by Debra Webb
Both cars had disappeared.
Chapter 28
He brought the Charger to a screeching halt.
Bill Lynch bailed out the driver’s-side door and raced around the hood. He peered through the darkness, could see the headlamps of the black sedan deep in the ravine below. He’d forced the car off the road at eighty miles per hour. The larger trees had stopped its momentum.
Flashlight in hand, he cautiously picked his way downward. He considered that this particular Mountain Brook road could be treacherous. If a vehicle left the pavement and plunged into the wooded hillside, it might not be found for days. It had happened before. Several larger saplings had lost the battle with this particular vehicle.
He’d seen this same vehicle lurking around Carson Tanner’s location once or twice before. Bill had run the license plate, which was assigned to a local car dealership. The dealership claimed the sedan didn’t belong to them and had no idea until the manager looked that the license plate in question was missing.
Palming his service weapon, Bill slowly approached the vehicle. The headlights still blared into the darkness of the woods. Too bad the driver evidently hadn’t been wearing his seat belt, since his head and upper torso protruded through the windshield. The air bag had done its job as the vehicle plowed down a couple of smaller trees, but the final impact had come after it deflated. Too much blood to ID the victim visually.
Bill put his unneeded weapon away before kicking in the driver’s-side window. He reached inside, shut off the headlamps, then fished the wallet from the driver’s hip pocket. Took a look at the man’s driver’s license beneath the flashlight’s beam.
Well, that was a surprise.
He knew the guy all right.
Bill pocketed the wallet. He would dispose of it later. Might as well buy some time before the driver was ID’d. The fewer complications at this point, the better.
The whole situation was escalating out of control far too fast.
Bill took one last look at the victim. If he wasn’t dead already, he would be soon considering the visible injuries. Oh well, he deserved to die.
You just couldn’t get reliable help anymore.
Chapter 29
11:59 PM
3202 Fernway Road, Drake estate
Senator Randolph Drake dropped the receiver back into its cradle. She would never let it go with a simple phone call. She would demand that face-to-face showdown.
He should have anticipated that. He had not.
She was far more resourceful than he had realized.
Far more determined.
Deep down he had known she would never cooperate, even when faced with her own downfall.
No, she was made of sturdier stuff than that.
Forged in fire, that one.
He had hoped she would disappear. Take her money and run.
But she had surprised him.
He reached for a cigar, clipped it, then lit the tip. He savored the taste, considered a nice Scotch or perhaps bourbon.
Not now. He would need to attend to this fully before allowing the indulgence. Things were getting too out of hand. Steps had to be taken to end this once and for all.
The knob on the door of his study turned.
That hadn’t taken long. She must have been very close when she had called.
Damned ballsy of her to come to his home and walk in uninvited. Thankfully, he was alone. He had dismissed the household staff early tonight and his wife had gone to bed as soon as they arrived home from the Newton Ball.
Very well. The sooner this business was finished, the better.
The door opened and he looked up in surprise.
“I want this to end.”
He blinked, confused. What in the world? His gaze dropped from hers to the gun in her hand. A gun?
“What are you doing?” He started to push out of his chair, but the weapon waved threateningly. He frowned, couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the reality of what his eyes were seeing. Then he understood. She knows. “You understand what has to be done,” he explained patiently. “It’s the only way.”
“You swore you wouldn’t let this happen again.” The business end of the weapon leveled on him. “But you lied.”
He shook his head, held out his hands imploringly. “You mustn’t interfere. You have to trust me.”
“No.”
He saw the movement—a ruthless finger depressed the trigger. He felt the impact of the bullet as it tore into the center of his chest.
He stared down at the round hole in the starched white shirt he wore. Watched the blood pulsing forth.
Funny, he hadn’t heard the explosion of the bullet bursting from the barrel. What was that old saying from his military days?
If you don’t hear the shot, you’re dead already.
Chapter 30
Monday, September 13, 2:10 AM
2402 Altadena Road, Tanner residence
The telephone rang.
Carson roused slowly.
He sat up, scrubbed a hand over his face. He glanced around his living room half expecting to see Annette Baxter. Then he remembered that he’d sent her home.
His bleary gaze settled on the items lying on the coffee table right in front of him. His gut tightened.
The wedding rings … golden bands his parents had never taken off.
Images of Annette Baxter on her knees digging frantically in the dirt rushed one after the other through his head.
Dane must have murdered his family. That was the only way he could have had the rings in his possession. He had definitely murdered Zac Holderfield. Carson closed his eyes, rubbed the images away. Was it possible Wainwright had known? Had covered for Dane? Flashbacks from his visit to Stokes had bile churning in Carson’s gut.
The telephone rang again.
He squinted at the digital clock on the cable box next to the television: 2:15 AM.
Wouldn’t be Schaffer or Wainwright; they would have called his cell. Where the hell was his cell phone? He felt in his pockets. Shit.
