What She Doesn't See (10 page)

His cell vibrated on the console.
“Murphy.”

“Have you located the device?”

The Director was growing increasingly
anxious. They’d only learned about the breach thirty-six hours ago.
“I’ve narrowed down the location, sir. I should have the device in
my possession within twenty-four hours.”

“You’ve determined the source of the
breach?”

“I have. You’ll have my full report soon,
sir.”

“Very well. I’m counting on you, Murphy.”

“I’m aware, sir.”

The call ended and Wyatt turned his attention
back to the small house where Alex Jackson resided.

He wondered if the lady had any idea how much
danger she was in?

It was time he introduced himself.

Wednesday, July 23

St. Mary’s Cathedral over on Second Avenue
was not only a place of worship it was a beautiful church. Alex had
been here only one other time, but she hadn’t forgotten the lovely
stained glass windows or the panels of metal, mosaic, and ivory
embellishing the huge cathedral’s altar. Handcrafted gold and
precious stone illustrations of the life of Christ as well as glass
mosaics depicting scenes from Mary’s life adorned the
tabernacle.

She wasn’t sure Hitch would have appreciated
the impressive setting or the somber atmosphere, but he would have
gotten a kick out of all the attention.

The place was packed in every available
chamber. Miami Beach’s finest, dressed in their classiest garb, had
come out to pay their final respects. The flames dancing atop the
lit candles flickered, glinting off the crucifix holding court
behind the priest who offered consoling words for the friends and
family of the fallen detective. Alex spotted Jimmy Patton near the
front as she surveyed the hundreds in attendance.

Could one of the men standing in this very
church be the one who’d accompanied Hitch to Timothy O’Neill’s
home? Would he be watching her and wondering what she knew or
didn’t know?

Since there had been no report in this
morning’s headlines of Timothy or his body being found, she could
only assume that he’d succeeded in his determination to disappear.
Not that she could blame him. Someone had tried to kill him, had
killed his friend. Hanging around to see what happened next didn’t
seem like the smart thing to do.

She’d thought this whole situation over last
night, ensuring that she’d slept very little. Her decision was to
give the whole story to Patton, but she would keep the evidence
tucked safely in her bathroom for now. She just couldn’t risk
letting it out of her possession. It was the only proof she had of
what really happened to Hitch. All she really wanted was for Patton
to take a closer look at the cause of Hitch’s accident. If he
believed the tragedy was no accident, then that would ensure a full
investigation.

If he refused to believe her, well then she’d
have to regroup and try another tactic. She might very well end up
having to give him the lens, but that would be a last resort for
now. She had to protect herself while protecting anyone else whose
life the lens might endanger. Hitch was dead. As much as she wanted
the man responsible for his death to pay, endangering anyone else
at this point didn’t feel like the right thing to do. Hitch would
agree with her. The lens alone didn’t prove anything. The so-called
accident and explosion were the two elements the police needed to
focus on. If she could somehow make Patton see the connection that
would be a tremendous step in the right direction.

The other big question left up in the air
was, did the mystery man who’d killed Hitch and Timothy’s other
friend know about her involvement?

Had Hitch told him where he’d gotten the
lens?

Probably not, she decided, since no one had
approached her. Hitch had likely protected her. She had to see this
through for him. She owed it to him. He’d been a great guy and
hadn’t deserved to go that way.

She wished now that she had questioned
Timothy O’Neill a bit more. Since Hitch hadn’t taken the lens to
the police lab and he hadn’t spoken to his partner about it, she
had to assume that the analysis O’Neill had done had tipped off the
bad guy. O’Neill had either called someone and asked questions or
looked for information on the Internet. Whichever strategy he’d
used, a red flag had gone up and brought the enemy to his door.

Then again, the enemy had been with Hitch
when he returned to O’Neill’s house. So was it something Hitch did
or said that prompted the bad guy?

There wasn’t any way for her to know the
answer to that question. She doubted she could find O’Neill again
if she tried. The cops thought he was dead. There was another thing
she couldn’t do. She couldn’t rat out O’Neill. As long as the bad
guy or guys thought he was dead the kid was safe. He’d already lost
his friend and his home. He deserved a break.

