Authors: Scent of Danger
A weighted silence, which Sabrina broke.
"When you first interviewed Susan, she never mentioned to you
that she was over a half hour late to the match?" she asked Whitman,
knowing full well it was a rhetorical question, needing to ask it anyway.
"Nope." Jeannie glanced at Carson. "How about you,
Mr. Brooks? Did she tell you she missed the first chunk of the match?"
Carson shook his head. "Shit. I don't believe this." He
raked a hand through his hair. "All right, Detective. I buy it. Susan had
all the time she needed to blow my guts out. But why? Believe me, I'm no
sentimental jerk. I don't believe love conquers all. But Susan's not insane.
She'd need a reason to kill me. So what's that reason? And when you come up
with it, you can also tell me why she picked that particular place and time to
do it. She, of all people, knew Dylan and I were wrapping up by late afternoon.
I was supposed to be out the door at five to get ready for the match."
Abruptly, something seemed to click in Jeannie's mind, because her
back went rigid and an intent expression came over her face. "Right. You
told us that you weren't supposed to be at the office at the time you were shot,
that you were supposed to have left around five. Ms. Lane knew that?"
"Yup. We discussed it that morning, and I confirmed it with
her at around three-ish, on the phone."
"What exactly did you say?"
"That Dylan and I were finishing up. That I'd be out the door
right on schedule."
"But you weren't. Was that unusual?"
"When it comes to tennis matches, damned straight it's
unusual. The Open's one of the few things that gets my juices flowing like my
work does. I'm never late for a match."
"What held you up?" Frank asked. "Legal papers to review?"
"Not really. Yeah, Dylan had one more file to go over with
me, but it wasn't crucial. It could have waited until morning. I stayed because
Dylan said he had a personal issue to discuss with me. I could tell that
whatever that issue was, it was weighing on his mind. So I hung around."
"And that personal issue was Susan Lane, and your uneasiness
about her." Frank addressed Dylan, picking up on Jeannie's thought process
and running with it.
"Yes." Dylan nodded.
Frank leaned forward. "Mr. Newport, when we spoke this
morning, you said you made suggestions to Ms. Lane about allocating YouthOp
funds differently, providing counselors instead of splashy fund-raising
parties. Did you give her any other advice?"
Dylan shrugged. "Here and there. She knew the way I felt. I
never accused her of anything illegal, if that's what you mean...."
"But she had a good idea where your head was when it came to
her. You're a pretty outspoken guy. And she's a pretty bright woman. She must
have picked up on your disgust whenever you walked into her office and looked
around. She must have blanched at your suggestions. And she must have known you
had Mr. Brooks's ear."
"Not only his ear, but his inheritance," Jeannie
reminded him. "Mr. Newport is Mr. Brooks's prime beneficiary."
"Was,"
Frank corrected. "My
guess is that Ms. Radcliffe's going to claim that spot—or at least share
it." A humorless laugh. "Share it with, of all people, the man she's
romantically involved with. Quite a double-obstacle, huh?"
"Um-hum. A very inconvenient double-obstacle. Especially for
a woman who's got her sights set on becoming Mrs. Carson Brooks—after which, it
would all be hers; hers and her charity's. Wealth, notoriety, status— hey,
she'd be a regular Jackie O.
If
she cleared the path to Carson
Brooks."
Frank rose, walked behind the chair and gripped the back.
"She's a good shot. I'm sure she's handled a twenty-two. She could master
it like that." He snapped his fingers. "One shot, and there'd be no
more threat to her future—personal, professional, or financial. The opportunity
was perfect. Based upon Mr. Brooks's three o'clock call, he and Mr. Newport
were the only people at Ruisseau—and Mr. Brooks would be leaving by five. So at
five-forty, there'd be only one person left in the office—Dylan Newport. And
that's just the person she wanted to kill. So off she went to do the dirty
deed. She found Newport in her boyfriend's office, standing by the window with
his back conveniently to her. She stooped down low, took aim, and fired from
the doorway. Just one problem. There's not a lot of light by that office
window, and it's an eastern exposure, so there'd be little sun at that time of
day. Newport and Brooks are about the same height, and with similar builds. All
that adds up to a perfect, if unfortunate, case of mistaken identity."
