Free For the Love of Jazz by Shiloh Walker

Smelling the stench of old sweat on him, Aqua Velva and spearmint gum, she stifled a shudder. Man, did he give her the willies or what?
    “What he wants isn’t much concern of yours, is it?”
    “Don’t go getting all hoity-toity on me, girl,” he snapped. Across his forehead was a film of sweat and it seemed to Darla he looked nervous. “I was just asking a friendly question.”
    “I doubt you’ve ever asked a friendly question in your life,” she responded, covering her notes with a legal pad. As the phone rang, she gave the clock a pointed stare and asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be on patrol now?”
     
    * * *
     
    No toxicology report. Desmond tugged thoughtfully at his lower lip. Why in God’s name hadn’t there been a tox report? And the investigating officer’s report wasn’t worth the paper it was written on.
    Larry Muldoon , he thought with disgust. He read the report through once. Then a second time. And a third—he might have read it again, but he wouldn’t let himself.
    There had been no investigation. Who had been sheriff then? Blackie Schmidt. Frustrated, Desmond threw down the report and dragged his hands through his hair. If he hadn’t been so grief stricken…
    Buddies with the Muldoon family. The Muldoons didn’t inspire ambiguity. People either feared them, hated them—or they were cut from the same cloth, like Blackie had been. Fortunately, Larry was the only one left. Beau’s youngest brother died in a motorcycle wreck four years earlier. Those three had run wild and loose throughout the county.
    Of course, there was a little girl, Marlena? Marlene? Yes. Marlie Jo, a quiet, timid little thing, if Desmond was remembering right. She didn’t seem to fit with the Muldoon clan, quiet where her brothers were loud, polite where they were cruel.
    Shaking his head, Desmond muttered, “Stop stalling.” With a hand that was still steady, he reached for the reports once more, this time flipping through until he found the mortician’s report.
    The post-mortem… God, reading those words was like driving a dagger into his chest. How could his beautiful boy be dead?
    Multiple facial bone breaks, multiple lacerations, cardiac tamponade—bruising to the sternal area.
    Cardiac tamponade.
    Consistent with bruising noted on victims with a history of blunt force trauma. Blunt force trauma. The sort of trauma one encountered after being on the receiving end of a steering wheel going into your chest.
    The bruise going across Alex’s chest—he read the description.
    Closing his eyes, Desmond leaned back in his chair. Why didn’t I see this sooner?
    Why hadn’t anybody else? Had his grief and shock blinded him? Or was it a willingness to believe that Jazz McNeil had done exactly as they’d said he would? Had Jazz ruined Alex’s life, just as so many people had said he would?
    Or had Alex ruined his?
    Desmond pushed back from the desk with a tired sigh, rubbing the back of his stiff neck with his hand. The haunted look in the boy’s eyes had never left him. He wondered if he had done the wrong thing in not questioning the report. Questioning, hell, he had downright refused to even look at any of it.
    And Desmond knew well enough why nobody else had investigated further. Even after the Kincades had taken Jazz in, most of the town still looked at him and saw the stepfather they had both feared and hated. Hated, yes. Despised, yes. But if Beau had so much as whispered, “Jump,” more than half of the population would have done just that.
    Why did they remember Beau, and not Jazz’s real father?
    “Why didn’t you remember his real father?” Desmond asked himself.
    Rubbing his hands over his stubbled face, he grumbled under his breath. If nothing else, he had to agree with Anne-Marie. It didn’t fit.
     
    * * *
     
    Gripping the steering wheel with sweaty hands, Larry watched as Doc Kincade stepped out of his house. The doctor had a strange, thoughtful look on his face and didn’t seem to