What she could tell Patton was looking less
and less substantial.

As the service came to a close a man hurried
up the aisle to where Detective Patton now stood. Alex didn’t
recognize the guy until he turned slightly to speak with Patton.
Detective Winston from the scene where the explosion had taken
place. Mr. Dickhead.

He said something for Patton’s ears only and
they rushed out of the sanctuary. As if the two men had somehow
given the crowd gathered an order of dismissal with their hasty
exit, the main aisle suddenly filled.

Alex didn’t bother fighting the crowd to
catch up. She could touch base with Patton at his office. Besides,
the discussion they needed to have would be best held in private.
Then again, Winston could have arrived with news related to the
case. Since he had been working the scene of the explosion, maybe
he had learned that the victim pulled from the ashes was not
Timothy O’Neill.

If that were the case, technically she could
tell Patton what O’Neill had said without outing him as still being
alive since they would already know.

Eventually the final row in front of her
emptied and her opportunity to file into the aisle presented
itself.

Outside, the sun blazed like Hades itself.
Black wasn’t exactly a great color in the heat of a Miami summer
day. But then, no well-groomed lady went to a funeral or memorial
service wearing anything else. Black dress, scoop neck, capped
sleeves and just above the knee in length. Alex had chosen her
favorite pair of heels, black-and-white zebra pattern on the
outside, contrasted by a red lining inside. Hitch would have
approved. That too-familiar pang of regret tugged at her.

Miami’s esteemed mayor as well as every
high-ranking member of Miami-Dade brass mingled in the parking
area. She’d heard various and sundry comments about what a shame
the accident had been, and asides as to how much Louis Hitchcock
would be missed.

Alex shook her head. All those cops and not
one had a clue that Hitch had been murdered.

It seemed impossible. Whoever was behind the
murders knew how to fool everyone. Patton’s hasty dash out of the
church slid to the front of her thoughts. Maybe there had been a
new development.

“About damn time,” she muttered. She almost
bit her tongue when she considered that she was scarcely out the
door of God’s house and she was swearing.

She glanced skyward and mumbled a sorry. Not
that He wouldn’t expect her to swear. She’d learned how to cut a
guy off at the knees with nothing more than her razor-sharp tongue
long ago. Despite her career, she considered herself antiviolence.
Maybe that would count for something even though about the only
time she came to church was when someone died. Except for the
christening of Shannon’s children. Even Marg went to church at
least once a month. They’d only gone to church at Christmas and
Easter when Alex was a kid. She couldn’t recall exactly when her
mother had decided to grace the doors more often.

“One of the great mysteries of the universe,”
she mumbled as she strolled across the lot to her SUV.

“Damned hot day for wearing black.”

Alex’s head came up and her gaze collided
with a stranger leaning against a black Mercedes parked next to her
4Runner. Not just any Mercedes, mind you. One of those sporty
two-seaters that cost a small fortune. As she watched, he reached
up and removed a pair of aviator sunglasses.

The black suit he wore was expensively cut.
She didn’t have to touch it to recognize the fabric was silk and
would no doubt sport a designer label. A narrow black tie
contrasted a white shirt that looked crisp and fresh in spite of
the sweltering humidity. About the only clue the guy wasn’t blessed
with his own personal bubble of refrigerated air was the fine beads
of sweat gathered on his forehead.

And what a nice forehead he had. Broad, but
not too much. Square jaw, long, straight nose. Eyes so pale blue
they were almost silver. Nice lips, though she doubted they smiled
often. His expression was too… something. Not exactly hard or
rigid... controlled. Yes. That was the word for this stranger.
Controlled
.

The beach bum blond hair was short and thick.
The image of her running her fingers through his hair while making
him lose control abruptly flashed in her naughty mind.

Jesus. First she was swearing not twenty feet
from the church doors, now she was having sexual fantasies halfway
across the parking lot.

She was definitely going to hell.

