After Midnight

by Merline Lovelace

  Patiently, Steve waited for Calhoun’s gleeful, wheezing whoops to subside. “The incident I’m referring to happened before you were elected to the U.S. House of Representatives. You were still in the state senate. This would have been around September, October of 1975.”

  “How the hell do I know where I was in September, October of ’75? You’ll have to ask Maggie.”

  “Your daughter-in-law?”

  “You know who I mean! The one with the yellow hair and nice, tight ass.”

  Steve gave it up as a lost cause. If the old man confused his son’s wife with the aide he supposedly bent over his desk, he was too far gone to provide any useful details about Helen Yount or her daughter.

  The realization of how close the Congressman’s description fit his daughter-in-law came home to Steve the following evening, when he found Maggie Calhoun slouched in one of the chairs on the rear deck of his boat. She qualified as a sunshine blonde, and her ass was definitely round and tight.

  “’Bout time you got home, sheriff.”

  With the sinuous grace of a well-fed cat, she tipped the deck chair back and stretched her arms above her head. Hibiscus red and cropped short at the waist, her cropped top inched upward and bared the skin above her matching drawstring slacks.

  “Hope you don’t mind me comin’ for a private little visit?”

  “I don’t mind,” Steve replied, propping a hip against the rail, “but I’m thinking Dub might.”

  “Only if he finds out about it.” Her generous mouth tipped. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  “Trusting a man to keep quiet about a ‘private little visit’ is a pretty risky proposition for someone whose husband has his sights set on a seat in the U.S. House of Representatives.”

  “You have to take a few calculated risks, even in politics. Especially in politics. You know that as well as I do. You’re an elected official. You run for office every four years. You can only kiss so many butts.”

  “True.”

  “Dub and I both learned how to play the game a long time ago. From a real master at it, I might add.”

  “Your father-in-law?”

  “My father-in-law.” Letting the deck chair legs drop back down, she raked a leisurely hand through her hair. “I heard you paid the old fart a call yesterday afternoon.”

  “You heard right.”

  “Was there any particular reason for your visit, or were you just feeling neighborly?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  Her smile widened. “Come on, Steve. We both know I’ve felt more than neighborly toward you for some time now. You’ve just been too cautious to follow up on the invitations I keep sending your way.”

  “Guess I’m still too cautious. Invitations like that scare the crap out of me.”

  Her smile turned sly. “Not when they’re issued by Jessie Blackwell, evidently. Well, you know what they say. Like mother, like daughter.”

  “What do you want, Maggie?”

  Slipping her feet into a pair of thonged sandals, she abandoned the kitten act. “I want to know why you went to see the Congressman. He gave me some garbled story about you asking if he balled his legislative assistant. He balled a number of them, actually, but for some reason he seemed to think this one was named Helen. I assume it was Helen Yount you asked him about.”

  Steve wasn’t surprised she’d made the connection. Everyone, Dub included, acknowledged that she supplied the brains and drive behind what they both intended as the next generation of a political dynasty.

  “What’s going on, Steve? Is Jessie Blackwell out to pay back a few snubs and, oh, by the way, scuttle Dub’s campaign by claiming her mama did it with his father? If so, the scheme will backfire. The way I heard it, her mama did it with just about everyone.”

  “As far as I know, Colonel Blackwell’s not out to scuttle anything.”

  Which was true. At this point, Steve couldn’t state with any degree of certainty just what Jess Blackwell was out to do.

  “I hope you’re right,” Maggie said softly. “I surely to goodness hope you’re right. We’ve sunk too much time and money into this campaign to let it go sour on us now.”

  Swaying over to where he stood, she trailed a finger along his jaw. Her touch was light, almost playful. The edge to her voice was neither.

  “You can tell the colonel that next time you two get together.”

  “I will.”

  Her fingers made another graze, then tapped him lightly on the cheek. “See you, sheriff.”

