“You can’t run away from love forever, Alex.”

Marg placed a hand on hers. “Sooner or later it’s going to sneak up on you, and you need to be ready.”

Alex didn’t draw her hand away, as was her first inclination. She didn’t want to hurt her mother’s feelings.

“Mother, I’m perfectly happy with my life. I’m not interested in long-term.”

“You see, that’s my point. You should be,” Marg countered. “You think I couldn’t get a job. You think I couldn’t get a place if I didn’t have this one. Well, you’re wrong. I could make it on my own. I might fall down now and then, but there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Alex wasn’t sure where she was going with all this.

“It’s okay to fail every so often. Life isn’t supposed to be perfect. Living life is about taking risks, about allowing yourself to be vulnerable at times,” Marg insisted. “You need to fall. Otherwise you’re never going to know just how magical life is.”

Debra Webb

Debra Webb’s romantic-suspense publishing career was launched with her first Harlequin Intrigue novel in September 2000. Since then this award-winning, bestselling author has had more than fifty novels hit the shelves. She spends most of her research in one of three ways—picking the brain of any FBI agent who will listen, following around her favorite local private investigator, or reading about new technology and bizarre criminal cases. Her family and friends have come to expect this sort of behavior and are rarely surprised anymore. Her favorite television shows, 24 and Grey’s Anatomy, showcase perfectly her love of suspense along with her wicked sense of humor.

Never Happened

Debra Webb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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From the Author

Dear Reader,

Thanks so much for picking up my first Harlequin NEXT novel! I was so excited when asked to write this project. Alex Jackson and her somewhat quirky occupation of cleaning up dead things was a story I definitely wanted to tell.

As a fortysomething myself, I can relate to the career issues as well as the complex romance needs of a woman barreling toward that half-century mark. Reaching forty and then onto fifty is a wonderful and, at times, frustrating time for a woman. I still feel youthful and ambitious and downright sexy. I refuse to allow anyone to make me feel otherwise. In my opinion the greatest thing about being over forty is that I can still be all those things but I have the wisdom necessary for making much better decisions than I did at twenty or even thirty.

So enjoy these years, ladies. Challenge yourself and never, ever let anyone make you feel like anything less than the brilliant, sexy woman you are. Life is full of wonderful surprises and you never know what might happen next!

Cheers,

Debra Webb

This book is dedicated to an editor who challenged me to write the very best book possible. Without her vision and close attention to detail Never Happened would not be the fabulous, fun read it is.

Thank you, Jennifer Green, for your dedication to and your passion for the written word.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 1

“You’re early, Alex.” A wide grin accompanied the remark. “You know I can’t let you get started just yet.”

The smart-ass cop was right. Charlie Crane’s body was still in the house when Alex arrived. She surveyed the scene, could have done without seeing the old guy with his head all mangled by the bullet that had passed through his skull, but there was no changing that stomach-turning fact now.

“Yeah, well, Henson,” she said, shifting her gaze from the poor bastard in the easy chair, “you’re late. You guys were supposed to be out of here an hour ago.”

Detective Rich Henson snorted at her comeback. “The M.E. had a little fender bender, but he’ll be here any minute now, and then—” he spread his arms widely to indicate the room “—the place is all yours.”

As Henson spoke, his gaze slid down her Margaritaville T-shirt, pausing ever so briefly on her 36D cups, before trailing the length of her jean-clad legs. She’d gotten used to the leers ages ago. Despite being called Alex by all who knew her, she was one hundred percent female and damned proud of it.

Alexis Jackson was thirty-nine—okay, forty, but she wasn’t telling anyone since she remained in staunch denial of the fact—five feet six, and one-hundred-ten pounds of well-toned muscle and hard-earned grit and determination. She wore her hair long, straight and blond—her methods for keeping it that way were a closely guarded secret. The men she dated, including the one visually eating her up right now, liked to wax on about how the color of her eyes reminded them of the sea.

Sounded great, huh? Well, the downside to being a blue-eyed blonde with a great body was that most men, and some women, mistakenly thought she was just another pretty face. But they only made that mistake once.

“Who hired you?” Henson asked, being his usual nosy self. Alex felt pretty sure he didn’t really care; he just wanted to make conversation. She knew he still had a thing for her, and if she was into long-term relationships and cute guys with adrenaline-driven egos she might just give him a second chance. The fact of the matter was they had been there, done that and she’d walked away.

Besides, cops were off-limits. As were firemen, P.I.’s and paramedics. Give her a CPA anytime. At least she didn’t spend all her time stroking his ego. Unfortunately, in her line of work most of the CPA types she ran into were dead. That sort of thinking led one place—to the big, looming cloud that proclaimed “dateless for twenty-three days now.” Definitely not where she wanted to go. As simple as it would be to tread into deeper waters with a sweet guy like Henson, she saw the risks a mile away.

He was one of those guys who wanted something permanent. The only things in her life that were permanent were her friends and her work. And that was fine by her.

“I didn’t think this guy had any family,” Henson tacked on just to add credibility to his question and to prompt an answer, which he would already know. It was his job to know. Charlie Crane’s death might just be a suicide, but in the state of Florida all unattended deaths had to be investigated, especially those involving trauma.

“The landlord.” Her gaze went back to rest on Charlie’s slumped form. He had to be sixty at least. It amazed her that he didn’t have any family at all. No parents, no kids, no siblings. No one. Not even any real friends as far as the landlord knew. A stir of something Alex refused to identify made her stomach feel a little tight and queasy.

Henson cocked his head and studied the stiff, then tossed her a sympathetic look. “Well, I’m glad it’s you and not me. As soon as the M.E.’s finished, I’m out of here.” He visibly shuddered.

She considered the spray of blood and brain matter on the paneled wall behind the body. Could have been worse. She’d certainly seen stuff more ghastly than this. “Nothing I haven’t done before.”

“A guy never knows what a girl’s going to like.” Henson flashed her another of those big ol’ grins he considered charming, but she hadn’t missed the hint of bitterness in his voice.

“You could always stay and watch, you might learn something more about what this girl likes,” she challenged. As she suspected, the big, brave cop didn’t have anything to say to that, for more reasons than the work that lay ahead of her.

She realized it sounded strange, but the fallout from the manner of death didn’t really bother her. The bodies, well that was a different matter. Somehow seeing the person, or what was left of the person, made her knees go a little weak. The way they did now. She fought hard not to let Henson see her inner reaction to the corpse that hadn’t been taken away yet. She had a reputation to maintain after all. Not to mention she went through this routine every time she showed up at a scene. Men just couldn’t believe that women could handle seeing something this gruesome even though women were the ones who more often than not changed dirty diapers. Go figure.

Not surprisingly, a lot of people asked how she got into the business of dealing with dead things. She usually made a joke of it. Someone had to do it, right? Truth was, her first experience cleaning up after the recently deceased had come at the ripe old age of fifteen. She hadn’t had a lot of choice in the matter. It was either jump in and help her mother or stand back and watch her do it alone. Alex hadn’t been able to do that…her mother had needed her, but she would have cut out her tongue before she would have asked her daughter for help. That moment had fore-shadowed more than Alex’s future occupation; she’d been taking care of her mother in one way or another ever since.

