by Debra Webb
“What can I do for you, Lynch?” Carson braced for news on Zac’s murder.
“Well, sir, we have a possible homicide. Dr. Dwight Holderfield’s body was discovered in his home early this morning.”
Carson’s fingers turned to ice, and the phone nearly slipped from his hand. He tightened his grip.
Holderfield? What the hell?
Today Zac Holderfield’s body was discovered. His father will be next.
Dread welled in Carson’s gut. There had to be some mistake. “Any special circumstances?” Robbery or vengeance. Anything that would explain...and had nothing to do with Baxter. Surely she wouldn’t go this far to get his attention.
“Not just yet,” Lynch said. “We’re going to play this thing like it’s a murder for now.”
Confusion drew Carson’s eyebrows together. “For now?”
“We haven’t confirmed anything yet, but there’s some question as to whether or not the doctor may have committed suicide.”
That sickening dread morphed into heart-thumping alarm as the name Lana Kimble echoed in his brain.
Before Carson could question that assessment, Lynch went on. “The reason I’m calling you personally, Mr. Tanner, is because we found a notation on his calendar that might interest your office. Luttrell said I should discuss this with you.”
Anticipation overrode the alarm. “What kind of notation?”
“According to Holderfield’s desk calendar, he had a meeting with an Annette Baxter last evening.”
Shit. “What time?” Rage crept into the volatile mix already churning inside him.
“The time wasn’t specified. The notation was simply listed on the bottom of the calendar page, after five o’clock.”
“Are you at the scene?” Carson needed to be there. Now.
“Yes, sir. We’ve just started collecting evidence.”
“Don’t move anything,” Carson instructed. “I want to see the scene just as it was when you found it.”
“Will do, sir.”
Carson tucked the phone into his pocket and hurried back to the table. He didn’t bother sitting down. “Unfortunately I have to leave.” His gaze met Wainwright’s and telegraphed the message that he did not want to discuss the details. He hoped like hell that would suffice.
Wainwright grinned broadly. “Now that”—he shook his finger at Carson—“is dedication.” He nodded to Elizabeth. “Any man who would leave breakfast with a beautiful young woman to do his job is the real thing.”
Elizabeth blushed. “I’m sure we’ll have the opportunity again.”
Carson sensed that long-awaited possibility vanishing with the mounting evidence that he had completely underestimated Annette Baxter.
She was unpredictable and dangerous.
10:00 a.m.
3348 Sandhurst Road, Holderfield Residence
Carson had donned the shoe covers and gloves.
The media had closed in around the block like vultures waiting to pick the kill.
The family had been sequestered to the kitchen.
Crime scene technicians were standing down until Carson could have a guided tour. En route to the scene he had checked in with Agent Schaffer to get any surveillance info available on Annette Baxter. She’d given the feds the slip last night, as Carson was well aware, but he didn’t mention that to Schaffer. This morning Baxter had left her house around half past nine to go the spa. The feds had tailed her there; she was still inside. Until Carson knew more, that told him nothing. Except that Annette Baxter had not come to the Holderfield home unless she’d done so last night after she’d parted ways with Carson.
Schaffer had nothing on the sister search as of yet.
“From what we’ve been able to ascertain,” Lynch was saying, “Holderfield came home late last night and behaved strangely. His wife felt he was extremely agitated. When she asked him what was wrong, he insisted he was fine. Said he’d had a late meeting. Didn’t say with whom. She chalked the tension up to the fact that their son is dead.”
Carson surveyed the home office where Holderfield’s life had ended. Typical paneled walls lined with bookshelves. Framed photos of the family and reference books filled most. The room was tidy and surprisingly unsoiled by the act that was almost certainly suicide.
Holderfield had taken a large black garbage bag, the superior-strength type according to the techs, placed it over his head and torso, then put a bullet from a .38 revolver straight into his brain. The bullet had passed through his head and lodged in the wall adjacent to where he still sat. No blood-spray pattern on the wall, no mess to speak of except what had dripped down the inside of the bag and puddled on the wood floor around his chair.
The weapon had been found on the floor where it had slipped from his lax fingers. There were no signs of intrusion anywhere in the house. But something didn’t sit right with the lieutenant. Carson had known Lynch long enough to read him when it came to a crime scene. They had discussed the scene where his family had been murdered many, many times.
“Here’s the sticking point,” Lynch said quietly as he glanced toward the door leading to the hall. “There’s no powder residue on either of his hands.”
Carson stepped close to the vic once more, crouched down, and considered the hand dangling at the side of his chair. “The ME will perform additional testing?” Carson pushed to his feet. His heart rate continued to rise steadily. This was real. Baxter’s prediction had been real. He swallowed back the bile in his throat.
Why hadn’t he told someone?
Lynch nodded in answer to Carson’s question. “And the lab will test the weapon to see if there’s some reason that might occur, but it would be the first revolver I’ve run across that didn’t leave trace evidence.”
A chill settling into his bones, Carson attempted to pursue an appropriate line of questioning. “Any estimate on time of death?”
The ME was on his way. An accident on Interstate 65 had slowed his arrival.
