Faceless

by Debra Webb

  Most powerful politicians in Alabama were happily married with a family. Was this part of the package being considered for his future? Political aspirations often required personal sacrifice, that much was true. If the powers-that-be had put their heads together and decided that Carson’s success in the political arena required the acquisition of a wife, the question was, who would be sacrificing the most? Him? Or Elizabeth?

  Elizabeth hadn’t married. No rumor of any engagements or significant boyfriends had filtered to him. He wasn’t fool enough to believe she had waited for him all this time.

  Maybe he was making too much of this pleasant evening.

  “Would you like another slice, Carson?”

  His attention turned to Mrs. Drake. She smiled, her hand poised to pare off another portion of the cake she had made expressly for his enjoyment. Patricia Drake had been his mother’s best friend. She had treated Carson and his sister like part of the family.

  “No, thank you. Though it’s seriously tempting.”

  Patricia smiled, absolutely content to be known for her baking skills and raising the bar for the perfect wife and mother. Guilt pinged Carson for thinking that tonight was anything more than plain old Southern hospitality.

  Work really was all he knew anymore. His social skills were rusty. All the more reason to end the night before his imagination got the better of him. He pushed back his chair and stood. “Thank you for having me, but I should be going. I have hours of work ahead of me.”

  Elizabeth looked crestfallen. “It’s still early.”

  The senator put a hand on his daughter’s. “Remember,” he glanced at Carson, “he’s our next district attorney. He has to stay on top of his game.”

  Her expression brightened, but a hint of sadness lingered. “Of course.” Elizabeth placed her napkin on the table and stood. “Let me walk you out.”

  Carson hesitated, maybe rustier on etiquette than he’d first thought. “I should help clean up.” He started to clear his place setting.

  “No. No,” Patricia scolded gently. “We’ll take care of that.”

  Carson looked to the senator.

  “We’ve got this under control,” he seconded as he rose and reached for Carson’s hand. “Keep your social calendar clear, son. We’ll do this again soon.”

  Carson looked from one to the other. “Thank you for the generous invitation.” His smile was automatic and completely genuine, despite the persistent questions niggling him.

  Elizabeth hooked her arm in his as they made their way to the entry hall. “I’ve missed times like this.”

  At the door he turned to her. “Me, too.”

  A troubled frown marred her smooth brow. “I worry that Father pushes you too hard.”

  Carson was surprised by her comment. “He has high expectations. But I see that as a good thing.”

  Elizabeth searched his eyes, hers filled with the same reservations she’d voiced. “Is this really what you want, Carson? To step into Wainwright’s shoes?”

  Suddenly it was as if they had gone back fifteen years and Elizabeth was troubled over the insistence of Carson’s father that he go away to an Ivy League preparatory school. Or his mother’s concern that he and Elizabeth were spending far too much alone time together.

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

  Carson pushed the anguished memory away. “This is what I want,” he assured Elizabeth. “The senator extended the invitation, but the decision to accept was entirely mine.” Oddly, he liked that she worried about him. No one had done that in a really long time.

  “I know how demanding he can be.” She sighed. “I just don’t want him controlling everything …” She looked away a moment. “The way he used to.” When her eyes met Carson’s once more, there was something else there beyond the worry … something hard … bitter. “He has a habit of that, you know. Things are different now. We’re all grown up. This is your life and my life.” Anger flared briefly in her green eyes. “He needs to come to terms with that and back off.”

  “Everything’s fine. Don’t worry.” Carson gifted her with the most reassuring smile he could manage in view of just how far out of character she’d abruptly stepped. Not once in all the years he’d known her had he witnessed anything other than sheer devotion to her father. Elizabeth was and always had been the epitome of the loving and obedient daughter. “Your father has my best interests at heart. I’m honored that he has such confidence in me.”

  Another troubled sigh whispered past her lips. “Okay. As long as you’re happy.” She tiptoed and hugged him. His heart reacted. “That’s what matters.”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about.” He squeezed her hand. “Good night.”

  “Don’t forget about the ball on Sunday evening.” Her fingers slipped slowly from his as she drew away. “’Night.”

  Carson looked back one last time as he closed the door behind him. The urge to do a little victory dance at finally having some aspect of his personal life back to the way it used to be made him giddy.

  But that other, more cynical side of him wanted to dissect the night. Take it apart from every angle and analyze the motives again and again. Especially those final moments with Elizabeth.

  The past couldn’t be rewritten. There was no option for a do-over. He wished he could have simply enjoyed the familiarity and comfort tonight had offered. But he couldn’t. Not without wondering why it hadn’t happened before. Why now, all these years later? And what the hell did it all mean? Why would Elizabeth be concerned that her father was pushing Carson into something he didn’t want? Did she harbor resentment over the fact that her parents had sent her away when Carson needed her most?

  Maybe.

  Why not relax and see where this went? He’d waited so long to have that part of his life back.

  The feel of Annette Baxter’s body hungrily cradling his overwhelmed the fleeting bliss. Every muscle tensed in reaction to the fierce sensation.

  And that was precisely why he couldn’t let his guard down, couldn’t presume anything.

