What She Doesn't See (6 page)

“We could have dinner,” he suggested
tentatively.

Alex hooked her arm in his and headed toward
his office. “We could.”

“Name the night.” He was feeling cockier now,
grinning like a kid looking forward to Christmas.

Oh, yes, easily entertained.

She went on tiptoe and placed a chaste kiss
on his cheek. “I’ll call you.”

Giving him a show he wouldn’t soon forget,
she strutted away. She didn’t have to look back to know he’d
enjoyed every second of it.

Men were so predictable.

God love ‘em.

The driveway was empty when Alex arrived at
the house Charlie Crane had called home until he’d elected to end
his existence. She scanned the neighborhood as she pulled on a pair
of latex gloves. At half past ten in the morning most folks were
either at work or on the beach. The morning was for too glorious to
spend cooped up inside unless you were physically unable to get out
and around.

Alex was counting on the idea that the
landlord hadn’t gotten around to calling anyone to take care of the
broken lock on Charlie’s apartment after the first cops on the
scene had kicked in the door. And she was right. The door opened
with a simple twist of the knob. The splintered wood on the
interior side of the casing confirmed her assumption.

After pushing the door shut behind her, she
flipped on the overhead lights. The front door opened into the
nondescript living room with its renter’s white walls and builder’s
grade carpeting in the ever-popular sand color. A hall beyond the
living room took her deeper into the house. She flipped on more
lights as she went. Despite the sun shining outside the heavy
blinds left the place in shadows. The rest of the house was
comprised of a kitchen, bathroom, and three bedrooms, one of which
had been turned into a den, complete with wood paneling.

She searched the den first. She doubted she’d
missed anything but since she was here, she might as well take a
second look. Minutes later she had checked each drawer, shelf and
niche. Magazines, papers, and pens were all she found.

Before moving on to the bathroom and
bedrooms, she took a moment to browse through the papers. She
didn’t really expect to find anything. The likelihood of her
recognizing something that shouldn’t be here was pretty low. Might
as well check it out.

Utility receipts. Rent receipts. Not much
else to speak of outside the usual credit card invitations.

The bathroom offered no better. Mouthwash,
toothpaste, deodorant. No prescription medications, not even a
bottle of aspirin.

The idea of a man who’d blown off the better
portion of his head not having a bottle of aspirin in the house
gave her pause. Everyone got headaches. She took a mental step back
and looked at the room again.

This time she nailed what felt wrong.

The soap rest in the shower-tub combination
was clean. No soap residue, nothing. She dragged the shower curtain
back to be sure she hadn’t missed a bottle of liquid body wash. Not
even a ring around the tub. No soap scum whatsoever.

Anticipation buzzing, she checked under the
sink next. Clean as a whistle.

The narrow linen closet next to the vanity
was stocked with half a dozen or so towels and a similar number of
washcloths. All in white. She picked them up one at a time and
sniffed, felt the texture of the terry cloth. Unused. Unwashed.

Her pulse raced as she moved to the bedrooms.
Clothes hung in the closet. All new. No price tags, but she could
tell. The fabrics had never been worn much less laundered.

The dresser drawers were the same. Nice,
neatly stored,
new
underclothes, including socks. She went
to the kitchen next. The cabinets were well stocked with a variety
of canned goods, dishes, and cookware. All were spotless and mirror
shiny.

The fridge was stocked, as well. None of the
goods inside had expired or been opened. Not the milk, not the
cheese and bologna. Not a single item.

Near the rear entrance was a set of bi-fold
louvered doors that concealed the place where a washer and dryer
would be. Dust was the only thing she discovered there. No
detergent. No cleaning supplies for taking care of the rest of the
house.

The second bedroom was as devoid of signs of
occupancy as the laundry closet had been. According to the landlord
Charlie Crane had rented this place one year ago. Why hadn’t he
lived here? Why the fresh foods in the fridge?

That creepy sensation danced up her spine
again. She shook it off and headed back to the den, the only place
where she’d found anything that wasn’t practically sterile.

