After Midnight Read online

  Steve fingered the message slip, thinking about Ron Clark. Why the heck had he spoken Jessica Blackwell’s name? Who had he been talking to? Sprint records confirmed that the call had come in from a phone booth.

  Digging out the background check he’d had his folks run on the colonel, he propped a foot on the bottom desk drawer. Springs creaked as he tilted his chair back and flipped through the pages. There wasn’t much there. Aside from that one incident as a kid, she was clean. Squeaky clean.

  Unlike her mother. A check on Helen Blackwell, nee Yount, showed one bust for driving under the influence of alcohol. Evidently the woman went straight after that. Or at least didn’t get caught again.

  So why couldn’t he shake the feeling that there was more to her daughter than met the eye? Or his growing interest in the part that did meet the eye?

  Idly, he buzzed Mrs. Sampson. “Would you see if you could get Lieutenant Colonel Blackwell on the line, please. She’s the commander of…”

  “The 96th Supply Squadron down at Eglin,” Ms. Efficiency replied. “Hang tight, boss.”

  She buzzed back a few moments later. “She’s on line two.”

  “Thanks.” He hit the button, his stomach curling with a sense of pleasurable anticipation. “Colonel Blackwell?”

  “Yes?”

  The single syllable was cool, polite and just a touch wary. Steve smiled into the phone.

  “I though you might like to know the Florida Department of Law Enforcement had ruled Ron Clark’s death a suicide.”

  “Did you find out why he said my name the night he died?”

  “Not yet.”

  The answer drew a small silence at the other end of the line. He let it spin.

  “I appreciate the call,” she said after a moment. “If there’s nothing else, I have to get ready for a meeting.”

  “As a matter of fact, there is one other matter I wanted to discuss with you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Dinner Friday night.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ve got to put in an appearance at a chamber of commerce meeting in South Walton Beach about six. How about I pick you up at seven?”

  “Sorry, I’m busy Friday night.”

  The reply was quick, chilly, and anything but encouraging. Steve’s smile tipped into a grin. Even at her frostiest, the colonel turned him on. It was the fisherman in him, he decided, as much as the cop. He couldn’t resist the challenge of getting her to take the bait.

  “Maybe some other time, then.”

  “Maybe.”

  In other words, take a hike.

  “I have to go. Good-bye, sheriff.”

  Chapter Five

  Disconcerted by the call and the unexpected invitation, Jess did her best to put Paxton out of her mind in the days that followed. The demands of her job helped in that regard. So did her decision to personally observe fuel delivery operations the next time a barge docked at the off-load facility.

  One was scheduled to arrive just before noon the following Wednesday. Clearing her schedule for a few hours, she grabbed her fatigue hat, told Mrs. Burns she’d be on mobile, and drove the short distance from Building 500 to Weekly Bayou.

  One of Choctawhatchee Bay’s innumerable inlets, the finger of water poked right into Eglin base proper. At its mouth, the Services folks maintained a sandy beach, a Fam-Camp with RV hook-ups, and boat slips with rentals for base personnel. The pristine beach had taken a severe hit in the tropical storm that had swept the area just days after Jess’s arrival, but most of the debris had been cleared and the recreational facilities were again open for business.

  Luckily, the storm hadn’t damaged the fuel dock. It floated at the tip of the bayou, little more than a stone’s throw from the massive storage tanks. Jess parked at the entrance to the dock and sat for a moment in the air-conditioning blasting through the Mustang’s vents. Iridescent waves of noon heat shimmered outside the windows as she surveyed the scene.

  There wasn’t much to see. A long, white-painted wooden pier. A hook-up to the underwater pipeline that ran to the storage tanks. Scattered pieces of emergency fire suppressant equipment. A small building that served as control center and office for the dock NCO.

  Shutting off her car’s engine, Jess braced herself and climbed out. Although her baggy camouflage fatigue pants and loose-fitting shirt were supposedly designed to allow air to circulate, she knew she’d be swimming in perspiration within minutes. As the natives were fond of saying, that was Florida in mid-June for you.

  Her black boots clumped on the boards as she walked out onto the floating platform. The familiar tang of aviation fuel flavored the air. Although she’d spent her entire career in the supply business, she’d never become directly involved in the fuels operation. She was learning more about the complex task of keeping aircraft refueled, cocked and ready with each passing day.

  When he saw her coming, the NCO in charge of the docks threw her a surprised look and a hasty salute. “Good morning, Colonel.”

  “Good morning, Sergeant Weathers.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I understand you’ve got a barge on the way in.”

  “Yes, ma’am. The tug captain just radioed that he’s ten minutes out. We’re getting to deploy the booms.”

  “Mind if I watch?”

  “No, ma’am,” he replied warily.

  He was even newer to the base than Jess was, having reported in just two weeks ago. The prospect of having his commander look over his shoulder obviously made him nervous. He started down the dock, but the sound of a vehicle pulling up brought a sweep of relief to his face.

  “There’s Sergeant Babcock. He had this job for years before he took over the lab. He can answer any questions I can’t.”