  He had to be absolutely certain of everything and everyone.

  Including Carson Tanner.

  11:40 PM

  Carson ran long and hard.

  He’d tried to work but concentrating had proven impossible. So he’d hit the pavement.

  Five miles, six. Then he’d walked another. Every step had been distracted by his need to ensure he wasn’t being followed or watched. Whenever a car had idled past on the street, he’d tensed. But he hadn’t allowed the fear loitering in the back of his mind to keep him from his usual routine.

  No damned way.

  Sweat rolled down his face. His T-shirt was plastered to his torso.

  Schaffer would get back to him tomorrow with the results of her search into the possibility of Baxter having a sister. The agent thought it was a waste of time, but she had agreed to put aside her doubt and pursue the possibility. Carson had reached out to his contact in Adoptive Services who would in turn touch base with her contact in Tennessee.

  If no evidence or weakness was found, he would have no option but to push for a deal that might appeal to Baxter. Immunity, unfortunately, was generally only a temptation to the criminal with something to lose. At this point it appeared Baxter had absolutely nothing to lose other than the nuisance of being watched 24/7. Unfortunately, she proved so adept at evading surveillance that even that wasn’t as frustrating and intimidating as it should be.

  There had to be a way to get to her. Annette Baxter couldn’t be that good.

  No one was.

  Not even him.

  He was damned lucky the FBI didn’t have footage of him going to her hotel room that night … or of her showing up at his office. She’d set him up good. Undoubtedly she’d had a carefully laid-out master plan from the beginning.

  Carson wasn’t surprised. No one who had survived the life she had would leave anything to chance.

  That alone gave him reason to believe there
was something that she feared him discovering. Otherwise, why would she care who was on the case? Or bother with acquiring leverage of her own? More importantly, why would she demand his attention to hear her so-called truth? Master plan or no, there was something she was afraid of. Otherwise she would simply use all that information she so blatantly professed to possess to stop this investigation dead in its tracks.

  He would find what he needed. Carson wouldn’t give up until he did. There had to be a way to get to Annette Baxter. To find the fault in her titanium armor.

  He stopped in his driveway long enough to stretch out his muscles. Hell yeah. He would nail her so thoroughly she wouldn’t dare attempt to blackmail him or to damage the DA’s Office.

  She’d be spilling her guts before Wainwright had a chance to call his next briefing.

  Then Otis Fleming would at last have his long-awaited fall.

  Carson scrubbed the sweat from his face with the back of his hand.

  The concept that any exploitable information on the DA’s Office might have something to do with what Wainwright hadn’t shared with him lurked in the back of his mind. He expelled that theory, refused to give it credence in any way.

  He trusted Donald Wainwright without reservation.

  Whatever he’d told Schaffer had to be something Carson was already aware of. There was tension between Schaffer and Wainwright. Maybe Schaffer was the one with a vendetta.

  “Feeling the pressure tonight?”

  Carson swiveled toward the voice.

  Her.

  Annette Baxter.

  He squinted to see her through the darkness.

  She lurked in the shadows at the corner of his house.

  A blast of outrage had him striding in her direction. He’d caught her watching him today when he’d left the bureau, and now this. He had news for Ms. Annette Baxter: She should just save herself the trouble. Nothing she said or did was going to prevent him from doing his job.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, his pulse rate rushing into the pre-cool-down zone. He glanced toward the street, scanned for her Lexus. Didn’t see it.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, “I parked my car a street over. After, of course, I lost my tail.”

  “I asked what the hell you’re doing here.” This was stalking at the very least, possibly coupled with the intent to obstruct justice. Until he was prepared to offer her a deal, they had no reason to talk.

  “I was lonely.” She took another drag from her cigarette, tossed it to the ground, and smashed it with the toe of her slinky high-heeled shoe. “I was hoping you’d changed your mind about hearing me out.”

  “And why would I do that?” He was always open to a new approach. Why not see where she intended to go with this?

  She lifted a shoulder in a negligent shrug, causing one flimsy dress strap to slide down her arm. The silky gold slip of a dress clung to her curves, accentuated every feminine asset. Carson had figured out that she dressed that way on purpose. To distract him. Unfortunately she succeeded every damned time. His overworked muscles reacted as if she weren’t the enemy. As if all logic had fled along with his ability to stay on task. That she repeatedly evoked the same reaction confirmed his concern that he was losing his edge.

  “Maybe,” she suggested, taking a step from the shadows, “because deep down you know I’m right about your beloved boss.”

  This stopped, here and now. “No more games, Ms. Baxter. I thought I made that clear. I’m not interested in hearing any of your conspiracy theories. This investigation is about you and Fleming. No one else.”

  She inclined her head, studying him as if strategizing a new avenue of attack. “No games, Mr. Tanner. I’m trying to steer you in the right direction with valuable information. You know, I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

  That was exactly what he had surmised. Carson held up his hands. “We have nothing to discuss unless you’re prepared to roll over on your friend Otis Fleming. I can offer certain advantages if that’s why you’re here.” The decision to go this route might prove somewhat premature, but no harm in allowing her to understand it was an option. Any forward movement would be better than staggering backward.