She got out all the receipts and studied
them. They told her nothing. None had a signature. The labels on
the magazines sported his name and address but not one appeared to
have been perused. No wrinkled or dog-eared pages.

This time she took the drawers out of the
desk and checked the bottoms the way she’d seen it done on TV.
Unlike the protagonists in the cop shows, she came up
empty-handed.

She sat back on her haunches, surrounded by
the drawers she’d dragged from the desk. What was the deal with
this guy? This was weird. Just like the damned contact lens he’d
been wearing.

The Story of My Life shattered the silence
and her heart surged into her throat.

“Damn.” She caught her breath and reached
into her pants pocket for her phone. Damn thing about gave her a
heart attack.

“I’ve got that address for you.”

Shannon. Alex had almost forgotten. She drew
in a deep, calming breath. “Great.”

The address wasn’t in the swanky historic
district of Morningside but it was no shabby location, either.

“Thanks, Shannon. I’m headed that way.”

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

Alex finished shoving the last of the drawers
back into place, holding the phone with her shoulder. “I’m not sure
yet. I’ll catch up with you later.”

She ended the call and tucked her phone back
into her pocket before her friend could argue. Shannon knew her too
well. She would have kept asking questions until she had some
answers. Alex didn’t have any right answers yet. Maybe there
weren’t any.

But she intended to find out.

Something about this old guy’s death got
Hitch killed. The idea that her turning that contact lens over to
her friend might have been the reason he was dead, wouldn’t be
banished from her mind.

She had to know for sure.

Nothing she’d found in this house would have
alerted the police. Cops didn’t go around sniffing towels and
checking soap dishes unless they had probable cause. This was
Miami, for Christ’s sake, they got all the probable cause and
evidence they could handle without going out of their way to look
for more of it. Hitch wouldn’t have looked at anything like this
unless something specific in the house had stood out to him or the
autopsy report gave reason to suspect suicide wasn’t the cause of
death. Hell, she wouldn’t have come here this morning if not for
the contact lens and Hitch’s death. There was nothing, except that
damned weird lens and even it might be nothing beyond a new
experimental vision enhancer.

Whatever the case, she couldn’t stop until
she was sure.

The sun had started to heat up when she went
outside again. What she’d found in the house had spooked her and
she didn’t like the feeling. Once she figured out if the explosion
was connected to Crane and her friend, she would go back to Hitch’s
partner and dump the whole theory in his lap. He could laugh at her
if he wanted to, but she had to do what she had to do.

She reached to open the driver’s side door of
her SUV and the creeps performed its spine-chilling tap dance for
the second time since she’d arrived.

Turning slowly she took a long, hard look
around her. The driveways along the street were still empty. The
houses, the whole neighborhood for that matter, were quiet. If
anyone was home it was impossible to tell.

No matter, she recognized the sensation. Knew
it all too well from a couple of jerks she’d dated before her
survival instincts had fully developed around age twenty-six.

Someone was watching her.

Nothing in this world pissed her off more
than the idea of someone playing the intimidation game. Just to
make sure she got her point across to whoever might be scrutinizing
her, she gave a little wave using one particular finger that
announced how she felt loudly and clearly.

She climbed into her SUV and backed out onto
the street. After a thorough check of her mirrors, she headed
toward Morningside to find out who’d been killed in the
explosion.

Wyatt shook his head. “What are you up to,
Alexis Jackson?”

He’d watched her visit the station and chat
with the dead cop’s partner. Nothing particularly unusual about
that move. She’d stopped at the morgue and, if that wasn’t enough,
then she’d returned to the house where Charles Crane had ended his
life.

What could she possibly know? What did she
expect to find?

Since her friend, Detective Hitchcock, had
not been in possession of the device, it was highly probable that
she had it on her. It wasn’t in her house, in her vehicle, or at
her place of business.

She’d had no interactions with anyone else.
The device had to be with her.

