CARSON (Dark and Dangerous Romantic Suspense Book 3)

by Debra Webb

  District Attorney Donald Wainwright got out of his car and walked toward him. His every stride highlighted his impatience. The illustrious DA stopped a few steps away, braced his hands on his hips, and glanced around to ensure they were alone. “What’re you doing, Dwight?”

  His condescension made Dwight all the angrier. “How can you ask me that?” He diminished the distance between them with one bold step. “Where is Zac?”

  Wainwright heaved a big breath. “You called me at this hour of the evening, asked me to come here”—he motioned to the empty lot—“to pose a question you know I can’t answer.” He moved his head slowly from side to side in disappointment, in disgust. “You’re losing your grip, Dwight. I know this is a stressful time, but risks like this can’t be tolerated. There’s too much at stake.”

  Fifteen years...fifteen damned years they had all lived with this secret...with one goal: protect him. Fear compounding the fury already blasting through his veins, Dwight lost all sense of self-possession. He jabbed a finger in Wainwright’s face. “Enough. Enough!” he snarled. “Protecting our own is one thing, but I will not—do you hear me? I will not—let my son be sacrificed because that bastard can’t keep a leash on his own son!”

  Wainwright’s demeanor shifted—nothing obvious, just the subtlest change in his relaxed posture. Dwight wasn’t so over the edge that he no longer owned the good sense to be afraid. I’m certain you do not want to go there. The bitch’s words reverberated in his skull.

  “Your son,” Wainwright said quietly, so quietly that only a man who knew him well would understand the malice behind the words, “sold drugs to children. Used his education and every damned other approach available to him to further the corruption in this city. He made his bed, now he’ll have to lie in it.”

  Wainwright adjusted the lapels of his jacket and squared his shoulders. “Let the police handle this matter, Dwight. That’s what our tax dollars are for.” He started to turn away but reconsidered. The near darkness did not conceal his intentions when he added, “Make no mistake, if you get out of control, I won’t be able to protect you.”

  Wainwright returned to his car and drove away.

  Dwight didn’t care that Wainwright was correct about the line he stood on the verge of crossing, just as Annette Baxter had accurately assessed the same. Right now a single word pounded violently in his brain: sold.

  Your son sold drugs to children.

  Emotion drained out of Dwight like blood sliding down his limbs and pooling on the pavement.

  He’d come here, demanded that Wainwright meet him in a safe, secluded place, to get answers, to have the truth.

  Dwight had gotten both.

  Zachary Dwight Holderfield, his only son, was dead.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Friday, September 10, 1:45 p.m.

  227 Leonard Avenue, Nashville, Tennessee

  Delta Faye Cornelius blew out a big puff of blue smoke.

  Carson held his breath until the cloud had passed. When he could breathe again, he guided the lady back to the subject that had brought him here. “You say you considered yourself Annette Baxter’s surrogate mother?”

  Ms. Cornelius took another drag, closed her eyes while she held the noxious fumes deep in her lungs, then released. When her gaze met his, she said, “That’s right. Must’ve been a dozen years ago. We were thick as thieves.”

  The case file on Annette Baxter had indicated that her former friend, and alleged pimp, Delta Faye Cornelius, was dead. According to Ms. Cornelius, she’d had to disappear for a while due to a business deal gone sour. She’d only moved back to Nashville three months ago. The feds hadn’t reached out to her since she was listed as deceased. In reality, she didn’t look far from it. According to her driver’s license, which she had used to ID herself when Carson first arrived, she was fifty-six but she looked every day of seventy. Frail and withered. Her long gray hair had once been coal black. Gold eyes were sunken and heavy-lidded. In the hour since he’d entered her home she’d smoked half a pack of Camels.

  Early that morning Carson had run a DMV check on her for no other reason than that her name was on the list of Baxter’s past associates. He’d run the whole list. Having a hit come back on Cornelius had piqued his curiosity. He wasn’t sure what he had expected to learn from the woman, but since no one else had interviewed her there was always a chance he might discover some usable factoid. So far that hadn’t happened. In truth, this was the only lead he’d been able to dig up. Anything was better than nothing.

