Sabrina inclined her head, studying Susan thoughtfully. Her devotion to Carson was obvious. As was her respect, which bordered on awe. She'd scarcely left the hospital, or Carson's side, for days. Just how serious were they?
Even as she cautioned herself that she had no right to pry, that Carson's love life was none of her business, Sabrina heard herself ask, "Have you and Carson been together long?"
"About a year and a half." Susan didn't seem the least bit put off by the question. "We met at a charity function I was hosting. I've hosted dozens. Never have I been so impressed by a contributor before in my life."
Sabrina took a sip of coffee. "Impressed how? It doesn't sound like you're referring to the sum he donated."
"I'm not. Although the check he wrote was exceptionally generous. But contributing money is easy when you're rich. Caring enough to contribute your time, to offer your personal involvement, that's something else."
"I agree." Sabrina's interest was piqued, once again, by learning more about Carson Brooks. Each story let her glimpse another facet of him. This time, it was Carson Brooks the philanthropist. "What charity are you affiliated with, and what kind of personal commitment did Carson make?"
"YouthOp." Susan settled back as she warmed to her subject. "It's a combination mentoring and educational program for troubled, low-income kids. We're still in our embryonic stage. But we're growing. So far, we've initiated a work-study program, a big brother program, even some cultural and recreational activities. Our teenage volunteers are referred to us by schools and social services. They donate time and emotional guidance—not professional guidance, but a been-there-done-that kind of approach—to elementary school kids. In return for helping the younger ones get their heads on straight, they get opportunities to intern at our participating companies, and educational assistance—either in working toward a high school equivalency diploma or going for a college degree. The latter includes scholarship money."
"What a wonderful organization. Do you have any government funding?"
"On a local level, yes. We're still lobbying for state and federal funding. Until then, we have to rely heavily on personal and corporate contributions."
"And Carson is one of those contributors." Sabrina understood the scenario better than Susan realized. She knew what Carson had done for Dylan; this kind of thing was right up his alley.
"Not just a contributor," Susan amended, confirming Sabrina's speculation. "Carson opens the doors of Ruisseau to the teenage mentors. He offers them internships, scholarships, even chances to make pocket money. As for the little ones, he's a major supporter of the big brother program. He sponsors trips to amusement parks, movies, ball games." A grin. "He's even been known to attend a few of those ball games, when he can tear himself away from Ruisseau. Oh, and then there's the annual camping weekend."
"Carson goes camping?"
Susan chuckled at the disbelief in Sabrina's voice. "You mean the tough city boy? Yup, he sure does. The last weekend of June every year. I can vouch for it, since I'm there, too."
Okay, now that vision was even more incomprehensible than the last. The thought of Susan Lane, the ultimate cosmopolitan woman who wore every one of Gloria Radcliffe's most expensive, high-end designs, marching through muck and mire and sleeping on a cot or, better yet, in a sleeping bag? No way.
"Are we talking about camping-camping?" Sabrina tried. "You know, hiking, sleeping in layers so you don't freeze, roughing it in the great outdoors—that kind of camping? Or is there another, less rustic kind I'm unfamiliar with?"
"No, that's the one." Susan's eyes twinkled. "Gotcha, didn't I? Well, not only do I go, I help run the event. I also hike four miles, pitch a perfect tent, and build a mean campfire. And I cook dinner over that campfire, all weekend long. That's three whole days with no designer clothes, no soft mattress, and no makeup. Impressed?"
"Actually, stunned. You're a better woman than I. And here I was, all proud of myself because I can finish the two-hour hike at Lake Massabesic in an hour and a half, and then go on to beat any of my coworkers in a canoe race. But when I'm done, I drag myself home to a yoga class, a hot bath, and a soft bed."
Susan laughed, reaching over to give Sabrina's arm a sympathetic pat. "Before you write off those accomplishments, I should tell you that my camping weekend isn't really as big a stretch as you'd think. Despite the way I come off, and the fact that I've lived in—and loved— Manhattan for fifteen years, I was raised in a rural town in upstate New York. I can milk a cow and plant tomatoes with the best of them. Back then, it was home cooking, not restaurants, and fresh air, not air-conditioning. So a few days of roughing it doesn't phase me. Although, I must admit, I prefer AC to humidity and a toasty bed to the freezing ground any time. And bugs... yuck. But the kids don't know that. And I don't plan to tell them."
