“Yes, sir. We’ve just started collecting evidence.”
“Don’t move anything,” Carson instructed. “I want to see the scene just as it was when you found it.”
“Will do, sir.”
Carson tucked the phone into his pocket and hurried back to the table. He didn’t bother sitting down. “Unfortunately I have to leave.” His gaze met Wainwright’s and telegraphed the message that he did not want to discuss the details. He hoped like hell that would suffice.
Wainwright grinned broadly. “Now that”—he shook his finger at Carson—“is dedication.” He nodded to Elizabeth. “Any man who would leave breakfast with a beautiful young woman to do his job is the real thing.”
Elizabeth blushed. “I’m sure we’ll have the opportunity again.”
Carson sensed that long-awaited possibility vanishing with the mounting evidence that he had completely underestimated Annette Baxter.
She was unpredictable and dangerous.
10:00 a.m.
3348 Sandhurst Road, Birmingham
Holderfield Residence
Carson had donned the shoe covers and gloves.
The media had closed in around the block like vultures waiting to pick the kill.
The family had been sequestered to the kitchen.
Crime scene technicians were standing down until Carson could have a guided tour. En route to the scene he had checked in with Agent Schaffer to get any surveillance info available on Annette Baxter. She’d given the feds the slip last night, as Carson was well aware, but he didn’t mention that to Schaffer. This morning Baxter had left her house around half past nine to go the spa. The feds had tailed her there; she was still inside. Until Carson knew more, that told him nothing. Except that Annette Baxter had not come to the Holderfield home unless she’d done so last night after she’d parted ways with Carson.
Schaffer had nothing on the sister search as of yet.
“From what we’ve been able to ascertain,” Lynch was saying, “Holderfield came home late last night and behaved strangely. His wife felt he was extremely agitated. When she asked him what was wrong, he insisted he was fine. Said he’d had a late meeting. Didn’t say with whom. She chalked the tension up to their son’s recent death.”
Carson surveyed the home office where Holderfield’s life had ended. Typical paneled walls lined with bookshelves. Framed photos of the family and reference books filled most. The room was tidy and surprisingly unsoiled by the act that was almost certainly suicide.
Holderfield had taken a large black garbage bag, the superior-strength type according to the techs, placed it over his head and torso, then put a bullet from a .38 revolver straight into his brain. The bullet had passed through his head and lodged in the wall adjacent to where he still sat. No blood-spray pattern on the wall, no mess to speak of except what had dripped down the inside of the bag and puddled on the wood floor around his chair.
The weapon had been found on the floor where it had slipped from his lax fingers. There were no signs of intrusion anywhere in the house. But something didn’t sit right with the lieutenant. Carson had known Lynch long enough to read him when it came to a crime scene. Theyhad discussed the scene where his family had been murdered many, many times.
“Here’s the sticking point,” Lynch said quietly as he glanced toward the door leading to the hall. “There’s no powder residue on either of his hands.”
Carson stepped close to the vic once more, crouched down, and considered the hand dangling at the side of his chair. “The ME will perform additional testing?” Carson pushed to his feet. His heart rate continued to rise steadily. This was real. Baxter’s prediction had been real. He swallowed back the bile in his throat.
Why hadn’t he told someone?
Lynch nodded in answer to Carson’s question. “And the lab will test the weapon to see if there’s some reason that might occur, but it would be the first revolver I’ve run across that didn’t leave trace evidence.”
A chill settling into his bones, Carson attempted to pursue an appropriate line of questioning. “Any estimate on time of death?”
The ME was on his way. An accident on Interstate 65 had slowed his arrival.
“Couple of hours ago, tops. Rigor’s minimal. His wife left at quarter of eight to discuss arrangements for their son at a local flower shop. Her husband was having coffee then.” Lynch shrugged. “But don’t quote me on the time. That’s the ME’s call.”
If the timing was right, that would have been a full hour or so before Annette Baxter left her penthouse. Did that rule her out or give her opportunity? Considering her skill at evading surveillance, Carson wasn’t excluding anything. Uncertainty hammered away at his focus. He kicked it back and examined the calendar on Holderfield’s desk.Annette Baxterwas scrawled across the bottom of the page. “Has this been confirmed as his handwriting?”
Lynch nodded. “His wife says it’s his. We’ll verify it with the lab.”
Carson met the detective’s gaze, fury starting to override all else. “When are you going to question Annette Baxter?”
