After Midnight (9 page)

“All right, Cliff. You’ve obviously asked why. What’s the answer?”

Boudreaux took another swipe at the persistent fly. “The statute of limitation on Helen Yount’s rape would have run out years ago, even if she was still alive to bring charges. So none of the men involved needed to fear anything except public humiliation if Helen’s daughter exposed them.”

“Which she hasn’t.”

“No, but the fear of it might have sent Delbert McConnell out on the bay to pray and decide whether to cleanse his soul of past sins.”

“And Ron Clark out into the garage, to suck up carbon monoxide?”

“It’s a stretch,” Boudreaux admitted. “A real stretch.”

So was the idea that Jess Blackwell might be seeking a very personal, very private revenge and had somehow engineered the two deaths. Yet the ugly doubt wormed into Steven’s mind and the cop in him couldn’t get it out. As a homicide detective, he’d investigated too many clever murders disguised as accidents and suicides. Locking his gaze on the turtle sunning, he forced himself to assess the matter dispassionately.

She could have done it. She could have gone out for a sail with McConnell, shoved him hard enough to knock him into the gunwale. She was strong enough to bring him down, then heave him overboard. Smart enough, too, not to leave any incriminating prints when she brought the boat close in before swimming ashore and abandoning it to the on-coming storm.

Likewise, she could have made the call Ron Clark received the night he died, maybe arranged to meet him somewhere. Pat Clark said she thought her husband had gone out for a while, was sure she’d heard the garage door open and close. Whoever he’d met could have slipped him something. God knew there were plenty of drugs available for the right price, drugs that acted fast, were totally absorbed into the blood system, didn’t show up in an autopsy. Maybe the killer drove Clark back to his garage in his own vehicle. Left the car running. Walked away.

And maybe, just maybe, one of the remaining rapists had worried that he was next on the killer’s list and decided to make a pre-emptive strike.

“What are you thinking, boy?”

Steve dragged his gaze back to Cliff Boudreaux. “I’m thinking I’d better have a talk with this Billy Jack Petrie and Wayne Whittier. Congressman Calhoun, too, although I doubt it will do any good.”

“Last I heard, the old reprobate dribbles his dinner down his chin.”

“His son, then.”

Laughter rumbled up from Boudreaux’s belly, deep and rich. The startled snapper scudded off his branch and dropped into the water with a plop, disappearing instantly beneath its brown-green surface.

“Wish I could listen in when you ask our future congressman about his daddy,” Walton County’s former sheriff wheezed. “He’s got twice the old man’s ambition, but not half his balls. Dub can’t even keep that little wife of his in line. She sunk her claws into you yet?”

Steve was too much the gentleman to admit Maggie had tried, even to his old boss, and settled for a noncommittal grunt.

“Never mind,” Boudreaux chuckled. “There’s some things an old retired fart like me is better off not knowing. Now throw your hook back in the water and let’s catch us a mess of cat.”

Steve tackled Wayne Whittier first. That very afternoon, in fact.

The former owner of the Blue Crab lived a few miles outside Ebro, close on to the river that fed into the bay and gave the vast body of water its name. As Steve learned from various sources in the small, unincorporated town before driving out to Whittier’s place, the one-time bar owner had developed a reputation as a mean drunk with no visible means of support except Social Security. Somehow he managed to stretch the meager pension enough to keep himself in cigarettes, booze and bait.

The hovel Whittier called home substantiated both his limited income and his meanness. With a cautious eye to the mangy, furiously barking Rotweiler staked out at the end of a long chain, Steve picked his way through the rusted cans and refuse littering the hardscrabble yard. With each step, the animal’s frenzy escalated until his entire body was one ear-splitting, slathering snarl after another.

Whittier’s wooden frame shack looked as if it was about to lose its last battle with termites at any second. Steve had taken one step onto a front porch missing as many boards as a picket fence when the glint of red plastic taillight covers caught his eye.