  “To your knowledge Ms. Baxter has no family?” he prodded. Since Baxter had her present secured like Fort Knox, his only avenue of approach was to find something in her past. A single item that might give him leverage.

  Delta Faye swung her head from side to side. “Not a soul.” She stopped abruptly, cigarette dangling precariously from her thin lips. Her wrinkled features puckered into a deep scowl. “Wait. There was someone she talked about.” She pursed her lips and concentrated with visible effort.

  Carson’s pulse rate escalated.

  “Oh, I know,” Delta Faye announced. “A sister! She worried about her sister all the time.” Her brow furrowed as if puzzling over her own answer. “I didn’t remember that at first because I never actually saw the girl.”

  Caution stalling his optimism, Carson searched the woman’s eyes. She had to be mistaken. Annette Baxter had no siblings. Even if she did, there was no guarantee that the link would provide any advantage. “Are you sure about that?”

  Delta Faye nodded. “Polly...or something like that.”

  “Did her sister live in Knoxville?” Despite his doubts as to the significance, anticipation had him sitting on the edge of his seat.

  Another dramatic shake of her head. “No. I think she was in some institution or something back then. Annette was real sad about it. She missed her sister a lot.” Delta Faye lit up another cigarette. “I don’t know how I forgot about that. Poor girl. Annette worked so hard to save money. Never could get enough ahead to make a difference I don’t reckon.”

  “What difference did she feel compelled to make?”

  Those feeble shoulders moved up and down. “Medical care or some such. She wanted her sister to have some kind of treatment.”

  “Do you know the nature of the treatment?” That would, at least, give him a starting place.

  Delta Faye wagged her head. “Don’t have a clue.”

  Before Carson could thank her for taking the time to talk to him, Delta Faye repeated an earlier question she had posed. “How’d you say she was doing now? I’ve often wondered about that girl. That’s about the only reason I let you in the door.”

  Since he had no intention of reciprocating in the exchange of information and he’d clearly gotten all he was going to get, he opted not to continue the interview. It was always wise to stop while one was ahead.

  Lucky for him, his cell phone vibrated, saving him the trouble of making excuses. He checked the display. Luttrell? “I apologize, Ms. Cornelius, but I have an urgent call.” He looked from the phone to the lady. “I’ll be back in touch if I have any more questions.”

  She didn’t argue or bother getting up to see him out. “You tell that girl to come see me sometime. We can talk about old times.”

  Carson promised to relay the message, though he doubted Annette Baxter had any desire to revisit that part of her past. Following up on this lead might very well have proven worth the trouble. The possibility of a sister intrigued him. But he had to substantiate that claim before it would be of any use. If he corroborated the assertion, the real question was: Why had Baxter kept her sister a secret? Could be something significant, could be nothing at all.

  Once back in his car he returned Luttrell’s call. “What’s up?”

  Luttrell’s initial hesitation set Carson on edge. His friend exhaled a resigned breath. “Wainwright didn’t want me to distract you, but you’ll hear about it soon enough.”

  Easing away from the curb, Cars
on mentally braced. “Sounds like bad news.”

  “Yeah. It’s bad. They found Zac Holderfield’s body a couple of hours ago.” Luttrell put his hand over the phone and made a comment inaudible to Carson. “Sorry about that, I’m at the scene. Anyway, Bill Lynch is in charge of the investigation. At this point, looks like a botched drug deal. One shot to the upper torso. The body was dumped in a ravine off Highway Thirty-One.”

  Damn. Disbelief was quickly overridden by the realization that Zac’s family would be devastated. “That’s a damned shame.” Carson didn’t bother asking about witnesses or evidence. Too early, particularly since the body had apparently been moved from the primary crime scene and dumped at a secondary site. Unless someone came forward, it would take days or weeks, possibly longer, to piece together a reasonably accurate chain of events, much less pinpoint a suspect.

