What She Doesn't See

by Debra Webb

  Alex made the necessary turn and headed toward a less glamorous residential district. The working-class side of town. Art deco remained the prevailing theme in architecture, even in her lower rent neighborhood but with a more Bohemian atmosphere. Her small cottage wasn’t on the water, but there was a boardwalk nearby that went all the way to the water’s edge. Almost anywhere in Miami Beach was close to the ocean.

  She pulled into the short driveway and slid out of her SUV. No, it wasn’t much, she thought with a frank yet appreciative survey of the property, but it was home and it was hers. Her grandmother had left it to her. Alex grabbed her bag, elbowed the door closed, and clicked the remote lock.

  Occasionally she felt guilty that she’d inherited the cottage instead of her mother. But her grandmother—her mother’s own mother—had known that Margie Jackson would never be able to hang onto much less maintain the property. Like her grandmother, Alex had recognized the day her father died that she would be taking care of her mother for the rest of her life. Some people just couldn’t do it on their own.

  As if fate had chosen that memory to warn that trouble was headed her way, Alex’s cell erupted with the chorus from “Story of My Life” by One Direction.

  She checked the screen. “Damn.” The office. Had to be Shannon, her office manager and lifelong best friend. This couldn’t be good. It was almost seven. “Hey, Shannon, what’s up?” Alex shoved the key into the lock of her front door. If the news was really bad she wanted to be within arm’s reach of a cold one.

  “We have a potential problem, Alexis.”

  Definitely bad. Shannon only called her Alexis when she wanted her full attention.

  Putting off the inevitable, Alex walked straight through the cozy living room to the equally cramped kitchen before she responded, “Oh yeah?” She snagged a Corona from the fridge and twisted off the top. Not wanting Shannon’s announcement to get too far ahead of the alcohol, Alex chugged a long swallow. The brew made her shiver as much from the promise of the relaxing buzz it offered as the cold temperature.

  With her hip she closed the fridge door, leaned against it, and pressed the chilly bottle to the sweat-dampened skin at her throat. Okay, so maybe there was one thing about Miami she could live without: humidity. You couldn’t exist in this city without sweating. Day, night, working out or just sitting still.

  “Brown quit today.”

  Oh hell. They were already stretched thin. “Is he working out a notice?”

  “Nope. It was adios and he was out the door.” Shannon sighed. “I’m scanning resumes tonight.”

  Damn. Alex shook her head. “Don’t do that tonight. We’ll figure it out in the morning.” She took another pull from her beer. “We’ve been down this road before.”

  Shannon agreed and they ended the call.

  Alex tucked her cell into her back pocket as she made her way to her bedroom. She was ready for that nice long soak. She flipped on the bathroom light and started the water in the tub. Before stripping off her clothes, she stared at her reflection a moment and wondered what her life would have been like if things had been different. She thought of Hitch and how badly he’d wanted to pursue a long-term relationship. Had watching her parents fight nonstop until the night her father killed himself kept her single? Or had her mother’s string of failed relationships since turned Alex cynical when it came to anything long-term?

  If life had taken a different turn for her, would Alex have kids off in college now like Shannon? A husband who spent his Saturdays watching sports? Sex every first and third Sunday of the month?

  Alex shuddered. “No looking back,” she muttered.

  Determined to relax, she returned to the kitchen for another Corona, and then she lit all the candles in her bathroom. She turned on the radio to her favorite station and set the volume to a whisper. A few minutes later and she was up to her neck in hot, frothy water. She refused to think about how long it would take to find a replacement for Brown.

  She refused to think at all.

  The air was thick with steam and the lavender bath oil had her relaxing. This moment made the day’s dirty work worth the effort. A long, hot bath was her favorite way to soothe away the day’s stress and the smell of death. She closed her eyes and allowed the water to melt the last of her tension. Her place didn’t have a lot to offer in the way of amenities, not even a dishwasher, but it did have this huge tub in the master bath. And there was no mortgage—a very important asset in any woman’s life.