As with Alex’s current assignment, her father hadn’t chosen the tidiest way to end his pathetic existence. A slightly off-center shot to the chest where the lungs could have sucked in most of the blood would have been preferable and considerably simpler. But like everything else in her life, his suicide hadn’t been simple. A single shot to the head using a 30.06 rifle created an explosion that made a mess of the crappy room in the dilapidated house they’d called home. He’d been an alcoholic who couldn’t see past the hole he’d dug himself into, so he’d taken the easy way out.

Considering her line of work, Alex supposed you could say the event had made an impact on her. So, after dropping out of college—she hadn’t fit in and money always seemed to be an issue—and drifting from one dead-end job to the other, she started her own business, Never Happened. Another cop she’d dated once had given her the idea and all the reason in the world she would ever need not to date cops. Still, she’d ended up dating Henson. Their relationship hadn’t lasted the month and it was over more than three months ago. Truth was, it never should have started. When it came to men, apparently she had a faulty memory.

Giving credit where credit was due, that first cop had given her something to think about. What happened when a person committed suicide or died of natural causes or, God forbid, was murdered and wasn’t found in a timely manner? Who cleaned up the mess? In the past it was usually a family member, but today, with elderly folks who have no family left or with those too busy to maintain family ties, who cleaned up the mess?

More often than not, there were diseases to worry about, and in the cases of advanced decomposition, normal body fluids could become toxic, making it dangerous for a regular Joe to do the cleanup.

All she’d had to do was get licensed in the cleanup and disposal of hazardous materials, learn to use the right cleaners and equipment and she was good to go. Her phone hadn’t stopped ringing since. For the first time in her life she’d become totally self-sufficient and was her own boss. She wouldn’t get rich but she did well enough to keep her bills paid and a skeleton crew of local misfits in work, including one of her closest high school friends—who assuredly would not be pleased at being lumped in with the rest of the group.

And, Alex still helped out her mother, who was fifty-five now. She was a recovering alcoholic as of last year and Alex spent far too much of her time keeping her that way. But she had to give her mother credit for helping out with the business in a way that Alex wasn’t sure she would be particularly good at. Though she refused to go near a dead body, Margie Jackson was a damned good public relations rep. She single-handedly took care of all advertising and special offers, like fifty percent off a second service.

Believe it or not, there were people who liked getting unsightly spots removed from carpet and the like in rooms other than the cleanup scene when Alex or one of her associates showed up to handle the remains of a dead relative or tenant.

Never Happened was a broad-spectrum cleanup service. They cleaned up most anything. Calls generally involved someone’s passing, whether by natural causes or those not so natural. There was the occasional meth lab deserted by some scumbag who had or hadn’t gotten caught. Once in a while Alex got a request from folks who had experienced some sort of animal invasion, like a gator gaining access through an open patio door and getting swallowed by the family’s pet Burmese python. Big snake. Big mess. Two carcasses to remove. Then there were part-time residents who returned to their vacation home to find that rats had taken over during the off-season. You’d be surprised at the number of people who would rather die than sweep up a little rat poop.

She supposed that was why they called Miami the international playground of the rich and famous. Folks had money for most anything they desired, which was real nice for Alex and her business.

Never Happened provided a necessary service to the community.

When the victim’s cause of death fell outside “natural causes” or was unattended, like now, Alex had no choice but to wait until the police had done their job to get started on hers. The delay made the scene a little less pleasant, but there were masks for that.

Outside, in her shamelessly overpriced Toyota 4Runner, she carried the accessories of the trade. Hazmat—hazardous materials—outfits and bags for carrying away the refuse. The outfits weren’t attractive by any stretch of the imagination, think beekeeper, but like the bags they worked and that was what mattered. Assorted neutralizers, protein-stain cleaners, various tools and rags, as well as enzyme cleaners that killed blood-borne bacteria and pathogens equipped her for the job. Not exactly the Lysol and bleach one used at home, but the objective was the same.

A full forty-five minutes and a latte later—Henson insisted on sending one of his minions to the Starbucks on the corner since Alex was forced to wait—the M.E. showed up and took charge of the body, which was wholly his jurisdiction.

She and Henson stayed out of the way, during which time she listened to how he’d installed French doors in his living room over the weekend and how he’d love it if she stopped by to see what a great job he’d done. He still wanted to be friends. She wanted that, as well, but feared it would never be enough for him in the long run and that moment would be painful so she steered clear of getting too close again.

With a promise to have a look very soon, Alex watched the cops and the M.E. head out. Since the M.E. had pronounced the cause of death as probably suicide and the police hadn’t found any indication of foul play she could do what she’d come to do: Make the small paneled den look as if a suicide had never happened on the premises.

She had no preset amount of time to spend on the job; each one was different. First she donned the requisite suit, including shoe covers, safety glasses and gloves, then she surveyed the scene. Mentally noted the areas where matter had sprayed outside the anticipated range. Checked under furniture and behind curtains and blinds. No one wanted to enter a room and discover human remains clinging to the underside of a blind slat. Definitely not a good thing.

“Aha.” Alex grunted with the effort it took to fish what she was relatively certain was an eyeball out from under a chair. When the object rolled, covered in dust bunnies, into the open, she knew she’d been right. In cases such as this, it wasn’t unusual for parts to be overlooked. Unless there was reason to suspect foul play, it wasn’t necessary to round up every speck of DNA.

Alex shook her head and reached for her hazmat bag. Just before she chucked the eyeball, something other than dust on the surface caught her attention.

She tried to lift it loose but her gloves wouldn’t allow for the fine motor effort. Carrying the eyeball loosely in the palm of her hand she went in search of tweezers.

After a few frustrating failures she finally lifted what looked like a contact lens off the delicate surface. She dropped the eyeball in the hazmat bag but kept the lens to examine it further. This was no ordinary vision enhancer. This sucker was way thicker than the usual lens. Then again, the victim had been well past his prime. But even someone half-blind wouldn’t have needed a lens this thick and, now that she thought about it, large. The damned thing was as big as a nickel.

And there was something metallic looking around the edges. Very strange, kind of sci-fi-like.

She was pretty sure Henson would think she was nuts, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She’d had the same briefing everyone in her line of work received. Anything suspicious should be reported. No exceptions. No hesitation.

Alex bagged the lens and, after removing her right glove, used her cell to call Henson. He answered on the second ring.

“Hey, Henson, this is Alex.” She stared at the object in the bag and hesitated, but only for a second. “Look, I found an eyeball from the vic.”

He chuckled. “The guy blew his brains out. The M.E. shouldn’t have any trouble confirming cause of death without an eyeball. Just toss it.”

Alex rolled her eyes. She’d known he would get in a crack of some sort. Henson was one of those guys who thought he had a stand-up comic’s sense of humor. She was too nice to tell him any different. Apparently so was everyone else he knew and worked with. He would make a good husband and father. She’d had that same thought more than once during their brief “thing.” But she wasn’t into commitment. Maybe that’s why she’d backed off so quickly.

Where the hell had that thought come from? She gave herself a mental slap on the forehead. She wasn’t afraid of commitment…she just wasn’t interested.

“It’s not the eyeball that I’m calling about.” She frowned, studying the lens more closely. “The guy was wearing some kind of weird contact lens. I’ve never seen anything like it. Maybe it’s nothing, but I think you need to see this for yourself.”

After the usual joke about how some ladies would come up with any kind of excuse to enjoy his company, he promised to swing back by the scene pronto.