“Couple of hours ago, tops. Rigor’s minimal. His wife left at quarter of eight to discuss arrangements for their son at a local flower shop. Her husband was having coffee then.” Lynch shrugged. “But don’t quote me on the time. That’s the ME’s call.”
If the timing was right, that would have been a full hour or so before Annette Baxter left her penthouse. Did that rule her out or give her opportunity? Considering her skill at evading surveillance, Carson wasn’t excluding anything. Uncertainty hammered away at his focus. He kicked it back and examined the calendar on Holderfield’s desk. Annette Baxter was scrawled across the bottom of the page. “Has this been confirmed as his handwriting?”
Lynch nodded. “His wife says it’s his. We’ll verify it with the lab.”
Carson met the detective’s gaze, fury starting to override all else. “When are you going to question Annette Baxter?”
“I’m leaving my partner in charge here. I thought I’d head over there now.”
Adrenaline sent Carson’s heart rate into overdrive. “I’d like to accompany you.”
“I figured as much.” The detective flared his hands. “You’re aware we’re conducting a homicide investigation into Holderfield’s son?”
Carson nodded.
“There’s always the chance that this is a suicide, pure and simple. The man loved his son in spite of”—Lynch glanced at the corpse—“his flaws. His death may have pushed Holderfield over the edge.”
Carson forced air into his lungs. No question. But with what he knew and the annotation on the deceased’s calendar, interviewing Baxter was the proper course of action. “Of course. But that doesn’t change our next move.”
“Absolutely not,” Lynch agreed.
“Let’s do it.”
Lynch led the way back through the house, Carson following. His fury lost steam and his gut clenched at the sounds of weeping. He remembered all too well how he had wept at the scene of his own family’s slaughter.
Determination swelled inside him. That was why he
did what he did. To ensure that justice was served. No one should have to wait fifteen years to know justice.
Or to be left wondering if they’d gotten justice and the horror was really over.
Ask yourself if you’ll ever really know what happened.
His questions about his own past would just have to wait.
For the first time in his life there was another truth he wanted more.
And it started with Annette Baxter.
Chapter Nineteen
11:30 a.m.
Summit Towers
Cool, crisp, businesslike.
Annette surveyed her reflection. The white pants and silk blouse that buttoned to her throat paired with the matching jacket were the perfect choice.
Cold, untouchable.
This meeting was asexual. The less distraction, the better.
She knew how to deal with this client. Straight to the point. No room for negotiation.
Three of her wealthiest clients had withdrawn their retainer fees. Two for whom she had not performed services as of yet. Leaving her with no choice but to permit the dissolution of their verbal contracts.
Zac Holderfield as well as his father was dead. No news on either investigation.
Jazel was dead. Annette had checked in with one of her contacts at Birmingham PD. Jazel’s death had all the markings of foul play. A single-car accident on a deserted stretch of road. The rear bumper and left rear quarter panel were dented and scraped as if she’d been hit by another vehicle. A black vehicle. Annette shuddered. Jazel’s Mustang had left the road at a high rate of speed and promptly plowed into a massive tree. She had been pronounced dead at the scene.
Annette exiled the ache. Not now.
Someone besides the feds was definitely following Annette as well. She’d caught a glimpse of a black sedan twice yesterday.
There was no denying it now: Someone had declared war on her. Jazel’s death was either a warning or an attempt on Annette’s life. Whenever she and Jazel teamed up to give the feds the slip, Jazel wore Annette’s clothes and a blond wig to lead the persistent tail on a wild goose chase while Annette attended to business.
Had Jazel died in Annette’s stead? Annette had been driving the Mustang just minutes before her dear friend’s death.
Another shudder rocked her.
This game had definitely moved to the next level.
Otis agreed. He had called her as soon as one of his low-level contacts in Homicide had passed along the news about Holderfield. He hadn’t mentioned Jazel, though there was certainly no reason for him to. Otis didn’t deal with the little people.
Something had to happen fast. But that wasn’t going to occur unless she focused.
Blocking all other thoughts from her mind save the coming meeting, Annette stepped into the white sandals with their practical heels and reached for the complementary bag. She was taking an extreme risk confronting this particular client. But those kinds of risks were occasionally necessary. This was one of those times. This morning’s deep muscle massage had relaxed her, prepared her for what she must do. Stress undermined control. And that was something she could not lose.
A light rap on her dressing room door preceded Daniel’s entrance. “Ms. Baxter, there is a Lieutenant Lynch here requesting to see you. Deputy District Attorney Tanner is with him.”
Annette glanced at her watch. Bad timing. But she wasn’t at all surprised considering what she had told Tanner last night. She met Daniel’s expectant expression. “Let my twelve o’clock know I might be a few minutes late.”
He wouldn’t like it, but he wouldn’t dare ignore her.
Annette checked her appearance once more. As she spread gloss on her lips, the memory of Carson Tanner’s mouth pressed firmly against hers caused a flare of anticipation low in her belly. She frowned at her reflection. What was it about this man that generated such an uncharacteristic reaction? She could not get the recollections and sensations from that one night out of her head.
