by Debra Webb
“The police aren’t going to believe you, Alex.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” She wanted to tell him to kiss off and then just drive away but he was her only connection to everything Patton didn’t see. “Who the hell are you?”
He pushed his hands into the pockets of his navy designer trousers. “You already know who I am. I can’t help you, Alex, unless you help me.”
He wanted the lens or chip or whatever the hell it was.
She was not parting with the one piece of potential proof she had. “How could I possibly help you? I don’t have whatever it is you’re looking for.”
“You need to be smart like Mr. O’Neill. I recommended he take himself out of the game. All he has to do now is sit back and let the police protect him until this is over.” Murphy took a step closer to her. “He told me he gave you the item that started all his trouble in the first place.”
Son of a… “You know what?” She took that final step, went toe-to-toe with him. As angry as she was, some part of her acknowledged that he smelled great, like the night, dark and exotic. “If you were as good as you think you are, you’d know the kid was lying. He didn’t give me anything.”
Murphy smiled, the gesture only affecting one corner of his mouth. “I know who’s lying, Alex, and it isn’t O’Neill.”
Now he’d just made her mad. “Let’s get this straight, Murphy. You need to back off. I don’t play well with bullies.”
With that warning, she turned on her heels and strode deliberately to the driver’s side of her vehicle. Screw this guy. The contact lens was all she had. The only connection to what really happened to Hitch. She wasn’t about to turn it over to anyone until she had some answers.
Taking her warning literally, he moved back two steps. He said nothing, but that pale blue gaze burned right through her, telling her far more than she wanted to know. This guy would not give up.
She opened the door and scooted behind the wheel. The sooner she was away from him the sooner she could think straight.
“One last question, Alex.”
Damn him. She hesitated before closing her door, shouldn’t have but she couldn’t resist that he might give her some tidbit of useful information.
“Are you going to wait until someone else has to die before you realize I’m the only person who can help you?”
Three beats passed before she could slam the door against the words that kept echoing in her head. She drove away without looking back.
She didn’t care what Patton believed. She didn’t care how smart Murphy thought he was. No one pushed Alex Jackson around. And she never, ever let down her friends. She would find out what happened to Hitch.
Hours later Alex realized she would miss lunch again.
With the Professor and Hernandez on scheduled calls, she’d spent the entire morning catching up on paperwork with Shannon cracking the whip. Marg had been busy finagling an interview for Never Happened in a Miami Who’s Who magazine. Just when Alex had considered ordering lunch for the three of them, she’d gotten a call from a lady who needed an estimate on getting an unsightly mess cleaned up ASAP. She indicated there was blood and other things but hedged whenever Alex asked for additional details. She insisted she would pay a bonus if the job could be completed today.
Anyone who avoided the details and offered to pay a bonus usually had something to hide. Not that it was necessarily a criminal act. People made really bad mistakes sometimes. Accidentally killed a loved one, and then they were afraid to call the police. Alex would end up having to make the call while the client sobbed hysterically about how he or she hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. Most of the time she chose to believe the story. The explanations were too bizarre to be made up.
Alex felt reasonably certain this one would fall into that category considering the amount of blood the woman talked about. She hadn’t sounded hysterical but there had been an odd tension simmering beneath her calm. Only one way to find out. The woman obviously needed assistance of some sort.
With Murphy right behind her, Alex headed for the location. The temperature in her SUV took forever to cool down. The midday sun had turned the closed-up interior into an oven. If there was a body at this scene, she hoped the house was air-conditioned.
She made the necessary turns and then cruised along the specified street, watching for the house number of her potential client. Kids played in the yards, toys cluttering what was otherwise a neatly trimmed landscape, surrounding equally tidy cookie-cutter houses.
The home of the woman who’d called was a different story, however. Chipped, peeling paint that screamed for attention. A tangle of overgrown grass, more brown than green as a result of the heat and longstanding negligence. The dented garage door was closed, the driveway was cracked and crumbling. Not exactly home sweet home.
A middle-aged woman came out onto the porch as Alex climbed out of her SUV. She waved a hello. “I’m Alex Jackson of Never Happened.” Alex gestured to her vehicle. “I have to grab a few things but I’ll be right in.”
“I don’t want you to do anything until I have an estimate,” the woman, who was hopefully Janet Bell, reminded.
Alex nodded her understanding and went around to the cargo door to prepare for entering the house. Since she didn’t know what to expect outside blood, she pulled on shoe covers and gloves.
“You’re Mrs. Bell?” Alex asked as she climbed the steps leading to the porch.
“Yes.” Janet dragged in a heavy breath. “Prepare yourself, Miss Jackson, this is not a pretty sight.”
Alex gifted her with a comforting smile. “Trust me, it won’t be anything I haven’t seen before.”
Mrs. Bell managed a tight smile. “This way.”
Alex followed her inside. Air-conditioned. Good. But even the coolness of the interior couldn’t disguise the smell of blood. Coppery, goose-bump inspiring.
No matter how often she walked into a scene and encountered the same bodily fluids, there was something about blood that made her shiver.