Alex put her phone away, stashed the lens in a safe place, and did what she’d come there to do.

She was nearly finished wiping away the ugly event by the time Henson showed up.

“Had another call,” he said by way of apology for his tardiness.

She lifted her shoulders. “No problem. I’ll be here a little longer.”

He looked around, made one of those sounds that meant wow, and said, “It’s hard to believe it comes this clean.”

She handed him the Ziploc bag. “Where there’s a will there’s a way.”

His typical comeback wasn’t forthcoming; he was too busy visually examining the lens or whatever the hell it was.

“Weird, huh?” Alex couldn’t help feeling a little vindicated by his apparent interest.

Too preoccupied to respond, he squinted to make out more details. Finally he said, “It looks almost like some kind of computer chip.” His gaze met hers. “You say this was on the guy’s eye?”

She nodded. “Stuck on the surface, over the iris, just like a contact lens.” She’d forgotten that Henson was big into the whole electronics-techno world.

“I’ll have it checked out. I’ve got a buddy over in Morningside who’s deep into computer technology. Stays on the very edge of what’s new and hot. Maybe he can at least identify what it is. He’s done this kind of thing for me before. He loves this stuff.” Henson arrowed a knowing look at Alex. “The kid should be working at the state crime lab. He’s that good and he’s fast.”

She’d done her good deed for the day and wanted to get on with her work and get out of there. “Let me know what you find out.”

Clearly still in a world of his own, Henson nodded as he turned away. “Will do.”

He left without another last-ditch attempt to entice her to go out with him, without even a see ya around. That was just like a man. No matter that for months he’d endeavored to woo her to go on another date, he could still be distracted by a new toy.

After a few more minutes of elbow grease and a final look around, Alex decided it was as good as it was going to get. The only thing she hadn’t been able to rectify was the bullet hole in the paneling. It might not have been so noticeable if the forensics tech hadn’t gouged the bullet out of the two-by-four it had lodged itself into. Drywall she could repair; paneling, that was a whole other problem. Maybe the landlord could hang a picture on the wall to cover the damage or fill it and just paint the whole room.

Now for her least favorite part of the job; collecting payment. This business was cash-and-carry, no thirty days to pay, strictly payment due at time of services. She did accept Visa and MasterCard, though, and, if she knew the individual well enough, personal checks. As much as she disliked this part, it was essential to get payment as quickly as possible since it was all too easy for money to end up spent on the living.

She dropped the hazmat bags containing the refuse, all the cleaning rags associated with the job, as well as the suit, gloves and shoe covers she’d worn, at the disposal center then headed to the landlord’s property office. With her payment collected she was done for the day.

Maybe she’d stop by the office on the way home and maybe she wouldn’t. Right now a shower and then a long hot bath sounded far too inviting to waste time sparring with her crew. It was past closing time anyway. Most would be out of there already.

Tomorrow was another day, and in a teeming city like Miami, as well as all its suburbs, where drug deals went wrong and gangs got even, there was always plenty of job security for a woman in her line of work.

Cleaning up after the dead wasn’t exactly a market one had to fear would dry up.

CHAPTER 2

Twelve miles of calm waters, clean sands and swaying palm trees. Alex breathed deeply of the late-summer evening air as she cruised along Ocean Boulevard, allowing that saltwater essence to clean the stench of death from her lungs. God, she loved everything about Miami Beach. Maybe she didn’t live in one of the upscale art deco homes in this world-renowned neighborhood, but she didn’t care. This was home…stunning, intoxicating…and forever youthful.

Age was irrelevant here. No one cared how old you were because everyone dressed and behaved young at heart. Whether they were soaking up the rays or haunting the designer shops, locals and tourists alike sauntered to the beat of a different tune—one filled with Latin heat and the primal lust of the tropical landscape.

She leaned against the headrest and let the pleasant breeze caress her face. The perfect climate and the lush scenery might draw the world to Miami but it was the eclectic blend of people that made this city so unique. Cubans, Colombians, Peruvians and Venezuelans made up fifty percent of the population. Not surprising that Spanish was the primary language. The news from Havana or Caracas was more often than not the talk on the street.

Speaking of people, as traffic slowed near 10th Street, Alex braked and watched couples glide into the Casa Casuarina, a hotel that was once home to the revered designer Gianni Versace. Not even the fabulous architecture could detract from the gorgeous patrons flowing into the ritzy joint. Men with wash-board stomachs and bulging pecs were outfitted in the still famous Miami Vice Sonny Crockett look with their loose-fitting linen slacks and silk shirts. Soft pastels were sharply contrasted by richly tanned skin. Alex sighed as she studied the appetizing smorgasbord of pleasing male specimens. Just part of the everyday landscape and another aspect of her love affair with this city. She wasn’t intimidated in the least by the equally attractive ladies with their short, tight dresses and stiletto heels.

Beneath her faded jeans and Margaritaville tee, Alex maintained the kind of figure women half her age envied. She knew it, reveled in it. She’d learned a long time ago that humility was vastly overrated. If you had it, you saw it for what it was and used the hell out of it. Life was too short to do otherwise.

Admittedly it took work to stay in this kind of physical condition, she mused as her right foot instinctively pressed against the accelerator, propelling her SUV forward with the traffic. After all she wasn’t twenty anymore.

A sly grin slid across her face. But she wasn’t dead, either. Nor was she wearing her age on her sleeve, so to speak. She liked keeping the world guessing. Only two people in her life knew her exact age; her oldest and dearest friend, who had been sworn to secrecy under fear of death; and her mother, who wouldn’t dare tell her daughter’s age for fear of giving away her own.

With a final, longing look at one particular man on the busy sidewalk, Alex made the necessary turn and headed toward a less glamorous residential district. The working-class side of town. Art deco remained the prevailing theme in architecture, even in her lower rent neighborhood but with a more Bohemian atmosphere. Her small cottage wasn’t on the water, but there was a boardwalk nearby that went all the way to the water’s edge. Anywhere around here was close to the ocean—that living, breathing entity upon which this city thrived.

She pulled into the short driveway and slid out of the 4Runner. No, it wasn’t much, she thought with a frank yet appreciative survey of the property, but it was home and it was hers. Her grandmother had left it to her. Alex grabbed her bag, elbowed the door closed and clicked the remote lock.

Sometimes she felt guilty that she’d inherited the cottage instead of her mother. But her grandmother—her mother’s own mother—had known that Margie Jackson would piss the property away if given the chance.

As if fate had chosen that memory to warn that trouble was headed her way, Alex’s cell erupted with the chorus from “It’s Getting Hot in Here” by Nelly.

She checked the caller ID. “Damn.” The office. Had to be Shannon, her office manager and lifelong best friend. This couldn’t be good. It was almost six. “Hey, Shannon, what’s up?” Alex shoved the key into the lock of her front door. If the news was really bad she wanted to be within arm’s reach of a cold one.

“We may have a potential problem, Alexis.”

Definitely bad. Shannon only called her Alexis when she wanted her full attention.

Putting off the inevitable, Alex walked straight through the cluttered and cozy living room to the equally disorganized and cramped kitchen before she responded, “Oh yeah?” She snagged a Michelob from the fridge and twisted off the top. Not wanting Shannon’s announcement to get too far ahead of the alcohol, Alex chugged a long swallow. The brew made her shiver as much from the promise of a relaxing buzz it offered as the cold temperature.

