"Fine. I'll take the damned sleeping pill. You can stay here and watch me swallow it, if it makes you happy."
"That won't be necessary. I trust your nurses." She smiled faintly. "And just to show you that I'm not such a piranha and that I do understand that in any good negotiation both sides should walk away feeling like they got something in return, I'm willing to make a concession, too. When Dylan and I come by tomorrow night, I'll gush my little heart out over my ring-—first to you, then to every nurse, intern, and medical technician who walks through that door. Okay?"
Carson's features softened, and Sabrina noted that his cardiac monitor had returned to a more regular rhythm. "Sounds fair."
She leaned closer, meeting his gaze with solemn understanding. "Carson, I know you feel responsible for my safety. But cut the guilt. None of this is your fault. And look at the bright side. Out of this horrible series of events came a few wonderful things, too. Hey, I got a father, a fiancé, and the career opportunity of a lifetime. Those were worth walking through flames for." On impulse, Sabrina bent down, kissed his cheek. "I'll get the nurse to bring in that pill. You sleep. Dream about those grandchildren you're waiting to spoil."
CHAPTER 32
Wednesday, September 21st, 1:25 P.M. Mt. Sinai Hospital
The appointment with the nephrologist had gone off like clockwork.
Dr. Mendham was sharp, to-the-point, and thorough, just as Dr. Radison had described. She'd examined Sabrina from head to toe, asked her a ton of questions, and conducted a whole battery of tests, including a chest X ray and EKG. She'd also explained the renal angiogram in detail, addressed some of Sabrina's concerns, and provided some promising information about the prospect of Sabrina undergoing laparoscopic, rather than conventional, surgery, which would be much less invasive and translate into a quicker, easier recovery.
All in all, the appointment was enlightening and positive. With a modicum of luck, all systems would be go. When Carson was ready, Sabrina would be, too.
In the meantime, however, she was practically jumping out of her skin.
She and Dylan had darted out of Dr. Mendham's office, Bernard looming close behind, and the three of them had jumped into the limo and headed straight for Mt. Sinai. Dylan called the hospital from the car and was told that Carson was dozing fitfully, awakening every few minutes to ask if the detectives had called yet.
They hadn't.
It was twelve-forty by the time the limo got there, and Sabrina and Dylan went straight to Carson's room, where a brawny police officer was posted outside the door.
"Is everything all right?" Sabrina demanded, recognizing Officer Garner.
"Fine," he assured her. "Everything's been quiet. Mr. Brooks had two visitors—Stan Hager and Susan Lane. Mr. Hager arrived at eight-fifteen; Ms. Lane arrived at eight-forty. They each left promptly and without protest as soon as they were told how exhausted Mr. Brooks was and that Dr. Radison had ordered no visitors until later today. I checked in with Stick and Stone around nine and filled them in. Nothing since then."
"Thanks." Dylan guided Sabrina through the door.
They'd tiptoed into the room in case Carson was asleep, but his eyes popped open the minute they entered. He'd looked tired and drawn, and Sabrina had the distinct impression that Dr. Radison's story about the sleepless night hadn't needed to be fabricated.
Carson pumped them for details on Sabrina's appointment with Dr. Mendham, absorbing all the information with a terse nod. He waved away their concerns about his exhaustion, assuring them that he was fine, other than the fact that he was losing his mind waiting.
It was one-thirty when the waiting ended.
The telephone rang, and all three of them jumped. It couldn't be anyone but the detectives; no one else's calls were being put through.
Carson picked up the receiver. "Hello?" He paused. "Yes, they're both with me. What happened?" Another pause. "Here? Yes, fine, all right. Just hurry up." He hung up. "That was Whitman. She and Barton are driving into the hospital parking lot. She wants to come up and see us." His expression was grim. "She didn't elaborate. But it's obviously not good."
"We didn't think it would be," Sabrina put in quietly.
"No. We didn't." Carson interlaced his fingers and fell silent, waiting and steeling himself simultaneously.
Dylan paced over to the door, standing there and staring at it as if willing it to open.
Eventually, it did.
