Luttrell could be an ass at times but he was a good attorney. He would get the job done.
Carson thanked his friend and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. Zac. Murdered. Damn. Not his case. Carson had to set personal feelings aside, couldn’t allow the distraction. In an attempt to do that, he replayed the interview with Delta Faye Cornelius. Annette Baxter could possibly have a sister.
Was the fact that she’d kept that only living relative a secret significant?
Maybe.
Slim though it might be, it was something. Anything was more than he’d had when he’d awakened that morning.
All he needed was one weakness, one vulnerability he could use for leverage.
The sister could be that vulnerability.
Carson’s cell vibrated again. This time it was Anita, the receptionist at the office, with an urgent message. Carson’s presence was requested for dinner that evening at the home of Senator Randolph Drake.
Interesting. A man didn’t turn down an invitation from Senator Drake. Not even if he were inclined to, and Carson wasn’t. The senator’s unconditional support was essential to the future of Carson’s career.
He thought of how Elizabeth had dropped by his house unannounced the other night. Was this invitation her idea? He couldn’t deny a certain curiosity along those lines. That she had invited him to escort her to a major social function intrigued him. Was she contemplating the idea of rekindling what they once had, or was this purely a political move?
Motivation triggered every action. Time would tell what motivated this one.
For now, Carson had a couple of hours to follow up on the “sister” lead. There were a number of resources at his disposal for tracking down an unidentified person of interest, but why not start at the top. He entered the number for Agent Kim Schaffer.
Going that route could serve a dual purpose: confirming the existence of the sister in the speediest of mannersandproviding Schaffer with something the Bureau didn’t have—a possible exploitable link to Baxter. Then Schaffer would owe him one.
She had something Carson wanted. If Wainwright had tipped the feds regarding Annette Baxter, Carson needed to understand the nature of the tip and why his boss hadn’t chosen to share the information with him. Though he could certainly ask Wainwright, something felt wrong with the whole scenario. Carson wanted Schaffer’s version of how this had come about prior to getting the information straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.
It hardly made sense that Wainwright was keeping a secret that could impede Carson’s investigation. Carson had every reason to trust his mentor. On the other hand, he had no reason not to trust Agent Schaffer. Still, prudence was called for in this highly sensitive matter.
The reality that neither Baxter nor Fleming could have kept their business activities so untouchable without inside information wasn’t lost on Carson. Whatever, the insider could not be Donald Wainwright. That was the one thing Carson knew with complete certainty. Everything else was up for grabs.
The key was the same as always,motivation.Who stood to gain if this investigation, like the ones into Fleming’s activities before it, failed?
Glass shattered.
Carson swerved.
He glanced over his shoulder. A rear door window was fractured.
“What the hell?” His right foot went instinctively to the brake.
Another explosion and the windshield ruptured, leaving a web of lines extending out from the hole.
He rammed his foot against the accelerator. Cut the steering wheel hard to the right. The BMW bucked onto the sidewalk. He slammed on the brake and dove onto the floor of the vehicle.
Three more shots in rapid succession punctured the car’s body. He jerked with each penetrating sound.
Carson had entered 9-1-1 into his cell phone as the squeal of tires warned a vehicle had sped past.
When the operator responded he dared to peer above the dash. The street was deserted.
“Leonard Avenue,” he blurted as he risked sitting upright. “Shots fired.”
Surveying the street, the yards, the houses, his shoulders hunched up around his ears, he answered the rest of the operator’s questions. After being assured help was on the way, he ended the call and labored to catch his breath.
This was no random drive-by shooting. He stared at the hole in his windshield, on the left side of the rearview mirror.Hehad been the target.
His heart thumped hard against his sternum.
