by Debra Webb
“You have what you need. You can turn him around.”
Their gazes held for five seconds that lapsed into ten. “Yes.” Her pulse rate increased. The stench of blood assailed her nostrils as too-vivid images zoomed across her retinas. She blinked the ugliness away.
“You’ll know when the time is right to use that asset.”
Her chin lifted in defiance of the uncharacteristic doubt nagging at her. “Yes.” She would not hesitate to do whatever was necessary when the time came. Timing was everything.
“You also realize,” he qualified, “that in doing so, you will be taking yet another huge risk. Think carefully before each move you make.”
“Very carefully,” she agreed.
Otis studied her a long moment, again igniting the uneasiness she so rarely felt in his presence. “Despite his hard-earned position and beloved reputation, Carson Tanner is far more expendable than he knows.”
Wasn’t everyone? But Otis was correct. Maybe that was the part that bothered Annette the most. Carson Tanner was only doing his job...he had no idea the price he might very well pay for being too damned good at what he did.
Otis held up his cup for a belated toast. “To the survival of the fittest.”
She raised hers. “Survival.”
In the end, survival was all that really mattered.
Chapter Twelve
11:15 a.m.
1000 18th Street
Federal Bureau of Investigation
Behind her cluttered desk, Special Agent Kim Schaffer turned to a new page in her file. Carson waited patiently. He’d been doing that for an hour now. First to get in for the briefing he’d been invited to attend and now for Agent Schaffer to get down to business.
The lady was not happy with his relentless questions. He wasn’t a cop. He wasn’t an agent. He was from the DA’s Office, which meant he was the guy looking over her shoulder. She had said as much.
Schaffer exhaled a big breath and lifted her gaze to his. “Considering what you’ve told me, I’m not sure I have anything to share that you’ll find relevant, Mr. Tanner.”
Bullshit. Judging from the amount of surveillance the Bureau had spent on Fleming and his associates, there had to be more than what she’d given Carson in that flimsy report she’d e-mailed him yesterday.
He pulled a don’t-give-me-that-crap expression. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that, Agent Schaffer?” Nothing like playing nice with the feebees.
“Well.” She stood, shuffled the reports and surveillance photos back into the folder, and walked around her desk to settle into the chair beside him. “Why don’t we go through this one page at a time? If you have any more questions, by all means feel free to speak up.”
She couldn’t have said that half an hour ago?
“Fine.” He sat up a little straighter and prepared to review the contents of the file.
Schaffer propped one booted foot onto the opposite knee and positioned the file in her lap. Carson wasn’t aware that cowboy—or cowgirl as the case was—boots were a part of the standard dress code for federal agents. These boots were shocking pink. Her no-nonsense attitude was followed through with a face free of makeup and a practical short hairstyle. No frills, no fuss. Pink boots aside, he would wager that beneath that classic navy business suit she had a pair of brass ones bigger than any of the male agents assigned to the Birmingham field office.
“We’ve been routinely following the activities of Otis Fleming for the past three years.” She tapped the date on the first report in the file. “The distribution of handguns and drugs; stolen vehicles; Acme Landfill”—she glanced up at Carson—“which we have reason to believe is connected to New York organized crime. And yet,” she added, shrugging, “we’ve had zero success in tying him directly to anything other than his philanthropic deeds.”
At least she didn’t try to sugarcoat the facts. “Finding zero appears to be par for the course,” he admitted. “Lots of rumor and innuendo but no concrete evidence connecting the man to anything illegal. He’s either brilliant or damned lucky.” Could anyone be that lucky? Or did this crafty old bastard have a secret weapon? One fond of stilettos, slinky red dresses, and hot sex?
Schaffer held up a finger. “However.” She flipped over a few pages. “We have some usable facts on a number of his underlings. At the top of the heap is this one.”
The subject in the photo seemed to stare directly at him.
Annette Baxter.
Carson shifted in his chair. He shouldn’t be surprised that her name came up first with the Bureau, but somehow he was. Why the hell hadn’t he ever heard of her? He’d done his share of keeping up with Otis Fleming and the suspicions regarding what he represented.
But Annette Baxter had been a complete unknown to Carson.
He’d never met her, never seen her face in the news.
Nada.
“This one”—Schaffer indicated the grainy surveillance photo—“keeps the old man covered. For the past three weeks we’ve been focusing our investigation on her. There appears to be a very close relationship with Fleming, and we feel that she has the goods on him like no other associate in his universe. In fact.” Schaffer tapped the photo again. “Very few of his associates last long. The faces change regularly, the old ones never to be seen again, except maybe in the morgue.” Schaffer looked directly at Carson then. “This one has stuck. She’s the key. If we get her, we get him.”
Schaffer moved through one report, one surveillance photo, after the other and didn’t provide Carson with anything he didn’t already have.
Not what he’d been hoping for.
“Did I miss the usable facts you mentioned having on this suspect?” To this point Carson had found nothing of any significance in his own research. It seemed the feds hadn’t fared any better.
Schaffer took the question exactly the way he’d meant, with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “There’s no physical evidence, if that’s what you mean. Other than the audiotape. However, we can connect her, time-and location-wise, to a number of specific activities.”
