With a hard swallow, he continued. "In any case, let's play this out in brutal extreme. Say Susan was ripping off money from YouthOp and, when Russ discovered what was going on, she hired someone to get rid of him. Then, she found out I have a daughter, which translated into an obstacle in Susan's path to me and my money. So she got her punk to knock off Sabrina. Sounds preposterous to me, but you could make a case for it, saying she had motive. But now comes the major stumbling block in this theory. Me. Why the hell would Susan shoot me? She'd get nothing if I were dead. Plus, the woman loves me. Hell yeah, I know she also loves the wealth and notoriety I give her. But there's no way you're convincing me she'd put a bullet in my back."
"No arguments on that one," Dylan replied. "It's the sticking point for us, too—all of us, Whitman and Barton included." He cleared his throat. "I don't want to hang the woman, Carson. I'm as confused as you are. I'm not happy with the Molotov cocktail coincidence, or any of the theories that have spun off from it. But let's put those aside. I don't believe she'd shoot you. She's crazy about you. The whole scenario falls flat right there. On top of which, I can't even picture the woman holding a gun, much less using it—on anyone, least of all you. Hiring someone is one thing. But killing someone herself? Uh-uh. Not even a stranger, much less the man she loves. Susan's emotional, she's squeamish, and she's not exactly the rustic type."
"If you're trying to find solid reasoning that'll convince you Susan's not guilty, you can chuck that description. It won't fly," Carson stated flatly, even as an odd expression flickered across his face. "Susan's a survivor. Believe me, she's not squeamish. Emotional, yes, but gutsy. As for the rustic part, you've never seen her camping. You wouldn't recognize her."
"Um-hum. Susan and I discussed that camping trip when we were in the ICU lounge," Sabrina recalled aloud. "It sounds like she holds her own. Then again, that's not a surprise, given the way she grew up. She described that rural town in upstate New York where she lived before moving to Manhattan. She milked cows, planted tomatoes, and did all kinds of outdoorsy things. Sounded pretty rustic to me. I guess that life on a farm teaches you all kind of skills—"
Abruptly, Sabrina broke off, as she remembered another conversation. And, suddenly, the reason for Carson's odd expression made all the sense in the world.
"Carson," she said quietly, "when we were discussing Stan's marksmanship, you told me he drove up to Susan's parents' farm with you to do some target practice. Did Susan shoot, too? Can Susan shoot?"
"Yeah, Susan can shoot." Carson's lips tightened. "Damned well. Not as well as Stan, but close. But she doesn't want me dead, and she doesn't own a twenty-two."
"Not a surprise," came Detective Whitman's voice from the doorway. "Mr. Molotov probably got it for her. She'd be an idiot to use her own gun. And one thing Susan Lane is not, is an idiot."
Neither Sabrina, Dylan, or Carson had seen Jeannie and Frank arrive. But arrive they had. They'd eased open the doorway, and were standing just inside the room.
"We weren't eavesdropping," Frank supplied. "The nurse said to go right in."
"Looks like you've already done that," Carson observed dryly.
"You're right." They completed the process, shutting the door behind them, and pulling over two chairs to sit down.
"Where is Ms. Lane, by the way?" Jeannie asked.
"Not in the hospital, or we wouldn't be having this talk," Dylan supplied. "She left about an hour ago, went home to take a hot bath and a three-hour nap. She's a wreck from the day—for a change." Dropping the sarcasm, he shot Jeannie a questioning look. "Did you get the warrant?"
"No sweat. We'll be paying YouthOp a visit tomorrow. We also did lots of other homework." She hesitated, glancing uncertainly at Carson.
"They told me everything," he confirmed. "So talk."
"All right. First of all, the TV station was very cooperative. We watched an hour's worth of video clips from Monday night's U.S. Open match. There were three occasions when we got a dead-on view of your courtside box—one at seven-ten, one at seven thirty-one, and one at seven fifty-six. The box was empty during the first two video shots. During the third—the one taken just before eight o'clock—Ms. Lane was in her seat. She was all settled in, so my guess is, she'd arrived a good few minutes before. But she wasn't there for the first half hour of the match."
