Dylan tensed. "You said that would be risky because of where it's located."
"Not as risky as leaving it. Not at this point."
A muscle flexed in Dylan's jaw. "What time are you operating?"
"Nine-thirty. The good news is, the bullet shifted after piercing the lung. It's now lodged closer to the skin. I'll make a small incision and extract it. I don't expect complications. Hopefully, the antibiotics will take over. In the meantime, I want him to rest. Minimal visitation. One person at a time. Five minutes max."
"Understood. What about his kidneys?"
"They're still not responding on their own. But the dialysis did its job. And his blood pressure's stable. So, first things first. Let's get rid of the infection. Then we'll discuss the kidney options."
Sabrina felt the doctor's gaze slide to her. It was a reflexive gesture. Nonetheless, it served as a blatant reminder of the pivotal role she might be called on to play.
Her insides clenched.
Dylan was looking elsewhere. He'd twisted around, and was scanning the lounge to determine who was there. Sabrina followed suit, unsurprised to see Susan Lane hovering near the window, her face lined with worry, and Stan Hager—whom she'd met briefly before going in to see Carson—seated on the couch, slumped forward, his head in his hands. From the opposite direction, two official-looking suits were approaching—one man, one woman—bearing down on them like two lions about to pounce. It didn't take a genius to figure out they were detectives.
"Oh, joy, rapture," Dylan muttered under his breath. "Here come Whitman and Barton." He turned back to Dr. Radison. "Have you brought them—or anyone else for that matter—up to speed on where things stand with Carson, or about your plans to remove the bullet?"
"No. I wanted you and Ms. Radcliffe to know first." Dr. Radison cleared his throat. "I assumed there'd be questions. And I wasn't certain who'd been told about the biological ties between the patient and Ms. Radcliffe."
"I appreciate your discretion. But the detectives know. I told them before I flew up to Auburn. I'm sure that's why they're here—to meet and greet Carson's daughter." Dylan turned to Sabrina, presumably to give her some insight into what to expect. He took one look at her sheet-white face, and changed his mind. "Are you okay?" he demanded, frowning. "You look like you're about to collapse."
"I'm fine." She was beginning to sound like a broken record. And the truth was, she was anything but fine. She was on major overload. And the doctor's update had only made things worse. Dammit. More surgery. More risk. No improvement in kidney function. Less time to make an increasingly critical decision.
"Sabrina." Dylan's tone was more gentle than she'd heard him use until now. "I told Carson I'd take care of you, starting with getting you over to your hotel. If you're not up to speaking with those detectives, say the word. I'll tell them you're drained and their questions will have to wait. I've gotten good at putting them off. Besides, they already think I'm scum. This will just feed into that opinion."
"What?" Sabrina didn't understand what he was talking about.
"Never mind. Just say the word and I'll delay this interrogation."
"That's not necessary," she said tonelessly. "There won't be any interrogation. Since I never met Carson Brooks before today, I don't have much to tell them. So let's go ahead and get this over with."
"You're sure?"
A nod. "Yes. As long as we can go into an empty office or lounge. I won't have this conversation in the open."
"You can use my office," Dr. Radison offered quietly. "You'll have all the privacy you want there."
"Thank you." Sabrina assessed the detectives as they closed the gap between them. The woman looked like a cornstalk with hair and an ice-blue gaze so razor-sharp it reminded Sabrina of Superman's X-ray vision. As for the man—well, excluding his suit and the slight paunch around his gut, he could have passed for a bouncer, complete with bulldog expression and kick-ass demeanor.
They stopped in front of her, and the bouncer spoke first. "Mr. Newport, Doctor Radison." A questioning glance at Sabrina. "I assume you're Sabrina Radcliffe."
"I am."
"I'm Detective Barton. This is my partner, Detective Whitman." He gestured toward the cornstalk, who acknowledged the introduction with a nod. "We're investigating the shooting."
"So I've been told," Sabrina replied.
"I'm sure you have." Barton slanted a look at Dylan— one Sabrina could swear was accusing.
If so, she'd have to set them straight. Dylan had actually been very close-mouthed on the subject of the investigation. Whatever Sabrina had picked up on had been based on attitude, not words.
