CARSON (Dark and Dangerous Romantic Suspense Book 3)

by Debra Webb

  “I’m so sorry,” he murmured. Sorry for far more than she knew.

  She peered up at him. “Who would do this?”

  Determination charged through him. “I’m damned sure going to find out.”

  Elizabeth hugged him again, hugged with all her might. “I know you will, Carson.”

  It wasn’t until he looked up from Elizabeth to check on her mother sitting at the table that he took note of all those present in the room. Wainwright he had fully expected to see. He sat next to Patricia, one arm around her shoulders. The next face stopped him cold.

  Keller Luttrell.

  What the hell was he doing here? Having him step in for Carson on the Holderfield case was one thing, but this was Senator Drake. No one but Carson should be on this case.

  “Carson.”

  His attention swung to Wainwright, who had vacated his seat next to Patricia. Elizabeth pulled out of Carson’s arms and hurried to take that empty place. The two women fell into each other’s arms, sobbing and whispering softly.

  Why hadn’t Wainwright called him?

  “Let’s step into the family room,” Wainwright suggested quietly.

  Carson pushed aside his frustration with his mentor. “I need a moment.” He walked to where Patricia and Elizabeth sat, knelt next to the woman who had just lost her husband, and took her hand. “If there is anything at all I can do, please just say the word.”

  Patricia smiled vacantly, her expression frozen with pain. “Thank you for coming, Carson. The senator loved you like a son.” Her lips quivered. “He would want you to take care of Elizabeth and me.”

  Could Carson be wrong about the senator? There was always the possibility he had known nothing about his son’s illegal activities. Someone else could have been covering for Dane. The thought hardened inside Carson. “You can count on it.” He hugged Patricia, let her feel his determination, then, knowing Wainwright was waiting, made his excuses and followed his mentor to the family room. Wainwright asked the two officers there to give them some privacy.

  Carson asked the question twisting in his chest. “Why didn’t you call me?” He was in charge of investigating high-profile cases. “What else have you been keeping from me?” he tacked on before good sense could override his frustration.

  “This case—”

  “Don’t even think about using the it’s-too-personal excuse,” Carson warned. “Yes, it’s personal. But that won’t stop me from getting the job done. You”—he glared at the man he had admired for so very long—“haven’t been straightforward with me and I deserve to know why.”

  It was during the moment of silence that followed that Carson recognized the cool fury on his boss’s face. Carson wasn’t the only one pissed off.

  “I’m going to let that one go,” Wainwright said, “but you’d better watch yourself and listen up. No, you won’t be conducting this investigation or prosecuting the case. In fact, as of right now you’re on administrative leave.”

  Shock radiated through Carson. That was the last thing he had expected to hear.

  “What’re you talking about? What administrative leave?” That action was reserved for staff members suspected of wrongdoing. Unethical behavior and the like.

  Cold, clinical dread dropped like a rock in his gut even before Wainwright spoke.

  “Warden Fallon finally reached me after church last night. He wanted to know why you were questioning Stokes and requesting special privileges for that monster. I can’t imagine what possessed you to go down there, much less any of the rest. But I can tell you that this action was the final straw as far as I’m concerned. Since I turned the Baxter case over to you, your behavior has become erratic and completely unacceptable.”

  “Wait.” No way. He didn’t understand. “I—”

  Wainwright held up a hand to stop his protests. “Until I can conduct a thorough investigation into your activities during the past few days, you will remain on administrative leave. If I discover that you have, in fact, conducted yourself in any unbecoming manner that could jeopardize the case, your career in my office will be over.”

  Carson felt as if he were in a tunnel, in the dark, watching this scene play out far, far away in the light at the very end. This could not be happening. He was the one who had unanswered questions.

  “There’s been some misunderstanding,” Carson offered. He needed to explain, but the words eluded him. Images of him and Annette Baxter in any one of a dozen compromising positions kept bombarding his brain. But that didn’t matter...what mattered was the truth. What Stokes had told him. Carson had the rings taken from his family’s murder scene. There were reasons he’d acted irrationally.

  “There is no misunderstanding,” Wainwright countered. “I know about your personal involvement with Annette Baxter.” He shook his head, his expression heavy with regret. “That was the last thing I expected from you, Carson.”

  Carson wanted to argue, but he had no case. He couldn’t excuse that one. He had royally screwed up. But there was more. Didn’t matter. Nothing he said to Wainwright now would matter. Carson had to have a rock-solid case. Innuendo and theory weren’t enough.

  “I don’t know what’s going on inside your head,” Wainwright went on, “but you are systematically destroying everything you’ve worked for.”

  The man Carson had admired, had striven to be like, walked out. Left him standing alone with nothing but the echo of his disapproval and disappointment.

  The worst part was that Carson couldn’t deny a single one of his charges.

  Two days ago this moment would have devastated him. Right now it just pissed him off. If Wainwright had anything to do with the cover-up of his family’s real killer, the self-righteous DA would be eating his words. Until Carson had a case, at least a credible scenario to build on, he would take this crap from his boss.

  Still, if the feds hadn’t picked up his lapses into stupidity with Baxter in their surveillance, how the hell had Wainwright figured it out?

