Chapter 33
Birmingham
The Tramont
At this point Carson didn’t care if the FBI noted his activities in its surveillance. He was fucked anyway.
He pushed the button for the penthouse once, twice, three times before she answered.
“Yes?”
“Open the door.” He didn’t give a damn about etiquette or any damned thing else right now. His career was in the toilet and he wanted answers.
He wanted whatever she knew about his family and Dane. He wanted the truth and by God she was going to help him find it.
A distinct buzz sounded, and he opened the door.
He strode to the elevator and selected the top floor.
The slight delay in the car’s upward movement told him her approval had been necessary.
During the ride to the penthouse he worked to slow his breathing and regain some of his composure. Didn’t help. He only got angrier.
Drake had lied to him. Wainwright had used him.
He couldn’t trust any damned body. But her. And that was the most unfortunate part of all. He had absolutely no reason to trust anything she said.
Yet she was his only chance at solving this screwed-up mess.
The doors slid open. Annette Baxter stood in the marble-floored entry hall waiting, a rose-colored robe hugging her body. Her posture and resolute expression told him she was prepared for battle.
“You finally understand what you’re up against. That’s why you’re back here. Wainwright’s dirty. And you need my help.” She held his furious gaze without so much as a blink. “You need me.”
“Senator Drake is dead.”
Several seconds lapsed before she schooled her expression to the one of aloof indifference she usually wore. Just enough time for him to see the shock and confusion. Maybe the ice bitch wasn’t so untouchable after all. The guilt that pricked him was immediately overridden by his fury.
“When did this happen?” She tightened the sash on her robe. Shivered visibly . . . maybe purposely to garner his sympathy. Didn’t work.
“Around midnight.” A new sense of determination and outrage kindled inside him. “Did you kill him?” He actually hadn’t considered that until this moment. But they had parted ways hours ago. She could have gone to Drake and . . . he had to be out of his mind. He was grasping at straws.
“What?” Her horror looked genuine enough. “I drove straight here like you said. I’ve been here ever since.” She took a breath, looked away a moment as if she had something to hide. “How was he murdered?”
Carson shrugged. Tried to calm his raging fury. Whether he was mad solely at her or at Wainwright or both, Carson couldn’t say. But she was right about one thing, he needed her. “How would I know specifics? I’ve been put on administrative leave.”
More of that atypical emotion flashed across her face before the mask of apathy resumed. “Answer the damned question! Shot? Stabbed? What?”
Carson set his hands on his hips to keep from reaching out and shaking the hell out of her.
Besides Stokes, she was the only person who had ever made him want to resort to violence.
She was the bane of his existence. Had launched his whole world into chaos.
He forced himself to calm down enough to speak rationally. “Someone shot him in the chest.”
She blinked. “In his home?”
The fury burst into uncontrollable flames. “Ding. Ding. Ding. Give the girl a prize.” Why the hell was he standing here answering her questions? He had questions! He had an agenda, and wasting time wasn’t on it.
“Wait.” A frown marred that smooth, flawless complexion. “I don’t understand. Why are you on administrative leave?”
He charged forward the three steps that stood between them. “For fucking you.”
A sound somewhere deeper in the residence reverberated. A cell phone?
She looked startled by the interruption. “I have to take that.”
He started to argue but didn’t. Instead, he trailed after her like a freaking lost puppy, standing outside the door of her bedroom while she took the call. A “yes” then an “I’ll be right there” punctuated the lengthy pauses.
She hit the disconnect button and turned to him. “I have to get dressed.”
“Just so you know,” he said as she attempted to close the door in his face, “wherever you’re going, I’m going with you. I’m not-—”
“Look,” she shouted, “you’re not the only one in danger here. Some . . .” She shook her head, threw up her hands. “Somebody has been following me. Tried to run me off the road after I left your house.”
“What’re you talking about?” He absolutely refused to acknowledge the protective instincts that immediately surfaced.
“I have to get dressed.” She slammed the door in his face.
Goddammit! He wasn’t letting her out of his sight until he had some answers. Until he got what he wanted. Fleming. Dane. And the truth about Wainwright and Stokes. And any damned thing else she was hiding.
6:00 a.m.
