by Andrea Kane
"Don't they also have corporate sponsors?"
"Yeah," Dylan replied. "Carson gives a bundle. I know that for a fact. YouthOp has other sponsors, too—some personal, some corporate—although I doubt any of them gives close to what Carson does. Either way, the thing that gets to me is that I don't see enough of that money going to the kids. Listen, I was once in their shoes. I know what they need. Especially the older ones. They're beyond the point where baseball games and pep talks are going to help. They need hard-core support."
"They get internships and scholarship money," Jeannie reminded him.
"True. And I wholeheartedly support that. It made all the difference in my life. But it's step two. Step one is for someone to get them on track, moving in the right direction so they'll take advantage of those opportunities. As I've told Susan before, YouthOp needs to hire some professionals, counselors who go out to the high schools and zero in on kids who could benefit from this program, counselors who can help them along the way. Charity events are great. But once the money's in YouthOp's coffers, then what? Where's it going? To flashy events that are covered by the press? That's what eats at me. The donations should be used to create an environment where these kids feel like there's a place to go, a person to talk to. Russ Clark's a perfect example. If he'd been able to confide in someone about whatever the hell he'd uncovered, maybe warning bells would have gone off in that someone's head. Maybe Russ would be alive today."
"Unless what he uncovered was at YouthOp itself. Then, he wouldn't know where to turn. And, if he did, maybe he couldn't get to that person in time." Jeannie leaned forward, and it was obvious her mind was going a mile a minute. "As Ms. Radcliffe pointed out, Clark came to Ruisseau from YouthOp. We've been assuming that whatever incriminating information he dug up, he found at Ruisseau. Maybe he didn't. Maybe he found it at YouthOp. And maybe he was spotted by Mr. Molotov cocktail, who happened to be at YouthOp at the same time. That would certainly be an incentive to shut Clark up."
Frank twisted around to face Jeannie. "That might explain why we didn't find any notes, scribbled memos— anything that could help us—in Clark's office at Ruisseau. He wasn't checking out this place. He was checking out YouthOp. And if he was keeping some kind of running report, he might have stashed it right where he was poking around. It was convenient and he probably had no idea anyone was onto him."
"Which means that report could still be there—unless the Molotov kid found it. He sure as hell would have looked, to save his own ass. Whatever Russ Clark dug up, we can assume it was incriminating."
"And if it also implicated Susan..." Sabrina swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. "That would give her motive to have Russ killed."
"Enough theorizing. We need answers." Jeannie shut her notebook with a thwack. "We've got to get our hands on a list of all the teenagers and young twenties who've been affiliated with YouthOp since its inception. My guess is that would lead us to Mr. Molotov. And the list wouldn't take long to compile, since the organization's relatively new."
"The problem is, who's going to compile it?" Frank muttered. "It has to be Susan Lane. She runs the place. Trying to go around her would be stupid. She'd inevitably find out what we were doing, which would piss her off and make her suspicious."
"Um-hum," Jeannie agreed. "We've got to spin this so we get her cooperation." A thoughtful pause. "Mr. Newport, did Russ Clark spend any scheduled time at YouthOp? I realize he visited the place now and then— the YouthOp staff confirmed that for us when we interviewed them after his murder—but we need more than an occasional drop-in. Did he have any formal reason to go to the organization with any regularity?"
"As a matter of fact, yes." Dylan nodded. "He taught a writing class there every Saturday afternoon to a bunch of twelve- to fourteen-year-olds. There's a subway station a couple of blocks away from YouthOp, so getting there was easy for everyone. The staff might not be aware that that class was going on, since most of them don't work Saturdays." Awareness flashed across Dylan's face. "Which would make it the perfect time for Russ to do some snooping."
"That's enough for probable cause, Jeannie," Frank declared. "We've got an ongoing murder investigation, a connection between the victim, YouthOp, and—after the gasoline Ms. Radcliffe just smelled in Susan Lane's office—the assailant. Plus, we've got statements from Ms. Radcliffe and Mr. Newport affirming that they heard Ms. Lane use the phrase 'a couple' of Molotov cocktails in referring to last night's attack. It's search warrant time."