  The wood floors guaranteed she’d never have to worry about replacing carpet. The tile roof and stucco exterior ensured that, outside of being hit by a hurricane, nothing more than a paint job would ever be required. The lack of fancy appliances promised nothing expensive would break down. The furniture was the same overstuffed, worn pieces her grandmother had owned forever. And the tiny apartment over the garage provided the perfect place for her mother.

  Alex was pretty sure her grandmother had planned it that way, and her mother didn’t really seem to mind. She evidently understood on some level that she couldn’t be trusted as a homeowner. Besides, the whole setup gave her total freedom from responsibility.

  The creak of a floorboard somewhere beyond the half-open bathroom door jolted Alex from her mental ramblings. She sat up straight and listened.

  Another squeak had her climbing quietly out of the water and reaching for her robe. She slipped into her bedroom, grabbed the can of pepper spray from the bedside table, and eased closer to the door.

  Since she didn’t carry a gun, pepper spray was her weapon of choice. It hadn’t been that long ago that Miami was the murder capital of the nation. She had no intention of becoming a victim. She damned sure wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  When she heard no other sounds, Alex moved into the short hall that separated the two small bedrooms and tiny hall bath from the living room-kitchen area. Being careful not to make any noise, she padded through each room to ensure there wasn’t an intruder. Doors, front and back, were still locked. Windows were open, the night breeze shifting the curtains but nothing looked out of the ordinary. Slowly she let down her guard. With the windows up the sound could have carried from next door. The houses on either side of her had wooden porches.

  Frowning at her wet tracks, Alex returned to her bedroom and opened her lingerie drawer. When she would have selected a clean pair of underwear, she hesitated. Something wasn’t right. Her pulse skipped as she checked drawer after drawer. Everything was there but different somehow… as if someone had riffled through her things.

  She shook her head. Evidently her mother had been borrowing her clothes again. The jangle of her cell prevented Alex from marching up to her mother’s apartment and demanding an explanation. She hoped it wasn’t a potential client. Alex was beat, she was ready for bed and a couple hours of mindless TV watching.

  “Alex Jackson.” She’d stopped answering with hello years ago. It seemed her regular customers, various landlords, cops and whoever, assumed she was available at any hour.

  “Hey, Alex, it’s Louis.”

  Hitch. What did he want? Guilt pinged her. She didn’t actually mind hearing from him, but she’d learned from experience that maintaining frequent contact proved nothing more than a segue to let’s try again. She pulled the lapels of her robe together, suddenly self-conscious that she was naked under her robe.

  “What’s up?” She mentally weighed the pros and cons of having another beer. Two was usually her limit, but this night had the definite makings of necessary third. Somewhere in the back of her mind a little voice reminded her that alcoholism could be genetic. So far having a few beers hadn’t been a problem for her. Maybe she’d seen enough drunken brawls out of her parents to override genetics.

  “I just wanted to call and thank you for alerting me to that piece of potential evidence you found this afternoon.”

  She hesitated at the fridge and her forehead pinched with a frown. Evidence? “The contact lens?”

  “Appare
ntly it’s state of the art top secret technology. I’m on my way back over to Morningside to pick it up from that whiz kid I told you about. I’ll be taking it straight to the state lab tomorrow. Outstanding call, Alex.”

  “That’s great.” She didn’t know why it mattered or what exactly his obvious excitement meant, but she was glad Hitch was happy about it.

  “Anyway,” he went on, his enthusiasm palpable, “I thought maybe you’d let me take you to dinner on Friday night to repay the good deed.”

  Oh, man. There it was. “I’d love to, Hitch, but unfortunately I already have plans for Friday night.” It was almost true. She’d planned to ask Shannon to go see that new movie with her.

  “Maybe some time next week,” he offered.

  “Next week… sure.” She hated constantly turning him down. He really was a nice guy.

  “Well, look. I’m getting another call. Night, Alex.”

  “Goodnight, Hitch.”

