Kane, Andrea (39 page)

"You never brought up the subject."

She couldn't argue that point. "Fair enough. Then again,
neither did you."

"Yes he did," Carson refuted. "Dylan brought it to
my attention this weekend. I was wondering when you'd do the same, and stop
letting personal feelings stand in the way of that corporate shark you were
describing before. This is my company. Yours, too, for that matter. There's no
room for stupid emotions like guilt or discomfort."

"What about a stupid emotion like insecurity? Doesn't that
apply?"

"You win on that one," Carson conceded. "I'm a soft
touch when it comes to Stan. It's a problem. Don't let me get away with it.
When I need a swift kick in the ass, give it to me."

"With pleasure," Sabrina replied sweetly.

"Here's the story with Stan. Yeah, we go way back together. I
told you he worked for that fertility specialist your mother went to at the
time of the donor insemination. Stan's the one who tipped me off to what this
mystery lady was looking for, and how much she was willing to pay the right
sperm donor. He encouraged me to go for it. I did. And with the twenty thousand
dollars Gloria paid me, I started Ruisseau. For me, that was the beginning of
everything."

"So you felt indebted to Stan."

"Big time. He's a great guy, and a great friend. On top of
that, he's sharp, with a good business mind. Hiring him was a no-brainer. We
didn't use fancy titles like COO back then. There weren't enough of us to
bother with titles, anyway. And I was never one for protocol. Hey, I wasn't
exactly your typical corporate exec. I spent most of my time playing around in
the lab or scribbling ideas in a notebook."

A nostalgic grin touched Carson's lips. "I was determined to
make the sexiest-smelling perfumes in the business. Hell, I was twenty-two. At
that age, sex is a top priority—the number one recreational activity. Although
even sex didn't give me the high that building Ruisseau did. Anyway, I had some
pretty tough competition. The powerhouse designers, the European perfumers—everyone
was fighting to control the market on whatever scent was the rage that year.
The professional woman's scent, the outdoor macho-guy's scent, the romantic
evening by candlelight scent and, of course, the supreme accomplishment—to
create the ultimate turn-on fragrance that set every man or woman on
fire."

"C'est Moi certainly fills that bill," Sabrina murmured.
"I've never smelled anything so sensual."

"Yeah, well, it took years to perfect. Then there were all
our other scents—formulating them, fine-tuning them, test-marketing them,
promoting them, and sometimes trashing them. Stan was right there with me
through all the research, all the frustration, all the setbacks. He screwed up
two marriages because of the number of hours he spent at work. He busted his
ass, and I mean busted his ass. Even when something didn't come easy to him, he
never balked. He just kept at it until he could master it; or, if not master
it, at least be comfortable working with it. At times that's been rough."

Sabrina pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I get it. I'm reading
between the lines. What you're saying is that Stan is bright, but he's not the
genius you are. Few people are. But few people have to work right beside you.
Stan does. And sometimes he feels the strain."

Carson nodded. "Something like that. So my guess about this
past week is that he's seeing me in you all over again. It's probably throwing
him for a loop. Not to mention that the cops are all over him. Apparently, they
questioned both his ex-wives. Not a fun scene. So try to cut him some slack,
okay?"

She frowned. "Why would Whitman and Barton question Stan's
ex-wives? Is he up there on the suspect list now?"

"He was asleep in front of the TV the evening I was shot.
That doesn't count as an alibi, not in their minds. And he acts like a nervous
wreck around them, which makes them more suspicious."

"Yeah, well, everyone's a little testy around those
two," Sabrina muttered. "I almost punched them out when they implied
my mother was a suspect." An uneasy thought struck her, and she attacked
it head-on. "Carson, you said I shouldn't let you be a soft touch when it
comes to Stan. So I'll ask you flat out—is there any chance he
is
the
one who shot you?"

"Nope." Carson didn't looked pissed off by her
suggestion. But he did look certain of his reply. "Sentiment aside, I know
Stan's innocent."

