Frank and Jeannie never socialized together when they were off duty. But when they were on duty, well, everyone at the precinct agreed that they were a formidable team that lived up to the adage "sticks and stones may break your bones"—although their way of breaking guilty suspects was a lot more civil, but no less effective.
This morning what they wanted to break was this case.
They arrived at the precinct early, gulping down their first cup of coffee while watching the early business news that included the breaking story of Carson Brooks's shooting. As soon as the news clip ended, they put in a call to Dr. Radison, and inquired about Carson Brooks's condition. Hearing he was conscious but undergoing tests, they left the station, picked up some breakfast, and headed over to Mt. Sinai.
The place was hopping when their Ford Crown Victoria pulled into the hospital parking lot, TV news vans lined up as close to the entrance as they could get, business correspondents and their camera crews getting set up for whatever medical updates they could obtain.
"They're circling like hawks," Frank noted from behind the steering wheel. He pulled off to the side and parked where they could keep an eye on things, opening up the brown bag that contained his breakfast.
"Security's tight," Jeannie assured him, popping her third Dunkin' Munchkin into her mouth. "The press won't be getting in anytime soon. In fact, they won't be getting anything at all, except the prepared statements Dr. Radison issues."
"Yeah, you're right." Frank scowled at the dry bagel, taking an unenthusiastic bite and washing it down with a gulp of black coffee.
"That bad, huh?" his partner inquired, licking the final crumbs of chocolate glaze off her fingers, and reaching into the box for a powdered Munchkin.
"Worse." He shot her an irked look. "Do you have to look like you're enjoying those things so much? It's bad enough having to smell donuts when I'm eating this piece of cardboard and counting these goddamned points. But, I sure as hell don't need to watch you suck down every drop of glaze and every speck of sugar. Cut it out, Jeannie."
Her pale brows rose, and she reached for a napkin, wiping her fingers in a more conventional way. "My, aren't we in a foul mood today. Ah, last night was your weekly weigh-in. What happened—were you up a pound?"
"I maintained," he grumbled. Giving up on the rock-hard bagel, he tossed it back into the bag. "That's worse than gaining. At least when I gain, I've had fun doing it. When I maintain, I've eaten zip, but my body doesn't cooperate. So I get on that goddamned scale, and my Weight Watchers leader looks at me with those cow eyes, like I'm a kid who needs a hug. Then she gives me a pep talk that makes me want to puke. And I'm right back where I started."
Jeannie's lips twitched. "Sounds like a blast."
"It's not." Frank took another gulp of coffee. "Neither is this case. And keeping things quiet until this morning was a major pain in the ass."
All humor vanished. "Yeah, it delayed grilling Brooks's competitors, that's for sure." Jeannie rubbed her temples, pensively. "On the other hand, we had enough conversations to know that Brooks has lots of money, lots of visibility, and, as a result, lots of enemies. Okay, maybe enemies is too strong a word. Let's say people with a motive to get rid of him."
"True. But how many of them had access to his office? Or to the building, for that matter?"
"All the assailant would need is a key and access to the freight entrance," Jeannie pointed out. "It was Labor Day. Security was light. Two guys and a camera, both stationary. Remember, we're not talking about a high security building here. Eleven West 57th's got a bunch of corporate offices in it. Ruisseau's top-secret stuff is done at the research facilities in Jersey."
"But the man who invented C'est Moi wasn't in Jersey. He was in his office, right here in Manhattan. So was his attorney. Yeah, there's the freight entrance. But there's also the obvious. No one but Brooks and Newport was seen entering the building that day."
Jeannie propped her elbow against the window and turned to face her partner. "You really think Dylan Newport did it?"
A shrug. "He's got a sketchy background. He'd get big bucks and controlling interest in the company if Brooks died."
"Yeah, and he was the only one who knew Brooks had a daughter—one who might very well inherit if Brooks found her and changed his will before leaving this world. That's more than enough motive. But it doesn't answer my question. Do you think Newport did it?"
