by Andrea Kane
Dylan crossed over to stand beside her. "Radison's being thorough. You know his reputation as well as I do; he's the best there is. He's more than aware we're still out here. He'll give us an update as soon as he can."
"Mr. Newport?"
The voice came from the corridor behind them. Dylan turned, not particularly surprised to see Detectives Barton and Whitman standing there. They'd questioned him last night before Susan arrived—about his relationship to Carson, Carson's lifestyle, his friends and enemies—the usual criminal investigation rundown. He'd responded on autopilot, although he doubted those responses had been too coherent. Not that it mattered. Even if he'd been in top form, he'd still be high up on their suspect list. He'd been the only other person at Ruisseau when the shooting took place. His tight relationship with Carson and the edge it gave him in the company was no secret. And by now they'd done their homework. They knew what kind of background he had, and they knew how much he stood to gain if Carson didn't make it. So here they were, back to probe further. Unless of course they'd found out something...
"Detectives." He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to assess their demeanor. They sure as hell didn't look like satisfied law officers who'd just made an arrest. "Do you have anything for us?"
"Nothing you don't already know." Frank Barton's reply had a definite edge to it—an edge and an implication. "We spoke to the two guards who were on duty at the building last night—the one at the front door and the one monitoring the video surveillance. They saw nothing and no one, except you and Mr. Brooks. We reviewed the surveillance tapes and confirmed that. So if anyone else got into the building, they used the freight entrance." Barton didn't meet Dylan's gaze, but instead shot an inquisitive look at Susan.
"This is Susan Lane," Dylan supplied in a stiff tone. "Her name's on that list of Carson's friends I gave you. Susan, Detectives Barton and Whitman."
"Ms. Lane." Eugenia Whitman acknowledged the introduction. "I'm glad you're here. We were going to contact you later today to ask you a few questions. Now we can do it here."
Susan nodded. "Of course. Whatever I can do to help."
"Good. Also, just so you know, we're posting twenty- four-hour security outside Mr. Brooks's hospital room, just in case whoever did this decides to try again. Officer Laupen should be showing up any minute now. He'll be taking the first shift." Whitman's attention switched back to Dylan. "You seem to be in better shape than you were last night. Does that mean there's positive news on Mr. Brooks's condition?"
Like they hadn't already called the hospital and checked, Dylan reflected dryly.
"It means last night I was in shock," he said aloud. "That shock is wearing off, so today I'm a little more collected. As for Carson, he's hanging on. He had a lacerated artery, a pierced lung, and a perforation of his intestines. He's also lost huge amounts of blood. So with regard to the prognosis, the jury's still out. For the time being, he's doped up and in ICU. His surgeon's in with him now. If you stick around, I'm sure you can hear the latest firsthand."
"That's what we had in mind," Barton assured him. "I understand from the surgeon's report that the bullet wasn't removed."
"You understand correctly. The bullet's in Carson's chest, lodged somewhere close to his lung. Taking it out would have been more dangerous than leaving it."
Barton folded his arms across his thickening middle. "So we have no bullet, no weapon, and a victim who can't talk to us yet."
Dylan noticed he didn't say anything about having no motive or suspect.
"Talking to Carson won't help. He didn't see his assailant." Rather than provoking the detectives, Dylan repeated what he'd told them last night. "He was shot from behind. He said the whole thing happened too fast for him to turn around."
"According to your story, he said that in the ambulance. Unfortunately, no one but you heard him." Detective Whitman fiddled with the ends of her short puff of curly platinum-blond hair—a deceptively casual gesture, since she was studying Dylan intently.
"The paramedics were a little busy, Detective." Dylan was starting to get pissed. "They were working to save Carson's life. He only managed a few words. And the only one he spoke to was me." He met Whitman's cool stare. She was tall—almost as tall as his own six foot one—with pale coloring, a straight, stick-thin build, and cottonball hair. She looked just like a Q-tip.
"Um-hum." She scanned her notes. "That's what you told us."
"And that's what happened. Look, let's not waste time debating the facts. You can confirm them with Carson the minute the doctor gives his okay."
"That's why we're here, Mr. Newport. To see if the victim's story matches yours."
That did it.
"Look, Detective," Dylan said icily, "I hear your message—loud and clear. For the record, you're barking up the wrong tree. But you'll find that out for yourselves. Just don't waste too much time in the process. I want you to get whoever did this. Dig around. Carson's shooting wasn't random."
"That's one point we agree on. It wasn't random. But it wasn't robbery either. When the ambulance brought Mr. Brooks in, he had five hundred dollars and a solid gold money clip in his pocket. Neither was touched. And since, allegedly, the assailant had vanished without a trace by the time you walked onto the scene, he would have had more than enough time to snatch those items before taking off."
"Robbery? That never occurred to me. Yeah, Carson's rich, and he's high-profile. But if someone wanted to rob him, they'd have mugged him on the street comer, not gone up twelve floors to shoot him in his office."
"Makes sense." Barton eyed Dylan thoughtfully. "So tell me, Mr. Newport, do you have a particular motive in mind?"
Mine, you mean, Dylan mused silently. Aloud he replied, "It could be any one of several. Revenge. Greed. A desperate need for financial survival. As I told you last night, Carson's not your average CEO, or even your average self-made man. He grew up in the streets. He started with nothing, and made a fortune by busting his ass, and relying on nothing but his brains and his instincts. He's a brilliant chemist and businessman—a true genius, if you ask me. People like that bring out the worst in their enemies."
"And why would those enemies choose to act now?" Whitman probed.
"C'est Moi." Susan realized aloud where Dylan was headed. "It hit the market in June. Carson's shooting has to be related to that." She gave Whitman a quizzical look. "Have you heard of it?"
"The fragrance that rocked the nation?" Whitman's sarcasm was so thick you could cut it. "You'd have to be dead not to. The sensationalism surrounding that ad campaign caused riots at every cosmetic counter in the country."
"It's not the campaign," Dylan said tightly. "It's the product. The ads just captured the world's attention. But it's the scent itself that's caused the rest of the fragrance industry to go into a tailspin."
"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.
CHAPTER 3
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 Ru
isseau, 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."
