Lover Beware 03 - After Midnight

beating women off ever since his wife left seven years ago. I know,"
    she said wryly. "I'm one of them."
    "Way to go, Macie."
    Macie flipped another finger in the direction of the supermarket overhang. "And if Rider didn't do the deed, that means the murderer is still out there, maybe lining up his next target."
    "Maybe the murderer's a woman."
    Yolanda snorted and gave Mason an incredulous look. "Get a grip, Mason. There was a rape. The police took samples, which means there was semen. I could be wrong, but I don't think women have managed to produce semen yet. If they had, we'd be able to cut men out of the reproduction process. Now, that would be world news."
    Mason's neck flushed bright red. "I'm going to tell your husband you said that."
    Yolanda rolled her eyes. "Oh yeah, four kids down the track and one vasectomy later—like he's going to be threatened. He knows that if he so much as comes near me with sperm, I shoot to kill. Look, maybe they've got the right guy, and maybe they haven't, but I'm not going to take it for granted. If I were you I'd get an alarm system installed and lock up tight, because until I hear that Rider did do the crime, I'm going to assume that the murderer is still out there."
    "I heard Rider's got guns, including a twenty-two."
    Jane jerked her keys from the boot lock. "Practically everyone in the district has a gun, and Rider's got more reason than most to own guns. He's a professional soldier."
    "He's used to killing."
    "Yeah, right, so he's bright enough to leave the SAS and open fire on his hometown? I don't think so."
    "John Tucker brought him in cuffed," Mason said stubbornly. "There's no smoke without fire."
    Jane eyed Mason coldly. There hadn't been any logic in 194
    FIONA BRAND
    this conversation from the get-go, she didn't know why she expected any now. "In five years, Tucker's biggest arrest was that crew from Winslow who were stealing farm bikes and rustling cattle. Apart from that he rousts drunks and prosecutes shoplifters. Homicide is not exactly his strong suit."
    "I don't care what Tucker's expertise is. He's got a suspect, and that's good enough for me."
    "Then you're easy to please. I hope you sleep well tonight, Mason, because I won't be."
    There was a general murmur of assent, punctuated by a sharp cracking sound as Macie crumpled her coffee cup.
    "I don't care if he did do it." Macie glanced in the direction of the police station as she straightened with a graceful movement and slung the strap of her purse over one shoulder.
    "Speaking for every female on the planet, it would be criminal to lock that up for any length of time."

Chapter 4
    GRIMLY, MICHAEL STEPPED out of the police cruiser onto the gravel drive that formed a circular area in front of his house. In contrast to the dry heat of the day, the evening was hot and brassy, laden with the pressurized steam-bath heat that presaged cyclone weather. The humidity was already climbing out of his comfort zone so that his skin was sheened with sweat, and his leg was aching, which meant it was going to rain. His head was aching, too, but that was because he'd been battering it against Tucker's entrenched police procedure all day long.
    He'd had no alibi, since apart from the hour he'd spent at Jake Robertson's house, he'd spent that evening home, alone, so they'd had to wait on the sketch that the police artist had put together that morning with Carol Dillon, along with the fingerprint records, which hadn't yet been entered into their data system and had to be faxed along with the sketch.
    While they'd waited for the paperwork to feed through the machine, he'd gone through the rigmarole of having his prints taken. Tucker had wanted a DNA sample as well, but Michael had held his ground on that one. The hell he was going to have a needle stuck in his arm on Tucker's say-so, when he 196
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    didn't have to. It was bloody-minded—he wouldn't miss the few cc's of blood they required to get their DNA, and basically he didn't begrudge it, because he had no intention of committing any crimes—but by that time he'd been seriously pissed.
    When the fax had come through, the print had been so dark, no one had been able to make out any conclusive detail, so an officer had been dispatched from Winslow with a copy of the evidence file.
    When the records had finally arrived, the sketch had shown a male Caucasian with long, dark hair, which had, apparently, been another deciding factor in the decision to take him into