"How can you be so sure? If his insecurity runs deeper than
you realize, isn't it possible that his feeling of being second-best drove him
to do something drastic—even if it's something he regretted as soon as he'd
done it?" She paused, rolling her eyes. "God, I sound like something
out of a bad movie."

"Yeah, actually you do." A corner of Carson's mouth
lifted. "I guess daughters can be as irrational and over-protective as
fathers."

"I guess so."

"To answer your question, Stan's insecurities are irrelevant.
He didn't do it. How do I know? Easy. Because I'm still sitting here talking to
you. The gunshot wasn't fatal. If Stan had pulled the trigger, I'd be six feet
under. He's a crackerjack shot."

Sabrina tensed. "Stan owns a gun?"

"Calm down. No, not anymore. But when we were in our
twenties, when we lived in that first dump we shared, hell yeah, he owned a
gun. It was a cheap nine millimeter by the way, not a twenty-two. Anyway, Stan
was convinced we were sitting ducks for muggers and lunatic drug addicts. He
drove himself crazy thinking they would break in and kill us for the pathetic
wad of cash—maybe twenty or thirty bucks—that we had on us. Finally, he did
something about it. He went out and took shooting lessons. He was good—damned
good. I watched him at target practice a couple of times, and it was one
bull's-eye after another. He bought the gun for protection, then sold it when
we moved up and out."

"That was years ago," Sabrina pointed out, feeling
compelled to see this notion through, no matter how crazy or farfetched.
"If he hasn't held a gun in all this time, he could be rusty. That would
explain a less than dead-on shot."

"Uh-uh." Carson shook his head. "He got rid of the
gun, not the skill. He still drives up to a shooting range in Yonkers a couple
of times a week for target practice. It's good for his ulcer; it helps him let
off steam. And, before you ask, yeah, I know for a fact he hasn't lost his
touch. A couple of months ago, he rode up with Susan and me to her parents'
farm, and did some outdoor target practice. He was dead-on accurate every time.
Trust me, Sabrina. If Stan had been the one who shot me, I'd be dead."

"Okay." Sabrina felt a surge of relief. Regardless of
her concerns over Stan's behavior, she truly liked the man. And while she had a
hard time picturing him as Wyatt Earp, she was pretty sure she understood the
gist of who he was. The thought that she could be so wrong about someone, that
he would actually shoot Carson in cold blood—well, it was something she didn't
want to consider.

"Feel better?" Carson asked.

"Um-hum." Sabrina's wheels were turning, this time in a
slightly different direction. "Carson, would you mind if I met with Stan
privately and told him what was on my mind? Not about the shooting, obviously,
but about my concern that it's me who's making him ill at ease? I think I could
help smooth things over without pushing any buttons or rubbing the second-best
thing in his face. Plus, I want to give him a heads-up about the announcement
we're making this afternoon. He deserves to know ahead of time, not find out
along with everyone else."

"That's fine with me. Go for it. The more you bond with Stan,
the more productive your work relationship will be..."

"... and, as a result, the more productive Ruisseau will
be," Sabrina finished for him.

"You got it."

"Done." Sabrina rose. "I'm out of here. I've got a
million things to do. First up, is calling my mother and grandparents. I'll do
that in the limo. I'll also call CCTL, set up a conference call with Deborah
and Mark. They know pieces of the puzzle, but they need to be aware of the
entire situation, including the fact that the press is going to be camped on
their doorstep. Once that's done, I'll torn my attention back to Ruisseau. I've
got to get things on track, read those reports, go over the R&D results,
see if Stan's free for lunch, have Donna and Marie get the conference room
ready..."

"Hey, easy," Dylan interrupted. "You'll collapse by
noon. I'll get going on the videographer. After that, I can supervise the
conference room setup."

"You've got a pile of legal papers so high you can't see your
desk."

"They'll wait a day. This comes first."

"Don't forget dinner," Carson reminded him. "At
your place. I don't want Sabrina going to her apartment tonight. Not until
every reporter's either given up and gone home, or fallen asleep on the
sidewalk."