"Your secret's safe with me," Sabrina assured her. With another fascinated shake of her head, she reminded herself of one of the iron-clad rules of her profession: Never judge a book by its cover. If this wasn't a perfect example of that, nothing was.
Studying the fashionable woman beside her, seeing the genuine pleasure on her face as she discussed the kids she helped, another, more important thought occurred to Sabrina. "I'm really impressed," she told Susan. "Not just with Carson, with you. Clearly, you love what you do, and you do it with your heart and soul. Helping those kids gives you great joy."
"Yes, it does." Susan's lightheartedness faded, her expression turning earnest. "I feel for them. And you're right, I have a tendency to throw myself into whatever I do. That was certainly the way it was when I first started YouthOp." She paused, and it was apparent she was trying to keep herself emotionally in check. "But, the truth is, my dedication to YouthOp is no longer rooted solely in altruism. Not since I met Carson." A hard swallow. "I'm sure you're aware of Carson's background. He's been written up in every business publication in the country—the street-kid-turned-business-mogul success story. Well, everyone sees him as he is now, a secure, dynamic, successful CEO. I keep picturing him as he must have been then—a frightened kid, a troubled teen—always alone, usually on the streets. If a program like this had existed back then... Well, let's just say I wish someone had extended a hand to him."
"I agree." Sabrina was deeply moved by Susan's words. "But in looking at Carson now, I see more than a successful CEO. I see a very lucky man—one who has loyal friends like Dylan and Stan, and a sensitive woman like you in his life. To my way of thinking, he's got a lot to be thankful for—and to live for."
Susan's eyes misted. "That's very kind of you."
At that moment, Stan Hager strode into the lounge. He was a stocky man of medium height with steel-gray hair and tight, solemn features. He glanced around the room until he spotted them. And when he did, and recognized the emotional scene taking place before him, he went sheet-white.
He was beside them in an instant. "What is it? Is Carson worse?"
"No, no, nothing like that." Susan dabbed at her eyes. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I was just talking about Carson and getting all sentimental. His condition's status quo. Dr. Radison removed the bullet. Detective Whitman took it to ballistics. Carson's resting now."
"But you saw him this morning?"
"Yes, before the surgery."
"And he was all right?"
"He was tired, but holding his own."
"What about his spirits—were they good?"
Susan blinked, startled by the barrage of questions. But a slight smile curved her lips as she answered. "Let's see. When I walked in, he immediately started complaining to Dr. Radison about not being allowed a conjugal rights visit. If prisoners are entitled to them, why not hospital patients, was his argument."
Stan relaxed a bit. "Sounds normal for Carson."
"I thought so." Susan made a puzzled gesture. "Is there a particular reason why you're more concerned than usual?"
A brief hesitation. "He just sounded a little distracted when I called earlier. But he hadn't slep
t well. That was probably it."
"He did have a rough night," Sabrina confirmed, watching Carson's friend and wondering why he seemed so on edge. "I'm sure Dr. Radison left orders for him to be given something to help him relax before surgery."
"Yeah, true." Stan rubbed the nape of his neck as if it pained him. Abruptly, he seemed to realize how extreme he must be coming off, and how closely Sabrina was scrutinizing him. "Forgive my manners, Ms. Radcliffe," he said, addressing her for the first time. "I didn't even say hello."
"That's quite all right. You're worried. Everyone is. And by the way, please call me Sabrina, both of you. I'm not big on formalities." Another thing Carson and I have in common, she reflected silently.
She saw her own thought mirrored on Stan's face. But aloud all he said was, "We're all on a first-name basis. So you do the same."
"Absolutely," Susan concurred. "Oh, Stan. I'm sure you're here for that meeting Sabrina was just telling me about. Dylan hasn't arrived yet, but he must be on his way. I know Dr. Radison said noon, but if Carson's still groggy, the meeting could get a late start. Is that a problem?"
"Hmm? No, it's fine."