"I agree," Jeannie said. "And we'll lay it all out for the judge. But as far as Susan Lane's concerned, let's soft-pedal it. The lower key and less personal we make this visit, the better. Let her believe she's out of the mix for now."
"Right. No point in tipping our hand. Let her think we're just checking out the possibility that some slime-bag kid slipped through the cracks and got into her program."
"She'll understand that in order to find him, we'll need to access the computer, go through the personnel files, and get into the financial records." Jeannie gave an innocent shrug. "After all, you never know if the punk stole money from YouthOp, or if somebody paid him off. You and I both know it's highly unlikely we'll find information like that neatly listed in the financial records. But it is possible. And it'll give us the grounds we need to review the charity's financial transactions. Which, in turn, will give us a chance to see how the YouthOp funds have been allocated—or manipulated—as the case may be. Ms. Lane won't have an inkling that's part of our agenda. Unless we stumble upon something incriminating—then she'll know, and fast."
"Just having you walk in with a search warrant will make Susan freak out," Dylan noted.
"Not the way we'll handle it, she won't. We'll ask for her help, make her our ally. Believe me, Mr. Newport, she won't freak out—not if she's innocent," Frank clarified. "If she's innocent, she'll thank us. Her organization will be cleansed of a bad seed, and she'll have helped nail him. Hell, she'll look like a heroine in the press. Isn't that what she thrives on?"
"You've got a point," Dylan conceded. "Well, good luck. I'm half-hoping you'll find something to fry her ass, and half-hoping she's innocent as a lamb—for Carson's sake."
"You're emotionally involved. We're not. That's why things go much smoother when Detective Barton and I handle the situation ourselves," Jeannie told him.
"In other words, butt out." A corner of Dylan's mouth lifted. "Don't worry, Detective. Sabrina and I have had more than our share of excitement. This one's all yours. Just keep us posted."
"Will do."
"Speaking of which, what happened at Pruet's this morning?"
"A dead end," Frank stated flatly. "Ten people, nine alibis. Everyone could account for their whereabouts except Karen Shepard, who's the executive assistant to Louis Malleville. She was at the movies alone. We'll check out her story as best we can. Not that I expect to find anything."
Sabrina and Dylan exchanged glances.
"What?" Frank demanded. "What do you two know?"
Dylan reached for the phone. "Let me just make a quick call to Carson, see what he's up to. Then, I'll answer your question."
He'd pressed three buttons when there was a knock on the door.
Sabrina frowned. "I asked Donna not to interrupt under any circumstances. Yes?" she called out.
The door opened, and Stan walked in. He looked exhausted, and like he'd been through hell. But there was a peace in his eyes that Sabrina had never before seen. "Don't blame Donna," he said quietly. "I pulled rank on her. I knew Detectives Whitman and Barton were here. And I need to speak with them right away. This can't wait."
Silently, Dylan hung up the phone.
"Go ahead, Mr. Hager," Jeannie replied. "We're listening.
CHAPTER 31
5:35 P.M.
Mt. Sinai Hospital
If looks could kill, Sabrina and Dylan would both be dead.
Carson glared at them, pushing himself higher up in the bed. "What do you mean you didn't pick out your r
ings? You both look fine. Much better, in fact. And Marie said you were both at work the whole day. So what gives? What happened to the Fifth Avenue marriage proposal?"
Dylan provided the answer they'd rehearsed, which was the truth, sans the part relating to Susan. With events unraveling so quickly—and so unpleasantly—the last thing they wanted to do was sandwich a joyous and memorable occasion like getting engaged between Stan's confession and Frank and Jeannie's YouthOp investigation.
Especially with Susan smack in the middle of it.
"It was a rough day, Carson," Dylan explained, smooth as silk. "Whitman and Barton were with us at noon which, if you recall, was when we'd planned to go to Tiffany's. That's when Stan walked in. He had a tough hurdle to leap, and we wanted to be there to support him. Plus, Sabrina's nose and throat were still burning her, and my head was aching. A marriage proposal isn't something you bulldoze your way through, like a rough business meeting. It's a once-in-a-lifetime event. So we decided to wait. Tiffany's is opened until seven P.M. every weeknight. For us to go tonight would be pushing it. It's already close to six o'clock. We want time to browse, to pick out just the right rings. So we have a date for tomorrow night. We'll leave work early, which will give us plenty of time for shopping. Then, I'm taking Sabrina to Central Park for a sunset proposal."
