CARSON (Dark and Dangerous Romantic Suspense Book 3)

by Debra Webb

  “Whatever it takes,” Annette mumbled. Live dirty, die dirty.

  Those were the rules. Miss Tate might as well learn that lesson now. She had scored a fairly large payoff this time; next time she might not be so lucky.

  Annette stalled as she approached her Lexus.

  The air evacuated her lungs.

  The smashed windshield and bashed-in headlights made her sick to her stomach, but it was the words scrawled in blood-red spray paint that chilled her to the bone.

  DIE BITCH!

  She spun around, searching the dimly lit parking area for any sign of threat.

  No one. Nothing. Just a lot full of cars and trucks whose owners remained inside the low-rent establishment boozing it up and ogling half-naked women.

  Annette’s pulse raced, sending her heart into a frantic rhythm as her attention swung to her damaged car once more.

  Oh, yeah. Time was very, very short.

  If she didn’t get Tanner on her team soon...the game—as he called it—would be over.

  And they would both lose.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sunday, September 12, 2:15 p.m.

  Holman prison, Atmore, Alabama

  Carson measured the interview room one impatient stride at a time. Back and forth. He’d waited half an hour. Warden Fallon hadn’t been too happy to hear from him, particularly on Sunday, but he hadn’t dared refuse Carson’s request. Having District Attorney Donald Wainwright as his mentor had its perks.

  He’d gotten a call en route from Nashville PD. The lab had rushed the ballistics report on the slugs found in the body of his BMW. No matches. No witnesses had come forward. With no leads, there was little chance the incident would be solved.

  The black sedan, possibly a Malibu, hadn’t shown up in his rearview mirror in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe he wasn’t being followed.

  But the shooting—that was a different story. That had to have been personal. No two ways about it. The BMW would be picked up for the necessary repairs. Meanwhile he was stuck with the rental.

  Carson glanced at his watch. There was little if any possibility that he was going to get back to Birmingham in time for escorting Elizabeth to the Newton Ball. She would be disappointed. But he had to do this.

  He let out a big breath. He had to prove Baxter was wrong.

  The entire night before had been exhausted going over the Tanner case file. Relooking at reports Carson had already analyzed a hundred times. Every crime scene photo. Every lab report. Every damned newspaper clipping related to Stokes. Then he’d reviewed the Baxter/Fleming file again. Nothing. He’d learned absolutely nothing. All he had was her accusations. Accusations from a woman whose record made her an unreliable witness at best.

  Carson had to be crazy even to consider her claim.

  Agent Schaffer’s suggestion that Wainwright wasn’t being on the up-and-up with Carson echoed in his brain even now. Wainwright had explained away that allegation. Baxter’s bullshit story in no way backed up Schaffer’s theory. Carson had only followed through with this ridiculous idea of talking to Stokes to prove to Baxter once and for all that she had one choice. Take the deal.

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

  As certain as Carson was of his convictions...a part of him was absolutely terrified that she might be right to some degree. There were too many loose ends cropping up. Too many questions.

  But...if he believed even part of what she suggested, then that meant that everything he’d ever believed in was wrong.

  The interview room door opened with a distinct clang, shattering the troubling thoughts. Two guards guided Joseph Stokes into the room.

  “Stand back, Mr. Tanner, while we secure the prisoner.”

  Carson backed away a couple of steps. Stokes kept his head lowered in feigned humility while the guards seated him and secured his shackles to the eye hook in the concrete floor. The monster looked frail and vulnerable in the baggy prison jumpsuit. But Carson knew better.

  “We’ll be right outside, sir, if you need us,” the same guard who’d first spoken explained.

  “Thank you.” Carson waited where he stood until the two had vacated the room and closed the door, leaving him alone with Stokes. As he approached the table Stokes raised his gaze to meet Carson’s.

  He grinned as triumphantly as if he’d just been informed his conviction had been reversed. “I knew you’d come.” Laughter rumbled from his vile throat. “You can’t stand not knowing everything.”

