“Are you aware that carrying a concealed weapon without a permit is a felony in this state?”
“I have a permit. I applied for it right after I moved back to Florida.”
A muscle ticked in the side of his jaw. Jess could guess what he was thinking.
“Yes, sheriff. The .38 was in my possession when I arrived in Florida. Do you think I used it to smash in Delbert McConnell’s skull? Or held it to Ron Clark’s head and forced him to put a hose to his mouth?”
“What I think,” he said softly, “is that you’d better talk to an attorney before you volunteer any more information than you already have.”
She dipped her head a mere inch, just enough to acknowledge the warning.
With that small nod, the iron band around Steve’s chest screwed even tighter. Advising her to lawyer up went against his every professional instinct. Ruthlessly, he suppressed his cop’s inherent urge to follow the spoor of blood. Just as ruthlessly, he resisted the impulse to wrap his hands around Jess’s arms, haul her off that rusted oil drum, and throw her into his cruiser before she said something that would widen the crevasse yawning under her feet.
Three of the five men who’d assaulted her mother all those years ago were now dead. Each of the deaths occurred under highly unusual circumstances, to say the least. All had happened since Jess’s return to Florida.
The string of coincidences would make a rookie’s nose start to twitch, and the detective from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement who was taking a good look at the corpse before the med-techs wheeled it away was no rookie. Jim Hazlett took his time. Like most good cops, he recorded the details of the scene in his own mind before talking to the responding officer.
Unwrapping a stick of Dentyne in a futile attempt to kill his vicious nicotine craving, Steve strolled over to join him. He rarely regretted leaving the sophisticated resources available to the Atlanta PD, but this was one of those times he didn’t fully appreciate being sheriff of a sparsely populated county dependant on FDLE assistance in investigating violent crimes.
Not that this was technically a crime scene, he reminded himself grimly. Not yet, anyway.
“Afternoon, sheriff.”
“Hello, Hazlett.”
Already drenched with sweat after only ten minutes in the hot sun, Jim Hazlett tipped Steve a nod. As Steve had anticipated, his cop’s nose was already twitching.
“Seems like the folks in Walton County are finding more ‘n more ways to get dead these day.”
“Seems like.”
The detective’s glance drifted to Jess. “I understand that’s Lieutenant Colonel Blackwell. Is she the same Lieutenant Colonel Blackwell who was heavy on your suicide’s mind last month?”
“Yes. And the same Colonel Blackwell who went through the guardrail of the Mid-Bay Bridge ten days ago.”
Steve wasn’t telling Hazlett anything he didn’t already know. Nodding, the investigator confirmed that he’d already discovered the link from Jess’s accident to Wayne Whittier in the Florida Crime Information Center’s computers.
“I saw the Okaloosa County boys put a rush on their request for the paint analysis of that incident. Also saw where you’d tagged Whittier’s ’76 caddy as a potential match.” Swiping the back of his hand across his glistening upper lip, Hazlett eyed Steve thoughtfully. “What do you know about the deceased that I don’t, sheriff?”
Steve made a quick sweep of the media before replying. The incident at the Blue Crab and Jess’s connection to the three recent deaths would hit the news sooner or later, but there was no need to precipitate the headlines by feeding information into a super-sensitive boom mike.
Turning his back on the cluster of reporters, he lowered his voice and spoke directly to Hazlett. “According to Cliff Boudreaux, Whittier was one of five men who sexually assaulted Colonel Blackwell’s mother twenty-eight years ago.”
“No shit.”
“The incident occurred at the Blue Crab, a dive Whittier used to own. Helen Yount waitressed there.”
“I remember the place. Up on Highway 20, wasn’t it?”
“Right. Yount left town the same night as the alleged rape. No charges were filed.”
With an almost audible whir, the wheels of the investigator’s mind spun into overdrive. “Let me guess. Your suicide was one of those five men.”
Steve forced a nod. “So was the floater we pulled out of the bay a few weeks ago.”
His lips rounding in a soundless whistle, Hazlett looked to Jess once more. When he shifted his attention to the plastic evidence bag in Steve’s hand, his eyes gleamed with the joy of the hunt.
“Be interesting to find out whether the colonel always totes a .38 when she goes calling.”
Now. Steve had to say it now. If he withheld his personal interest in Jess Blackwell, he’d compromise them both and completely destroy any chance of being able to help her.
“I met Colonel Blackwell for the first time the night of Clark’s suicide. I think you should know we’ve gotten close since then. Very close.”
The investigator blinked. “Well, now,” he said, feeling his way cautiously. “Is the fact that you two have, uh, gotten close going to cause complications, sheriff?”
“No. You do your job. My people will do theirs.”
“Fair enough.” He made another swipe at the shiny beads on his upper lip. “Guess I’ll go see what Colonel Blackwell has to say about all this.”
Just in time, Steve bit back the suggestion that she might prove more cooperative out of the heat and the blood-spattered clothes that were attracting swarms of gnats and flies. At this point, he wasn’t sure just how cooperative Jess should be.
