by Andrea Kane
"No," he bit out.
"Okay, Mr. Hager. I trunk that's enough." Barton rose, exchanging a quick glance with his partner. "We'll be on our way now. If you think of anything else, you know where to find us. And if we need you, we know where to find you."
Stan waited until the detectives had gone. Then, he shut the door behind them, crossing over to drop into his plush leather chair. He propped his elbows on his desk, put his head in his hands. He should feel relieved. He didn't. He was far from out of the woods. Any one of several people could tip the scales against him. Starting with his ex-wives. If Whitman and Barton talked to either Lily or Diane, it was highly possible something would be said to raise their antennae.
And then there was Ferguson. He was the biggest potential liability of all. If he caved under pressure, or got scared enough, he might slip. One wrong word and Dick and Jane Tracy would come rushing back over here. Then what would he say? How could he explain the situation without making it look as seedy as it was? And how could he keep the detectives from making the assumption that, if he'd gone this far, he'd have the motive and the incentive to go the rest of the way?
Yanking open his drawer, Stan shoved aside a copy of the memo from Pruet calling an emergency meeting in Paris, and pulled out the bottle that contained his ulcer medication. His insides were on fire. They hadn't stopped burning since Monday. He popped a pill in his mouth, then went over to his office's fully stocked bar, pouring himself a glass of mineral water. He threw back his head, swallowed his medication in two hard gulps.
Talk about paying for his mistakes in spades. He was doing that. Every day of his life.
Being second best sucked.
7:40 P.M.
Plaza Athenée
Gloria Radcliffe arrived at the hotel in time to check into her room, freshen up, and go downstairs for a cocktail. She needed one.
The visit with her parents had gone pretty much as expected. They were angry, shocked, worried, and a few other choice adjectives they'd tossed her way.
She was weary. She was also worried. She'd reached Sabrina by cell phone when her plane landed. Her daughter had visited Carson Brooks twice that day. She'd then been whisked away by limo to a business meeting in Englewood Cliffs, and was now on her way back to Manhattan. Riding with her was Ruisseau's COO and its corporate counsel—Dylan Newport, the man who'd brought Sabrina to New York in the first place. Sabrina had asked Gloria to meet her at the hotel around nine o'clock for a late dinner, at which time she'd fill her in.
Well, that left an hour and twenty minutes. Gloria could spend it agonizing over things she couldn't change and wasn't privy to, or she could take a proactive step that had to be taken sooner or later.
Sooner was better for the psyche than later.
She turned on her cell phone, punched in the number the operator provided.
Two rings, and an answer. "Midtown North."
"Yes." Gloria glanced down at the piece of paper where she'd written the names Sabrina had given her a short while ago. "I'm trying to reach either Detective Whitman or Detective Barton. This is Gloria Radcliffe."
7:45 P.M.
Midtown North Precinct
Jeannie leaned across Frank's desk and drew a line through Claude Phelps's name. "That's another one down," she pronounced. "He might be a twitching nut job, but he's got ninety witnesses who were with him and his wife at his thirty-fifth wedding anniversary celebration at the Marriott Marquis on Monday evening." She tossed down her pen. "So that leaves us with one less suspect."
Frank munched on a cucumber slice. "Maybe I'm getting soft because I'm such a nut job myself these days, but I felt sorry for the guy when we questioned him. He obviously knew we'd heard horror stories about him twenty times over. That made him even more neurotic. I think he was half-expecting us to read him his rights on the spot."
"Yeah, I felt the same way. Funny thing is, nut job or not, I'm not surprised he has an alibi. Or a family who loves him, for that matter. There's something endearing about Claude Phelps, hyper though he is."
"As opposed to Stan Hager." Frank polished off another cucumber slice. "He's a wreck, too, but he's a hell of a lot smoother about it than Phelps is."
Jeannie nodded. "Hager gave us quite a runaround. He desperately wanted to keep the spotlight off himself. Now the question is, why? Is it because he's afraid of looking bad—to Brooks, to the company, maybe even to the industry as a whole if some nosy business reporters start speculating—or is it because he really has something to hide?"
