by Debra Webb
Would he tell her more if he thought she and Henson were involved again?
She wasn’t about to lie like that about a friend, especially a dead one.
“No, we were just friends,” she confessed. “I guess I’m stunned that he’s gone. That’s all. He sounded fine to me last night and then I wake up this morning to hear he’s dead.”
“Look, Jackson,” Patton said, his voice somber. “We all look for some way to explain an unexpected death like this. Henson was a top-notch detective and a great friend. He’ll be sorely missed. If there was anything at all besides Fate that played a hand in his death, I’ll find it. You don’t need to worry about that.”
She didn’t doubt his sincerity, but was sincerity enough? Could she convince Patton of what she suspected without the benefit of Timothy O’Neill to back her up? If she did tell him everything and passed this thing—she glared at the plastic bag—on to him, would his life be in danger, as well? But then, he was a cop, danger was part of the job.
What about his wife and child?
How could she knowingly endanger his family? Look at what had just happened to Timothy O’Neill’s friend.
But could she just pretend the explosion and this damned thing had nothing to do with Henson’s murder? It had been murder. O’Neill had seen another man with Henson. One who’d been in control of the situation. Undoubtedly the same one who’d blown up his house.
Now or never. “Remember I told you there was something funny about that guy Crane’s suicide scene? And that I’d given Henson a piece of evidence I thought might be relevant to his death.”
“What was this evidence again? Something about the guy’s eye?” Horns blared in the background. Patton muttered a curse.
Alex bit her lip. Did she tell him everything? Risk involving him despite what she knew could happen? So far everyone who’d touched this whatever the hell it was had either been murdered or nearly so.
Except her.
And that might very well only be because she’d just regained possession of the damned thing.
Okay. The decision was far too monumental to make in the next twenty or so seconds. Maybe she should sleep on it. She could talk to Patton after the memorial service tomorrow.
“It was…it was…” She scrambled to think of how to answer his question without telling him the truth. He’d clearly forgotten what she’d said earlier. “Just an eyeball.” She winced at how lame that sounded.
“An eyeball?” The incredulity echoed in his voice.
“Yeah. I guess it turned out to be nothing.”
She hoped he’d let it go at that. Obviously he hadn’t really been listening to her when she’d visited him at the station, which might actually be a good thing. She needed to think about this some more.
“Wait a minute. You said he called you. That he was excited about this…eyeball. What gives, Alex? You’re sure there isn’t something you’re not telling me?”
Shit. He’d called her Alex. None of the guys ever called her Alex unless they were suspicious or pissed.
Doing the right thing suddenly felt all wrong. She’d almost gone too far to back out. Somehow she had to take a major step back…at least for now.
“You know, Patton, I’d had a couple of beers last night. Maybe I misunderstood. I guess I was just so shocked to hear about his death that I got confused. I should let you go. Give my best to your wife and daughter.”
She hit the off button before he could argue.
She cursed herself for being so wishy-washy. She should have told him, but then he might have ended up dead, too.
“Stick with your plan, Alex,” she muttered. She would sleep on it tonight and make a decision in the morning.
The memory of the pile of rubble that used to be O’Neill’s home zoomed into vivid focus.
Maybe she and Marg should go to Shannon’s house tonight.
What? And take the danger to her best friend?
Not a good idea.
At moments like this Alex really wished she owned a gun. She was usually antiweapons. You couldn’t clean up cranial fragments and massive amounts of blood, which were usually the result of the use or misuse of firearms, and not be a little gun-shy.
She laid the phone back on the sink. First thing she had to do was hide the evidence.
If the guy who’d killed Henson showed up at her house he would likely know how to conduct a proper search. The idea that he might be from some government agency crossed her mind again, but she refused to blame this on the good guys until she knew more.
She needed a place most men wouldn’t look.
Alex got down on her knees and dug around inside the sink cabinet until she found what she was looking for. A box of tampons.
Carefully, she pulled open one end and slid out the tampon. She removed the lower portion of the insertion tube, then gingerly slipped the contact lens from its plastic bag and tucked it into the larger section of the cardboard tube beneath the tampon. Using extreme caution she pushed the lower portion of the tube back into place and returned the whole thing into its plastic sleeve. She then tucked it, sealed end up, into the box, which she placed back under the sink.
She stood and, as she dusted her palms together, got a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She didn’t like the uncertainty she saw there. For about two seconds she almost called Patton back and gave him the whole deal.
The doorbell chimed, saving her from having to decide.
“Saved by the bell,” she muttered as she made her way to the living room.
She’d reached for the door when she considered that this could be trouble. Patton could have decided to stop by. Or it could be the guy who’d killed Henson. All right, she was getting paranoid here. Stay calm. Extra precautions were necessary, that was true, but there was no need to panic just yet.
In spite of her determination to stay calm her skin prickled with the trepidation that fizzed along her nerve endings.
Bracing herself, she leaned forward and peered through the peephole in her door.
The Professor.
