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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.