In other words, they didn’t have jack shit. He’d heard the audiotape; it was useless.
“I see.” More sarcasm. Baxter didn’t strike him as the type to be intimidated by innuendo. It was going to take a hell of a lot more than this to persuade her to turn state’s evidence.
Wait.
An abrupt buzz of adrenaline made the hair on the back of Carson’s neck stand on end.
“Your people have been keeping close tabs on her for three weeks?” His gut twisted into blistering knots. A blast of new tension roared through his muscles. Shit.
“That’s right.”
Schaffer’s gaze locked with his, and Carson expected her to flip to a new photo showing him and Baxter going into the room at the Tutwiler. Or her coming into his office building.
“Well, most of the time,” Schaffer qualified. “There are days, like yesterday, when she somehow slips off our radar. We didn’t catch up with her until she showed up at home around ten last night.”
Air rushed into Carson’s lungs. When he could speak, he asked, “How does she manage to give you the slip?” He saw no reason to pretend that wasn’t a major feat. After all, the feds were highly trained. How the hell could someone like Annette Baxter give them the slip repeatedly?
Schaffer raised an eyebrow. “You ever pulled surveillance, Tanner?”
Her question should have pissed him off, but he was so damned glad his face wasn’t in any of those surveillance shots that he couldn’t quite muster the necessary indignation. Besides, in a roundabout way he’d just insulted her.
“Yes.” He met that critical gaze head-on. “Many times.”
“Then you know.” She closed the file. “That sometimes shit happens. The target gets wise to your tactics, gets tipped off, whatever. Once or twice a week she manages to disappear for a few hours. Considering there are seven days in a week and twenty-four hours in each day, that’s damned good covera
ge on our part, if you ask me.” Schaffer plopped the thick file onto the edge of her desk. “When she gives us the slip, nobody’s happy. But that’s the nature of the beast.”
Tipped off? That phrase, interjected so offhandedly, stuck out from the others like an empty seat in the jury box. “Is there a possibility that someone in your office has a reason to feed info to Annette Baxter?”
Schaffer didn’t look happy that he’d homed in on that part of her assessment—but she’d been the one to go there. He had every right to pursue that avenue.
“No,” she said emphatically. “As you can imagine, though, there’s always the possibility. Baxter is a very intelligent, cunning piece of work. If she wanted someone inside, she would likely find what she was looking for. I can vouch for the competence and dedication of every agent in this office,” Schaffer allowed, “but none of us can see through brick walls or leap tall buildings. We’re only human.”
Carson’s brow furrowed, as much with confusion as interest. “Baxter’s that good?” Not that he actually needed to ask. He knew firsthand how damned good the woman was. She’d blindsided him.
Schaffer nodded. “She’s that good.”
He felt the urge to squirm but squashed it. “What about the others surrounding Fleming? Surely Baxter isn’t the sum total of your focus on this case.”
Schaffer turned her palms upward. “There are a couple of others fairly high up the food chain, but no one as close to Fleming as Baxter.”
Carson needed to know about the others regardless of that deduction. “I’d like to see what you have on them.” Schaffer sat back and scrutinized him a long moment. “I’m not sure you fully comprehend what I’m saying.”
He started to argue but she kept going.
“Waste all the time you want chasing after these other scumbags, Annette Baxter is the one. She and Fleming have some sort of connection or relationship that transcends business. Get her and you’ll get Fleming. It’s that simple.”
And at the same time, that complicated. Schaffer was the one who didn’t fully comprehend the situation.
If Carson could help it, she never would.
Still, there had to be more to the agent’s decision than what he’d seen and heard so far. “Call me a stickler for the facts,” Carson countered, undeterred, “but there has to be some concrete reason you believe Baxter is your best bet.”
Schaffer assessed him a second time. “You just won’t be put off, will you, Tanner?”
His gaze narrowed as he searched hers. “Pardon my frankness, Agent Schaffer, but what the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means”—she held his gaze in a deep probe—“that I received a tip about Baxter. And if you quote me on this I’ll personally spend the rest of my career making yours miserable.”
“Let me get this straight.” He held up a hand as much in disbelief as in surprise. “You have another source and you were going to keep that from me?” He laughed drily. “Had to be a hell of a tip for you to expend the full thrust of your investigation, not to mention resources, based on that one source.”
“And why wouldn’t I?” She shrugged. “The tip came from your office. Do you have any reason to believe the district attorney himself would intentionally offer misleading information?”
What the hell? Wainwright had assigned Carson to this investigation. Had given him the entire case file, but failed to declare that he’d provided some additional information to the feds? No way.
“You didn’t feel compelled to mention this before?” Carson made no attempt to disguise his skepticism or his annoyance. “What was the nature of this tip?”
“You’re asking me?” Schaffer had the look, the one that said she’d given all she intended to. “Look under your own rugs, Tanner, before you come over here telling the Bureau how to sweep their floors. I’d start with your boss. He knows something you don’t. I find that quite interesting, don’t you?”