"In any case, Ms. Radcliffe," Barton was continuing, "we'd like to talk with you. Alone." Another sharp glance at Dylan. "You don't have a problem with that, do you, Mr. Newport?"
Anger glinted in Dylan's eyes. "Nope. Like me, Ms. Radcliffe is perfectly capable of taking care of herself."
The tension here was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
"Good." Barton turned to Sabrina. "Is now all right?"
Sabrina nodded, wondering at the dynamics here. Whatever was going on, it clearly went beyond a difference in philosophy. The detectives didn't like Dylan, and the feeling was mutual. Why?
"Dr. Radison said we could use his office," she informed them. "I'd prefer that this conversation remain private. I'm sure you understand."
"No problem." There was a hint of compassion in Detective Whitman's tone—whether it was because she was naturally less abrasive or because she and Barton played good cop, bad cop, remained to be seen. "Let's go."
"I'll wait for you in the lounge," Dylan told Sabrina. "As soon as you're done—which, as I see it, should be ten minutes max given how little you can do to help the detectives build their case—I'll get you over to your hotel so you can rest."
Talk about pointed. And obvious. Coming from a man who knew all the rules of subtlety, as well as how to turn on the charm to achieve his goals, it seemed as if Dylan wanted to antagonize the cops.
Whatever was bugging him, he was ripping mad.
She shot him a curious look. "Thanks."
Closeted in Dr. Radison's office, the detectives didn't waste any time.
"Mr. Newport seems very protective of you," Whitman said. "Yet you've only known him since yesterday." She perched at the edge of the desk, her long legs crossed in front of her, while her partner stood, arms folded, near the windows. They were clearly establishing a dominant stance, but Sabrina didn't care. She was worn out and stressed to the max.
"It's Carson Brooks he's protective of," Sabrina corrected, easing back in a thick leather chair and eyeing the detective to determine if her earlier personable manner was indeed a facade. "For obvious reasons, Dylan views me as an extension of his mentor—and a possible lifeline, as well."
"So it's true that you're Carson Brooks's biological child," Detective Barton clarified.
"Yes."
"Did that news come as a surprise to you? Or were you aware of your paternity?"
"I had no idea Carson Brooks was my father." Sabrina didn't appreciate the dubious glint in his eyes and, reflexively, her chin came up as she prepared for a less amiable talk than she'd expected. "Frankly, I was shocked."
"Shocked." Barton repeated the word with more than a trace of cynicism. "You're a very bright woman, Ms. Radcliffe. You've got an IQ that's through the sky, and a career that's based on identifying problems and figuring out solutions. Are you saying you never questioned your mother about something as fundamental as who your father was? That you never demanded answers?"
Okay, now Sabrina was getting pissed. "That's definitely not what I'm saying."
"In that case, are you suggesting your mother refused to answer, that she never told you she and Carson Brooks were once involved?"
"I'm not saying that either. And, with all due respect, Detective, I'd appreciate your losing the attitude. You don't win allies by biting their heads off. Nor do you get answers by fi
ring questions so rapidly there's no time for answers."
Was it Sabrina's imagination, or did Detective Whitman shoot her partner a cool-it look?
Barton's tense response was to yank out a pack of gum, unwrap a piece, and pop it in his mouth. "Fine. I'll chew. You talk."
"Sounds fair." Sabrina gave him a tight-lipped smile. "To begin with, my mother and I discussed my conception as soon as I was old enough to understand the facts of life. She answered all my questions. As for mentioning Carson Brooks or the fact that they were involved, she didn't. Because they weren't. You're apparently unaware that I was conceived through donor insemination. My mother was unmarried and unattached. My father was an independent sperm donor. I learned yesterday that that donor was Carson Brooks."
Both detectives looked startled by the revelation.
"That explains a lot." Detective Whitman spoke first, having chewed over the various ramifications. "An independent sperm donor. So Mr. Brooks was anonymous."
"Right."
"Which means that neither he nor your mother knew the other's identity."
Well, that wasn't entirely true. And Sabrina knew enough about law enforcement to know that if she shaded the truth, it would come back to haunt her.
