by Andrea Kane
"I wouldn't go that far. She cares. The question is, who comes first—her or the kids? My guess is, she does. All the time, personally and professionally. Her reaction since Carson was shot is just one example of that. Her needs first, his second. Sure, she helps the kids. Like I said when we talked about Stan, we're not talking black and white. We're talking gray. There's just something about her priorities—it comes through in the way she runs her charity functions, the angle she takes when she's interviewed. She puts herself in the limelight—subtly, but every time the opportunity presents itself. Then there's the way she disburses the funds...."
"You think she's misappropriating them?"
"Let's just say I've never seen such a posh office occupied by the head of a charitable organization. An office which, I may add, I'm one of the few outsiders who's seen. And that's only because I do the legal paperwork that allows a YouthOp kid to intern at Ruisseau. She never conducts interviews there. It might make her look materialistic, rather than benevolent." Dylan rubbed a palm over his jaw. "I could be way off base. She could have paid for the damned interior decorating with her own money, for all I know."
"She told me she grew up on a farm in upstate New York. I doubt she has a huge trust fund to dip into. What did she do before she started YouthOp?"
"Various corporate positions, mostly in the public relations departments. Could she have saved a bundle that she's now spending on herself? Of course. She sure as hell spends it on her clothes and makeup. I've never seen that woman in the same outfit twice, or with a hair or eyelash out of place. As for the place she calls home, she lives on the Upper West side—not far from here. Nice area, not cheap. And hey, I'm sure the apartment's furnished to the nines, also."
Sabrina had to stifle a smile. "You really don't think much of her, do you?"
"That's not the issue. It's just that my warning bells go off when I'm around her. She's done nothing overt. She makes all the right moves at all the right times. Maybe that's part of the problem. She's too smooth, too impeccable. I don't know. I only know that I can't turn those warning bells off. Remember, Sabrina, when it comes right down to it, I'm a street kid. I grew up relying on my instincts to survive. They rarely failed me. That hasn't changed. And when it comes to Susan—they just can't get comfortable."
Sabrina was feeling more uneasy by the minute. Dylan was a clever, astute man. If his feelings on this matter were so strong, she wasn't about to pooh-pooh them. "You said you planned to bring this up with Carson. Why didn't you?"
"Because we were always busy. Because we never got a quiet minute alone. Because I wanted to be wrong." Dylan blew out his breath. "And because I knew he'd dismiss it as crap. I guess I was hoping to have something concrete to show him or tell him, anything to prove my concerns had merit. But nothing presented itself. Finally, I thought, screw it, I'll go to him anyway, if for no other reason than to keep him on his toes by putting the bug in his ear. That never happened. He got shot, so I obviously put the whole discussion on hold. I'm sure as hell not going to add to his burden with this petty garbage. He's going through enough. Whether Susan is Florence Nightingale or a social-climbing schemer whose main goal is to enrich herself and score Brownie points, it can wait until Carson's stronger."
"Maybe it doesn't have to."
Dylan arched a brow. "What does that mean?"
Sabrina put down her cup. "It means that I've learned to trust your instincts. There's only one person whose instincts I trust more: mine. Susan and I haven't spent a lot of time together. When we did, it was in the ICU lounge. We talked about YouthOp, and she got very emotional. On the other hand, maybe she's just a drama queen about everything. She certainly was a basket case on the phone before. She wasn't even ready to see Carson, that's how upset she was. She wanted time to compose herself. She was going in to YouthOp to do some work."
"So?"
"So—" Sabrina's chin came up and a purposeful glint lit her eyes. "You're right that this Susan-issue pales in comparison to everything Carson's been through in the past weeks. But it still affects his well-being. And that's something you and I need to look out for. He loves this woman. If she's not everything he thinks she is, it's up to us to find out."
"I see." Dylan's lips twitched. "So now we're on a crusade?"
"Let's just say that I'm interested in seeing this incredible organization where Carson finds great interns like Russ Clark. By the same token, I'm sure Susan could use some company. She was so distraught when we spoke. I say we kill two birds with one stone. It's still early. We can shower, change, and pay a quick visit to YouthOp before we head into the office."
