Never Happened

Marg placed a hand on hers. “Sooner or later it's going to sneak up on you, and you need to be ready.”

Alex didn't draw her hand away, as was her first inclination. She didn't want to hurt her mother's feelings.

“Mother, I'm perfectly happy with my life. I'm not interested in long-term.”

“You see, that's my point. You should be,” Marg countered. “You think I couldn't get a job. You think I couldn't get a place if I didn't have this one. Well, you're wrong. I could make it on my own. I might fall down now and then, but there's nothing wrong with that.”

Alex wasn't sure where she was going with all this.

“It's okay to fail every so often. Life isn't supposed to be perfect. Living life is about taking risks, about allowing yourself to be vulnerable at times,” Marg insisted. “You
need
to fall. Otherwise you're never going to know just how magical life is.”

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

“You're
early, Alex.” A wide grin accompanied the remark. “You know I can't let you get started just yet.”

The smart-ass cop was right. Charlie Crane's body was still in the house when Alex arrived. She surveyed the scene, could have done without seeing the old guy with his head all mangled by the bullet that had passed through his skull, but there was no changing that stomach-turning fact now.

“Yeah, well, Henson,” she said, shifting her gaze from the poor bastard in the easy chair, “you're late. You guys were supposed to be out of here an hour ago.”

Detective Rich Henson snorted at her comeback. “The M.E. had a little fender bender, but he'll be here any minute now, and then—” he spread his arms widely to indicate the room “—the place is all yours.”

As Henson spoke, his gaze slid down her Margaritaville T-shirt, pausing ever so briefly on her 36D cups, before trailing the length of her jean-clad legs. She'd gotten used to the leers ages ago. Despite being called Alex by all who knew her, she was one hundred percent female and damned proud of it.

Alexis Jackson was thirty-nine—okay, forty, but she wasn't telling anyone since she remained in staunch denial of the fact—five feet six, and one-hundred-ten pounds of well-toned muscle and hard-earned grit and determination. She wore her hair long, straight and blond—her methods for keeping it that way were a closely guarded secret. The men she dated, including the one visually eating her up right now, liked to wax on about how the color of her eyes reminded them of the sea.

Sounded great, huh? Well, the downside to being a blue-eyed blonde with a great body was that most men, and some women, mistakenly thought she was just another pretty face. But they only made that mistake once.

“Who hired you?” Henson asked, being his usual nosy self. Alex felt pretty sure he didn't really care; he just wanted to make conversation. She knew he still had a thing for her, and if she was into long-term
relationships and cute guys with adrenaline-driven egos she might just give him a second chance. The fact of the matter was they had been there, done that and she'd walked away.

Besides, cops were off-limits. As were firemen, P.I.'s and paramedics. Give her a CPA anytime. At least she didn't spend all her time stroking his ego. Unfortunately, in her line of work most of the CPA types she ran into were dead. That sort of thinking led one place—to the big, looming cloud that proclaimed “dateless for twenty-three days now.” Definitely not where she wanted to go. As simple as it would be to tread into deeper waters with a sweet guy like Henson, she saw the risks a mile away.

He was one of those guys who wanted something
permanent.
The only things in her life that were permanent were her friends and her work. And that was fine by her.

“I didn't think this guy had any family,” Henson tacked on just to add credibility to his question and to prompt an answer, which he would already know. It was his job to know. Charlie Crane's death might just be a suicide, but in the state of Florida all unattended deaths had to be investigated, especially those involving trauma.

“The landlord.” Her gaze went back to rest on Charlie's slumped form. He had to be sixty at least. It amazed her that he didn't have any family at all. No parents, no kids, no siblings. No one. Not even any real friends as far as the landlord knew. A stir of something Alex refused to identify made her stomach feel a little tight and queasy.

Henson cocked his head and studied the stiff, then tossed her a sympathetic look. “Well, I'm glad it's you and not me. As soon as the M.E.'s finished, I'm out of here.” He visibly shuddered.

She considered the spray of blood and brain matter on the paneled wall behind the body. Could have been worse. She'd certainly seen stuff more ghastly than this. “Nothing I haven't done before.”