"Wow." Jeannie let out a low whistle. "After she
pulled the trigger, she realized it wasn't Dylan Newport she'd shot. It was
Carson Brooks." A mocking shake of that Q-tip head. "Imagine how she
felt. Especially since she's the high-strung type, a woman who comes unglued
easily. Talk about seeing your world go up in smoke. So much for the right
corpse. So much for the windfall. So much for your future, if the guy it
depends on bites the dust. Man, she must have been a mess. No wonder she was
bawling her head off in the ICU lounge. Talk about enormous guilt mixed with
colossal failure and sheer panic."
"Yeah, but she recovered enough to try again, through her
good buddy, Mr. Molotov. We thought he was just after Ms. Radcliffe. Nope. He
had two targets in mind last night. His job was supposed to make bye-bye
Sabrina
and
bye-bye Dylan. Hello freedom and hello cash. And what
happened? She was foiled again. No wonder the woman's been such a wreck. She's
got a lot to be freaked out about."
"Okay, that's enough." Sabrina cut them off and rose.
The sick expression on Carson's face had been intensifying by the second. And
it was really starting to worry her. "Carson?"
He angled his head in her direction, and there was a kind of
empty, shocked awareness in his eyes, mixed with disbelief and guilt. "I'm
okay," he managed. "I feel like puking, but I think that's to be
expected. If this is true..." He broke off, turned to Jeannie. "How
do we find out? How do we see this through?"
"We'll call Ms. Lane at home tomorrow morning, under the
guise of our original plan. We'll tell her about our search warrant, and
arrange to meet her at YouthOp," Jeannie replied. "Once we're in the
door, we'll see what we can find. That will determine how we confront her, and
with which crime first. Ideally, we'll get her on misappropriation of funds,
then catch her off-guard on the big stuff. To a certain extent, we'll have to
wing it. Leave it to us."
"We will." Dylan came to his feet, looking a little
green around the gills himself. "Detectives, that's enough for tonight. I
think we've all had it. Let's call it a day— for everyone's sake."
"I agree." Jeannie nodded, getting up and waiting while
Frank followed suit. "We'll call you as soon as it's over."
"Wait." Sabrina stopped them. "What time tomorrow
morning are you two planning on going over to YouthOp?"
"That depends on Ms. Lane. Why?"
"A couple of reasons. First of all, I don't want Susan paying
Carson any visits before this whole thing goes down."
"Oh, cut it out, Sabrina," Carson barked. "I'm not
a shriveled basket case."
"True, but you're not a diplomat either. You've got all the
subtlety of a firing squad. Susan will know something's wrong the minute she
sees your face." Sabrina was exaggerating and she knew it. Under
circumstances like these, Carson would lie through his teeth if he had to. The
truth was, she didn't want him having to face this woman—not alone.
Which brought her to the other potential schedule overlap she was
trying to avoid.
"Second, I want to hear the outcome of this little tête-à-tête
firsthand. Which means, I want to be here when you call Carson. The problem is,
I've got an appointment with the nephrologist at ten. Time is of the essence,
so rescheduling with Dr. Mendham is out. Can we work around that?"
Jeannie's gaze met hers, and a current of communication ran
between them. Sabrina's message was getting through, loud and clear. She wanted
to be with Carson, to help him through this emotional crisis. But she couldn't,
wouldn't, do that if it meant neglecting his physical crisis. It was a juggling
act. And she needed Whitman and Barton's help to manage it.
"That should be doable." Jeannie nodded, scratching her
cheek thoughtfully. "Tell you what. Detective Barton and I will ask Dr.
Radison to issue a no-visitors policy for tomorrow morning. He'll leave word at
the nurses' desk that Mr. Brooks had a difficult night, that he was badly
thrown by his daughter's brush with death, and that he'd been given something
strong to help him sleep. As a result, he'll be out for the count until
afternoon. That'll put a halt to any early morning drop-ins Ms. Lane might have
planned. After that, she'll be kept plenty busy by us. She'll be compiling that
list of potential Mr. Molotovs, while we're systematically compiling evidence.