  Jess turned, narrowing her eyes against the glare as a government vehicle parked behind her silver Mustang. When the short, stocky NCO made his way out to the dock, her glance went to the stripes on his sleeve. If Ed Babcock resented the fact that he now wore one less than he had the last time he saw her, he didn’t show it.

  Shifting a wooden case containing a rack of glass vials to his left hand, he saluted with his right. “Colonel.”

  Jess returned the courtesy, waiting until Weathers had scurried off to take another radio call from the tug captain to inquire how Babcock was doing.

  “I haven’t touched a drink since that night at the club, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  She didn’t pretend otherwise. “It is, and I’m glad.”

  The forthright reply surprised him. The glass jars rattled as he shifted his kit again.

  “I didn’t thank you the other day for not handing me my walking papers. I wasn’t expecting another chance.”

  Jess hadn’t expected to give him one, either, but knew better than to mention how persuasively his ex-wife had pleaded his case.

  “Sergeant Weathers mentioned that you used to be in charge of the docks,” she said instead. “Why don’t you talk me through the off-load procedures?”

  Off-loading a million or more gallons of jet fuel, she discovered, required patience, vigilance, and a good deal of muscle power. The Defense Supply Center purchased Eglin’s aviation fuel in bulk from refineries in Houston and New Orleans. The military package included a variety of additives that included everything from the ice inhibitors to conductivity eliminators so necessary for aircraft that might deploy to bases strung from the Arctic to the Sahara. Exxon in turn subcontracted with various tug companies to supply Eglin, Hurlburt Field and Tyndall Air Force Base, further east on the coast. The tug captains hired their own crews and made the fourteen-day round trip at scheduled intervals.

  “Most of their crews are foreign nationals,” Babcock told her. “Too many of them either ignore or aren’t able to read safety warnings. Once, I caught a man dragging a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket during an off-load operation. He was just about to light up when I tossed him and his cigarettes into the bayou.
”

  Suddenly, the merciless noon heat blazing down on Jess’s head and shoulders didn’t seem quite so unbearable. She could only imagine the inferno that would erupt if several million gallons of jet fuel ignited.

  As a consequence, she took a somewhat personal interest when a long, flat barge appeared a few minutes later. A second followed, nosed along by the squat, black and white tug that churned up a steady wake as it approached the dock.

  When Sergeant Weathers’s people climbed into a motorboat and putt-putted out to deploy the floating booms behind the tug, Jess relaxed a bit. Only a bit. The booms would contain minor spills, but a spill of forty gallons or more would have to be reported. After her last session with the EPA, she wasn’t anxious for another. She didn’t breathe easy until the barges were tied to the dock.

  “We’re off-loading a million-point-two gallons this shipment,” Babcock informed her. “It should take about eighteen hours. I’ll draw samples from all eight compartments in each barge before they begin off-loading, halfway through the discharge, and again when they finish.”

  “Looking for?”

  “Sediment. Water contamination. Prohibitive levels of conductivity. I also have to make sure the refinery put in the required additives.”

  He hesitated a moment before extending a grudging invitation.

  “You’re welcome to come back to the lab and watch while I run the tests.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  By the time Sergeant Babcock finished taking his initial samples, sweat plastered Jess’s fatigue shirt to her back and her breasts. With a heartfelt prayer of thanks for the Mustang’s air conditioning, she followed Babcock’s truck up Eight Street past sprawling, brown-and-tan painted airmen’s dormitories to Building 89.

  Refuelers were lined up outside the building, ready to fill up and dispense JP-8 to the test aircraft parked along the aprons stretching to the east. The planes were only a fraction of those supported by the 96th Fuels Management Flight. The fighter wing on the other side of the base flew sleek F-15s. In addition, the transient aircraft that stopped at Eglin gulped down millions of gallon of fuel each year.

  Babcock parked at the rear entrance to the Fuels Management building and hauled out his samples. When Jess’s Mustang pulled up behind his truck, he punched in a cypher code.

  “The lab has its own entrance. We can go in here.”

  “I’d better let your lieutenant know I’m here,” Jess told him, mindful of protocol. “I’ll join you in the lab in a few minutes.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She walked around to the front of small building. Jess had toured Building 89 during her initial orientation and visited several times since. Even so, the trophy case crammed with awards and citations from the American Petroleum Institute impressed her all over again. The 96th fuels operation had won the API award for best in command for seven of the last eight years.

  Passing under a shield depicting a snarling panther, she saw that the fuels officer wasn’t in and moved to the adjoining office. A glimpse of the occupant through the glass partition stopped her in her tracks.

  The fuels superintendent bent over his desk, his legs braced wide and his fists balled on the littered desktop. His mouth was a thin, tight slash, his face as white as the newspaper spread across his blotter. From where she stood, Jess couldn’t make out the details of the picture that held his intense concentration.

  “Mr. Petrie?”

  Billy Jack Petrie jerked around. When he spotted Jess, his skin seemed to blanch even more.

  He had good reason to be nervous, she supposed. She hadn’t minced words when she’d reminded him of his responsibilities as Sergeant Babcock’s supervisor.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, taking a step into the office.