With her hip, she closed the fridge door, leaned against it and pressed the chilly bottle to the damp skin at her throat. Okay, so maybe there was one thing about Miami she could live without: humidity. You couldn’t exist in this city without sweating. Day, night, working out or just sitting still.

“He asked her out for a third date.”

All thoughts of sweat and the most pleasurable ways to manufacture a healthy glaze on one’s skin vanished as her friend’s words penetrated fully.

“When? Today?”

“He called just before she left the office.” Shannon sighed. “You should have heard her, she giggled like a schoolgirl. She was all giddy…you know how she gets. I see trouble on the horizon, Alex. Big trouble.”

Damn. Alex shook her head. “You couldn’t stop her?”

“Right,” Shannon retorted. “Your mother has been on the wagon for more than a year. I value my life more than that. I have kids you know.”

“Your kids are grown, Shannon.”

Ignoring Alex’s reply, her friend covertly added, “I know where they were going.”

Alex pushed away from the fridge and headed for the bedroom. Might as well get this over with. She could either head off this train wreck or pick up the pieces afterward. “Where?”

It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to rescue her mother. Probably wouldn’t be the last. Life could be complicated when you were the only child of a recovering alcoholic.

“Ruby’s.”

“Thanks, Shannon.”

“What’re you going to do?”

Alex took another pull from her beer and set it on the dresser as she crossed her room. “What I usually do.” She closed her phone without saying more. Further explanation wasn’t necessary; Shannon understood what she meant.

Alex stared at her reflection a moment and wondered what her life would have been like if things had been different. Had watching her parents fight nonstop until the night her father killed himself, kept her single and glad to be that way? Or had her mother’s string of failed relationships turned Alex cynical when it came to anything long-term?

If life had taken a different turn for her, would Alex have kids off in college now like Shannon? A husband who spent his Saturdays watching sports? Sex every third Sunday of the month?

Alex shuddered at the concept.

God must have known she wasn’t cut out for that kind of life. Just to make sure she veered far away from unnecessary commitments; life tossed her the occasional reminder, such as this one. Some people simply shouldn’t be spouses, much less parents. Unfortunately her mother was one of those people.

Alex ripped off her T-shirt and shimmied out of her jeans. Shower or no, she couldn’t go to Ruby’s looking like one of the guys.

It never ceased to amaze Alex just how good a hardworking woman could look if she put her mind to it. Even if she’d spent the better part of the day scraping human remains off a wall.

Good genes were the one reliable thing her mother had given her.

After parking on the Washington Avenue side of the establishment, Alex walked into Ruby’s Lounge with all the confidence of a supermodel. Her dress was black and short with heels high enough to make a lesser woman acrophobic, but not Alex. She’d fashioned her long blond hair into a sexy French twist. Her lips twitched. She loved anything French, including the men. Thank God for European tourists.

She surveyed the tables of the lounge, which was a throwback to a bygone era. Some tables were wrapped with comfy sofas for more intimate dining, while others stood tall and were surrounded by stools. Every seat was taken. Latin salsa throbbed from the sound system as waiters and waitresses wove through the maze of bodies and tables.

“Do you have a reservation?”

Alex smiled for the host, garnering herself an approving smile in return. “I’m afraid I can’t stay,” she said wistfully. “I’m only here to relay a message to a friend.”

“Your friend’s name?”

She held up a hand. “It’s all right. I see her.”

It wasn’t as if it was difficult. Her mother’s boisterous laugh stood out in a crowd like the proverbial sore thumb. Same blond hair as her daughter’s, only shorter. Alex’s gaze narrowed as she took in the pink suit. Apparently her mother had raided her closet. They would be talking about that.

Alex strode to the table. The new boyfriend looked up as she paused next to her mother’s chair.

“Alex! How nice to see you.”

The way his gaze slid down her body as he spoke told her he meant the statement literally.

“Robert.” She gave him a plastic smile before turning her attention to her mother. “Marg, may I have a word with you in private.”

Margie Jackson, who had refused to allow her daughter to call her mother once she became a widow, looked suspicious of her offspring’s abrupt appearance. “Alex, what a surprise.”

Alex’s determined stare apparently provided a recognizable caveat that she wasn’t leaving until they talked, here or in private.

Marg stood. “Excuse me, Robert.”

Robert nodded, the glint in his eyes giving away his infinite hope that both women would return post-haste, perhaps naked and pleading with him to take them straight to his place.

Like that was going to happen in this lifetime.

Alex led the way to the ladies’ room. She checked the stalls to make sure they were alone, then rounded on her mother. “What the hell are you doing?”

Marg glared at her daughter. “Stop right there. I’m not drinking, Alex. I’m done with that life. I like Robert and I want to get to know him better. You cannot expect me to live my new, clean life alone. I have needs.”

Alex wished she could believe that. “This is your third date with dear old Robert,” she reminded. “You know what that means.”

Her mother looked away, even had the gall to blush. “Alex, my social life is none of your business.”

If only that were the way of things, but it wasn’t. Her hands on her hips, Alex moved in closer. “Mother, I’ve known you—”

“Don’t call me that,” Marg chastised.

“—my entire life.” Alex forged ahead. “You always have sex on the third date.” She held up her hands to stop Marg from protesting. “For whatever reason, after copulating the night away, the relationship ends and you turn to the bottle for solace. In twenty-five years I’ve never seen you deviate from that pattern. Three dates, sex—bam—you’re out!”

Marg crossed her arms firmly over her Pamela-Anderson-size bosom—a Christmas present to herself last year. “Alexis Jackson, you have no right to dictate my sex life to me. I haven’t had sex in over a year! For God’s sake, I’m lonely!”

The door opened and a woman came inside. She glanced at the two and hurried into a stall.

“Be that as it may,” Alex replied, “I know how this will end. You and physical relationships don’t mix. There are alternatives,” she added in a whisper.

“It’s not the same,” her mother snapped.

Okay, this was bizarre, Alex knew. She was in a public restroom—in a lounge of all places—having the sex talk with her mother, a woman far beyond the age of consent. And she was right. The alternatives just weren’t the same. Some people had problems with gambling, others with weight or drugs. Her mother simply couldn’t have a physical relationship with a man without turning to alcohol. The combination was always, always disastrous. And Alex invariably had to clean up afterward.

“I’m going back out there,” Marg said, her expression fierce, maybe even a little desperate, “and I don’t want to hear anything else about this. I’m way past three times seven, Alex. I don’t need you telling me what to do. And I certainly don’t need your permission.”

Unable to allow her mother to have the last word, Alex said the one thing she knew would have the most impact, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Alex walked out, didn’t look back, didn’t even slow until she’d hit the unlock button for her 4Runner on the opposite side of the block.

Some women just never learned. When you recognized a weakness, you avoided it, learned from your previous mistakes.

Alex slid behind the wheel and exhaled a heavy breath. That was the primary difference between her and her mother, besides the store-bought triple-D cups. No man would ever make Alex that vulnerable.

Never.

She loved men, enjoyed dating every chance she got. But she never allowed a relationship to develop beyond the physical. Most men didn’t have a problem with that. Only once in a really long time had she been forced to let a guy down and he still hadn’t given up completely. Henson, damn him. He’d almost weakened her defenses. Thank God she’d come to her senses in time. Commitment was not her gig.