9:45 A.M.
Mt. Sinai Hospital
Stan popped another Zantac into his mouth and gulped it down with water.
Dr. Radison was in with Carson now, checking out his vital signs and whatever else surgeons did after their patients went through a traumatic morning like the one Carson had just endured.
When Radison was done, it was his turn up.
He refilled his cup, drank some more water, then tossed away the paper cup and headed back to the lounge. He began to pace. There was no point in standing still, much less sitting down. He was a wreck, and his stomach was killing him. He'd spent the whole morning trying to figure out what Carson wanted to see him about. He'd sounded deadly serious. Had Whitman and Barton paid him a morning visit? Had they actually accused Stan of trying to kill Sabrina, on top of shooting Carson? Had they managed to convince Carson he was guilty?
If so, what could he say in his own defense? Just his luck, he'd been with Karen again. How many times could he spout that crap about being home alone and falling asleep in front of the TV? Why was it that whenever some dire crime occurred, his alibi was one he didn't dare provide?
Talk about being in deep shit.
The thought of Karen made him glance at his watch. Whitman and Barton were still with Pruet's staff, probably grilling the hell out of them. Normally, Karen was cool as a cucumber. But under the kind of pressure being exerted, he prayed she'd hold up. Because if those detectives found out about the two of them, he'd be in jail with the key thrown away.
He could hear the charges now. Collusion. Industrial espionage. Expensive gifts provided in exchange for sexual favors and corporate secrets. And motive for attempted murder? How about fear of his CEO-slash-oldest-friend finding out what he'd been up to for the past twenty years and pulling the plug? Couldn't get a better motive than that. Oh, and what about motive for attempted murder number two, tonight at Dylan's place? Let's see. The CEO's daughter had just been made company president. She was smart as a whip, and already suspicious of Stan. Hell, he even had the perk of being one of the few people who knew she'd spent the night at her boyfriend's.
It was a tidy little package. He'd be handcuffed and led away before he could catch his breath, if he didn't do something to save himself.
But how?
He'd told Karen he was taking matters into his own hands, nipping things in the bud. Well, he'd planned to. He'd already taken steps to achieve that end, although he'd veered in a different direction than he'd originally intended. But he had to live with himself— and, hopefully, with Karen. If those damned detectives had only solved the crimes, he could have slithered off into the sunset, leaving minimal upheaval in his wake. Instead, they'd come up empty and now there'd been another murder attempt, which meant a stepped-up investigation and an accusation waiting right around the bend. An accusation against the most likely suspect— him.
He was damned if he told the truth and damned if he lied. And he'd just run out of time. "Mr. Hager?"
Stan nearly jumped out of his skin as Dr. Radison approached him from behind. He whipped around. "Yes?"
The doctor gave him a curious look. "Mr. Brooks is asking for you. He's doing well, by the way. No lasting effects from this morning's shock, if that's what's got you so on edge."
"Great." Stan's relief was as tangible as it was real. Carson had to get well. He had to. Because
no matter how things played out, Stan had a painful and long-overdue confession to make.
"You can go down to his room now," Radison prodded.
"Oh. Thanks." Stan sucked in his breath, straightened his shoulders, and marched down the hall. This whole meeting could be a no-biggie. Maybe he was blowing the whole thing out of proportion. But he didn't think so.
He pushed open the door and walked in.
Carson was sitting up in bed. He did look stronger, and there were only a few tubes and contraptions still hooked up to him, plus his IVs and that shunt-thing in his arm used for the dialysis. But his expression was intense, brooding, like he had something heavy on his mind.
Stan knew that look. And it wasn't a good sign.
"Hey," he greeted his friend, pulling up a chair and forcing himself to sit down and appear relatively calm. "Radison says you're doing great."
Angling his head slightly, Carson gave Stan a penetrating stare. "I'm not going to beat around the bush. And I'm sure as hell not going to sugarcoat what I have to say. Not to you. Not after what you've done. Whitman and Barton are another story. They'll get the modified version. That way we can minimize the trouble you get into. I'm not sure you deserve the protection. But you're my friend, so you're getting it. As for now, when we're one-on-one, you're going to hear exactly what I think of you. Then, we'll get into the song and dance we're going to lay on the cops to save your ass."