Sabrina edged a quick glance at Carson. He was sitting very still, listening.
"We also contacted the USTA National Tennis Center, got the names and phone numbers of a dozen and a half spectators in the immediate vicinity of Ms. Lane's seat. We called them all. Guess what? Two of the women and—surprise, surprise—seven of the men, remember an attractive, well-dressed woman with frosted blond hair arrive late. Five of those nine people remembered what the logistics of the match were when that woman arrived—what the score was and where each player was standing, since they were in the process of changing sides. All five reports matched. So we fast-forwarded our videotape to that particular moment. Based on that information, Ms. Lane's arrival time was seven forty-three."
A weighted silence, which Sabrina broke.
"When you first interviewed Susan, she never mentioned to you that she was over a half hour late to the match?" she asked Whitman, knowing full well it was a rhetorical question, needing to ask it anyway.
"Nope." Jeannie glanced at Carson. "How about you, Mr. Brooks? Did she tell you she missed the first chunk of the match?"
Carson shook his head. "Shit. I don't believe this." He raked a hand through his hair. "All right, Detective. I buy it. Susan had all the time she needed to blow my guts out. But why? Believe me, I'm no sentimental jerk. I don't believe love conquers all. But Susan's not insane. She'd need a reason to kill me. So what's that reason? And when you come up with it, you can also tell me why she picked that particular place and time to do it. She, of all people, knew Dylan and I were wrapping up by late afternoon. I was supposed to be out the door at five to get ready for the match."
Abruptly, something seemed to click in Jeannie's mind, because her back went rigid and an intent expression came over her face. "Right. You told us that you weren't supposed to be at the office at the time you were shot, that you were supposed to have left around five. Ms. Lane knew that?"
"Yup. We discussed it that morning, and I confirmed it with her at around three-ish, on the phone."
"What exactly did you say?"
"That Dylan and I were finishing up. That I'd be out the door right on schedule."
"But you weren't. Was that unusual?"
"When it comes to tennis matches, damned straight it's unusual. The Open's one of the few things that gets my juices flowing like my work does. I'm never late for a match."
"What held you up?" Frank asked. "Legal papers to review?"
"Not really. Yeah, Dylan had one more file to go over with me, but it wasn't crucial. It could have waited until morning. I stayed because Dylan said he had a personal issue to discuss with me. I could tell that whatever that issue was, it was weighing on his mind. So I hung around."
"And that personal issue was Susan Lane, and your uneasiness about her." Frank addressed Dylan, picking up on Jeannie's thought process and running with it.
"Yes." Dylan nodded.
Frank leaned forward. "Mr. Newport, when we spoke this morning, you said you made suggestions to Ms. Lane about allocating YouthOp funds differently, providing counselors instead of splashy fund-raising parties. Did you give her any other advice?"
Dylan shrugged. "Here and there. She knew the way I felt. I never accused her of anything illegal, if that's what you mean...."
"But she had a good idea where your head was when it came to her. You're a pretty outspoken guy. And she's a pretty bright woman. She must have picked up on your disgust whenever you walked into her office and looked around. She must have blanched at your suggestions. And she must have known you had Mr. Brooks's ear."
"Not only his ear, but his inheritance," Jeannie reminded him. "Mr. Newport is Mr. Bro
oks's prime beneficiary."
"Was," Frank corrected. "My guess is that Ms. Radcliffe's going to claim that spot—or at least share it." A humorless laugh. "Share it with, of all people, the man she's romantically involved with. Quite a double-obstacle, huh?"
"Um-hum. A very inconvenient double-obstacle. Especially for a woman who's got her sights set on becoming Mrs. Carson Brooks—after which, it would all be hers; hers and her charity's. Wealth, notoriety, status— hey, she'd be a regular Jackie O. If she cleared the path to Carson Brooks."
