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 alcoholconsumption. 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 thefloor. 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.