She twisted the key in the ignition and pulled out onto the street. Time for that long, steamy bath she’d had to put off to come here and do her daughterly duty.

Maybe one of these days her mother would learn that some things just weren’t meant to be.

Thirty minutes later, hot, frothy water up to her neck, a cold bottle of Michelob in her hand, Alex had finally relaxed fully. She refused to think about the trouble her mother would likely get into before this night was over.

She refused to think at all. It wasn’t her problem…yet.

Candles were lit, the air was thick with steam. This moment made the day’s dirty work worth the effort. A bubble bath was her favorite way to soothe away the day’s stress. Well, there were other ways, but at least this one never failed her.

There she went again thinking about sex. No date in three weeks. It was oddly unsettling. Was she subconsciously going for a record? Nah. Just coincidence. It wasn’t as if sex was like vitamins, she didn’t have to have it every day.

She closed her eyes and let the water melt the tension. Her place didn’t have a lot to offer in the way of amenities, not even a dishwasher, but it did have this huge tub in the master bath. And there was no mortgage. Two very important assets in a single woman’s life.

The wood floors guaranteed she’d never have to worry about replacing carpet. The tile roof and stucco exterior ensured that, outside of being hit by a hurricane, nothing more than a paint job would ever be required. The lack of fancy appliances promised nothing expensive would break down. The furniture was the same overstuffed, worn pieces her grandmother had owned forever. And the tiny apartment over the garage provided a place to keep her mother off the streets.

Alex was pretty sure her grandmother had planned it that way, and her mother didn’t really seem to mind. She evidently understood on some level that she couldn’t be trusted as a home owner. Besides, the whole setup gave her total freedom from responsibility.

The creak of a floorboard somewhere beyond the half-open bathroom door jolted Alex from her mental ramblings. She sat up straight and listened.

Another squeak had her climbing quietly out of the water and reaching for her robe. She slipped into her bedroom and grabbed the can of pepper spray from the bedside table and eased closer to the door.

Since she didn’t carry a gun, the pepper spray was her weapon of choice. This was Miami after all. It hadn’t been that long ago that it was the murder capital of the nation. She had no intention of becoming a victim and going down without a fight.

When she heard no other sounds, Alex moved through the door and into the short hall that separated her bedroom from the living room-kitchen area. The house was silent. She liked it that way when she wanted to relax, enjoyed listening to the night sounds. Even hearing the neighbors arguing at the house next door was somehow comforting and innately familiar.

Being careful not to make any noise, she moved through each room to ensure there wasn’t an intruder. Doors, front and back, were still locked. Windows were open, the night breeze shifting the curtains but nothing looked out of the ordinary. Slowly she let down her guard. With the windows up the sound could have carried from next door; the houses on either side of her had wooden porches.

Alex returned to her bedroom and opened her lingerie drawer. When she would have selected a clean pair of underwear, she hesitated. Something wasn’t right. Her pulse skipped as she checked drawer after drawer. Everything was there but different somehow…as if someone had riffled through her things.

The pink suit flashed in her mind and realization made a delayed appearance.

She was going to kill her mother.

Not only had she borrowed the pink skirt and jacket, but clearly she’d made herself at home with Alex’s undergarments.

She hoped Robert enjoyed them.

A car door slammed outside. Alex’s head came up and she listened.

Her mother’s voice. Robert’s.

Alex tiptoed over to the window and peeked past the edge of the curtain. The streetlamp spotlighted Robert’s efforts to pull Marg into his arms, but she resisted. Alex’s jaw dropped. Since when was playing hard to get part of her mother’s third-date routine?

She heard Marg say good-night, then watched in astonishment as she strode up the walk and across the yard to the exterior stairs that led up to her apartment without a single hesitation or backward glance.

Alone.

Unbelievable.

Robert stared after her a few moments before getting into his sleek sports car and driving off.

“Hot damn!”

Maybe her mother had finally gotten her act together.

Alex owed her an apology.

She was woman enough to admit when she was wrong.

With that in mind, she strode out her front door and straight up the stairs to her mother’s door. Just before she knocked, the music beyond stopped her.

Ten seconds passed before she recognized the music from the workout video Sweating to the Oldies.

Alex smiled.

Dear old Richard Simmons.

Grinning, she did an about-face and went back to her own home. Apparently her mother had opted for one of the alternatives Alex had mentioned. An extensive physical workout could go a long way in alleviating certain types of stress.

“Good girl,” she muttered as she closed and locked her own front door behind her.

Maybe you could teach an old dog new tricks.

The jangle of her landline disturbed the pleasant silence and annoyance flared. It was late, she was ready for bed. Who the hell would call her at this time of night? The answer was not the one she wanted. Work most likely.

She didn’t want to know about any more trouble.

“Alex Jackson.” She’d stopped answering with hello years ago. It seemed all her regular customers, various landlords, cops and whatnot, assumed her home number was a business number, too.

“Hey, Alex, it’s Rich.”

Henson. What did he want? Guilt pinged her. She didn’t actually mind hearing from him, but she’d learned from experience that maintaining frequent contact proved nothing more than a segue to let’s try again. She pulled the lapels of her robe together, suddenly self-conscious that she was naked under this robe. Was that dumb or what? After three months you would think she’d have her head straight about this guy. He wanted commitment and she didn’t…but he’d made her wonder what if? No other man had ever managed to do that. Everything had been fine until today.

“What’s up?” She was careful to keep her tone light, but clearly disinterested in anything other than straightforward conversation. She mentally weighed the pros and cons of having another beer. Three was usually her limit, but this night had the definite makings of a six-packer.

“I just wanted to call and thank you for alerting me to that piece of evidence you found this afternoon.”

She hesitated at the fridge and her forehead pinched with a frown. Was this call really about business? “The contact lens?” Okay, so maybe they could have a chat without the inevitable invitation to pick up where they left off.

“Apparently it’s some sort of computer chip. I’m on my way over to Morningside to pick it up from that whiz kid I told you about. He’s done some quick unofficial analysis for me before. I wanted to be sure this was something worth using taxpayers’ dollars to analyze. I’ll be taking it straight to the state lab tomorrow, but you know how slow they are to respond. This kind of heads-up will get the ball rolling. Outstanding call, Alex.”

“That’s great.” She didn’t know why it mattered or what exactly his obvious excitement meant, but she was glad Henson was happy about it. The moment gave her hope that maybe they could actually be just friends.

“Anyway,” he went on, his enthusiasm palpable, “I thought maybe you’d let me take you to dinner on Friday night to repay the good deed.”

Oh, man. There it was. Her hopes deflated. The man would never give up.

“I’d love to, Henson, but unfortunately I already have plans for Friday night.” It was true. She’d promised to go to a movie with Shannon; the woman swore if she didn’t have ladies’ night out once a month she’d go mad. Alex felt reasonably certain she wasn’t exaggerating.

“Another time maybe,” he said.

She nodded, to convince herself evidently since he couldn’t see her. “Another time…maybe.” She hated constantly turning him down. He really was a nice guy. She didn’t get why he didn’t just give up. He deserved someone who wanted the same sort of commitments he did. She was not that girl.

“Well, look. I’m getting another call. ’Night, Alex.”

“G’night, Henson.”

As she hung up the phone she couldn’t have guessed in a million years that it would be the last time she would talk to Detective Rich Henson.

