What She Doesn't See by Debra Webb

addiction to conceal since Marg bought every gossip rag
on the newsstand. Marg borrowed Alex’s clothes, and Alex borrowed
her magazines and newspapers. The difference was Marg never knew.
She thought Alex took care of her recycling so she didn’t have to
lug it down the stairs.
    “Where’s your gun?” Alex challenged.
    He nodded toward his fancy car. “In the
console. I didn’t feel it was appropriate to take a weapon into the
service. Besides, I’m sure there were plenty of armed officers in
attendance.”
    “So you’re a cop.” She shifted her weight,
planting one stiletto-clad foot slightly in front of her. The move
accomplished her goal, his gaze traced a path from her ankle to the
hem of her dress. “With Miami-Dade County? Miami Beach? North
Beach?”
    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