by Debra Webb
But to pass on the case would show Wainwright that Carson was capable of failure, of weakness. The man who filled the district attorney’s shoes could be neither weak nor a failure, professionally or personally.
“You don’t need to wait, Mr. Tanner.”
Carson stiffened at the unexpected intrusion. He propped a smile into place and turned to face Wainwright’s assistant, who’d reentered the office and caught him off guard. Hesitation was not the norm for him. “I was just gathering my thoughts.”
Geneva nodded, her expression understanding. “Senator Drake has that effect on people.” She winked. “Nice to see you’re not completely immune to the qualms the rest of us suffer on a regular basis.”
A chuckle strained from Carson’s dry throat. “I’ll try and take that as a compliment.”
She patted him on the shoulder. “I’ve watched thirty years’ worth of cocky young attorneys come through this office and I’m here to tell you, that is a compliment.”
But it wasn’t.
Not to Carson.
“Thanks.” He squared his shoulders and opened the door. The only way to get this done was to do it.
Carson entered the room and both Wainwright and Drake stood. But it was the person who didn’t rise from her chair who stole Carson’s immediate, exclusive interest. Elizabeth Drake.
She smiled. Looked exactly the same. Long dark hair, vivid green eyes.
Senator Drake extended his hand, drawing Carson’s attention to him. “How’s our future DA this evening?”
No pressure there.
Carson took the man’s hand and gave it a firm, brisk shake. “Outstanding, sir. And you?”
“Can’t complain,” Drake said as he resumed his seat. He waved a hand toward his daughter. “The mayor thought it would be good if Elizabeth joined us.”
Carson turned to her. “Unquestionably.”
Elizabeth rose from her chair with all the grace and poise a dozen years at first the very best boarding school and then the top private women’s university could bestow.
“Carson.” Instead of offering her hand, she hugged him politely. “It’s good to see you.” She drew away but took a moment to give him a thorough once-over. “You’re looking well.”
He told himself her choice in words had no hidden meaning. Maybe that boy’s like his uncle. Carson exiled the voice. “Thanks. It’s a pleasure having you join us. And you”—he gave Elizabeth a nod of approval—“you look amazing.” Their statements sounded so mundane, considering the history between them.
Ancient history.
But not so antiquated that he didn’t feel things. Like the tightening in his gut at merely being in the same room with her. Or the pressure banded around his chest just remembering all they had shared. Sweet whispers, frantic touches...
Wainwright ushered the meeting to order, prompting Carson and Elizabeth to take their seats. He recapped the long-alleged suspicions regarding Fleming’s activities. The lengthy overview allowed Carson’s mind to wander.
Elizabeth Drake served as Birmingham’s deputy mayor. The city loved her. Her name or face was constantly in the media. She was Birmingham’s princess. Carson had run into her from time to time since her return two years ago, but that was about the extent of it. Avoiding her was easier than facing the parts of the past that just seeing her resurrected. He wondered, though, if she ever thought about how things might have been if his life hadn’t taken such a sharp detour.
Doubtful.
Elizabeth was the only woman he’d ever loved. She, Carson, and her brother Dane had been inseparable. They’d gone to school together as kids, lived within a mile of each other, and shared every crazy moment of coming of age.
Until that day changed everything.
He’d lost the girl. He’d lost everything.
Ask yourself if you’ll ever really know what happened.
“Carson?”
He snapped to attention, cleared his throat, and mentally grappled to catch up with the conversation. What had Wainwright asked him?
“We’re all anxious to hear what you’ve deduced so far as to the viability of this investigation,” Wainwright restated, displeasure scoring his brow.
Concentrate. Randolph Drake and Donald Wainwright were the two most pivotal players in his future. Carson had to get his shit together. That Elizabeth had discreetly checked her phone a couple of times indicated he wasn’t the only one capable of being distracted during such a critical meeting. But then, this meeting was about his conclusions. His distraction was unacceptable.
“Annette Baxter.” Even as Carson said the name, pornographic images from the night before cluttered his vision. “Born in Knoxville, Tennessee. She spent the first ten years of her life in extreme poverty. Spent the next six in foster care.” The scenarios that had materialized in his head as he’d read her file twisted in his gut even now.
Poverty had been the least of Annette Baxter’s problems. The reports from her adolescent years were filled with claims of sexual and physical abuse.
“Baxter,” he went on, “eventually found her way to Nashville. Lived on the streets, doing anything necessary to survive. Until she was nineteen.” He paused to allow his audience to process those details. “That’s when Fleming discovered her. He brought her to Birmingham and took her under his wing. The exact nature of their personal relationship is somewhat undefined.” Since Fleming was more than thirty years her senior, the prospect that they might very well be lovers was more than repulsive.
“She’s garnered quite a name for herself as a fundraising organizer,” Elizabeth noted. “I’ve seen her from time to time at the larger functions.”
Carson was getting to that part. But Elizabeth’s confirmation that he was, in fact, the only one in the room unaware of Annette Baxter’s existence before today amazed him. Apparently his all-work-and-no-play lifestyle had isolated him from Birmingham society far more than he’d realized.