"That's too broad a generalization," she clarified.
"Fine. Narrow it down for us."
"They didn't know each other's names, no. Nor did they ever meet. But my mother had specific, strict criteria in mind for the man who fathered her child, which was why she chose this route to begin with. So it wasn't just a case of the donor leaving a sperm deposit and going home. Carson was given enough facts to make that clear. As for my mother..." A brief hesitation. Odd, how calculated her mother's motives sounded, when she'd really just been a clever, levelheaded woman doing the best she could to ensure her child was all he or she could be. "It was more complicated for her."
"How so?"
"To begin with, the entire donor insemination process was relatively uncommon in those days. And my grandparents were against it."
"Because of their social status."
"Among other reasons, yes. Anyway, my mother handled the whole procedure very discreetly, through a private fertility specialist. I don't know all the details, but I do know she insisted on seeing medical, intellectual, and social backgrounds on all the prospective donors."
"That's understandable. But she still never knew any of their identities, including that of the actual donor."
"Not at the time, she didn't."
Whitman's brows rose. "Are you saying that changed?"
God, Sabrina didn't want to go there. But she had no choice. "Yes, that changed. But before you jump to conclusions, it was strictly coincidental. Besides all the background information my mother received when she was choosing a sperm donor, she got photos of each candidate."
"Photos." A lightbulb seemed to go off in Detective Whitman's head. "In other words, she saw a photo of Carson Brooks—and studied it closely. Over the past dozen years, his face has been plastered on the cover of Business Week and shown regularly on CNN and CNBC. He's a striking guy. My hunch is that no woman could forget his face. Am I right? Did your mother recognize him at some later date?"
"Yes, she did."
"When?" Barton was back in the picture. He'd stopped chewing gum and was staring her down.
Warning bells screamed inside Sabrina's head. "I'm not sure. Several years ago, I think. She told me this last night, after I learned Carson was my father."
"Several years ago," Whitman repeated, scratching her head in puzzlement. "Why didn't she say anything to you before now?"
"She was protecting me, Detective Whitman. She was afraid I'd try making contact with a man who, as far as she knew, had no interest in having me in his life. And she was right. I would have."
"She might have been right about you, but she was wrong about Mr. Brooks. As we understand it, he was in the process of trying to locate you—or at least to determine if he had a living son or daughter."
"I realize that now."
"But your mother didn't?"
"Of course not. How could she?"
Rather than answering, Whitman asked another question of her own. "You said you spoke with your mother last night. Did you tell her about Mr. Newport's visit and about your plans to go to New York and see Mr. Brooks?"
"Absolutely. It was a big step on my part, one that could lead to an even bigger step. I wanted to prepare her."
"So you phoned her?"
"No, I drove over to her house."
"To Rockport?" Whitman gave a low whistle. "Wow. It must have been close to midnight by the time you got there. Between Mr. Newport breaking his news to you, and the hour plus drive from Auburn to Rockport—I can't imagine you getting there sooner. You must have scared her to death, waking her up like that."
"I didn't wake her." Sabrina had a bad feeling about this. She was being led somewhere. She just wasn't sure where or why. "She'd just gotten home from the airport."
"She'd been away?"
"On a business trip, yes."
"For how long?"
"A week."
"Where did she go?"
"To New York. She's a clothing designer. And Manhattan is the center of the fashion industry."
"True." Whitman pursed her lips. "So she was here since last...?"
"... Wednesday," Sabrina supplied.
"Hmm. That's five days before Labor Day."
"Which is when Carson Brooks was shot." Barton fired away like a canon. "Now that's an interesting coincidence. And what were your words—that your mother was protecting you? I'm sure she was, not to mention protecting her elderly, vulnerable, and socially connected parents, too. The question is, to what extreme would she go to do that?"
Sabrina felt as if she'd been punched in the gut as the detectives' deplorable, utterly insane intimation struck home. They had to be kidding. They couldn't possibly believe...
"Ms. Radcliffe?" It was Detective Whitman addressing her, but this time that calm, even tone did nothing to cool Sabrina's rage. "Are you all right?"
