Never Happened (5 page)

Alex let him lead the way though she knew the route. The few times she'd visited had been when she'd been dating another member of the esteemed staff. Way before Cody's time.

Cody checked the log sheet and headed for the drawer where Charlie Crane awaited two things, an autopsy and then for the state to claim his body since there was no next of kin. En route her guide pointed to a box of latex gloves stationed on a counter. Alex had them in place before Cody had rested his hand on the pull of the cooler drawer.

With one last fleeting look at the door, he lugged
the drawer open. As if having second thoughts, he hesitated before lowering the zipper on the body bag. “Make it quick, okay? And be really careful not to…well, you know.”

“Don't worry.”

He opened the bag that helped to keep the body fresh while in a refrigerated state.

With the old guy's upper torso and what was left of his head fully exposed to her, Cody backed away. “I'll keep watch outside.”

She nodded and he left her to her business.

It wasn't that Alex got any kind of thrill out of touching a dead guy, but this had to be done.

Working quickly, she first surveyed what was left of his head. His body was nude so anything he'd had in his pockets would be beyond her reach at this point. It would take an act of congress or proof of kinship to get her hands on his personal effects.

The right eye remained intact and exactly where it should be in its socket.

“Okay, Charlie,” she murmured. “Let's have a look.”

Gingerly, she lifted the eyelid and surveyed the eyeball. She shuddered, couldn't help herself. The body changed drastically after twenty-four hours without blood flowing through the veins. The skin
looked gray with the slightest marbling effect deep beneath the surface. The eyes were cloudy, the pupils fully dilated. The flesh was cold—that was the worst. Nothing smelled as creepy as chilled flesh. Her stomach knotted.

Kicking aside her squeamishness, she touched the eyeball, sliding the pad of her finger over it. Nothing. Frowning, she checked again just to be sure.

If he'd been wearing a second lens, it was gone now.

“Dammit.”

She zipped the bag carefully over what was left of Charlie Crane and closed the drawer. For a moment she just stood there, feeling sad for him. No one should die alone.

Henson had died alone.

The idea that she might very well die that way made her stomach spasm all over again. Of course there was always the chance her mother would outlive her. But what if she didn't?

Would she end up in the morgue with no family to claim her?

Nah. Shannon would claim her. See that she got a proper funeral. At least as long as she was still alive.

Despite her chosen career field, this was the first
time Alex could recall consciously considering what would happen to her when she died. Other than the usual decomposition, that is.

This whole thing with Henson had really shaken her up.

Alex peeled off the gloves and disposed of them as she crossed the room. She opened the door and Cody whipped around with a start.

“Finished?”

He tried to look calm and composed but he didn't fool her. He'd been sweating every second of the six or seven minutes she'd been in there.

“Yeah. Thanks, man, I owe you.”

Between that announcement and the whoosh of the door closing behind her, he relaxed. Looked downright ready to melt into a puddle of equal parts physical need and mental relief.

“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 amused.

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 far too glorious to spend cooped up inside unless you were physically unable to get out and around.

Alex was banking on the idea that the landlord hadn't gotten around to taking care of the broken lock on Charlie's apartment after the first cops on the scene had basically 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 that the repairman hadn't gotten around to the job yet. It wasn't as if the landlord really cared. The stuff inside didn't belong to him and this was one of the safest neighborhoods in the city. Break-ins and vandalism rarely occurred.

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. It was broad daylight outside but the shuttered windows left the place in heavy 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 she was here, might as well take a second look. Each drawer, shelf and niche. Nothing but magazines, papers and pens.

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

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 an equal number of washcloths. All in white. She picked them up one at a time and sniffed, felt the texture of the terry cloth. Unwashed. Unused.

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 rendered 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 spotless and mirror shiny. No way anyone had prepared or consumed a meal using any of it.

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

All brand-new.

Next to the rear entrance was a set of bifold 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 devoid of signs of occupancy as the laundry closet had been.