“A guy never knows what a girl's going to like.” Henson flashed her another of those big ol' grins he considered charming, but she hadn't missed the hint of bitterness in his voice.

“You could always stay and watch, you might learn something more about what this girl likes,” she challenged. As she suspected, the big, brave cop didn't have anything to say to that, for more reasons than the work that lay ahead of her.

She realized it sounded strange, but the fallout
from the manner of death didn't really bother her. The bodies, well that was a different matter. Somehow seeing the person, or what was left of the person, made her knees go a little weak. The way they did now. She fought hard not to let Henson see her inner reaction to the corpse that hadn't been taken away yet. She had a reputation to maintain after all. Not to mention she went through this routine every time she showed up at a scene. Men just couldn't believe that women could handle seeing something this gruesome even though women were the ones who more often than not changed dirty diapers. Go figure.

Not surprisingly, a lot of people asked how she got into the business of dealing with dead things. She usually made a joke of it. Someone had to do it, right? Truth was, her first experience cleaning up after the recently deceased had come at the ripe old age of fifteen. She hadn't had a lot of choice in the matter. It was either jump in and help her mother or stand back and watch her do it alone. Alex hadn't been able to do that…her mother had needed her, but she would have cut out her tongue before she would have asked her daughter for help. That moment had fore-shadowed more than Alex's future occupation; she'd
been taking care of her mother in one way or another ever since.

As with Alex's current assignment, her father hadn't chosen the tidiest way to end his pathetic existence. A slightly off-center shot to the chest where the lungs could have sucked in most of the blood would have been preferable and considerably simpler. But like everything else in her life, his suicide hadn't been simple. A single shot to the head using a 30.06 rifle created an explosion that made a mess of the crappy room in the dilapidated house they'd called home. He'd been an alcoholic who couldn't see past the hole he'd dug himself into, so he'd taken the easy way out.

Considering her line of work, Alex supposed you could say the event had made an impact on her. So, after dropping out of college—she hadn't fit in and money always seemed to be an issue—and drifting from one dead-end job to the other, she started her own business, Never Happened. Another cop she'd dated once had given her the idea and all the reason in the world she would ever need
not
to date cops. Still, she'd ended up dating Henson. Their relationship hadn't lasted the month and it was over more than three months ago. Truth was, it never should
have started. When it came to men, apparently she had a faulty memory.

Giving credit where credit was due, that first cop had given her something to think about. What happened when a person committed suicide or died of natural causes or, God forbid, was murdered and wasn't found in a timely manner? Who cleaned up the mess? In the past it was usually a family member, but today, with elderly folks who have no family left or with those too busy to maintain family ties, who cleaned up the mess?

More often than not, there were diseases to worry about, and in the cases of advanced decomposition, normal body fluids could become toxic, making it dangerous for a regular Joe to do the cleanup.

All she'd had to do was get licensed in the cleanup and disposal of hazardous materials, learn to use the right cleaners and equipment and she was good to go. Her phone hadn't stopped ringing since. For the first time in her life she'd become totally self-sufficient and was her own boss. She wouldn't get rich but she did well enough to keep her bills paid and a skeleton crew of local misfits in work, including one of her closest high school friends—who assuredly would not be pleased at being lumped in with the rest of the group.

And, Alex still helped out her mother, who was fifty-five now. She was a recovering alcoholic as of last year and Alex spent far too much of her time keeping her that way. But she had to give her mother credit for helping out with the business in a way that Alex wasn't sure she would be particularly good at. Though she refused to go near a dead body, Margie Jackson was a damned good public relations rep. She single-handedly took care of all advertising and special offers, like fifty percent off a second service.

Believe it or not, there were people who liked getting unsightly spots removed from carpet and the like in rooms other than the cleanup scene when Alex or one of her associates showed up to handle the remains of a dead relative or tenant.

Never Happened was a broad-spectrum cleanup service. They cleaned up most anything. Calls generally involved someone's passing, whether by natural causes or those not so natural. There was the occasional meth lab deserted by some scumbag who had or hadn't gotten caught. Once in a while Alex got a request from folks who had experienced some sort of animal invasion, like a gator gaining access through an open patio door and getting swallowed by the family's pet Burmese python. Big snake. Big mess.
Two carcasses to remove. Then there were part-time residents who returned to their vacation home to find that rats had taken over during the off-season. You'd be surprised at the number of people who would rather die than sweep up a little rat poop.

