"Thanks. But we just downed an entire pot of coffee. Any more caffeine and I think we'll twitch." Sabrina smiled politely, settling herself in a chair and glancing at her surroundings.
Okay, Dylan was right about the office. It looked like a Maurice Villency showroom, all cream leather and exquisite lacquered wood. Even the paintings on the wall screamed Upper East Side gallery.
Interesting. Especially since the rest of YouthOp's modest-sized office space was a complete one-eighty— inexpensive, spartanly furnished rooms with basic berber carpeting, and metal desks and file cabinets.
"Your office is lovely," Sabrina commented, pausing as the scratchiness in her voice swallowed her words. Simultaneously, she became aware of a disturbing odor aggravating her nose—an odor that sidetracked her big-time.
"Pardon me?" Susan inquired, brows drawn in question.
Sabrina forced herself to keep it together. She couldn't let her reaction show. She had to shelve it, to think about the implications later.
"Your office," she repeated, operating on autopilot. "It's lovely. Did you decorate it yourself?"
"Actually, no. I worked with a professional decorator." Susan didn't look the least bit put off by the question. On the other hand, her fingers were still trembling from the upset of the day. "He's on the expensive side, but he's phenomenally talented. For months I was on the fence about whether or not I should spend thousands on my office. But, the truth is, I'm in this room over fifty hours a week. So, in the end, I decided to splurge. I sold one of my stocks and went for the works. I've never been sorry. I'm far more motivated when I feel good in my surroundings." She gestured at her stylish taupe suit, striving for a lighter note. "It's like putting on one of your mother's designs when you're going through a bad time. It lifts your spirits—most of the time," she added ruefully, clearly self-conscious about the emotional state she was in.
She drew a calming breath, then glanced at Dylan. "I should give you my decorator's name and number. From that news report I heard, it sounds like the explosion and fire at your apartment were bad. The place must be in shambles."
"The ground floor's a disaster," Dylan confirmed with a nod. "Aside from that, I got lucky. The firefighters put out the flames before they could spread upstairs. But, yeah, I'm going to have to do some major renovating. The hallway as I knew it is gonzo."
"Wow." Susan shook her head in dismay. "I'm hardly an expert on Molotov cocktails, but it's hard to believe a couple of bottles could do that amount of damage." A concerned frown. "Where will you live in the meantime—at Carson's place?"
A heartbeat of silence.
"No. Dylan's staying with me," Sabrina supplied, seizing the awkward moment by transforming it into an opportunity to deliver their big news. "Which brings me to the one happy development we were able to share with Carson today. Dylan and I are getting married."
"Oh, my." Susan blinked, then leaned across the desk to squeeze both their hands. Her own palms were icy. "That's wonderful. It's just the outcome Carson was hoping..." Her voice trailed off.
"You don't need to protect him," Dylan assured her dryly. "We're already onto the fact that he was doing a little not-so-subtle matchmaking. Fortunately, he didn't have much work to do."
"Obviously not." Susan's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "So when's the big day?"
"We're not sure yet. We're waiting until we know Carson's prognosis, and have a better idea when he'll be on his feet and ready to walk me down the aisle. Then, we'll set a date." Sabrina's voice was getting raspier again. And the tingling in her nose was intensifying.
But it was the reason for it that was freaking her out.
She began to cough.
"Can I get you some water?" Susan asked at once.
"Please," Sabrina grated out.
Susan hurried out to the bottled water dispenser in the outer office and began filling up a paper cup.
"Are you okay?" Dylan's lids were hooded, his expression pensive.
"No." Sabrina squeezed her eyes shut as tears filled them.
"Sabrina?" Dylan grabbed her arm. "What is it?"
"It's my nose...." She dissolved into another spasm of coughing. "After the water... let's get out of here."
"Yeah. Good idea."
When Susan walked in, Sabrina was taking slow, deep breaths through her mouth.
"Goodness." Susan looked alarmed. "Are you all right?"
"Smoke inhalation," Dylan explained, taking the cup and handing it to Sabrina. "After she drinks this, I think I'll take her outside for some air."
