Chapter 9
Criminal Justice Center, Birmingham
Carson stared at the surveillance photos spread across his desk. Twelve different shots. A dozen different times and locations.
Annette Baxter met with Otis Fleming randomly.
There appeared to be no correlation to Fleming’s alleged activities other than the idea that any problems rumored to have arisen seemed to disappear rather quickly after their meetings.
And yet not a single connection to the activities Fleming was accused of facilitating could be made to her—or the old man, for that matter.
Carson scanned his copious notes. The only piece of evidence, and it was damned thin, to indicate Annette Baxter might be involved in Fleming’s illegal dealings was an August 15 audio recording provided by the FBI.
And even that evidence was vague, circumstantial at best. As were the photos, since it wasn’t illegal to visit a person.
Carson pushed play and listened to the taped conversation again.
“You know this requires great finesse.” Fleming.
“I understand.” Annette Baxter. “I know how to handle him.”
“There can be no mistakes,” Fleming prompted in that gravelly voice that spoke of years of smoking magnified by frequent alcohol consumption. And age. Too bad he was like a damned Timex: He just kept on ticking.
“Have I ever let you down?” Baxter’s tone reflected her exasperation. But that emotion was tempered by patience and a reverence that confounded Carson.
Did she love this old man?
Had to be about the money.
Fleming couldn’t have had sex with her the way Carson had.
What the hell kind of proclamation was that?
Carson turned his back on the file and stared out at the glittering night view of the city he loved.
That alone was the most compelling reason a wise man would step down and allow another, one not personally involved on any level, to proceed with this investigation.
Yet that was the one thing he couldn’t do.
Wainwright was counting on him. Drake was counting on him.
And the truth was, as arrogant as it sounded, Carson was the best man for the job. He would not stop until he had the truth . . . until he uncovered the motivation to prompt her cooperation.
If hanging her was what it took, he would do it and feel absolutely no remorse. She was a criminal. A former prostitute, a drug mule. She deserved whatever she got.
The image of a young girl, ten or twelve years old, fighting off a brute of a foster father loomed in Carson’s head. He banished it. There was no room for sympathy in this investigation.
However hard her childhood, Annette Baxter was a grown woman who made independent choices. She had chosen to be what she was now.
The thud of a door slamming had him wheeling around.
It was almost eight. Everyone else on the floor had gone home hours ago.
He glanced at the papers on his desk. The concept that he was working on a high-profile case involving a very powerful man wasn’t lost on him. Taking extra precautions was necessary.
He walked out of his office, checked the corridor. It was empty. Closing his door behind him out of habit, he took a walk around the floor. The other offices were locked, lights out. Emptiness resonated around him. He was alone.
Sound carried in the silence. The thudding noise he’d heard could have come from the floor below this one or the one above it. He gave himself a mental boot in the ass. He wasn’t generally so jumpy. Had to be the caffeine. And the case. And just maybe a guilty conscience.
It was late. He needed to gather up the file and head home. The change in scenery might give him a new perspective.
He entered his office. Closed the door. Froze.
He wasn’t alone.
“Your photographer should learn to be a bit more creative.”
Annette Baxter.
Surprise converted into fury before he could grab back the control he rarely lost. Until recently.
She waved one of his notes. “And the name of my second foster father is misspelled.” The tight, dim smile she exhibited didn’t hold a candle to the one she’d flaunted last night. “Of course, he’s dead so I guess it doesn’t really matter.”
“Step away from my desk, Ms. Baxter.” The order rushed from Carson’s throat as if he’d exhaled a blast of fire.
Annette stilled. Well, well, Mr. Carson Tanner wasn’t so happy to see her. A vast turnaround from last night’s primal reaction.
Nothing she hadn’t expected. Dropping the note and lifting her hands in mock surrender, she retreated two paces. “You caught me red-handed.”
For several seconds he stared at her, probably hoping her appearance was just a bad dream. He might as well get used to the idea that the two of them were involved, because she wasn’t backing off. She needed him.
As if she’d telegraphed that thought, his gaze raked her body.