"Hey." Detective Whitman walked in alone. She didn't mince words, or waste time. "Everything went down as planned. The search warrant was just a formality. Ms. Lane cooperated fully. She was definitely antsy about the fact that we'd tracked Mr. Molotov to YouthOp, but she had no idea that she was also under suspicion. So she kept herself in check. Until we started digging up financial records that were majorly out of whack. Then, she caught on, and freaked out. We told her she wasn't going anywhere, so she cried and wrung her hands and paced around while we searched the place."
Jeannie drew a sharp breath. "We got everything we need. Gross misappropriation of funds, the name and lowdown on Mr. Molotov—thanks to Russ Clark, who'd hidden some pretty comprehensive notes inside the textbook he used to teach his Saturday writing workshops. And we got Mr. Molotov himself who, according to the call I just got from my precinct, was picked up at his apartment, along with a closetful of illegal narcotics and stolen weapons. His name's Joseph Kenman, and he's got a juvenile record as long as my arm. Now, he's in the big leagues—twenty years old and very much an adult. With charges like murder, attempted murder, and conspiracy to commit murder facing him, he's not worried about the drug and weapons crimes Ms. Lane was holding over his head to keep him in line. He's singing like a bird. Not that we need it. Ms. Lane broke down and gave us a full confession."
"All of it?" Carson fired out. "She confessed to hiring that Kenman kid to kill Russ, and to murder Sabrina and Dylan?" His jaw was so tight, it looked like it might snap. "And she admitted to shooting me—or rather, going to Ruisseau to shoot Dylan and mistaking me for him?"
"Yes, Mr. Brooks." Jeannie didn't look happy. She looked resigned. "I'm sorry. But she did. She used your extra key to get into the building through the freight entrance. She avoided the surveillance cameras by scooting up the stairs. The rest happened pretty much like we figured—the shot, the mistaken identity, the works. The twenty-two's at the bottom of the Hudson. She tossed it there from the Seventy-ninth Street boat basin. We'll keep dredging. With any luck, we'll find it. The gun's hot. Kenman got it for her. We certainly don't need to get our hands on it to convict either of them, but it'll be one more nail in their coffins if we do."
A pause, as Jeannie cleared her throat. "I could have told you all this on the phone. The reason I didn't is because Ms. Lane is insisting on seeing you. She's downstairs in the car with Frank. Normally, I'd tell her to stuff it, but I wanted to make sure you had no interest in speaking with her before we take her in and book her. Her attorney's already on his way to the precinct. What do you want me to tell her?"
Dylan's expression was murderous. "How many words would you like it in? You can start by telling her that she's a—"
"Bring her up," Carson interrupted in a hard, implacable voice.
Both Sabrina and Dylan turned to gaze anxiously at him.
"Carson, it's a bad idea," Dylan said flatly. "Let it go. There's no closure to be had. Not in a situation like this. There's only an opportunity to send your blood pressure soaring, and screw up your recovery."
"I don't want closure." Carson stared Dylan down. "I want confirmation. As for my recovery, it's a nonissue. She couldn't kill me when I was vulnerable, with my back to her. She's sure as hell not going to hurt me now, when I'm the one in control, looking her straight in the eye."
"You're sure this is what you want?" Sabrina asked.
"Yeah. I'm sure."
"Okay, but Dylan and I are staying."
Her bullying tone actually caused a wry grin to twist his lips. "No need to sound s
o menacing. By all means, stay. There's nothing intimate about what I have in mind." Carson nodded at Jeannie. "Tell your partner to bring her up."
Ten minutes later, Frank shoved open the door and led Susan in. She looked worse than she had when Carson was first shot—her makeup blotchy, her hair mussed, and her eyes filled with haunted realization. Then again, this time it was her life, her future that was on the line, not someone else's.
Officer Garner continued to stand guard outside the door, along with Bernard, although no one really perceived Susan as a threat. Not now. Standing there, her hands cuffed behind her and her head bowed, she looked more like a broken bird than a criminal.
Her gaze flickered over Sabrina and Dylan, and she winced, averting her head—whether because she couldn't bear the sight of them or because she couldn't deal with the reminders they represented, it wasn't clear. Either way, she didn't speak to them, but looked straight at Carson.