“My theory,” he continued, “is that her fundraising work not only provides her with a legitimate cover but also gives her diplomatic contact with the power in the city. The most advantageous aspect of cultivating those connections would be to provide access and/or information for Fleming’s activities. Ultimately, I believe she operates as a fixer, of sorts.”
“A fixer?” Drake echoed.
“Someone who sets up situations to manipulate an outcome or to resolve a problem,” Carson clarified. “According to Special Agent Kim Schaffer’s reports and surveillance logs, whenever trouble surfaces in an activity Fleming is suspected of facilitating, Baxter shows up for a meeting and then the problem disappears.” The Bureau’s cooperation comprised a single, brief report that provided little information but did speculate as to Baxter’s business arrangement with Fleming.
“Schaffer?” Wainwright looked confused.
Carson nodded. “She’s my Bureau contact.”
“I thought SAC Talley was handling this personally.” Wainwright was clearly put off by the news.
“Special Agent in Charge Talley passed me off to Schaffer.” Carson had surmised that she was the agent most up to speed on Fleming. “Is that an issue?”
Wainwright gestured vaguely. “Considering the high-profile nature of this case, I assumed Talley would jump at the opportunity.” He glanced at Drake and laughed, but the sound held little amusement. “I suppose we should be grateful they’re cooperating at all.”
“You’re convinced Baxter can be turned,” Elizabeth asked, her question directed at Carson. She would want to give the mayor a sense of whether or not the end result was attainable.
“Yes.” Carson didn’t hesitate. “She’s close to Fleming. Close enough that she unquestionably recognizes the potential for getting burned if he goes down. With the right incentive, she’ll see the prudence in saving herself.”
“The upshot,” Wainwright declared, “is that we need to sever our city’s ties to any and all organized crime links. Baxter is our first promising opportunity t
o get to Fleming.
“That will make the mayor a very happy man,” Elizabeth chimed in. “I’m sure we all comprehend”—she looked from Wainwright to Carson and then to her father—“that organized crime is one of the most pressing global issues. An issue that needs to be addressed with the same urgency as terrorism since organized crime in fact fuels terrorism.”
“A most valid point,” Wainwright seconded. “It’s men like Fleming who fund the very terrorists our troops risk their lives to stop. From gunrunning to drugs, that cash flow ultimately ends up in the hands of terrorists or their supporters. Stopping the flow is the least we can do not only for our city, but for our country as well.”
“Hear, hear.” Drake shifted in his chair to face Carson. “We’re counting on your unbreakable determination to accomplish what others have tried and failed.”
“You can count on me, sir,” Carson guaranteed. Having the senator personally involved allowed Carson the opportunity to reiterate to him that he had made the right choice fifteen years ago.
I hate you! Do you hear me, Mother? I hate you! Carson’s heart reacted as those painful words haunted him a second time today. Words he could never take back, could never make right. Mad as hell, he’d barged into his mother’s office, caught her midsession with a patient, and said things no son should say. That patient had been only too happy to recount the whole ugly scene to the police, initially making Carson the primary suspect in the slaughter of his family.
Drake had staunchly stood behind Carson, even when he had doubted himself.
For fifteen years Carson had worked hard to prove his worth. That he somehow deserved to be alive...the lone survivor...when he knew in his gut that it should have been him who died. Wished a million times that it had been.
But Carson hadn’t been home that night. Because of that he had spent every day of this undeserved gift trying his best to earn it. An impossible task, but one he would continue to strive toward for the rest of his days.
No matter the mistake Carson had made last night, he would not fall down on the job a second time.
Every living, breathing human had his or her breaking point. Had a weakness of one kind or another that could be exploited to attain cooperation. Annette Baxter would be no different.
All Carson had to do was pinpoint that spot.
Chapter Eight
6:50 p.m.
Java Joe’s, Five Points, downtown Birmingham
Her brother had to be out of his mind. Thoughtless. Selfish! She wanted to scream! Didn’t he care how hard she had worked to achieve her goals? He was risking everything!
He’d called her in the middle of a meeting, for God’s sake! Twice!
Restraining her anger, Elizabeth stared at Dane, attempting to convey with her eyes the gravity of the situation. If she yelled at him, he’d just get up and walk out. She had to know everything. To be sure exactly what she was up against. “Do you understand how serious this situation is?”
He peered into his untouched cup of coffee as if it somehow held the answers he needed to escape this uncomfortable position. Since no excuse apparently surfaced, he ignored her.
Why did she even ask? He sat across the expanse of Formica from her, slumped in the booth as if he hadn’t a care in the world. His eyes were sunken and red from lack of sleep and overindulgence in his latest drug of choice. He’d lost more weight, and she doubted he’d had a bath in days. His dark hair was stringy and far too long.
She closed her eyes a moment, trying to see her brother the way he’d been years ago. Tall, athletic, smart. Now—she opened her eyes—he barely existed. A college dropout, a drug addict...and that was only the beginning.
