What She Doesn't See (11 page)

He loosened the last nut with a firm twist of
the lug wench. “Let’s just say my jurisdiction supersedes local law
enforcement.”

Oh, ho. The man was a fed. She should have
gotten that one. Most feds were classy dressers. Then again,
Versace went a little above even a typical fed’s pay grade. She’d
dated one once.

“FBI?”

She had to admit she was rather enjoying this
little game of twenty questions. Took her mind off the depressing
reason she was here.

“You know I’m in law enforcement.” He pulled
the flat tire free and set it aside. “Why don’t you tell me what
you do for a living?”

She laughed. “Maybe because I’m not sure
you’ll believe me.” No one ever guessed her occupation.

He slid the spare tire—a real tire, not the
little donut jobs—into place before meeting her gaze. “You’re a
professional cleaner.”

The wariness she’d let slide bumped back up a
notch. “What makes you say that?”

“I smelled a hint of something stronger than
the garden-variety disinfectant when I opened your cargo door.”

As hard as she tried she couldn’t keep her
vehicle completely free of the hazards of her work. She’d had a
special partition installed between the back seat and the cargo
area. At least she could keep any lingering odors out of the
passenger compartment.

“You guessed it. I’m a cleaner.” For all he
knew she was a maid.

“But not just any kind of cleaner,” he went
on as he gave the lug wrench a violent twist to tighten a third nut
back into place.

“My turn,” she countered. “You knew Detective
Hitchcock?”

“Are we still playing the guessing game or am
I supposed to give you a straight answer?”

The more he relaxed the more his silvery blue
eyes sparkled. His smile almost looked genuine now. Some of that
fierce control had melted. Maybe due to the heat rising from the
asphalt.

“A straight answer would be nice.”

“I’m investigating his death.”

No way could she have reacted quickly enough
to veil her expression. “What do you mean? He had an accident,
right? That’s what I saw in the papers.”

“Did he?” He locked another nut into place
with enough pressure to match an air wrench. “Sometimes what you
don’t see is far more telling.”

“His partner seems to think it was an
accident.” She was hedging. Whatever this guy knew, he was on a
fishing expedition. Her gaze narrowed. His parking and then waiting
by her vehicle was no coincidence any more than the flat tire had
been.

Slow down, Alex, you’re going all
conspiracy theory
.

“But you don’t think so.” He tightened the
final lug nut.

Her wariness elevated to a higher level. Who
was this guy?

Shrugging casually, she refused to confirm
what could only be his theory. “I don’t agree with the idea that he
fell asleep at the wheel,” she admitted. The only way this fed
could know anything about what she thought was if Patton had told
him. “Hitch and I spoke briefly and he sounded fine. It’s my
understanding the accident occurred a short time later. He just
didn’t sound sleepy or even tired to me.”

Murphy stood and rolled the flat tire around
to the rear of the vehicle. He hefted it into the cargo area. Next
he picked up the tools and put them away. He swiped his palms
together to dust them off. “What did you talk about?”

Uncertain as to just how much she should
share with this handsome stranger, she hesitated a couple seconds
too long.

“I could obtain a warrant for your phone
records.”

A warrant? “For the details of a personal
telephone conversation I’ve already shared with the local police?”
Why were the feds suddenly interested in Hitch’s accident? What had
changed since she last spoke to Patton? No, she decided, this
wasn’t about Hitch at all. “If you’re that worried, why don’t you
just arrest me?”

Government stuff. The kind of data we
civilians aren’t supposed to see if we want to stay alive.

Maybe Timothy O’Neill was more right than he
knew.

“I wouldn’t have to arrest you, Alex,” Murphy
said as he closed the cargo door. “I could bring you in as a person
of interest to the case.”

‘To what case?” She refused to admit anything
more than what she’d said already. “Why didn’t Detective Patton say
anything about Hitch’s accident being under further
investigation?”

There was something wrong about this sudden
development. Anger started to simmer low in her gut. If Patton had
suspected something, he should have told her. He had no business
leaving her in the dark like this.

Then again, she had pretty much left him in
the dark, too.