  “Hang on.” A male voice in the background informed Luttrell that the ME had arrived. Luttrell thanked the messenger, then said to Carson, “I gotta go, man.”

  “Yeah, all right.” Carson stopped at a traffic light, closed his eyes, and shook his head at the senselessness of the tragedy. “Keep me posted on the progress, would you?”

  “Will do,” Luttrell agreed. “Since you’re tied up, Wainwright wants me to work with Lynch on this one.”

  Made sense. Lieutenant William Lynch was one of Birmingham’s most respected and decorated homicide investigators. Carson exorcised the flashbacks from fifteen years ago. Lynch had worked hard to find the person or persons responsible for the murders of Carson’s family. He had remained supportive time and again over the years whenever Carson needed him.

  “Lynch is a good man,” Carson told his friend. “He’s a team player.” And he respected the DA’s Office, which wasn’t always the case.

  The investigation of high-profile crimes committed within the Jefferson County jurisdiction automatically included the DA’s Office. That Zac’s father was the administrator of Birmingham’s premier hospital and was heavily involved in civic matters put his son’s murder on that list. Generally, Carson was the DDA assigned to those investigations, but Wainwright wanted him totally focused on bringing about Baxter’s cooperation.

  Luttrell was a good man. He would get the job done.

  Carson thanked his friend and tossed the phone into the passenger seat. Zac. Murdered. Damn. Not his case. Carson had to set personal feelings aside, couldn’t allow the distraction. In an attempt to do that, he replayed the interview with Delta Faye Cornelius. Annette Baxter could possibly have a sister.

  Was the fact that she’d kept that only living relative a secret significant?

  Maybe.

  Slim though it might be, it was something. Anything was more than he’d had when he’d awakened that morning.

  All he needed was one weakness, one vulnerability he could use for leverage.

  The sister could be that vulnerability.

  Carson’s cell vibrated again. This time it was Anita, the receptionist at the office, with an urgent message. Carson’s presence was requested for dinner that evening at the home of Senator Randolph Drake.

  Interesting. A man didn’t turn down an invitation from Senator Drake. Not even if he were inclined to, and Carson wasn’t. The senator’s unconditional support was essential to the future of Carson’s career.

  He thought of how Elizabeth had dropped by his house unannounced the other night. Was this invitation her idea? He couldn’t deny a certain curiosity along those lines. That she had invited him to escort her to a major social function intrigued him. Was she contemplating the idea of rekindling what they had once had, or was this purely a political move?

  Motivation triggered every action. Time would tell what motivated this one.

  For now, Carson had a couple of hours to follow up on the “sister” lead. There were a number of resources at his disposal for tracking down an unidentified person of interest, but why not start at the top. He entered the number for Agent Kim Schaffer.

  Going that route could serve a dual purpose: confirming the existence of the sister in the speediest of manners and providing Schaffer with something the Bureau didn’t have—a possible exploitable link to Baxter. Then Schaffer would owe him one.

  She had something Carson wanted. If Wainwright had tipped the feds regarding Annette Baxter, Carson needed to understand the nature of the tip and why his boss hadn’t chosen to share the information with him. Though he could certainly ask Wainwright, something felt wrong with the whole scenario. Carson wanted Schaffer’s version of how this had come about prior to getting the information straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.

  It hardly made sense that Wainwright was keeping a secret that could impede Carson’s investigation. Carson had every reason to trust his mentor. On the other hand, he had no reason not to trust Agent Schaffer. Still, prudence was called for in this highly sensitive matter.

  The reality that neither Baxter nor Fleming could have kept their business activities so untouchable without inside information wasn’t lost on Carson. Whatever, the insider could not be Donald Wainwright. That was the one thing Carson knew with complete certainty. Everything else was up for grabs.

  The key was the same as always, motivation. Who stood to gain if this investigation, like the ones into Fleming’s activities before it, failed?

  Glass shattered.

  Carson swerved.

  He glanced over his shoulder. A rear door window was fractured.

