Never Happened (8 page)

She laughed. “Maybe because I'm not sure you'll believe me.” No one ever guessed her occupation.

He slid the spare tire into place before meeting her gaze. “You're a professional cleaner.”

The wariness she'd let slide bumped back up a notch. “What makes you say that?”

“I smelled a hint of something stronger than the garden-variety disinfectant when I opened your cargo door.”

As hard as she tried she couldn't keep her vehicle completely free of the hazards of her work. That was why she'd had a special partition installed between the
backseat and the cargo area. At least she could keep any lingering odors out of the passenger compartment.

“You guessed it, I'm a cleaner.” For all he knew she was a maid. Half the Hispanic population made good wages keeping the homes of the Miami elite spit-and-polished.

“But not just any kind of cleaner,” he went on as he gave the lug wrench a violent twist to tighten a third nut back into place.

“My turn,” she countered. “You knew Detective Henson?”

“Are we still playing the guessing game or am I supposed to give you a straight answer?”

The more he relaxed the more charm he allowed into his eyes. His smile almost looked genuine now. Some of that fierce control had melted. Maybe from the heat rising from the asphalt.

“A straight answer would be nice.”

“I'm investigating his death.”

No way could she have reacted quickly enough to veil her expression. “What do you mean? He had an accident, right? That's what the papers said.”

“Did he?” He locked another nut into place with enough pressure to match an air wrench.

“His partner seems to think so.” She was hedging.
Whatever this guy knew, he was on a digging expedition. Her gaze narrowed. His parking and then waiting by her vehicle was no coincidence, she deduced, any more than the flat tire had been.

“But you don't think so.” He tightened the final lug nut and popped the wheel cover into place.

Her wariness had shot to full scale alert now. Who was this guy?

Shrugging casually, she refused to confirm what could only be his theory. “I don't agree with the idea that he fell asleep at the wheel,” she admitted. The only way this fed could know anything was if Patton had told him what she'd said about talking to Henson the night of the accident. “Henson and I spoke briefly and he sounded fine. It's my understanding the accident occurred a short time later. He just didn't sound sleepy or even tired to me.”

Blake stood, grabbed the flat tire and walked around her to heft it into the cargo area. He picked up the tools next and put them away before saying more.

He swiped his palms together to dust them off. “What did you talk about?”

Uncertain as to just how much she should share with this handsome stranger, she hesitated a couple seconds too long.

“I could obtain a warrant.”

A warrant? “You're going to arrest me to get the details of a personal telephone conversation?” Why were the feds suddenly interested in Henson's accident?

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

Maybe Timothy O'Neill was more right than he knew.

“I wouldn't have to arrest you, Alex,” Blake said as he closed the cargo door. “I could bring you in as a person of interest to the case.”

“To what case?” She tossed the words back at him, still refusing to admit to anything more than what she'd said already. “Why didn't Detective Patton say anything about Henson's accident being under further investigation?”

There was something wrong about this whole situation. Anger started to simmer low in her gut. If Patton had suspected something he should have told her. He had no business leaving her in the dark like this.

Then again, she had pretty much left him in the dark.

“Detective Patton only knows what he needs to know. This is my investigation. The locals have been instructed as to the hands-off nature,” Blake said,
drawing her away from her frustrating thoughts. He reached for his jacket and folded it neatly over his left arm.

The mixture of irritation and wariness had just given way to something a little more significant—like outrage—when another idea kicked its way into her evolving conclusions.

This could be
the man.

The man who'd arrived at the O'Neill home with Henson. The same one who'd killed him.

“Thanks for taking care of the tire.” She stretched her lips into a fake smile. “I'd love to stay and chat some more, but I have an appointment.”

Call her dramatic, but she had to say that when Blake reached into the interior pocket of his jacket—even though she'd held said jacket and knew he couldn't possibly have been carrying a weapon without her noticing the additional weight—her breath caught.

“Take my card.” He held out an elegantly embossed business card. “I'd like you to call me if you remember anything that might be helpful to this case.”

She reached for the card, but he held on to it long enough to add, “I'm quite certain you want to see justice done.”

He released the card and walked away.

Alex was still standing there when he drove off in his sporty red Mercedes.

She stared down at the card. It told her two things. His name and a telephone number, mobile probably.

Shouldn't Federal Bureau of Investigations be inscribed on the card?