Another ring.
He picked up the receiver to his home’s landline. “Tanner.”
“Carson.”
“Elizabeth?” He blinked, considered the quavering sound of her voice. “What’s wrong?” Panic seized him. If something had happened to Dane … Carson might never get to the truth.
“It’s Daddy.” A low keening sound echoed across the line. “He’s dead, Carson. Somebody killed him.” Elizabeth lapsed into sobs.
Carson shot to his feet, stumbled slightly. “Where are you?”
“Home. We’re home. Daddy’s in his study.”
“I’ll be right there.” He dropped the phone into its cradle. Rubbed his eyes again. What the hell?
Senator Drake was dead? Murdered?
Why hadn’t Wainwright or someone called him?
Shit!
Carson lurched around the room until he found his jacket. Searched the pockets to ensure his cell phone was there, then headed for the garage.
Drake was a powerful man. He no doubt had numerous enemies. A man didn’t get that high up the food chain without stepping on a few heads and over a few bodies along the way.
Was it possible the bodies of Carson’s slain family had been among them?
3:05 AM
3202 Fernway Road, Drake estate
There was no strobe of blue lights on the scene.
Out of respect for the family, the police as well as the ME had left their vehicles dark.
The first person to approach Carson as he emerged from his rented car was Special Agent Kim Schaffer. She held a large cup of coffee in her hand.
“I’m surprised you weren’t the first one here,” she said bluntly.
At the moment Carson didn’t give one damn what she meant by that remark. “Just got the call or I would have been. Have you been inside?” He slammed the car door shut and headed in the direction of the house.
Schaffer followed, nodding. “It’s pretty st
raightforward. One shot to the chest.”
“Anyone else at home at the time of the shooting?”
“The wife. The gunshot woke her out of a dead sleep.”
An eerie sensation of déjà vu enveloped him as he considered that just down the road, around the curve and beyond the woods, his childhood home stood in the darkness. Fifteen years ago a too-similar scene had played out there. Only the lights announcing that a crime had taken place had been blazing. Shock and pain had radiated through the community whose worst fear at the time had been break-ins. Murder had never happened in the elite hilltop neighborhood. People who lived here had been above that sort of viciousness.
Until then.
And now. The other questions reeled through his mind, but he couldn’t think about that right now. Right now Elizabeth and Patricia needed him. When he was through here, he would find Dane and have some answers.
The Baxter/Fleming case would just have to wait. That his never-fail reputation was on the line no longer mattered. All that mattered was the truth.
When did you stop caring about the truth?
The words rang all too true. He’d been so focused on finding justice for so long; was it possible that he had started overlooking the truth? Settling for something else?
Winning? Building his career?
He shook off the disturbing thoughts. Now wasn’t the time.
Yellow crime-scene tape had been draped around the perimeter of the property, reminding all who arrived that their presence was welcome by invitation only.
He couldn’t get right with the idea that no one from the office or from the local police had called him to the scene.
Senator Drake’s murder scene.
Unbelievable.
Drake had protected him when there had been no one else.
His family and the Drake family had been like extensions of each other until the night of the murders.
Before everything changed.
Before murder had altered the landscape of this exclusive area where the rich and powerful lived.
He would find Dane. He would have the truth.
Carson ID’d himself for the officers maintaining the security of the scene. Both knew him, but he showed his identification as a matter of procedure. At the front door he slipped on shoe covers and latex gloves, as did Schaffer.
Inside, Schaffer led him to Drake’s study, as if Carson didn’t know the way. He let her. Truth was, a fog had descended and wrapped itself around his brain. The same questions kept churning inside that haze.
Who would murder the senator? Had Drake known that his son had the wedding bands belonging to Carson’s parents? Had he used his position to cover up whatever Dane had done?
Did his murder have anything to do with keeping that truth a secret?
The door to the study was open and evidence technicians flowed in and out doing their business. Carson stopped at the door and allowed his gaze to travel over the scene.
Drake sat slumped back in the chair behind his desk. Blood had soaked his shirtfront, splattered on the papers on his desk. Definitely hadn’t been suicide. Whoever had fired the shot had clearly done so from across the desk.
Carson pushed away the emotion of seeing the man he had admired most of life dead … murdered. Banished the other questions. Focus on the details. Nothing in the study appeared to be disturbed. Two evidence technicians were going over the room; another was taking the necessary photographs. The ME and his assistants were preparing to take possession of the body.
“First officer on the scene said there was no sign of forced entry.”
Carson glanced at Schaffer. “Any witnesses come forward?” If they were lucky, one of the neighbors had seen or heard something.
“Nope. Officers are canvassing the neighborhood but there’s nothing yet.”
Damn.
Not exactly surprising on second thought since the homes were spaced generously apart, the smallest of the properties being approximately five acres. Most of the estates were densely wooded, the only clearings the yards surrounding the enormous homes.