  Luttrell walked past the door, didn’t so much as spare Carson a glance.

  Fury discharged inside Carson. He stormed after his so-called friend. He caught up with him right before he entered the primary crime scene.

  “We need to talk.” Carson manacled his arm and dragged him toward the front parlor.

  “Hey. Hey!” Luttrell jerked free of his hold. “What the hell is with you, man?”

  Carson shoved the door closed and rounded on his colleague. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  Luttrell shrugged. “Wainwright’s pissed.”

  “No shit.” Carson raked a hand through his hair. “What the hell happened?”

  Luttrell clapped him on the shoulder. “I’d love to hold your hand and talk you through this, bro, but I have a homicide to investigate.” He started to walk past Carson, but hesitated. “Take my advice, Carson.”

  Carson turned his head to look his old friend in the eye.

  “Next time you get the highest profile case in Birmingham history handed to you on a silver platter, don’t fuck the prime suspect.”

  Luttrell left him standing there with that profound truth echoing around him. Don’t trust anyone.

  Carson was a fool. Problem was, he was the only one who hadn’t seen it until now.

  He stormed outside, ripped the shoe covers off. He was through being a fool. Whatever the hell was going on, he would get to the bottom of it. To hell with the consequences.

  “Glad I caught you before you got away.”

  Carson stopped halfway down the steps and whipped around. “What do you want?” He didn’t give a damn about appearances any longer. He couldn’t trust Schaffer any more than he could anyone else.

  She inclined her head and studied him quizzically. “Sounds like you’ve got one hell of a burr under your saddle.”

  He took a breath. Told himself to calm down. This wasn’t the way to get the job done. He had to be cool to out-manipulate the people he now recognized as his enemies. “What’s up, Agent
Schaffer?”

  The agent stopped on the step above him. “You asked me to look into that lead about the sister.”

  Carson’s instincts stood at attention. “Did you find something?” He wasn’t sure how relevant that was at this point, but what the hell?

  “Annette Baxter doesn’t have a sister.” Schaffer sat down on the step and tugged the shoe covers off her colorful boots. “No known siblings.”

  That just meant Delta Faye Cornelius had made a mistake. Carson no longer gave a shit. He had other leads to explore. And he wasn’t sharing any of it with Schaffer or anyone else.

  “But,” Schaffer said when her gaze met his once more, “Baxter’s mother had a sister who died. She had a daughter, one Paula Aldridge. Thirty-four years old. She ended up in an institution when she was a kid. Autistic.”

  Anticipation revved Carson’s determination. This could be the relative Cornelius remembered. “Where is she now?”

  “Aldridge fell off radar about nine years ago.” Schaffer smiled. “Now this,” she went on, “is the interesting part. Before she disappeared she was signed out of the state institution by someone we both know and despise.”

  Carson smiled back. “Annette Baxter.”

  “You got it.” Schaffer pushed to her feet. “Question is, what she’d do with Aldridge? If she cares enough about the woman to provide care for her, sounds like we might have an angle to develop. If Baxter wants to protect her cousin by hanging onto her freedom, she might just be willing to make a deal.”

  “Yeah.” Carson’s tone lacked the enthusiasm Schaffer had expected judging by the way her expression changed from victorious to questioning.

  He shouldn’t have second thoughts about using Baxter. The idea that she was a victim...had been her whole life...didn’t excuse who she was now.

  He kicked aside the soft emotions that would interfere in what he had to do. Baxter, Dane, none of them would get in his way. Whatever the cost, he was going to find the truth.

  “I have to get to the office,” he said to Schaffer to escape any more questions.

  “Same here.” She started down the steps, then hesitated. “I couldn’t help overhearing what went down between you and Wainwright.”

  Anger flared. Yeah, he’d bet she couldn’t have helped it. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll work it out.”

  He took the final step, headed for his car.

  “I’m not worried about Wainwright,” Schaffer called after him.

  Carson paused, looked back at her.

  “It’s you I’m worried about,” she said frankly. “I’m pretty sure you should watch your back.”

  4:30 a.m.

  Summit Towers

  At this point Carson didn’t care if the FBI noted his activities in its surveillance. He was fucked anyway.

  He pushed the button for the penthouse once, twice, three times before she answered.

  “Yes?”

  “Open the door.” He didn’t give a damn about etiquette or any damned thing else right now. His career was in the toilet and he wanted answers.

  He wanted whatever she knew about his family and Dane. He wanted the truth and by God she was going to help him find it.

  A distinct buzz sounded, and he opened the door. He strode to the elevator and selected the top floor. The slight delay in the car’s upward movement told him her approval had been necessary. During the ride to the penthouse he worked to slow his breathing and regain some of his composure. Didn’t help. He only got angrier.

  Drake had lied to him. Wainwright had used him.

  He couldn’t trust any damned body. But her. And that was the most unfortunate part of all. He had absolutely no reason to trust anything she said.

  Yet she was his only chance at solving this screwed-up mess.

  The doors slid open. Annette Baxter stood in the marble-floored entry hall waiting, a rose-colored robe hugging her body. Her posture and resolute expression told him she was prepared for battle.

