Authors: Scent of Danger
"Because it turns every woman into a goddess," Whitman
said.
"It's a perfume, Detective, not a magic potion. It doesn't
create what isn't there. It just enhances what is. Truly the ultimate
fragrance. Ask around. Or, better yet, try some yourself."
"I'll do that. As soon as we solve this case." Whitman
wasn't about to be sidetracked. "So let's say this perfume is all it's
cracked up to be. How does its success tie in to Brooks's shooting? The
product's already out there. Why would killing Brooks change that? Ruisseau's a
solid company. I'm sure it wouldn't fold without its CEO."
"No, it wouldn't. But in the case of C'est Moi, there's an
Achilles' heel," Dylan explained. "Its formula is unique. It took
almost two years to develop. The process was done in absolute secrecy."
"By Brooks's R&D team."
"No. By Carson himself."
An intrigued lift of Whitman's brows. "Brooks invented the
formula?"
"Yup. And he's the only one who knows it."
For the first time, the detective looked startled. "The only
one? No one else is privy to that information?"
"Not a soul. Including me, by the way. But there are lots of
folks who'd like to be. It's raking in millions."
"So you think someone tried to kill Brooks to get the
formula."
"Or to stop production in its tracks. Not only has C'est Moi
made millions in a few short months, it's also cutting into the sales of every
other perfume manufacturer in the business. Their stocks are plummeting. That
doesn't exactly endear Carson to his competitors."
"You didn't mention these details before."
"Frankly, I assumed you'd done your homework. Or were you too
busy doing a background check on me?"
Before Whitman could respond, the door to the intensive care unit
swung open, and Carson's lead surgeon strode out, brows drawn as he studied a
chart.
"Dr. Radison." Dylan went straight over, blocking the
surgeon's path. "How is he?"
The surgeon halted, glancing up from his clipboard with a guarded
expression. "He's holding his own."
"Is he conscious?" Barton demanded.
Dr. Radison gave the detectives a measured look. "He drifts
in and out. A lot of that's due to the pain medication."
"Was he awake just now?" Whitman pressed.
"Yes." The surgeon held up a palm, setting immediate
limits to the oncoming request. "He's on an endotracheal tube and a
respirator. So he can write, but he can't speak. Plus, he's not up for a long
interrogation. A few questions, but that's it." His gaze flickered back to
Dylan. "He scribbled down that I should send you home. His note said you'd
better be rested enough to work round the clock till he's back."
A corner of Dylan's mouth lifted. "That sounds like
Carson."
"Does he know I'm here?" Susan interrupted.
Radison nodded. "I told him. He was pleased to hear it, until
I added that you'd been here all night. At that point, he scrawled down that he
wants you to go home and rest, too."
"Is there anything else we should know about Mr. Brooks's
condition before we go in?" Whitman was already inching toward the ICU.
"Actually, yes." Dr. Radison's tone stopped her in her
tracks. "We have an additional complication. If you remember, I said the
bullet nicked Mr. Brooks's abdominal aorta."
"You also said you sewed mat up," Dylan countered.
"We did."
"So?"
Dr. Radison rubbed a hand over his square jaw. "It's not as
simple as that, Mr. Newport. The aorta is the body's main artery. It's crucial
in supplying blood to the organs. In this case, the spot the bullet nicked
resulted in a reduced blood flow to the kidneys. That, combined with the large
amount of blood he lost overall, and the septic shock resulting from the
infection caused by the damage done to his intestines, all add up to a major
source of concern. I just ran a CT scan. I'm not happy with what I saw. Kidney
function is down eighty percent. Unless that improves, I'm inserting a
temporary fistula and starting dialysis."
"Dialysis." Dylan repeated the word slowly. "Are
you saying you expect his kidneys to shut down completely?"
"That's a worst-case scenario. It's possible they'll just
need some help before they take over on their own."
"So this problem is temporary."
A brief hesitation. "That's my hope."
Dylan tensed. "But it could be permanent."
"Possibly, yes. And, taking into account Mr. Brooks's vital
lifestyle, his resistance to physical restrictions of any kind, I want to be
prepared."
"Oh, God." Susan pressed her palms to her cheeks.
"You're talking about a transplant."
"I'm only talking about laying the groundwork," Dr.
Radison clarified. "Just in case." He glanced back at his file and
frowned. "Unfortunately, Mr. Brooks has no family. He's also got type O
positive blood, which reduces the potential pool of compatible donors. We'd
better start alerting anyone close to him who'd be willing to be screened for a
match—again, just in case." He inclined his head. "I assume we should
start with the two of you?"
"Absolutely," Susan returned immediately.
"Hmm?" Dylan's mind was racing. Thank God he'd made
those calls already. He'd set things in motion, a fact that had just taken on a
whole new dimension. Ironic that Carson had picked now to search for his child.
That request had just escalated from sentimental curiosity to urgent necessity.
"Mr. Newport?" Radison's tone suggested he'd been trying
to get Dylan's attention. "I asked if you know your blood type."
"Sorry. I was just digesting everything you said. I'm O
positive."
"The same as Mr. Brooks. Good. Ms. Lane just told me she's A
negative. That won't work."
"Does that mean I'm compatible?" Dylan asked.
"I'm afraid it's not that simple. It's just step one. We need
to draw your blood so we can do tissue-typing, as well as..."
"I'll get down to the lab and have that done right
away." Dylan could feel the detectives watching him, gauging his reaction.
He couldn't ask to speak to Dr. Radison alone, not without arousing further
suspicion. Besides, now wasn't the time to spill his guts to the surgeon about
the chance that Carson had a biological child. Not until he knew whether this
person actually existed.
"Something wrong, Mr. Newport?" Whitman inquired.