"I'm on the fence on that one," Frank replied with a shrug. "The whole staff of Ruisseau speaks highly of him. That includes the handful of employees in their European operations. Hager commands a great deal of respect everywhere. And his loyalty to Brooks, and to the company, is undisputed by anyone—across the board. Still, just in case we decide to dig deeper, I made a couple of calls, got us the scoop on Hager's exes. Wife number one—Lily—remarried a dozen years ago. She lives on Long Island, with her husband and their ten-year-old son. Wife number two—Diane—decided her huge alimony checks were the only permanent fixtures she needed in her life. She's cruising the Greek Isles now, with her latest lover. She's due back in New York next week."
"A woman after my own heart," Jeannie noted wryly. "I kind of guessed that would be your reaction." Frank reseated the remaining cucumber slices in their Ziploc. "Which is why we both know the way this should play out, if we go the route of talking to the ex-wives."
"Sure do." A corner of Jeannie's mouth lifted. "You'll take the lead with Lily and I'll do the same with Diane. That gives you the family man angle, and me the woman-to-woman thing—two liberated divorcers living high on the hog." Jeannie grimaced. "Except in my case, it's minus the high on the hog. I knew I should have married for money. Then, when the marriage ended, I'd be set for life." She dug in her pocket, plucked out the Milky Way bar she'd shoved away earlier, and frowned as she saw it looked rather the worse for wear. "Great. Instead, I get squashed candy and a cranky partner."
"You want sympathy? Go somewhere else." Frank was studying the list of suspects. "Any candy— squashed, stale, even moldy—beats cucumber slices. As for your partner, I've been a puppy dog since you ripped into me this morning. So eat your Milky Way and count your blessings."
Frank's forehead creased in concentration. "We've eliminated most of the employees at Ruisseau's competition. As for Susan Lane, she's clean. Not only was she on her way to the U.S. Open when the shooting took place, she's got no motive. I've checked and double-checked. Brooks wasn't cheating on her. Hager was right about that. As for monetary gain and social status, the only way she'd continue enjoying those is with Brooks alive. She gets to attend all high-profile events on his arm. He's the single largest contributor to her YouthOp charity. And she's not named in his will."
"Right. So if inheriting was her goal, she'd be better off keeping him around long enough to make her Mrs. Carson Brooks, then bumping him off." Jeannie chewed her candy thoughtfully. "The other big question mark is Gloria Radcliffe. I tried reaching her. No answer. I left a message on her voice mail. I'm sure my call won't come as a surprise. Her daughter must have given her a heads-up about the direction our questions took. I can't wait to hear her answers."
The phone on Jeannie's desk rang, and she plucked it from the receiver. "Whitman."
"Stick?"
"Yeah, Parsons, it's me. What's up?"
"I've got a call for you. I think you'll want me to patch it through."
"Who is it?"
Getting her answer, Jeannie sat up straighter, covering the mouthpiece with her hand. "Speak of the devil," she hissed at Frank.
"Gloria Radcliffe?" he mouthed.
A hard nod. "Absolutely, put her through," she instructed. A pause. "Ms. Radcliffe, hello. I assume you got my message." She frowned. "That's odd. I left it this afternoon. Have you checked your voice mail?" A pause, and Jeannie's brows shot up a notch. "In Manhattan? Your daughter didn't mention you were here. Oh, I
see. So where are you now? Yes, that's close by. The precinct is on West 54th. If you go south on Fifth Avenue..." Jeannie broke off, abandoning the idea of direction-giving. A quick glance at her watch, and an equally quick decision. "My partner and I were just heading out. Stay put. We'll meet you in the hotel lounge. We can talk there. Right. We're on our way."
Jeannie was scrambling to her feet even as she put the phone back in its cradle. "She's at the Plaza Athenée. Apparently, she flew in a couple of hours ago to be with her daughter. She's waiting to have dinner with her. Sabrina's still at the hospital. She's meeting her mother in the hotel lounge at nine. That gives us over an hour. Let's get moving. If we want a shot at the truth, or at catching Gloria Radcliffe in a he, we'll do better if her daughter's not there. No moral support. No chance to embellish on a story to downplay guilt. I want to talk to Gloria Radcliffe alone."
CHAPTER 15
8:10 P.M.