“Answer me, Dane,” she demanded, unable to keep her anger subdued any longer. She had no time for this. What was she supposed to do with him? He wouldn’t stay out of trouble. If their mother found out...or, God forbid, their father...
She didn’t even want to think about that.
Dane’s bleary-eyed gaze finally met hers. “What difference does it make?” He dropped his head back on the seat. “Nothing matters anymore.”
“I don’t understand,” she said with amazing calm, “what’s happened to set you off like this. You’ve done so well for the past few months.” At least for Dane it was relatively positive behavior.
His gaze lifted to hers. “You should know. You’re in on it, too.”
Her patience thinned. “Explain what you mean, Dane.”
“You cut me off, just like they did.” His lips curled into a hateful sneer. “Left me with nothing. What was I supposed to do?”
There it was. He was unhappy because the family had stopped financing his bad habits. Well, tough. They had put up with enough. He needed to pull his life together.
“Dane.”
He refused to look at her now.
Dammit.
He was going to ruin everything. For her. Fury tightened her lips. She couldn’t let him do that. “If Father even suspects—”
Dane’s head shot up. “Screw him. I’m not listening to him anymore.”
Elizabeth took a steadying breath. She had to get her brother back under control. “Everything Father has ever done, he’s done to protect us. You can’t let him down like this.”
Dane leaned forward and put his face close to hers, his breath as foul as his attitude. “I...don’t...care.” Then he flopped back once more.
Of course, he didn’t care. She shouldn’t be surprised. “And what about me?” He at least looked at her then. “Do you care what happens to me?”
His silence was answer enough.
Elizabeth felt that familiar tranquility envelop her, dissolving the anger and frustration. There was only one way to handle this. “Let’s put this behind us. It’s done. I’ll take care of everything the way I always do.” She reached across the table in invitation. He stared at her hand...the one he’d held so many times when they’d sneaked through the woods to Carson’s house or hidden together in fear. But not today. Today he refused to touch her.
“Very well.” She drew her hand back, curled her fingers tightly against the emptiness. “If that’s the way you want it to be...”
His continued silence reverberated in her ears. Elizabeth scooted from the booth and walked out of the coffee shop. There was nothing more she could say.
No one, no one, would stop her from having what she deserved this time. She had waited fifteen long years due to the actions of others.
Not this time. This time she was going to do what she should’ve done all along.
Chapter Nine
7:35 p.m.
Criminal Justice Center
Carson stared at the surveillance photos spread across his desk. Twelve different shots. A dozen different times and locations.
Annette Baxter met with Otis Fleming randomly.
There appeared to be no correlation to Fleming’s alleged activities other than the idea that any problems rumored to have arisen seemed to disappear rather quickly after their meetings.
And yet not a single connection to the activities Fleming was accused of facilitating could be made to her—or the old man, for that matter.
Carson scanned his copious notes. The only piece of evidence, and it was damned thin, to indicate Annette Baxter might be involved in Fleming’s illegal dealings was an August 15 audio recording provided by the FBI. And even that evidence was vague, circumstantial at best. As were the photos, since it wasn’t illegal to visit a person.
Carson pushed play and listened to the taped conversation again.
“You know this requires great finesse.” Fleming.
“I understand.” Annette Baxter. “I know how to handle him.”
“There can be no mistakes,” Fleming prompted in that gravelly voice that spoke of years of smoking magnified by frequent alcohol consumption. And age. Too bad he was like a damned Timex: He just kept on ticking.
“Have I ever let you down?” Baxter’s tone reflected her exasperation. But that
emotion was tempered by patience and a reverence that confounded Carson.
Did she love this old man?
Had to be about the money.
Fleming couldn’t have had sex with her the way Carson had.
What the hell kind of proclamation was that? Carson turned his back on the file and stared out at the glittering night view of the city he loved. That alone was the most compelling reason a wise man would step down and allow another, one not personally involved on any level, to proceed with this investigation.
Yet that was the one thing he couldn’t do.
Wainwright was counting on him. Drake was counting on him.
And the truth was, as arrogant as it sounded, Carson was the best man for the job. He would not stop until he had the truth...until he uncovered the motivation to prompt her cooperation.
If hanging her was what it took, he would do it and feel absolutely no remorse. She was a criminal. A former prostitute, a drug mule. She deserved whatever she got.
The image of a young girl, ten or twelve years old, fighting off a brute of a foster father loomed in Carson’s head. He banished it. There was no room for sympathy in this investigation.
However hard her childhood, Annette Baxter was a grown woman who made independent choices. She had chosen to be what she was now.
The thud of a door slamming had him wheeling around. It was almost eight. Everyone else on the floor had gone home hours ago. He glanced at the papers on his desk. The concept that he was working on a high-profile case involving a very powerful man wasn’t lost on him. Taking extra precautions was necessary.
He walked out of his office, checked the corridor. It was empty. Closing his door behind him out of habit, he took a walk around the floor. The other offices were locked, lights out. Emptiness resonated around him. He was alone.