If only O'Neill had gotten a look at the guy who'd been with Henson. She couldn't be sure if this Blake character was a good guy or a bad guy.

What she needed now was to talk to Patton. If the feds were investigating Henson's accident, the locals would have to know. Blake had said as much, called his investigation hands-off as far as the locals were concerned.

Alex slid behind the wheel of her 4Runner and cranked the engine. She set the air-conditioning to maximum and dug for her phone. With Miami Beach PD on speed dial, she entered the necessary number and pushed her hair behind her shoulders to let the cooling air flow over her throat.

When Patton came on the line, she didn't mince words. “Hey, why didn't you tell me that the feds were investigating Henson's accident?”

A heavy sigh echoed across the line. “What the hell are you talking about, Alex?”

Alex. She saw how it was.

“I'm talking about this guy Blake. He grilled me in the church parking lot. You could have told me last night when I called.”

“Look.” Another deep breath. “I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about. We're all upset that Henson is dead. I know the memorial service was tough on everyone. But for Christ's sake, Alex, you've got to stop making things worse by coming up with these accusations. Henson is dead. So far it just looks like a tragic accident.”

“You didn't sic some fed on me about that call Henson made to me the night he died?”

“Of course not. Why would the feds be involved in this case anyway?” Patton sounded tired. Tired and disgusted. “Like I told you before, we're checking out every aspect of the accident. If anything—and I mean anything—was out of sync we'll find it.”

But they wouldn't find it. Not only were they looking in the wrong place, they had no idea what they were looking for.

One
of the nicest things about being unattached was the fact that you didn't have to let anybody know when you were coming or when you were going. You just did what you wanted to do.

Alex parked in her driveway and strode up the walk to her front door. She didn't have to answer to anyone but herself. It was the most liberating feeling in the world. She liked having that power over her destiny.

She'd worked hard to gain her financial freedom. The road hadn't always been easy, but that made victory all the sweeter.

As she unlocked her front door she wondered how any woman could tolerate the compromises of monogamous commitment. Alex just didn't get it. Men were great. She loved men! But there were far too many out there to simply settle for one.

Maybe that was a selfish attitude but there was no
point in lying to herself. She knew what she liked and she went after it.

Take Blake for example. A guy like him could be a challenge. Intriguing on a number of levels. The whole mystery behind who he was and what he actually did for a living could jump-start the most lethargic libido. She could just imagine how many layers of control concealed the real man beneath that expensive suit.

He was the kind of guy a girl would have to get to one layer at a time.

The possibility that he could be Henson's killer had her chucking all thoughts of how sexy the guy was. As interesting as he was, the only thing she really wanted to know about Blake right now was whether or not he'd had anything to do with Henson's murder. At this point she was reasonably sure that launching a murder investigation of her own was the only way one would happen. Patton was not picking up on her hints. Whatever was going on, somehow Patton was completely out of the loop.

Considering everyone in the loop but her and the killer were either dead or presumed dead, Patton's position was more than a little advantageous.

She, Alex considered as she closed and locked
the door behind her, was in a far more precarious situation. If Blake suspected she knew something, who else did? The man who had killed Henson. Probably the same one who'd blown up the O'Neill home.

This, of course, was assuming Blake wasn't the bad guy. She knew herself well enough to know that her readiness to give him the benefit of the doubt had way too much to do with his charisma.

Not a good thing under the circumstances.

Her mother's comment about how alike they were nagged at her but she ignored it. They were total opposites. Anyone who knew them would say the same. Alex liked being in control. She liked standing on her own two feet. She liked doing things her way.

Her mother was rarely in control of her destiny. She was wholly dependent upon Alex for a place to live and a job. Her relationships always ended badly.

'Nuff said.

Alex tossed her bag onto the sofa and kicked off her stilettos. She'd peel off the dress later. First she wanted a beer and something to crunch on. She'd totally forgotten lunch except for a bag of chips, and grease didn't, technically, count as a food group.

She grabbed a Michelob from the fridge and quenched her thirst. After throwing together a ham
sandwich and snagging her shoes she headed to her room to get comfortable with the stack of magazines she'd borrowed from Marg's apartment. She smiled. Even if she died tonight, Shannon would just assume Marg had left the gossip rags at Alex's house or that Alex had confiscated them for some reason.

She stopped. Just because both she and Marg liked the gossip rags didn't mean they were alike.

They were nothing alike.