  Carson pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the table and lowered into it. “Rule number one,” he said, his tone nonnegotiable, “no games. I want straight answers or this interview is over.”

  Stokes narrowed his gaze. “And what’s in it for me?”

  Carson had anticipated that reaction. “Warden Fallon has agreed to allow you one hour each week in the recreational activity of your choice.”

  The sick bastard’s suspicion visibly mounted. “Why would he do that? He’s sticking strictly to the agenda you sons of bitches requested. Complete isolation. One hour per day outside with no less than four guards shadowing my every step. I can’t even look at any of the other inmates.”

  Carson barely restrained the need to smile. The piece of shit was already feeling the strain of perpetual isolation. According to the psychological profile on Stokes, he craved people. Needed social interaction to fuel his repulsive imagination. Isolation was the worst kind of punishment for him. It would slowly, surely push him over the edge into a place his contemptible ass wouldn’t be able to claw out of.

  “Let’s not worry about the how or why,” Carson said. “You cooperate with me and I’ll see that you get what I promised.”

  That sadistic grin appeared again. “You love the power, don’tcha? Feels good. Makes you hungry for more.”

  Anger started to crowd in on Carson’s composure. He pushed it aside, but not without difficulty. “Is that a yes?”

  “You want to know what really happened to that fancy family of yours, is that it?”

  Carson resisted the impulse to jump at that line of discussion. He had a carefully laid-out agenda. He’d analyzed forward and backward how he should go about this on the way here. He couldn’t deviate. If he did, control would be up for grabs. He would not allow Stokes any measure of control.

  “District Attorney Wainwright visited you in Mobile once you were in custody. Do you remember the date?”

  The suspicion was back. “I don’t know. Maybe. What difference does that make? You could just ask your boss the answer to that one.”

  Carson ignored Stokes’s comments. “You were taken into custody on August twenty-first. Is that when Wainwright visited you?”

  Stokes shrugged his hunched shoulders. “Sounds about right. All that should be in the file.”

  “Are you afraid to answer the question?” Carson leaned forward. “Your deal can’t be revoked now. There’s nothing to fear.”

  Stokes leaned back in his seat and eyed Carson. “You think I’m afraid? Fuck, I ain’t afraid of nothing.” His disgusting laugh reverberated in the room. “Well, maybe I don’t like the idea of dying, but you got no power over that. Like you said, the deal’s done. You can’t go changing your mind now.”

  “Then tell me the truth, Joseph.” Carson swallowed back the bitter taste associated with calling the monster by his first name...as if they were friends.

  Stokes smirked. “Personally, I don’t think you really want to know the truth.”

  Let the games begin. Carson mimicked his opponent’s posture, leaning back in his seat and pretending to be relaxed. Like two old buddies catching up. “If you don’t tell me, then there’s nothing I can do.”

  That beady gaze narrowed again. “What would you do?”

  Carson shrugged. “I can’t answer that without additional information.” He placed his palms flat on the table between them and stared long and hard at the other man. “What do you want me to do?”

&nb
sp; One corner of Stokes’s mouth twitched. “Your big-shot boss is running for governor.”

  Carson nodded. “That’s right.”

  That disgusting twitch evolved into a curling of lips. “He wants it bad, don’t he?”

  “He does.”

  “What if I told you, he’s as crooked as a Georgia back road?”

  “I wouldn’t believe you.” Carson paused. “Not without evidence,” he qualified, more to see where the bastard was going with this than because he put an ounce of weight in the suggestion. Or Annette Baxter’s. The fact that she had made statements word for word like those of Stokes told Carson the two had been in contact at some point since this nightmare started.

  Stokes leaned forward another inch or two. “You want Wainwright’s job.”

  Carson tensed. “I do.”

  Strangely, that answer seemed to appease the bastard. “You don’t know for sure what happened that day, do you?”

