“I’m leaving my partner in charge here. I thought I’d head over there now.”
Adrenaline sent Carson’s heart rate into overdrive. “I’d like to accompany you.”
“I figured as much.” The detective flared his hands. “You’re aware we’re conducting a homicide investigation into Holderfield’s son?”
Carson nodded.
“There’s always the chance that this is a suicide, pure and simple. The man loved his son in spite of”—Lynch glanced at the corpse—“his flaws. His death may have pushed Holderfield over the edge.”
Carson forced air into his lungs. No question. But with what he knew and the annotation on the deceased’s calendar, interviewing Baxter was the proper course of action. “Of course. But that doesn’t change our next move.”
“Absolutely not,” Lynch agreed.
“Let’s do it.”
Lynch led the way back through the house, Carson following. His fury lost steam and his gut clenched at the sounds of weeping. He remembered all too well how he had wept at the scene of his own family’s slaughter.
Determination swelled inside him. That was why he did what he did. To ensure that justice was served. No one should have to wait fifteen years to know justice.
Or to be left wondering if they’d gotten justice and the horror was really over.
Ask yourself if you’ll ever really know what happened.
His questions about his own past would just have to wait.
For the first time in his life there was another truth he wanted more.
And it started with Annette Baxter.
20
11:30 a.m.
Birmingham
The Tramont
Cool, crisp, businesslike.
Annette surveyed her reflection. The white pants and silk blouse that buttoned to her throat paired with the matching jacket were the perfect choice.
Cold, untouchable.
This meeting was asexual. The less distraction, the better.
She knew how to deal with this client. Straight to the point. No room for negotiation.
Three of her wealthiest clients had withdrawn their retainer fees. Two for whom she had not performed services as of yet. Leaving her with no choice but to permit the dissolution of their verbal contracts.
Zac and Dwight Holderfield were dead. No news on either investigation.
Jazel was dead. Annette had checked in with one of her contacts at Birmingham PD. Jazel’s death had all the markings of foul play. A single-car accident on a deserted stretch of road. The rear bumper and left rear quarter panel were dented and scraped as if she’d been hit by another vehicle. A black vehicle. Annette shuddered. Jazel’s Mustanghad left the road at a high rate of speed and promptly plowed into a massive tree. She had been pronounced dead at the scene.
Annette exiled the ache. Not now.
Someone besides the feds was definitely following Annette as well. She’d caught a glimpse of a black sedan twice yesterday.
There was no denying it now: Someone had declared war on her. Jazel’s death was either a warning or an attempt on Annette’s life. Whenever she and Jazel teamed up to give the feds the slip, Jazel wore Annette’s clothes and a blond wig to lead the persistent tail on a wild goose chase while Annette attended to business.
