What She Doesn't See

by Debra Webb

  She had to know for sure.

  Nothing she’d found in this house would have alerted the police. Cops didn’t go around sniffing towels and checking soap dishes unless they had probable cause. This was Miami, for Christ’s sake, they got all the probable cause and evidence they could handle without going out of their way to look for more of it. Hitch wouldn’t have looked at anything like this unless something specific in the house had stood out to him or the autopsy report gave reason to suspect suicide wasn’t the cause of death. Hell, she wouldn’t have come here this morning if not for the contact lens and Hitch’s death. There was nothing, except that damned weird lens and even it might be nothing beyond a new experimental vision enhancer.

  Whatever the case, she couldn’t stop until she was sure.

  The sun had started to heat up when she went outside again. What she’d found in the house had spooked her and she didn’t like the feeling. Once she figured out if the explosion was connected to Crane and her friend, she would go back to Hitch’s partner and dump the whole theory in his lap. He could laugh at her if he wanted to, but she had to do what she had to do.

  She reached to open the driver’s side door of her SUV and the creeps performed its spine-chilling tap dance for the second time since she’d arrived.

  Turning slowly she took a long, hard look around her. The driveways along the street were still empty. The houses, the whole neighborhood for that matter, were quiet. If anyone was home it was impossible to tell.

  No matter, she recognized the sensation. Knew it all too well from a couple of jerks she’d dated before her survival instincts had fully developed around age twenty-six.

  Someone was watching her.

  Nothing in this world pissed her off more than the idea of someone playing the intimidation game. Just to make sure she got her point across to whoever might be scrutinizing her, she gave a little wave using one particular finger that announced how she felt loudly and clearly.

  She climbed into her SUV and backed out onto the street. After a thorough check of her mirrors, she headed toward Morningside to find out who’d been killed in the explosion.

  Chapter 7

  Wyatt shook his head. “What are you up to, Alexis Jackson?”

  He’d watched her visit the station and chat with the dead cop’s partner. Nothing particularly unusual about that move. She’d stopped at the morgue and, if that wasn’t enough, then she’d returned to the house where Charles Crane had ended his life.

  What could she possibly know? What did she expect to find?

  Since her friend, Detective Hitchcock, had not been in possession of the device, it was highly probable that she had it on her. It wasn’t in her house, in her vehicle, or at her place of business.

  She’d had no interactions with anyone else. The device had to be with her.

  Frustration had him wired. He needed a break or a ten-mile run. Something had to give. His every instinct—or maybe it was the tension—urged him to confront her. To do whatever necessary to obtain the truth from her. The trouble was, the retrieval methods filtering through his head had nothing to do with getting the job done.

  He followed her to Morningside Drive. With a few taps on his cell he pulled up the news report on a home explosion in the area. Perhaps she had a cleanup job. Whatever she was up to, he wasn’t letting her out of his sight.

  She’d almost spotted him once. Her instincts were on high alert. She sensed someone was watching her. A smile stretched his lips at the thought of her giving him the finger. He’d have to be extra careful to avoid being spotted. Either that or make a more direct approach. Before making a move like that, he’d prefer to regain some perspective as well as to confirm the device was in her possession.

  His cell vibrated against the console. He picked it up and answered without bothering to check the screen. No need. It would be a member of his team or the Director. No one else had this number.

  “Murphy.”

  “He’s still not talking.”

  Wyatt swore silently. “I’ll be right there.”

  He hoped like hell Alex stayed out of trouble for the next hour or so. He wouldn’t need much time. Every man had his breaking point. Wyatt knew how to find it quickly.

  Twenty minutes were lost driving to the holding location. The warehouse had been abandoned for months but the public utilities remained in service. Inside the block building the temperature was a sweltering ninety degrees even at this early hour.

  Two members of Wyatt’s team waited outside the small office turned prison cell. The senior of the two glanced at the gym bag Wyatt carried. “With all due respect, you’re wasting your time, sir.”

  Wyatt ignored the comment. “Open the door.”

  The cocky agent who’d spoken unlocked the door and pushed it open. Wyatt walked in and sat his bag on the table.

  “Good morning, Mr. Johnson. My name is Murphy.”

  Sean Johnson was a thirty-year-old hired gun. A nobody who was insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Other than his ability to answer the three questions Wyatt was about to ask, he served no purpose whatsoever in this operation.

  Johnson laughed. “So you’re the one they warned me about.” He grinned, and then winced as his split lip reopened. The two men outside the door had worked him over reasonably well. “Don’t bother. I didn’t talk for them, I won’t do it for you.”

  Wyatt opened the gym bag and removed the items he would need. A framing hammer. A box cutter. A pair of pliers and a box of three inch nails. Johnson watched his movements, studying each object with obvious resignation.

  “Mr. Johnson, I have three questions for you—”

  “I told you, I’m not talking,” Johnson repeated with somewhat less conviction.

  “Before I leave this room,” Wyatt continued, “I guarantee you will answer them. One, who hired you? Two, did you find what you were looking for?” He picked up the hammer, measured its weight. “And three, where is it?”