He liked what he saw. Good. From the twist she’d arranged her hair into to the shrink-wrapped black sheath she wore, all had been carefully selected for him.
That was the one lesson she had learned on the street: Dress to impress.
A john was far more likely to be generous if he liked what he saw and thought what he was paying for was worth the price.
She smiled as she paid him back in spades.
Same shirt and trousers as last night—both a little rumpled, but the look was good on him.
The tie hung loosely, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone.
She imagined that showing up for work unshowered and unshaven, wearing yesterday’s clothes, was far from the norm for this uptight deputy DA.
His gaze locked with hers. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but what you did last night is called entrapment. You broke the law.” He crossed the room and stepped between her and his desk, shuffling the photos and reports into a stack, his anger visibly expanding with each movement.
“Did I?” The innocence she was able to impart in her tone surprised even her and did exactly what she intended.
He did a one-eighty, pinning her with his fury. “You knew who I was when you approached me at the bar. Don’t bother denying it. I don’t know how you discovered I would be assigned this case and I don’t care, but your games aren’t going to work.”
The next logical step would be to call security. She had to act fast. “They’re setting me up.” The line wasn’t exactly original, but it was all too accurate.
“Security will see you out.”
Men. They were so easy to read. She had her hand on his before he could reach the receiver. “Give me five minutes,” she urged, the desperation in the words frighteningly real. Too real. He was the only chance she had of stopping this thing before it went too far.
“Five minutes,” she repeated when he didn’t immediately reject her suggestion.
For a moment she thought he might just give in; then his expression hardened. “I’m certain you’re aware, Ms. Baxter, that I cannot discuss any aspect of the case with you.” He held up both hands to ward her off. “In fact, I can’t be in the same room alone with you.”
Damn. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip before she could stop the old habit. She hadn’t done that in years . . . hadn’t permitted that slithering insecurity to make her feel . . . afraid. She snatched back her courage. No fear. Play on his sympathy. Men were suckers for a woman in jeopardy.
“I need your help.” If he refused to listen, she still had options, however unappealing. “This”—she indicated the file on his desk—“is a conspiracy. The very men you hold in great esteem are railroading me to cover their own crimes.” That was a vast understatement.
Fury raged in his eyes, etched into the granite of his jaw. She wasn’t getting through. “I’m telling you the truth.” She had to make him see. “I have no reason to lie to you, Mr. Tanner.”
“Really?” He planted his hands on his hips.
“You follow me to a bar. Come up with that wild proposition and then show up here like this—on the same day I’m assigned to investigate your activities.
” He shook his head, his disgust crystal clear.
“I don’t know, but that sounds a little manufactured to me. ”
“I knew you’d get the case,” she confessed.
“You’re the best.” Selecting a distant memory, she used it to summon tears.
“I didn’t know what else to do. I was scared.
” She searched his eyes for a glimmer of compassion.
“I made a mistake.” That was a lie, but he couldn’t prove it.
“You’re the only person who can help me. ”.
“You don’t know me.”
“I know all about you, Carson Tanner.” His anger seemed to abate the tiniest bit.
“You’re the Avenger. The man who never loses.
The deputy district attorney poised to succeed Wainwright.
” Such a handsome man for a prosecutor, too.
Dark hair, equally dark eyes. Classic jawline, nice lips.
The whole package. Just a little too trusting.
But he would learn that trust was vastly overrated.
“Get out.” The words were as ruthlessly relayed as the glare he now aimed at her.
Any compassion she’d hoped for vanished in that same instant.
Oh well. There was always plan B. She walked around him, his gaze tracking her every move, and scooted onto the edge of the desk.
The hem of her dress slid to the tops of her thighs.
His attention went straight there as if he had no authority over his own eyes.
So very predictable. She crossed one meticulously toned leg over the other. He swallowed with difficulty.
Whatever it takes.
“All I want is justice,” she implored, tracing with one red-nailed finger down the deep neckline that exposed her cleavage. His gaze followed the path of that finger.
As if he’d just snapped from a trance, his expression darkened with fury once more. “I sincerely doubt that you know a whole hell of a lot about justice, lady.”