Montevallo Road, Birmingham
Magnolia Hills Individualized Care Center
At least now he knew where Paula Aldridge had vanished to.
She used the name Paula Anderson. Both the nurse and the doctor who had spoken to Annette had called her Ms. Anderson.
Again he had to admit that Baxter was good. Too damned good. But as good as she was, he felt confident that she couldn’t have faked her surprise about Drake’s murder.
She wasn’t the one . . .
He had to have answers. Carson would not stop until he knew who had murdered his family. Why Holderfield and Drake were dead. And why, apparently, the same black sedan that had been tailing him was tailing Annette, too. It would seem they both had stepped into something over their heads.
The position of Jefferson County District Attorney was likely out the window along with his position as DDA, but he no longer cared. The truth was all that mattered.
Paula Anderson sat in her bed, her knees curled against her chest, and rocked back and forth.
The doctor had said that the outburst was so violent, heavy tranquilizers were required.
Paula would slip into unconsciousness anytime now.
Neither the doctor nor the nurse seemed able to explain what had set off the outburst. One minute she was watching television in her room, the next she was attempting to tear it apart.
Annette cradled her cousin, whom she referred to as her sister, against her breast now as the woman lost the battle with the drugs.
The emotion on Annette’s face startled Carson.
Love, fear, desperation. She stroked her sister’s stubby hair, whispered softly to her.
There was no question just how much she loved Paula.
How was it possible for a woman so cold to feel that depth of emotion?
Carson surveyed the well-appointed room. Individualized care like this wasn’t cheap. He imagined it cost Annette a sizable fortune to keep her sister in this facility.
Objectivity, no sympathy. He had to keep that in mind.
When Paula had settled into that drug-induced coma, Annette kissed her forehead one last time then led the way out of the room. She closed the door and sagged against it.
“Twice in one week.” She closed her eyes. “Why are they hurting her like this?”
Before Carson could ask her whom she meant by they, the doctor and nurse approached, both wearing solemn faces.
“Ms. Anderson,” the doctor began, “I’m not sure how to explain this . . .”
Annette straightened from the door. “What? You said you had no idea what prompted the outburst.”
The nurse and the doctor exchanged a look.
Carson tensed. There was definitely something amiss here.
But it wasn’t his problem. Baxter was his problem. The whole fucking world outside this ritzy institution was his problem right now.
He didn’t give one shit about her sister or cousin or whatever. He and Annette weren’t friends. They were enemies.
And he wasn’t backing off until he had her right where he wanted her—in an interview room spilling her guts.
Carson stopped himself. What the hell was happening to him? He was losing it completely. Since when did he blow off basic human compassion?
“Ma’am,” the nurse said, her hands wrung together in front of her, “when the episode began, Gage, one of the attendants, and I were the first to get to the room.”
“Go on,” Baxter urged.
“We managed to get Paula back into bed and restrained.” The nurse swallowed hard. “That’s when I saw them.”
“Saw who?” Baxter looked from the nurse to the doctor and back.
“Little white mice.” The nurse cleared her throat. “The kind you buy at the pet store.”
Stark confusion and something very much like fear claimed Baxter’s face. “There were mice in Paula’s room?”
The doctor looked mortified. “We don’t know how it happened. It’s simply unbelievable. This is one of the cleanest, most tightly run centers in the country. I simply have no explanation for how this happened.”
Baxter’s expression went from confused to resigned. “I’m sure you do all you can to prevent any sort of incident like this.”
The doctor tucked the file she held beneath her arm. “Considering this is the second incident in the past week involving your sister, I believe we can safely say there is a problem.”
“What kind of problem?” Baxter asked cautiously, uncertainty in her tone as well as her eyes.
The doctor sent the nurse back to her station and kept her voice discreetly low.
“We operate a fine institution here. As you know, we pride ourselves on the safety and excellent care we can provide for our patients. But no one who isn’t authorized to be here gets in.
And certainly no one but authorized personnel is allowed to view a patient’s file.
That leaves me with only one plausible explanation.
Someone on staff. I can assure you there will be an in-depth investigation. ”
“In the meanwhile,” Baxter suggested as the uncertainty in her eyes solidified into determination, “I would appreciate it if you added a round-the-clock security detail to her room. I’m extremely worried about her safety.”