Whoever shot Brooks hadn't stabbed Russ Clark to death. Frank was almost positive of that. The stabbing had been a dirty, back-alley deal, and the angle of the wound suggested it had been done by someone who, although not a pro, wasn't new at this either. As a rule, white-collar criminals who took shots at CEOs with expensive pistols didn't hone their stabbing skills or bide out in seedy alleys. They didn't wield butcher knives, either, which was what the weapon that killed Clark had been. It had sliced through his flesh, lacerated his liver, perforated a couple of major blood vessels, and the poor kid had bled to death.
No finesse there, that was for sure.
Still, the two crimes were connected. Frank and Jeannie were convinced of that. Clark didn't have an enemy in the world. He didn't owe anyone money, didn't even have any credit card debt. And there was no steady girlfriend, jealous or otherwise. He was clean as a whistle.
The only plausible reason for his being murdered was because he'd found out something that threatened Carson Brooks's assailant. Either Clark had uncovered some incriminating evidence, or stumbled upon the identity of the shooter. Either way, he'd been disposed of. By a hired hand, judging by the crude manner in which he'd been killed.
There was no point in trying to coordinate the key suspects in the Brooks case with those who were minus an alibi at the time of Clark's murder. Two different people had done the jobs. But Frank would bet his badge that whoever had hired the thug to knock off Clark, was the one who had shot Brooks. That person had had the right access to the building, the smarts to get by the surveillance cameras, and the class to fit into a fashionable mid-town office building in case he was spotted. It hadn't been a pro, or Brooks would be dead. But it hadn't been a street punk either.
Idly, Frank wondered if Brooks's assailant had used his hired hand for more than just stabbing Clark. Like for getting hold of a gun, for example. Hell, a well-connected punk could do that no sweat, without ever dirtying his employer's hands. Made sense. Also made sense that he could lead Frank and Jeannie straight to the son of a bitch who'd hired him—if they could get their hands on him. So far, they'd turned up nothing. And there was a sense of urgency building inside them both—an innate awareness that the clock was ticking. Whoever had shot Brooks was desperate. And that opened the door to all kinds of grim possibilities and repeat performances.
Frank yanked the list of suspects that was sitting on his desk toward him and pored over it again.
Dylan Newport. The guy had grown up on the streets. He'd know how to unearth the right scum to kill Clark. As for Brooks's shooting, he had both motive and opportunity. So, the fundamentals all checked out. But Frank wasn't buying it—not anymore. Jeannie was right. Newport was too devoted to Brooks to bump him off for money, and too smart to do it under such incriminating circumstances. And as for arranging to kill a twenty-one-year-old kid in cold blood—nope. It just didn't fit the guy's character.
Stan Hager—now there was one that seemed to fit a whole lot better. Hager had grown up on the streets, too, so he'd know how to find the right contact to stab Clark. As for shooting Brooks, Hager had no alibi and a motive that seemed more and more plausible each day. He hadn't just walked in Brooks's shadow for thirty years, he'd raced at warp speed to keep up. And now—well, talk about someone reaching the breaking point. The guy was like a time bomb ready to go off.
Both Hager's ex-wives had confirmed that motive when Frank and Jeannie interviewed them. They'd each described their ex as an obsessive workaholic who was consumed with the need to keep up with and live up to Carson Brooks. Nothing else in his life came close.
Interesting though. When Frank had conducted his heart-to-heart with Lily, Hager's first wife, she'd confessed that for a good chunk of their marriage she'd sensed that Stan was cheating on her. She couldn't put her finger on why she felt that way, since he was fixated on his work, nor did she have a clue who the woman might be. It was just a gut instinct—but one that persisted right up to the time of their divorce.
Frank had passed that tidbit along to Jeannie when she'd gone to chat with Hager's second wife, Diane. Jeannie, in turn, had asked Diane if she'd ever suspected Stan of being involved with another woman. Diane had shrugged it off and said, yeah, sure, the thought had occurred to her, especially since he wanted sex about as often as he wanted any other kind of fun— which was not nearly often enough for her. But, she'd assumed that most of that was due to his obsession with work. On the other hand, yeah, there were times he seemed distracted, times he came home late and looking like he'd just showered. So another woman was a distinct possibility.
