reacted quickly enough to veil her expression. “What do you mean? He had an accident, right? That’s what I saw in the papers.”
“Did he?” He locked another nut into place with enough pressure to match an air wrench. “Sometimes what you don’t see is far more telling.”
“His partner seems to think it was an accident.” She was hedging. Whatever this guy knew, he was on a fishing expedition. Her gaze narrowed. His parking and then waiting by her vehicle was no coincidence any more than the flat tire had been.
Slow down, Alex, you’re going all conspiracy theory.
“But you don’t think so.” He tightened the final lug nut.
Her wariness elevated to a higher level. Who was this guy?
Shrugging casually, she refused to confirm what could only be his theory. “I don’t agree with the idea that he fell asleep at the wheel,” she admitted. The only way this fed could know anything about what she thought was if Patton had told him. “Hitch and I spoke briefly and he sounded fine. It’s my understanding the accident occurred a short time later. He just didn’t sound sleepy or even tired to me.”
Murphy stood and rolled the flat tire around to the rear of the vehicle. He hefted it into the cargo area. Next he picked up the tools and put them away. He swiped his palms together to dust them off. “What did you talk about?”
Uncertain as to just how much she should share with this handsome stranger, she hesitated a couple seconds too long.
“I could obtain a warrant for your phone records.”
A warrant? “For the details of a personal telephone conversation I’ve already shared with the local police?” Why were the feds suddenly interested in Hitch’s accident? What had changed since she last spoke to Patton? No, she decided, this wasn’t about Hitch at all. “If you’re that worried, why don’t you just arrest me?”
Government stuff. The kind of data we civilians aren’t supposed to see if we want to stay alive.
Maybe Timothy O’Neill was more right than he knew.
“I wouldn’t have to arrest you, Alex,” Murphy said as he closed the cargo door. “I could bring you in as a person of interest to the case.”
‘To what case?” She refused to admit anything more than what she’d said already. “Why didn’t Detective Patton say anything about Hitch’s accident being under further investigation?”
There was something wrong about this sudden development. Anger started to simmer low in her gut. If Patton had suspected something, he should have told her. He had no business leaving her in the dark like this.
Then again, she had pretty much left him in the dark, too.
“Detective Patton only knows what he needs to know. This is my investigation. The locals have been instructed as to the hands-off nature of the situation,” Murphy said, drawing her away from her frustrating thoughts. He reached for his jacket and folded it neatly over his left arm.
When another scenario elbowed its way into her evolving conclusions, the mixture of irritation and wariness churning inside her gave way to outrage. This could be the man. The man who’d showed up at O’Neill’s house with Hitch. The same one who’d killed him.
“Thanks for taking care of the tire.” She stretched her lips into a fake smile. “I’d love to stay and chat some more, but I have an appointment.”
Call her dramatic, but when Murphy reached into the interior pocket of his jacket— even though she’d held said jacket and knew he couldn’t possibly have been carrying a weapon without her noticing the additional weight—her breath caught.
“Take my card.” He held out an elegantly embossed business card. “I’d like you to call me if you remember anything that might be helpful to this investigation.”
She reached for the card, but he held on to it long enough to add, “I’m quite certain you want to see justice for your friend.”
He released the card and walked away.
Alex was still standing there when he drove off in his sporty Mercedes.
She stared at the card that displayed his name and phone number. Shouldn’t Federal Bureau of Investigation be inscribed there as well?
If only O’Neill had gotten a look at the guy who’d been with Hitch. She couldn’t be sure whether this Murphy character was a good guy or a bad one. What she needed was to talk to Patton. If the feds were investigating Hitch’s accident, the locals would have to know even if they weren’t involved. Murphy had said as much, called his investigation hands-off as far as the locals were concerned. The only way the locals would back off was if the feds had jurisdiction that superseded their own.
Alex slid behind the wheel of her SUV and started the engine. She set the air-conditioning to maximum and dug for her phone. With Miami Beach PD on speed dial, she entered the necessary extension and pushed her hair behind her shoulders to let the cooling air flow over her throat.
When Patton came on the line, she didn’t mince words. “Hey, why didn’t you tell me the feds were investigating Hitch’s accident?”
A heavy sigh echoed across the line. “What are you talking about, Alex?”
Alex. She saw how it was.
“I’m talking about this guy, Wyatt Murphy. He grilled me in the church parking lot. You could have told me.”
“Look.” Another deep breath. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. We’re all upset that Hitch is dead. I know the memorial service was tough on everyone, but for Christ’s sake, Alex, you’ve got to stop making things worse by coming up with these outlandish scenarios. Hitch is dead. So far it appears to be nothing more than a tragic accident.”
“You didn’t sic some fed on me about that call Hitch made to me the night he died?”
“Of course not. Why would the feds be involved in this case anyway?” Patton sounded tired—tired and disgusted. “Like I told you before, we’re checking out every aspect of the accident. The techs found no indication whatsoever his vehicle had been tampered with. If anything—and I mean anything—was out of sync we would have found it by now.”
But they wouldn’t find it. N
ot only were they looking in the wrong place, they had no idea what they were looking for.
Chapter 13
Still fuming, Alex parked in her driveway and strode up the walk to her front door. If Murphy’s story was legit and he was investigating the case, she suspected it was about the lens and not Hitch’s murder—which would explain why Patton had been left out of the loop. The trouble with that scenario was that if Murphy suspected she knew something, who else did? The man who had killed Hitch. Probably the same one who’d blown up O’Neill’s home. This, of course, was assuming Murphy wasn’t that man.
Was she only giving him the benefit of the doubt—despite what Patton said—because he was drop-dead gorgeous?
Her mother’s comment about how alike they were nagged at Alex but she ignored it. They were total opposites. Anyone who knew them would say the same. Alex liked being in control. She liked standing on her own two feet. She liked doing things her way. Her mother was rarely in control of her destiny. She was wholly dependent upon Alex for a place to live and a job. Her relationships always ended badly.
Guilt for being so hard on her mother pinged her. Marg tried. Most of the time anyway.
Alex tossed her bag onto the sofa and kicked off her stilettos. She would peel off the dress later. First she wanted a beer and something to munch on. She’d totally forgotten lunch except for a bag of chips, and grease didn’t technically count as a food group. Mostly she wanted to put this whole mess out of her head for a minute.
She grabbed a Corona from the fridge and quenched her thirst. After throwing together a ham sandwich and snagging her shoes, she headed to her room to get comfortable with the stack of magazines she’d borrowed from Marg’s apartment. She smiled. Even if she died tonight, Shannon would just assume Marg had left the gossip rags at Alex’s house or that Alex had confiscated them for some reason.
She stopped. Just because both she and Marg liked the gossip rags didn’t mean they were alike.