The knot in Stan's gut tightened, and he paled as his worst fears were confirmed. "You honestly believe I tried to kill Sabrina tonight?" he blurted out. "Worse, you think I tried to kill you?" He groped for his pills, popped another into his mouth. He didn't give a damn how many he'd taken. His insides were on fire.
He reached over to Carson's tray. Taking a glass, he poured some water from the pitcher with a hand that shook so badly the water sloshed everywhere. Then, he swallowed the pill and put down the glass. He was sweating, and he yanked out a handkerchief, mopping at his forehead. "Christ, you really think I'm a killer. The scary part is, I can't blame you. But I'd never... I'd never..." He broke off, dropping his head in his hands as he realized how lame anything he said would sound.
"Hey." Carson's voice brought his head up. There was an odd expression on his friend's face—a combination of sorrow, pity, and nostalgia. "You've suffered a hell of a lot, haven't you?" Carson muttered. "I guess in many ways that's punishment enough. No, Stan, I don't think you tried to kill anyone. In fact, I know you didn't. It's time the cops knew, too. So later today, we're going to tell them."
Taken aback by Carson's response, Stan turned his palms up in a baffled gesture. "I've already told them. Repeatedly."
"They need proof. You've got it. Give them your alibi."
"What alibi? I was home watching TV and—"
"You weren't home watching TV," Carson interrupted. "You were in Tuckahoe, screwing Karen. Just like you were last night when Sabrina and Dylan were attacked. Once the cops know that, they'll go away." Silence.
"And before you ask, I know everything. About Karen, about the updates on Pruet, about the twenty years it's been going on. The works."
Stan sank weakly back in his seat. "I don't believe this. Why didn't you call me on it? Why didn't you do something, like throw my ass out the door?"
"Because you're a better COO than you give yourself credit for. Also, because you're my oldest friend. And don't make me sound quite so soft and squishy. I did do something. I kept tabs on you like you wouldn't believe. My PI practically lives up your ass. I also made sure you were isolated from any projects that might entice you to use what you'd learned from Karen. You have Dylan to thank for that. He's a hell of a lawyer. He kept you clean, and now he's laid out a plan to help keep your ass out of jail. But before I get into that, tell me two things. Where do things stand with Ferguson, and what the hell were you shredding when I called today?"
"Dylan's in on this, too?" Stan managed in a faint voice.
"Damn straight. I'm not a lawyer. I needed to protect Ruisseau. That's what I pay Dylan for. Now answer my questions—Ferguson and the shredding."
Ferguson. The shredding. Jesus, Carson really did know everything. And apparently, so did Dylan.
"I'll answer your questions. Just tell me who else knows."
"Sabrina. I told her a few hours ago. Whitman and Barton will come later. I wanted to talk to you first."
Nodding, Stan rose, drawing in a breath and running a shaky hand through his hair. "Ferguson's off the hook. I told him so this morning. What I was shredding were any personal notes from Karen, copies of Pruet's internal memos, and details I'd jotted down based on what Karen passed along. I never used any of it, by the way. I'm not sure I could have brought myself to, even if they'd been needed. I felt like a shit. I just needed to feel in control." A hard swallow. "No point in telling you what you already know. Just tell me what you don't know, and I'll fill you in."
"How did Ferguson find out what was going on?"
"He saw Karen and me come out of a hotel together— twice. We were rarely that stupid or careless. Just our luck, the two times we met in the city instead of at her place, Roland spotted us. He recognized Karen from some industry event they'd both attended. The second time he saw us together, he also overheard us saying some guilty good-byes and making plans to meet at her place where no one from Pruet's or Ruisseau could see us. Our conversation sounded pretty incriminating. The next morning, Roland confronted me. I freaked out. I gave him two personal bonus payments of ten thousand dollars each. He's been a twitching wreck ever since. Like I said, I let him off the hook today. I told him my plans. Needless to say, he was relieved."
