CARSON (Dark and Dangerous Romantic Suspense Book 3)

by Debra Webb

  The telephone rang, the sound mocking, as if to refute his closing argument.

  His wife would call it intuition; he simply called it waning odds. Things had gone far too smoothly for far too long for his luck to continue.

  His instincts hummed with dread as he picked up the receiver. “Wainwright.”

  “The situation we anticipated has been set in motion.” Don’s insides cramped. That was not what he’d wanted to hear. There had to be some mistake. Even so, surely it wasn’t too late to salvage the situation. Not like last time. “I could—”

  “You understand what has to be done. An accident would be preferable, of course.”

  Don sat immobilized for five seconds before he dredged up the necessary response to the irrevocable order. Desperation screamed at him to challenge the verdict. But he knew. Once the decision was made, there was no stopping the momentum.

  He cleared his throat. “I understand.”

  A resolute click confirmed the call had ended.

  There was nothing he could do now.

  It was done.

  Chapter Six

  Wednesday, September 8, 8:00 a.m.

  There was something he needed to do.

  Carson slowly opened his eyes.

  Sunlight filled the room.

  He groaned. Closed his eyes against the brightness. Why had he left the blinds open?

  He started to get up, but something stopped him. Something sweet. He inhaled deeply and tried to identify the scent.

  Flowers...female.

  He scratched his balls through the sheet.

  Images filtered into his groggy consciousness. Sleek blond hair. Long, toned legs. Lush pink lips.

  Sex.

  The woman from the bar.

  He bolted upright and looked around.

  The Tutwiler.

  Damn.

  The stranger.

  More of those images flooded his brain. Those slender legs entwining his body. Her blood-red nails clawing his skin.

  What the hell had he been thinking?

  That was the trouble, he hadn’t been thinking.

  “Shit.”

  Kicking the sheet aside, he sat up. Where was she?

  He dropped his feet to the floor and fumbled for his boxers. Dragging them on, he walked unsteadily to the bathroom. Deserted. No toiletries other than the ones provided by the hotel. He checked the closet. No clothes. Just empty hangers, one swinging back and forth from the violent way he’d jerked open the door.

  The only evidence that he hadn’t imagined the whole event was the bottle of rum on the bar.

  She was gone.

  Luttrell. Carson was going to kick the shit of the guy.

  Dread swelled in his chest.

  What time is it?

  His gaze veered to the bedside table and the digital clock waiting there, taunting him with its glaring numbers.

  8:04.

  “Damn it!”

  He was late.

  He tugged on his trousers. Fumbled around for his shirt, socks, and shoes. No time for a shower or to go home for a change of clothes.

  After one last survey of the room, he grabbed his tie, shouldered into his jacket, and headed for the lobby. He hadn’t drunk enough for a hangover, but he still felt like death warmed over. Side effects from the regret and the guilt sitting like an elephant on his shoulders.

  How the hell had he let this happen?

  Outside on the sidewalk, he took a moment to gain his bearings. He’d parked near the bar. Across the street and a block to the right.

  Not far, but nothing was going to change the fact that he was late.

  He stepped off the curb.

  The roar of an engine bristled the hair on the back of his neck.

  He swung his gaze left.

  Car.

  His heart launched into his throat.

  He stumbled back. The vehicle whizzed past, the fender brushing the crease in his trousers.

  What the hell?

  Half a dozen seconds passed with hint struggling to recapture his equilibrium. He sucked in a breath. Tires squealing, the black sedan with its heavily tinted windows disappeared around the corner at the next block.

  “Close, Carson.” He exhaled the air that had trapped in his lungs. “Damned close.”

  Careful to monitor both ways first, he darted across the street. By the time he hit the remote and slid behind the wheel of his BMW, his head was spinning with the work he was behind on already...and he hadn’t even gotten to the office.

  Traffic was a bitch at this hour. The few blocks he needed to drive were congested with morning commuters. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Dammit. Dammit. He was an idiot. A complete and utter idiot.