"Of course." Susan twisted at the tissue in her hands, watching nervously as Sabrina sipped at the water.
Slowly, the fit of coughing subsided, but Sabrina's eyes continued to water.
"Susan, I hope you understand... if we leave," she managed, her voice breaking and scratchy. "We just wanted to... make sure you were doing better... and to tell you our news."
"I'm very glad you did. I'm so happy for you both." Susan led them through her doorway, quickly showing them out. "As for understanding, of course I do. You've been through a terrible ordeal. Go home and rest."
Five minutes later, Sabrina sank back in the limo, leaning her head against the cushioned neck rest, as the car made its way uptown.
"Better?" Dylan asked, smoothing her hair off her cheek.
"Actually, no. I feel sick to my stomach."
Dylan tensed. "The aftermath of last night?"
"No, the meeting with Susan."
A harsh glitter came into Dylan's eyes. "So you heard it, too. Yeah, I'd say you have reason to feel sick. I just keep wracking my brain, trying to come up with a logical explanation."
"Oh, there's a logical explanation, all right," Sabrina bit out. "And it makes me ill."
The vehemence in Sabrina's tone gave Dylan pause. "Are we talking about the same thing?" he demanded.
"We sure as hell are. You're talking about the fact that when we were discussing the damage to your apartment, Susan said it was hard to believe that a couple of bottles could do so much damage. How did she know it was 'a couple' of bottles? The news didn't mention it. No one mentioned it. No one knew but you. And the only people you told were the detectives and Carson, none of whom have spoken with Susan since then. The detectives are with Pruet, and Carson's sleeping."
"So who told Susan?"
"She already knew," Sabrina stated flatly.
"It sure as hell seems that way. But let's not jump the gun. We can't be sure."
"We damned well can be." Sabrina glanced at her watch, then flipped open her cell phone and dialed. "Detective Whitman? It's Sabrina Radcliffe. Are you finished at Pruet's? Okay, good. Don't go back to your precinct yet. I need to see you right away. It's urgent. Dylan and I are on our way to Ruisseau. Could you meet us in my office ASAP? Thank you."
She punched end.
"Sabrina, what is it?" Dylan pressed. "I know what Susan said sounds incriminating, but we can't assume she's involved without having more evidence than that."
"We've got more evidence. It's right here." Sabrina tapped her nose.
"Your reaction in Susan's office, you mean?"
"Yes, my reaction. The tingling in my nose just wouldn't go away because of the odor."
"What odor?" Dylan's voice had gone deadly quiet.
Sabrina angled her head, met his gaze head-on. "The smell of gasoline."
CHAPTER 30
11:35 A.M.
Ruisseau Fragrance Corporation
The tension in Sabrina's office was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Dylan was perched at the edge of the desk, Sabrina was sitting behind it, and Frank and Jeannie were seated across from them, digesting all they'd just been told.
Jeannie tapped her pen against the side of her leg, her eyes narrowed in concentration. "Let's start with the smell of gasoline. If you're right, then one theory is that whoever made those Molotov cocktails was in Ms. Lane's office."
Sabrina slapped a palm on her desk.
"First of all, I am right. Don't insult me. I know the smell of gasoline, and that was it. Second of all, if Susan's only involvement is that her office was used as a laboratory—without her knowledge or consent—how do you explain her little slip about the 'couple of bottles' that were used? She had to know what was going on."
A frown. "That bugs me, too. My first instinct would be to say that whoever threw those bottles last night and stabbed Russ Clark to death is affiliated with YouthOp. Which makes sense. Not every street kid is reformable. And those who aren't make the people in charge look bad. In the case of YouthOp, that would be Ms. Lane. Maybe she's protecting the kid—and herself, in the process."
"Bullshit." Dylan rose, pacing restlessly around the room. "Susan would go to great lengths to keep her nose clean. But she wouldn't protect a murderer, certainly not one who could lead us to the person who shot Carson."
"You're sure she used the phrase 'a couple of bottles'?" Frank asked for the third time.