Frank rose, walked behind the chair and gripped the back. "She's a good shot. I'm sure she's handled a twenty-two. She could master it like that." He snapped his fingers. "One shot, and there'd be no more threat to her future—personal, professional, or financial. The opportunity was perfect. Based upon Mr. Brooks's three o'clock call, he and Mr. Newport were the only people at Ruisseau—and Mr. Brooks would be leaving by five. So at five-forty, there'd be only one person left in the office—Dylan Newport. And that's just the person she wanted to kill. So off she went to do the dirty deed. She found Newport in her boyfriend's office, standing by the window with his back conveniently to her. She stooped down low, took aim, and fired from the doorway. Just one problem. There's not a lot of light by that office window, and it's an eastern exposure, so there'd be little sun at that time of day. Newport and Brooks are about the same height, and with similar builds. All that adds up to a perfect, if unfortunate, case of mistaken identity."
"Wow." Jeannie let out a low whistle. "After she pulled the trigger, she realized it wasn't Dylan Newport she'd shot. It was Carson Brooks." A mocking shake of that Q-tip head. "Imagine how she felt. Especially since she's the high-strung type, a woman who comes unglued easily. Talk about seeing your world go up in smoke. So much for the right corpse. So much for the windfall. So much for your future, if the guy it depends on bites the dust. Man, she must have been a mess. No wonder she was bawling her head off in the ICU lounge. Talk about enormous guilt mixed with colossal failure and sheer panic."
"Yeah, but she recovered enough to try again, through her good buddy, Mr. Molotov. We thought he was just after Ms. Radcliffe. Nope. He had two targets in mind last night. His job was supposed to make bye-bye Sabrina and bye-bye Dylan. Hello freedom and hello cash. And what happened? She was foiled again. No wonder the woman's been such a wreck. She's got a lot to be freaked out about."
"Okay, that's enough." Sabrina cut them off and rose. The sick expression on Carson's face had been intensifying by the second. And it was really starting to worry her. "Carson?"
He angled his head in her direction, and there was a kind of empty, shocked awareness in his eyes, mixed with disbelief and guilt. "I'm okay," he managed. "I feel like puking, but I think that's to be expected. If this is true..." He broke off, turned to Jeannie. "How do we find out? How do we see this through?"
"We'll call Ms. Lane at home tomorrow morning, under the guise of our original plan. We'll tell her about our search warrant, and arrange to meet her at YouthOp," Jeannie replied. "Once we're in the door, we'll see what we can find. That will determine how we confront her, and with which crime first. Ideally, we'll get her on misappropriation of funds, then catch her off-guard on the big stuff. To a certain extent, we'll have to wing it. Leave it to us."
"We will." Dylan came to his feet, looking a little green around the gills himself. "Detectives, that's enough for tonight. I think we've all had it. Let's call it a day— for everyone's sake."
"I agree." Jeannie nodded, getting up and waiting while Frank followed suit. "We'll call you as soon as it's over."
"Wait." Sabrina stopped them. "What time tomorrow morning are you two planning on going over to YouthOp?"
"That depends on Ms. Lane. Why?"
"A couple of reasons. First of all, I don't want Susan paying Carson any visits before this whole thing goes down."
"Oh, cut it out, Sabrina," Carson barked. "I'm not a shriveled basket case."
"True, but you're not a diplomat either. You've got all the subtlety of a firing squad. Susan will know something's wrong the minute she sees your face." Sabrina was exaggerating and she knew it. Under circumstances like these, Carson would lie through his teeth if he had to. The truth was, she didn't want him having to face this woman—not alone.
Which brought her to the other potential schedule overlap she was trying to avoid.
"Second, I want to hear the outcome of this little tête-à-tête firsthand. Which means, I want to be here when you call Carson. The problem is, I've got an appointment with the nephrologist at ten. Time is of the essence, so rescheduling with Dr. Mendham is out. Can we work around that?"
Jeannie's gaze met hers, and a current of communication ran between them. Sabrina's message was getting through, loud and clear. She wanted to be with Carson, to help him through this emotional crisis. But she couldn't, wouldn't, do that if it meant neglecting his physical crisis. It was a juggling act. And she needed Whitman and Barton's help to manage it.