  He banged the steering wheel with his fist as he parked in the lower-level garage of the Criminal Justice Center.

  Fool.

  If Luttrell had set him up...if there were pictures...

  Fury thundered inside Carson. It wouldn’t be easy, but he would find a way to get even with his friend.

  Once inside, Carson reached deep for calm, putting Luttrell and the near miss with the black sedan out of his mind. He nodded to the deputy on duty as he approached the line for the security checkpoint. Forty-five minutes ago there wouldn’t have been a line.

  But he was late.

  For the first time in his adult life...the man who never missed a deadline or meeting, who was always on time for court, was officially late. He flashed his ID and opened his briefcase for the deputy.

  “Running a little behind this morning, aren’t we, Mr. Tanner?”

  Carson managed a tight smile. “Traffic was murder.”

  The bottom of his feet tingled at the idea that he could be on his way to the ER or the morgue had his reflexes failed him. Too bad his instincts hadn’t fared better last night. And if he was lucky, no one would ever know just how temporarily stupid he had gone.

  The deputy shot him a wink. “Yeah, it can be that way some days.”

  Carson grabbed his briefcase and headed for the bank of elevators. There was no way anyone could know why he was late, yet it felt as if everyone he encountered did. Felt as if the whole world knew that Carson Tanner had finally screwed up, after so many years on the straight and narrow. He’d held it together all this time just to come undone as he sat poised to achieve the first major milestone of his career—running for Jefferson County DA. Not to mention after finally learning the truth.

  Ask yourself if you’ll ever really know what happened.

  Stokes was on his way to Holman prison. The investigation into the murder of Carson’s family was closed. Maybe there were a few details he would never know, but he couldn’t change that. No more than he could retract last night.

  He pushed both out of his head and stepped off the elevator onto the fourth floor.

  Time to put it all behind him.

  “Good morning, Anita.” He passed the receptionist’s desk, grabbing his messages as he went.

  Anita Taggart smiled at him as she answered a phone call with the practiced greeting, “Good morning, District Attorney’s Office.”

  The familiar sounds and environment set Carson at ease. He exchanged the usual pleasantries with colleagues as he made the journey to his office on the west end of the building. The most prized location on the floor besides Wainwright’s suite of offices.

  This was who he was.

  This was what he did.

  He placed his briefcase on his desk and shuffled through the messages. None were urgent. He would return most that afternoon when he’d done some serious catching up. For now he wanted to review the files in his briefcase. The ones he should have reviewed last night.

  Setting the messages aside, he took a mental step back. The truth was, he hadn’t had sex in six months. If he really looked long and hard at the situation, he would have to confess that he’d likely needed to get the pent-up frustration out of his system. Just as Luttrell had suggested.

  Carson shook his head. Seeme
d as good a way as any to assuage his conscience. But he would be damned if he would give Luttrell any credit for accurately assessing his needs.

  Recharged with determination, Carson lifted the files from his briefcase—then hesitated. There was one thing he needed to do first. His attention shifted to the left where in the offices of his colleagues there would be a wall of pride. But Carson had opted for a different use of that valuable space. A whiteboard stretched from floor to ceiling and corner to corner. He kept a running time line on his open cases on half the expanse, while the other half was covered with the details of the Stokes case.

  Carson stared at the painstakingly collected facts related to his slain family. A sour taste churned in his stomach, resurrecting the burn of the rum he wished he hadn’t drunk last night. He’d kept up with every piece of evidence, every known or suspected detail, clipped and saved every newspaper article from fifteen years ago. Sounded morbid but he had held one goal firmly in front of him. Find the truth.

  The pictures of his sister...his father...and his mother stared at him from amid the data he’d collected. Carson had looked at those pictures a thousand times. Made the same promise each time. Begged for forgiveness.

  You don’t mean that, Carson...I know you don’t.

