Never Happened (6 page)

She never second-guessed herself like this. Evidently the recent rash of deaths involving people who basically lived alone or had no one who looked in on them had gotten under her skin. Yeah, right. If only it were that simple. It was Henson. Dammit.

Shaking off the annoying sentiments, she headed for Carol City. The sooner she dived into the apartment's cleanup, the sooner she'd be done.

The building's super led her to the first-floor apartment where the neighbor had discovered the leak in her ceiling. The fluids had seeped through the ceiling
and oozed down the wall next to her kitchen table. She'd refused to return to the apartment until it was cleaned up and repainted.

No problem for Alex. She'd have this place tiptop in no time.

The apartment on the second floor was a different story. The moment the super opened the door, the stench assaulted Alex's olfactory nerves. Decaying flesh and dissipating putrid gases were never pleasant smells. The tenant had been dead, according to what the M.E.'s office had told the super, at least twelve days. He'd died in his kitchen, lying on the floor, directly above the kitchen on the first level.

Twelve days. That was more than enough time for things to get ugly. Immediately after death the body temperature started to drop, and rigor mortis began, only to reverse itself about two days later. After nearly a couple of weeks putrefaction had already taken place and things were pretty much flat and creamy. The body fluids that had escaped had seeped into everything, including the kitchen downstairs.

Alex donned her hazmat jumpsuit, gloves, et cetera, and went to work, cleaning not only every surface involved but also the air. The gases released
by decomposing body fluids, such as spinal fluid, could be extremely toxic. The better part of the day passed before she was packed up and ready to go. The super planned to do the painting himself, which was fine by her.

She loaded the hazmat bags containing the remains she would need to dispose of into the cargo area of her 4Runner. The jumpsuit, gloves and shoe covers she'd worn were bagged and ready to dump, as well.

Her work was done.

It wasn't that late. She should probably go back by the office after she'd taken care of disposal. Or maybe she'd go talk to Henson's partner again and broach the subject of the contact lens and the house over in Morningside.

All she could do was try to convince him that something very wrong had gone down last night.

“Alex Jackson?”

Alex almost ran off the causeway at the sound of the male voice coming from her backseat.

Her fingers went automatically to the console and the pepper spray she kept there.

“Whoever the hell you are,” she warned, “this stuff is potent. I'm going to pull over.” She was already slowing, simultaneously moving toward the
emergency lane. “And you'd better get the hell outta here as soon as I stop or you'll regret it.”

“Wait! Please. I'm sorry if I scared you.”

She relaxed marginally. Okay, what kind of robber, rapist or killer apologized?

“Who are you?” Though she'd eased off the brake and shifted her foot back to the accelerator, she kept her hand on her weapon.

He cleared his throat. “I'm going to sit up now. Don't freak out, okay?”

She glanced at her rearview mirror. “Okay.” What was he, a leper or something? He'd apologized for scaring her when he was the one who sounded terrified. Not to mention he'd prepared her for whatever she would see when he sat up. What kind of bad guy went to all that trouble?

Green eyes, sandy blond hair appeared in her mirror. Young. Twenty-something, she guessed.

“Who are you?” she asked again, her fight defenses still firmly in place.

“My name is Timothy O'Neill.”

Her surprise had her weaving into the left lane much to the dismay of the other drivers on the street. Horns blasted.

She let go of the spray can and allowed her right
hand to rejoin her left on the steering wheel. At least she knew now why he'd warned her not to freak out.

Her first thought was to ask why he'd been hiding in her car. Second was…hell, she didn't know what. But there was one point she had to raise. “I thought you were dead.”

What the hell was she supposed to do with him? Take him to the police? How had he found her? More importantly, why?

“I'm supposed to be,” he said quietly. He looked away when she would have made eye contact with him again.

“It was a buddy of mine. Back at my house. He was pirating movies and—”

He abruptly shut up.

“Don't worry,” she encouraged, “whatever your friend was doing doesn't make any difference now.”

His jaw worked futilely a couple of times before anything actually came out. “Anyway, last night I was upstairs getting something to eat. I saw Detective Henson's car pull into the drive. I mean—” he cleared his throat again “—I didn't really see his car. It was dark. I saw the headlights, but I knew it was him. I was expecting him. But when he came in he wasn't alone.”

“His partner was with him?” She felt certain that wasn't the case, but she needed to ask. She didn't know Patton that well, but he was one of the good guys. Henson had said as much plenty of times.