Not that Alex felt hostile toward her mother, not at all. She simply recognized the glaring differences, like Marg's total dependence on others while Alex was überindependent.

She wasn't going to think about that anymore. She went into her room and put the shoes away in her closet, set her half-empty beer and sandwich aside and was just about to wiggle out of her dress when she noticed the earring glittering on the carpet.

It was one of those freak things. The tiny gold-and-pearl stud was so small it was a miracle she saw it at all. Somehow her gaze just happened to land in the right spot and recognition fired in the only two brain cells she had left that were paying attention.

She bent down and picked it up. Since she remembered well that she hadn't worn those particu
lar earrings in ages, months even, her face gathered into a frown.

Placing the earring on the top of her jewelry box, she opened the first dresser drawer—the one where she kept her panties. Things appeared in order. She recalled that two nights ago she'd noticed that her mother had messed with her stuff. She'd meant to mention that to her and she'd forgotten.

Determined to be sure her mother hadn't borrowed anything else, Alex went through drawer after drawer. The more she opened and slammed closed, the angrier she got. It wasn't so much a particular garment or item out of place it was the keen awareness that her things had been moved…touched.

She marched to her closet next. Oh, Marg had been careful. Every dress, blouse, pair of slacks and shoes was exactly where they were supposed to be, but Alex could sense the change, however subtle. A triumphant smile slid across her lips when her gaze lit on the pink suit Marg had borrowed for her third date with Robert.

Alex checked her jewelry box. Not that she had anything expensive, but just to see if Marg had actually borrowed a pair of earrings or if she'd just been looking to see if Alex had bought anything new lately.

The frown laid claim to her face again. Now this was where her mother had fallen down on covering her tracks. The earrings were paired together but not in the same place they'd been. Not that Alex was a neat freak or anything but she kept the ones she wore most often on top, the rest in the bottom compartment.

She slammed the box shut, finished off her sandwich and beer to give herself a couple minutes to cool off, then she stormed out the front door and straight up to Marg's apartment. A couple of bangs later and her mother came to the door, wearing a jade sheath that fit like a second skin and a pair of Alex's shoes she'd completely forgotten about since they'd been gone from her closet for so long.

“I wondered where those had gotten to,” she said, giving the green snakeskin shoes a confirming glance.

“Alex! I borrowed them from you for the Christmas party. Don't you remember?”

Marg Jackson looked fantastic in the outfit. Her figure was remarkable for a woman her age, with or without a gym membership. Even her face lacked the usual wrinkles associated with AARP eligibility and years in the Florida sun. She had to hand it to
her mother, the woman swore by SPF 45 or above sunblock. No matter how great the genes, sun damage could ruin the prettiest face.

“That was Christmas before last,” Alex reminded. “And you haven't returned them yet.”

“I promise I'll have them back to you tomorrow. Right now I have to go. I'm meeting some friends for dinner.”

Suspicion overrode the bone Alex had to pick with her mother. “What friends?” She hadn't heard Marg talking about any new friends. And all her old friends were party girls who lived to drink and vice versa.

“New friends,” she returned. “You don't know them.”

“I don't have dinner plans,” Alex suggested. “Maybe I could meet your friends, as well.”

Marg looked nervous. Dammit. Alex wanted to shake her. When would she learn? She couldn't keep screwing up. There had to come a time when she realized that she was wasting her life on booze and bad relationships. As far as Alex was concerned that time was now.

“Okay,” Marg admitted, “you've outted me. These aren't new friends. It's a support group.”

“AA?” Alex was shocked. Her mother had outright refused to join Alcoholics Anonymous. She'd insisted the group was for those too weak to quit drinking on their own. What had changed her mind? Or maybe this was a trick. “Which group?”

Marg exhaled an impatient breath and dug a card from her purse. Alex shook her head as she realized the purse was hers, too. Of course her mother would borrow it, it matched the shoes.

“Here.” She shoved the card at Alex.

SDA. What the hell? Sexual Dysfunction Association. About five more seconds were required before she fully absorbed what she'd just read. She shifted her attention back to her mother, who looked less than pleased to have been discovered.

“This is good.” It was all Alex could think to say. Apparently Richard Simmons hadn't been enough.

Marg snatched the card back. “We'll see. You know I don't put much stock in support groups.”

That she was even going was a flat-out miracle. “I'm glad you're making the effort.”