Frank polished off his coffee and crushed the Styrofoam cup. "I can't decide. Part of me thinks he did. Part of me thinks he's too smart to be that dumb. We know he wasn't lying about Brooks not seeing his assailant. Not only did Brooks confirm the story, but the path the bullet took tells us that the shot was fired from an angle that was behind and below the victim. The shooter was either hunched down or crouched in the doorway when he discharged that bullet. There was minimal chance of being spotted."
"The other thing is I can't help feeling that Newport's concern for Brooks is real. Either that, or he's one hell of an actor." Jeannie rotated her shoulders in a counterclockwise direction to ease her tension. "As for entry keys, every employee at Ruisseau had them. Plus, during those few minutes we had with Brooks, he said that the doors to Ruisseau and to his office, were unlocked. Which means that the rest of the building employees, including security and maintenance—anyone with keys to the building—are suspect. So are their family and friends outside work who have access to those keys. Add to that the fact that the assailant could have bypassed the surveillance camera by avoiding the lobby and taking the stairs, and we're back to square one."
"I realize Brooks was half out of it when we talked to him. Even so, he was pissed as hell when we implied Newport was a suspect. His glare could've lanced through us, and he underlined the words 'no way' about six times. He's devoted to the guy."
"That's going to complicate the investigation," Jeannie murmured. "And it's not just Newport he's defensive about. That glare didn't go away. He's protective of all his employees, whether or not they're personal favorites of his. It's kind of like family loyalty. I'm sure it'll go both ways. We'll soon find out. I doubt we'll get much cooperation from his staff. But now that the news about Brooks is out, we can get the investigation into full swing. We'll head over to Ruisseau right after Radison gives us an update and lets us in to see Brooks."
"If he lets us in to see Brooks."
"He will. Brooks is conscious. We know that much. We also know that Radison's taking him off the respirator and endotracheal tube to see how he does on his own. All we need are a few minutes with him so we can get a better handle on the personal rapport he has with his employees, and which of them might have it in for him. Brooks isn't going to bad-mouth anyone, so we'll have to read between the lines and watch his body language."
"In the meantime, do we tell him about his daughter?"
Jeannie contemplated her partner's question, then gave a thoughtful shake of her head. "No. Not yet. Let's see if Dylan Newport shows up with her like he said. Give him a day to play this out before we stick our noses into it."
"For Brooks's sake or the Radcliffes'?" Frank asked. He and Jeannie had done their homework, checking into the name that appeared on the slip of paper Dylan Newport had given them. They knew just what kind of a hornet's nest this was going to stir up.
"For everyone's sake," Jeannie replied. "Including ours. This is a personal situation. Considering the players, it could get very sticky."
"Yeah." Frank made a disgusted sound. "Talk about complications we didn't need. It would be a lot easier if Brooks's daughter had turned out to be an average woman. Instead, she's part of a big-time country club family. This whole thing is like a soap opera—one with lots of potential lawsuits."
"You got that right. It's a pretty safe bet that if Gloria Radcliffe never told Brooks she was pregnant, much less that he had a daughter, the Radcliffes aren't going to be thrilled about being dragged into this."
"I can't figure out Gloria Radcliffe being involved with Carson Brooks
back then—not in a long-term affair or a one-night stand. He was a college-age nobody when their daughter was conceived. Gloria Radcliffe was an established designer and a socialite in her mid-thirties. What's the deal with that?"
Jeannie shrugged. "He's a charismatic guy. Maybe he was sexy even as a twenty-two-year-old kid. Lots of women are attracted to guys that age. Why—don't you know rich men of sixty who are shacking up with girls young enough to be their granddaughters?"
"Yeah, and it makes me sick. But you're just proving my point. There's usually an agenda in situations like that. Where's the agenda here? Gloria Radcliffe is a class act. Back then, she was a knockout. You saw the newspaper clippings we dug up. Between her money and her looks, believe me, she'd have men breaking down her door."