"I haven't forgotten." Dylan looked distinctly amused.
"I'll even brew espresso. That'll kill time and keep us both up until the
wee hours, when I can sneak Sabrina past the snoozing media-mongers.
Okay?"

"Not really." Carson scowled. "Then you'll both be
wired till dawn, and crash just in time to screw up a day's work."

"There's no pleasing you, is there?" Sabrina said with mock
irritation. "Why don't I just bring a sleeping bag and camp out on Dylan's
living room rug?"

"Now
that's
an idea. Not the living room rug part—I
think Dylan can come up with something better than that. But staying at his
place? Good solution. See? And you said there's no pleasing me." Carson
waved the two of them off before they could probe his underlying meaning, which
was becoming increasingly clear with each pointed comment. The question was,
how much of his Cupid-playing was based on having actually figured out what was
going on, and how much was based on matchmaking for what he
hoped
would
go on?

"Well? Get going," he ordered them. "You've got
your work cut out for you. Oh, and on your way out, tell someone at the desk to
page Radison and let him know about the taping in ICU later today. If he gives
his okay without bitching or making trouble, maybe I'll be nice and give him a
twenty-second walk-on part."

11:20 A.M.

Midtown North Precinct

Frank chewed his piece of gum like a demon, partly because he was
starving and partly because he was frustrated as hell.

This damn Brooks shooting kept turning up more questions and fewer
answers.

The bullet analysis had been a bust. Ballistics couldn't tell them
a thing besides what they already knew—that it was a badly distorted slug fired
by a .22 Walther TPH from below and behind the victim. Nice gun. Light. Easy to
hide. Not hard to get. Not cheap. But the suspects in this case weren't poor.

Whoever shot Brooks hadn't stabbed Russ Clark to death. Frank was
almost positive of that. The stabbing had been a dirty, back-alley deal, and
the angle of the wound suggested it had been done by someone who, although not
a pro, wasn't new at this either. As a rule, white-collar criminals who took
shots at CEOs with expensive pistols didn't hone their stabbing skills or bide
out in seedy alleys. They didn't wield butcher knives, either, which was what
the weapon that killed Clark had been. It had sliced through his flesh,
lacerated his liver, perforated a couple of major blood vessels, and the poor
kid had bled to death.

No finesse there, that was for sure.

Still, the two crimes were connected. Frank and Jeannie were
convinced of that. Clark didn't have an enemy in the world. He didn't owe
anyone money, didn't even have any credit card debt. And there was no steady
girlfriend, jealous or otherwise. He was clean as a whistle.

The only plausible reason for his being murdered was because he'd
found out something that threatened Carson Brooks's assailant. Either Clark had
uncovered some incriminating evidence, or stumbled upon the identity of the
shooter. Either way, he'd been disposed of. By a hired hand, judging by the
crude manner in which he'd been killed.

There was no point in trying to coordinate the key suspects in the
Brooks case with those who were minus an alibi at the time of Clark's murder.
Two different people had done the jobs. But Frank would bet his badge that
whoever had hired the thug to knock off Clark, was the one who had shot Brooks.
That person had had the right access to the building, the smarts to get by the
surveillance cameras, and the class to fit into a fashionable mid-town office
building in case he was spotted. It hadn't been a pro, or Brooks would be dead.
But it hadn't been a street punk either.

Idly, Frank wondered if Brooks's assailant had used his hired hand
for more than just stabbing Clark. Like for getting hold of a gun, for example.
Hell, a well-connected punk could do that no sweat, without ever dirtying his
employer's hands. Made sense. Also made sense that he could lead Frank and
Jeannie straight to the son of a bitch who'd hired him—
if
they could get
their hands on him. So far, they'd turned up nothing. And there was a sense of
urgency building inside them both—an innate awareness that the clock was
ticking. Whoever had shot Brooks was desperate. And that opened the door to all
kinds of grim possibilities and repeat performances.