the bridge wasn’t just that, an accident. It was probably just his cop’s sixth sense was working overtime that had him reaching for his radio mike.
“Dispatch, this is Paxton.”
“Go ahead, sheriff.”
“Advise the South Walton substation that I want a periodic drive-by of Colonel Blackwell’s residence.”
“For the rest of tonight?”
“Until further notice.”
“Ten-four.”
Chapter Eight
It was Wilena Shaw who made the connection. She mentioned it to Steve when he stopped into Central Dispatch around two a.m. the following morning. He’d been out riding patrol with one of the rookies, keeping his hand in and himself visible to his people, and stopped to cage a cup of coffee before heading home.
The dispatcher’s chair squeaked under her two-hundred plus pounds as she wheeled around. Flipping up the mike on her headset, she ripped the top sheet off her note pad.
“One of the Okaloosa county deputies called to tell you the paint scrapings are on their way to Tallahassee. Said they were yellow. Bright yellow.”
“Did they run a check of local repair shops?”
“They’re in the process of calling them.”
Nodding, Steve took a cautious swig of the scalding hot brew that kept the dispatchers alive and alert during the small hours of the morning.
“Heard a rumor that your Colonel Blackwell’s momma once worked at the Blue Crab,” Wilena continued in her velvety drawl.
It was a small town, Steve reminded himself, and an even smaller department. He wasn’t surprised the rumors Jess had accused him of stirring had percolated through the ranks to Central Dispatch.
“She’s not my colonel.”
“Huh!”
Wilena declined to point out that the whole department was buzzing over the fact the sheriff carried Colonel Blackwell off in his arms, but her sly grin spoke volumes.
“What do you know about the Blue Crab?” Steve asked to divert her attention.
“Not much. It wasn’t the kind of place a woman would feel comfortable in. Sheriff Boudreaux kept his eye on it.” Her forehead crinkled in thought. “Seems I recall an incident years ago where some customers roughed up a waitress. It happened right after I came to work as a dispatcher. I took the call, and the sheriff checked it out. It would have been about the time your colonel lived in Choctaw Beach. Wonder if the waitress was her mother?”
“I wonder, too,” Steve said slowly.
Morning dew glistened like tears on the bearded moss when he radioed in the next morning and advised dispatch he was heading up to Liberty to get in a little fishing.
That was one of the nice things about being the boss, he mused as he drove north out of DeFuniak Springs on Highway 83. He put in long days and late nights, but could pretty well choose when and how to compensate for them.
In anticipation of his expedition, he’d opted for comfortable jeans and a cool white shirt with the sleeves rolled up this morning. With his mirrored sunglasses and green ball cap to protect his eyes and extra supply of Dentyne tucked in his shirt pocket, he was ready for the bright summer sun.
Elbow propped on the open widow, he steered his cruiser through the patchwork quilt of farms that rolled from DeFuniak Springs clear to the Alabama border. This stretch of Walton County was rich land. Good land. Originally inhabited by friendly Euchee Indians who were more than willing to share their fertile valley, the area had attracted settlers since the early 1800s. Its sandy loam, underlaid by clay subsoil, produced abundant crops of wild satsuma, grapes, pears and figs, along with the staples of corn, soybeans, peanuts and forage crops.
Local peanut farmers had taken a hit last year, Steve knew. With such a large portion of his constituency dependent on the land for their livelihood, he’d developed a personal dislike to the Spotted Wilt Virus that had attacked the peanut runners and forced so many farmers to destroy their diseased crop. The new crop looked
“Dispatch, this is Paxton.”
“Go ahead, sheriff.”
“Advise the South Walton substation that I want a periodic drive-by of Colonel Blackwell’s residence.”
“For the rest of tonight?”
“Until further notice.”
“Ten-four.”
Chapter Eight
It was Wilena Shaw who made the connection. She mentioned it to Steve when he stopped into Central Dispatch around two a.m. the following morning. He’d been out riding patrol with one of the rookies, keeping his hand in and himself visible to his people, and stopped to cage a cup of coffee before heading home.
The dispatcher’s chair squeaked under her two-hundred plus pounds as she wheeled around. Flipping up the mike on her headset, she ripped the top sheet off her note pad.
“One of the Okaloosa county deputies called to tell you the paint scrapings are on their way to Tallahassee. Said they were yellow. Bright yellow.”
“Did they run a check of local repair shops?”
“They’re in the process of calling them.”
Nodding, Steve took a cautious swig of the scalding hot brew that kept the dispatchers alive and alert during the small hours of the morning.
“Heard a rumor that your Colonel Blackwell’s momma once worked at the Blue Crab,” Wilena continued in her velvety drawl.
It was a small town, Steve reminded himself, and an even smaller department. He wasn’t surprised the rumors Jess had accused him of stirring had percolated through the ranks to Central Dispatch.
“She’s not my colonel.”
“Huh!”
Wilena declined to point out that the whole department was buzzing over the fact the sheriff carried Colonel Blackwell off in his arms, but her sly grin spoke volumes.
“What do you know about the Blue Crab?” Steve asked to divert her attention.
“Not much. It wasn’t the kind of place a woman would feel comfortable in. Sheriff Boudreaux kept his eye on it.” Her forehead crinkled in thought. “Seems I recall an incident years ago where some customers roughed up a waitress. It happened right after I came to work as a dispatcher. I took the call, and the sheriff checked it out. It would have been about the time your colonel lived in Choctaw Beach. Wonder if the waitress was her mother?”
“I wonder, too,” Steve said slowly.
Morning dew glistened like tears on the bearded moss when he radioed in the next morning and advised dispatch he was heading up to Liberty to get in a little fishing.
That was one of the nice things about being the boss, he mused as he drove north out of DeFuniak Springs on Highway 83. He put in long days and late nights, but could pretty well choose when and how to compensate for them.
In anticipation of his expedition, he’d opted for comfortable jeans and a cool white shirt with the sleeves rolled up this morning. With his mirrored sunglasses and green ball cap to protect his eyes and extra supply of Dentyne tucked in his shirt pocket, he was ready for the bright summer sun.
Elbow propped on the open widow, he steered his cruiser through the patchwork quilt of farms that rolled from DeFuniak Springs clear to the Alabama border. This stretch of Walton County was rich land. Good land. Originally inhabited by friendly Euchee Indians who were more than willing to share their fertile valley, the area had attracted settlers since the early 1800s. Its sandy loam, underlaid by clay subsoil, produced abundant crops of wild satsuma, grapes, pears and figs, along with the staples of corn, soybeans, peanuts and forage crops.
Local peanut farmers had taken a hit last year, Steve knew. With such a large portion of his constituency dependent on the land for their livelihood, he’d developed a personal dislike to the Spotted Wilt Virus that had attacked the peanut runners and forced so many farmers to destroy their diseased crop. The new crop looked
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