By the time Jess was told she could leave, her head throbbed and her skin itched from the combination of sweat and dried blood. One of the EMS techs had given her a package of moist towelettes, but the paper proved ineffective on the gore caked in the creases of her neck and arms and legs.
She should call her boss Jess thought as she abandoned the oil drum and pushed to her feet. Better Colonel Hamilton heard about this from her than see his Supply Squadron Commander on the ten o’clock news. Again.
Hitching her tote over her shoulder, she picked her way through the weeds. With each step she tried to summon the calm she’d need to face the reporters waiting for her to leave the sanctity of the taped off accident area.
That’s what this was, she reminded herself fiercely. An accident. Unless and until someone made a public statement to the contrary.
“Colonel Blackwell!”
“Colonel! Over here!”
Bracing herself, she approached the barricade of video-cams and boom mikes. She knew an appeal for consideration would be useless, but tried anyway.
“I’m sorry. This has been a horrible experience. I need to clean up before I…”
She should have known that blood would play better for the cameras than squeaky clean. Ignoring her plea, the eager reporters peppered her with questions.
“Why were you here?”
“How did you know the deceased?”
“Did you drive out to see Mr. Whittier on Air Force business?”
Shaking her head, she pushed past them. The news hounds followed, nipping at her heels.
“Where were you when the dog attacked?”
“Did Whittier incite the attack?”
“Is this incident in any way connected with your accident two weeks ago?”
The question came zinging over the heads of the other reporters. Startled, Jess made the mistake of glancing around and almost took a boom mike in the eye.
“I’ll answer that.”
Steve shouldered his way to her side. Sweat ringed the armpits of his yellow polo shirt and his face glowed a ruddy red under his tan, but no one mistook him for a civilian bystander. His air of authority guaranteed him as much attention as his badge.
“As some of you are obviously aware, Colonel Blackwell’s vehicle was forced off the Mid-Bay Bridge two weeks ago. The
incident is being investigated by the Okaloosa County Sheriff’s office, so you’ll have to ask them for an update.”
“Come on, sheriff! Give us something to work with here.”
“I can confirm that paint scrapings removed from the colonel’s car were sent to the Crime Lab in Tallahassee for comparison with the National Automotive Paint file. I can also confirm that the scrapings were a bright yellow in color.”
The video-cams shifted, zoomed in on the dented, chrome-laden Cadillac parked beside Whittier’s shack. The reporters scribbled furiously in their notebooks.
“So you think it wasn’t just a drunk driver who plowed into her?”
“Until the paint analysis comes back, it’s too soon for me to say what I think. Although…” His glance drifted to the bottles lying amid trash in the yard. “There’s certainly the possibility that alcohol was involved in that incident.”
Like a school of hungry sharks, they devoured that tidbit.
“What about today?”
“Was alcohol involved in this incident, too?”
“Possibly. We’ll furnish you a copy of Colonel Blackwell’s statement, in which she relates that Mr. Whittier appeared unstable when she confronted him. So unstable, he stumbled and fell and was unable to protect himself from the dog’s attack.”
He was covering for her, Jess realized. Implying that she’d driven out to this dump to take on the drunk who’d almost killed her. She supposed she should feel grateful, but they both knew he was just delaying the inevitable. It was only a matter of time until the past hit the headlines.
Terminating the interview a few moments later, Steve escorted her to her vehicle. “Can you drive?”
“Yes. Steve, I…”
“Get in the car. The video-cams are still recording.”
Biting her lip, she climbed behind the wheel of the Expedition.
“Go home. Get cleaned up.” His jaw worked. “Call a lawyer.”
The door thudded shut.
Jess went home, cleaned up, and called her boss. Her respect for the military chain of command went too deep to go outside the system before notifying her supervisor.
Colonel Hamilton wasn’t at his quarters, but he responded to the brief message she left on his recorder less than an hour later.
“What’s this about an off-base incident, Jess?”
“A man was killed. A civilian. Not one of ours,” she added quickly. “I thought I’d better brief you on it before you see it on the seven o’clock news.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“It’s… It’s complicated, sir. I’d rather tell you in person.”
“No problem. Peg and I are babysitting the grandkids. Why don’t you swing by my quarters? We’ll escape to the deck to talk.”
His wife called out in the background, seconding the invitation, but warning Jess she might get pressed into service at the swing set if she wasn’t careful.
Eglin’s Director of Logistics and his wife lived on-base. From the outside the one-story cinder block house looked as unpretentious as its neighbors, but the 50’s era bungalow had been renovated a number of times over the years and came with an unobstructed million-dollar view of the bay.
A thick canopy of live oaks shaded the flagstone patio at the rear of the house. After a friendly greeting, Peggy Hamilton good-naturedly shooed their five lively grandkids back in the house. The colonel waved Jess to one of the high-backed sling chairs around a glass-topped table.
“Would you like a glass of lemonade?”
Jess accepted gratefully. Lip-puckering tart and icy cold, the drink worked magic on her dry throat.
“All right,” the colonel said when he claimed his seat. “Give me the details. Who died and how are we involved?”
“Not we, sir. Me. I was involved.”
Hamilton’s brows snapped together. “You’re not going to tell me you’re in some way responsible for this man’s death, are you?”