Carson's eyes narrowed. "Your plans? What plans?"
Stan planted his feet firmly apart, and crossed his arms over his chest. "I won't lie to you. There's been too much of that already. Originally, I was just going to shred anything that could incriminate me or hurt Ruisseau, then bribe Roland with as much money as it took to get him to resign his position and to move far, far away. I told myself I'd make it up to you. I'd comb the globe until I found the best VP of human resources known to mankind to replace Roland. I'd never discuss business with Karen again. I'd bust my ass to help Sabrina, and to make her transition as easy as possible. I'd do it all, and I'd do it with the morals of a boy scout. But guess what? That bogus attempt at altruism didn't work. I discovered that my conscience has a lower threshold than I thought. It wouldn't shut up. Also, my insides feel like shredded wheat. My peptic ulcer has graduated to a bleeding ulcer. I'm killing myself, and I'm not ready to die. The only way to stop that from happening is by taking a major stand—now."
His shrug with filled with weariness and defeat. "Look, Carson, I can't keep fighting to be what I'm not. So I changed my original strategy, decided to go about things differently. Instead of bribing Roland, I gave him back his integrity this morning. I told him I was going to resign as soon as the cops caught whoever shot you, at which point I could tell you everything and walk off into the sunset. Actually, the conversation we're having now changes that timing. Since you already know everything, we can give the cops my alibi, tell them whatever you and Dylan decided on, and I can resign now rather than later."
"The hell you can." Carson's eyes blazed and his jaw set. "Let me get this straight. You're saying you figured that if you spilled your guts to me now, I'd assume that anyone who'd screw around with my company, might also put a bullet in my back."
"Something like that, yeah."
"Well, you were wrong. Your logic sucks. Just like it sucks that you never came to me, not in twenty years, and told me what was really going on with you and Karen. It sucks that you thought I'd just throw you to the wolves. It sucks that you didn't think I'd get it that you were in love with this woman. It sucks that you don't realize how well I know you, that I know how nuts you are about proving yourself. It sucks that you never caught on to the fact that I feel guilty as hell for making you feel so desperate that you had to go to these lengths to stay on t
op. And you know what sucks most of all? That after all we've been through together, all the years we've been friends, I had more faith in you than you had in me. Or in yourself, for that matter. You really are an asshole."
"That's a fair assessment. As for the last part, thanks for the compliment." Stan smiled faintly, his tone as wry as his expression. "It's good to know that, even with my life coming apart at the seams, some things never change."
"Yeah. Things like our friendship. And your job. You're not leaving Ruisseau. You're not going anywhere. Try handing me your resignation. I'll tear it up and throw it in your face. Now sit the hell down," Carson ordered, pointing at the chair. "We'll go over the explanation Dylan laid out for us to share with the detectives. It's pretty close to the truth. Once we're in sync, we'll contact Whitman and Barton, and arrange for you to give them your statement. Oh, and call Karen. Let her know what's going on. Tell her she's keeping her job and you're keeping yours. I'll give Pruet a call. If he feels better, Karen can sign a confidentiality agreement. But I doubt he'll insist on that. He'll be satisfied with her verbal assurance that whatever happens in her professional day isn't discussed outside the office. As for you, the employment agreement you signed as COO already binds you to maintain confidentiality about Ruisseau.
"And one more thing." Carson shot Stan a no-bullshit look. "On a personal note, would you get off your butt and ask this woman to marry you? It's the only way you're ever going to get this marriage thing right."
"I will." Stan's throat was working convulsively as he lowered himself into the chair. He stared at the floor, and there was no sarcasm in his tone when he spoke, only gratitude and humility. "Thanks, Carson. I said it when we lived in that cockroach-ridden dump, and I'll say it now. You're one hell of a friend."
"Yeah, well, that goes both ways. Without your passing along that sperm donor information twenty-eight years ago, Sabrina would never have been conceived. And without your digging it up again now, she'd never have come into my life. So we're even. Now let's stop slobbering and get busy."
