Chapter 12
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 closest 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?”