  “You haven’t heard what I have to say yet,” she countered. “Do you really want to call before the bet is on the table?”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. The lady had guts, he’d give her that. He’d offered her a deal and she still wanted to toy with him. “You could walk away,” he clarified: “Start over someplace with a clean slate.”

  She tossed that blond mane and laughed, the sound at once infuriating and alluring. “Do you really think I’ve survived this long being stupid? There is no walking away or starting over in my line of work.”

  His gaze tracked the second dress strap as it slipped slowly down her other shoulder. He gritted his teeth, fought the traitorous response. “We can protect you.” Why did he bother? She wasn’t going down without a battle. He’d recognized her tenacity that first night they met before he’d even known her identity. He would need serious leverage.

  And goddamned control of his own reactions.

  She strolled right up to him, crowding him with her soft, sweet scent, making him want to reach out and touch those bared shoulders. She stared directly into his eyes. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I was acquainted with two people the feds promised to protect—was being the operative word.”

  Fury blazed deep in his gut. “All the more reason you should do the right thing, Ms. Baxter.” He went nose-to-nose with her. “I’m certain you’re at least vaguely acquainted with that concept.”

  She pursed those lush lips for a second. “You mean the way all your powerful friends do the right thing?”

  The perfect comeback eluded him … his attention had stalled on those lips. Full, wet, so close.

  “You’re so certain your friends are better than mine,” she challenged. “Let me tell you a little story, Mr. Tanner.”

  He almost stopped her … but curiosity kept him quiet and motionless. Let her talk. Find out what this so-called damaging knowledge really was.

  “Once upon a time,” she purred, “there were three boys in college. Donald Wainwright, Randolph Drake, and Craig Tanner. Frat brothers, roommates, buddies.” She inclined her head. “You know what I mean. Kind of like you and your good friend Luttrell.”

  He held his ire in check, not an easy exercise. “Get to the point, assuming there is one.” His father’s friendship with Wainwright and Drake was no secret. The three went way back. All the way to elementary school.

  “There was one girl,” Baxter went on. “Lana Kimble. Lana and Randolph were in love. This little detail was the cause of much discord among the three friends since Randolph was already promised to Patricia. Then one night sweet little Lana disappeared. But not to worry—she was found the very next day.” Baxter lifted her chin and stared directly at him, as if she suspected before she gave the punch line that he wouldn’t get the unfortunate joke. “About three hundred feet below the ledge where she’d waited for her lover the night before. Guess who saw her last?”

  Carson shook his head. What could she possibly hope to gain by telling him this fantastic story? “People die young sometimes. They generally have friends. Just because my father and his buddies lost a friend in college doesn’t mean they’re somehow responsible for the loss.” The girl’s death would have been investigated. Carson had faith in the justice system. There were times when it failed, but for the most part it worked.

  “You didn’t answer the question, Tanner,” she pressed. “Who do you suppose was the last person to see her alive?”

  He threw his hands up in question. “Why don’t you tell me? Since you have all the answers.”

  “The revered Senator Randolph Drake.” The satisfaction in her expression was really starting to piss him off. “But she was alive, according to him, when he left her. His best friends, you know who, backed him up. Lana was perched on that ledge calling hi
s name as young Randolph walked away. Donald and Craig witnessed this from the car—not very far away, of course, and with the aid of the full moon to provide a clear view of the whole event.”

  What did she expect him to say to that? “Sad story, Ms. Baxter, but somehow I missed your point.” She was grasping at straws. He’d been right. She had nothing on Wainwright or anyone else.

  Baxter edged a little closer, close enough for him to feel her breath on his face. “Check it out, Tanner. You’ll see my point. Lana’s death was ruled a suicide, but there were conflicting details. Your powerful friends have some very deep, very dark secrets. This one’s only the beginning.”

  Like Schaffer said, Baxter was one cunning piece of work. “You’re accusing three of the most respected men in Birmingham, including my father, of murder.” He had to be out of his mind to continue this conversation. “I won’t stand here and disrespect those men by listening to your slanderous stories. Put up or shut up, Baxter. You know what I want from you. Think about it and get back to me.”

  He’d heard more than enough to know she had nothing.

  Before he could walk away, she countered, “That’s right. Take the easy way out. You’re just like the rest of them. You don’t really care about the truth. It’s all about your reputation. Your prized record in the courtroom.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts, purposely emphasizing the cleavage revealed by the skimpy dress. “Go ahead, Mr. Tanner, keep digging until you find whatever evidence they’ve planted to do me in. Then ask yourself if you’ll ever really know what happened.”

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

  How could she use the exact words Stokes had?

  Unless she’d been in contact with him.

  That was the moment when Carson went over that edge he’d been teetering on for about seventy-two hours now. “While we’re on the subject of truth, tell me,” he demanded softly, murderously, “how does it feel to crawl into bed with that old man? Does his sagging skin turn you on? How much Viagra does it take for Fleming to get it up?” Carson didn’t stop there. Couldn’t. “Do you like making your living on your back? Or maybe you do your best work on your knees. What did you do for Stokes to get information out of him?”