  “I’m fine.” His fist closed over the newspaper. Wadding it into a tight ball, he tossed it into the dented metal wastebasket beside his desk. “What can I do for you, colonel?”

  “I was down at the docks observing the off-load. I wanted to let the lieutenant know I was in the building. I’m going to watch Sergeant Babcock perform the initial analysis.”

  “Why?” the supervisor asked swiftly. “Don’t you trust him?”

  Don’t you trust me? was the question that hovered in the air.

  “Obviously I trust his skills,” Jess replied, “or I wouldn’t have allowed him to remain in his present position.”

  “You don’t think he’s been drinking, do you? I’ve been on him like ticks on a coon dog, and haven’t seen any…”

  “No, I don’t think he’s been drinking. I just want to observe the tests.”

  Straightening, Petrie seemed to collect himself. He was a tall man, lean and rangy, with a shock of coal black hair that belied his age and years of service. He took in her heated face and her sweat-drenched fatigues and extended a grudging offer.

  “You’d better cool down some before you go into the lab or the fumes will get to you. There’s a pop machine in the break room. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “A cold Coke would be great.”

  She reached in the pocket of her fatigue pants for her wallet, but Petrie waved aside her money.

  “I’ve got it.”

  When he disappeared down the hall, Jess’s glance snagged on the wastepaper basket. With a quick look over her shoulder, she retrieved the wadded newspaper. The grainy, black-and-white photo on the front page of the Daily News caught her notice instantly. Centered in the picture, a T-shirted man smiled benignly at a crew of what looked like volunteer construction workers.

  Local minister, shown here directing a Habitat for Humanity project, will be missed.

  Jess read the caption twice before moving to the article that followed.

  Forensics experts at the Florida Department of Law Enforcement have tentatively identified the body recovered from Harry’s Bayou last Friday as Reverend Delbert McConnell, pastor of the Dunes Baptist Ministry in South Walton County. Reverend McConnell’s wife reported him missing after he failed to return from a fishing expedition. He disappeared almost a month ago, the same day Tropical Storm Carl lashed the coast.

  Carl had done its share of damage, Jess thought. The same storm that had torn limbs off trees on base, deposited mounds of debris on the Fam-Camp beach, and whipped the bay into a frenzy was now presumed to have claimed Reverend McConnell’s life.

  Coast Guard and local marine patrols conducted an exhaustive search and located his overturned boat, but found no trace of the popular minister until his badly decomposed body was discovered submerged in the weeds in Harry’s Bayou.

  The sound of footsteps brought her head up. Petrie stopped short in the doorway, a Coke can clutched in one fist. His glance whipped from her face to the newspaper and back again. When he didn’t speak, Jess gestured to the photo.

  “Did you know him?”

  Her question hung on the air. His throat working, Petrie opened his mouth, shut it again.

  “Yes,” he finally got out. “I knew him. Everyone ‘round these parts knew Dilbert McConnell. He… He was a good man.”

  Whatever she might have said in answer was lost when Sergeant Babcock appeared just behind Petrie.

  “I’m all set up, colonel.”

  “Right.”

  She moved to the door. Petrie backed away, giving her room to pass through. Stopping before him, she held out her hand.

  “Thanks for the Coke.”

  “What? Oh, yeah, you’re welcome.”

  Despite the air conditioning that dewed the windows with condensation, sweat runnled down Billy Jack Petrie’s cheeks as he snatched up the telephone receiver. His finger shaking, he stabbed at the keypad and waited in a swelter of impatience until a voice roughened by decades of cigarettes growled out an answer.

  “Yeah?”

  “She was just here,” Petrie hissed. “In my office.”

  A long, hacking cough rattled through the receiver. Deep and swimming with phlem, it ripped all the way up fr
om the bottom of his listener’s chest.

  Grimacing, Petrie held the phone away from his ear. “Did you hear me?” he demanded when the vicious rattle finally died. “She was just here.”

  “So?” There was another hack, and the splat of spittle hitting something tinny. “She’s your boss, ain’t she? She’s come to your office before.”

  “Not without calling first. She just showed up, I tell you, right when I was reading about Delbert.”

  “Reading what about Delbert?”

  “Didn’t you see today’s paper? Jesus Christ, it’s right on the front page.”

  “I ain’t got around to going into town for a paper yet,” his listener snarled. “You want to tell me what the fuck you’re talking about?”

  “The police made a positive ID. They know it’s him.”

  “They say how he died?”

  “No, only that he disappeared the day the storm hit. Jesus, what if they do an autopsy and don’t find water in his lungs?”

  “Why wouldn’t they find water in his lungs? He drowned, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, but what if…?”

  “Shut up, for crissakes! You’re starting to sound as bad as Clark!”

  His stomach roiling, Petrie swiped an arm across his forehead. First Delbert, then Ron Clark. Where would it end? Where could it end?

  If he didn’t know the finish, he knew when it had started. Twenty-five years ago, on a night he’d wiped clear out of his head until Lieutenant Colonel Jessica Blackwell arrived at Eglin and stirred beasts best left slumbering.

  “She keeps ragging me about one of my men,” he said hoarsely. “She wants to lay the blame for his troubles on me, I know she does. Between that and…”