Sabrina had the distinct feeling that Stan didn't have a clue what meeting Susan was talking about. How odd was that? The guy was COO of Ruisseau, an aggressive go-getter, and a key officer of the corporation. Why would Carson leave him out of the loop? It made no sense, especially since Stan was in the loop about everything else. Besides, the official word was that Carson was bringing Sabrina on as a management consultant, a process his COO would be actively involved in. For Stan not to be right in the thick of things would seem strange and, most likely, out of character.
"Stan?" Obviously, that was the case, because Susan looked astonished. "You are here for that meeting, aren't you?"
Realization struck, and his entire demeanor changed. "Of course. Just for the first few minutes though. Doctors orders. When I broached the subject, Radison put his foot down about three of us being in Carson's room at once. So I'll get a recap from Carson later today." He frowned. "I'm not sure what time. Whenever I wrap up with Whitman and Barton."
Sabrina leaned forward. "The detectives?"
"Yup. They're coming by my office at two-thirty." He tried to sound nonchalant. Instead, he sounded like a rubber band about to snap. "They're grilling everyone at Ruisseau. They've been trying to pin me down to do the same. We set up an official meeting. From what I've heard about these interrogation sessions from the rest of the staff, I'm not looking forward to it"
"I don't blame you," Sabrina muttered, grimacing in remembered irritation. "Everything you heard is true."
"Are you saying they interrogated you?" Susan looked stunned, and Sabrina wanted to kick herself for opening up Pandora's box. "Why?"
"Sabrina was with Dylan when she met Detectives Whitman and Barton." It was Stan who intervened, running welcome interference for her. "They must have heard she was a management consultant and assumed she had an established business relationship with Ruisseau. Besides, they're covering all their bases by talking to everyone Carson knows—which is what they should be doing."
"In any case, they now know Carson and I just met." Sabrina took over, shooting Stan a quick, grateful smile. "So they'll be doing their interrogating elsewhere."
Dylan walked into the lounge, followed by Dr. Radison.
"Sabrina," Dylan greeted her. "Carson's awake, alert, and asking for us."
"Ordering me to get you is more accurate." The doctor gave an exasperated shake of his head, gesturing for Sabrina to head down to ICU. "Go ahead. But don't be fooled by bis bravado. He's still very weak, and he's fighting that infection. I'll give you fifteen minutes. No more than that. And if he starts to tire sooner, you'll have to leave, whether he likes it or not."
"Of course." Sabrina turned to Susan. "Did you want to see him first?"
"That's not necessary, although I appreciate your asking. Knowing Carson, he's got Ruisseau on his mind. Business now, personal time later." Susan glanced at Stan. "Didn't you say you were popping in?"
"Sure did." Stan rubbed his palms together, gazing intently at Dr. Radison. "I know you set a limit of two visitors max, but I'll just stay for two minutes."
The doctor frowned. "All right, two minutes," he conceded. "But that's it. I don't want him overwhelmed. He thinks he's Superman. He's not."
Stan's smile was tight. "Tell that to Carson."
12:20 P.M.
Midtown North Precinct
Jeannie strode over and sat down next to Frank's desk. "Mission accomplished," she announced. "Ballistics has the bullet." A frown. "Not that it'll do us much good. They already warned me that the bullet's in so-so shape. The grooves are distorted. Plus, we've got no weapon to match it with. The damn twenty-two's probably at the bottom of the East River." She groped in her pocket for the Milky Way bar she'd stashed there. Man, did she need a sugar-fix. "In any case, ballistics will do what they can, then get back to us." She tore open the candy bar wrapper, then, seeing the dark scowl on her partner's face, reconsidered and tucked the whole Milky Way, wrapper and all, back in her pocket. "Sorry. Too early for candy anyway."
"Yeah. Right." Frank yanked open his desk drawer and pulled out a Ziploc filled with neatly sliced carrot sticks. "In that case, try these instead. They're my mid-morning snack. Linda gave them to me, partly out of desperation and partly out of pity. And for a special treat, she packed a matching bag of cucumber slices for my mid-afternoon snack. I don't know how I'll contain myself until then."