“I didn't see the guy but I heard his voice.” He shrank back into the rear seat, looking like a small boy rather than a grown man. “I don't think this was his partner. Detective Henson was saying stuff like
You won't get away with this
and
Leave the kid alone, he was just doing me a favor.
”

A keen sense of anticipation zinged through Alex. She'd been right. Timothy O'Neill was the guy Henson had visited last night. And apparently Henson had met with someone else on his way to Timothy's house. Why hadn't he mentioned that to her? Her breath hitched. He'd said he was getting another call before he said good-night. Could that caller have been the man who killed him?

Henson hadn't been alone. The guy with him had to be the caller, someone he'd rendezvoused with
after
talking to Alex. Goose bumps spilled over her skin. “What did you do, Timothy?”

He was staring out the passenger side window now. “I knew the kid Henson was talking about was me. He always called me
kid.
” His voice sounded distant. “So
I hid. I didn't think. I just reacted. I hid in the pantry. Henson and the dude with him went down to the basement. I could hear all this shouting….”

Ten seconds passed before he spoke again. Alex's heart pounded three times for each one.

“I just froze. I couldn't move. Couldn't call out for help. Not that it would have done any good.”

Alex kept quiet. Let him continue in his own time. She picked up some speed, eased more fully into the flow of traffic on the causeway and tried to focus on driving. Back to her office? Home? She couldn't decide so she just drove.

“There was a lot of noise.”

Alex met his eyes in the mirror but he wasn't looking at her. He was remembering.

“I figured the guy was tearing up my lab. I could hear Lenny. My friend,” he explained. “He was yelling that he didn't know what the guy was talking about. Henson was saying something, but I couldn't make out his words. I knew…” Alex glanced up again, this time his gaze collided with hers in the mirror. “I knew we were all going to die.”

But he hadn't…obviously.

“What did you do then?” she prompted quietly when he remained silent for more miles than she could bear.

“I got out. Ran. Tried to wake one of my neighbors so I could call the police but no one was home. Or they were in bed.” He scrubbed a hand over his pale face. “I made my way back to my house, would have gone back inside to try to stop whatever the hell was going on, but Henson and the guy came out.”

“Did you see the guy's face this time?” Adrenaline did a number on her pulse rate. This could prove Henson's accident was no accident.

“No.” The croaked word was barely audible. “It was dark and I couldn't see from where I was hidden in the shrubs next door.” He released a shuddering breath. “When they'd driven away…I was going to go back and check on my friend….” He blinked. “And the house exploded right in front of me.”

Poor guy. Damn.

“You okay?”

He didn't answer for a moment. Then the idea that she was talking to him kicked in. “Yeah…sure…I'm okay.”

“We should go to the police.” Fury burned through her. The guy he'd left with had no doubt forced him to drive to the very place he would die that night. His accident hadn't been an accident at all. Someone had killed Henson. Someone who had something to
do with Charlie Crane's death and that damned contact lens.

“No way.” Timothy sat forward. “Just let me out here. I'm not going to the police. Whoever the hell that guy was, he wanted just one thing. I'm not getting involved with this. No way. It's too dangerous.”

He scooted to the passenger-side door.

Alex divided her attention between him and the traffic all around her. She had to calm him down. “Let me take you to my place. You'll be safe there.”

“You don't get it.” He looked ready to jump out the door with her moving at fifty-five miles per hour across the causeway. “This thing you gave Henson is like poison. Anyone who touches it is going to end up dead.”

Shifting her full attention back to traffic she tamped down the natural trepidation his words evoked. “What exactly is it?”

“Some kind of new technology storage device, works just like a computer only it's tiny and somehow the brain issues commands through the optic nerve. I've heard rumors about that kind of stuff but I had no idea it existed yet. That thing has a shitload of classified information on it. Most of it's encrypted.”

“What kind of classified information?” She'd
made up her mind. They were going to the cops. If she could keep him distracted long enough he might not even notice until they were there already.

“Government stuff. The kind of stuff we civilians aren't supposed to see if we want to stay alive.”

Government? Classified? She thought about Charlie Crane. He hadn't exactly looked like the James Bond type. But then again, she'd never known a real-life spy.

“Let me out at the next light.”

“Look, Timothy.” She sped through the amber light instead of slowing for the stop, afraid he'd make a run for it. She needed him. Without this guy Patton would never believe her. “We really need to go to the cops.”

He moved up close behind her seat again. “I just wanted to warn you. I figured you deserved a chance to save yourself since Henson liked you so much.”