Flattening himself against the wall to avoid the Rotweiler’s frantic lunges, he edged to the end of the porch and squinted through his sunglasses at the ’76 Cadillac parked beside the shack. The fin-tailed behemoth was more rust than metal. It also sported an interesting collection of creases and dents, Steve noted, some old, some not so old. The hot Florida sun had faded most of its paint, but there was enough left to see it was once a bright canary yellow.

“Shut up!”

The hoarse bellow came from right behind Steve. So did the empty whisky bottle that sailed over his shoulder and caught the Rotweiler in mid-lunge. The animal’s throat-ripping snarl ended on a yelp. Tail down, ears flattened it slunk away to crouch beside its overturned water dish.

“Stupid fucking bitch. Doesn’t know when the hell to shut her yap.”

Peeling off his sunglasses, Steve gave the animal’s owner a careful once over. Gray whiskers bristled on his unshaven cheeks. His eyes were rimmed in red, their pale blue irises turned almost opaque by cataracts. Rank body odor rolled in almost palpable waves from the sweaty armpits revealed by his stained, sleeveless T-shirt.

Steve was tempted to run the bastard in, if for no other reason than his stink and his cruelty in keeping an animal chained in the hot sun with no water.

“Are you Wayne Whittier?”

The blurred eyes squinted at the gold star on Steve’s ball cap before dropping to the badge clipped to his belt.

“Yeah.”

His voice was low, wash-board rough, and as grating on the nerves as an engine cranked too long and too hard.

“I’m Steve Paxton, sheriff of Walton County. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?”

“About where you were about nine, nine-thirty the night before last, for one thing.”

“Right here. Why?”

“There was a hit and run on the Bay Bridge. We’re waiting for paint analysis to pinpoint the type of vehicle involved.”

“Yeah, well, you kin wait till hell freezes over. I was right here, asleep on the couch.”

Passed out on the couch, more likely.

“If that’s all,” Whittier got out in his hoarse croak, “I got things to do.”

“No, it’s not all. I also want to ask you about an incident at the Blue Crab involving you, four other men, and Helen Yount.”

He half expected a blank stare. Maybe a pretense of surprise. Instead, the man’s narrow chest heaved in a rattling, lung-deep hack that brought up a thick glob of mucus. Steve barely restrained a quick jerk back as Whittier spewed the grayish-yellow mass over the porch railing.

“So ask,” he growled, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.

The one-time bar owner sang the same song to Steve he’d evidently sung to Boudreaux all those years ago. It wasn’t rape. Helen Yount had begged for just what she got.

Steve hadn’t expected anything different, so he was more disgusted than disappointed when he climbed back into his cruiser fifteen minutes later. His glance on the rusted Cadillac, he keyed his mike and requested everything the department could pull up on Whittier. He also asked dispatch to give Eglin’s security desk a heads-up.

“Advise them that I’m coming on base to interview a civilian regarding an off-base incident.”

“Roger, sheriff.”

“And verify the duty location of one Billy Jack Petrie, would you?”

“Will do.”

Petrie had left work when Steve arrived at the 96th Fuels Management Flight.

“He got a call about a half hour ago,” the round-faced lieutenant who introduced himself as the fuels officer explained. “He had an emergency at home. Asked for a couple of hours of annual leave and rushed right out. Can I help you with something?”

“No.” Extracting a card from his wallet, Steve handed it to the officer. “Just tell Mr. Petrie I’d like to speak with him.”

“Sure will.”

Steve took the time to share a cold Pepsi and shoot the breeze with the commander of the security forces before climbing back into his car to depart the base. As he approached Eglin’s back gate, he passed the massive building with “96th Supply Squadron” lettered prominently over its double glass doors. Steve was tempted, really tempted, to make another stop.

Not yet, he decided with a twinge of genuine regret. Despite the kink she put in his gut whenever he was in her immediate vicinity, he wasn’t ready to confront Jessica Blackwell just yet. Not until he’d talked each of the men who’d allegedly assaulted her mother.

