by Debra Webb
“Give me an example.”
“Dr. Dwight Holderfield.” His name came to mind first considering recent events. “If you recall, a couple of years ago there was a situation at his hospital. A patient died and the family sued the hospital and the physician involved; they even threatened to sue Holderfield personally.”
“The suit as well as the investigation were dropped,” he acknowledged. “The hospital evidently settled. Keller Luttrell was involved on some level with the investigation.”
Oh, yes, Keller Luttrell. A man she despised, but who easily gave in to temptation when it came to money and glory. “Yes. Holderfield’s career was on the line. Apparently, he altered the records to cover the physician’s mistake. He was terrified that the tampering would be discovered.”
The look on Carson’s face told her he found the whole scenario disgusting. “You bribed the family into dropping the allegations.”
She shook her head. “Not exactly.”
His gaze narrowed. “How exactly did you make that happen?”
“Simple.” She returned that unmerciful stare. “I dug up the deceased’s skeleton and threatened to expose his drug use, which could have contributed to his unexpected demise considering he hadn’t given the hospital that information.”
“So you dug up all this dirt and used it to manipulate the grieving family.”
The renewed disgust in his tone kick-started her defense mode. “Your sins always find you out.” One of her foster mothers had loved spouting Bible verses. Made her feel superior.
“Nice.”
Annette knew that tone. To him she was plain white trash, evil, capable of anything. Who was he to throw stones? He and his kind helped killers get away with murder all the time. All in the name of the law. Screw him.
She walked over to the chair facing the sofa, facing him, and took a seat. She smoothed a hand over her navy skirt. She’d chosen it because it was short and sexy yet still gave off a professional air. The white blouse was skintight and buttoned to the throat. She had needed that facade. If it kept him off balance, all the better. “I do what I have to do just like you.”
The comment hit its mark. His expression darkened. “Fundraising is your cover.”
“Yes. But, as you are well aware, I’m very, very good at ferreting money from the most unlikely places.” Knowledge was power. Her clients never failed to give generously. Elizabeth Drake had nothing on her.
“You apparently have some powerful clients.”
“Name any powerful man in this city and I can put a checkmark on my client list.” She looked Carson dead in the eye. “Including Drake and Wainwright.”
He still didn’t completely believe her; that was obvious. But he would. Very soon now.
“What did you mean, money and markers?’
That part had been her idea. Otis had praised her for her resourcefulness. A man like Otis Fleming didn’t offer praise often. “I never complete a service for cash only. There’s always a marker held in reserve. If I ever need a favor, the marker is called in.”
She lifted her chin in defiance of what he no doubt thought of that. “I never fail a client and a client never fails me,” she explained. “We have an unwritten contract, and we never meet in person after the initial contact. There is never any link between us. I take clients by personal recommendation only.” Any meetings after the first one were accomplished by videoconference via a secure link. The link bounced all over the World Wide Web. No one could trace it back to her.
“What exactly,” Carson ventured, “is the nature of your business relationship with Fleming?”
That one was simple. “I provide him with secrets he can use to manipulate the cooperation of those who might otherwise block his efforts. Occasionally I resolve a problem with someone who isn’t cooperating, but that doesn’t happen often. I don’t have direct access to his business dealings, but I’ve made it a point to know what he does.”
“And what does he do?”
“He facilitates the needs of anyone who offers the right price.” Her pulse sped up at the idea of what she was about to say. “If someone in, say, New York needs something to happen in Birmingham, Otis arranges it. If a drug cartel needs to extend territory, he buys the real estate, if you know what I mean. Men like Wainwright and Drake protect him.” Protected her until recently.
Carson sat forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. “I’m not saying I believe Drake and Wainwright are or were involved with you or Fleming, but we’ll set that aside for the moment. Right now, I need the whole truth about what happened to my family. And how Dane plays into it.” He leveled a look at her that related just how serious he was, dead serious. “If you lie to me on any part, no matter how insignificant, I will see that you spend the rest of your life in prison—your mentor, too.”
Poor Carson. He still thought truth and justice had a snowball’s chance in hell of prevailing. No matter. She had made her decision. Let him believe what he would. “Fair enough.” She crossed one leg over the other and, to her dismay, savored the way his gaze followed the movement. “As I told you, August fifteenth Wainwright hired me to carry a proposition to Stokes. I was to inform him of the deal and then ensure that he was persuaded. Not that it was difficult. Stokes knew he would get caught sooner rather than later and that he would most likely be facing a death sentence. Under the circumstances, my job was simple. He added only one addendum to the proposal.”
“Five minutes alone with me.”
She nodded.
Carson considered that a moment then said, “But you can’t prove Wainwright hired you to go to Stokes.”
“Other than Stokes’s word,” she admitted, “which you heard for yourself. Then on the eighteenth, Wainwright visited him personally. There is, of course, no proof of that, either.”
“You suggested that Wainwright went to these lengths to cover up the identity of the real murderer?”
“He wanted to help Senator Drake. Dane is his only son, after all, and the senator has taken extreme and numerous measures to keep him out of trouble. I can vouch for that.”
