11:15 AM
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 coverage 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 fucked 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 presence. 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 sixty-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.”
Max sprang up on all fours and glared wildly at Carson. “I can’t go back there. I’m telling you”—he swiped at his damp face—“they’re gonna get me this time.”
Frustration spiked again but Carson tamped it back down. As difficult as moments like this were, not only did he owe the old man, but Max was his only family. Carson had to take care of him.
Who would take care of Carson if this ever happened to him? He’d heard the whispers behind his back fifteen years ago.
The boy could be like his uncle … that man’s crazy, you know.
Fear trickled. Carson stanched the seeping, creeping flow of it and braced himself. He was not like his uncle. This would not happen to him. It hadn’t fifteen years ago, it wouldn’t now. “We can do this either the easy way or the hard way,” he offered quietly but firmly.
Max blinked, a new brand of fear welling in his eyes. “What does that mean, Carson?”
Guilt nagged at Carson. The man was like a scared kid. Carson couldn’t bring himself to be too hard on him, no matter how frustrating these incidents could be. “It means you have to come with me now or there’ll be trouble. You don’t want any trouble, right?”
Max considered the question a moment then shook his head adamantly. “Take me home.” He struggled to his feet. “I’ll just have to find a way to fortify my security.”
Whatever.
Max refused to wear his seat belt or to sit upright in the car. He hovered down where no one could see him for the twenty-five minutes required to reach his run-down shack deep in the woods that backed up to the prestigious Mountain Brook community.
His uncle had inherited several acres of woodland from the West family. The property abutted the estate where Carson had grown up. Carson’s mother ensured that the land was put in trust so that Max couldn’t do away with it in one of his frenzies. The old man had built his shack out of recycled materials picked up from wherever he happened to find them. His furnishings were castoffs gathered from curbs. He refused to live anyplace else. Max had made a trail through the woods to Carson’s childhood home. Carson remembered vividly how his uncle would sometimes show up in the middle of the night to pillage for food after his monthly allowance ran out He had refused monetary assistance from his sister, wouldn’t take it from Carson now.
He led his uncle into the shack and ushered him down onto the ragged couch. “Don’t move.”
Max just stared at him, his mania subsiding slightly in the familiar surroundings.
Carson found the prescription bottles and counted the contents. “Dammit.” His uncle had been off his meds for six days. And Carson had been so busy fucking up that he’d failed to check on him.
There was no excuse for that kind of neglect.
Annette Baxter elbowed her way into his thoughts. He evicted the image of those long legs and that wicked smile. As soon as he had this situation under control he would come back to that problem. She was going to learn very quickly how he’d earned his reputation as the Avenger.
For just one moment last night he had been certain he’d heard fear in her voice. He’d definitely seen it in her eyes. But like everything else about her, the display had likely been a performance designed to mislead him. To tug at his protective instincts. She shouldn’t waste her time.
Carson had no sympathy where Annette Baxter was concerned.
What he did have was a raging desire to take her down.
After prowling through the fridge and cabinets to find something edible, Carson got the meds into Max followed by food. The man was skin and bones. He didn’t eat nearly often enough. Something else Carson should have been taking care of.
Instead of fucking Annette Baxter.
Carson stayed with his uncle while the drugs did their work. Soon Max was speaking more slowly and rationally and insisting that he needed to sleep.
“You don’t need to worry, Car,” Max offered as Carson helped him into bed and adjusted the covers about him.
Carson settled on the edge of the lumpy mattress. “Why would I be worried?” Who knew where the old man’s random thoughts came from? Carson understood from experience that it was best to give him grace and just play along.
“She knew you didn’t mean it.”
Tension rippled along Carson’s frame. “What’re you talking about, Max?”
“Livvy loved you. And she knew you loved her. No matter what happened, she always knew.”
The tension turned to a dull ache, one Carson knew all too well. “I know,” he said. “I know.” He did. Teenagers said stupid things sometimes; their parents forgave them. But Carson had taken it to the next level … and he hadn’t gotten the chance to make it right.
He had to live with that.
Max drifted off to sleep. Carson sat there watching the old man, the last time he’d spoken to his mother playing over and over in his head.
Carson, you don’t understand.
I understand perfectly. I won’t let you do this.
Dr. Olivia Tanner had tried to reason with her son, but Carson had refused to listen.
I hate you! Do you hear me, Mother? I hate you!
The fifteen-year-old patient in his mother’s office at
the time had witnessed the entire scene. Had provided a statement describing Carson’s menacing demeanor and the threatening words he’d shouted at his mother—the renowned child psychologist who couldn’t control her own son.
For the first twenty-four hours after the murders even the cops on the case had considered Carson guilty. Since he’d made another stupid decision and gotten piss-ass drunk after the fight with his mother, he’d even considered the sickening theory himself. An alcohol-induced blackout. Those unaccounted-for hours had taunted him ever since.
Had he simply passed out in a drunken stupor … or had he done what Max often did, gone off the deep end with no recallable memory of the event?
The boy could be like his uncle … that man’s crazy, you know.
Stop. Carson closed his eyes. Don’t go back there. That part of his life was over. He opened his eyes and stood. He’d achieved every damned thing he’d set out to accomplish—everything his parents had wanted for him. The law enforcement community respected him. He hadn’t failed … except that once.
Until recently, he amended.
But it wouldn’t happen again.
Restless and damned determined to get his mind off that painful past, Carson checked the house. There were only three rooms. The living, dining, and kitchen areas were all crammed into a twelve-by-fifteen space. There was also a small bedroom where Carson had slept for two years, and a box of a bathroom with nothing but a wall-mounted sink, toilet, and cubicle shower.
Home sweet home.
None of Carson’s friends had been allowed to come here. Everyone had known Maxwell West was crazy. Less than half a mile away, the Tanner mansion had sat empty and collecting dust; still did. Max refused to live there. Not that Carson had ever wanted to, either. He
hadn’t set foot in the place in years. And even then only on those occasions when he needed to refresh his memory of the crime scene.
Only when he had no other choice.
The house remained, other than the initial crime-scene cleanup, exactly as it had been fifteen years ago.
Stuck in time … just as Carson’s personal life had been for so very long. But no more.
The Tanner case was closed, and Stokes was serving a life sentence.
Ask yourself if you’ll ever really know what happened.
Maybe not, but the truth was that the past was the least of his worries.
Annette Baxter was the problem of the moment.
But her time was limited.