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  The door flew open, banged against the wall. “Mr. Tanner, step away from the prisoner,” the deputy ordered.

  Carson couldn’t stop. He couldn’t let Stokes live. He’d thought he could. He’d intended to. But he couldn’t. He had to stop him … to feel that throbbing pulse beneath his fingers slow to a dead stop before the scumbag slumped to the floor.

  “Carson, back off!”

  Wainwright’s command barely trickled past the cloak of retribution … wasn’t nearly enough to stop Carson from doing what had to be done.

  Hands were suddenly on his arms, peeling his fingers back, pulling him away from Stokes. Stokes gasped for air. Coughed. Too bad he didn’t choke to death.

  “Get him out of here,” Wainwright shouted to the deputy.

  The fury still roiled inside Carson, making him want to grab for Stokes again even as the deputy unlocked the tether securing the shackles to the floor and another rushed in to assist with the prisoner’s transport.

  Stokes was going to Holman, the worst of the worst facilities in the state of Alabama, perhaps even the country. Carson had done his research; Stokes would spend the rest of his life wishing he were dead. He would never again have the opportunity to hurt another family.

  And he would pay. How he would pay.

  As Stokes was led past Carson, he stalled, refused to go a step farther. That detestable gaze locked with Carson’s. “Follow your instincts, Tanner. You know something ain’t right.” His lips screwed into that insane expression that bore no resemblance to a smile. “Ask yourself if you’ll ever really know what happened.”

  “Get him out of here!” Wainwright commanded.

  “Maybe you’re just like the others!” Stokes shouted as he fought to slow his removal from the room. “Tell me, Tanner, when did you stop caring about the truth?”

  Carson stared after the bastard, his heart threatening its confines. The truth. He had that now, didn’t he? But … what if there was more? That same old doubt and uncertainty weighed down on his shoulders, tightened like a band around his chest.

  “He’s toying with you, Carson,” Wainwright insisted, his tone, his expression laden with regret. “You know he likes to watch his prey twitch. Don’t let him get to you.”

  Carson nodded, the solitary action stiff and jerky.

  “Let it go,” Wainwright urged. “We both know his MO.”

  Yes, Carson knew. But that didn’t change the fact that in this instance Stokes was right. Carson would never know with any degree of confidence what really happened.

  There had been no witnesses … no conclusive evidence … just death. And unanswered questions.

  Questions that remained unanswered.

  Chapter 3

  7:15 PM

  Jazz Factory, downtown Birmingham

  What the hell was he doing here?

  Carson propped his forearms on the counter and leaned against the bar without bothering to slide onto a stool. He should be elated. The Stokes file was closed; the Tanner investigation resolved. Justice had been served and a killer was on his way to life in prison without the possibility of parole. By eleven o’clock tomorrow morning Stokes would be processed into Holman, the Alabama state penitentiary in Atmore, where his own personal hell on earth waited.

  He was finally going to pay.

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

  Carson blinked, shattering Stokes’s disturbing words. It was over. Done. Sifting through the details and the what-ifs wasn’t going to change the facts. They had their killer, if not the answer Carson wanted so desperately. End of story.

  But … what if Stokes wasn’t the one?

  Carson inhaled a deep breath, then blew it out.

  The bastard confessed. The rest was nothing but bullshit. Enough with the doubts already.

  The bartender tilted his head in question, drawing Carson’s attention. “Sparkling water with lime.”

  Alcohol was off limits. Despite his inability to keep his emotions in check today, control was essential to Carson. He didn’t like losing it … for any reason. Once in a lifetime was enough … and that one time had cost him everything.

  “Check out the brunette at nine o’clock.” Scotch in hand, Keller Luttrell, friend and colleague, perched on the stool next to Carson with his back to the bar to facilitate his babe-watching. Besides being a highly skilled strategist in the courtroom, the man was an expert marksman when it came to spotting hot chicks at maximum range.