"Fine, then I guess Carson Brooks just turned her on. He's far from an average guy. Maybe he knew exactly what women are about, even then. Remember, this is the guy who invented C'est Moi."
"Yeah, right. How could I forget."
Jeannie gulped down the last of her coffee. "Speaking of C'est Moi, what do you think about the idea that someone was trying to silence Brooks because he was the only one who knew the formula?"
Frank grimaced. "I want to toss that theory in the garbage. But the truth is, the stuff is raking in a fortune. And if Brooks is eccentric enough to keep the formula to himself, yeah, I guess it's possible."
A corner of Jeannie's mouth lifted. "Don't sound so skeptical. That whole pheromone thing is a big deal now. And Brooks incorporated it in a product that does handsprings around his competitors. He capitalized on a hot trend, and raked in a huge chunk of the perfume market. The man's a genius."
"No arguments. I'm well acquainted with the C'est Moi rage. My wife was first on line to buy a bottle. Said it was supposed to make the wearer irresistible."
Jeannie grinned. "And did it work? Was she irresistible?"
"I wouldn't know. She didn't buy it. She thought there was a man's brand, too. Turned out they've only marketed a woman's so far."
The grin widened. "Linda wanted to buy it for you to wear?"
"Yup. Like I'm not irresistible enough."
Jeannie patted his sleeve sympathetically. "Don't sweat it. From the ads I've seen, they're coming out with the male version for Christmas. I'll give Linda a heads-up call. That way, we'll make sure you find a bottle in your stocking."
"Gee, thanks."
"Look at the bright side. Linda might be so turned on, you won't see the light of day for a week. Think how much weight you'll lose."
"Cute. Really cute." Frank shot her a look. "I'm not in the mood for jokes. In fact, I'm feeling pretty testy today."
"No kidding."
"Starving to death will do that to you. So will lack of sleep. Especially when it comes from working on a case like this."
Sobering, Jeannie nodded. "I'm with you there. This investigation gets more involved by the minute. Rather than narrowing things down, we've got a growing list of suspects, a ton of alibis to confirm—and very little to go on."
"I'd say I wish we already found the weapon, but I doubt it'll help us, even when we do," Frank added in disgust. "We know from the shell casings on Brooks's rug that the gun was a twenty-two caliber. Not exactly an uncommon choice. And I doubt it'll have a name tag on it. More likely, when we trace it, we'll find out it was hot. That'll be another dead end."
"Let's hope we have some luck at Ruisseau today." Jeannie glanced at her watch. "It's eight-forty. Brooks must be out of radiology by now. Let's see if we can get a word with him."
8:45 A.M.
Center for Creative Thinking and Leadership
Dylan swallowed the last of his muffin and coffee, then left the lounge on his floor that served light breakfast, and headed down to the reception desk for the third time that morning.
"Any word from Ms. Radcliffe?" he asked.
The young woman looked up from her paperwork. "No, Mr. Newport. She's still not back." She cleared her throat, evidently deciding he was losing patience with that response. "Why don't I buzz her assistant, Melissa Andrews? She might have heard from Sabrina."
"There's no need, Kim." Sabrina's voice came from behind him. "I'm here. I'll talk to Mr. Newport."
He turned, struck again by Sabrina Radcliffe's startling resemblance to Carson. It wasn't so much her features, which were softer, more delicate and refined. But her coloring—the contrast of jet black hair and intense blue eyes—plus that high forehead, and her mannerisms—the way she held her head, the stubborn line of her chin and jaw when she was speaking, the astute, no-nonsense delivery... damn, it was like seeing a smaller, slighter, feminine version of Carson. The rest of it—the fluidity of her movements, her innate poise, and her patrician bearing, not to mention the incredible body that only a dead man wouldn't notice—those attributes she obviously owed to her mother.
She looked exhausted, with lines of fatigue around her eyes and dark circles beneath them. At the same time, she was composed, her corporate training kicking in to help her hide whatever emotional turmoil she was experiencing. He wished she were more readable; he was good at seeing through people, and he would have given a king's ransom to be able to read her mind.