They passed through the living room and moved down the dimly lit hall. Mrs. Bell hesitated outside what was probably a bedroom door. “I apologize in advance for this immoral image. Please don’t associate what you’re about to see with me.” She moved her head solemnly from side to side. “This has nothing to do with me.”
Alex kept that smile of reassurance tacked in place. “Why don’t you stay out here while I have a look? There’s no reason for you to go in again.”
Mrs. Bell nodded jerkily.
Alex reached for the door but hesitated. As sorry as she felt for the lady there was one thing she had to know. “Mrs. Bell.” She turned to look at the poor woman. “Is there anything in here that merits calling the police? I wouldn’t want to contaminate a crime scene.”
Her eyes rounded like saucers. “Oh, I couldn’t have the police coming in and seeing this. I’ll call them as soon as you’ve taken care of...” She motioned toward the still unopened door. “I couldn’t possibly bear the humiliation of having the neighbors get wind of this. If the police are called first, it’ll be a circus.”
This was not good. Evidently this woman understood that whatever was in this room required the participation of the police. Alex couldn’t make her call, but once she’d viewed the scene she could damn sure call herself.
Alex opened the door and a blast of metallic odor—coagulated blood—hit her in the face. Mingled with that overwhelming smell was the stench of urine. Her empty stomach roiled in protest. Not even those smells could detract from the shock at what she saw.
A thin man, late fifties she guessed and naked as the day he was born, hung from the ceiling fan in the middle of the room. There wasn’t more than two inches of space between the tip of his toes and the worn blue fabric of the chair directly behind him that he had apparently stepped off.
At first glance it looked as if he had committed suicide. Not only had he hung himself, he’d somehow managed to cut an artery in his neck. But then the other details ca
me into focus. Like the careful padding around the rope’s noose and the loose way his hands were bound in front of him by the silk scarf. Both the noose’s padding and the scarf were soaked in blood.
The straight razor with which he’d apparently attempted to cut the noose had fallen onto the floor near an open magazine. At least he’d died happy it seemed, considering the sultry vixen so vividly exposed on the magazine’s centerfold.
For a few seconds more Alex tried to figure out why he hadn’t just kicked around until his toes found the chair. Then he certainly could have reached above his head and held on to the rope to take the pressure off his neck. Maybe cutting himself loose was another part of the excitement. She’d heard how some people got off on the whole danger element of asphyxiation, but the knife was over the top. Most claimed that asphyxia made the orgasm better, out of this world even. Some sexual partners strangled each other to achieve the effect.
Personally, Alex preferred her orgasms the old-fashioned way. Not that she was a prude or anything. She was happy to try new techniques, as long as they didn’t involve a close encounter with death. No matter how embarrassing the situation, Alex had no choice but to bring in the police. From what she saw she’d stake her reputation that the guy’s death was accidental, but she wasn’t the official who could make that call.
She backed out of the room and closed the door, removed her gloves and turned to face the dead man’s wife. “Mrs. Bell, I’m sorry but the police will have to be called first. This is an unattended death and to clean it up before they’ve had a look would be breaking the law.”
Horror claimed the woman’s expression. “But I don’t understand. He’s done this a hundred times and lived to laugh about it. How could he be so stupid?”
The idea that she knew what her husband was up to wasn’t as startling as the idea that his death didn’t appear to be paramount just now.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Bell. I’m sure you’re suffering from shock. Losing a spouse is particularly shattering. Why don’t you—?”
“A spouse!” She looked even more mortified, if that was possible. “He’s not my husband. He’s my brother! I simply can’t have this getting out.”
Well, no wonder she was so pissed off. It was bad enough when a spouse dragged his or her better half into an ugly situation, but a brother should keep something like this to himself.
As the woman said, the poor bastard had probably done this hundreds of times without a glitch. Most likely he’d gotten a little too confident about his skill at escaping death. Maybe he’d added the knife to ensure the same rush. Like a drug addict, he may have wanted to add another layer of danger.
“I tell you what,” Alex offered, “you sit with me in the living room and I’ll call a detective friend of mine. He’ll come over without all the fanfare and get the ball rolling.”
“Thank you so much, Miss Jackson.”
Alex patted the woman’s arm. “Not a problem.”
Why the hell did men not think about the ramifications of their actions before they went totally stupid? And who usually cleaned up the mess and faced the music afterward? Women.
Thank God she’d stayed single. Thank God her mother hadn’t had any other children, she added as an afterthought.
She didn’t have to worry about some guy doing this to her.
Alex called Patton. He certainly didn’t owe her any favors but she had a feeling he would come if she asked. Damn, she missed Hitch.
She realized something about her interaction with the male species. She liked men a lot. A whole lot. But her favorite interactions with men were the ones that resulted in friendship, no matter how they’d started out. Look at her friend Cody at the morgue. They’d had a great physical thing going for a while and stayed friends. That was good. Even Hitch. A pang of regret ached through her. He had made a difference in her life, had an impact. But anything more than the few dates they’d shared had been beyond what she wanted. She was her own boss. She didn’t answer to anyone.
What was so wrong with that?
