Never Happened

After a few more minutes of elbow grease and a final look around, Alex decided it was as good as it was going to get. The only thing she hadn’t been able to rectify was the bullet hole in the paneling. It might not have been so noticeable if the forensics tech hadn’t gouged the bullet out of the two-by-four it had lodged itself into. Drywall she could repair; paneling, that was a whole other problem. Maybe the landlord could hang a picture on the wall to cover the damage or fill it and just paint the whole room.

Now for her least favorite part of the job; collecting payment. This business was cash-and-carry, no thirty days to pay, strictly payment due at time of services. She did accept Visa and MasterCard, though, and, if she knew the individual well enough, personal checks. As much as she disliked this part, it was essential to get payment as quickly as possible since it was all too easy for money to end up spent on the living.

She dropped the hazmat bags containing the refuse, all the cleaning rags associated with the job, as well as the suit, gloves and shoe covers she’d worn, at the disposal center then headed to the landlord’s property office. With her payment collected she was done for the day.

Maybe she’d stop by the office on the way home and maybe she wouldn’t. Right now a shower and then a long hot bath sounded far too inviting to waste time sparring with her crew. It was past closing time anyway. Most would be out of there already.

Tomorrow was another day, and in a teeming city like Miami, as well as all its suburbs, where drug deals went wrong and gangs got even, there was always plenty of job security for a woman in her line of work.

Cleaning up after the dead wasn’t exactly a market one had to fear would dry up.

CHAPTER 2

Twelve miles of calm waters, clean sands and swaying palm trees. Alex breathed deeply of the late-summer evening air as she cruised along Ocean Boulevard, allowing that saltwater essence to clean the stench of death from her lungs. God, she loved everything about Miami Beach. Maybe she didn’t live in one of the upscale art deco homes in this world-renowned neighborhood, but she didn’t care. This was home…stunning, intoxicating…and forever youthful.

Age was irrelevant here. No one cared how old you were because everyone dressed and behaved young at heart. Whether they were soaking up the rays or haunting the designer shops, locals and tourists alike sauntered to the beat of a different tune—one filled with Latin heat and the primal lust of the tropical landscape.

She leaned against the headrest and let the pleasant breeze caress her face. The perfect climate and the lush scenery might draw the world to Miami but it was the eclectic blend of people that made this city so unique. Cubans, Colombians, Peruvians and Venezuelans made up fifty percent of the population. Not surprising that Spanish was the primary language. The news from Havana or Caracas was more often than not the talk on the street.

Speaking of people, as traffic slowed near 10th Street, Alex braked and watched couples glide into the Casa Casuarina, a hotel that was once home to the revered designer Gianni Versace. Not even the fabulous architecture could detract from the gorgeous patrons flowing into the ritzy joint. Men with wash-board stomachs and bulging pecs were outfitted in the still famous Miami Vice Sonny Crockett look with their loose-fitting linen slacks and silk shirts. Soft pastels were sharply contrasted by richly tanned skin. Alex sighed as she studied the appetizing smorgasbord of pleasing male specimens. Just part of the everyday landscape and another aspect of her love affair with this city. She wasn’t intimidated in the least by the equally attractive ladies with their short, tight dresses and stiletto heels.

Beneath her faded jeans and Margaritaville tee, Alex maintained the kind of figure women half her age envied. She knew it, reveled in it. She’d learned a long time ago that humility was vastly overrated. If you had it, you saw it for what it was and used the hell out of it. Life was too short to do otherwise.

Admittedly it took work to stay in this kind of physical condition, she mused as her right foot instinctively pressed against the accelerator, propelling her SUV forward with the traffic. After all she wasn’t twenty anymore.

A sly grin slid across her face. But she wasn’t dead, either. Nor was she wearing her age on her sleeve, so to speak. She liked keeping the world guessing. Only two people in her life knew her exact age; her oldest and dearest friend, who had been sworn to secrecy under fear of death; and her mother, who wouldn’t dare tell her daughter’s age for fear of giving away her own.

With a final, longing look at one particular man on the busy sidewalk, Alex made the necessary turn and headed toward a less glamorous residential district. The working-class side of town. Art deco remained the prevailing theme in architecture, even in her lower rent neighborhood but with a more Bohemian atmosphere. Her small cottage wasn’t on the water, but there was a boardwalk nearby that went all the way to the water’s edge. Anywhere around here was close to the ocean—that living, breathing entity upon which this city thrived.

She pulled into the short driveway and slid out of the 4Runner. No, it wasn’t much, she thought with a frank yet appreciative survey of the property, but it was home and it was hers. Her grandmother had left it to her. Alex grabbed her bag, elbowed the door closed and clicked the remote lock.

