Saturday, September 11, 9:00 AM
Carol’s Country Kitchen, 8th Avenue South
“It’s difficult to believe the FBI has nothing.”
Wainwright wasn’t happy. Carson had been so caught up in this travesty of an investigation, he’d failed to keep his boss up to speed. Wainwright had tracked him down that morning and asked for a breakfast meeting.
The DA was restless. He wanted results.
And just maybe Carson had been avoiding him. Schaffer’s suggestion regarding the tip she had received from Wainwright was like expert witnesses—as soon as the state refuted one, the defense dragged in another. It just wouldn’t go away. Then there was the fiasco with Baxter and her claims about Lana Kimble and her prophecy about Dr. Dwight Holderfield.
The fact of the matter was, he hadn’t done one damned thing by the book so far. “Baxter is good,” he confessed. “She takes extreme precautions in everything she does. This is going to take a little more time than I anticipated.”
But her luck couldn’t hold out forever. Carson would hear from Schaffer on the sister lead today. He’d come up empty-handed thus far with his own search. He’d considered tossing the idea at Baxter last night but he hadn’t wanted to tip his hand until he corroborated Ms. Cornelius’s claim.
He’d looked into Baxter’s story about Lana Kimble for no other reason than to dash the truth back in her face.
Kimble’s death had been ruled a suicide. There were unresolved questions as Baxter had suggested, but that was the case with all unaccompanied deaths. Drake, Wainwright, and Carson’s father had known the woman. But that didn’t mean that one or all of them were involved in her demise. The idea was ludicrous. Baxter was doing exactly what he was: searching for something to use to her advantage. And like him, she was coming up empty-handed.
The news wasn’t what Wainwright wanted to hear. He toyed with his napkin. “We have to get this done.” He stared straight at Carson. “Everything is riding on this one.”
“I understand, sir.”
He did.
More so every hour that passed.
“Is there anything I should know?”
The DA’s question startled Carson. He barely managed to keep the surprise off his face. Baxter’s warning about Dwight Holderfield chose that moment to haunt him. He wouldn’t bring that up just yet. She hadn’t given him anything specific. Could have been an empty threat. Nor would he bring up Schaffer’s assertion. Not the time. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You’re up to this, right?” Wainwright squared his shoulders, but even that move didn’t disguise his uneasiness. “You generally get straight to the heart of a case. But this one …” He shook his head, his face sober. “ … seems to have you unnerved. You’re a little off your game. As unsettling as yesterday’s shooting was, I noticed in our first briefing that you seemed distracted.”
Now Carson understood: This impromptu meeting was about him, not the investigation. He looked his boss, his mentor, squarely in the eye. “You have nothing to worry about, sir. I’m on top of it.”
“Good. That’s what I wanted to hear. Don’t hesitate to make use of that security detail. I can’t have our future DA being used for target practice.”
Maybe it was frustration, maybe it was plain old insecurity, but Carson went momentarily stupid. Otherwise
he would not have opened his mouth and stuck his foot squarely inside. “One question. Is there anything the bureau knows that came from our office that somehow I’m not privy to in this investigation?” Hell, why hadn’t he just asked Wainwright straight out if he’d told Schaffer something he hadn’t told Carson? Damn, he was off his game.
Wainwright’s gaze narrowed. “What kind of question is that? You and I are the only ones on this case. No one else. You know everything I know.” He scrutinized Carson closely. “Where the hell did that come from?”
Explain that one, Carson, you idiot. The waitress arrived to take their order, allowing him to drag in what might be his final breath.
Wainwright waved the waitress way. They were waiting for Elizabeth. Wainwright had informed Carson when he’d arrived that Elizabeth would be attending once again as the mayor’s representative. She was late. Maybe if she’d been here, Carson wouldn’t have stepped so squarely on his dick.
“It’s Schaffer, isn’t it?” Wainwright charged.
Carson had opened that line of questioning. He couldn’t strike it from the record now. Schaffer had warned him to keep this information between them. So much for trust. “It’s not actually anything in particular. Just a hunch. A feeling I got from her.” Good job, asshole. Lie to your boss. The man who holds your whole fucking future in his hands.
Wainwright leaned forward, his face clean of readable emotion. “Don’t let her distract you, Carson. Schaffer’d like nothing better than to be the one who takes down Fleming. The feds seize the limelight whenever possible. This is our investigation. Your investigation. Stay on track and do what you do best.” He reclined in his seat and reached for his coffee. “Trust me on this. Schaffer isn’t on our side.”
Don’t trust anyone and watch your back.
Carson exiled Baxter’s warning. “Understood, sir.”
Behind schedule or not, Elizabeth’s timing proved impeccable. As she reached their table, Carson and Wainwright stood. The tension receded as swiftly as a courtroom clearing after the judge recessed for lunch.
“Sorry I’m late. I had an eight o’clock.” She smiled, then accepted a hug from Wainwright. “Since the mayor decided to host business until noon on Saturdays, you’d think there’d be more time. Somehow I seem to have less.” Her smile widened as she turned to Carson. “Carson.”
He gave her a quick hug. As usual, his heart reacted. More of that heavy guilt settled on his shoulders. How could he react to Annette Baxter so fiercely when all he’d ever wanted was Elizabeth? And finally, finally there was hope.
As soon as they resumed their seats the waitress returned, giving Carson yet another momentary reprieve.
“Do we have an update?” Elizabeth looked from Wainwright to Carson when the orders had been given. “The mayor is anxious to hear news that the investigation is progressing.”
“Unfortunately, there’s nothing new.” Carson hated being the reason for the disappointment on Elizabeth’s face. “We are,” he affirmed, “working diligently to change that. I have a couple of leads that look promising.” That was a bit of a stretch, but every good attorney knew how to embellish his case.
She nodded. “Excellent. I’ll pass that along.”
Carson’s cell phone vibrated. “Excuse me.” He retrieved it from his pocket and checked the screen. “I’m sorry,” he said to Elizabeth before glancing at Wainwright, “I need to take this.” Lieutenant Bill Lynch. Lynch had once been involved with the Fleming case, but that had been a long time ago. This call was more likely related to Zac Holderfield. Carson had asked to be kept up to speed. No need to mention that to Wainwright for obvious reasons.
Wainwright and Elizabeth moved into a discussion of
whether or not the mayor would run for office again as Carson stepped away from the table.
Once he was clear of the dining room, he flipped open his phone. “Tanner.”
“Mr. Tanner, this is Bill Lynch.”
Tension rippled through Carson despite the fact that he’d known it was the lieutenant calling. Not only had Lynch been involved with the Fleming investigation on and off in the past, but he was also the detective who had worked the Tanner investigation. Who had shown compassion for Carson even during those twenty-four hours when everyone besides the senator had considered him a suspect in the slaying of his own family. Hearing the man’s voice always resurrected painful memories.
“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.
10:00 AM
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 two 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. It was always possible that she had slipped out of her spa appointment and then returned. Somehow.
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.
On days like this, life sucked.
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.