Carson shot to his feet. “That’s certainly convenient.” He threaded his fingers through that thick dark hair. Her fingers curled into balls of resistance. “The man is dead. He can’t exactly defend himself.”
“What it is,” she said, “is damned lucky for you that I’m willing to give you this information at all.” Fury tightened her lips. She forced it back. “This is what I do. It’s all I have, and the steps I’ve taken in the past twenty-four hours end it. I’ll have nothing.”
He braced his hands on his hips and turned another of those fierce glares on her. “All right, for the sake of argument, let’s go with that. Why would Dane murder my family?”
“I can’t answer that question. I can’t even guarantee that he did. I only know that he had the rings in his possession and was frantic to get them back. He kept going on about some secret.”
That muscle that always ticked in Carson’s jaw when his tension rose had started its rhythmic flexing.
“But Dane knows something about it,” she considered aloud. “And if he didn’t kill them, someone he knows did, otherwise he wouldn’t have had the rings.”
Carson lowered back onto the sofa.
Annette concentrated hard to remember all Dane had said that night. She’d been focused on hiding the rings and getting rid of the murder weapon and the body. “He mentioned something about all the blood and how he hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone.”
Yeah, that was right. He kept repeating the same things over and over.
“But...that doesn’t mean he killed anyone,” Carson argued. “There was a lot of talk and media pandemonium about the...scene. The drugs probably skewed his memory.” The low monotone of Carson’s voice told her he was fighting a serious case of denial.
“There were things...” Annette hesitated, trying to think exactly how Dane had worded his delirious ranting. “...he knew that no one but someone who�
��d been on the scene could have known.”
“Such as.”
“Something about placement of the bodies.” Annette shook her head. “That’s about all that was in any way sensible.”
Carson closed his eyes against the images no doubt evoked in his mind.
“You know he had a drug problem even then,” she suggested, hoping to lessen the blow somewhat.
Those dark eyes opened and his pained gaze fixed on hers. “Drugs or not, I cannot believe that Dane would have hurt my family. That’s simply too far outside the realm of reality. He wouldn’t do that. He...loved my family.”
Annette exhaled a heavy breath. “You have to be realistic. I didn’t just make all this up.”
Carson moved his head firmly from side to side. “What you’re alleging is impossible.”
“One thing is relatively certain,” she felt compelled to mention. “Dane is the only person who knows what really happened. If we can get him to talk, you’ll finally have that truth you’ve been searching for and the men who covered it up will have to pay.”
Carson continued staring at her as if his reasoning hadn’t caught up with hers just yet.
The phone on the table next to her rang. It wasn’t until then that she considered the time. Daniel should have been here by now. She could definitely use a healthy shot of caffeine.
“Excuse me,” she said to Carson as she lifted the cordless receiver. “Annette Baxter.”
“Ms. Baxter, we have a situation.”
Building security. Annette rose and crossed the room. “What situation?”
“The authorities are here. They’re requesting access to your penthouse.”
Not exactly surprising. Since she’d learned of Drake’s murder she had fully expected to be questioned. Wainwright would pin it on her if there was any way possible.
“I understand. I’ll be waiting here for their arrival.”
She ended the call and turned to Carson. “The authorities are here requesting to see me. You may want to leave by the back entrance.”
He stood. “Back entrance?”
“There’s a rear elevator in my suite. It goes down to the basement garage. You’re welcome to use my rental.”
“No. I’ll stay.”
That surprised her. She wasn’t foolish enough to misunderstand his motives, but it was somehow comforting to know he would be there. He’d at least heard her out. Even if he didn’t believe her, she had deposited the necessary doubt as to the integrity of his mentor.
A frown tightened her brow. Where was Daniel? He was never late.
Special Agent Kim Schaffer led the parade of cops, including Special Agent Boyd Davis, one of her colleagues, and Lieutenant William Lynch, into the room. Annette gathered her wits and braced for battle. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“Annette Baxter,” Schaffer announced, “We’ll be executing a search warrant of these premises. And you’re to come with me for questioning as a person of interest in the murders of Senator Randolph Drake and Zachary Holderfield.”
Annette squared her shoulders. “Of course. I’m always happy to cooperate.”
Carson stepped forward, shocking Annette again. “Agent Schaffer, I’d like to observe the interview.”
Lynch looked from Schaffer to Carson. “Son, I don’t think that’s a good idea under the circumstances.”
Before Carson could argue, Schaffer held up a hand. “Mr. Tanner will be assisting me as an adviser in this interview.”
Annette had never cared much for the feds, but this was one time she was damned glad they were here.
9:50 a.m.
1000 18th Street
The interview room was more spacious than the ones used by the local police, but still austere.
Annette took the chair Agent Schaffer indicated. The one in the center of the room. No table, just a chair. Agents Schaffer and Davis, along with Detective Lynch, sat behind a long table, nearer the observation window, their backs to those inside that booth. Those observing only needed to see the body language of the suspect or, as in Annette’s case, the person of interest, and to hear the interview.