“Can’t wear anything else to a memorial
service.” She walked past him, feeling the weight and heat of his
stare, and paused at the driver’s side door of her vehicle to dig
for her keys.

“You have a flat tire.”

Startled that he’d followed her around to the
other side of her vehicle, she jumped a little. The reaction ticked
her off. Or maybe it was that he recognized her response that
annoyed her.

His words penetrated her irritation and she
stared down at her rear tire. Flat. The rim sat all the way down on
the asphalt. Damn. How had that happened? And why hadn’t she
noticed? Because she’d been too busy checking out the handsome
stranger.

All four tires had been fine when she’d
arrived.

“That’s why I was hanging around.” He
strolled closer, his hands in his pockets. “I thought whoever owned
this SUV might need some assistance.”

“I have Triple-A.” She reached into her bag
and fished out her phone. “Thanks anyway. Besides, I wouldn’t want
you to soil your nice suit.”

“I don’t mind at all.” He shrugged. “Triple-A
could take hours to get here.”

Unfortunately, the remark was far too
accurate. She’d once sat on the causeway for ninety minutes waiting
for the serviceman to arrive. Then again, the serviceman had been a
great date that same night.

Not about to let the guy think he could do
something she couldn’t, she clarified the situation. “I could
change it myself if not for the dress.” No point in giving the good
folks lingering around St. Mary’s a show to watch.

“I’m sure you could handle most anything that
came your way, Miss...?” He inclined his head and studied her.

“Alex.” She shifted her phone to her left
hand and stuck out her right. “Alex Jackson.”

He gripped her hand. Firm, steady grip.
“Wyatt Murphy.”

With her stiletto advantage he was still two
or three inches taller than her. Six-one or two. Maybe a hundred
eighty pounds. Athletic.

She dropped her phone back into her bag. “I
guess I’ll take you up on your offer if you’re sure you don’t
mind.”

The jacket came off and she got a tantalizing
visual confirmation as to his lean athleticism. The white shirt fit
his torso as if it had been tailor-made for him.

“It would be my pleasure.” He passed his
jacket to her and set to the task.

Curiosity propelling her, she checked out the
label. Versace. Very nice. Who was this guy? She strolled around to
the back of her SUV and watched while he removed the spare. When
that was done, he grabbed the necessary tools for the job and
placed them on the asphalt.

“Excuse me.” He moved around her to crouch by
the deflated tire.

“Tell me, Mr. Murphy,” she moseyed on over to
continue observing his progress, “what does a guy who wears Versace
and drives a car that cost six figures do? Can’t be a cop.”

She was being nosy, but what the heck? A girl
could never be wary enough of strangers offering gifts or
assistance. Even if said offered assistance was provided on holy
ground.

With the SUV jacked up, he started to loosen
the lug nuts. He paused to glance up at her. “You think a cop can’t
be independently wealthy?”

Okay, he had her there. Miami was the home of
the rich and the infamous. He could be the son of some mogul. The
thing was she kept an eye on the social pages and she’d never heard
of him.

It was her one weakness when it came to
current events—she adored celebrity gossip. Whether international
royalty, local heiresses, or Hollywood’s elite she couldn’t get
enough of reading about them. No one—absolutely no one— knew that
little secret. Shannon, who read nothing but the
real
news
and historical romance novels, would never let her live it down. It
was an easy addiction to conceal since Marg bought every gossip rag
on the newsstand. Marg borrowed Alex’s clothes, and Alex borrowed
her magazines and newspapers. The difference was Marg never knew.
She thought Alex took care of her recycling so she didn’t have to
lug it down the stairs.

“Where’s your gun?” Alex challenged.

He nodded toward his fancy car. “In the
console. I didn’t feel it was appropriate to take a weapon into the
service. Besides, I’m sure there were plenty of armed officers in
attendance.”

“So you’re a cop.” She shifted her weight,
planting one stiletto-clad foot slightly in front of her. The move
accomplished her goal, his gaze traced a path from her ankle to the
hem of her dress. “With Miami-Dade County? Miami Beach? North
Beach?”