Jess supposed a new car was the least she deserved after sacrificing her Mustang to the water gods. Since it would have cost more to restore the salvaged convertible than pay it off and sell the thing at auction, her insurance company agreed to arrange for its disposal.

Consequently, Jess spent most of the weekend hitting the local car dealerships and stopped by the Eglin Credit Union on Monday afternoon to finalize the loan on a new, midnight blue Expedition. Compared to the sporty little Mustang, the oversized SUV handled like a tank. On the other hand, it would take another tank to shove this monster off a bridge. The solid thud of steel on steel when she pulled up at the Credit Union and slammed the driver’s side door gave her immense satisfaction.

Squaring her fatigue hat with its subdued silver oak leaf on the crown, she crossed the parking lot and pushed through the Credit Union’s front door. Even that short walk in the broiling sun stuck her fatigue shirt to her back. Profoundly grateful for the air conditioning that streaked the interior windows with condensation, she signed in with the receptionist, stated the purpose of her visit, and was shown to a loan officer’s cubicle.

“Hello, Colonel Blackwell.” Rising, the petite redhead held out her hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

It took Jess a few seconds to place her.

“You, too, Ms. Babcock.”

“Please, have a seat.”

In a reversal of roles from their last meeting, Jess took the chair in front of Eileen Babcock’s desk. As before, the woman was simply but elegantly dressed, this time in a lightweight, short-sleeved blouse and knee-length walking shorts in pale pink. She’d pinned her flame-colored hair atop her head and applied her make-up with a skillful hand, but nothing could disguise the dark shadows bruising the skin under her eyes.

“I understand you want to finalize a loan for a new car.”

“Yes. A Ford Expedition. My Mustang took an unexpected early retirement.”

Sympathy poured from the other woman. “I read about the accident in the paper. You must have been terrified when your car went off the bridge.”

“It wasn’t an experience I particularly want to repeat,” Jess admitted, glancing around the neat cubicle. “I remember you mentioned that you’d begun a new career in banking, but I didn’t know you worked here at the Credit Union.”

“Actually, I just completed my training program. You’re one of my first customers.”

Oh-oh. Bracing herself for a long and possibly painful session, Jess handed over the documents from the car dealer. To her surprise, Eileen Babcock produced the necessary documents for signature with a few clicks of her computer keyboard.

“There’s not much to a car loan these days,” she admitted when Jess praised her efficiency. “You didn’t even need to come in. We could have done this by phone. I’m glad you did stop by, though,” she said, sliding the papers across the desk for Jess to sign. “So I could thank you for giving Eddie another chance.”

“You don’t have to thank me. It’s to the air force’s advantage to keep someone with Sergeant Babcock’s expertise in uniform…if he’ll straighten up and fly right.”

“He will! I know he will.” Her small, nervous fingers twisted the plain gold band on her ring finger. “He hasn’t had a drink since…since the day our divorce was final.”

“How do you know?” Jess asked gently.

“He stops by my apartment sometimes. We have coffee. Talk about work.” Flushing, she looked away for a moment. “About everything, really, except what went wrong between us.”

Pity for two people snared in the web of human frailty tugged at Jess, followed almost instantly by an unexpected pang of envy. She’d never loved a man with such wrenching despair, had never experienced the dizzying highs and plummeting lows of that fragile institution called marriage.

She’d come close once, but her brief engagement to an Air Force lawyer had unraveled shortly after she took him home to meet her mother and step-father. Helen had hit the jackpot when she met and married Ray Blackwell. Unfortunately, neither the garage mechanic with half-moons of axle grease under his nails nor the former cocktail waitress who frizzed her hair and troweled on eye shadow thought much of the too-handsome, too tanned JAG. The feeling, Jess discovered during the short, disastrous visit, was mutual.