Alex pulled the door open wide. “Hey.” She kicked aside her murder theories and reminded herself to smile. “Is this a social call or is something wrong at work?”
His own smile was slow in coming. “A little of both perhaps.”
She stepped back to clear him a path. “Come on in. I was just about to see what I could find in the fridge for dinner. You interested in joining me?” The abrupt yet overwhelming feeling came out of nowhere but she suddenly did not want to be alone this evening.
“I’m always interested in you, Alex.” The Professor entered her home and immediately took stock of the environment though he’d been there at least a dozen times before. “I do love this house,” he noted aloud.
Alex believed him. He frequently commented on how fortunate she was to have such a lovely yet cozy home in this neighborhood. She wondered if he missed Boston or if he simply felt wistful for a place of his own. He lived in a three-story villa that, several decades ago, had been reinvented as apartments.
“Have a seat, Professor. Would you like a beer?”
Disapproval flashed briefly in his eyes. “As long as you serve it in a glass.”
“Sure thing.” Alex restrained her grin until she’d hustled off to the kitchen for refreshments. The Professor had grandiose ideas about how ladies and gentlemen should conduct themselves. Drinking beer from a bottle or, God forbid, a can did not quite reach the standards to which he clung.
That was just one of the things she liked about him.
He was intelligent, charming and had himself some definite standards. She had standards, as well. They just weren’t as lofty as his.
As she poured the brew into a clean glass, stemmed no less, she wondered what prompted his move from Boston. She’d considered asking him on occasion, but reminded herself that he told her from the beginning that he didn’t like talking about his past.
At the time she’d hired him she had been despe
rate for help. Her business had just taken off and she couldn’t afford to be choosy about personal lives. The man was meticulous at the job and that was all that had mattered at the time. Come to think of it, that was still pretty much all that mattered. The fact that she liked him, considered him part of the family actually, was just icing on the cake.
That was the thing Alex liked about Never Happened. The whole gang was like one big family. A shrink would probably say her employees filled a void since she’d grown up without any siblings or a father. Maybe that was a valid point. She definitely saw the Professor as father material.
Unfortunately her mother’s taste had not run to the well-bred. She’d met Alex’s father at a spring break binge. She’d sworn she was eighteen, and the college-freshman-turned-drop-out who’d become her father hadn’t argued. The two had been bad for each other, plummeting into a hell-raising place of no return. Despite fifteen years of trying to survive together, her father had ultimately chosen to leave not only his little family, but the planet. Alex wasn’t sure she would ever forgive him for that. Just another reason not to count on anything or anyone. If a girl couldn’t count on her own father, who could she count on?
Yes, her father had been far different from the man keeping her company just now. While the Professor had been achieving the distinguished career letters that no doubt accompanied his official signature, her father had been drinking, drugging and chasing college girls on spring break. Alex wasn’t sure she could have tolerated him as long as Marg had. But her mother’s tolerance of her father’s no-good ways had come at a price.
One both she and Alex were still paying.
Shrugging off the past, Alex returned to the living room, glasses brimming. “Here ya go.” She presented her guest with his drink, then settled into a chair across from the sofa where he’d made himself comfortable. He wore his usual khaki trousers, crisply starched white shirt and navy bow tie. The only variation in his wardrobe was the Argyle sweater he wore in the winter.
While they drank in silence, Alex couldn’t keep her mind off the piece of evidence she’d hidden beneath her bathroom sink. What did it mean? Who wanted it back? Surely no one in the United States government had killed to get it back. That kind of scenario only happened in the movies.
Timothy’s words echoed in her head, challenging her conclusion.
“What’s the story with Detective Henson?”
That the Professor asked that question startled her when it probably shouldn’t have. “He had an accident.” There she went going all lame again. The Professor knew he’d had an accident. He was the one to tell her, but she couldn’t answer his questions just now.
He studied her, his gaze more probing than she would have liked. “Is what happened to Henson why you’ve been so distracted today?”
Alex sipped her beer, buying some time. The Professor read them all a little too well, but he generally kept his comments to himself. Was she so transparent that he could so easily see the emotional turmoil this situation had caused? She’d thought her actions today had been normal. She’d done her job, hadn’t made any mistakes that she was aware of.
She drew her brow into a thoughtful frown. “Did I seem distracted?”
This was her chance. She could share her troubling secret with someone, get a feel for the believability of the whole thing…but she couldn’t.
She couldn’t endanger anyone else’s life until she had considered exactly what her next step should be.
Maybe she should go straight to the FBI, just skip the locals altogether.
“The owner of the apartment building in Carol City called just before five. He needed to know if you were coming by his office to collect payment since he was about to leave for the day.”
The revelation spun over her like a steamroller. She’d forgotten to collect the payment for the remains she’d cleaned up this afternoon. In all the years she’d been in business she’d never once forgotten to collect.
The Professor must have read the astonishment on her face since he added, “Don’t worry, Shannon was ready to leave for the day so she dropped by to take care of the collection.”