According to the landlord Charlie Crane had rented this place a year ago. Why hadn't he lived here? And 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 Crane's signature. The address 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 in the movies. Unlike the protagonists on the big screen, 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.

Nelly's voice shattered the silence and her heart surged into her throat.

“Shit.” 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 wanna 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 closed
her phone and tucked it 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 the right answers yet. Maybe there weren't any.

But she intended to find out.

Something about this old guy's death got Henson killed. The idea that her turning that contact lens over to him 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 they could handle without going out of their way to look for it. Henson 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 Henson's death. There was nothing, except that damned weird lens and even it might be nothing.

But she couldn't stop until she was sure.

The sun had started to heat up big-time when she went outside again. What she'd found in the house had spooked her and she didn't like the feeling.

However bizarre the situation got, she intended to follow it through. Once she'd figured out if the explosion was connected to Crane and her friend, she would go back to Henson'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'd reached to open the driver's side door of her 4Runner when 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.

Still, she recognized the sensation. Knew it all too well from a couple of jerks she'd dated before her
jerkdar
had kicked in fully at age twenty.

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 whomever
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 last night.

Who knew? Maybe there was a job in it. At any rate, she could leave her card to cover for her uninvited appearance.

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 forensics 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'd almost knocked her down getting word to Detective Patton about the body that had been recovered from this gruesome scene.

No way was she going to get 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. Electrolux. No home should be without one had been her 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.

That was the nice thing about cleaning up after the dead, the dead didn't talk back or argue or any of that stuff.

She climbed out of her 4Runner and headed to door number one, an older ranch-style home that had obviously been remodeled to fit in with the escalating value of the property north of downtown Miami.

Three rings of the doorbell later and a young woman, twenty-five maybe, opened the door far enough to check out Alex. “Yes?” she asked tentatively.

Judging by the terry cloth fabric, she was still in her robe. The abrupt sound of screaming behind her signaled at least one toddler was likely vying for her attention even as she continued to scrutinize Alex.

“I apologize for the intrusion, ma'am, but I'd like to ask you a few questions about the explosion last night.”

Uncertainty flickered in her brown eyes. “Are you the police?”

“The detective and the forensics techs are digging through the rubble now,” Alex dodged. “My job is to find out if any of the neighbors saw or heard anything unusual before the event.”

She hoped like hell the woman would accept that as a yes. Lying by omission appeared to be a steady appointment on her agenda today.

“I answered the officer's questions last night,” she said, seemingly to herself. She heaved a sigh at another bout of ranting behind her. “Give me just a moment and I'll be with you.”

The door closed and Alex heard the woman fussing at the children. Deciding she needed to look
the part, Alex dug a small notepad and pen from her bag. When the fretting had quieted, the door opened once more. Leaving it open a crack, the woman stepped out onto the stoop with Alex.

“I really don't know anything useful,” she started off. “We go to bed early around here. I heard the explosion, of course.” She paused, her gaze expectant as if she didn't know what to say next.

Alex nodded. “What can you tell me about the residents?”

“Timothy O'Neill lives—” she cleared her throat “—lived there alone.” She stared in the direction of the damaged house. “He leased it from the owners when they moved into the retirement center nearby.”

“I see,” Alex said, nodding agreeably.

“Thank God Mrs. Baker was visiting with her sister in Tampa. Mrs. Baker lives in the house right next door. I'm sure the explosion would have scared her to death.”

“What can you tell me about Timothy?” Alex prodded. That was what she really wanted to know. She didn't need to know who his neighbors were.

The woman shrugged. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but he was a little strange, if you know what I mean.”

Alex scribbled a couple of words just to make herself look credible.

“I didn't mention this to the officer last night because I was too stunned, but Timothy was sort of…you know, a geek…or nerd.”

More scribbling. “Really?”