“Detective Patton only knows what he needs to
know. This is my investigation. The locals have been instructed as
to the hands-off nature of the situation,” Murphy said, drawing her
away from her frustrating thoughts. He reached for his jacket and
folded it neatly over his left arm.

When another scenario elbowed its way into
her evolving conclusions, the mixture of irritation and wariness
churning inside her gave way to outrage. This could be
the
man
.
The man who’d showed up at O’Neill’s house with
Hitch. The same one who’d killed him.

“Thanks for taking care of the tire.” She
stretched her lips into a fake smile. “I’d love to stay and chat
some more, but I have an appointment.”

Call her dramatic, but when Murphy reached
into the interior pocket of his jacket— even though she’d held said
jacket and knew he couldn’t possibly have been carrying a weapon
without her noticing the additional weight—her breath caught.

“Take my card.” He held out an elegantly
embossed business card. “I’d like you to call me if you remember
anything that might be helpful to this investigation.”

She reached for the card, but he held on to
it long enough to add, “I’m quite certain you want to see justice
for your friend.”

He released the card and walked away.

Alex was still standing there when he drove
off in his sporty Mercedes.

She stared at the card that displayed his
name and phone number. Shouldn’t Federal Bureau of Investigation be
inscribed there as well?

If only O’Neill had gotten a look at the guy
who’d been with Hitch. She couldn’t be sure whether this Murphy
character was a good guy or a bad one. What she needed was to talk
to Patton. If the feds were investigating Hitch’s accident, the
locals would have to know even if they weren’t involved. Murphy had
said as much, called his investigation hands-off as far as the
locals were concerned. The only way the locals would back off was
if the feds had jurisdiction that superseded their own.

Alex slid behind the wheel of her SUV and
started the engine. She set the air-conditioning to maximum and dug
for her phone. With Miami Beach PD on speed dial, she entered the
necessary extension and pushed her hair behind her shoulders to let
the cooling air flow over her throat.

When Patton came on the line, she didn’t
mince words. “Hey, why didn’t you tell me the feds were
investigating Hitch’s accident?”

A heavy sigh echoed across the line. “What
are you talking about, Alex?”

Alex
. She saw how it was.

“I’m talking about this guy, Wyatt Murphy. He
grilled me in the church parking lot. You could have told me.”

“Look.” Another deep breath. “I haven’t the
slightest idea what you’re talking about. We’re all upset that
Hitch is dead. I know the memorial service was tough on everyone,
but for Christ’s sake, Alex, you’ve got to stop making things worse
by coming up with these outlandish scenarios. Hitch is dead. So far
it appears to be nothing more than a tragic accident.”

“You didn’t sic some fed on me about that
call Hitch made to me the night he died?”

“Of
course not. Why would the feds
be involved in this case anyway?” Patton sounded tired—tired and
disgusted. “Like I told you before, we’re checking out every aspect
of the accident. The techs found no indication whatsoever his
vehicle had been tampered with. If anything—and I mean anything—was
out of sync we would have found it by now.”

But they wouldn’t find it. Not only were they
looking in the wrong place, they had no idea what they were looking
for.

Still fuming, Alex parked in her driveway and
strode up the walk to her front door. If Murphy’s story was legit
and he was investigating the case, she suspected it was about the
lens and not Hitch’s murder—which would explain why Patton had been
left out of the loop. The trouble with that scenario was that if
Murphy suspected she knew something, who else did? The man who had
killed Hitch. Probably the same one who’d blown up O’Neill’s home.
This, of course, was assuming Murphy wasn’t that man.

Was she only giving him the benefit of the
doubt—despite what Patton said—because he was drop-dead
gorgeous?

Her mother’s comment about how alike they
were nagged at Alex but she ignored it. They were total opposites.
Anyone who knew them would say the same. Alex liked being in
control. She liked standing on her own two feet. She liked doing
things her way. Her mother was rarely in control of her destiny.
She was wholly dependent upon Alex for a place to live and a job.
Her relationships always ended badly.

Guilt for being so hard on her mother pinged
her. Marg tried. Most of the time anyway.