Frustration had him wired. He needed a break
or a ten-mile run. Something had to give. His every instinct—or
maybe it was the tension—urged him to confront her. To do whatever
necessary to obtain the truth from her. The trouble was, the
retrieval methods filtering through his head had nothing to do with
getting the job done.

He followed her to Morningside Drive. With a
few taps on his cell he pulled up the news report on a home
explosion in the area. Perhaps she had a cleanup job. Whatever she
was up to, he wasn’t letting her out of his sight.

She’d almost spotted him once. Her instincts
were on high alert. She sensed someone was watching her. A smile
stretched his lips at the thought of her giving him the finger.
He’d have to be extra careful to avoid being spotted. Either that
or make a more direct approach. Before making a move like that,
he’d prefer to regain some perspective as well as to confirm the
device was in her possession.

His cell vibrated against the console. He
picked it up and answered without bothering to check the screen. No
need. It would be a member of his team or the Director. No one else
had this number.

“Murphy.”

“He’s still not talking.”

Wyatt swore silently. “I’ll be right
there.”

He hoped like hell Alex stayed out of trouble
for the next hour or so. He wouldn’t need much time. Every man had
his breaking point. Wyatt knew how to find it quickly.

Twenty minutes were lost driving to the
holding location. The warehouse had been abandoned for months but
the public utilities remained in service. Inside the block building
the temperature was a sweltering ninety degrees even at this early
hour.

Two members of Wyatt’s team waited outside
the small office turned prison cell. The senior of the two glanced
at the gym bag Wyatt carried. “With all due respect, you’re wasting
your time, sir.”

Wyatt ignored the comment. “Open the
door.”

The cocky agent who’d spoken unlocked the
door and pushed it open. Wyatt walked in and sat his bag on the
table.

“Good morning, Mr. Johnson. My name is
Murphy.”

Sean Johnson was a thirty-year-old hired gun.
A nobody who was insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Other
than his ability to answer the three questions Wyatt was about to
ask, he served no purpose whatsoever in this operation.

Johnson laughed. “So you’re the one they
warned me about.” He grinned, and then winced as his split lip
reopened. The two men outside the door had worked him over
reasonably well. “Don’t bother. I didn’t talk for them, I won’t do
it for you.”

Wyatt opened the gym bag and removed the
items he would need. A framing hammer. A box cutter. A pair of
pliers and a box of three inch nails. Johnson watched his
movements, studying each object with obvious resignation.

“Mr. Johnson, I have three questions for
you—”

“I told you, I’m not talking,” Johnson
repeated with somewhat less conviction.

“Before I leave this room,” Wyatt continued,
“I guarantee you will answer them. One, who hired you? Two, did you
find what you were looking for?” He picked up the hammer, measured
its weight. “And three, where is it?”

What remained of the house in Morningside,
just east of Biscayne Boulevard, a few blocks from the bay was
indicative of typical Florida construction. One level, painted a
pale pink with shutters in a deeper pink shade. The slightly
overgrown yard was bordered by a hibiscus hedge and a strand of
yellow crime scene tape that flopped in the sporadic breeze.

A team of forensic techs was rummaging
through the wreckage. She recognized one of the detectives who
emerged from his car and crossed the yard to survey the ongoing
work. The guy who had almost knocked her down getting word to
Detective Patton about the body that had been recovered from this
gruesome scene.

No way was she getting across that line. The
detective hadn’t appeared friendly at the station, and she doubted
his disposition would improve in the field. She didn’t really need
to get that close, she supposed. If the contact lens was in the
house there definitely wasn’t anything left of it now.

What she needed was to confirm who had lived
here.

Alex drove farther down the block and parked
at the curb. At one point in her varied career, when she had been
around twenty-one, she’d briefly sold vacuum cleaners door-to-door.
“No home should be without one” had been the company motto. Just
another one of her early careers that hadn’t lasted. Maybe it was
her impatience with the extreme pressure to meet a certain quota.
How was she supposed to talk people into buying something if they
didn’t a) need it or b
)
want it? Then there were the folks
who slammed the door in her face or the ones who were just plain
rude.