Uncertainty flashed in her eyes again. “Maybe I shouldn't—”

“Please,” Alex urged, “this may prove very useful.”

The woman's gaze wandered toward the devastation once more. “He didn't get out much. Spent all his time piddling around with computers.” She leaned closer as if what she had to say next was top secret. “Mrs. Baker went over once when Timothy was first moving in. You know, checking out the new neighbor to make sure he wasn't an ax murderer or anything. She said the basement was packed with all sorts of electronic gadgets. At least half a dozen computers. She said it was bizarre. Like something from a science fiction movie.”

Alex's heart rate reacted to an adrenaline dump. “Is that what Timothy did for a living?”

She nodded. “My husband says he's supposedly a genius or something when it comes to computers and cyberspace.” She cleared her throat again. “Was
supposed to be, I should say. But he was a real recluse. Hardly ever came out of the house.”

No wonder Henson didn't talk about the guy to his friends, that was probably part of their arrangement. A kid that reclusive wouldn't want any attention.

The sound of something crashing inside the house ended the discussion. Alex thanked her and moved on to the next house.

After hearing the same story from three neighbors, Alex felt confident that Timothy O'Neill was the unofficial expert Henson had visited last night.

She decided to pull over at the scene and try her luck with Detective Dickhead. Maybe he'd give something away. She needed to be sure Timothy O'Neill was dead. His neighbors assumed he was since they had seen the M.E. take a body from the house.

The detective she'd noticed at the scene now leaned against his car speaking to someone on his mobile phone. Alex parked behind him and got out of her SUV. He glanced her way but didn't bother waving.

It was then, something about the way he noted her arrival with a dismissive glance, that recognition flared. She knew this guy.

He'd been the detective on the case when Patsy's Clip Joint had been burglarized. It sounded weird, she
knew, but there were people who would break into any place. Fortunately none of the animals had been taken. Just a few dollars in cash and a large metal cage. Alex had her own ideas as to why the cage had been taken.

But this detective. She glared at him. Detective Daryl Winston. He'd been a real jerk to Patsy. Alex had seen him from across the alley, but hadn't known until later how he'd talked down to Patsy.

She despised guys like him.

Alex walked toward the house, hadn't even reached the crime scene tape when he shouted, “Where do you think you're going?”

Well at least she had his attention now. She turned around and flashed him a smile. “I'm Alex Jackson. Never Happened. I thought I'd leave my card for the owner.” She snagged a card from her bag and waved it at him.

The idea of her getting a job here wasn't exactly plausible considering the house would need a bulldozer a whole lot more than it would need her. But, hey, it was a conversation starter.

“I know who you are.” Still reclined against his car, he smirked, then executed a long perusal of her from head to toe. “Get real, Jackson, unless you've
branched out into rubble removal, this is way out of your league.”

“Who was the crispy critter?” she asked, getting down on his level as she walked toward him. Crispy critter was cop speak for a burned-beyond-recognition victim. She winced inwardly at the seemingly heartless moniker.

“No comment.”

“Come on, I know the M.E. removed a body. Timothy O'Neill?”

Winston crossed his arms over his chest and eyed her suspiciously. “You know I can't discuss the details of a case with you.”

“The news has already reported it.” One of the neighbors had told her that she'd heard the details on the radio earlier that morning.

“Well, then why ya asking?” Another one of those smirks made Alex want to slap him cross-eyed.

“Maybe I'm curious, Winston. Is that a crime?” She matched his stance, careful to prop her arms under her breasts for full enhancement.

His gaze strayed to her cleavage. “I suppose not. It's O'Neill's house. He was found in the basement with all his computer equipment or what was left of it. It's probably him, but we don't have an official
confirmation yet. The press is guessing the same as we are at this point.”

“I suppose he'll be identified by dental records?” That was the most commonly used method and the quickest.