  She wandered to the bedroom and plugged her cell into the charger. After drawing the covers back, she reached to close the curtains over her bed. Movement across the street snagged her attention. Alex leaned closer to the glass. A figure ducked into a black car. Male, she thought. The car didn’t belong to one of her neighbors. Something sporty and foreign. The vehicle remained dark and nothing else moved. Parking was a premium in this neighborhood. The street was fair game for visitors. The hot car could belong to a friend of any one of her neighbors.

  After another minute she closed the curtains and turned out the light. It was late and she was tired. As she drifted off to sleep she experienced the usual tiny glimmer of loneliness… and then it was gone.

  Alex Jackson was not lonely.

  Chapter 4

  Wyatt moved through the alley until he reached the dumpster. He’d already taken care of the one street lamp. His next goal was to disable the security camera pointed at the entrance to the alley. Wyatt shook his head. If a security company had installed this setup, the shop owner had been screwed. No self-respecting criminal would enter from the main street side of the alley.

  He scaled the dumpster. The top groaned with his weight. Inside the shop, about a dozen dogs started to yap. He quickly disabled the camera in the event a hasty exit that required him to veer into its path was necessary. Barely ten seconds later, he hopped back to the asphalt and headed for the side entrance of his destination.

  He’d conducted an exterior inspection. There was no security system. Getting the door open was as simple as a few swift maneuvers with his lock pick set. Inside, the scent of disinfectant filled the air. He removed the flashlight from his belt and surveyed the room. Storeroom. Hazmat bags and various cleaners and disinfectants lined the shelves. On the opposite side of the room a door led into a corridor.

  A break area and an office were the only additional rooms besides the large lobby that fronted the building. He opted to start with the office. It was cluttered. Alexis Jackson dressed impeccably. She had a hell of a body and she didn’t mind showing it off. Both her home and personal vehicle were well ordered. In contrast, her office gave the appearance of having been ransacked.

  Stacks of papers and folders cluttered her desk. Boxes containing sample products littered the floor. He hoped she was more organized with her client reports. He riffled through the drawers. Protein bars, lip gloss, and various office supplies. He shifted his attention to the top of her desk and the random stacks of papers and folders. He paused to consider the framed photo occupying one corner. Alexis and her mother. According to the background check, her mother was her only living relative. He stared at the photo longer than he should have. Watching the confident lady was no hardship. Though he didn’t have the time just now for distraction, she was certainly challenging his ability to stay focused.

  He set the photo aside and started with the stack of papers. By the time he’d skimmed everything on her desk, he was confident she hadn’t completed a report electronically or otherwise on the Crane cleanup. He searched the office again and then checked the receptionist’s desk in the lobby.

  Nothing.

  He’d gone through her home and her vehicle. The hazmat bags she’d taken from the scene had indeed contained the missing eye but not the device.

  There was only one alternative.

  “Damn it.” He withdrew his cell and selected the necessary contact. The wait through two rings before he got an answer had his frustration level rising. “Find the cop. She must have given it to the cop.”

  Calling himself every kind of fool, he tucked his cell away. He’d heard the guy, Detective Hitchcock, talking on his cell when he’d left the scene the first time. He’d made a comment about believing he was finally breaking Alex’s resistance down. She had agreed to have dinner with him. Wyatt had assumed he’d dropped back by to pick her up.

  Now he knew differently.

  The question was, why hadn’t the cop turned the device in at the lab? Since Hitchcock hadn’t done so… where was it?

  The Director should have allowed Wyatt to bend the rules and monitor Alexis’s phone calls as soon as he arrived and found her at the scene. Recent changes to state and federal laws had tied their hands on far too many levels.

  Wyatt slipped out the side entrance and returned to his vehicle. There was nothing more he could do here. Until he heard from his team, he would continue surveillance of Alexis’s home.

  Whichever one of them had the device, she or her cop friend, they had no idea that merely having it in their possession was a death sentence.