CHAPTER 3

The offices of Never Happened sat way, way, way off Ocean Boulevard. Not a bad location but a bit off the beaten path, nestled between the office of Dr. Sherman Holloway, psychologist extraordinaire, and Patsy’s Clip Joint, a pet salon. Things could get a little noisy at times, otherwise the folks on either side of Alex’s offices were pretty easy to get along with.

There was, however, the perpetual parking problem. The alley between Never Happened and Patsy’s was supposed to be shared space, except her clients weren’t always so considerate. Especially the ones with the big, luxury automobiles and the small, prissy dogs.

Alex rolled into what she had claimed as her space next to the brick wall of her building. Since most of her staff arrived before seven, morning parking wasn’t usually a problem. Afternoons were a different story, however; things could get hairy.

She pulled down the visor and checked her reflection in the mirror. Eyeliner, lipstick, no smears or smudges. Good to go. Flipping the visor back into place, she grabbed her knockoff gold Fendi shoulder bag, her caramel-mocha latte and climbed out of her SUV.

As she turned the corner toward her shop front, a long low whistle trilled behind her.

“My, my, Alex,” Patsy called from the open entrance of her shop, “don’t you look sharp today.” Her wolf call had prompted a cacophony of yelps from her restless four-legged guests.

Alex smiled. “Thanks.” The low-slung jeans she wore were her favorite. She’d paired them with thonged sandals and a ribbed pullover that didn’t quite reach the extrawide belt buckled around her waist. “You’ve lost more weight,” Alex commented after giving her business neighbor an approving once-over.

“Forty pounds so far,” Patsy confirmed before a lengthy drag on her Kool 100 Ultra Light. “Twenty-five more to go. I’m itching for that new wardrobe my husband promised me. Give me a couple more months and we’ll set a shopping date. I’d love a day away from this.” She jerked her head toward the racket inside.

Alex gave her the thumbs-up before heading into her office. According to Patsy she’d been overweight her whole life; with forty breathing down her neck now she’d decided enough was enough. She didn’t want to plunge into middle age as a fat woman with climbing cholesterol and soaring triglycerides. Alex admired her determination. Change was good…for some people. Personally, she liked her life exactly as it was.

Most of the time.

“’Morning, Alex.”

Though her lifelong friend and office manager, Shannon, had tried her level best not to glance at the clock, she did. She couldn’t help herself. Alex had known Shannon Bainbridge since kindergarten when she was mild-mannered Shannon Owens. The woman had always been as sweet and kind as any angel, but she was an obsessive-compulsive, Type-A personality, perfectionist to the max.

“It’s seven-oh-two but I’m here,” Alex said in acknowledgement of her silent chastisement. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Guten morgen, Alexis.”

Alex shifted her attention to the man lounging on the sofa and perusing today’s Miami Herald. “Same to you, Professor.” He liked showing off his command of various languages. So far she’d recognized six. She’d hired the Professor, aka Barton Winstead III, four years ago when he’d “defected,” as he called it, to Florida from his homeland of Boston. He’d left his career in anthropology behind, as well. To this day Alex had no idea at which university he’d taught or the reason for his decision to leave. He didn’t talk about it, she didn’t ask. She liked him. He had that distinguished look about him. Even his thinning gray hair added an air of dignity. But it was the extreme intelligence that radiated from those caring hazel eyes that she liked most.

“Marg hasn’t come in yet, and Madonna is waiting in your office.” Shannon glanced up from the computer monitor and peered knowingly at Alex over her reading glasses. “She’s not happy.”

“She’s never happy,” the Professor noted aloud, his regard remaining fixed on today’s headlines as if he hadn’t made the aside.

“Perfect.” Alex braced for battle and headed for her office. If she hadn’t been running behind herself this morning she might have noticed that Marg hadn’t left yet, either. Alex just loved starting her morning off with worries about Marg.

Never Happened was made up of only four rooms. Reception in front, which wasn’t that large, about sixteen by twenty, a narrow hall that led to Alex’s office, really small, an even dinkier lounge directly across the hall from her, which her mother used as a sort of office, and a huge storeroom which occupied the rest of the building and included an employee’s restroom and a side exit to the alley. The latter had been the key selling point for Alex. All her supplies were housed in that storeroom. The handy side exit leading to the alley allowed for easy loading and unloading of the necessary materials for any given assignment.

Unlike the neighbor’s less than considerate pet owners, most knew better than to park in front of an entrance or an exit. Especially since the city’s Dumpster sat right outside the door. Two days per week the south end of the alley remained clear all day; there wasn’t a Miami driver around who would dare challenge a garbage truck on pickup day.

The interior of Alex’s portion of the building was nothing to brag about. No fancy carpet or paint job. Just practical commercial tile on the floor and plain white walls with little or no decorating. The business license and various other permits hung on the wall above the front counter that separated Shannon’s desk from the sofa and two chairs that served as lobby seating. Shannon had donated the sofa and coordinating chairs the last time she’d redecorated her den. Alex had purchased the rest of the mismatched furnishings at garage sales and business closeouts.

She gulped another drink of her latte for courage and reached for the knob of her closed door. Might as well get this over with. Inside her ten-by-twelve space sat her only other employee, with the exception of her missing mother. Leslie Brown, perched rigidly in the only chair besides the one behind Alex’s desk, heaved an impatient breath as if the boss’s arrival was long overdue.

Brown wore a double-breasted black suit reminiscent of the one Madonna had donned in her Vogue music video. The platinum wig and heavy makeup, including blood-red lips and a black mole, completed the sultry image.

“Good morning, Brown.”

He cut Alex a withering look.

“Excuse me. Madonna,” Alex amended as she scooted around the corner of her desk and dropped her bag onto the only vacant spot on the floor near her chair. After grabbing a quick sip of her latte, she pushed aside a stack of papers and set the cup in the cleared spot. To say her office was cluttered would be a monumental understatement. Files, including incoming shipment invoices and outgoing payment receipts, were stacked on the corners of her desk, but it was the test products, many still in their boxes, sitting here and there around the room that made maneuvering the most difficult. Shannon hated it. Threatened Alex all the time about the chaos. But Alex knew where everything was. She rarely lost anything.

“So.” Giving Brown her undivided attention, Alex propped her elbows on her desk and laced her fingers. “What seems to be the problem this morning?”

Brown lifted his chin defiantly. “I need Friday off and Shannon refuses to okay my request.” The thick Latino intonation made his every word more resounding.

That was odd. Unless something came up, giving him a day off with advance notice wasn’t generally a problem. Unless Shannon knew something Alex didn’t, she didn’t see the problem. “I’ll see what I can do,” she promised. Didn’t sound like a big deal. She relaxed. This had certainly proven far easier than she’d expected. Generally if Brown had a problem, it was a little more daunting.

Unfortunately, judging by the look on Brown’s face and the fact that he made no move to leave her office, Alex had counted her chickens before they hatched.

He leaned forward and warned, “It’s because of the convention. She doesn’t want me to participate. She can’t do that.” He tapped his chest in the vicinity of what Alex could only imagine was a heavily padded bra providing the hill and valley effect of breasts. “I know my rights,” he warned.

Alex snapped her gaze back up to his irate expression; a bad feeling churned in her gut. “What convention?”

“The Ms. Miami convention. I’ve been signed up for weeks. Don’t you remember? You sponsored me. Friday is the first day. Registration and screening. I have to be there.”