  Carson glanced over his shoulder to take a look at the target currently in his colleague’s crosshairs and dutifully performed the expected appraisal. “Yeah. She’s great.” Hence the rarity of these sorts of male-bonding occasions. Unlike his friend, who appeared to do his best trial groundwork in this atmosphere, Carson had neither the time nor the inclination.

  “I could fall in love with that.” Luttrell tracked the brunette’s movements with the same expertise he used to monitor and analyze a jury’s subtlest reaction.

  Carson should be at home working. He had a briefcase packed with work lying on the passenger seat of his BMW. “I’m having this drink and then I’m going home with my briefcase,” Carson reminded his pal. That had been their bargain. One drink. An hour tops.

  “Come on,” Luttrell urged. “Snap out of it. Celebrate. The past is finally buried. You can move on. Hell, man, take a freaking vacation. I can handle most of your caseload.” He shrugged. “The others will pitch in. You need a real break. I can’t remember the last time you took a day off, much less a week.”

  Carson could. He had never taken a vacation. He wouldn’t now. “Yeah, right.” He shot his friend a look that underscored the statement. “And let you suck up to Wainwright while I’m gone. No way.”

  “Oh ho.” Luttrell belted out a laugh. “I’m good, but I’m not that good. You’re Wainwright’s favorite and everybody knows it. Nothing short of your going off the deep end will change that.”

  Carson cringed inwardly.

  Luttrell just kept talking, like the Energizer-frigging-Bunny, without a clue he’d hit a nerve. “But we also know that you’re the star for a reason,” he waxed on before knocking back a slug of Scotch. “You’re the best, buddy. There’s no denying it.”

  His sincerity couldn’t completely disguise the slightest hint of envy. Carson had gotten used to that long ago and understood that it wasn’t actually personal. Came with the territory. It was lonely at the top for a reason.

  “But we’re not here to talk about work,” his colleague went on. He stared pointedly at Carson’s profile. “When’s the last time you did anything spontaneous that didn’t involve your briefcase?”

  “Fuck off,” Carson muttered. He wasn’t looking for personal advice from his skirt-chasing buddy.

  Listen, man.” Luttrell set aside the drink he’d been nursing since their arrival. “I know this excavating of the past has been tough on you.” He paused, as lawyers do when allowing the jury’s anticipation to build to a pivotal moment. “But you’ve got to stop spending every second focused on work. Real life is calling and you’re ignoring the summons.” He leaned closer. “Seriously, when’s the last time you got laid?”

  Carson should have seen that one coming. “That …” He took a swallow of his for-appearances’-sake-only drink. “ … is none of your business.” Luttrell had just dropped several notches on Carson’s opinion scale, from confidant to asshole. Only an asshole would ask a man that question when he already knew the answer.

  “We’ve all noticed how stressed you are,” Luttrell had the balls to add. “There’s a damned short fuse on your temper these days. You need to work off some of that tension. Going months without sex just isn’t natural, man.”

  This conversation was officially over. Carson leveled a steady stare on Luttrell. “We are not analyzing my sex life.”

  Luttrell held up his hands stop-sign fashion. “Just calling it like I see it. You need sex, Carson. Look around you.” He waved magnanimously, not about
to give up without a closing argument. “This place is full of beautiful women. Let yourself go. Talk to someone, for Christ’s sake. Share a drink. See where it goes. Sunday’s your birthday, man. You’ve gotta live a little before you’re too old.”

  His birthday. Thirty-one. Carson had almost succeeded in forgetting that insignificant date. “You know how I feel about birthdays.” He looked his friend straight in the eye. “Do you understand me?” If anyone, anyone, had any ideas about a birthday party, Carson intended to quash that little scheme here and now. He hadn’t celebrated a birthday since … he’d turned sixteen. More of the past tried elbowing its way into his head, but he crammed it back into that dark place he refused to visit.

  “Yeah. Yeah.” Luttrell jerked his head toward the clutch of patrons on his right. “Check it out. Forget the brunette. That lady in the red dress is seriously hot, bro. She’s looked your way at least twice. Make a move.” He leaned close again. “It’s that easy. These women are here for just one thing, Carson. All you have to be is willing.”