Which was another reason why the hair on the back of her neck went up whenever she was around Steve Paxton. With his lazy grin and those linebacker’s shoulders, he was too damned attractive…and too damned dangerous…for Jess’s peace of mind. She was a fool to have clung to him when he carried her to his cruiser the night of the accident, an even bigger fool to let him kiss her. Twice.

Shock had locked her arms around his neck. The desperate need to hang onto something solid had led her to bury her face in the warm skin just under his jaw. Or so she was trying to convince herself when Eileen Babcock reclaimed her attention.

“The first time Eddie stopped by my place was right after a fuel barge docked. You had spent the afternoon looking over his shoulder.” The beginnings of a smile tugged at her lips. “You made him nervous.”

“He didn’t let it show.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” Playing with her ring, Eileen gave a small, sputtering laugh. “I’ll admit my stomach dropped clear to my knees, though, when Eddie mentioned a sheriff showed up at the Fuels building Friday afternoon.”

“A sheriff stopped by Building 89?”

“Yes. When Eddie first told me, I thought maybe he had… I was afraid he was… Well, you know. In trouble again.”

“Yes, I know.” Carefully, Jess tucked the folded papers in her black leather clutch purse. “Did he happen to say which sheriff? Or what he wanted?”

“I think it was Sheriff Paxton from Walton County. He was looking for Mr. Petrie.”

“Did he find him?”

The edge to the question earned her an odd look.

“I don’t know. Eddie didn’t say.”

“I see. Well, thanks for your help with the loan.” Forcing a smile, Jess rose. “You may not have wanted a career in banking, but you’ve obviously got a knack for it. This was the easiest thirty-thousand dollar debt I’ve ever racked up.”

Once outside, her smile curled up and died like a leaf on a hot sidewalk. Why had Paxton stopped by her fuels section, to talk to her people, without clearing the visit with her first? Had he heard more rumors about her mother? Decided to check them out personally?

What did he know?

The questions tumbled furiously through her mind as she grabbed the handhold and swung up into the dark blue Expedition. She still couldn’t quite believe she’d curled into his arms like a weak, helpless kitten that night on the bridge. Or that she’d let him kiss her there in her condo. Not once, but twice.

The fact that she was having trouble distinguishing the man from the badge bothered her. The fact that her pulse skipped when she remembered how she’d wanted to lose herself in his strength bothered her even more. Frowning, Jess shoved the Expedition into gear. It took her less than five minutes to reach her office, another five for Mrs. Burns to put a call through to the Walton County Sheriff’s Department.

“The sheriff’s in a meeting,” she reported to Jess via the intercom. “Do you want to leave a message?”

“Yes, please. Tell him I’d like to talk to him. ASAP.”

She and Paxton played telephone tag for the rest of the afternoon. When he returned her call, it was Jess’s turn to be in a meeting. She tried again, only to be informed the sheriff was conducting a shake-down of the county jail. After a long and particularly boring briefing at wing headquarters, Jess found a stack of yellow message slips on her blotter. The one from Paxton was short and to the point.

“Tonight. Seven-thirty. Fried catfish.”

Below the succinct message Mrs. Burns had scribbled the directions to his place.

She was waiting when Steve navigated the narrow, red clay road leading to the dock where he moored the Gone Fishin’.

He’d cleared enough of the tupelos and palmettos at the bayou’s edge to allow for a good-sized turn-around. The dark blue Expedition with the dealer’s tag was parked a few yards from the dock. With a nod of silent approval for the SUV’s solid bulk, he pulled up alongside and waited for Jess to kill the idling engine, shoulder open her door, and abandon the vehicle’s air-conditioned comfort for the swampy heat of the bayou.

She’d taken time to go home and change out of her uniform, Steve saw in a quick glance. The long length of thigh showing beneath her gauzy, red plaid shorts jumped his pulse a couple of erratic beats. When paired with a red tank top that hugged her breasts and a ball cap that allowed her honey-brown hair to swing in a loose ponytail, the overall effect was enough to send a man straight into cardiac arrest.