She supposed that was why they called Miami the international playground of the rich and famous. Folks had money for most anything they desired, which was real nice for Alex and her business.

Never Happened provided a necessary service to the community.

When the victim's cause of death fell outside “natural causes” or was unattended, like now, Alex had no choice but to wait until the police had done their job to get started on hers. The delay made the scene a little less pleasant, but there were masks for that.

Outside, in her shamelessly overpriced Toyota 4Runner, she carried the accessories of the trade. Hazmat—hazardous materials—outfits and bags for carrying away the refuse. The outfits weren't attractive by any stretch of the imagination, think beekeeper, but like the bags they worked and that was what mattered. Assorted neutralizers, protein-stain cleaners, various tools and rags, as well as enzyme cleaners that killed
blood-borne bacteria and pathogens equipped her for the job. Not exactly the Lysol and bleach one used at home, but the objective was the same.

A full forty-five minutes and a latte later—Henson insisted on sending one of his minions to the Starbucks on the corner since Alex was forced to wait—the M.E. showed up and took charge of the body, which was wholly his jurisdiction.

She and Henson stayed out of the way, during which time she listened to how he'd installed French doors in his living room over the weekend and how he'd love it if she stopped by to see what a great job he'd done. He still wanted to be friends. She wanted that, as well, but feared it would never be enough for him in the long run and that moment would be painful so she steered clear of getting too close again.

With a promise to have a look very soon, Alex watched the cops and the M.E. head out. Since the M.E. had pronounced the cause of death as probably suicide and the police hadn't found any indication of foul play she could do what she'd come to do: Make the small paneled den look as if a suicide had never happened on the premises.

She had no preset amount of time to spend on the job; each one was different. First she donned the req
uisite suit, including shoe covers, safety glasses and gloves, then she surveyed the scene. Mentally noted the areas where matter had sprayed outside the anticipated range. Checked under furniture and behind curtains and blinds. No one wanted to enter a room and discover human remains clinging to the underside of a blind slat. Definitely not a good thing.

“Aha.” Alex grunted with the effort it took to fish what she was relatively certain was an eyeball out from under a chair. When the object rolled, covered in dust bunnies, into the open, she knew she'd been right. In cases such as this, it wasn't unusual for parts to be overlooked. Unless there was reason to suspect foul play, it wasn't necessary to round up every speck of DNA.

Alex shook her head and reached for her hazmat bag. Just before she chucked the eyeball, something other than dust on the surface caught her attention.

She tried to lift it loose but her gloves wouldn't allow for the fine motor effort. Carrying the eyeball loosely in the palm of her hand she went in search of tweezers.

After a few frustrating failures she finally lifted what looked like a contact lens off the delicate surface. She dropped the eyeball in the hazmat bag but kept the lens to examine it further. This was no
ordinary vision enhancer. This sucker was way thicker than the usual lens. Then again, the victim had been well past his prime. But even someone half-blind wouldn't have needed a lens this thick and, now that she thought about it, large. The damned thing was as big as a nickel.

And there was something metallic looking around the edges. Very strange, kind of sci-fi-like.

She was pretty sure Henson would think she was nuts, but she wasn't taking any chances. She'd had the same briefing everyone in her line of work received. Anything suspicious should be reported. No exceptions. No hesitation.

Alex bagged the lens and, after removing her right glove, used her cell to call Henson. He answered on the second ring.

“Hey, Henson, this is Alex.” She stared at the object in the bag and hesitated, but only for a second. “Look, I found an eyeball from the vic.”

He chuckled. “The guy blew his brains out. The M.E. shouldn't have any trouble confirming cause of death without an eyeball. Just toss it.”

Alex rolled her eyes. She'd known he would get in a crack of some sort. Henson was one of those guys who thought he had a stand-up comic's sense of
humor. She was too nice to tell him any different. Apparently so was everyone else he knew and worked with. He would make a good husband and father. She'd had that same thought more than once during their brief “thing.” But she wasn't into commitment. Maybe that's why she'd backed off so quickly.