Odd. Hager had been single for some time now. So if there was someone else, why would he still be keeping the whole thing hush-hush? Unless he was no longer involved with the same woman, or unless it was she who wanted the secrecy, maybe because she was married.
Or maybe for some other reason.
Hager was a good-looking guy. He was also rich and not much older than Brooks. Doubtful he was living an entirely celibate life. So what was the story there?
"Hey. A penny for your thoughts." Jeannie walked over, perched on the edge of his desk.
"They're not worth that much." Frank scowled, doodling on his pad. "Do you think Hager's gay?"
"Nope." Jeannie didn't look a bit surprised by Frank's train of thought. "I asked Diane that very question, point blank, probably for the same reason you're asking it now—this whole long-term mystery woman thing. Anyway, Diane said no way. Hager's apparently a pretty amazing lover, when his mind is in it. That's why she didn't get out of the marriage sooner. Plus, I watched him interacting with the staff of Ruisseau, when he didn't realize I had my eye on him. There's no doubt about it; he definitely notices women, not men."
"Yeah, I agree. Plus, he'd have no reason for keeping it a big secret if he was gay. Carson Brooks isn't exactly a judgmental guy. He wouldn't give a damn who Hager was sleeping with."
"Not to mention that after a thirty-year friendship, I doubt a shrewd guy like Brooks would be oblivious to the fact that his best friend was gay. No, if there's a mystery bedmate, it's a woman, not a man."
"Do you think it was the same woman throughout both Hager's marriages? And, if so, who the hell is she and why is her identity still being kept so hush-hush?"
"You're wondering if this factors into this case," Jeannie murmured. "I'm right there with you. I can't shake the not-quite-right feeling about Hager, either. He's hiding something. Whether or not it ties in to whoever he's sleeping with or not, I'm not sure. But there's definitely something he doesn't want us to know. The question is, why would a sexual affair prompt Hager to murder Carson Brooks? And what about Russ Clark—why would Hager want him stabbed?"
"Speaking of Clark, there's something else bugging me. The kid wanted to be an investigative reporter. Whatever the hell he was poking into that spooked someone enough to get rid of him, he must have kept notes. So where are they? We've torn his apartment apart and gone through everything at his desk at Ruisseau."
"We're missing a major piece of this puzzle," Jeannie agreed. "It's right at our fingertips, too. I feel it."
"More than one piece. Ferguson's not sitting right with me, either. And not because of his iffy alibi. Believe it or not, I actually buy the guy's story that he was home grilling a steak. But he refuses to make eye contact with either you or me—no matter what we ask him, and he jumps out of his skin before we even say hello. The guy has something eating at him."
"We've got a couple of nervous Nellies over at Ruisseau, that's for damned sure." Jeannie ripped open a package of Milk Duds and popped one in her mouth. "Still, I don't see Ferguson at the helm. His life's about as boring as it gets. And his street contacts are nil. Where would he find a street punk to stab Clark, and to buy him a gun?"
She didn't wait for a reply, but popped another Milk Dud in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Here's a name that's back in the picture again, along with an interesting twist. Etienne Pruet."
"The French perfume
r who's Brooks's chief competitor?" Frank's brows rose. "We crossed him off our list over a week ago. He was in Paris when Brooks was shot."
"We did and he was. Here's the twist. I just got a call from Jason Koppel at Merrill Lynch. He did some more poking around. It seems that Pruet assembled all his top execs behind closed doors in his Paris headquarters. He was determined to come up with something—anything— that would stop C'est Moi's spiraling sales before the men's version hit the consumer market, and the whole phenomenon exploded in Europe."
"Wait a minute. You lost me. Why is Pruet worrying about Ruisseau? His fancy-schmancy French corporation's profits are sky-high. The company's been in the fragrance business for something like three hundred fifty years."
"Longer. Koppel said something about them achieving prominence as the royal perfumer of King Louis the something-or-other—I think it was the fourteenth—in the mid-1600s. Hoity-toity, huh?"