  He waited until she’d gathered her purse and started for the step to the dock. “Where were you a week ago tonight?”

  “Last Tuesday?” She threw him a considering look. “I was with Dub, in Tallahassee. The governor called in the legislature for a special session to sort through the avalanche of recommended fixes after the presidential election mess. Why?”

  “No particular reason.”

  Except one. On Tuesday night, an as-yet unidentified driver had forced Jess Blackwell’s car off the Mid-Bay Bridge. Unless and until the crime lab in Tallahassee confirmed the paint scrappings came from a rusted yellow Cadillac, there were still too many unanswered questions in Steve’s mind.

  The state capital was only a little more than a hundred miles from DeFuniak Springs. Added to that was the fact that Maggie Calhoun had collected a bucketful of speeding ticket in her regular commutes to and from Tallahassee.

  Steve was pretty sure neither Maggie nor Dub drove a canary yellow vehicle, but it wouldn’t hurt to run a check on the rental agencies in and around the State Capitol. Maybe get a complete list of the folks who worked in Dub’s campaign office and run a check on the their vehicles, too.

  Chapter Twelve

  By Thursday morning, Jess was already feeling the effects of a long week. Grimacing at the image in the bathroom mirror, she smoothed on an extra layer of pancake make-up in a futile attempt to hide the shadows under her eyes. The grayish circles looked ghoulish enough on their own. When combined with the mottled black and drab brown of her fatigue uniform, she showed all the color of a corpse.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept more than four or five hours at a stretch. Not since returning to Florida, she thought. Certainly not since her visit to Sheriff Paxton’s boat three nights ago. Every time she relaxed enough to lower her guard, her skin would start to prickle with the remembered feel of his hands and his mouth.

  And every time she closed her eyes, her restless mind would carry her to the back room of a smoky-filled roadside dive.

  Bill Petrie’s administrative leave ran through the end of the week. Tomorrow was Friday. He had four more days to hide from her. A whole weekend to sweat. Even if he called in to request additional leave, sooner or later he’d have to return to work. Sooner or later he’d have to face Jess.

  The past few days had given her time to think about that meeting. The officer in her, the military executive who took pride in both her uniform and her leadership skills, shied away from crossing the line between personal and professional.

  Yet the daughter who’d watched her mother die an agonizing death couldn’t help but wish some of that same pain on the men who’d hurt her. On all the men who’d used and abused Helen until she’d found Frank Blackwell.

  Dropping the bottle of make-up on the bathroom shelf with a clatter, Jess flattened her palms on the edge of the shell-shaped porcelain sink. Thank God for Frank! Every day of her life, she would say a silent prayer of gratitude for the gruff, unpretentious garage mechanic who’d won Helen’s love, blundered his way past Jess’s bristling hostility, and offered them both the precious gifts of security and happiness.

  She needed to give him a call, Jess thought, bringing her head up again. Needed to hear him grouse about the house she’d bought for him a few years ago, after Helen’s medical and funeral bills had devoured every penny of Jess’s savings and Frank’s meager retirement fund. He hadn’t wanted his adopted daughter to go in debt, had
insisted he didn’t need two bedrooms. Luckily, Jess had just come out on the list for promotion to major and countered his protests with assurance that she could make the payments on the small, two-bedroom house and still live comfortably.

  Thank God for Frank, she thought again, a smile softening her face. Steady as a rock and just about as talkative, he’d acted as her anchor all through her teen years, never pushing but always ready with a strong shoulder to lean on when she needed it.

  Like Steve Paxton.

  Jess’s smile faded. How could she trust him? Much less the need that swept through her whenever she was with him? He’d compiled a file on her mother, for pity’s sake. Had practically accused Jess of having somehow arranged the death of two of the men who’d assaulted Helen.

  No, that wasn’t right. He hadn’t accused her. He’d warned her. With a wrench, Jess killed the insidious wish that she could talk to him, just talk, and sort through the conflicting emotions that had kept her sleepless the past few nights. He was a cop, she reminded herself. She needed to tread warily with him.