As much as he hated to admit it, the ballsy lady was right. He damned sure intended to take her advice. That was the thing about this case: Every time he got one answer, twice that number of questions popped up.
If Schaffer had a vendetta against the DA’s Office, that would certainly explain Wainwright’s disappointment at having her assigned to the case. On the other hand, Carson couldn’t fathom Wainwright’s motive for not disclosing all relevant facts. Nor could he fully believe that Baxter possessed some damning knowledge against the DA’s Office. The concept that these two unknowns could be somehow connected was a viable premise, though the former hardly made sense.
The one thing he knew with absolute certainty at this point was that if he didn’t get Annette Baxter first, she would get him. Local law enforcement wanted her, the feds wanted her. It was only a matter of time before she was backed into a corner with no escape. And then she would use Carson for leverage to get a deal.
And he would be screwed for real.
He thought of the close call with the near hit-and-run and then the gas leak...that is, if Otis Fleming didn’t beat them both to the punch.
Carson rolled through the security gate and into the street, headed to his office. He intended to wait for the right moment to approach Wainwright. Questioning his mentor’s ethics or motives wasn’t something he intended to explore without due consideration. His cell phone vibrated. He dug it from his pocket. “Tanner.”
“Mr. Tanner, this is Sergeant Johnson at the Mountain Brook precinct.”
Carson’s instincts went on alert. He understood before he asked that this was not going to be a social call. “How can I help you, Sergeant?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but we have a minor situation.”
Carson glanced at his watch. Almost one. Nothing on his schedule that couldn’t wait. “What’s the trouble?”
“Sir, your uncle, Maxwell West, had...an episode at the neighborhood Kroger this morning.”
A ripple of a different kind of tension rolled over Carson. “Is he all right?”
“Physically he’s fine, sir. I checked his record and found a few other reports indicating that episodes of this nature have happened in the past.”
A few other reports. That was putting it kindly. “I appreciate your call, Sergeant Johnson. Are there any charges?” Just what Carson needed. His uncle going off into one of those bizarre worlds of his and acting out his paranoia.
“No, sir. We persuaded the store manager to accept payment for the cleanup and any damages. There’ll be no formal charges filed.”
Carson exhaled some of the tension. “I’m on my way.” He slid the phone into his pocket and set a course for Mountain Brook. This was something Carson failed to value at times. Though he’d lost his family at sixteen, in the years following that tragedy he’d gained an extended family in the law enforcement community. Folks watched one another’s backs.
All the more reason the suggestion that Wainwright would purposely leave out vital information just didn’t feel right.
Schaffer had to be wrong.
Carson braked at the intersection. When he would have pulled out, he hesitated. A red Mustang parked at the curb on the opposite side of the cross street detained his attention. Or, more accurately, the blond female leaning against the driver’s-side door did. His gaze forged a path from the daringly high heels, up long, sexy legs, to the hem of the short, tight black skirt before recognition slammed into his brain.
Annette Baxter.
Dark glasses shielded her eyes, but the irreverent smile on her lips was unmistakable.
Fury tightened in his gut. What the hell was she doing? He glanced in his rearview mirror. He was no more than three blocks from the Bureau office. Yet there she stood, in broad daylight without the first sign of the surveillance the feds had tailing her 24/7.
He turned left, rolling out onto the otherwise deserted cross street, unable to look away from her. As he drove slowly past, she removed those dark glasses and stared directly at him. Challenging him to question her pres
ence. Letting him know she was watching.
So damned cocky. Oh yeah, let her look all she damned well wanted to. He was the last person she was going to see before taking one hell of a fall.
En route to pick up his uncle, Carson exiled his annoyance with Baxter and put in a call to his secretary to arrange payment of damages with the Kroger manager. Once at the Mountain Brook precinct, Carson signed for Max’s release then followed Sergeant Johnson to the holding cell.
Maxwell West was a seventy-year-old functioning schizophrenic. As long as he stayed on his medications he was strange but fully capable of living a reasonably normal life. But those times when he either forgot or just plain refused to take his meds, this happened.
Carson stared at his uncle, who was curled into the fetal position on the floor of the cell. How was it that Carson’s brilliant mother, a renowned child psychologist, could have had a brother so completely opposite?
“Let’s go, Max,” Carson said as the sergeant unlocked the door.
Max peeked above the forearms crossed over his face. His eyes were wild with the insanity plaguing his brain. Voices, images, memories—real and imagined—were no doubt whirling in his head like a late-summer tornado. Sweat had dampened his shirt at his armpits and beaded on his face. “They’re coming for me this time, Carson. I know it.”
Carson tried not to show his frustration. Someone was always coming for Max. Particularly the ambiguous they.
The man was a recluse. Lived in a shack in the woods. The same shack where he’d raised Carson until he’d gone off to college. Max had no friends, no living relatives other than Carson. The old man didn’t attend social functions. He had nothing of value in his home. He existed. Nothing more. There was no one to fear.
But he’d taken care of Carson as best he could when there had been no one else.
Carson crouched down and offered his hand. “Come on. I’ll take you home. We’ll get your meds and you’ll be fine.”