  Chapter 8

  What remained of the house in Morningside, just east of Biscayne Boulevard, a few blocks from the bay was indicative of typical Florida construction. One level, painted a pale pink with shutters in a deeper pink shade. The slightly overgrown yard was bordered by a hibiscus hedge and a strand of yellow crime scene tape that flopped in the sporadic breeze.

  A team of forensic techs was rummaging through the wreckage. She recognized one of the detectives who emerged from his car and crossed the yard to survey the ongoing work. The guy who had almost knocked her down getting word to Detective Patton about the body that had been recovered from this gruesome scene.

  No way was she getting across that line. The detective hadn’t appeared friendly at the station, and she doubted his disposition would improve in the field. She didn’t really need to get that close, she supposed. If the contact lens was in the house there definitely wasn’t anything left of it now.

  What she needed was to confirm who had lived here.

  Alex drove farther down the block and parked at the curb. At one point in her varied career, when she had been around twenty-one, she’d briefly sold vacuum cleaners door-to-door. “No home should be without one” had been the company motto. Just another one of her early careers that hadn’t lasted. Maybe it was her impatience with the extreme pressure to meet a certain quota. How was she supposed to talk people into buying something if they didn’t a) need it or b) want it? Then there were the folks who slammed the door in her face or the ones who were just plain rude.

  That was the nice thing about cleaning up after the dead, the dead didn’t talk back or give her grief. She climbed out of her SUV and headed to door number one, an older ranch-style home that had obviously been remodeled to fit in with the escalating value of the property north of downtown Miami.

  Three rings of the doorbell later and a young woman, twenty-five maybe, opened the door far enough to check out Alex. “Yes?” she asked tentatively.

  Judging by the terry cloth fabric, she was still in
her robe. The abrupt sound of screaming behind her signaled at least one toddler was likely vying for her attention even as she continued to scrutinize Alex.

  “I apologize for the intrusion, ma’am, but I’d like to ask you a few questions about the explosion last night.”

  Uncertainty flickered in her brown eyes. “Are you the police?”

  “The detective and the forensics techs are digging through the rubble now,” Alex dodged. “My job is to find out if any of the neighbors saw or heard anything unusual before the event.” She hoped like hell the woman would accept that as a yes. Lying by omission appeared to be a steady appointment on her agenda today.

  “I answered the officer’s questions already,” she said, seemingly to herself. Another bout of wailing began behind her and she heaved a sigh. “Give me just a moment and I’ll be with you.”

  The door closed and Alex heard the woman fussing at the children. Deciding she needed to look the part, Alex dug a small notepad and pen from her bag. When the fretting had quieted, the door opened once more. Leaving it open a crack, the woman stepped out onto the stoop with Alex.

  “I really don’t know anything useful,” she started off. “We go to bed early around here. I heard the explosion, of course.” She paused, her gaze expectant as if she didn’t know what to say next.

  Alex nodded. “What can you tell me about the residents?”

  “Timothy O’Neill lives,” she cleared her throat, “lived there alone.” She stared in the direction of the damaged house. “He leased it from the owners when they moved into the retirement center.”

  “I see,” Alex said, nodding agreeably.

  “Thank God Mrs. Baker was visiting with her sister in Tampa. Mrs. Baker lives in the house right next door. I’m sure the explosion would have scared her to death.”

  “What can you tell me about Timothy?” Alex prodded. Any information about Timothy was what she really wanted. She didn’t need to know who his neighbors were.

  The woman shrugged. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but he was a little strange.”

  Alex scribbled a couple of words on the pad to look credible.

  “I didn’t mention this to the other officer because I was too stunned, but Timothy was sort of… you know, a geek or nerd.”

  More scribbling. “Really?”

  Uncertainty flashed in her eyes again. “I’m sure my personal opinion isn’t important…”

  “Please,” Alex urged, “any information may prove useful.”

  The woman’s gaze wandered toward the devastation once more. “He didn’t get out much. He spent all his time piddling around with computers.” She leaned closer as if what she had to say next was top secret. “Mrs. Baker went over once when Timothy was first moving in. You know, checking out the new neighbor to make sure he wasn’t an ax murderer or anything. The place was packed with all sorts of electronic gadgets. At least half a dozen computers. She said it was bizarre. Like something from a spy movie.”

  Alex’s heart rate reacted to an adrenaline rush. “Is that what Timothy did for a living?”

  She nodded. “My husband says he’s supposedly a genius or something when it comes to computers and cyberspace.” She cleared her throat again. “Was, I should say. He was really quiet and he kept to himself.”

  No wonder Hitch didn’t talk about the guy to his friends. Confidentiality was probably part of their arrangement. A kid that reclusive wouldn’t want any attention.

  The sound of something crashing inside the house ended the discussion. Alex thanked her and moved on to the next house.

  After hearing the same story from three neighbors, Alex felt confident that Timothy O’Neill was the unofficial expert Hitch had visited last night.

  She decided to pull over at the scene and try her luck with Detective Dickhead. Maybe he’d give something away. She needed to be sure Timothy O’Neill was dead. His neighbors assumed he was since they had seen the M.E. take a body from the rubble.

