Tuesday, September 14, midnight
Highway 11, Midfield
Dane Drake was nowhere to be found.
Carson wanted to beat the hell out of something … or someone.
Annette had visited nearly every damned contact she had who knew Dane. No one had seen him in three days.
Dane was either hiding out or dead.
Carson needed him to be alive. Though they no longer socialized in the same circles, they had known each other since they were kids. Used to be best buds. Elizabeth and her mother couldn’t take losing him, too.
And, dammit all to hell, Carson needed answers. He had to find Dane.
Carson still refused to believe that his old friend would have hurt his family, but then he wouldn’t have thought Wainwright would just turn his back on him, either. Or manipulate a confession for crimes not committed. That was way, way out of character for the man who had been his mentor and friend for more than five years.
He was hiding something.
Or maybe Carson had never really known him.
Nothing added up to the bottom line Carson had expected to find. There were no clear-cut answers. No plain truths.
Senator Drake was dead.
Wainwright had kicked Carson to the curb.
When Elizabeth and Patricia learned the news, Carson doubted they would still think so highly of him. Whatever had Elizabeth coming to him would stop on a dime.
That left Carson with no one. Again.
He glanced at his passenger.
Except for Annette Baxter.
His jaw clenched.
An unholy union to say the least.
But he needed help. Obviously he couldn’t do this alone.
He needed her.
She was the only person who seemed to want the whole truth as badly as he did. The idea that she had known things about the slaughter of his family and hadn’t told him up front should have him on the defensive. He should still despise her. But somehow he couldn’t. She’d done what she had to in order to survive, and on some level he understood that seemingly selfish concept. Besides, she hadn’t owed him anything. For all intents and purposes they had been enemies until as recently as twenty-four hours ago.
But there were other people who had known … who had deliberately set out to prevent him from finding the truth.
Luttrell. Fire raged in Carson’s gut. That son of a bitch had stabbed him in the back. Carson couldn’t fathom just yet the extent of his former friend’s treachery.
Not that anything excused Carson’s own behavior because it didn’t. He’d fucked up. Big-time. But Luttrell was supposed to be his friend. As was Wainwright.
Yeah, right.
What Carson really felt right now was the burning desire to find the truth and see that justice was served. No matter who was destroyed in the process.
If Wainwright had been part of a cover-up surrounding his family’s murder, Carson would see that he paid. Yet it didn’t make sense. Wainwright had been a friend to his
father. So had the senator. Poker buddies. The whole country-club routine. Special advisers to the city council. They were the very men who had helped make Birmingham the thriving metropolis it was today.
The whole scenario was mind boggling, surreal.
But Carson had to know for sure. Too many little things nagged at him. Like Wainwright’s sudden about-face. The obvious fact that he was hiding something. Drake’s abrupt supposed interest in reuniting Carson and Elizabeth. Carson may have read entirely too much into that, but he was pretty sure that had been the man’s intent. Had it been for his daughter and Carson? Or had Drake had other motives for wanting them together again?
Putting all that aside, Carson understood with complete certainty that he and Annette were in danger. Her own assistant had tried to kill her. If Carson’s conclusions were correct, Daniel Ledger had made at least one attempt on his life … perhaps two, taking into account the gas allowed to leak into his house.
“There it is.”
Annette pointed out the road, and Carson slowed for the turn.
“You’re sure?” He didn’t see a sign, and this was the first intersecting road they had seen since they’d hit this long stretch of deserted highway.
“That’s it. I’ve been here before.”
He couldn’t help staring at her. The dim interior lighting didn’t allow for him to read her expression fully, but she looked dead serious and damned determined.
“Don’t ask,” she said before he could.
A couple of houses on either side of the narrow road were dark, but it was the one at the very end they wanted.
Small frame house on the verge of falling in on its occupants. Weeds and knee-high grass had overtaken the clearing around the structure. The woods crowded in on the property as if they planned to take over next. The moon’s light filtered down over the property, but it was the
dim porch light that provided the meager visual on the place.
Three cars—one as dilapidated as the house, two SUVs, both more valuable than the real estate they were parked on—sat in the yard at the end of the road.
For the first time in his life Carson wondered why he’d never gotten a permit to carry a weapon. Now would be the perfect time to be armed.
“You should probably stay in the car.”
A laugh burst out of Carson’s throat. “Like I’m going to let you go to that door alone.” He gave his head a firm shake. “I don’t think so.”
“I know this guy. LeBron McGaha. He and I have crossed paths before.”
Well now, that explained everything.
He put the Explorer in park and shut off the engine. “I’m still going with you.” Chivalry might be dead these days as far as most men were concerned, but not for Carson. He wasn’t about to let the lady go it alone.
Clips of him fucking her in a dozen different positions flashed in his head.
Lady. Elizabeth was a lady. Proper, sweet, churchgoing. But did Annette’s desperation and the actions she’d taken as a result make her less than a lady?
Maybe. Maybe not.
“Suit yourself.” She got out.
He did the same.
Annette marched right up to the door and knocked loud.
Carson cringed each time she pounded her fist there. He doubted that whoever was inside was going to be happy to find unexpected company on their porch.
A few heavy pounds more and the door opened. “What?” a scraggly-looking weasel demanded. He stood about five ten, with long greasy hair and a mug taken right off the MOST WANTED bulletin at the post office. But he couldn’t have been over nineteen. Just a kid.
“We’re looking for Dane Drake.” Annette’s voice was strong, fearless.