  And with Billy Jack Petrie, she thought grimly. Her mouth tight, she finished applying her make-up.

  As it turned out, she wasn’t the only one worrying about the deputy chief of the Fuels Branch.

  Lieutenant Ourek reported to her office that afternoon, a troubled look on his young face. “I’m concerned about Mr. Petrie. I haven’t been able to reach at home or at the emergency number he left.”

  Jess’s chest squeezed. She could almost hear Steve speculating in that soft, dangerous tone whether Petrie would turn up dead next.

  “Why are you trying to reach him.”

  The lieutenant eyed the paper he clutched in his hand. “It’s this analysis Sergeant Babcock did on the fuel over at the 33rd. I understand you told him you wanted to see it.”

  “Yes, I did. I expected to have it on my desk yesterday, as a matter of fact.”

  “Sergeant Babcock indicated as much, but… Well, I wanted to run the interim report by Mr. Petrie first, since he authorized the deviation.”

  “Deviation?”

  “It wasn’t significant,” Ourek assured her. “Only seven parts per billion above the acceptable norms.”

  “You’ve lost me. Seven parts per billion above what norms?”

  “Naturally occurring sedimentation levels.”

  “Let me make sure I understand this,” Jess said carefully. “You’re saying we received a shipment of fuel that contained higher than normal levels of pollution? And Mr. Petrie authorized acceptance of the shipment?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Her first thought was that she had him. If Petrie had screwed up here, as he had when he’d covered up Sergeant Babcock’s drinking problem, Jess would nail his hide to the wall and enjoy hammering in every spike.

  Some of her grim anticipation must have shown on her face. Gulping, the lieutenant rushed to clarify matters.

  “We have local authority to approve up to ten parts per billion. Anything over that, we notify the Defense Fuels Center and they make the determination whether to accept the load or not. Mr. Petrie didn’t consult them in this instance as the sediment levels were within our approval parameters.”

  Frustration bit into Jess with sharp, jagged teeth. “So what’s the problem here?”

  “That’s just it. We’re not exactly sure.” Ourek’s nose twitched like a nervous rabbit’s. “After the 33rd maintenance personnel reported gummed-up engine nozzles, Sergeant Babcock re-analyzed the fuel. We’re pretty sure it came from the last shipment. The one you observed during the initial off-load.”

  “I thought the samples from that shipment tested clean.”

  “They did, on all but the last compartment. It showed elevated sediment levels, but seeing as that particular sample came from the bottom of the compartment, where the trash would have settled during the trip from the refinery, Mr. Petrie okayed the deviation. Still, that level of sediment shouldn’t have resulted in the amount of residue now showing up in the 33rd’s engines. Sergeant Babcock thinks… Well, he wants to run some special tests.”

  “Special how?”

  “There’s a new additive floating around out there. SF445. It’s supposed to make fuel flow through pipelines more smoothly, reducing friction that could result in an explosion. It’s kind of like liquid Teflon. It coats everything it touches, including the filters.”

  “So the fuel…as well as the trash…passes through more easily.”

  “Yes, ma’am. SF445 is designed mostly for oil field operations, where the product is transported long distances via pipelines. The refinery isn’t supposed to include SF445 in the military fuel package. We don’t even have the proper chemicals to test for it.”

  Jess had only a hazy concept of refinery operations. She knew they produced massive quantities of both heating and engine oil, each with its own particular characteristics and specifications. How they kept the various specs straight during production and distribution went well beyond her level of expertise.

  “The SF445 could have been added at the refinery by mistake,” Ourek explained. “Or it could have been present in a previous load the barge delivered, and the barge wasn’t fully purged after delivery. In any case, Sergeant Babcock has asked a buddy at the American Petroleum Institute to pull up the latest data on the stuff and advise what chemicals we need to test for it.”