It'll take quite some time to do our thing at YouthOp. You'd be surprised how
long it takes to review accounting data. Plus, we've got lots of questions to
ask. And, of course, we've got to check out the place thoroughly for anything
Russ Clark left behind. Trust me. We'll buy you more than enough time to get
your physical exam."
"Thank you, Detective," Sabrina said. A wave of
gratitude swept through her, and a grudging smile tugged at her lips.
"Looks like I was wrong about you. You're a pretty decent human being
after all. You both are."
"Yeah, well, don't spread it around," Jeannie warned.
"It'll ruin our reputation."
"No chance of that," Frank muttered. "No one would
believe her." He headed for the door, Jeannie right behind him. "Good
night, all."
"Good night. And good luck." Sabrina waited until the
two of them had left the room and shut the door.
Then, she turned, went back over to the bed where Carson was lying,
stony-faced, staring at the ceiling. "Hey." She lay her hand over
his. "Don't be pissed at me. I know I interfered. But I wasn't babying
you. I was caring. Cut me the same slack you wanted from me. I can't help
worrying. You're my father."
Carson's gaze shifted, dropping to where her fingers covered his.
"I'm not pissed. And, yeah, I
am
your father.
I'm
the one
who's supposed to be protecting
you,
not the other way around. Which is
why I'm having a hell of a time coming to grips with the fact that it looks
like the person who paid to have you killed is the woman who's been my partner
for over a year. A woman I cared about." His use of the past tense was
deliberate and emphatic. "And who claimed to love me."
"She does love you, for whatever that's worth."
"It's worth shit," he snapped. "So's the fact that
it wasn't me she meant to shoot. It was Dylan, and that's worse than if she'd
killed me three times over. Then, as if that wasn't despicable enough, she
tried again. She hired some piece of shit to kill both of you,
and
stab
poor Russ to death to keep his mouth shut...." Carson's fists clenched,
his fury a tangible entity. "God help her if Whitman and Barton are
right."
"Carson, stop it." Dylan strode over, loomed at the foot
of the bed. "Look at that cardiac monitor," he said, pointing.
"It doesn't take a surgeon to see that your heart rate's up. So's your
blood pressure, I'm willing to bet. So calm the hell down. You can't change
what's happened. If—and I repeat
if
—Susan's guilty of everything the
detectives speculated, she'll be punished for her crimes. We can't bring Russ
back. That's a tragedy that can't be undone any more than your being shot. But
we've got to focus on the positive. You're going to make a full recovery.
Sabrina and I survived last night's attack. We're alive and well. So cut it
out."
With a tight nod, Carson blew out his breath, visibly trying to
force himself to relax. "I hear you. But it's easier said than done. I'll
calm down. I just need some time alone—to think, to sort things out."
"The hell you do. What you need is a sleeping pill,"
Sabrina corrected. "I'm asking the nurse to bring one in now. I don't care
if you call her every name in the book. You're taking that pill. You need some
rest." Seeing him open his mouth to protest, she shot him one of her
I-gotcha-on-this-one looks. "Let's put it this way—no sleeping pill and no
rest means no rings and no proposal. And who knows when Dylan and I might feel
compelled to do something so mushy and traditional again? Actually, our lives are
so hectic these days—why, it could be months before we find the time to
formalize things. And
that
would push the wedding back
indefinitely."
"You're full of it." Carson eyed her knowingly.
"You two are chomping at the bit to make this official."
A challenging stare. "Think so? Fine. Then call my bluff. But
if you're wrong..." She shrugged. "A sleeping pill seems a small
price to pay to ensure a romantic, one-day-away engagement. But it's your call,
Mr. Matchmaker. So tell me, do Dylan and I go to Tiffany's tomorrow night, or
not?"
Carson's mouth snapped shut, and he gave her a dark look.
"Talk about going for the jugular. That's not a bargain; it's
blackmail."