Sometimes she felt guilty that she’d inherited the cottage instead of her mother. But her grandmother—her mother’s own mother—had known that Margie Jackson would piss the property away if given the chance.

As if fate had chosen that memory to warn that trouble was headed her way, Alex’s cell erupted with the chorus from “It’s Getting Hot in Here” by Nelly.

She checked the caller ID. “Damn.” The office. Had to be Shannon, her office manager and lifelong best friend. This couldn’t be good. It was almost six. “Hey, Shannon, what’s up?” Alex shoved the key into the lock of her front door. If the news was really bad she wanted to be within arm’s reach of a cold one.

“We may have a potential problem, Alexis.”

Definitely bad. Shannon only called her Alexis when she wanted her full attention.

Putting off the inevitable, Alex walked straight through the cluttered and cozy living room to the equally disorganized and cramped kitchen before she responded, “Oh yeah?” She snagged a Michelob from the fridge and twisted off the top. Not wanting Shannon’s announcement to get too far ahead of the alcohol, Alex chugged a long swallow. The brew made her shiver as much from the promise of a relaxing buzz it offered as the cold temperature.

With her hip, she closed the fridge door, leaned against it and pressed the chilly bottle to the damp skin at her throat. Okay, so maybe there was one thing about Miami she could live without: humidity. You couldn’t exist in this city without sweating. Day, night, working out or just sitting still.

“He asked her out for a third date.”

All thoughts of sweat and the most pleasurable ways to manufacture a healthy glaze on one’s skin vanished as her friend’s words penetrated fully.

“When? Today?”

“He called just before she left the office.” Shannon sighed. “You should have heard her, she giggled like a schoolgirl. She was all giddy…you know how she gets. I see trouble on the horizon, Alex. Big trouble.”

Damn. Alex shook her head. “You couldn’t stop her?”

“Right,” Shannon retorted. “Your mother has been on the wagon for more than a year. I value my life more than that. I have kids you know.”

“Your kids are grown, Shannon.”

Ignoring Alex’s reply, her friend covertly added, “I know where they were going.”

Alex pushed away from the fridge and headed for the bedroom. Might as well get this over with. She could either head off this train wreck or pick up the pieces afterward. “Where?”

It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to rescue her mother. Probably wouldn’t be the last. Life could be complicated when you were the only child of a recovering alcoholic.

“Ruby’s.”

“Thanks, Shannon.”

“What’re you going to do?”

Alex took another pull from her beer and set it on the dresser as she crossed her room. “What I usually do.” She closed her phone without saying more. Further explanation wasn’t necessary; Shannon understood what she meant.

Alex stared at her reflection a moment and wondered what her life would have been like if things had been different. Had watching her parents fight nonstop until the night her father killed himself, kept her single and glad to be that way? Or had her mother’s string of failed relationships turned Alex cynical when it came to anything long-term?

If life had taken a different turn for her, would Alex have kids off in college now like Shannon? A husband who spent his Saturdays watching sports? Sex every third Sunday of the month?

Alex shuddered at the concept.

God must have known she wasn’t cut out for that kind of life. Just to make sure she veered far away from unnecessary commitments; life tossed her the occasional reminder, such as this one. Some people simply shouldn’t be spouses, much less parents. Unfortunately her mother was one of those people.

Alex ripped off her T-shirt and shimmied out of her jeans. Shower or no, she couldn’t go to Ruby’s looking like one of the guys.

It never ceased to amaze Alex just how good a hardworking woman could look if she put her mind to it. Even if she’d spent the better part of the day scraping human remains off a wall.

Good genes were the one reliable thing her mother had given her.

After parking on the Washington Avenue side of the establishment, Alex walked into Ruby’s Lounge with all the confidence of a supermodel. Her dress was black and short with heels high enough to make a lesser woman acrophobic, but not Alex. She’d fashioned her long blond hair into a sexy French twist. Her lips twitched. She loved anything French, including the men. Thank God for European tourists.

She surveyed the tables of the lounge, which was a throwback to a bygone era. Some tables were wrapped with comfy sofas for more intimate dining, while others stood tall and were surrounded by stools. Every seat was taken. Latin salsa throbbed from the sound system as waiters and waitresses wove through the maze of bodies and tables.

“Do you have a reservation?”

Alex smiled for the host, garnering herself an approving smile in return. “I’m afraid I can’t stay,” she said wistfully. “I’m only here to relay a message to a friend.”

“Your friend’s name?”

She held up a hand. “It’s all right. I see her.”