by Debra Webb
Alex opened the door and a blast of metallic odor—coagulated blood—hit her in the face. Her empty stomach roiled in protest. Not even the smell she hated could detract from the stark amazement at what she saw.
A man, fifty-five or sixty she guessed, was hanging 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 from the chair directly behind him that he had apparently stepped off.
At first glance it looked as if the man 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 came 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 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 folks 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 laid claim to 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 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 dumb 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 heard herself say, “you sit with me in the living room and I’ll call a detective friend of mine. He’ll come over without calling it in right away.” The media vultures, as Janet called them, kept their ears peeled on all police frequencies. If the event were called in, the media would come.
“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 ended up cleaning up the mess and facing 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 entered the number for Patton’s mobile. He didn’t exactly owe her a favor but he would come if she asked.
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 Henson. A pang of regret she couldn’t totally dismiss sliced 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.
What was so wrong with that? Did that make her damaged somehow?
The way she saw it, a woman didn’t have to stick with the same guy or marry anyone to be happy over the long haul. She had lots of companions. Just not one who lived in her house or told her what to do.
That last thought prompted an image of Austin Blake. 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 Blake 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.
If Blake killed her friend, he was definitely going to regret it. He might not know it yet, since he thought he owned the world. But he would know. Very soon.
Alex dropped by her house after waiting with Janet Bell until Detective Patton had arrived. She had promised to return for cleanup the moment the police released the scene.
She probably should have gone back to the office but she felt the need to shower and change. No doubt Janet had felt the same upon walking in to find her brother hanging from the ceiling fan.
While they’d waited for Patton to arrive, Janet had told Alex about how she checked on her brother regularly. He’d never married and she worried that his sex fetishes had likely held him back. Alex didn’t comment. She’d bet the same. In her experience guys who needed those kinds of extreme measures to get off were never satisfied with normal physical intimacies.
Alex shuddered as she peeled off her clothes. If she were a shrink she’d want to delve into the guy’s past to find out what had caused him to feel the need for a near-death experience every time he ejaculated. But she wasn’t a shrink. She did, however, feel sorry for the guy’s sister.
She stood very still for a moment. He 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 live alone 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 Henson? 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, 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 showed on the caller ID display. Too late. The only thing it showed right now was talk.
Resting the phone against her ear once more, she cautiously resumed the conversation. “I’m afraid you’ll need to call Detec
tive Jimmy Patton of Miami Beach PD or the morgue for any information regarding the body of your late friend.”
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 Blake’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. Blake, I presume.”
Well, duh. “I’ve made his acquaintance.”
“Watch your back with Mr. Blake, 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 her phone had a record option. Why was it all this crazy shit happened when no one else was around to see or hear it?
“There are things you don’t know.”
“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 Henson. You want to know who killed him.”
“Was it you?” Hey, why beat around the bush?
“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Mr. Blake about what happened to Detective Henson. My only concern is the contact lens you have in your possession.”
Her gaze narrowed and her temper flared. “Since you’re probably the one who’s been going through my things I would think you’d know I don’t have it.” Asshole. She understood that she wasn’t thinking rationally right now but she rarely did when she got this angry. And all the rationality in the world wouldn’t change how badly she wanted to kick this guy in the teeth.
“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 Blake and the danger he represents for 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.
“All right then.” The more she knew about Blake the better she could handle what was to come. And even if this was a setup, she needed to know this new player.
The game had already begun and she was way behind. Any leverage she could obtain was essential. She owed it to Henson.
Alex dressed for the occasion. White low-slung slacks, white scooped blouse and matching summer jacket. The powder-blue pointed-toe stilettos and leather belt were her only concessions to color.
Her maternal grandmother’s advice on the topic had always stayed with her. Always dress your best, she would tell Alex, on two occasions in particular: when you were going to the bank for a loan so they would know you’re good for it; and, whenever you go to the doctor. Alex remembered asking her why she should dress up if she felt sick enough to go to the doctor. Her grandmother would tell her sagely, “So they’ll think you’re worth saving.”
Well, this wasn’t the bank or the doctor’s office, but the idea was the same. She wanted this guy to know that he was dealing with a woman fully capable of meeting whatever challenge he tossed her way.
Besides she always liked to look especially good when she went to the mall. It was impossible to go and not see someone she knew. An old friend from high school or a man she’d dated. Miami was full of guys she’d dated once or twice. Good thing there was a steady flow of new ones moving into town every day.
Life never got boring in Miami.
While she waited near the fountain she contemplated all she knew about Henson’s death. Not that much. Only that one phone call he’d made to her and what O’Neill had told her. But that was enough. It didn’t take a degree in psychology or criminology to know why he’d told the story he had. He’d been made. The cops knew the body they’d removed from his house wasn’t him. The only way he could possibly hope to protect himself was by being incarcerated just as Blake said.