  The detective leaned against his car speaking to someone on his cell phone. Alex parked behind him and got out of her SUV. He glanced her way but didn’t bother waving. Something about the way he noted her arrival with a dismissive glance sparked recognition. She knew this guy.

  He’d been the detective on the case when Patsy’s Clip Joint had been burglarized. It sounded bizarre, she knew, but there were people who would break into any place. Fortunately none of the animals had been harmed or taken. The perp had nabbed a few dollars in cash and a large metal cage. Alex had a few ideas as to why the cage had been taken.

  But this detective—Detective Daryl Winston—had been a real jerk to Patsy. Alex had seen him from across the alley, but she hadn’t known until later how he’d talked down to Patsy. Alex despised bullies like him.

  She walked toward the house, hadn’t even reached the crime scene tape when he shouted, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Well at least she had his attention now. She turned around and flashed him a smile. “I’m Alex Jackson. Never Happened. I thought I’d leave my card for the owner.” She snagged a card from her bag and waved it at him.

  The idea of her getting a job here wasn’t exactly plausible considering the house would need a bulldozer a whole lot more than it would need her. But hey, it was a conversation starter.

  “I know who you are.” Still reclined against his car, he smirked, and then executed a long perusal of her from head to toe. “Get real, Jackson, unless you’ve branched out into rubble removal, this is way out of your league.”

  “Who was the crispy critter?” she asked, getting down on his level as she walked toward him. Crispy critter was cop speak for a burned-beyond-recognition victim. She winced inwardly at the heartless moniker.

  “No comment.”

  “Come on, I know the M.E. removed a body. Timothy O’Neill?”

  Winston crossed his arms over his chest and eyed her suspiciously. “You know I can’t discuss the details of a case with you.”

  “The news has already reported it.” One of the neighbors had told her that she’d heard the details on the radio earlier that morning.

  “Well then, why you asking?” Another one of his smirks made Alex want to slap him cross-eyed.

  “Maybe I’m curious, Winston. Is that a crime?” She matched his stance, careful to prop her arms under her breasts.

  His gaze strayed to her cleavage. “I suppose not. It’s O’Neill’s house. The body was found surrounded by his computer equipment or what was left of it. It’s probably him, but we don’t have an official ID yet. The press is guessing the same as we are at this point.”

  “I suppose he’ll be identified by dental records?” That was the most commonly used method and the quickest.

  “The lower jaw is intact and that’s about all.” He shook his head and let go a heavy breath. “Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to track down a dentist who had him as a patient. His family insists he never went to a dentist as a child. So it’s too early to say anything for sure.”

  Damn. “That’s too bad.” There would be no burying the body, no closure, until the remains had been officially identified. “Any idea what caused the explosion?”

  “We’re still working on that.” He checked out her boobs once more. “Besides, I couldn’t tell you if I knew. We still have to determine if it was accidental or if foul play was involved.”

  “Right.” She tucked her hands into her back pockets. “See you around, Winston.”

  “Yeah.” His cell rang.

  Alex slid behind the wheel of her SUV and stared at what used to be Timothy O’Neill’s home. There was no doubt in her mind that this was the place Hitch had brought the contact lens.

  Her stomach cramped.

  Hitch had called her, excited that the analysis had confirmed the lens was more than met the eye—no pun intended. Now Hitch was dead. His friend who’d done the analysis was dead.

  All because of the contact lens she’d found. If either Hitch or O’Neill had abru
ptly died under unusual circumstances she could call it a fluke. But both? No way it was a mere coincidence.

  The question was, what did she do about it?

  How did she make Patton believe this explosion had something to do with Hitch’s accident—that it probably wasn’t an accident? She had no proof. Nothing.

  The story sounded melodramatic even to her. Still, she couldn’t just pretend it never happened. She owed it to Hitch, it was the least she could do. She had to see this through whether the police believed her or not.

  Banging on the window next to her made her jump. Three seconds passed before Alex’s heart slid back down her throat and started to beat again. She lowered her window and glared at Winston. “What?” He’d scared the hell of her.

  He grinned like a jackass. “Thought I’d let you know, I just got a call about a possible coffee spill at a Starbucks not too far from here. I can give you the address if you want to run over there and see if there’s any work to be drummed up.”

  She didn’t give him the finger, which had been her first inclination. Instead she smiled, pulled the gearshift into Reverse, and rolled away from him. He was still laughing when she glanced into her rearview mirror after turning around and driving away.

  Buttwad.

  Alex drove back to the office. As usual, her parking spot was taken. She squeezed into an open space between a Cadillac and a Honda.

  “Got a call.” Shannon was waving a message at her as she walked through the door. Alex wondered vaguely whatever happened to “Hello, how was your morning?”

  She snagged the message. “Thanks. Where’s Marg?” The lounge door was wide open and from her position in front of Shannon’s desk Alex could see that the room was empty. This wasn’t a good sign.

  “She left less than an hour after she got here and never came back.” Shannon shrugged, and then pointed to the message in Alex’s hand. “They’re in kind of a hurry. The guy who called wanted to know if you could come right over. I was about to call you.”