"I'm overwhelmed," Frank returned dryly. "But I still don't get it. Are you telling me our information was wrong, and Pruet's company is hurting?"
"Not hurting. But not happy. Ruisseau is kicking butt with the advent of C'est Moi. And it's now spreading to the European market. Up till now, Pruet's aristocratic roots have kept him on top with elite fragrance-wearers over there. But this is the twenty-first century. It's a new world. Sex outsells pedigree. C'est Moi is threatening to take a chunk of Pruet's sales. And without knowing what's in that formula, they don't know what they're competing with or how to win."
"So Pruet's got an incentive to get rid of Carson Brooks, the only person who knows C'est Moi's formula. Fine, that's motive. But what about opportunity? If the guy was in Paris..."
"Then he couldn't have done it," Jeannie finished for him. "But that doesn't mean that one of the other ten people at his New York branch—including a couple of executives on the rise—couldn't have done it. They were here."
"And you're standing at my desk to let me know we're heading over to that New York branch to talk to those ten people."
"In half an hour," Jeannie confirmed, polishing off her Milk Duds. "The office is right down Fifth Avenue—just three blocks from Ruisseau."
"Good. Next question—what about Hager? When do you want to meet with him again?"
"Meet with him or push him to the wall?" Jeannie muttered. It was a rhetorical question, since she knew full well what the answer was. "Yeah, you're right. It's about time we stopped dancing around him. We're getting nowhere fast. How about late today? We'll call and set up an official appointment. That'll give Hager a whole afternoon to sweat over what we want."
"Let's not give the same heads-up to Ferguson," Frank said. "With him, it's better that we just drop in. I have a gut feeling that, if anyone would crack under the pressure of a surprise attack, he's the guy to do it."
"Fine. No preparation time there. We'll just make an appointment with Hager and do a drop-in on Ferguson." Jeannie reached for the phone on Frank's desk.
Simultaneously, her cell phone rang.
She punched the send button. "Whitman." Her brows lifted slightly. "Well, hello." A pause. "Really. Yes, I understand. Any more details you want to give me? Okay, fine. We'll be there. You're welcome."
She pressed end and turned to Frank. "You're never going to believe this one."
"Try me."
"That was Carson Brooks. Apparently, there's going to be a company-wide announcement at five-thirty today, informing the entire staff of Ruisseau that Sabrina Radcliffe is his daughter. He's making the announcement himself, via a prerecorded videotape, from his hospital bed. He asked us to be at Ruisseau when the tape is played—for protection purposes."
"Protection." Frank digested that information thoughtfully. "I wonder if Brooks is afraid his daughter will be mauled by the press, or if his fears run deeper than that."
"You know the answer to that, Frank. Brooks is as perceptive as they come. He's well aware that there's a killer out there somewhere, one with a motive we still haven't identified. I'm sure he's also aware that that killer might try again, in any number of ways. One is to go for Brooks directly, which isn't likely as long as he's in Mount Sinai with round-the-clock police protection. The other is to go at him through his daughter."
"Especially if that daughter is about to officially acquire an extremely powerful role at Ruisseau."
"Which you can bet she is. She's smart, she's successful, and she's his flesh and blood. It's a no-brainer."
"Agreed. So if Brooks's shooting was in any way related to his position at Ruisseau, today's announcement might instigate the shooter."
"Maybe. Maybe not. But it's clear that Brooks doesn't want to take any chances."
"I don't blame him."
"Me either." Jeannie crumpled up the empty Milk Duds box and tossed it into the trash. "And to think this morning started off ordinary."
"Whatever ordinary means these days." Frank pushed back his chair and rose. "This also solves our problem about when to meet with Hager and Ferguson. We'll be at Ruisseau at five-thirty anyway."
"We sure will." A gleam of anticipation lit Jeannie's eyes. "Except that we'll get there early and surprise them."
1:45 P.M.
Ruisseau Fragrance Corporation
Sabrina tried Stan's extension to see if he was ready for their lunch.
