by Debra Webb
The door opened and Marg 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 her mother 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 never wore sweatpants or a tee unless she was going to the gym. And she hadn’t gone to the gym 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 Robert?” 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 the door 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, so shoot me.”
Marg hitched the strap of her purse a little higher on her shoulder. “We’re not that different, you know. You just don’t want to see it. If you look really close you’ll see just how much alike we are.”
Alex watched her mother descend the stairs and cross the street to where she’d left her car at the curb, then she drove away.
Today had been strange and unnerving in a lot of ways, but outside of Henson’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 aeons apart. Why couldn’t Marg see that?
Alex stamped back down to her own front door.
She had been working hard for 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’d run like hell.
Alex wasn’t running. She would find out the truth.
CHAPTER 7
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 faceted glass or the panels of metal, mosaic and ivory embellishing the chapel 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 Henson would have appreciated the illustrious setting or the somber atmosphere, but he would have gotten a hell of a kick out of all the attention.
The place was packed in every available chamber. All of Miami’s finest, dressed in their classiest garb, had come out to pay their final respects. The flames dancing atop the lit candles flickered from the gold candlesticks, glinting off the crucifix holding court behind the priest who offered consoling words for the friends and family of the fallen detective.
She spotted Jimmy Patton near the front as she surveyed the hundreds upon hundreds in attendance.
Could one of the men standing in this very church be the one who’d accompanied Henson 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 having turned himself in, she could only assume that he’d followed through on his vow that he intended to disappear. Not that she could blame him. Someone had tried to kill him, had killed his friend.
She’d thought this whole situation over last night, ensuring that she’d slept very little. Her decision was that she would 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 her suspicions. All she really wanted was for Patton to take a closer look at the cause of Henson’s accident. If he believed the accident was no accident, then that would ensure a full investigation.
Until she saw further, that was all she was prepared to do. 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 her interests while protecting anyone else whose life the lens might endanger. Henson 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. Henson would agree with her. She had to do this for him. The key element in her investigation was ensuring that she didn’t do anything rash. 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 make 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 Henson and Timothy’s other friend know about her involvement?
Had Henson told him where he’d gotten the lens?
Probably not, she decided, since no one had approached her. Henson 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 Henson 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.
But the enemy had brought Henson along for the ride. So was it something Henson did or said that prompted the bad guy or was it O’Neill?
There wasn’t any way to know the answer to that question. She doubted she could find O’Neill again if she tried. The cops thought he was dead. That 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 best friend. 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. Smart-ass.
He said something for Patton’s ears only and the two rushed out of the sanctuary. The main aisle filled behind them as if the two men had somehow given the crowd gathered an order of dismissal with their hasty exit.
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 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.
If that were the case, technically she could tell Patton what O’Neill had said without outing him.
Eventually the final row in front of her emptied and her opportunity to file into the exit line 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 midthigh in length. And what savvy fashionista would be caught dead in a little black dress without the matching stilettos? Alex had chosen her favorite pair, a black-and-white zebra pattern on the outside, contrasted by blood-red lining inside. Classy and undeniably sexy. Henson
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 Rich Henson would be missed.
Alex shook her head. All those cops and not one had a clue that Henson had been murdered.
It seemed impossible. Whoever had done this knew how to fool everyone.
Patton’s hasty dash out of the church slid to the front of her thoughts. Maybe at least one of Henson’s colleagues sensed that something wasn’t quite right.
Not necessarily, though, she argued. Winston was working the O’Neill explosion. Patton, the Henson accident. To her knowledge, the two investigations hadn’t been connected. Maybe they’d found something new that would connect the two. Either way, she wouldn’t get to talk to Patton now.
“Well, damn,” she muttered. She almost bit her tongue when she considered that she was scarcely out the door of God’s house and here 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. Thank God Shannon and her husband hadn’t died on her. As the kids’ godmother, Alex would have been next in line for bringing them up.
She wasn’t really into the mother thing. She still didn’t understand why Shannon had picked her.
“One of the great mysteries of the universe,” she mumbled as she strolled across the lot to her 4Runner.
“Damned hot day for wearing black.”
Alex’s head came up and her gaze collided with a stranger leaning against a red Mercedes SL500 parked next to her 4Runner. 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 as silk. A designer label carrying a hefty price tag no doubt. 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 so. Square jaw, long, straight nose. 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.
Even the wide-set blue eyes were masked in a cordial look of politeness. The beach-bum blond hair was military short, kind of spiky.
The image of her running her fingers through that thick spiky hair while making this guy 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 4Runner.
“You have a flat.”
Startled that he’d followed her around to the other side of her vehicle, she jumped a little. That ticked her off. More so that he recognized he’d surprised her than the fact that he had.
His words penetrated her irritation and she stared down at her rear tire. Flat. The rim sat all the way down on the asphalt.
How the hell 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 just over an hour ago.
“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 AAA.” She reached into her red leather shoulder bag and fished out her phone. “Thanks anyway,” she said to him. “I wouldn’t want you to soil your nice suit.”
“I don’t mind at all. Triple-A could take hours to get here.”
That much was true. 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 as he waited for her response.
“Alex.” She shifted her cellular phone to her left hand and stuck out her right. “Alex Jackson.”
He gripped her hand. Nice. Smooth skin, firm grip. “Austin Blake.”
With her stiletto advantage she stood practically eye to eye with him. She guessed his height at five-ten or eleven. Maybe a hundred eighty pounds. Athletic. She based that last assessment more on the way he moved than anything else since the jacket concealed about everything but the breadth of his shoulders.
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 fitted his torso as if it had been tailor-made just for him.
“It would be my pleasure.” He passed his jacket to her and strode toward the rear cargo door.
Curiosity propelling her she checked out the label. Versace. Good grief. Who was this guy?
Her movements impeded by her thoughts, she moved slowly toward the rear of her vehicle. He’d already removed the spare and the necessary tools for the job to come and placed them on the asphalt.
“Excuse me.” He moved around her to crouch down by the damaged tire.
“Tell me, Mr. Blake—” she propped against the side of her SUV “—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 the offered assistance was on holy ground.
With the SUV jacked up, he’d already started to loosen the lug nuts when he glanced 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 infamous. He could be the bad boy 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 gossip. Whether international celebrities or local heiresses, she couldn’t get enough of reading about them. No one—absolutely no one—knew that little secret. Shannon, who read nothing but nonfiction, would never let her live it down. It was an easy addiction to conceal since Marg bought every gossip rag on the newsstand. Marg too often borrowed Alex’s clothes, but Alex borrowed her magazines and papers. The difference was Marg never knew.
Alex had to work with Shannon and the Professor every day…no way was she letting them learn that tidbit to tease her about. And tease they would.
“So you’re a cop.” She straightened away from the vehicle and planted 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 wrench. “Let’s just say my jurisdiction supersedes 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 and beyond mere classy. “FBI?”
She had to admit she
was rather enjoying this little game of twenty questions. Took her mind off the depressing current events in her life.
“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 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. That was why she’d had a special partition installed between the backseat 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. Half the Hispanic population made good wages keeping the homes of the Miami elite spit-and-polished.
“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 Henson?”
“Are we still playing the guessing game or am I supposed to give you a straight answer?”
The more he relaxed the more charm he allowed into his eyes. His smile almost looked genuine now. Some of that fierce control had melted. Maybe from 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 the papers said.”
“Did he?” He locked another nut into place with enough pressure to match an air wrench.
“His partner seems to think so.” She was hedging. Whatever this guy knew, he was on a digging expedition. Her gaze narrowed. His parking and then waiting by her vehicle was no coincidence, she deduced, any more than the flat tire had been.