Alex struggled to swallow back her first reaction. She vaguely remembered sponsoring him for some sort of convention, she just didn’t remember it was this particular convention. “Not—” she cleared her throat “—a problem. I’ll take care of it.”

“Fine.” Brown stood. Smoothed a hand over his elegant and decidedly feminine jacket. “I hope you’ll come to cheer me on.”

Alex managed a nod.

Brown hesitated at the door. “I’ll send Shannon in to see you so you can tell her right away.”

Alex felt her head move up and down again, the smile frozen on her lips.

Twisting his narrow hips with all he had, Brown flounced out of her office.

Alex took a breath, told herself she was cool with this. It was a free country after all. No reason Brown shouldn’t go after his heart’s desires. It wasn’t as if she was ashamed of him or had a problem with his alternative lifestyle.

Okay, that was a lie. She didn’t have a problem with it as long as he didn’t bring it to work in a way that would hamper business. There simply was no way to have him, without having his eccentricity—it was a package deal. But using his stint in the Ms. Miami pageant as a possible means of advertisement was definitely previously unexplored territory.

Shannon walked in, closed the door behind her. “He told you.”

Before Alex could stop the words, she demanded in something that should have been a whisper but came out more like a muffled shout, “Don’t you have to be a woman to enter that thing?”

Shannon shrugged her shoulders dramatically. “How the hell do I know? Should I call and ask?”

Alex shook her head adamantly. “We don’t want to draw any attention to him or us. Let’s just stay calm and pray someone notices at the registration and screening.”

Shannon’s head bobbed. “How could he win or even get in? I mean—” she lowered her voice to the whisper Alex had been aiming for “—I’ll admit that he makes a somewhat attractive woman, but this is a beauty pageant, right? With rules and judges?”

Alex did the bobbing this time. She told herself it wouldn’t matter that Brown had killer legs or that his unusually high cheekbones were to die for. “Of course you’re right. We have nothing to worry about. No way he’ll win. He’ll probably be disqualified before the pageant even officially begins.”

“Probably.”

For about two minutes after Shannon left Alex’s office, she pondered the question of why Brown seemed to be confused about his sexuality. Some days he appeared completely happy with his masculinity, others he wanted nothing to do with it, showed up for work as some Hollywood diva. Maybe the good doctor next door could shed some light on the subject. Alex was certain he’d noticed Brown’s unusual fashion sense on his feminine days.

Putting her curiosities aside, she turned her attention to the day’s schedule. An elderly couple, dead two weeks, had been found in their Coral Gables home. Cause of death was listed as natural by their attending physician so the police wouldn’t be holding up the scene. Apparently both had suffered from serious heart conditions. There was no way to be sure who died first, but the death of one of them, evidently, was brought on by the other’s fatal attack. With no family in the state to look in on them and the neighbors under the assumption the couple had gone on vacation, no one had realized there was a problem until the stench reared its ugly head.

Brown and the Professor would head out around eight to take care of that one. The family, who’d arrived in town just yesterday, had requested additional services to include cleaning the carpet throughout the home and washing down all walls and ceilings.

Thank God the couple’s air-conditioning had kept the house below seventy-five degrees. The mess would be bad enough, but there was nothing as bad as a body that had roasted in Miami’s summer heat. The July climate turned a closed-up, non-climate-controlled house into a virtual oven. Not a pleasant situation.

The Professor poked his head through her door. “Have you read the Herald this morning?”

Alex tossed the work order aside and picked up her latte to cradle it in her hands. “Haven’t had time. Did you find something interesting?” She savored the sweet concoction as she waited expectantly for him to share the news she’d missed.

“I think perhaps you should read this for yourself.”

He made the short journey to and around behind her desk. Alex leaned back out of the way while he spread the paper in front of her. He tapped the headline Detective’s Death Under Investigation.

“Isn’t he a friend of yours?”

Somehow her cup found its way back to her desk as she skimmed the front page article recounting the tragic automobile accident of a longtime criminal investigations detective…

Detective Richard Henson…

“Ohmigod…” Alex looked up at the Professor. “I talked to him last night.” I slept with him three months ago…

Dread or hurt or something she couldn’t quite label welled in her chest. How could this have happened? He’d been fine last night.

The Professor gestured to the paper. “According to the article, the accident likely occurred between eight and ten last night. There aren’t that many details given.”

Her thoughts whirling, she grappled to recall the approximate time he’d called last night. After Marg had come home. Sweating to the Oldies. Alex had considered having another beer.

Eight-fifteen, eight-thirty maybe. Nine at the latest.

Jesus.

He could have died only a few minutes after they’d talked. Why hadn’t she said…something…like how good it had been to see him that day? Why hadn’t she just said yes to dinner?

Henson was dead.

“Thanks, Professor.”

Alex didn’t notice when he left the room, but he was gone the next time she glanced around her office. She blinked, trying to reconcile herself to what she’d just read.

Henson was really dead.

She forced herself to read the entire article. It didn’t specify the details, but it did mention that the one-car accident was under investigation.

When he’d called he’d said he was going to see the computer whiz kid who’d unofficially analyzed the contact lens.

Had he made it to the guy’s house?

Did the police even know where he’d been headed?

Alex sagged in her chair, let the cold, harsh reality wash over her.

Henson was dead.

She was repeating herself but she just couldn’t get past it. She’d liked him. Now she’d never get to tell him that if she’d been the type for commitment, he could maybe have been the guy. She should have told him that. But she hadn’t. She’d let him believe that he didn’t have the “it” she was looking for. That had been a lot easier than explaining what she really felt. She didn’t even know what she really felt. She only knew what she didn’t want—she didn’t want long-term.

No man ever understood that.

Hell, she didn’t even understand it, she simply accepted it.

Enough, she ordered. She couldn’t sit around here feeling sorry for herself. She had spoken with Henson last night, possibly only minutes before he died. Any information she could offer that might help the investigation was not only her civic duty, it was her obligation as a friend.

Alex finished her latte, grabbed her bag and put thought into action.

The Professor and Brown had this morning’s schedule under control. Unless something new came up, she could spare a couple of hours. The final reports she’d been meaning to type and the other paperwork she needed to review could wait.

Her friend was dead.

That wouldn’t wait.

The Miami Beach Police station was located at 1100 Washington Avenue in a building that defined the Art Deco style. The Criminal Investigations Unit called the third floor home. The division was laid out in a grid pattern with dozens of metal desks floating amid a sea of beige carpeting. The walls were a matching shade of beige. The only interruption in the beigedom was the stacks of red and blue folders atop the desks. Kind of reminded Alex of her own office.

She waved to a couple of the female detectives she’d worked with on occasion and basically ignored the guys who openly leered. Not that she minded when a man showed his appreciation for her hard work and good genes, but these guys were just being jerks. Most had wives and kids at home.

Yet another reason to stay unattached. You didn’t have to worry about a cheating husband if you didn’t have one. Didn’t have to worry about mismatched socks. Dirty boxers or dishes piled in the sink. Life was just less complicated when one stayed unattached.

She wove through the maze of desks until she reached the one belonging to Detective Jimmy Patton. He and Henson hadn’t been partners that long, only since Henson’s longtime partner had retired and moved to Maine about six months ago.

When Patton looked up Alex recognized the exhaustion and the pain in his eyes. He’d likely been up all night.