“No, sir,” Jess replied carefully. Folding her hands in her lap, she traced her thumb over scarred skin of her right hand. “I’m not going to tell you I’m responsible for his death. But there’s a distinct possibility the off-base authorities will.”
Chapter Sixteen
On Colonel Hamilton’s advice, Jess arranged to meet with the commander of Eglin’s Security Forces after she left his quarters.
The chief of security had already received a heads-up from the Walton County Sheriff’s Department. As a courtesy, local law enforcement agencies notified Eglin’s central dispatch whenever military personnel were involved in an off-base incident. Jess filled the top cop in on the details of Whittier’s gruesome death, including her connection to the man, and drove home.
She didn’t sleep at all that night.
Whittier’s death headlined the local edition of the Daily News the next morning. Jess left the paper unread on her kitchen table and went to take a shower. She’d scrubbed from head to foot for almost an hour last night, but she could still feel the scratch of dried blood on her skin.
When she emerged from the bedroom, her answering machine blinked fast and steady. She hesitated before hitting ‘play’. She’d left the repeated calls from radio and TV stations unanswered last night and expected more this morning, but it was Steve’s voice that jumped out at her.
“Jess. Call me.”
She reached for the phone, let her hand hover over it for long moments.
No. Not yet. Not until she’d talked to the attorney, as he’d advised and knew exactly what she’d dragged him into.
She managed to force down a half slice of toast before putting on her uniform and driving back to the base that afternoon for a meeting with a JAG from the Office of the Area Defense Counsel. The on-call ADC was young, too young Jess thought at first, but her professional manner soon dispelled the Sunday quiet of the legal office.
“I saw the story in the paper this morning,” she said, “but I’d like you to tell me what happened in your own words.”
Wrapped in the cloak of attorney-client privilege, Jess started with Wayne Whittier’s death and worked her way back in time to the Blue Crab. The JAG’s face sobered when Jess related the recent demise of three of the five men who’d allegedly assaulted her mother.
“And all three of these deaths occurred since you arrived at Eglin?”
“Yes.”
“Can you substantiate where you were when the first two men died?”
“Do I have an alibi, you mean?” She shook her head. “No.”
“For either death?”
“McConnell supposedly went overboard during the tropical storm that hit just a few days after I arrived. I understand they fixed the time of death to within a three-to-five hour timeframe, part of which I spent at the base, part at home. Alone.”
“I see.”
“I was also home the night Clark died.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
The JAG sat back in her chair and peered at Jess over the rim of her glasses. “I’m sure you understand that you’ll have to obtain civilian counsel to represent you if you’re charged with a criminal offense committed off-duty and off-base.”
“Yes.”
“Any such charges, of course, could become a part of you military record.” The young attorney paused. “You could also face potentially serious conflict of interest charges if you have reason to believe an employee under your supervision once assaulted your mother.”
“I’m aware of that.”
Thoughtfully, the JAG pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose with one finger. “Have you spoken to Mr. Petrie at all about the incident?”
“No.”
“Does he know you suspect him of being involved in the alleged assault?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you his direct supervisor?”
“No. He works for the lieutenant in charge of the fuels branch. My civilian deputy is the reviewing official on his performance evaluations.”
“But you can influence those evaluations, along with any recommendations for merit pay increases?”
“Yes.”
“Not good, colonel. Definitely not good. You should think about detailing him to another squadron until this situation is sorted out. Or perhaps transfer him to Hurlburt.”
Jess had already thought about moving Petrie to the base just across town. She’d been thinking about it since Steve dropped the man’s name that night on his boat. She was still thinking about it when she drove off-base some time later.
Granted her initial reaction when Steve named Petrie had been one of vicious intent. If she remembered correctly, her exact words were something to the effect that she intended to nail the bastard’s hide to the wall. Yet the desire for vengeance that had burned so hot and bright that night on his boat had now chilled to icy dispassion.
It would work, Jess thought as she passed through the town of Niceville. She could move Petrie, get him out of her squadron, send him to the Special Operations base across town. Although Hurlburt’s fuels operation wasn’t as large as Eglin’s, the branch chief slot was currently vacant. If they civilianized the slot and Jess recommended Petrie…
No! She’d work a lateral transfer or a detail, but she was damned if she’d recommend him for a promotion, even to save herself from the storm that had begun to swirl about her. She was damned if she’d do anything until he returned from wherever he’d hidden himself and she looked him in the eye.
As she had Whittier.
She got the shakes then, fierce shudders that hunched her shoulders and wracked her whole upper torso. The tremors were so intense she had to pull over to the side of the road, so violent she sat gripping the steering wheel with both hands and tried desperately to focus on the McDonald’s arches just ahead. On the hot pink hydrangeas bunched at the curb. On anything but the image of a black and tan Rotweiler with ears back and fangs bared, going for Whittier’s throat.
The shakes subsided, but the fierce effort required to blank out the horrific images took Jess right past the turn-off for the Mid-Bay Bridge. She kept driving, deciding to take the long way around the bay and give herself time to think.
After Midnight Page 15