“What about security?” Though the neighborhood wasn’t gated, there was a roaming security guard on duty at all times. The guard on duty fifteen years ago had been the one to arrive on the scene first. Carson had questioned him time and again over the past five years, even after he’d gone into the assisted living facility. He hadn’t seen or heard anything prior to discovering Carson at the scene with his slaughtered family.
Schaffer pulled a pad from her jacket pocket and consulted her notes. “The security guard on duty saw no unfamiliar vehicles tonight, none at all in fact. Heard no gunshot or other out-of-place noises.”
Carson heaved a weary sigh. Just like fifteen years ago. The only thing the guard on duty at that time had eventually heard was Carson screaming. According to that guard, he’d heard the screaming as he’d driven past the property that night; then, as he’d turned into the drive, he’d gotten a glimpse of a bloody Caucasian male running into the house. Though Carson had no recall, traumatic amnesia aggravated by intoxication, the detectives assigned to the case had assumed that he had run out to his Mustang with the idea of going for help but then been unable to find his keys. Those keys had been found on the floor in his sister’s room. The interior of the car had been bloody where it appeared he had searched for them: the ignition, the seats, the console.
This was going to be fifteen years ago all over again.
Carson could feel it in his gut. No usable evidence. No witnesses. Nothing. Except questions.
He needed to find Elizabeth and her mother. They would need his support. He had to be there for them the same way the senator had been there for him, even if only for that short little while until he was cleared of suspicion. Had the senator known even then that his own son might be involved?
Carson cleared his mind again and walked out of the study, headed for the family room. Two police officers loitered there but no one else.
“You looking for the family, Mr. Tanner?”
Carson didn’t recognize the officer who spoke. “Yes.”
The cop jerked his head to the left. “Kitchen.”
“Thanks.” Carson headed that way.
He braced for the devastation. Though Elizabeth was far older than he had been when he’d lost his family, her grief would be profound. He couldn’t imagine what Patricia would do now. She did everything with her husband. When five o’clock rolled around each day it was difficult to find her anywhere but at the senator’s side.
“Carson!”
Elizabeth ran into his arms. Carson hugged her until her sobs against his shoulder subsided. Guilt that he could feel the lust he did for Annette Baxter assaulted him. He had no right to hold a woman like Elizabeth in his arms, to wish for things to be the way they used to be … when he had fucked Annette Baxter.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured. Sorry for far more than she knew.
She peered up at him. “Who would do this?”
Determination charged through him. “I’m damned sure going to find out”
Elizabeth hugged him again, hugged with all her might. “I know you will, Carson.”
It wasn’t until he looked up from Elizabeth to check on her mother sitting at the table that he took note of all those present in the room. Wainwright he had fully expected to see. He sat next to Patricia, one arm around her shoulders. The next face stopped him cold.
Keller Luttrell.
What the hell was he doing here? Having him step in for Carson on the Holderfield case was one thing, but this was Senator Drake. No one but Carson should be on this case.
“Carson.”
His attention swung to Wainwright, who had vacated his seat next to Patricia. Elizabeth pulled out of Carson’s arms and hurried to take that empty place. The two women fell into each other’s arms, sobbing and whispering softly.
Why hadn’t Wainwright called him?
“Let’s step into the family room,” Wainwright su
ggested quietly.
Carson pushed aside his frustration with his mentor. “I need a moment.” He walked to where Patricia and Elizabeth sat, knelt next to the woman who had just lost her husband, and took her hand. “If there is anything at all I can do, please just say the word.”
Patricia smiled vacantly, her expression frozen with pain. “Thank you for coming, Carson. The senator loved you like a son.” Her lips quivered. “He would want you to take care of Elizabeth and me.”
Could Carson be wrong about the senator? There was always the possibility he had known nothing about his son’s illegal activities. Someone else could have been covering for Dane. The thought hardened inside Carson. “You can count on it.” He hugged Patricia, let her feel his determination, then, knowing Wainwright was waiting, made his excuses and followed his mentor to the family room. Wainwright asked the two officers there to give them some privacy.
Carson asked the question twisting in his chest. “Why didn’t you call me?” He was in charge of investigating high-profile cases. “What else have you been keeping from me?” he tacked on before good sense could override his frustration.
“This case—”
“Don’t even think about using the it’s-too-personal excuse,” Carson warned. “Yes, it’s personal. But that won’t stop me from getting the job done. You”—he glared at the man he had admired for so very long—“haven’t been straightforward with me and I deserve to know why.”
It was during the moment of silence that followed that Carson recognized the cool fury on his boss’s face. Carson wasn’t the only one pissed off.
“I’m going to let that one go,” Wainwright said, “but you’d better watch yourself and listen up. No, you won’t be conducting this investigation or prosecuting the case. In fact, as of right now you’re on administrative leave.”
Shock radiated through Carson. That was the last thing he had expected to hear.