“Jackson,” he said, acknowledging her presence but immediately returning his attention to the file in front of him. She was pretty sure his reluctance to maintain eye contact was about keeping his emotions to himself.

“Hey, Patton.” She sat down in the chair next to his desk. “I heard about Henson. Man, I can’t believe it. Do you know what happened?”

He shook his head, spared her another brief glance. “Techs are…ah…checking out his car for mechanical failures, but it looks like he fell asleep at the wheel. Just ran off the road. He’d been putting in way too many hours lately. I tried to tell him.” The sigh that punctuated that final statement as well as his emphatic attempts to refocus his attention on the file gave away just how badly Henson’s death had shaken him.

But his words were what hit Alex the hardest. Henson hadn’t sounded the least bit sleepy or even tired when she’d spoken to him. In fact, he’d sounded hyped. She couldn’t say why, but her intuition was humming like crazy. She’d at first thought that she was merely in denial about Henson’s death, but it was more than that.

Stay calm. Take it slow. Hysterics won’t get you anywhere. “That’s why I came by,” she said, unsure whether what she had to say held any relevance but certain she didn’t want to keep it to herself in case it proved somehow significant. “Henson called me last night at around eight-thirty, maybe nine.”

Patton picked up a small spiral notepad and shuffled through the pages until he’d found what he was looking for. “Yeah, we got that from his cell phone. I know you did a cleanup on an unattended suicide he’d covered. I was going to touch base with you and see if the call he made to you had anything to do with that.” His gaze connected with hers then. “Or if maybe the two of you…”

He let the sentence trail off. Alex didn’t have to say anything; he read the truth in her eyes. She and Henson hadn’t started going out again. Patton looked away as if he’d rather she’d lied to him. Partners talked about their personal lives. She wouldn’t have expected any less.

Turning her attention back to the real problem, she asked, “He didn’t talk to you last night?” Alex found that possibility unreasonably disturbing considering she’d passed along a piece of possible evidence that Henson had obviously been excited about. Wouldn’t he tell his partner that?

Patton scrubbed his hand over his face. “I was at the hospital until I heard about the accident. My wife went into labor a little early.”

A new baby. She’d forgotten his wife was expecting. Well that explained his being left out of the loop last night. “Is everything okay?”

He grinned but the effort was a little dim under the circumstances. “Yeah. A girl. Eight pounds one ounce. She’s a doll.”

Something far too similar to longing pierced a tender place deep inside Alex. She evicted the sentimental ache and gave herself a swift mental kick for even allowing the senseless emotion to rear its pointless head. She’d made her decisions about husbands and kids long ago. Hearing about other people’s kids didn’t usually bother her…the emotional roller coaster this morning was about Henson.

She still couldn’t believe he was dead. She kept expecting to turn around and hear him tossing some silly joke at her or asking her if she had plans this weekend.

His death had rattled her. This wasn’t really about the nonrelationship they’d shared…he was a friend, of course she’d be unsettled by his death. She didn’t allow regrets. She preferred her independence. She liked taking care of herself and not having to rely on anyone else for anything. This was just a normal reaction to losing a friend.

Shaking off the disturbing thoughts, she rejoined the conversation and did what she’d come here to do. “I don’t know if this makes any difference,” she began, unsure exactly how to explain the situation, “but I gave Henson a piece of what may have been evidence from the Crane suicide scene.”

Patton sat up a little straighter, his attention sharpening a bit. “What sort of evidence? Henson’s report says the incident was cut-and-dried. No questions on his end. I haven’t seen the autopsy report yet—they’re a little backed up over at the morgue—but the M.E. didn’t mention expecting anything unusual, according to Henson’s notes.”

She nodded. He was right on all counts. Henson hadn’t said anything different to her. “I gave him a peculiar…” God, how did she say this? “It looked like some sort of contact lens, except different.” Well that surely explained what she meant. Frustration brimmed. “Henson took it to a friend for unofficial analysis,” she offered in lieu of a better explanation. “When he called me last night he was wound up about it. He said he was going over to pick the lens up and that he’d be taking it to the state lab this morning. He sounded pretty excited.”

Patton’s gaze narrowed with keener interest. “Do you know who he was going to see?”

Alex shook her head. “Not a clue. Some computer whiz. Like I said, he sounded excited. I can’t see him falling asleep at the wheel when he’d sounded fully alert when we spoke.”

Patton glanced at his watch and swore. “I have a meeting.” He stood. “Listen, if you think of anything else Henson said that might sound relevant, give me a call.” He passed Alex a business card that included his mobile as well as his home number. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything about the memorial service.”

Alex tucked the card into her bag, thanked him and made her way through the maze of cold metal desks and warm bodies without stopping to chat with anyone. She wanted to get out of here and to some place where she could think. The idea that just yesterday Henson had been hanging out here had her on the verge of hyperventilating.

A detective who looked vaguely familiar almost bowled her over as he bounded past her. Alex felt like slugging him but didn’t want the hassle. She needed out of here. She couldn’t breathe.

“Patton,” she heard the cop who’d been in such a hurry say, “I’ve got the preliminary on that house explosion on Morningside.”

Alex’s feet slowed. Maybe it was oxygen deprivation. Morningside? Wasn’t that where Henson had said the whiz kid lived? She lingered, wanted to hear the rest of what the detective had to say.

“They found a body, but it was burned so badly it’ll take some time to ID it.”

Alex told herself she was probably overreacting. A lot of people lived in Morningside—this explosion could have nothing to do with Henson’s friend who lived there. It could be anything from a meth lab to a gas leak.

“You take a ride over there,” Patton suggested. “I’ll join you after my meeting.”

Alex turned around, waited for Patton and the other detective to catch up to her. There was one more thing she had to know. “By the way, where was the scene of Henson’s crash?” The paper hadn’t given the location.

Patton looked mildly annoyed that she had waylaid him or maybe the exhaustion was making him testy. “Over on I-95 near Hallandale. Why?”

She shrugged. “Just wondered.”

Patton eyed her suspiciously. “If you have other information, Jackson, I need to know. He was my partner.”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing like that.” The white lie felt bitter on her tongue. She should just tell him. “I was just curious that’s all.” But she couldn’t. He already didn’t really believe her. What was it he’d said? If you think of anything else Henson said that might sound relevant…? Until she could make sense of this herself, she was wasting her time trying to clarify it to anyone else.

“See ya around,” he muttered.

Watching Patton go, she realized what she had to do next. She had to know why Henson’s vehicle had been found way north of where he’d told her he was going. But first she wanted to know if a computer genius had lived in the Morningside residence where the explosion had occurred.

She also wanted to know if the crime scene techs had found the contact lens in Henson’s car. Or if they’d found anything at all that suggested the accident wasn’t an accident.

She wanted to know a lot. She needed enough to give Patton reason to consider Henson’s death suspicious. And since she wasn’t a cop, the chances of Patton telling her were slim to none.

But she had her own sources and methods. Patton wouldn’t like it if he found out. She’d never let a man stand in her way before. She wasn’t about to now. She owed it to Henson to look into this. Patton wasn’t taking her seriously. He was preoccupied, she understood that, but he clearly thought what she’d told him was nothing of consequence. Convincing him might just be impossible, but she had to follow through, either way.

She might not be a detective, but she definitely knew her way around the scene of the crime.

All she needed was access.

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