Never Happened. Debra Webb

shrugged her shoulders dramatically. “How the hell do I know? Should I call and ask?”

      Alex shook her head adamantly. “We don’t want to draw any attention to him or us. Let’s just stay calm and pray someone notices at the registration and screening.”

      Shannon’s head bobbed. “How could he win or even get in? I mean—” she lowered her voice to the whisper Alex had been aiming for “—I’ll admit that he makes a somewhat attractive woman, but this is a beauty pageant, right? With rules and judges?”

      Alex did the bobbing this time. She told herself it wouldn’t matter that Brown had killer legs or that his unusually high cheekbones were to die for. “Of course you’re right. We have nothing to worry about. No way he’ll win. He’ll probably be disqualified before the pageant even officially begins.”

      “Probably.”

      For about two minutes after Shannon left Alex’s office, she pondered the question of why Brown seemed to be confused about his sexuality. Some days he appeared completely happy with his masculinity, others he wanted nothing to do with it, showed up for work as some Hollywood diva. Maybe the good doctor next door could shed some light on the subject. Alex was certain he’d noticed Brown’s unusual fashion sense on his feminine days.

      Putting her curiosities aside, she turned her attention to the day’s schedule. An elderly couple, dead two weeks, had been found in their Coral Gables home. Cause of death was listed as natural by their attending physician so the police wouldn’t be holding up the scene. Apparently both had suffered from serious heart conditions. There was no way to be sure who died first, but the death of one of them, evidently, was brought on by the other’s fatal attack. With no family in the state to look in on them and the neighbors under the assumption the couple had gone on vacation, no one had realized there was a problem until the stench reared its ugly head.

      Brown and the Professor would head out around eight to take care of that one. The family, who’d arrived in town just yesterday, had requested additional services to include cleaning the carpet throughout the home and washing down all walls and ceilings.

      Thank God the couple’s air-conditioning had kept the house below seventy-five degrees. The mess would be bad enough, but there was nothing as bad as a body that had roasted in Miami’s summer heat. The July climate turned a closed-up, non-climate-controlled house into a virtual oven. Not a pleasant situation.

      The Professor poked his head through her door. “Have you read the Herald this morning?”

      Alex tossed the work order aside and picked up her latte to cradle it in her hands. “Haven’t had time. Did you find something interesting?” She savored the sweet concoction as she waited expectantly for him to share the news she’d missed.

      “I think perhaps you should read this for yourself.”

      He made the short journey to and around behind her desk. Alex leaned back out of the way while he spread the paper in front of her. He tapped the headline Detective’s Death Under Investigation.

      “Isn’t he a friend of yours?”

      Somehow her cup found its way back to her desk as she skimmed the front page article recounting the tragic automobile accident of a longtime criminal investigations detective…

      Detective Richard Henson…

      “Ohmigod…” Alex looked up at the Professor. “I talked to him last night.” I slept with him three months ago…

      Dread or hurt or something she couldn’t quite label welled in her chest. How could this have happened? He’d been fine last night.

      The Professor gestured to the paper. “According to the article, the accident likely occurred between eight and ten last night. There aren’t that many details given.”

      Her thoughts whirling, she grappled to recall the approximate time he’d called last night. After Marg had come home. Sweating to the Oldies. Alex had considered having another beer.

      Eight-fifteen, eight-thirty maybe. Nine at the latest.

      Jesus.

      He could have died only a few minutes after they’d talked. Why hadn’t she said…something…like how good it had been to see him that day? Why hadn’t she just said yes to dinner?

      Henson was dead.

      “Thanks, Professor.”

      Alex didn’t notice when he left the room, but he was gone the next time she glanced around her office. She blinked, trying to reconcile herself to what she’d just read.

      Henson was really dead.

      She forced herself to read the entire article. It didn’t specify the details, but it did mention that the one-car accident was under investigation.

      When he’d called he’d said he was going to see the computer whiz kid who’d unofficially analyzed the contact lens.

      Had he made it to the guy’s house?

      Did the police even know where he’d been headed?

      Alex sagged in her chair, let the cold, harsh reality wash over her.

      Henson was dead.

      She was repeating herself but she just couldn’t get past it. She’d liked him. Now she’d never get to tell him that if she’d been the type for commitment, he could maybe have been the guy. She should have told him that. But she hadn’t. She’d let him believe that he didn’t have the “it” she was looking for. That had been a lot easier than explaining what she really felt. She didn’t even know what she really felt. She only knew what she didn’t want—she didn’t want long-term.

      No man ever understood that.

      Hell, she didn’t even understand it, she simply accepted it.

      Enough, she ordered. She couldn’t sit around here feeling sorry for herself. She had spoken with Henson last night, possibly only minutes before he died. Any information she could offer that might help the investigation was not only her civic duty, it was her obligation as a friend.

      Alex finished her latte, grabbed her bag and put thought into action.

      The Professor and Brown had this morning’s schedule under control. Unless something new came up, she could spare a couple of hours. The final reports she’d been meaning to type and the other paperwork she needed to review could wait.

      Her friend was dead.

      That wouldn’t wait.

      The Miami Beach Police station was located at 1100 Washington Avenue in a building that defined the Art Deco style. The Criminal Investigations Unit called the third floor home. The division was laid out in a grid pattern with dozens of metal desks floating amid a sea of beige carpeting. The walls were a matching shade of beige. The only interruption in the beigedom was the stacks of red and blue folders atop the desks. Kind of reminded Alex of her own office.

      She waved to a couple of the female detectives she’d worked with on occasion and basically ignored the guys who openly leered. Not that she minded when a man showed his appreciation for her hard work and good genes, but these guys were just being jerks. Most had wives and kids at home.

      Yet another reason to stay unattached. You didn’t have to worry about a cheating husband if you didn’t have one. Didn’t have to worry about mismatched socks. Dirty boxers or dishes piled in the sink. Life was just less complicated when one stayed unattached.

      She wove through the maze of desks until she reached the one belonging to Detective Jimmy Patton. He and Henson hadn’t been partners that long, only since Henson’s longtime partner had retired and moved to Maine about six months ago.

      When Patton looked up Alex recognized the exhaustion and the pain in his eyes. He’d likely been up all night.

      “Jackson,” he said, acknowledging her presence but immediately returning his attention