“The lower jaw is intact and that's about all.” He shook his head and let go a heavy breath. “But, unfortunately, we haven't been able to track down a dentist who had him as a patient. His family insists he never went to a dentist as a child. So it's way too early to say anything for sure.”

Damn. “That's too bad.” That meant no burying the body, no closure, until the remains had been officially ID'd. “Any idea what caused the explosion?”

“We're still working on that.” He checked out her boobs once more. “Besides, you know I couldn't give you anything about those details. We still have to determine if it was accidental or if foul play was involved.”

“Right.” She tucked her hands into her back pockets. “See ya around, Winston.”

“Yeah.” His mobile rang.

Alex slid behind the wheel of her car and stared at what used to be Timothy O'Neill's home. There was no doubt in her mind that this was the place Henson had brought the contact lens.

Her stomach cramped.

Henson had called her, excited that the analysis had confirmed the lens was more than met the eye—no pun intended. Now Henson was dead. His friend who'd done the analysis was dead.

All because of the contact lens she'd found. With either Henson or O'Neill abruptly dying she could call it a fluke, but with both, no way it was a mere coincidence.

What did she do about that?

How did she make Patton believe that this explosion had something to do with Henson's accident—that it probably wasn't an accident?

She had no proof. Nothing.

The story sounded melodramatic even to her. But she couldn't just pretend it never happened. She owed it to Henson, it was the least she could do. She had to see this through whether the police believed her or not.

Banging on the window next to her made her jump. Three seconds passed before Alex's heart slid back down into her throat and started to beat again.

She lowered her window and glared at Winston. “What?” He'd scared the hell of her.

He grinned like a jackass. “Thought I'd let you
know that I'd just gotten a call about a possible homicide scene not too far from here. I can give you the address if you want to run over there and see if there's any work to be drummed up.”

She didn't give him the finger, which had been her first inclination. Instead she smiled, pulled the gear shift into Reverse and rolled away from him. He was still laughing when she glanced into her rearview mirror after turning around and driving away.

Asshole.

Alex drove back to the office. As usual, her parking spot was taken. She squeezed into an open space between a Cadillac and a Honda.

“Got a call.” Shannon was waving a message at her as she walked through the door. Alex wondered vaguely whatever happened to “Hello, how has your morning been?”

She snagged the message. “Thanks. Where's Marg?” The lounge door was wide open and from her position in front of Shannon's desk Alex could see that the room was empty. This wasn't a good sign.

“She left less than an hour after she got here and never came back.” Shannon shrugged, then pointed to the message in Alex's hand. “They're in kind of a
hurry. Wanted to know if you could come right over. I was about to call you.”

Alex read over the message. Apartment building over in Carol City. She knew the place. “What's the rush?” Not that she didn't understand the need to get a cleanup done, considering the most plausible source of the problem, but hurrying wouldn't change the fact that someone was most likely deceased.

“The guy lived on the second floor. Apparently he's been dead for almost two weeks without anyone missing him. He might not have been missed at all if his downstairs neighbor hadn't noticed something oozing from her kitchen ceiling.”

Ugh. Her favorite kind of duty. “I'm on my way,” Alex mumbled with about as much enthusiasm as a prisoner on his final walk toward execution.

She popped into the bathroom and took care of business, pulled her hair up into a ponytail and stared at her reflection, wondering what Fate had against her. She was reasonably intelligent and attractive, why was it that her primary skill appeared to be cleaning up after the dead? Somebody had to do it. That was her stock answer whenever she felt sorry for herself.

Maybe that was the reason her life had not taken
the usual journey. Never had a husband. No kids. No serious relationships. But that was what she'd wanted? Wasn't it?

She thought about Henson and what he'd wanted, a long-term relationship…a commitment. What if she'd chosen that path? What if she'd taken the chance…?

She would have been sorry. Henson would still be dead and she would be…left with all the emotional baggage.

That was precisely why she never went there. No risk, no regret.

“Damn straight,” she growled at the uncertainty she saw in her eyes.