Marg gave a little smirk. “Maybe you should join, too.” She stepped out onto the stoop.

Incensed, Alex huffed. “There's absolutely nothing wrong with my sex life.”

“Really?” Marg gave her a haughty look. “I suppose you consider avoiding commitment at your age normal?”

“Yes.” Yes, she did. Just because she was forty didn't mean she had to be married. There were no rules this day and time about how old was too old to still be single.

Marg made a dismissive sound as she locked her door behind her. “Denial is a powerful enemy.”

Her mother stepped around her and started down the stairs. Alex stared after her in astonishment for two beats before understanding bobbed to the surface. Marg had done that to change the subject.

“Hey!” Alex marched down the steps after her. “We're not finished yet.”

At the bottom of the steps, Marg turned to face her daughter. “Make it fast I don't want to be late.”

“Look.” Alex forced herself to be calm. This was her mother. No need to get nasty, even if she had played the commitment card. “You know I don't mind when you borrow my clothes and stuff.”

“I always get whatever I borrow cleaned,” Marg cut in. “And I never lose or damage anything.”

Alex thought about the earring but decided to let that go. She'd dropped her share in the past. “True.
But I don't like you coming into my house and going through my stuff without asking first.”

Marg threw up her hands. “I went straight to your closet and got the pink suit then returned it the very next day. I didn't touch anything else.”

And just moments ago she'd been taking Alex down the road about denial. “Mother—”

Marg cleared her throat in warning.

“Marg, you jumbled up my jewelry box. You went through my drawers. Just admit it and we'll get past it. I can let it slide this time.”

Okay, Alex realized that she was being hypocritical considering she'd borrowed—and she used the term in its loosest form—her mother's magazines without asking. But that was different. She went behind her back to protect her secret. Marg just did it because she was Marg, she thought the world revolved around her.

“I did not touch your jewelry box.” She folded her arms over her ample chest. “I did not open a single one of your drawers. I went straight to your closet and took the pink suit. I had my own pink sandals. And I borrowed these shoes ages ago.”

Alex started to argue with her, but the fury in her mother's eyes stopped her. Marg was telling the truth.
About the only thing she'd ever lied to Alex about anyway was her drinking.

“So you haven't been in my stuff.”

Marg shook her head adamantly from side to side.

Something far too close to fear flashed through Alex. “I apologize for accusing you. I just thought…”

Concern marred her mother's smooth complexion. “You think someone has gone through your things?”

Alex shrugged and laughed it off. There was no need to upset Marg. She was taking a big step going to this support group. The last thing Alex wanted to do was give her an excuse not to go.

“I'm probably overreacting.”

Marg patted her arm. “We've all noticed how upset you've been about the death of your detective friend. You should just relax this weekend. Rescue Shannon from domestic slavery and go to a spa.”

Well there was an idea. “Maybe I will.”

When Marg would have headed toward her sexy Miata, Alex grabbed her and hugged her. “I want you to know I'm really proud of you for taking this step.”

Her mother drew back, looking a little startled and a lot suspect. “Are you sure you're okay, Alex?”

Alex laughed again, the sound strained. “I'm fine.
Go. I'll do like you said and drag Shannon away from the house for the evening.”

“Good.”

Alex watched her mother drive away in her sporty red car. Blake's Mercedes had been that same shade of sexy red.

Was he the one who'd gone through her house?

Okay, maybe she was letting her imagination run away with her. She needed a heavy dose of reality.

Who better to give it to her than Shannon?

 

Shannon Bainbridge and her husband, Bobby, lived in a Mediterranean style house in north Miami Beach. Quiet neighborhood, good schools and escalating real estate values.

Shannon's kids, a boy and a girl, were off in college, one at Florida State the other at Georgia Tech, both on academic scholarships. Husband Bobby worked in construction and had achieved the status of project manager. Until Alex opened Never Happened Shannon had been a domestic engineer.

Since the kids had already been in high school, Alex concluded that she had saved her friend from a life of boring sameness—cleaning, cooking and shopping.

Alex rang the bell and took the time to appreciate Shannon's gorgeous landscaping. The woman had it going on outside and in. It was part of her Type A personality. Everything had to be perfect.

Every vine, every flowering shrub and potted plant served a curb-appeal purpose. The same space-conscious attitude defined the interior. From the architectural features of the ceilings and the paint on the walls to the gleaming tile on the floor, not a single opportunity to impress had been missed.