"Carson..." She wet her lips, searching his face for some sign of compassion, and finding none. "Can I come closer? I don't want to talk to you from across the room."
"Good idea." Carson stunned everyone by waving away Detective Barton's oncoming refusal, and beckoning her forward. "Don't worry, Detective. I doubt she's packing heat with her hands in cuffs. Let her come over to the bed."
Relief flooded Susan's face, and a flicker of hope lit her eyes as she approached his bedside—Barton close behind.
"I..." She struggled for the right words. "You don't know what I went through when I realized it was you. I thought you'd left the building. You said you'd be gone by five. The person in your office was alone. Of course I assumed it was Dylan. He was the only other person at Ruisseau that day, and he spends more time in your office than he does in his own. It never dawned on me..." A sob shuddered through her, and she bent over, laying her head on the bed near Carson's pillow. "I'd never hurt you. You have to believe that. I love you. I was just so afraid that Dylan would get to you, tell you things that would turn you against me."
"You mean, like the truth?"
"No... yes... Carson, please let me explain." She pressed her face against his shoulder, her tears drenching his hospital gown. "I fought my way out of that damned hick town I grew up in. I've been fighting my way up ever since. And I've been fighting alone. I don't have your inner strength. I can't make it by myself. I need security, someone by my side. I need you—your love, your name."
"My money," Carson added.
She blew out a shaky breath. "Fine. Yes, that, too. I need financial security, for me and for YouthOp. I do care about those kids, no matter what Dylan told you. Everything could have been so perfect. But he wouldn't stop poking around. Neither would Russ. And then Sabrina showed up, a daughter you'd never met, but felt obligated to take care of. As if that weren't bad enough, she got involved with Dylan. It was only a matter of time before he shared his suspicions with her. Then, she'd be in my face, too. I couldn't take that. You and I had built a future together. I couldn't let some unknown sperm donation come between us. She'd ruin everything. I couldn't survive that. I love you too much."
Carson hadn't so much as blinked through her long burst of hysteria. But there was a harsh glitter in his eyes, and a hard set to his jaw, both of which said he wasn't even a tad bit moved. Still, he turned his head slightly toward her, drawing a sharp breath as he did.
An odd expression flickered across his face, a sort of self-censuring awareness, as if he'd found whatever confirmation he'd been seeking.
"Get up," he commanded, in a tone so scathing it made even Sabrina cringe.
Susan's head snapped up and, when she saw the icy condemnation in Carson's eyes, she complied instantly, stumbling to her feet. "Carson, please..."
"Shut up. If you think I agreed to see you so you could profess your undying love and I'd forgive you, forget it. You'll rot in prison, if I have anything to say about it. Okay, Detective Barton, you can get her out of here."
Stark disbelief flashed across Susan's face. "I don't understand… I thought..."
"That I was an asshole?" Carson supplied helpfully. "That I'd melt the minute you told me how much you love me, and forget that you're a murderer? Honey, if that's what you thought, then you're the asshole." He settled himself back on his pillows. "So long. See you on the six o'clock news."
Barton took Susan's arm and urged her toward the door. He paused to exchange glances with his partner and shrug, before leading Susan off.
The door slid shut behind them.
Detective Whitman folded her arms across her breasts. "Okay, Mr. Brooks. What was that all about? And don't tell me you wanted to hear her beg. That's not your style. You had an agenda. That agenda involved getting her over to your bed. So what's the scoop?"
A corner of his mouth lifted. "You're good, Stick. Have I mentioned that? Damned good. Remind me to call the police chief and tell him what an asset you and your partner Stone are."
"Thanks. Now, how about an answer? You were looking for something. Apparently, you found it. Care to share?"
"Not looking for it, smelling for it," Carson corrected. "Since the night I was shot, I've been reliving the experience, in slow motion, from soup to nuts. It just wouldn't go away, not when I was awake, not when I was asleep. And it wasn't because I was traumatized. It was because something was bugging me. Something I couldn't put my finger on. A smell. First, I thought it was just the carpet cleaner and my blood. But there was something else, something that kept nagging at me but I just couldn't place it. Each time I dozed off, I'd wake up in a drenched sweat, with the answer just out of reach. And each time I woke up, who was always by my bedside, cooing her little heart out to make the bad dream go away? Susan. Now I understand why the memory was so strong. It was in my face every day since the shooting. Literally."