Her chest tightened. “If we don't go to the police they won't be able to find his killer.”

“I have to stay dead.” Their gazes locked in the rearview mirror once more. “It's the only chance I've got of staying alive.” He reached past her seat and placed a small plastic sandwich bag on her console. “I'd get rid of that thing if I were you.”

She didn't have to look to know it was the lens she'd given to Henson. “You had it on you when Henson and the killer arrived?”

He nodded. “It was too important to leave in the lab with my friend.”

His dead friend.

Damn. This was even worse that she'd suspected.

“Make the next right,” he instructed. “I have to disappear for a while.”

Alex took the turn and found a place along the street to park. A quick check of her mirrors confirmed that she hadn't been followed.

“Do you have a car?” If walking was his plan for disappearing, he needed to rethink his strategy.

“I have transportation,” he told her without telling her anything at all. “Like I said, I would have disappeared already but I needed to warn you.”

“I appreciate that.” What next? She had to convince him that going to the police was the only reasonable option.

“I don't know what he might have gotten out of Henson before he killed him,” Timothy cautioned, “but I wouldn't take any chances. You should disappear, Alex. Or you could end up dead, too.”

Jesus, she hadn't even thought of that. What if
Henson told that guy that she'd seen the contact lens? Would it matter? No. She was certain Henson wouldn't have done anything to endanger her. No way. He would have died first.

Emotion swelled in her throat.

“Timothy,” she countered with as much determination as she could muster, “we have to talk to Henson's partner.”

“You don't get it,” he snapped, “if they know I'm still alive, if they figure out I've contacted you, we're both dead.” He reached for the door handle. “I've done all I can do.”

Alex
sat on her closed toilet lid and stared at the contact lens, storage device, whatever the hell it was that Timothy O'Neill had given back to her. It was hard, like a small piece of glass or firm plastic. Nothing like the usual sort of contact lens.

The words
government, classified, encrypted
kept whirling in her thoughts, getting all mixed up with the idea that this tiny gadget had gotten her friend as well as at least one other person killed.

And it was her fault.

If she hadn't found it.

If she'd just tossed the damned eyeball.

But she hadn't. She'd done her job and now Henson was dead. The worst part was that no one seemed to be aware of how and why he'd died. To say no one cared would be wrong. Henson had too many friends, including his partner. But no one had ruled out the whole “accident” assumption.

She stared at the telephone receiver she'd been clutching in her hand since she'd come into the bathroom. Doing nothing was wrong. She had to do something. Holding her breath, she turned the receiver button side up and entered Patton's number. She knew it by heart after more than an hour of sitting here trying to decide if she should call him or not.

Most likely he'd think she was crazy, but she had to do this for Henson. He deserved justice, by God.

Jimmy Patton answered after only the second ring.

“This is Alex Jackson.”

She didn't actually have to bother with her full name, most of the homicide detectives knew her, but she'd felt the need to make this sound official.

“What's up, Jackson? Oh damn. I was supposed to call you about the memorial service. It's been crazy all day. I'm just now getting away. Gotta get back to the hospital and see my wife and baby girl.”

Alex could hear the pride in his voice as well as the traffic sounds in the background. Patton was apparently on his way home. He drove a convertible T-Bird, kept the top down all year round he was so damned proud of it. She wondered if that would change now that he was a father. He'd probably
convert to a minivan the moment he saw how uncool a car seat looked in the backseat of his T-Bird.

She swallowed, steadied her voice and took the plunge. “Anything new on Henson's accident?”

Silence.

Could he possibly already know foul play was involved? Would he find her question suspicious? After all, she was one of the last people to talk to Henson last night.

“What was that?” he asked. “You cut out there for a sec.”

Wetting her lips, she tried her best not to let her voice reverberate with the tension gripping her throat. “Did you determine if Henson's accident was an…accident?”

“That's what it looks like so far. No reason to suspect otherwise. We're still waiting for a couple more reports.” He hesitated. “What's going on, Jackson? Why do you sound so nervous?”

Damn. Alex cringed. “What was the time and location of that memorial service?” She hoped like hell the abrupt question would derail his suspicion.

“Tomorrow, two-thirty. St. Mary's over on Second Avenue. The family'll conduct a private funeral later, after the autopsy.”

What did she say now? “Thanks. I…just can't believe he's gone.”

Patton made a knowing sound in his throat. “Had you and Henson…you know…thought of getting back together?” He chuckled good-naturedly. “I knew he still had a thing for you.”

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 govern
ment 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 desperate 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.