  A muscle in Carson’s jaw jerked. He fought the reflex, but it continued. Tick. Tick. Tick. “No. I don’t remember much before the police arrived.” He’d drunk himself into oblivion with a bottle of Bacardi after the argument with his mother. A total alcohol blackout had never happened before...but that day it had.

  Stokes chuckled. “Poor bastard. That’s a hell of a thing to live with.”

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five...ten. Don’t lose it. Stay cool. “It is.”

  More of the obscene chuckling. “I tell you what. You get me two hours a week with the others and I’ll tell you what you’ve waited fifteen long years to hear.”

  Carson’s tension rocketed to a higher level. “Done.”

  Stokes hesitated a moment as if he was skeptical. But then he spoke. “You’ll make sure there’s no backlash from that bastard Wainwright?”

  “You have my word.”

  Stokes bent his head down to rub his nose. “First off,” he began, “you weren’t nowhere in the house when your people was butchered.”

  Carson flinched.

  “I don’t know where you was, mind you. ’Cept what the papers said about you being passed out drunk in your car at some teenage hangout.”

  A moment of silence...then two.

  “Go on,” Carson urged.

  “But I know you didn’t kill nobody.”

  “You confessed,” Carson countered, a tight lid on half a dozen emotions whirling inside him. “I believe any question about who committed the murders has already been answered.”

  Stokes’s expression literally beamed with anticipation. “I said what I was told to say.”

  Adrenaline fired in Carson’s veins. “Who told you what to say?”

  Stokes harrumphed. “Don’t take no rocket scientist to figure that out.”

  Relax. Don’t let him see any reaction. “Just answer the question.”

  “Your boss told me what to say. Who else?”

  “Don’t make statements you can’t back up,” Carson warned. He knew all too well how this guy liked manipulating, playing head games. He wasn’t going to blindly believe anything Stokes related without indisputable evidence.

  “Three days before the law picked me up on that anonymous tip, Wainwright came to see me.”

  The statement stunned Carson for about two seconds. The idea that Annette Baxter had told him to say this crossed Carson’s mind. But he’d checked the visitors’ log. Stokes had not received any visitors or telephone calls since his arrival. That, of course, didn’t mean that Baxter hadn’t figured out a way to work around the usual means of communication.

  “How did Wainwright know where you were?” Not possible. Had to be bullshit. Carson didn’t know why he even bothered to listen. He was a fool for even coming here.

  “Let’s just say he issued me an invitation.”

  Carson shook his head. “You’re going to have to give me more than that.”

  “You know exactly what I mean. He held a bunch of press conferences and mentioned that I was the primary suspect. He offered that reward. I knew he was talking directly to me. I knew what he wanted. My mama didn’t raise no fool.”

  “Your mother is the one who gave the police that anonymous tip.” As difficult as it was to believe, even scum like Stokes had a mother, was once a child.

  “She got the reward, too,” Stokes reminded. “Wainwright promised she would.”

  “So you just called up Wainwright and said here I am, come see me?” This grew more ludicrous with each passing moment.

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  Carson shook his head. “There’s no way you’re going to convince me that he came to see you before you were in custody.” Even as he said the words, something like dread had started a slow coil in his gut.

  “He didn’t...at first.” Stokes reclined in his chair once more. “At first he sent this blond bitch to see me.” He shuddered. “Cold as ice, that bitch. But damn, she was a looker. Never seen one so beautiful be so fucking cold.”

  Annette Baxter.

  The dread mounted. “Do you recall her name?”

  “Didn’t give it to me. Said she was there representing Wainwright.”

  “And she offered you the deal?” Disbelief hit Carson square in the chest. This just couldn’t be. Stokes had to be yanking his chain. But every instinct urged otherwise. Had him second-guessing all he thought he knew.

  “She did. Told me what I had to say and how it would go down. Plum down to the part where I’d get to talk to you personally if that’s what I wanted.” He shrugged. “Wainwright didn’t like that part much, but he agreed to it.”