"I'm just making a mental switch from focusing on Carson's
enemies to focusing on his friends." Dylan pulled himself together quickly
enough to cover his tracks. "I'll call everyone I can think of. The more
people willing to get screened, the better chance we'll have of finding a
compatible donor." His jaw set. "I assume the rest of our
conversation can wait until I've made those calls and had some blood
drawn?"
"I'll start on the calls, Dylan," Susan offered, her
voice shaky, as if she were battling shock. "It will make me feel useful.
You, at least, can give blood. I can't even offer him that." She swallowed
hard. "Whoever I leave out—business associates, old girlfriends, whoever
you think might help—you can make those calls afterward."
Dylan nodded. "Is that all right with you?" he asked the
detectives.
"Certainly," Whitman assured him, her poker face back in
place. "We want to talk to Mr. Brooks anyway— and Dr. Radison, if he can
spare a minute. After that, we'll chat with Ms. Lane. We're not going anywhere,
and I assume neither are you. We'll catch up later, here. Unless you're going
home to rest, as Mr. Brooks suggested?"
"No. Rest isn't an option." Dylan's jaw tightened a
fraction more. "I'll be right here at the hospital—unless I'm in a taxi,
or home showering and changing. In any case, I'm reachable."
"Fine." Barton turned to Susan. "You'll wait?"
"Of course. I'll be outside the building, making calls from
my cell phone. Get me when you're ready." Her eyes glistened with unshed
tears. "I want whoever did this caught and punished."
"So do we," Barton assured her. "And don't worry.
He will be. Soon."
With a speculative glance at Dylan, Barton followed his partner
into the ICU.
2:30
P.M.
341 West 76th Street
Dylan stepped out of the shower to a ringing telephone. He swore
softly, knotting a towel around his waist and making a mad dash for the
bedroom.
It was probably one of those pain-in-the-ass detectives at the
other end, ready for another round of grilling. He was in no mood for it,
either. He'd been in perpetual motion for the last three hours.
First, he'd given blood. Then, he'd checked on Carson, who'd
drifted off to sleep, after what was evidently a short session with the
detectives. Whitman and Barton had moved on to interviewing Susan, an interview
Dylan interrupted long enough to get the list of people Susan had reached.
She was in the process of describing to the detectives how she and
Carson had met, and their mutual interest in YouthOp, the charitable
organization that she headed and Carson supported. Dylan hadn't stuck around to
hear the rest. No doubt the cops would get around to asking her questions about
him. Well, that would be a dead end. He and Susan got along fine. All she
really knew about him was how tight he was with Carson. And since Carson was a
very private man— one who wasn't in the habit of discussing his relationships,
business or personal, not even with Susan—and who never divulged the details of
what went on at Ruisseau, there was no fuel Susan could add to the detectives'
fire.
When Dylan got home he'd spent over an hour on the phone, managing
to round up four or five people who were willing to be screened. Not that he
blamed the ones who said no. Having respect, even affection, for someone was
one thing. Giving them an organ from your body was another.
That's where blood relations came in.
And, with luck, came through.
He'd gone into the shower, letting the hot water spray over his
head and down his back, hoping it would ease his tension and frustration. Fat
chance of that. He was so tight he was practically vibrating. And now the
damned phone was ringing.
He snatched up the receiver just before the call went to voice
mail. "Yeah, hello."
"Dylan?" the voice on the other end asked. "I was
just about to hang up and try your cell phone again."
"Stan." Equal amounts of relief and apprehension flooded
Dylan, and he sank down in a chair. "Tell me you have something for
me."
"I do. It took a while because the doctor's retired. My guy
had to find out where the records were stored. Then, he had to get his hands on
them. But he managed."
"Are you sure they're legitimate?"
"Positive. I worked there, too, remember? I know the doctor.
I know where he retired to. I also know what his forms and his letterhead look
like. And the fax I got is authentic. It gave me the woman's name, her personal
data, the works. The rest was easy. Our PI traced her, and her family. Gloria
Radcliffe. She's a fashion designer, lives in Rockport, Massachusetts. Her
family's loaded; from Beacon Hill, just like I remembered. It's all here. Now that
I know where you are, I'll fax all the information directly to your
apartment."
"Now."
"Of course now." An uneasy pause. "How's
Carson?"
"His kidneys aren't functioning right. He might need a
transplant."
Stan swore under his breath. "Do they have him on
dialysis?"
"They didn't when I left. By now, they might. Let's cut to
the chase. Does Carson have a living child or not?"
"Yeah. A daughter. Her name's Sabrina. Born June third,
nineteen seventy-five, Newton-Wellesley Hospital—almost ten months to the day
from when Carson made his donation. Born perfectly healthy, according to her
birth records."
"You've got those?"
"Right here in my hand. I'm reading from them now."
"Is her blood type listed?"
"Um..." A pause, as Stan skimmed the page. "Here it
is. O positive."
Dylan blew out a breath of sheer, utter relief. "I assume
you've got current information on this Sabrina Radcliffe. Where is she
now?"
"She runs some high-level corporate training center near
Manchester, New Hampshire. It's a combo business center and resort. She lives
there."
That clinched it.
"I can fly to Manchester in an hour. I'll talk to Carson's
surgeon. Then, I'll jump on a plane. In the meantime, you keep Carson's name
out of the press, just like we discussed. Cash in some favors. Do whatever you
have to. It'll just be for a day, until I can get to Sabrina Radcliffe. And
Stan—thanks. This could be Carson's best chance, maybe his only chance."
"Wait a minute, Dylan." Stan cut him off before he could
hang up. "Are you nuts? You can't just burst into that training center
tonight—no phone call, no warning, and lay this on that girl."