Joe's Pizza, South Street Seaport
Russ Clark took his two slices of pepperoni pizza and his medium-size Coke and slumped into a booth. He'd been walking for over an hour trying to clear his head. It hadn't helped.
He'd been an intern at Ruisseau for almost two years now.
If anyone had asked, he'd say the sun rose and set on Carson Brooks. Thanks to him, Russ was off the streets. Not only that, he was a high school grad—one who'd gone on to Queens College, and was working his way toward the journalism degree he'd always dreamed of.
Mr. Brooks had met with him personally a month or two after he'd started working in Ruisseau's mail room. He'd told Russ what a fine job he was doing, then said he'd been reviewing Russ's application and noticed that he'd written a gripe column for his school newspaper—at least until his gripes became too raunchy to print.
Russ had steeled himself for a lecture, or worse. Instead, Mr. Brooks had asked him if he liked writing, or just griping. When Russ finished hemming and hawing, and finally spit out what he wanted his future to be, Mr. Brooks had moved him to the publicity department.
At first, Russ had been a gofer, but now he was actually helping write copy. It wasn't the same as investigative reporting, but it did teach him how to gather information and present it clearly and concisely. It was cool, it was something to put on his resume when he graduated, and he got paid for it.
Finally, things for him were looking up.
Last month everything had changed.
It started on the day he overheard that conversation, and gotten wind of what was going on. It made him furious. So, to appease himself, to hone his skills as a reporter and, most of all, to look out for Mr. Brooks, he'd started poking around.
Tonight he'd hit pay dirt. Only he wished to hell he hadn't.
Because now he had to do something with it.
Polishing off his pizza and downing his remaining Coke, Russ chucked out the paper plate and cup. Then, he headed toward the subway.
Diagonally across the street, a pair of eyes watched him with interest.
8:15 P.M.
West 73rd Street
Sabrina was bone-weary and mind-numb.
Talk about being bombarded with stimuli. After the emotional meeting with Carson, an afternoon of follow-up calls to CCTL, and an early-evening check-in at the hospital to see how Carson was doing, she'd been herded into the limo with Dylan and Stan, driven out to tour the R&D facility, then driven back to Manhattan. During the return trip, she'd been sucked into an impromptu meeting. No surprise who'd orchestrated the tour and the meeting, straight from his hospital bed, no less. Carson was intent on immersing Sabrina in Ruisseau and in defining her roles there—both her official and her unofficial ones—as soon as possible, so that Dylan could finalize the paperwork, Stan could orchestrate a nine A.M. meeting to introduce her, and both men could give her a rundown on the "who's who" and the "what's what" in advance.
Using Carson's limo for the meeting made sense. It was large, cushy, and, most of all, private. Stan began by giving her a procedural summary of what she could expect the next morning, while Dylan scribbled snippets of amendments on whatever legal documents he'd already banged out. Next, Stan piled a ton of documents in her lap—from Ruisseau's latest financial statements, to its fourth quarter projections, to the current marketing campaign for C'est Moi—advising her to familiarize herself with them as quickly as possible. He'd also given her a company directory, complete with titles, departments, and telephone extensions, suggesting she get a feel for the staff. Finally, he'd tossed her the keys to an apartment Carson had talked her into accepting, flourished a business card with his home phone number written on it, and waited while their driver pulled over and stopped on Riverside Drive. Then, he jumped out of the limo.
When she'd stared at him dazedly, trying to figure out why she was still sitting there with Dylan, while Stan was obviously leaving—sans the limo—he'd informed her that the car and driver were at her disposal, that she should feel free to go anywhere she wanted, and that she should get a good night's sleep. He'd then promptly climbed into another car—one that was waiting to take him back to work—and zoomed off.
Anywhere she wanted? What Sabrina had wanted was to crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head, and collapse.
The problem was, she couldn't collapse. Certainly not at the hotel, where her mother was waiting for her. Besides, it wasn't that she wanted to avoid Gloria. She wanted to touch base with her, to hear how things had gone with her grandparents, and to fill her in on the pivotal decisions she'd made that day. Just not at that moment. Not right away.