The whole idea of being in danger over that stupid contact lens still felt surreal.
But Henson 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 was big.
Her main objective with this meeting was to get a visual ID of this new player and to determine if he was a good guy or a bad one. What she learned about him, considering his opinion of Blake, would help her come to more accurate conclusions about both men.
Alex checked the time on her cell and surveyed the crowd mingling around in the mall’s main thoroughfare. Lots of people. She wasn’t afraid. He couldn’t touch her here without being caught by mall security. At least two security guards hung out close to the fountain at all times. To prevent potential thieves interested in grabbing a handful of the coins glittering at the bottom of the lovely fountain pool. She waved at one of the guards. They’d dated years ago. He was married now, but they were still friends.
Her senses went on edge as a distinguished gentleman of about sixty moved toward her. Charcoal suit, gray hair, confident stride. Hands right where she could see them and thankfully empty.
“Miss Jackson,” he acknowledged as he moved up beside her at the fountain’s south side.
“Mr…” She frowned dramatically. “I don’t think I got your name.”
“My name is not important.”
Of course it wasn’t. Why hadn’t she thought of that line? She’d heard it in at least three movies.
“Sorry, pal.” She backed away a step. “I don’t talk to strangers.”
Urgency and no small amount of irritation claimed his expression. “My name is Marshall Avery.”
“All right, Mr. Avery”—she folded her arms over her chest—“I want to know what this whole thing is about.”
He smiled. She was certain it was meant to be pleasant or charming but it wasn’t. “It’s about a technology war, Miss Jackson. Our country is losing, save for a few very special projects. The contact lens Crane was wearing is a prototype. If it falls into the wrong hands…” He heaved a monumental breath. “We’re already far behind on too many fronts. We need this development.”
“Why was Crane wearing it?” If it was so top secret and so important, what was a guy like Crane doing with it in Miami?
“Crane was one of our test subjects. A ghost living among Miami’s citizens, overlooked and ignored. The feedback he and the handful of others participating in these tests provide is invaluable to the technology’s success. It is imperative that this unfortunate accident not destroy the whole program.”
She had to admit that what he said made some sense. “If Crane was so important to the program why would he kill himself?” He had to know how important it was to protect the lens. Why jeopardize something this important?
“We believe he was murdered.”
“Why didn’t the murderer take the lens?” He had to give her more than that.
“We can only assume that he was unfamiliar with the design we’d selected for Crane. The various venues of this technology are a closely guarded secret.”
“What exactly is the technology?” Might as well go for the gold. Her curiosity hadn’t be
en this high since she’d made out with Frankie Barker under the bleachers at her old high school’s football field.
“I’m sure you know I can’t share that information.” His smile was a bit more sincere this time. “If you have the lens I must reclaim it. There is no reason for this to burden you further. I’m certain you realize how dangerous this could prove.”
She was relatively certain she’d just been threatened.
“First, I’ll need the rest of the information on Blake you promised. You did say everything. Then we can discuss where the lens might be.” No way was she admitting that she had it just yet.
His eyes tapered with suspicion. “Are you saying you don’t have the lens?”
He was fishing. He or his associate hadn’t found it in her home so he was trying to intimidate her into an answer. She’d been right to be overly suspicious of this guy when he’d called. Thank God she’d had the foresight to properly prepare.
“If you’re not going to hold up your end of this bargain,” she argued, “we have nothing else to discuss.”
“You’re on the verge of making a very serious mistake, Miss Jackson. I would suggest you do all within your power to get the lens back to me in a timely manner. You won’t find anyone else who can protect you from Blake.”
“What about Blake?” He’d told her that Blake was not to be trusted. She wanted to know exactly who Blake was. “Are you telling me he’s an enemy of this country? That he’d steal our technology to sell to someone else for his own benefit?” Wouldn’t that make him a terrorist? “And how do I know you’re not after the same thing?”
His eyes turned cold and hard with impatience. His right hand slid into his jacket pocket. “Miss Jackson, I have a 9 mm Beretta in my pocket. I don’t want to have to use it, but believe me, I won’t hesitate if the necessity arises. Let’s take a walk so that we may discuss the subject further without any interference.”
Alex studied his pocket where his hand now rested. There could be a gun in there. Her heart had started to beat a little faster, pumping adrenaline through her veins. She couldn’t help Henson if she got herself dead. But she couldn’t give this guy what he wanted without knowing who the hell he was and who the hell Blake was. She refused to let Henson’s death be for nothing.