That last thought prompted an image of Wyatt Murphy. He was exactly the type who liked to be the boss, who liked the power of having a woman answer to him.
Not her type at all.
Men like Murphy were good for one thing only: an all-nighter—just once. Lots of hot, steamy sex for however many hours he could hold out and then walk away. No strings, no regrets.
Unless, of course, he proved to be a killer as well as handsome.
Chapter 17
After waiting with Janet Bell until Detective Patton arrived, Alex went home. She couldn’t do the cleanup until the police released the scene. It was after five o’clock and she was spent.
Murphy, of course, followed her. She conscientiously ignored him.
She peeled off her clothes, and then stood very still for a moment. Janet Bell’s dead brother was just like the other victims she’d encountered lately... alone. If his sister hadn’t checked up on him, how long would it have been before anyone missed him?
Did choosing to stay single mean she’d end up that way? Discovered dead in the bathtub or in bed by some friend or neighbor?
She suddenly wondered who had discovered Hitch? Had he lain dead or dying in his car for hours before anyone noticed?
Why was it that being alone suddenly felt so lonesome?
Alex’s cell rang and she jerked at the unexpected sound. She turned on the shower so the water would warm up, and then grabbed her phone.
“Alex Jackson.”
“We have a problem, Alex Jackson.”
Her free hand struggling with the clasp of her bra, Alex stilled. She didn’t recognize the voice but that wasn’t what sent the chill through her. It was the innately cruel tone that instantly made her understand this was not a former customer calling to complain.
“Who is this?” She reached for a robe, abruptly feeling exposed.
“A friend of Charlie Crane’s.”
She held the phone back from her ear to see if a number registered on the caller ID display. Blocked number.
Resting the phone against her ear once more, she cautiously resumed the conversation. “I’m afraid you’ll need to call Detective Jimmy Patton of Miami Beach PD or the morgue for any information regarding your late friend’s body.”
Silence.
Alex licked her lips and held her breath just to make sure he didn’t pick up on any unsteadiness in her.
“It’s not the body I’m looking for, Miss Jackson. I think you know that.”
She initiated a long, slow breath before responding. “Any personal effects left behind can be obtained from—”
“Miss Jackson, let’s not play games.”
“What do you want?” she demanded, allowing him to hear the annoyance that flared. His irritating monotone was getting on her nerves. Who the hell was this jerk? Obviously someone who wanted the lens. Maybe one of Murphy’s cronies?
“You have something that belonged to Mr. Crane,” he said with total confidence. “I must have it.”
“Look, buddy,” no way was she admitting a damned thing, ”I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about and I’m just about sick of you guys throwing your weight around.”
“Ah. You’ve met Mr. Murphy, I presume.”
Well, duh. “I’ve made his acquaintance.”
“Watch your back with Murphy, Miss Jackson. He’s a very dangerous man. You wouldn’t like him if you knew all the facts.”
“Who says I like him now?” She suddenly wished she’d recorded the conversation. Why was it all this crazy stuff happened when no one else was around to see or hear it?
“There are things you don’t know. Things you don’t see.”
“You’re right there,” she snapped. “Like who killed my friend.”
“Yes.”
She could almost see this jerk nodding his head as if she were a slow learner under his tutelage.
“Detective Hitchcock. You want to know who killed hi
m.”
“Was it you?” Why beat around the bush?
“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Mr. Murphy about what happened to Detective Hitchcock. My only concern is the device you have in your possession.”
She stood her ground. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“We need to discuss this matter, Miss Jackson. It is of the utmost importance that I reclaim the item. I will gladly tell you everything you want to know about Murphy and the danger he represents to you if you’ll meet me face-to-face.”
“Like I’m going to meet you.” Please, what did he take her for?
“Name the place, Miss Jackson. The more public the better. I will be happy to meet on your terms.”
Well now, that put a whole different spin on things. If she could pick the time and place, she was all over it. She had questions for this guy. She owed it to Hitch.
Aventura Mall, Biscayne Boulevard
Alex dressed for the occasion. White low-slung slacks, white scooped blouse and matching summer jacket. The powder-blue pointed-toe flats and matching leather belt were her only concessions to color. The flats were her only allowance for the fear. The lack of heels were better for running if necessary, and the pointed toes were perfect for busting balls. Whether this guy knew it or not, he was dealing with a woman fully capable of meeting whatever challenge he tossed her way.
Not to mention, she had her own private shadow. Murphy would be around here somewhere, watching to see what she was up to.
While she waited near the fountain she contemplated all she knew about Hitch’s death. Not that much. Only that one phone call he’d made to her and what O’Neill had told her. It didn’t take a degree in criminology to know the two things added up to trouble. The whole idea of being in danger over that stupid contact lens—or device—still felt surreal.
But Hitch was dead. Timothy O’Neill’s home was a pile of rubble and his friend was dead. Whatever this was, it was bad and it wasn’t going away.
Her main objective with this meeting was to get a visual ID of this new character to the stage and to determine if he was a good guy or a bad one. What she learned about him, considering his opinion of Murphy, might help her come to more accurate conclusions about both men.