“Would you like water or coffee, Ms. Baxter?” Davis asked.
“No thank you.”
“Let’s get started then,” Schaffer suggested.
Annette relaxed more fully in her chair and cleared all thought from her mind. She was a master at the art of outwitting a polygraph. Preventing these cops from reading her face or her body language would be a snap.
“Where were you between ten and midnight last night?”
With Carson. But that was none of their business.
Annette pursed her lips as if giving the question due consideration. Then she went for a maneuver that should throw the two males in the room off balance.
She crossed her legs in the classic Sharon Stone performance, allowing anyone who chose to look to see that she’d opted to go commando.
Davis swallowed hard. Lynch looked away.
“Shall I repeat the question?” Schaffer asked, unfazed.
“I was home,” Annette lied. “Fucking my assistant. I believe you’ve met him.”
Davis scribbled a note on his pad. He looked up when he’d finished, taking a moment to drag his gaze from her legs to her eyes. “We’ll need to confirm that.”
“Be my guest.”
“Since your assistant is in your employ,” Schaffer countered, “and is therefore obligated to you on some level, is there anyone else who can confirm your whereabouts?”
“Your team generally keeps tabs on my movements. I’m sure you can follow up with them on that as well.” But then, she’d given them the slip last night as she did on numerous occasions. It was all too easy. Annette had several sources at her disposal. For the exorbitant fees she paid, any one of them would gladly take her place and lead the feds on a wild goose chase. Funny thing was, it always worked.
An ache tugged at her chest. Except for Jazel...she was dead. Annette thought of the car that had tried running her off the road last night. Was that what had happened to Jazel? She shuddered inwardly but worked fast to check her emotions. She couldn’t let them see any weakness.
Schaffer moved on. “Did you have any personal or professional contact with the senator?”
Focus, Annette. “None.”
There wasn’t a single verifiable link between her and the senator. At any time.
“Did you have any reason to want the senator dead?”
Annette hesitated only a moment. “Not unless you count his lack of judgment in the way he cast his votes in recent Senate sessions.”
Davis smirked.
Lynch glared.
Schaffer rolled her eyes. “We have all day, Ms. Baxter. Take your time with your answers.”
Agent Schaffer was growing frustrated. Good. She had nothing on Annette. She did, however, have a rather bland pair of boots on today. Brown. Just plain brown. Maybe the fed was depressed. Perhaps the death of a high profile politician in her jurisdiction had something to do with her current disposition.
“I’m waiting, Ms. Baxter,” Schaffer prompted.
Annette would be out of here in no time. And they would still have nothing.
She couldn’t prove her suspicions about who killed Senator Drake, but the one person who could give Carson the truth and prove Annette was on the up-and-up was Dane Drake.
She and Carson had to find him.
Before anyone else did.
“While you consider your answer to that question,” Schaffer said, moving on, “let’s talk about Zac Holderfield. Where were you on Sunday, September fifth, between eight and eleven pm?”
Annette shifted her position; the men in the room followed the move with considerable interest. “I was home.” She looked directly at Schaffer then. “You had me under surveillance. You should have that answer on record.”
“Did you,” Schaffer asked, undeterred by her attitude, “have any personal or professional dealings with Zac
hary Holderfield?”
“You’ll recall,” Lynch added, “that your name was written on his father’s appointment calendar.”
Time to finish this. “I was not acquainted with Zachary Holderfield. My only contact with Dr. Holderfield and Senator Drake was in my capacity as a fundraising coordinator. We attended a few of the same social functions.” She shrugged. “That’s where it begins and ends. There’s nothing else to tell.”
The door to the interview room opened and another detective, one Annette didn’t know, rushed in and handed a document to Lynch.
This could be trouble. In Annette’s experience, a last-minute addition to the agenda always meant trouble.
Lynch passed the document to Schaffer, who studied it a moment before leveling her gaze on Annette once more. “Ms. Baxter, do you own a thirty-eight-caliber revolver?”
An alarm sounded deep inside Annette. “No. I’m anti-gun.” There were far better and simpler ways to manipulate a result than violence.
Schaffer glanced at the document once more. “Have you ever used the alias Annette Anderson?”
Panic banded around Annette’s chest. “Excuse me?” How the hell had this happened? No one knew.
“The thirty-eight registered to that name has been confirmed as the murder weapon in Zachary Holderfield’s murder.”
Impossible. Annette had disposed of that weapon.
“Confirming this alias will be a simple matter, Ms. Baxter,” Schaffer pressed. “Your cooperation would make matters far better for you. Have you”—she looked directly, bluntly at Annette—“ever used the alias Annette Anderson?”
The panic mounted, pulsed inside Annette as her gaze swung to the mirrored glass shielding the observation booth...to where she knew Carson Tanner watched.
He was the only one who had known.
Had he changed sides since they arrived?
For that matter, had he ever been on her side?
“Since you appear disinclined to answer that question,” Schaffer pressed on, “perhaps you’ll answer this one.”
Annette fixed her attention back on the tenacious agent. Get this over with and get out of here. Stay calm.