"What's wrong with tomorrow morning? You can propose in the sunlight, too."
Sabrina rolled her eyes. "Gee. Aren't you the romantic?"
"No. I'm a get-it-done guy. So's Dylan. You and I both know he can't wait to slip that ring on your finger. So what's really going on? Why can't you be at the doors of Tiffany's at ten A.M. to open the store?"
Another sore subject that seemed impossible to avoid.
Fine. If avoidance was out, then shoot-from-the-hip was the next best alternative.
"Because I've got an appointment with the nephrologist tomorrow morning at ten, remember?"
"Yeah, I remember," Carson grumbled. "I was hoping you'd forget."
"Not a chance. Anyway, Dylan's going with me. And so, I'm sure, is Bernard," Sabrina added dryly, referring to the linebacker of a bodyguard who'd been appended to her since mid-afternoon. "By the way, is it okay if he hangs out in the waiting room during my physical exam? He's a great guy and all, other than the fact that he never cracks a smile, but I'm not quite ready to do a strip show for him."
"Very funny. He's not paid to smile. He's paid to keep you safe. And, yeah, he'll wait outside while you get checked out."
"Good. So much for that. And don't worry about the proposal. By tomorrow night, Dylan's knee will be sore and grass-stained, and there'll be a glistening diamond on my left hand, which we promise to come by and show you. Okay?"
Carson's glare softened, and he appeared slightly mollified. "Yeah, I guess I see your point. Getting engaged is a big deal. Fine, okay, it can wait a day. But come by here afterward, no matter how late it is. I can't wait to see you gushing over your ring."
"If that's what this is all about, then you've got a much longer wait than you think," Sabrina retorted. "I don't gush."
Carson's lips twitched. "I guess not. Okay, I'll settle for a rosy glow." He settled himself against the pillows. "Did you at least get Dylan moved into your place?"
"No. Dylan got himself moved into my place."
A snort. "Damn, you're difficult. Semantics are bullshit. But, fine, Dylan moved himself. The important thing is, he's living with you, right?"
It was Sabrina's turn to stifle a grin. "Yes, Carson. He's living with me. But if you don't stop meddling, I'm going to relegate him to the guest room."
"Shut up, Carson," Dylan ordered.
"Gotcha." A chuckle. "All I care about is that you two are on your way. I'll stop sticking my nose where it doesn't belong."
"That'll be a first. Sabrina and I are lucky you haven't ordered Bernard to post himself in the master bedroom and keep a running count of how many times we..."
"Time to change the subject," Sabrina announced.
"... snore," Dylan finished with a straight face. "I was going to say snore."
"Oh." Sabrina shot him a yeah-right look.
"Don't worry," Carson assured them. "Bernard knows his limits. He'll keep his distance at the appropriate times. That includes when you're at Tiffany's and Central Park, by the way. Believe me, he'll be the soul of discretion. And he'll be staying outside the apartment, not in it. Intimate moments are yours and yours alone."
"See? You are a romantic," Sabrina teased. Sobering, she asked something that had been nagging at her all afternoon. "Did you have a chance to talk to Stan after the meeting with Whitman and Barton?"
"Yup. He called here around three."
"Did he sound okay?"
"Actually, he sounded better than I expected. I guess that's because he and Karen will be paying their own visit to Tiffany's pretty soon. Hell, those diamond rings are flying." Carson's amusement vaporized. "Seriously, Stan said the talk with the detectives went well. Did it?"
"Very well," Dylan supplied. "Stan stuck to our story. He said he'd just come from the hospital where he'd informed you that he was going to tell the authorities the truth about him and Karen, even if they chose not to believe he was innocent of committing a crime. He was frank and to the point—very effective. He even cleared up the issue of Roland's jitters by explaining that Roland didn't realize that the relationship between Stan and Karen was an open book, especially to you. Whitman and Barton were fine with the alibis and the explanation. So that chapter's closed."
"Really." Carson eyed his friend. "It sounds a little too easy. They didn't pump Stan? Didn't try to trip him up? Nothing?"
