After Midnight

by Merline Lovelace

  “She’s filled out some.”

  “Must have, if you’re sniffing after her.”

  “Jesus, is there anything that goes on in this county that everyone else doesn’t hear about before I do?”

  “Not much.”

  Reeling in, Steve checked his bait and re-cast. The ripples had spread halfway across the dappled surface of the pond before he asked the question Boudreaux obviously expected.

  “So who were these fine, upstanding citizens?”

  “The recently deceased Delbert McConnell was one,” the sheriff drawled.

  “Oh, shit.”

  “He was just getting ready to go into the Marines and feeling his juice. I figure that nasty little incident was one of the reasons he eventually turned to Jesus.”

  Steve had seen too many righteous fall and sinners redeem themselves to comment on what led a rapist to God.

  “Who were the others?”

  “Old man Calhoun was there.”

  “Congressman Calhoun?”

  “He wasn’t a congressman at the time. Just a pissant used car dealer and state senator like his boy is now.”

  Steve gave a soundless whistle. “I’d heard he catted around some up in Washington, but…”

  “Some?” Boudreax snorted. “Rumor is it was particularly nasty strain of herpes that ate into the ole boy’s brain and landed him in that nursing home. Dub and Maggie like to put out that he’s gone senile, but my bet is his loose dick finally did him in.”

  “A loose dick’s one thing. Rape is something else.”

  “He didn’t see it as rape. None of them did.”

  “Yeah, well a jury might see it differently. Not to mention public opinion.”

  Was that why Dub Calhoun had walked around looking like he’d bit into a hot pepper the night of the big 4th of July shin-dig? Had he heard the rumors about his father and a coked-up waitress? Had he recognized Jess Blackwell as that waitress’s daughter and worried what effect an alleged rape might have on his campaign to claim the old man’s seat in the U.S. Congress?

  “Who else was at the Blue Crab that night?”

  “Wayne Whittier. He owned the place. Sonuvabitch has always had a reputation for screwing his hired help.”

  “That’s three.”

  “Billy Jack Petrie makes four.” Boudreax spit over the side of the boat before adding a causal kicker. “Petrie works at the base. In the Supply Squadron.”

  The vicious irony sucked the air from Steve’s lungs. One of the men under Jess’s command had assaulted her mother. Petrie must be sweating blood these days…assuming he’d recognized Helen Yount’s daughter. Steve would bet he had.

  The coils around his gut squeezed tighter. There were too many coincidences, too many threads slowly coming together to weave a picture he didn’t particularly like.

  “Who was the fifth?”

  “Just between you, me, and that snapping turtle sunning himself on the branch over there, it was Ron Clark.”

  Steve had already figured that out, but hearing the realtor’s name said aloud hit him harder than he wanted to admit.

  Boudreaux took an absent swipe at the dog fly buzzing his ear, but his gaze was narrow and hard as it rested on Steve.

  “Looks like you got yourself an interesting set of circumstances here, sheriff. Five men sexually assault a woman twenty-five years ago. Her daughter returns to the area, and two of the five turn up dead. Next thing you know, someone rams said daughter’s car and sends her into the bay. You have to ask yourself why.”

  Slowly, deliberately, Steve reeled in and set his rod in the bottom of the boat. He had little interest in catfish at the moment, and no desire to pretend otherwise. Leaning forward, he draped his wrists over his knees.

  “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. Stev
e 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.

  Chapter Nine

  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 wa
s 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.”