"Yes." Sabrina glared at them. "My olfactory sense is hypersensitive. My hearing's just plain old keen. Dylan's hearing is just as good. And we both heard the same thing. Loud and clear. So can we move off that sticking point?"
"I think we should," Jeannie agreed. She still looked bugged. "Something's not connecting. Obviously these two murder attempts are related. It doesn't make sense for them not to be. And yet, if Susan Lane is the mastermind, I just can't think of an explanation for Carson Brooks's shooting."
"As an aside, Susan knew Dylan and I were together last night," Sabrina added to the mix. "Carson's been filling her in on the progress of our relationship. Oh, and Russ Clark came to Ruisseau from YouthOp. There's another tie-in between the two organizations."
"I hear you. And I'm not arguing with your logic. When it comes to last night's attack, the YouthOp connection can't be ignored. So let's work with your theory. Let's say the worst is true—that Ms. Lane hired one of her kids, some lowlife scum, to kill you off. Maybe she wanted you out of the way so no one would stand between her and her ambition to become Mrs. Carson Brooks, at which time she could stake her claim on your father's fortune. That's a solid motive. But it doesn't provide a single link to Mr. Brooks's shooting. The weapon's easy. She could have gotten it from her scummy little sidekick. But what about motive and opportunity? She had neither—no motive, not as long as she was still Mr. Brooks's girlfriend and not his wife. And no opportunity, not when she was en route to the U.S. Open."
Sabrina dragged a hand through her hair. "You're right, especially about motive. There's not a damned thing she'd gain by killing Carson. Plus, I'm convinced she loves him. She doesn't want him dead."
"Maybe killing him wasn't her intention," Dylan suggested. "Maybe she just meant to hurt him. That way she could get loads of publicity from hovering by his side, nursing him back to health. I can see the headlines now: 'YouthOp's beautiful and benevolent leader lavishes her beloved Carson Brooks, millionaire CEO of Ruisseau Fragrance Corporation, with love and tender ministrations as he recovers from his wounds.'"
Frank shook his head. "If that were her plan, she'd have gone about it differently. A bullet in the back? That runs a high risk of being fatal. An inch in the wrong direction, and he'd be dead. It's too chancy. If she wanted him hurt and needy, she'd have had her punk attack him in the alley, steal his wallet, and break a few ribs. No, Mr. Newport. What happened in Mr. Brooks's office was attempted murder."
Jeannie was studying her notes. "Let's get back to opportunity, and see that through, before we even try to figure out motive. Ms. Lane was at the U.S. Open. The game began at five after seven. She caught a cab there, since Mr. Brooks had the limo. She'd have to leave her apartment by sixish."
"It was a holiday," Frank reminded her. "That means no rush hour."
"Still, there'd be holiday traffic heading in and out of the city. Tuesday was going to be a workday. The world was coming back to life after the summer. Anything less than an hour would be pushing it." Jeannie chewed the end of her pen. "She'd need time to get dressed and ready...."
"That would take an hour by itself," Dylan muttered. "Between her wardrobe, her hair gunk, and her layers of makeup, it's a full-time job."
A corner of Jeannie's mouth lifted. "Yeah, she is the put-together type, isn't she? Okay, let's say an hour, including showering, makeup, the works. That means she'd have to be in her apartment around five o'clock in order to get to the Open on time. Mr. Brooks was shot at approximately five-forty."
"It doesn't fit," Sabrina murmured.
"Unless..." Jeannie's head came up. "We're all assuming Ms. Lane was on time for the match. Maybe she wasn't. Maybe she was late. If she shot Mr. Brooks, for whatever reason, she could have been dressed and ready when she headed over to Ruisseau. A light trench coat would have been enough to hide whatever she was wearing so she couldn't be identified. It would also provide her with deep enough pockets to conceal her weapon. She could have fired the shot, left the building, and headed home. She'd be there by six-fifteen, even in heels and walking leisurely, so she wouldn't look suspicious. She'd have enough time to lose the overcoat, throw the gun in the Hudson, and hail a cab by six-thirty. She'd be late, but not by a lot."
