What She Doesn't See (12 page)

“Okay,” Marg admitted, “I’m busted. These
aren’t new friends. It’s a support group. Alcoholics
Anonymous.”

“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. When Alex realized the purse was hers, too,
she shook her head. Of course her mother would borrow the bag, it
matched the shoes.

“I thought I’d give it a try.”

Surprised—no, startled, Alex struggled with
how to respond for a moment. “This is good.”

Marg lifted her chin and squared her
shoulders. “We’ll see.”

That she was even going ranked right up there
in the scope of miraculous. “I’m glad you’re giving it a try.”

Marg gave a little smirk. “Maybe you should
join one, too.” She stepped out onto the stoop. “There are support
groups for those who have commitment phobias.”

Incensed, Alex huffed. “I don’t have a
commitment phobia.”

“Really?” Marg gave her a haughty look. “I
suppose you consider still being single 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 in
this day and age 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 adversary.”

Her mother stepped around her and started
down the stairs. Stunned, Alex stared after her 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 remain 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
things.”

“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 telling me.”

Marg held up the green clutch. “I went
straight to your closet and got this bag. 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.”

Okay, Alex realized she was being
hypocritical considering she’d borrowed—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.

“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.”

Alex started to argue with her, but the fury
in her mother’s eyes stopped her. Marg was telling the truth.

Virtually the only thing she’d ever lied to
Alex about anyway was her drinking.

“So you haven’t gone through my things.”

Marg shook her head adamantly from side to
side.

Something far too close to fear seared
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 take this weekend for yourself. You work too hard. Rescue
Shannon from domestic slavery and go to a spa.”

“Maybe I will.”

When Marg would have headed toward her car,
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 suspicious. “Are you sure you’re okay,
Alex?”

Alex laughed again, the sound strained. “I’m
fine. Go. I’ll call Shannon and see what she’s up to.”

“Good.”

Alex watched her mother drive away in her
ancient but sporty red BMW convertible. On the other side of the
street, parked in plain sight was Murphy’s snazzy black Mercedes.
The windows were down and the handsome agent or whatever he was sat
watching her. He nodded once.

Alex gave him her back. She was changing
clothes, and then she was out of here.

Apparently Wyatt had not made the best
impression on Miss Jackson. He had followed her as she drove to her
home. He was surprised she hadn’t gone to the office. It had been
after five, but based on his observations he’d concluded that Alex
was driven and work oriented. He found those qualities surprising.
When he’d first reviewed her background file, he’d expected her to
be more of a party girl. Never married. No children. No steady
relationships.

She wasn’t that person at all. Alex Jackson’s
primary goal appeared to be taking care of people—her mother in
particular.

She hadn’t been home more than a couple of
minutes when she’d stormed up to her mother’s apartment. He’d had
to adjust the volume on his communications link as the two ladies
argued. It wasn’t exactly an argument, more a difference of
opinions. A smile tugged at his lips. Alex Jackson was one
determined, strong willed woman. She appeared to value her
relationships with her friends and her mother above all else.

Her background file had provided the fact
that her father was deceased and the manner of his death. He had to
respect a woman who could take charge of her life at fifteen and
make it as far as Alex had, with her alcoholic mother in tow.

Why was it that her ability to bond so well
with her friends didn’t extend to any romantic interests?

“What’re you afraid of, Alex?” Not much, he
would wager. But something.

She exited her house again and climbed into
her SUV without sparing him a glance. She was headed to her friend
and coworker’s home. He eased out into the street and followed. She
didn’t like that he followed her. He imagined she didn’t like
anything that made her feel out of control.

An alert on his phone drew his attention. He
played the voicemail from the analyst tasked with monitoring the
activities of the local police. Evidently Alex had called a PD
contact and mentioned Wyatt. A Detective Patton had initiated a
search on Wyatt’s name. He wouldn’t find anything. When a man’s
identity was buried as deep as Wyatt’s, a great deal more than a
mere database search was necessary.

Alex knew someone had been in her house.
Unless Wyatt interceded, she would likely find the bugs he’d
planted. The one in her SUV wasn’t operating correctly so he had
missed any conversations she had in the vehicle. He’d have to take
care of that tonight.

She reached her destination and parked in the
drive. Wyatt eased to the curb across the street. He liked watching
her. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d found a woman so
intriguing.

She was off limits, of course. In this game,
she was a player, albeit a reluctant one. Not once in his career
had he allowed himself to get personally involved on the job. He
wouldn’t start now.

His orders were simple. Regain control of the
device and determine the identities of all the players.

If Alex Jackson were smart, she would play
this his way.

He really didn’t want her to become part of
the collateral damage.