Jeannie stifled a smile. "Poor Linda. You must be a bear to live with these days."
"You can say that again. The good news is, I take out most of my lousy mood on you, so I'm not as bad when I get home."
"Gee, thanks. How are the kids handling this get-in-shape program of yours?"
A proud grin spread across Frank's face. "They're the best. Mart's been working out with me at the gym twice a week. He's developing quite a set of biceps for a thirteen-year-old. And Katie—the number one chocoholic in her fourth grade class—has developed a sudden preference for fruits and vegetables. Coincidentally, she wanted— and got—the same snacks in her lunch bag today as I did. Linda offered her a devil dog, some Oreos, you name it, but she chose the carrots and cucumbers. She said she's studying food groups in school, and she wants to eat healthy."
"You've got great kids."
"Yeah, I do." He nodded, looking significantly less grumpy than he had a moment ago. "Damn if the two of them and Linda don't keep me going. And Bruno, who takes me on a half-mile tear every morning. I'm telling you, that shelter was wrong about him being part weimaraner, part Saint Bernard. The way those long legs of his shoot out from under him—he's got to be three-quarters greyhound."
Jeannie chuckled. "Maybe. Or else Mart's slipping him a little food bribe on the side—one of Linda's awesome tacos, maybe—to make sure you get another daily workout." Satisfied that she'd taken the edge off Frank's lousy mood, Jeannie propped an elbow on his desk and met his gaze. "We've got to talk."
"How did I guess?"
"Because you know me. And you know what I'm about to say is true. Look, Frank, I know this whole Weight Watchers and gym thing is tough. I might not have firsthand experience with dieting, but I've got enough experience with eating to know that not being able to do it sucks. That doesn't excuse your hard-assed attitude yesterday."
She didn't cut him any slack, knowing he'd do the same for her if things were in reverse. What Frank needed right now was a good slap in the face, not tea and sympathy. "You went over the edge yesterday with Sabrina Radcliffe. You nearly ripped her head off, and with no justification. She's not a suspect. She's barely even a player, given the fact that she just found out Carson Brooks is her father and therefore has zero firsthand exposure to the guy."
"Well, she's certainly in the picture now. She made that crystal clear."
"True. She's a smart woman, with good eyes, good ears, and a personal stake in finding Brooks's as
sailant."
Frank got the picture. "You're suggesting she could be an ally. That she might help us filter through the suspects. And that I blew our chances by getting in her face at the hospital yesterday."
Jeannie didn't deny it But she didn't rub his face in it either. "Let's just say that going that rough on her is only going to put her on the defensive. And if she dislikes or distrusts us, you can forget her lifting a finger to help our investigation."
"She won't lift a finger to help if our investigation implicates her mother, either," Frank pointed out.
There was no arguing that one. "If," Jeannie stressed. "In the meantime..."
"Yeah, yeah, I know." Frank tossed the bag of carrots aside. "You're right. I drilled her too hard. Especially when I slammed home the idea that her mother's a possible suspect. She was royally pissed off. I'm not even sure I blame her. But, my short fuse aside, I don't think we can dismiss the possibility of Gloria Radcliffe's involvement, not after what came to light in that chat."
"I agree. She was in New York at the time of the shooting, and she sure as hell wants to keep her family's connection to Carson Brooks quiet. Of course, all that's circumstantial, and contingent on whether she knew Brooks was about to contact their daughter, and whether she can establish an alibi. If the answers to those questions are yes and no respectively, then we'd have motive and opportunity. So your reasoning was dead-on. It was your delivery that needed some toning down."
Deciding enough was enough, Jeannie waved away Frank's self-reproach, reaching for the bag of carrot sticks and taking out two—one for each of them. "Lecture over. Besides, there's a bright side to this. Your heated interrogation broadened the spectrum so it doesn't seem like we're on a witch hunt for Dylan Newport. That's the last thing I want Carson Brooks thinking. He's already not too happy with our progress, or the direction we're taking. He made that very clear to me this morning, even with a local anesthetic dulling his faculties."
Frank studied his partner intently. "You're not worried about what Brooks thinks. The truth is, you really don't believe Newport did it."
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