The guy stared at her for three beats then glared at Carson for about one. “What the fuck do you want with Dane?”
Annette moved in closer to the guy. Carson tensed.
She put her face in the weasel’s and said, “I owe him a blow job. You got a problem with that, LeBron?”
The bastard’s gaze narrowed. “I know you. You’re that bitch that got Dane and me out of trouble one time.”
Talk about friends in low places.
“You got that assault charge off my back.” He nodded, grinned. “Yeah, I remember you.”
“That’s right,” Annette shot back. “Now I need your help.”
She had gotten an assault charge dismissed to keep this guy in line?
Carson wanted to be indignant, but, if it benefited their cases, lawyers did what she’d done all the time.
“Name it,” the long-haired creep said.
“I need to find Dane Drake now. Do you or any of your friends have any idea where he is?”
LeBron got that deer-caught-in-the-headlights look on his face. “I’m not too sure—”
“Yes, you are,” Annette argued. “You know exactly where he is. Now tell me.”
“Okay, okay.” Lebron glanced at Carson.
“It’s all right,” Annette assured him. “You can talk in front of him.”
No way this guy was going to roll over on his friend.
“Take Highway Eleven until you hit Three. He’s hiding out in the Holiday Inn Express in Fultondale. Says somebody’s after him.”
Dread pooled in Carson’s gut. If anyone else got to Dane first …
“Thanks, LeBron,” Annette said. “Now we’re even.”
As they hustled back out to the Explorer, LeBron shouted, “Hey, if Dane don’t want that blow job, I’ll sure as hell take it.”
Annette didn’t respond. She jumped into the passenger seat and ordered, “Drive. Fast.”
1:15 AM
Fultondale Holiday Inn Express
“He won’t be registered under his own name.” Carson surveyed the vehicles in the parking lot. “There’s no way to know which room he’s in.”
“That’s where you come in.”
He turned to Annette. “What do you mean?”
“The clerk’s a woman.” She shrugged. “Go in there and pour on the charm, then flash that officer-of-the-court ID you’ve got and see if you can’t get the room number and the key.”
He’d never considered the ID as a means to prod information. He might as well go for it. He reached for the door handle. “I’ll be right back.”
Carson heard the power lock click into place after he exited the vehicle. He didn’t blame her. She had reason to be afraid … even if she refused to say it out loud.
He opened the door to the lobby and scanned for other patrons. None. Good.
At the counter he waited for the clerk, young, pretty, to finish the call on her cell phone. Then he smiled for her. “Hey.”
Interest stirred in her eyes. “You need a room?”
“In a way.” He laid a one-hundred-dollar bill on the counter. Her mouth dropped open. “I’m Investigator Tanner.” He flashed his badge. “I’m looking for a person of interest in one of my cases.”
She looked from him to the bill and licked her lips. “Who?”
“Well, I’m sure he’s not using his real name. He’s tall, thin, dark hair and eyes. About thirty-one. His real name is Dane Drake, but he might be going by something else.”
Her eyes narrowed as she concentrated on the people and faces she’d likely seen pass through this shift. “I don’t
know.” Another period of contemplation. “We definitely don’t have a Dane Drake. Wait. There was this one dude.” She raised her eyebrows. “Kinda grungy looking. He came in here to get coffee early in my shift.” She shuddered. “Gave me the creeps.”
Carson placed another hundred-dollar bill next to the first. “I need a room number and the key.”
She bit her bottom lip, then asked, “Is he under arrest?”
“I need him for questioning. It’s extremely important. He could be in danger.”
She looked around quickly. “Are there people after him?”
Carson nodded. “Unfortunately. I need to find him first.”
“Gotcha.” She checked her computer, then swiped a key. “Room two fourteen. It’s on the back side, second floor.”
“Thank you.” Carson winked. She blushed.
He jogged back to the car. “Room two fourteen. Other side of the hotel.”
“Do you think it’s him?”
Carson started the Explorer. “I gave his description. The clerk seemed to think so.”
“I guess we’ll know in a minute.”
Carson drove to the back of the hotel. He and Annette were out of the car and headed for the stairs to the second floor before the vehicle rocked to a complete stop.
Outside room 214, Carson hesitated. He’d never known Dane to carry weapons. But if he were scared and desperate, he might be capable of anything. Zac Holderfield’s death was testament to that.
“We need to consider how we’re going to do this,” Carson suggested.
Annette snatched the key from his hand. “Stand back, I’ll show you.”
Before he could stop her, she’d inserted the key and was pushing the door inward.
“Dane, it’s Carson,” he shouted over her head, in the hope of preventing a physical altercation.
The room was dark save for one bedside table lamp.
Dane Drake lay sprawled on the bed. An empty tequila bottle lay on the floor. Alongside it was what looked like a prescription bottle. And a drying puddle of puke.
Annette rushed to the bed while Carson examined the prescription bottle. Patricia Drake. Temazepam. Tranquilizers. The bottle was empty. Shit. His attention shifted to the bed and the motionless man lying there.
“Dane.” Annette shook him. He didn’t respond. She drew her hand away. “He’s cold.”
“Dane.” Carson put his face close to his old friend’s. “He’s not breathing.” Carson checked his carotid pulse. Dread settled in his gut. “Call nine-one-one.”
As he assessed Dane more closely, he recognized that it wouldn’t matter how fast help arrived.
Dane was already dead.
“Wait,” Carson said, desperation fueling him, “don’t make that call.”
Annette stared at him in disbelief and no small amount of horror.
“Just … don’t,” Carson reiterated.