What She Doesn't See (7 page)

That was the nice thing about cleaning up
after the dead, the dead didn’t talk back or give her grief. She
climbed out of her SUV 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 already,”
she said, seemingly to herself. Another bout of wailing began
behind her and she heaved a sigh. “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.”

“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. Any information about Timothy was what she really wanted.
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.”

Alex scribbled a couple of words on the pad
to look credible.

“I didn’t mention this to the other officer
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. “I’m
sure my personal opinion isn’t important…”

“Please,” Alex urged, “any information may
prove useful.”

The woman’s gaze wandered toward the
devastation once more. “He didn’t get out much. He 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. The
place was packed with all sorts of electronic gadgets. At least
half a dozen computers. She said it was bizarre. Like something
from a spy movie.”

Alex’s heart rate reacted to an adrenaline
rush. “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, I should say. He was really
quiet and he kept to himself.”

No wonder Hitch didn’t talk about the guy to
his friends. Confidentiality 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 Hitch 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
rubble.

The detective leaned against his car speaking
to someone on his cell phone. Alex parked behind him and got out of
her SUV. He glanced her way but didn’t bother waving. Something
about the way he noted her arrival with a dismissive glance sparked
recognition. She knew this guy.

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

But this detective—Detective Daryl
Winston—had been a real jerk to Patsy. Alex had seen him from
across the alley, but she hadn’t known until later how he’d talked
down to Patsy. Alex despised bullies like him.

She 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, and 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 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 you asking?” Another one of
his 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.

His gaze strayed to her cleavage. “I suppose
not. It’s O’Neill’s house. The body was found surrounded by his
computer equipment or what was left of it. It’s probably him, but
we don’t have an official ID 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. “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 too early to say anything for sure.”

Damn. “That’s too bad.” There would be no
burying the body, no closure, until the remains had been officially
identified. “Any idea what caused the explosion?”

“We’re still working on that.” He checked out
her boobs once more. “Besides, I couldn’t tell you if I knew. 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 you around, Winston.”

“Yeah.” His cell rang.

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

Her stomach cramped.

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

All because of the contact lens she’d found.
If either Hitch or O’Neill had abruptly died under unusual
circumstances she could call it a fluke. But both? No way it was a
mere coincidence.

The question was, what did she do about
it?

How did she make Patton believe this
explosion had something to do with Hitch’s accident—that it
probably wasn’t an accident? She had no proof. Nothing.

The story sounded melodramatic even to her.
Still, she couldn’t just pretend it never happened. She owed it to
Hitch, 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 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, I just got a call about a possible coffee spill at a
Starbucks 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
gearshift into Reverse, and rolled away from him. He was still
laughing when she glanced into her rearview mirror after turning
around and driving away.

Buttwad.

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 was your morning?”

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, and then pointed to
the message in Alex’s hand. “They’re in kind of a hurry. The guy
who called wanted to know if you could come right over. I was about
to call you.”

Alex read over the message. The apartment
building was 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 likely source of the problem, but
hurrying wouldn’t change the fact that someone was probably
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. Alex’s favorite kind of duty. “I’m on my
way.”

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. Single and independent was what she’d wanted. Wasn’t
it?

She thought about Hitch 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 sighed. No risk, no regret.

She never second-guessed herself like this.
Evidently the recent rash of deaths involving people who basically
lived alone or had no one who looked in on them had gotten under
her skin. Yeah, right. If only it were that simple. It was Hitch.
Damn it.

Shaking off the depressing sentiment, she
headed for Carol City. The sooner she dived into the apartment’s
cleanup, the sooner she’d be done.

The building’s super led her to the
first-floor apartment where the neighbor had discovered the leak in
her ceiling. The fluids had seeped through the ceiling and oozed
down the wall next to her kitchen table. She’d refused to return to
the apartment until it was cleaned up and repainted.

No problem. Alex would have this place tiptop
in no time.

The apartment on the second floor was a
different story. The moment the super opened the door, the stench
assaulted Alex’s olfactory. Though the body was gone, the
unpleasant smell of decaying flesh and dissipating putrid gases had
permeated the space. The tenant had been dead, according to what
the M.E.’s office had told the super, at least twelve days. He’d
died in his kitchen, lying on the floor, directly above the kitchen
on the first level.

Twelve days. That was more than enough time
for things to get ugly. Immediately after death the body
temperature started to drop, and rigor mortis began only to reverse
itself about two days later. After nearly two weeks putrefaction
had already taken place and things were pretty much flat and
creamy. The body fluids that escaped had seeped into everything,
including the kitchen downstairs.

Alex donned her hazmat jumpsuit, gloves, et
cetera, and went to work, cleaning not only every surface involved
but also the air. The gases released by decomposing body fluids,
such as spinal fluid, could be extremely toxic.