Alex winced inwardly. That meant Shannon knew she’d been off her game, as well. It was a miracle her phone hadn’t rung already.
As if reading her mind he said, “Shannon and her husband have that neighborhood watch meeting tonight.”
Alex checked the clock. The meeting would be over by eight. Her phone would be ringing by eight-ten.
The silence thickened between them. She could feel the weight of the Professor’s question bearing down on her. Both he and Shannon would know she’d been seriously distracted. She should just fess up and get it over with. The whole thing was bound to come out eventually.
Assuming she lived long enough to see it through.
A chill washed over her. Was her life really in danger? The excitement she’d heard in Henson’s voice last night nudged at her. All that Timothy O’Neill had said strong-armed into her worrisome thoughts, too.
“Something strange happened last night.” That was a whopping understatement. “It started with that suicide cleanup. You know, Charlie Crane?”
The Professor nodded. His scarcely touched beer sat on the coffee table now. She had to start keeping some wine around the house for unexpected visitors who preferred something more refined than her favorite beer.
“I found his left eyeball at the scene.” Now for the sci-fi bit. “There was an odd sort of…” She shifted. “It looked like a contact lens only larger and thicker. Kind of metallic-looking around the perimeter.”
He crossed one leg over the other, showing a length of white sock along with a well-polished brown leather loafer. “I assume you gave this unusual item to the detective in charge of the case.”
Her head was moving up and down before he finished his statement. “Rich Henson.”
The Professor stroked his clean-shaven chin. His sandy-colored hair was more gray now than anything, but it was full and well kept. “This is why he called you last night?”
She remembered saying that she’d just spoken to him the night before when she read the article in the Herald about his death. “He called to thank me. He thought it might actually be a computer chip or something. He’d taken it to a friend in Morningside who did the occasional unofficial analysis for him.”
“I see.” He clasped his hands together on his knee. “This is why you were interested in the explosion over in Morningside.”
Did her crew all sit around and discuss what Alex was up to whenever she was out of the office or was this just one of those days when no one had anything better to do?
“Yeah. I went over there. Talked to a few of the neighbors. The guy, Timothy O’Neill, was a computer geek who apparently worked out of his basement.”
“Henson is killed in a freak one-car accident and his friend’s house blows up.” The Professor studied her a moment. “You think it somehow has something to do with the lens.”
This was as far as she intended to go. He didn’t need to know that Timothy was still alive or that the chip-lens was hidden in her bathroom. “I’m certain of it. It’s too coincidental otherwise.” She heaved a woebegone sigh. “His partner thinks he just fell asleep at the wheel. But the accident occurred only a little while after he called me. He was wide-awake and hyped when I talked to him. There’s no way he fell asleep at the wheel.”
“You’ve told this to his partner?”
Back to sticky territory. How much should she tell him? “Most of it,” she admitted.
He twiddled his thumbs as he mulled over what she’d said so far. She hoped he wouldn’t ask any more questions. She really hated to lie to the Professor.
“The way I see it,” he offered, “the only option you have is telling Henson’s partner the whole story and leaving it in his hands. Without Henson or this Timothy fellow or the evidence, there’s very little you can do, Alex.”
Even with the evidence she felt as if her hand
s were tied. “I know. I feel totally helpless.”
The Professor stood. “Well, if there’s anything I can do please let me know.” His gaze held hers a moment before he turned toward the door. “It’s not easy losing a friend so abruptly.”
As she watched the Professor drive away she wondered if he had lost a friend. He’d sounded exactly as if he’d lost someone close and could fully imagine how she felt. She was the only one in denial.
Just another unanswered question in the secret life of her esteemed Professor.
Strange, she decided, how you never really knew a person. Not even yourself.
Except for the dead, of course. Nothing was sacred once a person had stopped breathing. Officials or relatives, sometimes both, pilfered through their belongings. M.E.s and their technicians picked through their remains.
She looked around her living room. What would her home, her belongings reveal about her?
That she lived pretty damned well in a town where money was everything. That she was, at times, vain to a fault. That she lived alone and liked it…most of the time. That as tough as she wanted to look to survive in this man’s ego-driven world her work hauled her smack into the middle of, she wasn’t always.
Everyone had secrets and fears they didn’t want anyone else to know about.
She had her share. Not being as vulnerable as her mother had been was one. Financial security was another. She wanted to stand on her own two feet and never allow anyone or anything to hold her back.
So, yeah, she had secrets. Good and bad.
She thought of the lens she’d hidden in her bathroom. But not all secrets would get you killed.
Enough with the self-analyzing already. She had to get her mind on something else.
Marg was home. She should check in on her. Her unexplained absences today could mean trouble.
Alex locked the door behind her as she left, something she never did when her destination was just up a flight of stairs to Marg’s apartment. But the idea that whoever had killed Henson might be watching her was enough to have her taking a few precautions.
She hustled up the steps to Marg’s door and knocked. The evening news blared from the television so she knocked again just in case the first one hadn’t been loud enough.