Alex tossed her bag onto the sofa and kicked
off her stilettos. She would peel off the dress later. First she
wanted a beer and something to munch on. She’d totally forgotten
lunch except for a bag of chips, and grease didn’t technically
count as a food group. Mostly she wanted to put this whole mess out
of her head for a minute.

She grabbed a Corona from the fridge and
quenched her thirst. After throwing together a ham sandwich and
snagging her shoes, she headed to her room to get comfortable with
the stack of magazines she’d borrowed from Marg’s apartment. She
smiled. Even if she died tonight, Shannon would just assume Marg
had left the gossip rags at Alex’s house or that Alex had
confiscated them for some reason.

She stopped. Just because both she and Marg
liked the gossip rags didn’t mean they were alike.

They were nothing alike.

She wasn’t going to think about that anymore.
She went into her room and put the shoes away in her closet, set
her half-empty beer and sandwich aside, and was just about to
wiggle out of her dress when she noticed the earring glittering on
the carpet.

It was one of those freak things. The tiny
platinum-and-pearl stud was so small it was a miracle she saw it at
all. Somehow her gaze just happened to land in the right spot and
recognition fired in the only two brain cells she had left that
were paying attention.

She bent down and picked it up. Since she
hadn’t worn these particular earrings in months, she frowned.
Placing the earring on top of her jewelry box, she opened the first
dresser drawer—the one where she kept her panties. Things appeared
in order. She was pretty sure Marg had gone through her things and
borrowed something recently. She’d meant to mention that to her and
she’d forgotten.

Determined to be sure nothing else had been
borrowed
, Alex went through drawer after drawer. The more
she opened and slammed closed, the angrier she became. It wasn’t so
much a particular garment or item out of place it was the keen
awareness that her things had been moved… touched.
Again
.

She marched to her closet next. Oh, Marg had
been careful. Every dress, blouse, pair of slacks, and shoes were
exactly where they were supposed to be, but Alex could sense the
minute changes.

She checked her jewelry box. Not that she had
anything expensive, but just to see if Marg had actually borrowed a
pair of earrings or if she’d only been looking to see if Alex had
bought anything new lately.

Her frown deepened. Now this was where her
mother had fallen down on covering her tracks. The earrings were
paired together but not in the same place they’d been. Not that
Alex was a neat freak or anything but she kept the ones she wore
most often on top, the rest in the bottom compartment.

She slammed the box shut and gave herself a
couple of minutes to cool off. She calmly finished her sandwich and
beer, and then she marched out the front door and straight up to
Marg’s apartment. A couple of bangs later and her mother came to
the door, wearing a jade sheath that fit like a second skin and a
pair of Alex’s shoes she’d completely forgotten about since they’d
been
borrowed
for so long.

“I wondered where those had gotten to,” she
said, giving the green snakeskin shoes a confirming glance.

“Alex! I borrowed them from you for the
Christmas party. Don’t you remember?”

Marg Jackson looked fantastic in the outfit.
Her figure was remarkable for a woman her age, with or without a
gym membership. Even her face lacked the usual wrinkles associated
with AARP eligibility and years in the Florida sun. Alex had to
hand it to her mother, the woman swore by SPF 45 or above sunblock.
No matter how great the genes, sun damage could ruin the prettiest
face.

‘That was Christmas before last,” Alex
reminded her. “And you haven’t returned them yet.”

“I promise I’ll have them back to you
tomorrow. Right now I have to go. I’m meeting friends for
dinner.”

Suspicion overrode the bone Alex had to pick
with her mother. “What friends?” She hadn’t heard Marg talking
about any new friends. All her old friends were party girls who
lived to drink and get rowdy.

“New friends,” she returned. “You don’t know
them.”

“I don’t have dinner plans,” Alex suggested.
“Maybe I could meet your friends.”

Marg looked nervous. Damn it. Alex wanted to
shake her. When would she learn? She couldn’t keep screwing up.
There had to come a time when she realized that she was wasting her
life on booze and bad relationships. As far as Alex was concerned
that time was now.