"That should be doable." Jeannie nodded, scratching her cheek thoughtfully. "Tell you what. Detective Barton and I will ask Dr. Radison to issue a no-visitors policy for tomorrow morning. He'll leave word at the nurses' desk that Mr. Brooks had a difficult night, that he was badly thrown by his daughter's brush with death, and that he'd been given something strong to help him sleep. As a result, he'll be out for the count until afternoon. That'll put a halt to any early morning drop-ins Ms. Lane might have planned. After that, she'll be kept plenty busy by us. She'll be compiling that list of potential Mr. Molotovs, while we're systematically compiling evidence. It'll take quite some time to do our thing at YouthOp. You'd be surprised how long it takes to review accounting data. Plus, we've got lots of questions to ask. And, of course, we've got to check out the place thoroughly for anything Russ Clark left behind. Trust me. We'll buy you more than enough time to get your physical exam."
"Thank you, Detective," Sabrina said. A wave of gratitude swept through her, and a grudging smile tugged at her lips. "Looks like I was wrong about you. You're a pretty decent human being after all. You both are."
"Yeah, well, don't spread it around," Jeannie warned. "It'll ruin our reputation."
"No chance of that," Frank muttered. "No one would believe her." He headed for the door, Jeannie right behind him. "Good night, all."
"Good night. And good luck." Sabrina waited until the two of them had left the room and shut the door.
Then, she turned, went back over to the bed where Carson was lying, stony-faced, staring at the ceiling. "Hey." She lay her hand over his. "Don't be pissed at me. I know I interfered. But I wasn't babying you. I was caring. Cut me the same slack you wanted from me. I can't help worrying. You're my father."
Carson's gaze shifted, dropping to where her fingers covered his. "I'm not pissed. And, yeah, I am your father. I'm the one who's supposed to be protecting you, not the other way around. Which is why I'm having a hell of a time coming to grips with the fact that it looks like the person who paid to have you killed is the woman who's been my partner for over a year. A woman I cared about." His use of the past tense was deliberate and emphatic. "And who claimed to love me."
"She does love you, for whatever that's worth."
"It's worth shit," he snapped. "So's the fact that it wasn't me she meant to shoot. It was Dylan, and that's worse than if she'd killed me three times over. Then, as if that wasn't despicable enough, she tried again. She hired some piece of shit to kill both of you, and stab poor Russ to death to keep his mouth shut...." Carson's fists clenched, his fury a tangible entity. "God help her if Whitman and Barton are right."
"Carson, stop it." Dylan strode over, loomed at the foot of the bed. "Look at that cardiac monitor," he said, pointing. "It doesn't take a surgeon to see that your heart rate's up. So's your blood pressure, I'm willing to bet. So calm the hell down. You can't change what's happened. If—and I repeat if—Susan's guilty of everything the detectives speculated, she'll be punished for her crim
es. We can't bring Russ back. That's a tragedy that can't be undone any more than your being shot. But we've got to focus on the positive. You're going to make a full recovery. Sabrina and I survived last night's attack. We're alive and well. So cut it out."
With a tight nod, Carson blew out his breath, visibly trying to force himself to relax. "I hear you. But it's easier said than done. I'll calm down. I just need some time alone—to think, to sort things out."
"The hell you do. What you need is a sleeping pill," Sabrina corrected. "I'm asking the nurse to bring one in now. I don't care if you call her every name in the book. You're taking that pill. You need some rest." Seeing him open his mouth to protest, she shot him one of her I-gotcha-on-this-one looks. "Let's put it this way—no sleeping pill and no rest means no rings and no proposal. And who knows when Dylan and I might feel compelled to do something so mushy and traditional again? Actually, our lives are so hectic these days—why, it could be months before we find the time to formalize things. And that would push the wedding back indefinitely."
"You're full of it." Carson eyed her knowingly. "You two are chomping at the bit to make this official."
A challenging stare. "Think so? Fine. Then call my bluff. But if you're wrong..." She shrugged. "A sleeping pill seems a small price to pay to ensure a romantic, one-day-away engagement. But it's your call, Mr. Matchmaker. So tell me, do Dylan and I go to Tiffany's tomorrow night, or not?"
Carson's mouth snapped shut, and he gave her a dark look. "Talk about going for the jugular. That's not a bargain; it's blackmail."
"Nope. Just a business deal where, for once, you're not in the power seat." Sabrina arched a brow. "So what's it going to be?"
Kane, Andrea Page 39