If only she could go somewhere for a reprieve, she'd thought wistfully. Just for a little while. Not a noisy bar or a crowded restaurant. But somewhere quiet, where her thoughts and emotions—both of which were on overdrive—could come down a peg or two. Then, she'd be ready for her nine o'clock dinner, and the issues she and her mother had to discuss.
Dylan must have read her mind, because he'd leaned forward, given the driver an address, and settled back in his seat.
The driver had brought them to what Sabrina realized was her new Manhattan residence. And, she had to admit, the cozy brownstone was the perfect medicine.
She'd explored the place from the ground floor up, climbing the three flights of stairs with newfound enthusiasm, and pausing to stroll around each level and admire her surroundings. The place was even more charming than it had looked from the street. More spacious, too, with a library and conference room on the ground floor, a living room and kitchen on the second floor, and two bedrooms and a sitting room on the third floor.
The furnishings were both tasteful and expensive, decorated throughout in sweeping shades of bone and brown, with rich parquet floors and gleaming marble bathrooms. The updated kitchen was fully stocked, and complete with every sophisticated appliance known to mankind. The living room bar was also fully stocked, boasting every top brand of liquor, and a floor-to-ceiling Subzero wine rack filled with an impressive selection of reds and whiter—the latter wines on top, the former on bottom, so as to be kept at precisely the right temperatures. As for the bedrooms, there was a large master bedroom with an adjoining bath, and an ample-sized second bedroom. Both bedrooms had thick cream-colored carpeting and magnificent cherry furniture. A vase filled with fresh flowers sat on the bureau of the master bedroom and, to Sabrina's amazement, the linens on the bed had been freshly changed, and the covers turned back. Quite a feat, given the fact that Carson had just offered her the place an hour ago. Obviously, he'd taken the necessary steps in the hopes that she'd accept. Well, those steps had worked. The entire brownstone felt homey and warm, as if it housed permanent residents, rather than occasional visitors from Ruisseau's European operations.
"Nice, huh?" Dylan asked, leaning against the master bedroom door frame and watching her reaction.
"It's lovely." Sabrina walked over to the flowers and sniffed. "Roses, jasmine, and ylang-ylang," she pronounced. "The floral essences in C'est Moi. I recognize the scents from the lab."
"Impressive sniffing."
"Impressive apartment." Sabrina turned to face Dylan, shaking her head in wonder. "Who took care of getting it ready in such record time?"
"Marie, Carson's secretary. She's as good as they come, a crackerjack assistant in every way. She's the most organized human being on the planet. Carson got word to her that he'd hired a consultant for an indefinite period of time. She took care of the rest. The food, the flowers, everything."
"She's obviously a treasure. I'd appreciate if either you or Stan would introduce me to her first thing tomorrow. I want to thank her. The personal touches are just what I needed."
"No problem."
"Did you know all this was being done behind the scenes?"
"Um-hum. That's why I brought you here first. You were weaving on your feet when we left Carson's room, and you fuzzed out more than once during our meeting with Stan. I was beginning to think we'd have to admit you to Mount Sinai as a patient if we pushed any harder. Then, when I heard you make plans to meet your mother at the hotel... let's just say I figured you could use some space before the next round. So, here we are, Madam President—home sweet home."
Sabrina shot him a look, wondering if he was being compassionate or sarcastic. "Thanks—I think. As for the apartment, when Carson said I should move into one of his extras, I wasn't expecting all this. Are you sure you don't need to keep it available for the company's use?"
"You're the company now, too, remember? Besides, we've got two other apartments if someone from Paris blows into town. Carson wanted you to have this one. Unless you'd rather move into his place. He said to make that available to you, too, if you'd prefer. It's on Central Park West, and it's huge."
"Now wouldn't that be cute?" Sabrina returned dryly. "Especially if we were to continue that arrangement after Carson came home—which he will. I'm not sure who'd appreciate it more, the tabloids or Susan. The new, young management consultant shacked up with the great-looking, middle-aged CEO. Nice publicity. We could say it was all thanks to C'est Moi. But of course that would backfire when Carson and I decided to make the announcement that I was his daughter. We'd go from a sex scandal to an incest scandal. Neither one would do much for Ruisseau's reputation, or its sales. So I think I'll pass."