What had she decided to do—or not to do—about Carson?
"Let's go up to my office," she said quietly.
He nodded, following her down the hall and up a short flight of stairs. Her office was in a private alcove at the end of a plant-lined corridor, with only her assistant's cubicle sharing that section of the building.
"Hi." Melissa Andrews greeted Sabrina, then started as she saw who was with her. Glancing from Sabrina to Dylan and back again, she sat up straighter, her brows arching with interest. "Did you just get back?"
"Um-hum." Sabrina paused beside Melissa's desk, rummaging through the early morning memos and telephone messages already waiting for her. "I did. Mr. Newport didn't. He spent the night at CCTL. I spent the night at my mother's. I'm assuming Mr. Newport slept alone. But you can check with him after our meeting." Sabrina looked up. "Anything urgent I should know about?"
"Nope. Business as usual." Her assistant didn't seem thrown by the curt, no-bullshit reply. For his part, Dylan had to bite back a grin. If that response wasn't Carson, nothing was.
"Good." Sabrina plucked out two memos and one phone message, handing them to Melissa before placing the rest of the pile back where she'd found it. "Deal with these. Also, ask Deborah and Mark to divvy up my workshops for the next day or two. Everything else can wait till I come back."
"Back? You're going away?"
"Briefly, yes. I'll fill you in on where and when after I meet with Mr. Newport." Sabrina gestured for Dylan to accompany her into her office. "Hold all my calls," she instructed Melissa. "I'm out to everyone except my mother."
Dylan followed her into the office and shut the door behind him. "You decided to come to New York," he stated flatly, seeking the confirmation he needed.
Sabrina poured herself a glass of water, taking a few bolstering swallows before she turned to face Dylan. "Yes, I did." She set down the glass, tracing the rim with her fingertip. "I caught the business news this morning. His condition sounds iffy. I want to meet him. That's all I'm committing to for now."
"Fine," Dylan replied. It wasn't really, but it was a start. Meeting Carson was the first step toward helping him.
"I've got a few loose ends to tie up," Sabrina continued, feathering her fingers through her hair in a weary gesture. "Then, I'll throw some things in a bag. Give me fifteen minutes. There's a ten forty-five flight that gets into LaGuardia at noon. Will that work?"
"Yeah, it'll work." Dylan cleared his throat. Despite his relief over her decision, he couldn't help feeling responsible for the emotional chaos he'd thrust into her life. Getting into this with her mother couldn't have been pleasant. And now—facade or not, she looked pale and faraway. "Are you okay?"
"As okay as you'd expect." Her chin came up—a clear indication that she wasn't about
to lower her guard. "Don't worry about me, Mr. Newport. I hold up well under pressure. Besides, it's not me I'm concerned with. It's my family. I'm trying to think of ways to keep the press from jumping all over this."
"You could start by calling me Dylan."
As intended, his abrupt change in subject and tone came at her out of left field, rattling her facade, if not lowering it. She blinked, eyeing him warily. "And how exactly would that help?"
He shrugged, folding his arms across his chest. "You just said that your trip to New York, at least for the time being, is purely to meet Carson. That won't necessitate a disclosure of your biological ties to him. So, whatever media's hanging around Mount Sinai won't have the slightest idea who you are or why you're there. They'll just see you with me and assume we're friends—unless you raise a red flag by referring to me as Mr. Newport, that is."
Sabrina's brows rose. "Why do I get the feeling that the business correspondents of the world are used to seeing you with women—and not the kind the tabloids would label as friends?"
"Colleagues then," Dylan suggested, sidestepping that loaded question. "If anyone asks about you, I'll say you're a management consultant assisting Ruisseau during this crisis period."
"Very smooth. Quick, too. You must be a real asset— Dylan. It's no wonder Carson Brooks hired you."
He found himself grinning. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"Do that." There was a challenging light in her eyes, one Dylan suspected was an integral part of her. Verbal sparring, winning—he recognized the traits.
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