  Agony pierced him as his mother’s voice resonated through his soul. For years the last words he and his mother had exchanged had tormented him. Even now he would give anything to take back that one moment. But there was no way to strike his arrogant, adolescent stupidity from the record.

  I hate you! Do you hear me, Mother? I hate you!

  A knock at his closed door jarred Carson to the present.

  “Better late than never,” Luttrell announced as he barged into the room without bothering with a second knock or waiting for consent.

  Annoyance flared, chasing away the troubling memories. Asshole. “I don’t have time for a postmortem about last night.” Carson infused the remark with more vehemence than he’d intended.

  Luttrell grinned. “What about last night?” He crossed the office and stepped squarely into Carson’s personal space, his curiosity roused. “Did something happen I should hear about?”

  Carson’s gaze narrowed. The bastard had the nerve to come into his office trawling for details. “You left the bar. I left the bar. What’s to know?”

  Luttrell performed a slow, thorough survey of Carson’s attire, then leaned in closer and sniffed. “You smell like sex, man. Did you take my advice and go home with someone last night?”

  Another burst of tension stiffened Carson’s spine. “Fuck off.” He turned to his desk and reached for a file. “I don’t have time to placate your deviant nature, Luttrell. Don’t you have court this morning?”

  Luttrell straightened his gold tie with an I’m-the-man panache. “I do. It’s going to be a slam dunk. The defense won’t know what hit them.”

  Carson nodded vaguely in the hope that Luttrell would get the hell out of his office. It almost worked, but then his former friend paused at the door.

  “By the way, did you hear about Zac Holderfield?”

  Carson frowned, shifted his attention to Luttrell. “What about him?”

  Dr. Dwight Holderfield’s son. Zac was a couple of years older than Carson; they didn’t travel in the same circles, but he knew him well enough. Rumor was that Zac had spent his time at Auburn developing his skills as a drug connection. And Carson wasn’t talking about his pharmaceutical science training.

  “He went missing over the holiday weekend,” Luttrell explained. “No one’s seen him since Sunday.”

  “That’s too bad.” Though not exactly surprising, Carson hated to hear that news.

  “Oh yeah.” Luttrell hesitated once more. “Wainwright was looking for you this morning.”

  Carson’s gut clenched. “When?”

  Luttrell glanced into the corridor as if to ensure no one overheard. “Maybe half an hour ago. He’s in a meeting right now.” His cocky gaze intersected with Carson’s, and the grin spread back into full form. “You know there’s no point in keeping secrets. I will find out about last night. In time,” he warned.

  Jaw clenched, Carson waited until the door was closed behind the prick before picking up the receiver and entering the extension for Geneva Mitchell, Wainwright’s assistant. “Good morning, Geneva. Is he in?” A line of perspiration formed on Carson’s brow at the idea that the first time he was late the boss came looking for him. Dammit.

  As Luttrell had said, Wainwright was in a meeting, and Geneva assured Carson she would let him know when the boss was free. She had no clue why Wainwright had sought out Carson that morning.

  Perfect. Carson thanked her and dropped the receiver back into its cradle. He collapsed into his chair and allowed his gaze to rest on the time line detailing the gruesome murder of his family. That ugly part of his history was at last resolved and now his present was going to hell.

  All because of a stranger.

  No. That wasn’t right. Last night had been his mistake.

  Too bad his first blunder in so long had to have been such a colossal one.

  Pushing the disturbing thoughts aside, Carson plunged into work mode. Before he’d gotten settled in, his door opened once more, again with no preamble. Not even a knock.

  “Don’t get up,” Wainwright insisted as he entered the office with his usual fervor, a thick case file tucked beneath his left arm. He closed the door and made himself at home in one of the upholstered chairs flanking Carson’s desk. His full attention rested on Carson then, his eyes glittering with anticipation, firing the same rush in Carson’s veins.

  “I’m about to give you,” Wainwright began, “the case that will assure both of us our goals.”