He shook his head in disgust. "So much for my genius IQ and my fantastic olfactory sense. Like everyone else, I can be as dumb as a stump. I missed what was right in front of me simply because I wasn't really seeing it—or, in this case, smelling it. But last night, after you all left and I was trying to imagine Susan as the shooter, it hit me. The smell. That sickeningly sweet smell I kept remembering. It was that foamy gunk Susan uses to puff up her hair."
"Mousse?" Jeannie suggested with a hint of a grin.
"Yeah, right, mousse." He snorted. "I still don't understand why companies make that stuff with fragrance. It clashes with every perfume on the market—even C'est Moi. Lousy R&D, if you ask me. Anyway, it's no wonder I've been bugged by that memory. Susan's practically lived in my room since the shooting. I guess she saw my bedside as a kind of confessional—a place to cleanse herself of her sins. It didn't work. And the hair connection finally clicked."
"So you figured it out last night—the tie-in between the odor you remember when you were shot and Ms. Lane's foamy hair gunk." Jeannie's lips twitched as she echoed Carson's phraseology. "And just now, you were looking for proof?"
"Not proof. Just corroboration. My sense of smell is all the proof I need. But these damned tubes in my nose ruin my olfactory sense. So I wanted to get her over here, take a deep breath, and make sure. Well, I did and I am."
Jeannie gave an intrigued shake of her head. "You know something, Mr. Brooks? You're good, too. Damned good. Remind me to call your company and tell them what an asset you are."
He grinned—a worn-out, tight grin, but a grin nonetheless. "Thanks. Just for that I'll let you in on a secret. You see these two here?" He pointed at Dylan and Sabrina. "They're about to get the hell out of this hospital room and head down to Tiffany's to pick out some rings. There's going to be a wedding in the near future."
"That's great." Jeannie shook both their hands. "Congratulations."
"Keep it under wraps for now," Carson added. "I want to make a big, splashy announcement. Who knows? Maybe it'll send the sales of C'est Moi soaring even higher."
"Hey," Sabrina said in mock protest. "Did we just become a marketing tool?"
He shrugged. "You'
re already prime time media buzz. Let's give the TV networks, the newspapers, and the tabloids something cheerful to yap about. Now, get going. I'll be waiting to see that sparkling baby on your finger."
"Yes, sir." Sabrina snapped off a salute. She paused, studying his face. "You're sure you're okay?"
"Positive. I'll be better when you're engaged." He arched a brow at Dylan. "Now go make an honest woman out of my daughter."
"With pleasure." Dylan chuckled, wrapped an arm around Sabrina's waist. Carson really was okay. He could tell. And that made him feel like a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. "We're out of here. See you soon."
"Yup." Carson watched them go, then settled back, feeling a surprising sense of peace, despite the pain and trauma of the past day, and the difficult recuperation that lay ahead. Somehow, everything was going to be all right. "See ya, Detective," he dismissed Whitman, letting her know he was ready to drift off.
"See ya, Mr. Brooks. You take care."
One eye opened. "Hey, Stick, are you married?"
Jeannie paused at the door. "No, why? Are you proposing?"
"Nah. You'd turn me down. I'm harder to live with than you are. What about Stone—is he single, too?"
"Nope. A great marriage, and two great kids. Why?"
"I just wanted to know how to address the invitations."
"Invitations?"
"To the wedding." A hint of a smile. "Hey, you're the reason those two incredible kids of mine are safe and able to get on with their lives. Same goes for me. The least we can do is invite you to the wedding. I promise you great food and a great time."
"Sold." Jeannie perked up at the part about the great food. As for the great time—anything was possible. Carson Brooks hung with a very eclectic crowd—corporate execs, regular Joe's, and grown-up street kids. Mix that with Beacon Hill snobs and high-fashion designers, and, hey, whether or not it was a great time, it sure as hell wouldn't be boring. "I'm sure I can speak for Frank and Linda, too. We'll all be checking our mailboxes. When's the date so we can save it?"
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