  Chapter 5

  Tuesday, July 22

  Alex checked her rearview mirror frequently on the way to work the next morning. From the moment she’d stepped out her door, she sensed someone watching her. So far she hadn’t spotted anything out of the norm.

  Never Happened sat well off Ocean Boulevard. Nestled between the office of Dr. Sherman Holloway, psychologist extraordinaire, and Patsy’s Clip Joint, a pet salon, things could get a little noisy at times. Otherwise, the folks on either side of Alex’s offices were pretty easy to get along with.

  There was, however, the perpetual parking problem. The alley between the Clip Joint and Never Happened was supposed to be shared space, except Patsy’s clients weren’t always so considerate. Especially the ones with the big, luxury automobiles and the small, prissy dogs.

  Alex rolled into what she had claimed as her space next to the brick wall of her building. Since most of her staff arrived before seven, morning parking wasn’t usually a problem. Afternoons were a different story, however. Things could get hairy—no pun intended.

  She pulled down the visor and checked her reflection in the mirror. Eyeliner, lipstick, no smears or smudges. Good to go. Flipping the visor back into place, she grabbed her knockoff Louis Vuitton shoulder bag, her caramel-mocha latte, and climbed out of her SUV. As she turned the corner toward her shop front, a long low whistle trilled behind her.

  “My, my, Alex,” Patsy called from the open entrance of her shop, “don’t you look sharp today.” Her wolf call had prompted a cacophony of yelps from her restless four-legged guests.

  Alex smiled. “Thanks.” The low-slung jeans she wore were her favorite. She’d paired them with thong sandals and a ribbed pullover that just reached the extra wide belt buckled around her waist. “You’ve lost more weight,” Alex commented after giving her business neighbor an approving once-over.

  “Forty pounds so far,” Patsy confirmed before a lengthy drag on her cigarette. “Twenty-five more to go. I’m itching for that new wardrobe my husband promised me. Give me a couple more months and we’ll set a shopping date. I’d love a day away from this.” She jerked her head toward the racket inside.

  Alex gave her the thumbs-up.

  “I told Shannon to make sure nothing was disturbed in your place,” Patsy said before Alex could reach the door. “Someone disabled my security camera in the alley. Since they didn’t bother anything in here, I thought maybe your place was the target.”

&nb
sp; Worry tugged at Alex. “You should report it to the police.”

  “Ha. And have ‘em nosing around in my shop. No way. The dogs would go crazy.”

  “Thanks for letting us know.” Alex gave her a smile before heading into her office.

  “‘Morning, Alex.”

  Though her friend and office manager, Shannon, had tried her level best not to glance at the clock, she did. She couldn’t help herself. Alex had known Shannon Bainbridge since kindergarten when she was mild-mannered Shannon Owens. The woman had always been as sweet and kind as any angel, but she was an obsessive-compulsive, Type A personality, perfectionist to the max.

  “It’s seven-oh-two but I’m here,” Alex said in acknowledgement of her silent chastisement. “Good morning to you, too. Everything okay? Patsy told me what happened.”

  Shannon nodded. “We haven’t found anything out of place or missing.”

  “Good.” Alex was glad to hear it.

  “Guten morgen, Alexis.”

  Alex shifted her attention to the man lounging on the sofa and perusing today’s Miami Herald. “Same to you, Professor.”

  He liked showing off his command of various languages. So far she’d recognized six. She’d hired the Professor, aka Carlton Winstead III, four years ago when he’d “defected,” as he called it, to Florida from his homeland of Boston. To this day Alex had no idea at which university he’d taught or the reason for his decision to leave. He didn’t talk about it and she didn’t ask. She liked him. He had that distinguished look about him. Even his thinning gray hair added an air of dignity. But it was the extreme intelligence that radiated from those caring hazel eyes that she liked most. He was always a bright spot in her day.

  “Hernandez is shelving the delivery that came early this morning,” Shannon rattled off, drawing Alex’s attention back to her. “I have two interviews lined up this morning and Marg hasn’t come in yet. Is everything okay?”