Annette tasted her coffee to cover her irritation that Otis seemed to consider this a game. “Carson Tanner will be a challenge.”
“You have what you need. You can turn him around.”
Their gazes held for five seconds that lapsed into ten. “Yes.” Her pulse rate increased. The stench of blood assailed her nostrils as too-vivid images zoomed across her retinas. She blinked the ugliness away.
“You’ll know when the time is right to use that asset.”
Her chin lifted in defiance of the uncharacteristic doubt nagging at her. “Yes.” She would not hesitate to do whatever was necessary when the time came. Timing was everything.
“You also realize,” he qualified, “that in doing so, you will be taking yet another huge risk. Think carefully before each move you make.”
“Very carefully,” she agreed.
Otis studied her a long moment, again igniting the uneasiness she so rarely felt in his presence. “Despite his hard-earned position and beloved reputation, Carson Tanner is far more expendable than he knows.”
Wasn’t everyone? But Otis was correct. Maybe that was the part that bothered Annette the most. Carson Tanner was only doing his job ... he had no idea the price he might very well pay for being too damned good at what he did.
Otis held up his cup for a belated toast. “To the survival of the fittest.”
She raised hers. “Survival.”
In the end, survival was all that really mattered.
12
11:15 a.m.
1000 18th Street, Birmingham
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 chairbeside 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.
