3
7:15 p.m.
Birmingham
Jazz Factory
What the hell was he doing here?
Carson propped his forearms on the counter and leaned against the bar without bothering to slide onto a stool. He should be elated. The Stokes file was closed; the Tanner investigation resolved. Justice had been served and a killer was on his way to life in prison without the possibility of parole. By eleven o’clock tomorrow morning Stokes would be processed into Holman, the Alabama state penitentiary in Atmore, where his own personal hell on earth waited.
He was finally going to pay.
Ask yourself if you’ll ever really know what happened.
Carson blinked, shattering Stokes’s disturbing words. It was over. Done. Sifting through the details and the what-ifs wasn’t going to change the facts. They had their killer, if not the answer Carson wanted so desperately. End of story.
But ... what if Stokes wasn’t the one?
Carson inhaled a deep breath, then blew it out.
The bastard confessed. The rest was nothing but bullshit. Enough with the doubts already.
The bartender tilted his head in question, drawing Carson’s attention. “Sparkling water with lime.”
Alcohol was off limits. Despite his inability to keep his emotions in check today, control was essential to Carson. He didn’t like losing it ... for any reason. Once in a lifetime was enough ... and that one time had cost him everything.
“Check out the brunette at nine o’clock.” Scotch in hand, Keller Luttrell, friend and colleague, perched on the stool next to Carson with his back to the bar to facilitate his babe-watching. Besides being a highly skilled strategist in the courtroom, the man was an expert marksman when it came to spotting hot chicks at maximum range.
Carson glanced over his shoulder to take a look at the target currently in his colleague’s crosshairs and dutifully performed the expected appraisal. “Yeah. She’s great.” Hence the rarity of these sorts of male-bonding occasions. Unlike his friend, who appeared to do his best trial groundwork in this atmosphere, Carson had neither the time nor the inclination.
“I could fall in love with that.” Luttrell tracked the brunette’s movements with the same expertise he used to monitor and analyze a jury’s subtlest reaction.
Carson should be at home working. He had a briefcase packed with work lying on the passenger seat of his BMW. “I’m having this drink and then I’m going home with my briefcase,” Carson reminded his pal. That had been their bargain. One drink. An hour tops.
“Come on,” Luttrell urged. “Snap out of it. Celebrate. The past is finally buried. You can move on. Hell, man, take a freaking vacation. I can handle most of your caseload.” He shrugged. “The others will pitch in. You need a real break. I can’t remember the last time you took a day off, much less a week.”
Carson had never taken a vacation. He wouldn’t now. “Yeah, right.” He shot his friend a look that underscored the statement. “And let you suck up to Wainwright while I’m gone? No way.”
“Oh ho.” Luttrell belted out a laugh. “I’m good, but I’m notthatgood. You’re Wainwright’s favorite and everybody knows it. Nothing short of your going off the deep end will change that.”
Carson cringed inwardly.
Luttrell just kept talking, like the Energizer-frigging-Bunny, without a clue he’d hit a nerve. “But we also know that you’re the star for a reason,” he waxed on before knocking back a slug of Scotch. “You’re the best, buddy. There’s no denying it.”
His sincerity couldn’t completely disguise the slightest hint of envy. Carson had gotten used to that long ago and understood that it wasn’t actually personal. Came with the territory. It was lonely at the top for a reason.
“But we’re not here to talk about work,” his colleague went on. He stared pointedly at Carson’s profile. “When’s the last time you did anything spontaneous that didn’t involve your briefcase?”
“Fuck off,” Carson muttered. He wasn’t looking for personal advice from his skirt-chasing buddy.
“Listen, man.” Luttrell set aside the drink he’d been nursing since their arrival. “I know this excavating of the past has been tough on you.” He paused, as lawyers do when allowing the jury’s anticipation to build to a pivotal moment. “But you’ve got to stop spending every second focused on work. Real life is calling and you’re ignoring the summons.” He leaned closer. “Seriously, when’s the last time you got laid?”
Carson should have seen that one coming. “That”—he took a swallow of his for-appearances-sake-only drink—“is none of your business.” Luttrell had just dropped several notches on Carson’s opinion scale, from confidant to asshole. Only an asshole would ask a man that question when he already knew the answer.
“We’ve all noticed how stressed you are,” Luttrell had the balls to add. “There’s a damned short fuse on your temper these days. You need to work off some of that tension. Going months without sex just isn’t natural, man.”
This conversation was officially over. Carson leveled a steady stare on Luttrell. “We are not analyzing my sex life.”