Her hand stilled, the gloss applicator clenched in her fingers. She would not allow this weakness. No man would ever again hold dominion over her. Otis respected her, had taught her that she, and she alone, possessed the power over her own destiny.
Carson Tanner represented a necessary asset required to salvage this situation. She did not need or want him for any other reason.
There was nothing special about the man. Her only interest in him was his position.
Annette set the lip gloss aside. The media considered him a hero. That was true. He strove diligently to find justice for all. Very honorable. But in her experience, relying on so-called heroes more often than not turned out to be a mistake. She had learned the hard way not to depend upon anyone but herself.
Not even on Birmingham’s golden boy. He was a means to an end, nothing more.
Mentally bracing for the confrontation, she headed for her business offices. Daniel would have shown the gentlemen to the conference room by now.
She left her bag on the table in the grand foyer she used as a lobby and separation point between her private rooms and her business offices. Upon seeing to this matter, she would need to leave immediately.
Asking her appointment to wait was unavoidable, but he would grow more agitated with each additional minute that passed. It would be wise not to leave him simmering any longer than absolutely necessary.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” She strode into the conference room, her shoulders back, her chin held high. “If you’re here about the Policemen’s Fund Campaign, I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a rather bad time.” Funny, the police worked diligently to tie her to illegal activities, and she organized literally dozens of fundraising campaigns in support of their work. But then, her allegiances along those lines facilitated certain vital contacts. She learned many, many things from those contacts. Times, locations, personnel involvement. Many things.
Both men stood in the middle of the room. Daniel would have offered them a seat; they had clearly declined.
“I’m Lieutenant Lynch, ma’am.” The detective gestured to the brooding man beside him. “This is Deputy District Attorney Tanner. We’re not here about the Policemen’s Fund.”
Obviously neither man was amused by her comment. She glanced at her watch. “I really should be on my way, but I suppose I can spare a few moments.” She shifted her attention from the weary detective with his off-the-rack rumpled suit to the golden boy with the elegant silk ensemble. Carson Tanner’s suit and shoes likely cost more than Lynch’s monthly salary.
Judging by the way Tanner glared at her, he was more than a little pissed off that her prediction had become a reality. She’d warned him. He hadn’t listened. She doubted he would take her other advice about looking into Lana Kimble’s death or about not trusting anyone. So naive.
This was only the beginning.
“Ms. Baxter,” Lynch said, “I have an obligation to inform you of your rights before we begin.”
She inclined her head. “I can’t imagine what this is about, but I understand you have a certain way you’re required to conduct your business. Please proceed.”
Annette listened as Lynch warned her that anything she said could be held against her in a court of law. As she did so, she considered Carson Tanner. Unblinking, he held her gaze. For such a hard-ass, totally focused DDA, he certainly had a hell of a time keeping his personal life in control. She supposed that was why he ignored it most of the time. Guys like Carson Tanner were all about work, until the right woman came along and forced them to sit up and pay attention. Then came the march down the aisle and the rug rats. And everything else went to pot.
No thanks.
Some people were simply not intended to be parents. Both she and Carson Tanner fell solidly into that category. Too many demons...too many skeletons.
She wondered if he understood that about himself just yet.
In time.
“Ms. Baxter, do you understand the rights I have just recited to you?” Lynch asked.
“Yes, Lieutenant, I do.” She glanced at her watch again. “My time is really very short.”
“This will take,” Carson said, speaking for the first time, “as long as it takes.”
Annette held his stare, saw the distaste he harbored for her. And yet—a smile toyed with her lips—he still wanted her. Deep down, where even he dared not go, he longed for intimacy. A paradox. That was what Carson Tanner was. Unstoppable in the courtroom by day, all alone at night...with his memories.
Just like her...
Lynch opened his notebook and poised his pen. “Ms. Baxter, where were you this morning between the hours of seven and nine thirty?”
That was easy enough. “Why don’t you ask Special Agent Schaffer? One of her associates conducted my surveillance this morning. She can tell you exactly where I was.”
Lynch jotted on his pad.
“You weren’t picked up by surveillance until nine thirty,” Tanner disputed. “Until that time you appeared to be at home, but there’s no way to confirm that.”
Lynch glanced from Tanner to her, obviously picking up on the extra layer of tension.
She raised her eyebrows at Tanner’s veiled accusation.
“Appeared to be? I believe the feds have my departure on video.”
“Can someone verify you were at home until nine thirty?” Lynch asked, drawing her attention back to him.
“My personal assistant, Daniel.” She gestured to the telephone on the table next to her. “If you check my phone records you’ll see that I made several business calls before nine thirty.”
“Anyone could have made calls from your phone,” Tanner argued.
He wanted to spar, did he? “That’s true, Mr. Tanner,” she allowed graciously, which only pissed him off all the more. “I suppose you and Lieutenant Lynch will simply have to take my word on that one.”
“You can rest assured,” Lynch cut in, “that we will corroborate all portions of your alibi.”
She frowned as if she didn’t understand. “Alibi? Why would I need an alibi?”