Shannon Bainbridge and her husband, Bobby,
lived in a Mediterranean style house in North Miami Beach. The
neighborhood was quiet with good schools and escalating property
values. Shannon’s kids, a boy and a girl, were off in college, one
a freshman at Florida State and the other a sophomore at Georgia
Tech, both on academic scholarships. Husband Bobby worked in
construction and had achieved the status of project manager.
Shannon had been a domestic engineer until Alex opened Never
Happened.

Since the kids had already been in grade
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. It was part of her
friend’s 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.

Bobby had the know-how, but Shannon had the
vision.

The red paneled door swung open wide. “Alex!
What’re you doing here?’

“You’re not on your way out, are you?” Alex
knew the answer before she asked. Shannon and Bobby went out one
night per week and Wednesday night wasn’t it. They had a schedule
for everything, even sex. The scary thing was they never deviated.
Is that what happened after twenty years of marriage?

“Absolutely not. Come in.” She ushered Alex
inside and closed the door. “Bobby!”

Her sweetheart of a husband sauntered into
the entry hall. “Alex! You’re looking mighty fine as always.”

When she’d changed out of the funeral dress,
she’d grabbed her favorite red mini skirt, the matching tank top
and heels. At the last minute she’d grabbed a silver chain belt and
draped it low on her hips. If Murphy intended to keep an eye on her
the least she could do was keep it interesting.

Thank God Shannon didn’t mind her husband’s
gawking. That was another thing that appeared to evolve the longer
a couple was together—the length of time a man’s gaze was allowed
to stray.

Shannon elbowed him to get his attention.
“Put another steak on the grill.”

Bobby glanced at his wife. “Okay. Sure.”

Shannon grabbed Alex by the hand. “Come on,
we’ll have a glass of something bubbly.”

Her friend’s kitchen was large and homey.
Loads of travertine and granite, lots of spacious cream-colored
cabinets. A working kitchen. Shannon was a self-taught chef. Her
husband’s round form attested to that fact.

Alex climbed onto a stool at the kitchen
island. Shannon settled two stemmed glasses on the granite surface
and claimed the stool across from her.

“Thanks.” Alex sipped the beer Shannon had
poured for her. Her friend was well aware that Alex’s preferred
beverage didn’t come in a bottle with a Napa Valley label.

“What’s going on, Alex?” Shannon curled her
fingers around the stem of her glass of wine but didn’t partake.
She liked to get straight to the heart of any matter, whether
business or pleasure, before distracting herself with food or
drink.

“Can’t a girl visit her best friend just for
the fun of it?” To wash down the lie a little better, she took a
long drink.

“I see.” Shannon joined her, turning up her
own glass to bolster for battle.

Shannon was one of the strongest people Alex
knew and she had a curiosity streak—not to mention a stubborn one—a
mile wide. Alex had worried all the way over here as to how much
she should tell Shannon. She didn’t want to endanger her friend,
but she needed someone to confide in. Someone who could look at
this with a little more perspective. Someone who knew Alex and
could measure whether she was reading too much between the
lines.

She’d decided to spill the beans. If she was
crazy she needed someone to tell her. Unlike Patton, she could talk
to Shannon without worrying that she would launch an investigation
of her own. Patton would stir the pot and trouble would end up
landing on him. That was the risk Alex wasn’t prepared to take.

“Remember the suicide I cleaned up the other
day? Charlie Crane?”

Shannon nodded before taking another drink
from her glass.

“I found this thing.”

Alex didn’t beat around the bush. She gave
Shannon the whole story, from Hitch’s call to her concern that
someone had riffled through her things and the fact that Murphy was
following her. Shannon listened, not once interrupting her.

“Order up!” Bobby called as he strode into
the kitchen carrying his tray of freshly grilled steaks. The smell
was heavenly. Alex’s stomach rumbled.

“Let’s eat while I mull this over,” Shannon
suggested.

She wouldn’t get any argument from Alex.

They ate slowly, enjoying the good food.
Shannon made the best salads with all the right greens and little
flourishes that not only looked nice but also were healthy. It was
part of that whole Type A thing.

Dinner conversation consisted of the
renovations Shannon had decided she needed to do to the house now
that they were empty nesters. Bobby grumbled good-naturedly after
her every proposed idea for changes. Shannon basically ignored him,
knowing she’d get her way in the end. Alex liked watching their
easy banter. More often than not they completed each other’s
sentences.

Alex wondered if she would wake up one of
these days and regret that she didn’t have anyone to be with that
way. Hitch’s image immediately loomed large in her head. She
ordered herself to stop it. She’d made her choice. It was too late
to change it or to regret it now.

“Did you take care of that flat tire?”

The first question out of Shannon’s mouth as
they finished dinner surprised Alex. With all that she’d told her,
she’d expected something a little more urgent than whether or not
she’d fixed the flat. It was still in the back of her SUV.