Steve managed to keep his heart pumping. He even managed to ignore the now familiar ache Jess Blackwell started just below his belt as he reached for the bag of groceries stashed on the cruiser’s back seat.

“You’re early,” he said by way of greeting, noting the tight set to her mouth. “Not to worry. It won’t take long to get the grease hot and the catfish sizzling and spitting.”

“I can’t stay for dinner.”

“Too bad. The fish is fresh. I caught and filleted it myself.”

“I just want to talk to you.”

“Well, come aboard and grab something cold to drink. You can talk while I mix the cornmeal batter. You may not be hungry,” he added mildly when she started to protest, “but I am.”

Leading the way down the rickety pier, he made the transition from dock to deck with surefooted agility and deposited the grocery sacks before turning around to help Jess aboard.

“Watch your step.”

Reaching out a hand, he steadied her while she negotiated the two-foot gap between the pier and the boat rail. Even with the warning and his assistance, she wasn’t prepared for way the deck tilted under her weight.

His feet spread, Steve caught her as she pitched forward. The fusion of chest and hip jolted through him, shocking his entire system. Hers, too, judging by the way her head snapped back and her green eyes widened.

A wise man would have set her on her feet and retreated to high ground at that moment. Particularly if that man was a cop who hadn’t yet found the answers to the questions stacking up in his mind.

He’d only take a taste, he decided. Not much more than the brief brush of lips he’d allowed himself at her condo. Dipping his head, he covered her mouth with his.

Too late, Steve realized his mistake. A kiss wasn’t enough. Not from Jess Blackwell. He wanted more, and he wanted it bad. Taking advantage of her temporary immobility, he widened his stance.

Stunned surprise held Jess rigid. This kiss bore no resemblance to the gentle brush of Paxton’s lips after the accident. Nor did he cradle her against his chest with anything approaching the incredible tenderness he’d shown that night.

She could break the hold. She’d learned some particularly incapacitating moves in her various self-defense courses, although she suspected the sheriff might be able to employ a few countermoves.

She could break the kiss, too, if she wanted to. All she had to do was jerk her head back. Puncture his arrogant masculinity with an ice-coated barb. Walk away. She might have done just that if he hadn’t dragged his head up at that moment.

Red singed his cheeks. The muscles in his arms were corded and quivering. Regret rippled across his face. Or was it wariness? Jess couldn’t decide which.

“In case you’re wondering,” he said gruffly, “I didn’t plan that.”

She shifted, one brow arching when her hip pressed against the bulge of his crotch.

“Or that,” he added.

Maybe it was the tight line to his jaw. Or the undisguised hunger in his eyes. Or the realization that she’d kept her cool while his hung by a thread. Whatever it was sent a heady sense of power sweeping through Jess. The hot, sweet rush was more intoxicating than wine, and far more urgent.

She wasn’t a tease. Nor was she promiscuous. If nothing else, those long nights waiting for her mother to come home, wondering where Helen was, who she was with, had generated a bone-deep aversion to sexual games and one-night-stands. Jess had never denied her needs, however. She was a woman, with a woman’s wants and cravings.

Like her mother.

And she wanted Steve Paxton. Despite his badge. Despite every dictate of caution and common sense.

“I didn’t plan on staying for dinner, either,” she admitted slowly, “but I seem to have developed an appetite.”

He didn’t pounce. She’d give him that. His body was rock hard everywhere it touched hers, yet he didn’t swoop in with a grunt of male triumph to take advantage of her hesitant admission.

“You’ve been sending mixed signals, Jess. You’ll have to tell me what you want.”

She thought about it, gave a sigh of real regret, and stepped back. “I want to talk.”

A muscle ticked in the side of his cheek. His face hardened. In anger? Frustration?

“Fine. We’ll eat. Then we’ll talk.”