  “You finally understand what you’re up against. That’s why you’re back here. Wainwright’s dirty. And you need my help.” She held his furious gaze without so much as a blink. “You need me.”

  “Senator Drake is dead.”

  Several seconds lapsed before she schooled her expression to the one of aloof indifference she usually wore. Just enough time for him to see the shock and confusion. Maybe the ice bitch wasn’t so untouchable after all. The guilt that pricked him was immediately overridden by his fury.

  “When did this happen?” She tightened the sash on her robe. Shivered visibly...maybe purposely to garner his sympathy. Didn’t work.

  “Around midnight.” A new sense of determination and outrage kindled inside him. “Did you kill him?” He actually hadn’t considered that until this moment. But they had parted ways hours ago. She could have gone to Drake and...he had to be out of his mind. He was grasping at straws.

  “What?” Her horror looked genuine enough. “I drove straight here like you said. I’ve been here ever since.” She took a breath, looked away a moment as if she had something to hide. “How was he murdered?”

  Carson shrugged. Tried to calm his raging fury. Whether he was mad solely at her or at Wainwright or both, Carson couldn’t say. But she was right about one thing, he needed her. “How would I know specifics? I’ve been put on administrative leave.”

  More of that atypical emotion flashed across her face before the mask of apathy resumed. “Answer the damned question! Shot? Stabbed? What?”

  Carson set his hands on his hips to keep from reaching out and shaking the hell out of her. Besides Stokes, she was the only person who had ever made him want to resort to violence. She was the bane of his existence. Had launched his whole world into chaos. He forced himself to calm down enough to speak rationally. “Someone shot him in the chest.”

  She blinked. “In his home?”

  The fury burst into uncontrollable flames. “Ding. Ding. Ding. Give the girl a prize.” Why the hell was he standing here answering her questions? He had questions! He had an agenda, and wasting time wasn’t on it.

  “Wait.” A frown marred that smooth, flawless complexion. “I don’t understand. Why are you on administrative leave?”

  He charged forward the three steps that stood between them. “For fucking you.”

  A sound somewhere deeper in the residence reverberated. A cell phone?

  She looked startled by the interruption. “I have to take that.”

  He started to argue but didn’t. Instead he trailed after her like a freaking lost puppy, standing outside the door of her bedroom while she took the call. A “yes” then an “I’ll be right there” punctuated the lengthy pauses.

  She hit the disconnect button and turned to him. “I have to get dressed.”

  “Just so you know,” he said as she attempted to close the door in his face, “wherever you’re going, I’m going with you. I’m not-—”

  “Look,” she shouted, “you’re not the only one in danger here. Some…” She shook her head, threw up her hands. “Somebody has been following me. Tried to run me off the road after I left your house.”

  “What’re you talking about?” He absolutely refused to acknowledge the protective instincts that immediately surfaced.

  “I have to get dressed.” She slammed the door in his face.

  Goddammit! He wasn’t letting her out of his sight until he had some answers. Until he got what he wanted. Fleming. Dane. And the truth about Wainwright and Stokes. And any damned thing else she was hiding.

  6:00 a.m.

  Now he knew where Paula Aldridge had vanished to.

  She used the name Paula Anderson. Both the nurse and the doctor who had spoken to Annette had called her Ms. Anderson.

  Again he had to admit that Baxter was good. Too damned good. But as good as she was, he felt confident that she couldn’t have faked her surprise about Drake’s murder.

  She wasn’t the one...

  He had to have answers. Carson would not
stop until he knew who had murdered his family. Why Holderfield and Drake were dead. And why, apparently, the same black sedan that had been tailing him was tailing Annette, too. It would seem they both had stepped into something over their heads.

  The position of Jefferson County District Attorney was likely out the window along with his position as DDA, but he no longer cared. The truth was all that mattered.

  Paula Anderson sat in her bed, her knees curled against her chest, and rocked back and forth. The doctor had said that the outburst was so violent, heavy tranquilizers were required. Paula would slip into unconsciousness anytime now. Neither the doctor nor the nurse seemed able to explain what had set off the outburst. One minute she was watching television in her room, the next she was attempting to tear it apart.

  Annette cradled her cousin, whom she referred to as her sister, against her breast now as the woman lost the battle with the drugs. The emotion on Annette’s face startled Carson. Love, fear, desperation. She stroked her sister’s stubby hair, whispered softly to her. There was no question just how much she loved Paula.

  How was it possible for a woman so cold to feel that depth of emotion?

  Carson surveyed the well-appointed room. Individualized care like this wasn’t cheap. He imagined it cost Annette a sizable fortune to keep her sister in this facility.

  Objectivity, no sympathy. He had to keep that in mind.

  When Paula had settled into that drug-induced coma, Annette kissed her forehead one last time then led the way out of the room. She closed the door and sagged against it.

  “Twice in one week.” She closed her eyes. “Why are they hurting her like this?”

  Before Carson could ask her whom she meant by they, the doctor and nurse approached, both wearing solemn faces.

  “Ms. Anderson,” the doctor began, “I’m not sure how to explain this...”

  Annette straightened from the door. “What? You said you had no idea what prompted the outburst.”