Frank considered that scenario, and nodded. "Makes sense. It's certainly possible. The question is, how do we find out? We can interview every damned cab driver in the city to find the one who drove her to Queens. But that's going to take more time than we've got."
"We don't need to do that." Jeannie turned to Dylan. "Mr. Brooks was a big tennis fan, right?"
"Right."
"Then my guess is, he was a regular at the U.S. Open. After all, it's the premier tennis match in the world, and it's played right here in Queens."
"He was. He went to every game he could. Why?"
Rather than answering his question, Jeannie asked another of her own. "And when he attended these games, where did he sit?"
Realization dawned in Dylan's eyes. "He has a court-side box. He reserves all six seats for the entire two weeks of the U.S. Open, for important customers and Ruisseau employees."
"Bingo." Jeannie gave a triumphant nod. "So we have a couple of options here. Let's get some footage of the televised network coverage of that Monday night match and see if we can spot Mr. Brooks's courtside box, which should be empty except for Ms. Lane. That should make it easier to spot her arrival. Also, let's find out who reserved tickets in the nearby courtside boxes. Ms. Lane's a very attractive woman. I'd bet money that someone noticed when she got there, and if she was in her seat when the game began."
"That's brilliant." Sabrina felt her adrenaline begin to pump.
"Don't get too excited," Jeannie warned. "At least not yet. Besides, even if we do find proof that she was late, there's still the problem of motive. We have none. We've got to take this one step at a time. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
"Okay. You're right."
Inclining her head, Jeannie shot Sabrina a probing look. "Tell me something, what made you become suspicious of Ms. Lane to begin with? I have a gut feeling you didn't go down to YouthOp for a friendly visit. I think you went to check out Ms. Lane. Am I right?"
"Yes." Sabrina met directness with directness. "In my case, I can't say the word suspicious applied, at least not yet. I was bothered, especially after talking to Dylan. And I was protective, since Carson is my father, and Susan's a big part of his life."
"What about you, Mr. Newport? I take it your feelings in the matter were stronger."
"Stronger and more definitive—yes." Dylan was equally frank. "I've known Susan longer than Sabrina. I've spent a fair amount of time in her company, both with and without Carson. And she makes me feel uneasy, irked, and worst of all, mistrustful. I could elaborate with a few more adjectives, but you get my drift."
"We get it," Frank said. "What's it based on? Elaborate on that instead."
Bluntly, Dylan filled them in on his ambivalent take on Susan, from her me-first attitude, to her desire to be in the limelight, t
o his misgivings about her priorities at YouthOp.
"Wait." Jeannie help up her palm. "Stop at the YouthOp issue. Are we talking about a woman who's promoting her own agenda, or about something more serious—something criminal?"
Dylan blew out his breath. "I just don't know. I can't give you facts. I was hoping to get those today, but our visit took a different turn. All I can say is her office looks like something out of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, her charity events cost as much as an inaugural ball, and her publicity campaigns are huge."
"None of that's illegal," Jeannie pointed out. "Not if it's properly funded."
"We asked her point-blank if she designed her own office," Sabrina said. "She said she hired a decorator, and claimed she cashed in one of her stock holdings to pay for the whole shebang. She probably did. Like Dylan said, the office is a real eye-catcher; far too conspicuous for Susan to assume there'd be no questions asked about how a charitable organization could financially swing such a costly decor. Plus, the sale of stock is too easy to verify. I doubt she was lying. But as for subsidizing everything else out of her own pocket? That's highly unlikely. I agree with Dylan—she's just not the philanthropic type. She's also not a Rockefeller. And we're talking about big bucks here. YouthOp's got only local funding, not state or federal. Susan told me so herself."
"Don't they also have corporate sponsors?"
"Yeah," Dylan replied. "Carson gives a bundle. I know that for a fact. YouthOp has other sponsors, too—some personal, some corporate—although I doubt any of them gives close to what Carson does. Either way, the thing that gets to me is that I don't see enough of that money going to the kids. Listen, I was once in their shoes. I know what they need. Especially the older ones. They're beyond the point where baseball games and pep talks are going to help. They need hard-core support."
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