  Carson closed the file on his desk. The anticipation morphed into searing adrenaline. “Excellent.” Maybe this day was salvageable after all. “You’re well aware that I’m prepared to do whatever’s necessary to make that happen.”

  As the new DA of Jefferson County, it would be more than a little beneficial to have the governor in his corner. The next few months were going to be the most crucial of Carson’s career. Pleasing the boss and the public was paramount. Wild, frantic sex acts flickered in front of his eyes. He could not take another risk like that. Could not allow his focus to be divided. His career had always come first. Now was not the time to allow that rigid discipline to falter.

  “As you are well aware,” Wainwright said, using Carson’s words and relaxing more fully into the chair, “we’ve had our eye on Otis Fleming for two decades.”

  Otis Fleming. Carson sat up a little straighten Fleming had long been considered Jefferson County’s connection to organized crime, but no one had ever been able to prove it. No one got close to Fleming and lived to rat him out. Few tried.

  “New evidence has come to light?” Carson eased back into his chair, matching his boss’s posture, but he was by no means relaxed at this point. Wainwright was correct. A high-profile case like this could put them both where they wanted to be career-wise.

  Wainwright placed the heavy folder on Carson’s desk, then pounded it with the side of his fist. “Even better. We’ve found a weak link amid his faithful soldiers.”

  Carson took a moment to absorb that information. “Is the witness in protective custody already?” If not, he probably wouldn’t be alive for long.

  Wainwright shook his head. “This witness isn’t ours just yet. That’s where you come in.”

  Ah, the insider hadn’t been flipped. Interesting. “Do we have enough leverage to do the job?” In these situations, leverage was everything. His heart ushered into a faster rhythm at the prospect of taking on this challenge.

  “We have a start.” Wainwright slid the file toward Carson. “Study what we have. Dig up every speck of dirt you can find. Don’t stop until we have what we need to get everything we want.” Wainwright pushed to his feet. “We can discuss your initial conclusions in my five o’clock with Senator Drake. You know how long he’s
wanted to nail Fleming. I want you”—Wainwright pointed at Carson—“to show him how we’re going to make that happen.”

  Carson stood, gave a resolute nod. “I’ll be prepared.” When Wainwright was gone Carson opened the file. Years of reports and compiled data on Otis Fleming filled page after page. If only 1 percent of the suspected criminal activities were proven, the man would be going up the river for a very, very long time.

  Carson reached the dossier on the suspected weak link. Annette Baxter. Thirty, an associate as well as personal friend of Fleming. Carson didn’t recall having heard her name before. In fact, he was surprised to find Fleming’s weak link was a female.

  Curiosity hastened him through the initial read of the facts on the insider. He turned the page and found the first of several eight-by-ten surveillance photos.

  He stared at the vivid image. Denial detonated in his brain. “Impossible,” he muttered.

  Seconds turned into a minute with him staring at the photo, looking from every angle to be sure there was no mistake.

  And there wasn’t.

  Annette Baxter was the woman...the stranger with whom he’d just spent the night having hot, dirty sex.

  Chapter Seven

  5:00 p.m.

  Carson waited outside District Attorney Wainwright’s office. Hesitation. Another first in what appeared to be the domino effect. One misstep led to another...to cover one’s ass.

  He’d worked with his mentor for five years, and never once had he experienced dread or uncertainty.

  But he was damned sure feeling both right now.

  The entire day had expired with him digging as deeply into Annette Baxter’s background as possible without leaving the sanctuary of his office.

  There was not a doubt in his mind that he could get the job done. He was the Avenger. He never failed. But what had happened last night was exactly the sort of unethical behavior that could complicate matters.

  Could ruin his career plans.

  Yes, he was single, unattached, but this wouldn’t be about morals. This would be about the law. If he considered nothing else save for his own ambition and the certainty that he was the best man for the job, he could not recuse himself from this case. Yet his own actions had left him biased. That could come back to haunt him as well as the case in a major way. Could reflect badly on the entire office.