  A dozen questions rifled through Jess’s mind. How long before Sergeant Babcock’s buddy got back to him? Where could they obtain the necessary chemicals? If tests showed that Eglin’s last load contained SF445, could the contamination that slipped through the filters cause a jet engine to fail in mid-flight? Should she alert her boss? Advise the flying wing commanders? What about the other bases supplied by the same barge? Were they finding the same unexplained levels of residue?

  Suddenly, the ghosts that had haunted her for the past few weeks took a back seat to reality. This involved more than memories. This situation was immediate, with the potential for disaster written all over it.

  “Tell Sergeant Babcock to let me know if he doesn’t hear from his friend at the API within the next hour. If necessary, I’ll make some calls, too. In the meantime, leave the interim report with me and let me digest it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Just under an hour later, Ed Babcock showed up at her office. By then, Jess had read his interim report twice and passed it to her deputy.

  She trusted Al Monroe’s judgment, had used him as a sounding board on almost a daily basis since her arrival at Eglin. The gray-haired, part-time biker confirmed her initial worries, but cautioned Jess to take it one step at a time before issuing a contaminated fuel.

  Ed Babcock, on the other hand, urged her to err on the side of caution.

  “No one really knows much about SF445. OPEC glommed onto it as soon as it went on the market, but it hasn’t been out long enough for any definitive studies of the long-term effect on high performance engines. The Defense Fuels Supply Center has nothing on it in their database. Nothing useful, anyway.”

  “How do you know so much about this stuff?”

  His wrestler’s shoulders lifted under his fatigue shirt. “That’s what the air force pays me such big bucks for.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m just doing my job.”

  Which, Jess decided, he performed exceedingly well. More thankful by the moment that she hadn’t booted him out of the service, she leaned forward.

  “Okay, give it to me straight. If you do find traces of SF445 in our fuel, what course of action do you recommend?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Shut down flying operations, purge the fuel tanks on all assigned aircraft, and clean every engine nozzle. At the same time, we’ll need to re-sample the contents of the entire tank farm and drain any contaminated fuel.”

  “How long would that take?”

  “Well, Dulles Airport closed down for three days after a contractor pumped contaminated fuel into its tank
farm a couple years ago. In that case, the contaminant was the red dye the IRS requires to differentiate motor oil from heating oil. As I recall, the amount was infinitesimal. The equivalent of less than a quart of dye. But it polluted about a million and a half gallons of jet fuel, all of which had to be trucked out before the storage tanks could be cleaned.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “Similar incidents have happened at least twice at LaGuardia that I know of. Once each at Honolulu and Miami International. When a contaminant like SF445 gets into the hydrant system, everything fed by that system bites the dust.”

  “Let’s hope you’re speaking figuratively,” Jess said with some feeling. “When will you know for sure whether we’re dealing with SF445 here at Eglin?”

  “By this afternoon, I hope. The Advanced Concepts Technology Branch at the Research Lab keep a stash of the chemicals I need, but they’re telling me I have to get their commander’s okay before they’ll let me mess with their stuff.”

  Jess reached for the phone. “I’ll take care of that.”

  Three minutes later she’d obtained the necessary authorization for Sergeant Babcock to invade the white-coated sanctity of the Air Force Research Lab.

  “Thanks, ma’am.” A reluctant respect glimmered in his eyes. “You just saved me a half dozen phone calls.”

  Despite the tension crawling up her neck, Jess managed a quick grin. “Just doing my job, Ed.”

  She didn’t find much to grin about during her subsequent meeting with her boss. Colonel Hamilton listened intently enough, but wasn’t ready to raise the red flag until Babcock concluded his tests and the colonel obtained more definitive information about residue levels in the 33rd’s aircraft.

  “Even if this SF445 is present in our fuel, we don’t have proof that it’s causing these increased coke deposits.” Frowning, the director of logistics tapped his pen on his blotter. “We could be talking internal engine corrosion. Improper nozzle spray angle. Any one of a dozen possible problems.”