  “What the hell?” His right foot went instinctively to the brake.

  Another explosion and the windshield ruptured, leaving a web of lines extending out from the hole.

  He rammed his foot hard on the accelerator. Cut the steering wheel hard to the right. The BMW bucked onto the sidewalk. He slammed on the brake and dove into the floor of the vehicle.

  Three more shots in rapid succession punctured the car’s body. He jerked with each penetrating sound.

  Carson had entered 9-1-1 into his cell phone as the squeal of tires warned a vehicle had sped past.

  When the operator responded he dared to peer above the dash. The street was deserted.

  “Leonard Avenue,” he blurted as he risked sitting upright. “Shots fired.”

  Surveying the street, the yards, the houses, his shoulders hunched up around his ears, he answered the rest of the operator’s questions. After being assured help was on the way, he ended the call and labored to catch his breath.

  This was no random drive-by shooting. He stared at the hole in his windshield, on the left side of the rearview mirror. He had been the target.

  His heart thumped hard against his sternum.

  Carson thought of the black sedan from the other morning, then of the gas that had filled his house.

  Someone was trying to stop him.

  No. He looked at the rear windshield. Cracked lines spread out around a distinct hole. At least five shots were fired directly at his vehicle.

  At him.

  Someone was trying to kill him.

  8:50 p.m.

  3202 Fernway Road, Drake Estate

  “I’m convinced you’ll be way out in front of your opponents.”

  Carson had no reservations as to his ability to beat the competition, but it was nice to hear it from the senator. “I appreciate your confidence, sir.”

  “Cigar?” Drake opened the ornate wooden box on the desk in his private study.

  “No, thank you.” Carson had already declined the after-dinner drink he’d been offered. He didn’t want to offend the senator, but Carson had met his quota this decade for giving in to temptation. He wasn’t deviating from the straight and narrow again anytime soon.

  His gut was still in knots from the episode in Nashville. He didn’t need a crystal ball to know the police would find nothing. None of the residents had seen or heard anything. Exactly what one would expect in that kind of low-rent neighborhood. His BMW had been towed for additional forensic testing. One of the investigators had given him a ride t
o a rental agency.

  The rental car part was annoying. But he was alive. Had scarcely a scratch. Just one nick on his right cheek from the flying glass. He’d been lucky.

  Wainwright wasn’t happy about the incident, but he wasn’t surprised, either. He wanted to put a security detail on Carson immediately, but Carson had declined for now. He’d just be a hell of a lot more cautious.

  “That’s right.” Drake puffed the imported cigar until the tip glowed, then relished the taste before continuing. “You don’t smoke or drink. The way I hear it, you’re not a skirt chaser, either.” He smiled knowingly. “That’s damned admirable, son. The voters are going to love you.”

  No, Carson wasn’t a skirt chaser...he’d just made one big-ass mistake with the prime suspect in his latest case. He could kick himself, over and over.

  “Work is my top priority, sir.” Carson was successful at keeping the guilt out of his tone, but that didn’t stop him from feeling a shitload of it. Images of him screwing Annette Baxter all over that ritzy hotel room, then her sprawled across his desk filled his brain.

  “Ethical. Focused. Undefeated in the courtroom.” The senator settled into one of the leather wingbacks flanking his desk and indicated that Carson should take the other. “Every aspect of who you are was considered at length before the invitation was issued.”

  Carson understood that, before approaching him, the most powerful men in this city had discussed and debated the idea. His past as well as his present were no doubt scrutinized. Fortunately, until recently, he’d had nothing to hide.

  Ask yourself if you’ll ever really know what happened. He deported that memory along with the ones involving his recent lapse into stupidity. “I’m glad I passed muster.” He relaxed his posture, smiled confidently. Senator Drake had known Carson his entire life. He wasn’t about to let the man see the first glimmer of insecurity.

  “Personally.” Drake studied the cigar perched in his fingers. “I’m glad to see you and Elizabeth working together on this investigation. It’s been a long time coming. I’m very proud of both of you.”