  Baxter had definitely gotten to this guy somehow no matter what the visitors’ log showed. She wanted Carson to believe Wainwright was dirty. Wainwright had protested the idea of Carson talking to Stokes from day one.

  This game was over. Carson stood. “I’d say it’s been nice, but that would be a lie.”

  Stokes lunged to his feet. Chains rattled. “You don’t believe me.”

  “You would be right.” Carson pushed in his chair. “You’re a sick bastard, Stokes. And whatever Annette Baxter is up to, it’s not going to work.”

  “So that’s her name?” Stokes raised an eyebrow. “Annette Baxter?”

  Carson scoffed. “Like you didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t.” Stokes growled under his breath. “I’d damned sure like to take that apart, though, one frigid piece at a time.”

  Carson shook his head. “I’m finished playing games. Tell me the truth now or I’m out of here.”

  Stokes leaned as far across the table as his shackles would allow. “I’m telling you the truth. The woman came to me, told me what I had to do to get this deal, and then Wainwright showed up and confirmed it. Never saw her before or after and didn’t know her name until you just said it.”

  “You can’t substantiate your claim,” Carson countered. “Your word isn’t good enough.” He was wasting time.

  “Wainwright told me about the rings,” Stokes blurted, his eyes wild with anticipation. “Wedding bands. Gold, I think.”

  Uncertainty started to tug at Carson’s gut. He thought the rings were gold? “You don’t remember the rings?”

  Stokes looked around, obviously buying time. “I don’t know. Wainwright told me but I forgot. Didn’t matter. All I had to do was say I did it and sign the paper.”

  “You really expect me to take your word over Donald Wainwright’s?” This was insane.

  Stokes rolled his beady eyes. “That’s just it. Wainwright ain’t afraid of me talking now. He knows nobody’ll believe me. Probably just have me killed by one of these other lifers. But you”—Stokes stuck his face as close to Carson’s as his restraints would allow—“you know something ain’t right. You feel it.”

  He was telling the truth. Carson’s instincts literally hummed with that certainty. But...that wasn’t possible. No way. “Why, for all intents and purposes, turn yourself in and confess to crimes you didn’t commit?” he demanded, disgusted all over again that he
was going along with this for even a second. “You’d been tied to all those other murders, but not to my family. No one knew where you were. What you’re claiming doesn’t make sense.”

  Fear or something on that order flickered in the maniac’s eyes. “I got a problem with my ticker. No insurance, no decent treatment. I knew it was just a matter of time before I was caught anyways. I wanted it on my terms. Nine murders or twelve, what’s the difference?” He blew out an indignant puff of air. “The sentence was gonna be the same. This way I got some say-so.”

  Carson flattened his palms on the table, anger at himself, at this low-life bastard erupting. “Wainwright did you a huge favor to get the truth. To solve two heinous crimes. Why would I put any stock in a word you say?”

  The bastard threw back his head and howled that grotesque laugh of his. Then he leveled his gaze on Carson and stared right back. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.” Amusement glittered in those beady eyes. “Trust your instincts, boy. That’s the only way you’ll ever find the truth.”

  Stokes was right about one thing: His own mother had tipped off the police, and she’d gotten the reward. But the other, the ludicrous claims against Wainwright, couldn’t be substantiated.

  “You’ll see,” Stokes hissed, “that I never laid eyes on your family until Wainwright showed me the crime scene photos.” He nodded knowingly. “You check it out. You’ll find out I’m right.”

  “So you never had the rings in your possession? Never even saw pictures?” Carson wasn’t sure why that mattered, but somehow it did.

  “Never saw that shit in no pictures or nothing. I’m telling you,” Stokes repeated, “Wainwright told me what to say.”

  Carson held his spiteful gaze for a beat, then two, his lungs empty of oxygen, his heart stuck somewhere between beats. “I want the truth.”

  Stokes didn’t waiver. “I don’t know who killed your people, Tanner. The only thing I can tell you for sure is that I didn’t.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  3:20 p.m.