"Nope."
"Odd, isn't it? Considering how convinced they were that he was involved. Unless, of course, things have changed and they have their sights set somewhere else— on someone else. Do they?"
This was the discussion Sabrina and Dylan were most hoping to dodge—at least until it was necessary for it to be had.
"What are you two hiding?" Carson barked.
It appeared that the necessary time had arrived.
Still, maybe it could arrive in stages.
"If we tell you, it has to remain among us—just the three of us," Sabrina began, delivering the most impersonal aspect of the facts, that part that would be least likely to hit Carson like a blow to the gut.
"Fine." Carson waited expectantly.
"It's possible that whoever threw those Molotov cocktails last night and, presumably, who also killed Russ is affiliated with YouthOp."
Carson's jaw set. "Why do you think that?"
Sabrina didn't flinch. "Because Dylan and I were there today, visiting Susan. She called your room this morning after you'd fallen asleep, and she sounded really rattled. We wanted to calm her down. So we went to YouthOp, chatted with Susan in her office. There was a persistent, lingering odor of gasoline. I smelled it the entire time we were there. Which suggests that whoever threw those Molotov cocktails was, at some point, in Susan's office."
Carson didn't so much as blink. "Go on."
"The YouthOp connection makes sense," Dylan continued, following through with Sabrina's approach. "Russ worked there. He could have found out that some son of a bitch was making extra bucks hiring out as a paid killer. You know the type. He was probably selling drugs, maybe even weapons, which means he's already responsible for God knows how many deaths. It's not a reach that he'd go one step further, knock off a few people for the right price."
"Not a reach at all. As for weapons, you're figuring he got hold of the twenty-two that shot me, right?"
"Right. And when the little shit realized Russ knew who he was, he stabbed him."
"Not of his own accord, he didn't." Carson's expression and tone were flat. "They don't call them paid killers for nothing. So who's paying him?"
"We don't know."
"Ah." Carson fell silent, his lips pursed as he thought. "Tell me, how much of this theory has Susan been told?"
"None of
it. The detectives asked us to sit on this. They want to handle things their way. We gave them our word we'd say nothing to Susan."
"Because she might be involved," Carson concluded in that same monotone.
Sabrina blew out her breath. They were up against a wall, and she knew it. "It's possible," she said at last.
"In what way?"
Silence.
"I asked you a question." Carson's wooden tone was gone, and irritation glinted in his eyes. "Stop dancing around the issue. And stop protecting me like a goddamned child. What's Susan's alleged involvement in this? I have a right to know."
"Yes, you do." Sabrina should have realized there was no putting one over on him. "But you're not going to like it."
"I'm sure I won't. But I am going to hear it."
"Fair enough." Sabrina turned to Dylan. "You've been wrestling with this for a while. For once, I'm less personally involved. I'll provide the details. You fill in whatever you need to."
Dylan nodded, looking as troubled as she felt.
Sabrina proceeded to tell Carson everything—about the verbal slip Susan had made in her office, about Dylan's intrinsic concerns about her skewed priorities, and about the various scenarios they'd bandied around with Whitman and Barton.
"No wonder you had no time for ring shopping," Carson said tersely when she was through. He adjusted his pillow, propped one arm behind his head in a deceptively casual gesture. But there was a vein pulsing at his temple, and a hard glitter in his eyes. "You've certainly been busy."
"You're ripping mad at us," Sabrina stated.
"I haven't gotten that far. I'm still trying to visualize Susan as being capable of hiring someone to stab Russ to death and to burn you two to a crisp." Carson inclined his head toward Dylan. "Is Susan the personal matter you wanted to talk to me about the night I got shot?"
"Yeah, but purely from an ethical standpoint; nothing of this magnitude," Dylan qualified. "I was bugged, really bugged, by the vibes I was picking up from Susan—her priorities, her agenda with regard to YouthOp, even the allocation of the charity's funds. I knew that by coming to you I was taking the risk of pissing you off. I didn't have anything solid to go on. And, yeah, I realized you'd probably dismiss my misgivings as garbage. But I couldn't live with myself if I didn't say something. If Susan was taking you for a ride, or at least taking your money for a ride, you deserved to know."