  Carson shook his head. “I find it absolutely fascinating that you can read minds.” He picked up his drink but paused short of setting the glass to his lips. “Must come in handy when speculating how a jury’s leaning.”

  Luttrell rolled his eyes. “You won’t let me throw you a birthday bash, at least let me get you off on the right foot tonight. I’ve pointed out two gorgeous babes. Take your pick. You should celebrate putting the past to rest.”

  “Back off or I’m out of here.” Maybe ten minutes more and Carson was gone anyway.

  “All right, all right.” Luttrell frowned. He reached into the pocket of his trousers and withdrew his cell phone. After checking the text message on the screen, he puffed out a bothered breath. “Dammit. Gotta go. Opposing counsel on one of my cases wants to have drinks.” He tossed a couple of bills onto the counter. “Remember what I said, Carson. I didn’t strong-arm you into coming here for nothing. Let go. Just this once. It’ll make a new man out of you.”

  Carson didn’t acknowledge his final remarks, just let him go. Instead he stared into his glass, his mind wandering back to Stokes and the deal Wainwright had made in exchange for his confession. Two unsolved high-profile murder cases, including Carson’s family, were now closed. They had their man.

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

  Carson banished the echo. He shouldn’t have let the bastard get to him. It was over. No more questions.

  “Drinking alone’s never a good sign.”

  Carson turned to the woman who had moved up beside him. Long blond hair. Wide blue eyes. Lush lips. Before he could stop the move, his attention wandered lower. A great body packaged in a slinky red dress.

  Wasn’t this one of the women Luttrell had pointed out just minutes ago? The lady was definitely hot, and he couldn’t deny an immediate attraction. But that wasn’t going to stop Carson from going home alone.

  “You’re right,” he said in response to her allegation, “drinking alone isn’t a good sign.” Even when it’s only sparkling water, he didn’t qualify. “That’s why I always call it a night while it’s still early enough to accomplish something meaningful.” Like reading briefs and reviewing cases.

  The lady smiled, somehow managing to hold on to the attention he’d fully intended to withdraw. “You look like the kind of man who searches for meaning in all that he does.” She flashed that wickedly alluring smile for the bartender as he paused for her order. “Grey Goose. Straight up.” Then she fished a cigarette and slender gold lighter from her clutch purse, tucked the cigarette against that sexy mouth, and lit its tip. She exhaled with immense satisfaction, as if it were her first smoke of the day.

  While Carson was caught up in watching her every move, the bartender returned with her drink. She picked up her glass and tapped it against Carson’s.

  “Cheers.”

  Maybe he’d let Luttrell’s comments get under his skin. Had to be the reason his fixation with her profile, and watching her sip the vodka then take another leisurely drag from her cigarette, persisted. All five senses abruptly yawned and stretched, making him keenly aware of the music, the cool glass in his hand, and the secondhand smoke that should have irritated him but had him seeking her unique scent beyond it.

  Six months. No sex in six months. Too long. The power of suggestion was undermining his self-discipline. He’d written the book on using that very tactic in the courtroom. Where was his ruthless willpower now?

  She turned fully toward him then. “So.” She set her cigarette in an ashtray and steadily contemplated Carson, amping up the tension working its way through his body. “What deeper meaning are you searching for tonight?”

  Just go.

  Carson opened his mouth to bid her good night, but the words vanished somewhere between his brain and his tongue. Possibly due to the way she looked at his mouth in anticipation of his reply or just maybe because his own gaze kept venturing to her mouth.

  Those voluptuous lips slid into another smile. “Oh, I see. You’re here for that.”

  Shit. Had she seen something in his eyes? Noted some flash of interest on his face? He really was slipping here.

  Time for polite regrets and a prompt exit.