Lunch. If you wanted to call it that. Donna had ordered in sandwiches, which were being delivered to Sabrina's office sometime within the next half hour. That gave Sabrina forty-five minutes before her meeting with R&D. Forty-five minutes to broach the subject of Stan's discomfort around her and break the news of today's announcement, in between bites of a turkey sandwich she had to wolf down since she hadn't eaten a thing all day.
Talk about a fast-paced agenda.
Then again, why should lunch be different than the rest of the day had been?
Sabrina dropped her head in her hands and massaged her temples.
Her morning had been a soap opera. First, there'd been the conversation with her mother. Gloria had taken the news of Sabrina's donor compatibility with her usual controlled dignity. But Sabrina could hear the tremor in her voice, and she knew her mother was frightened. She'd tried soothing her to the best of her ability, but there were no guarantees she could offer. Nor did Gloria request any. She just told Sabrina she was behind her, and said she'd fly to New York as soon as the press—and her parents—were under control.
Which led Sabrina into Act Two: the drama with her grandparents.
Abigail and Charles Radcliffe had been beside themselves, despite whatever groundwork Gloria had laid. Sabrina's grandmother had wept; her grandfather had lectured. They both had practically pleaded with her to reconsider donating her kidney to a man she barely knew.
It had taken close to an hour to get through to them, to make them understand even on a basic, fundamental level why she had to do this. And, no, telling them about her newly acquired position at Ruisseau hadn't helped. They'd been so worked up, they'd scarcely paid attention to her announcement, much less focused on the prestige it denoted.
Act Two had ended on a taut, emotional note.
Closely followed by Act Three: CCTL. Sabrina's conference call with Deborah and Mark, and the announcement that had ensued, had resulted in mass pandemonium. The two of them had known that Sabrina's assignment at Ruisseau and a back-to-back personal matter she wasn't ready to discuss yet would keep her away from the center for a chunk of time. But a long-term management consulting gig was one thing. Becoming president of the company she was consulting for—not to mention the daughter of its CEO—that was a total shock. Then-concerns weren't limited to how they should handle the press. They extended to how they should handle the staff, the clients, the future.
Sabrina had reiterated the temporary solution they'd already put in place, assuring them that she had no intention of abandoning CCTL. She promised to fly back on Friday and spend the entire weekend hammering out details.
After that, she'd asked them to put her t
hrough to Melissa. That hadn't been a cakewalk either. Melissa had been stunned, then worried—more about Sabrina than about CCTL. She'd asked a million detailed questions, and they'd probably still be on the phone now if Sabrina hadn't promised to have a drink with her the minute she got in Friday night, during which time she'd fill her in on everything.
Dylan had been right, Sabrina thought, wishing the Tylenol she'd taken for her headache would kick in. It was barely past the half-day mark, and she was about to implode.
A knock on her door brought her throbbing head up. "Come in."
Stan strolled in, carrying a brown bag that he waved in front of her. "Lunch and I arrived at the same time," he pronounced, shutting the door behind him. "So I took it off Donna's hands and saved us some time." He gave Sabrina a tired smile as he walked to the desk, placed the bag down, and emptied out the contents. "Turkey on rye, roast beef on a roll. Fine dining at its best."
"I'm sorry about that." Sabrina helped him arrange the sandwiches and set up the two containers of coffee. "There wasn't time for a restaurant. Not today."
"No apology necessary." Stan sat down and took a sip of coffee, eyeing her over the rim of the cup. "You look like you're about to collapse."
"Great. It shows already? I can hardly wait till the grand finale. I'll probably drop in the middle of the meeting."
"No you won't. You'll gulp another cup of that—" He pointed at her container of coffee. "Then you'll go into die bathroom, glare at your reflection in the mirror, and give yourself a major verbal beating up. After that, you'll march into the meeting and be fine."
Sabrina's brows rose. "That sounds amazingly accurate. Have you been spying on me?"
"No need. That's what Carson does."
She blew out her breath. "It's pretty scary being his daughter. I'm not sure what's harder—what others expect of me, or what I expect of myself."
Stan's sandwich paused midway to his mouth, and he blinked in surprise. It was the first time Sabrina had blatantly displayed any vulnerability in his presence.
Kane, Andrea Page 28
