After Midnight Read Free

suicide. But the first axiom of police investigations was to work every unexplained death as a possible murder unless the evidence proved otherwise.
    Although the Florida Department of Law Enforcement over to Pensacola held technical jurisdiction on capital crimes and had been called in to work the crime scene analysis, the death had happened in Steve’s county. He’d run his own investigation, look into the Clarks’ financial assets and insurance policies. He’d also check out the woman Pat Clark claimed was on her husband’s mind right before he died.
    The gum popped, squirting red-hot cinnamon into Steve’s mouth.
    Lieutenant Colonel Jessica Blackwell had triggered his interest in more ways than one. She was cool, almost too cool, but Steve had noted the flash of pity in her moss-green eyes when she’d heard how Clark’s wife found him. Blackwell had also lost someone she loved, he guessed. A husband? A child?
    She didn’t wear a wedding ring. He’d noted that, too, right after he’d recovered from the double whammy of those mile-long legs and the trim, tight butt displayed to perfection by her cut-offs. Thinking about that rear sent another spurt of cinnamon to assault his taste buds.
    With a grimace of acute disgust, Steve pitched the gum into the bay and headed back to his cruiser. He’d sell everything he owned for a cigarette right now, including the 36-foot trawler-style boat he’d bought at a drug auction and fitted out as his home.
    Battling the acute craving, he slid behind the wheel and reached for the radio mike. “Dispatch, this is Paxton.”
    Willena Shaw’s husky response floated over the airwaves. “Go ahead, Sheriff.”
    Steve’s grimace gave way to a grin. The night dispatcher was fifty-seven, carried a good two-hundred and sixty pounds on her five-one frame, and kicked up the pulse of every male in the department whenever she answered or put out a call.
    “I’m departing the Blackwell residence, heading home.”
    “Ten-four.”
    “Who’s the duty officer?”
    “Lieutenant Fairborne.”
    “Ask him to run a BI on Lieutenant Colonel Blackwell, will you?”
    “You got it, sheriff.”

Chapter Two
     
    Jess dug into a packing box, the muscles of her neck knotted. A good twenty minutes crawled by until she heard a car door thud and the sound of a car engine turning over. Her fists balled, crunching the wrapping paper she’d just removed from a stack of framed photos.
    What the heck did Paxton do all that time out there in the dark? Had he been watching her place. Waiting to see how she reacted to his disturbing news? Thinking she might bolt?
    Not this time. She and her mother had tucked tail and slunk away once when Paxton’s predecessor had flashed his badge. She was damned if she was going to run again. She wasn’t a scared, skinny kid any more.
    Biting her lip, she glanced down at the framed snapshot topping the stack in her hand. The black and white photo was one of the few salvaged from the constant moves during her gypsy-like childhood. They’d moved so often, she and her mother, shedding a few more unnecessary possessions with each packing, until they could throw everything they owned in a couple of suitcases and a box or two.
    Slowly, Jess traced a finger over the glass protecting the photo, her heart aching at the deep grooves carved in her mother’s brow. Helen couldn’t have been more than twenty-eight or nine when the picture was taken, but life had already left its mark on her face.
    On her daughter’s, as well. The young Jess scowled ferociously, as though she suspected whoever was taking the picture would make off with the camera. Given Helen’s track record with the losers she invariably hooked up with, Jess probably had good reason to distrust him.
    Sighing, she took the photo into the kitchen and set it on the white-painted shelf above the sink, where it could catch the sun.
     
     
    In the days following Sheriff Paxton’s late night visit, the demands of