  “As stimulating as this conversation is”—he snagged some cash from his pocket and tossed it on the counter—“I have to be going.” He didn’t do relationships or one-night stands. He did work.

  “Your friend said it was your birthday or something?” she asked before he could make his escape. “Did your party run out of steam already?”

  Now Carson was beginning to get the picture. Damn Keller Luttrell. “Birthday parties are vastly overrated.”

  Her mouth puckered into a sexy pout. “You’ve never had a birthday party?”

  He hesitated, silently chastised himself for continuing the conversation considering Luttrell had likely scripted the scene line by line. “Not since I was sixteen.” He closed out the bittersweet memories that instantly took advantage of that line of questioning. Just go. He needed work to forget about the past … and birthdays. And sexy ladies in fuck-me red dresses.

  “At least you had one.”

  The unexpected vulnerability in her voice reeled him back in for more … shouldn’t have, but it did. “You never had a birthday party?” Now why the hell had he asked her that? He was supposed to wrap this up and walk.

  She moved her head slowly side-to-side. “Not one.” The remembered pain in her eyes, the kind that was all too familiar to him, put another hell of a crack in his willpower. “When you’re all alone at the end of the day it’s difficult to celebrate much of anything.”

  She couldn’t have guessed that about him. Had to be Luttrell. “Look.” He held her wistful gaze with a firm, let’s-get-this-straight one of his own. “I think I know what’s going on here, and my friend can be overly ambitious in his machinations. You shouldn’t trust anything he says.” Luttrell was going to be sorry he’d hatched up this outrageous hoax.

  The lady weighed his assertions before opening her clutch once more. Rather than making the exit he had planned, Carson watched with more of that inexplicable interest. He was making this way too easy for his friend.

  This time the lady withdrew a key card and placed it on the counter. “I’m in room three fifteen at the Tutwiler. If that is what you’re looking for, I’ll be there all night.”

  She started to turn away but didn’t; instead she tiptoed, tilted her lips close to his ear, and whispered, “No one should be alone on a night like this.”

  Then she walked away, her hips swaying in blatant invitation.

  Had he just been propositioned?

  Carson shook his head.

  Luttrell would do anything to prove his point.

  Carson wasn’t falling for it. He was going home with his briefcase. His mistress, as Luttrell would say.

  Yet his gaze lingered on the last place he’d seen her before she’d disappeared in the crowd. Tempt
ation nudged him.

  The whole idea was absurd.

  No one should be alone on a night like this.

  He couldn’t do that. That was way out of bounds.

  Carson didn’t operate on impulse. He went with the facts, with instinct.

  Stick with the plan. Go home. Work.

  But then … Carson would never know what his friend was actually up to. And she had left her key lying right here on the bar. Before reason could sink past the undeniable taste of lust still making his mouth water, Carson picked up the key card and walked out of the club.

  He was definitely crazy.

  The question was, just how crazy.

  The Tutwiler stood directly across the street. The 1920s building with its grand balconies and intricate architectural details loomed against the night. A Birmingham landmark. In the event his friend had gone momentarily stupid and sprung for the real thing, Carson wondered how the city would feel about a high-class call girl using the historic property for a base of operation. Or a county-paid employee arranging the rendezvous.

  Carson entered the elegant hotel lobby, bypassed the bank of elevators, and went straight for the stairs. He would return the lady’s key and give her a succinct message to pass along to his dickhead of a friend.

  On the third floor Carson located room 315 but hesitated before knocking. He listened. No television noise, no whispering voices. Maybe music; too low to distinguish.

  One quick rap of his knuckles and movement stirred inside the room. The door opened and those unforgettable blue eyes tangled with his. More of that startlingly keen interest swirled low in his belly. Oh yeah, he’d neglected his needs far too long.

  “I see you’ve made up your mind.” A half-empty tumbler hung from the fingers of her right hand.

  No one else appeared. No shouts of Surprise! Just the soft whisper of music floating on the air. This was not what he’d anticipated finding … this was apparently an actual proposition. Maybe. The jury was still out.