Ice chips glittered in Sabrina's eyes. "No, I'm damned well not all right. If your partner is trying to imply that my mother is a suspect in the shooting of Carson Brooks, then he's lost his mind, I'm sickened, and this meeting is over." She started to get up.
"We're not implying anything," Whitman quickly refuted, stretching out a detaining arm. "Believe me, Ms. Radcliffe, there's a long, long list of potential suspects. Your mother's just another name on the list. We'll have to talk to her, of course, to establish her whereabouts at the time of the attack. If she was on a business trip like you said, I'm assuming she was probably with clients who can confirm her story. Also, if we determine that she had no foreknowledge of Carson Brooks's decision to find you, her motive would become more obscure. So please—don't overreact."
"I'm not the one who's overreacting," Sabrina shot back, with a pointed glare at Detective Barton. "Your partner is. I realize he wants to find the assailant. So do I. But not this way. He needs to take a few training classes at CCTL. They would improve his people skills."
Whitman's lips twitched. "We'll keep that in mind. Won't we, Frank?"
Barton scowled. "Yeah. Right."
"Let me ask you a question now." Sabrina was sticking her nose where it didn't belong, and she knew it. But with the detectives backpedaling to try to appease her, she had the upper hand—for a brief time. "What's the situation between you and Dylan Newport? Why is there so much animosity?"
"Why? Has he said something?" Whitman's comeback was whip-quick, although her expression remained nondescript.
Sabrina had definitely struck a nerve. "He doesn't need to. It's obvious. What I can't figure out is the basis for it. Did you grill him the way you grilled me? Is that what pissed him off so much? Or are you hassling people he thinks are innocent?"
"We grill everyone, Ms. Radcliffe," Barton said tightly. "This is an attempted murder, not a petty theft. As to whether s
omeone's innocent or guilty, time will tell. Time and a thorough investigation. Who knows what Newport's problem is? Some people get riled up when we get close to the truth. Especially if uncovering that truth means wrecking their efforts, their freedom, their future—or all three."
Sabrina blinked in stupefied amazement. "You can't possibly mean you think Dylan shot Carson?"
"I didn't say that"
"You didn't have to." This guy was really starting to get on her nerves. "Let's stop playing games, Detective. You're implying that Dylan's a suspect—not a random name on a very long list, but a prime suspect," Sabrina amended. "Why?"
She was greeted with silence.
"Need I remind you that I'm Carson Brooks's daughter," Sabrina heard herself say. "I'm entitled to know the status of the investigation."
Whitman's brows rose. "You certainly took on your new role in a hurry."
"I improvise quickly."
"That's an understatement. Okay, look, we have nothing concrete to tell you. Let's just say that Mr. Newport was the only other person we can place in the building at the time of the shooting, and that he would benefit big-time if Mr. Brooks weren't around."
"Financially, you mean." Sabrina shook her head in disbelief. "Do you have any idea how much Carson means to him? How far back they go? The life Carson yanked him out of?"
"We do." Whitman leaned forward with interest. "Evidently, so do you. You know a great deal about Mr. Newport considering you two just met."
"We had an hour's plane ride to talk. I'm nosy. I ask a lot of questions. And I'm a very good judge of character. Dylan Newport is tough, arrogant, street-smart and book-smart. You might even be able to add manipulative to that list. The jury's still out on that one. But his feelings for Carson are as real as they come. He'd never harm the man, much less for money. And he'd certainly never be stupid enough to do it in a situation where every drop of circumstantial evidence would point at him."
"I doubt you realize what Carson Brooks is worth. The thought of inheriting that kind of wealth entices even the most noble of people to commit criminal acts. As for the poor choice of timing, I agree. But time wasn't on Mr. Newport's side, not when Carson Brooks had already clued him in to the fact that he was launching a search for you. To be more precise, he didn't just clue him in. He confided in him—and only him—then asked for his help. Talk about waving a red flag. If you turned up, a genuine heir, that could change everything, especially the allocation of assets to an outsider, no matter how dear. The prospect is enough to push a smart, cautious man into taking dumb, reckless risks."
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