Kane, Andrea (48 page)

Dylan nodded. "That's a small price to pay for being alive.
It's also better than I expected."

"Your insurance will cover it," Jeannie pointed out.
Again, that hint of a smile. "In the meantime, I'm sure Ms. Radcliffe will
let you bunk with her. She seems fond of you."

"Yeah, thanks." Dylan kept his face carefully
expressionless. "Good observation. I'll mention your suggestion to
her."

"What was the other thing you wanted to discuss?"

"Stan." Dylan cleared his throat. "Listen,
Detectives, I'm bound by attorney-client privilege. That having been said, I
want this case solved yesterday. So I'll go out on a limb and say this much—I
think you might be barking up the wrong tree if you think Stan shot Carson.
Look elsewhere. If you still come up empty, if you're pushed to the wall and
need some concrete facts, I'll see what I can do to give you some."

Jeannie's eyes narrowed. "What you're telling us is that
there's something going on with Stan Hager."

"What I'm telling you is that whatever it is that's going on
with him, it isn't attempted murder, or conspiracy to murder. Trust me on that
one. When you're getting your ducks in a row, don't spend too much time on this
particular duck."

"Even though the duck in question knew Ms. Radcliffe was at
your place tonight?"

"Yeah, even so. Lots of people saw Sabrina leave with me.
They all could have made the assumption that we spent the night together. From
what I hear, our relationship is far from under wraps." Dylan spoke
tersely, emphatically. "I repeat, Stan's not your duck."

"What about Roland Ferguson?"

"What about him?"

"Should we discount him as a duck, too?" Frank asked
sarcastically. "Does whatever the hell he's freaked out about tie into
Hager, or into this case?"

Dylan blew out his breath. "The former. Forget Roland. He's
harmless."

"Why didn't you mention any of this before?"

"Because, like I said, I'm bound by attorney-client
privilege. Plus, this is the first time I've picked up on the fact that Stan is
a key suspect. Till recently, it was me you had your eye on. Besides, to be
frank, you grilled the hell out of everyone. It was hard to tell who was a bona
fide suspect and who you just felt like provoking."

"Yeah, we are a nasty duo," Jeannie responded in a wry
tone. "Everyone says so. But, hey, it keeps us employed."

"Could be because they're afraid to let us go," Frank
surmised.

"Nah." A corner of Dylan's mouth lifted. "The NYPD
isn't an easily intimidated bunch. My guess is they keep you around because
you're good at what you do, browbeating included. You might not have a lot of
civilian friends, but I'd say your jobs are secure."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." Jeannie met Dylan's
gaze. "Ms. Radcliffe isn't on the inside about this Stan Hager situation,
is she?"

"Not at this point, no."

Jeannie studied Dylan for a long, thoughtful moment. Then, she
nodded. "All right, Mr. Newport, we'll play this your way—for now. But if
another day goes by and we have nothing, I'm coming to you for answers." A
meaningful stare. "So when you get up to ICU, I'd suggest you talk to your
client
and get his permission to spill the beans. Got it?"

Dylan didn't let any reaction show on his face, or come through in
his voice. "I hear you."

At that moment, the nurse came in and handed Dylan a hospital
gown.

He'd just finished putting it on when Sabrina reentered the room.

Silence greeted her.

She glanced from Dylan to the detectives and back again.
"What did I miss?"

"Nothing," Dylan assured her. "Our allies here were
just leaving. Keep us posted, Detectives."

"We will." With that, Jeannie and Frank headed out.

"Okay, what was really going on?" Sabrina demanded in a
hoarse rasp.

Dylan didn't insult her by lying or feigning ignorance.
"We'll talk about it later. I want to get upstairs before Carson kills
someone."

"Fair enough.
If we
talk about it later."

"We will. I promise. All I ask is that you give me five
minutes alone with Carson first."

Sabrina scrutinized Dylan's expression. "It's
privileged," she correctly deduced. "No problem. Talk to Carson. But,
after that, you're talking to me."

"Or I'm fired?" Dylan teased.

"Nope. You're too good an attorney. I'd only fire you if you
refused me in bed. Which I don't think you ever will. So your job's
secure."

"Glad to hear it." He grinned, settling himself in the
wheelchair. "And you're right. 'No' isn't in my vocabulary when it comes
to you. Now, would you help me steer this stupid thing?"

"My pleasure."

6:50 A.M.

ICU

Three nurses were restraining Carson, who was demanding to be
allowed out of bed, when Sabrina wheeled Dylan into the room.

"Carson," Sabrina called out in a scratchy voice.
"Stop tormenting those poor nurses. Dylan and I are fine. We're here.
Abuse us instead." Her insides twisted when she saw the white-faced
apprehension on Carson's face—apprehension that transformed to relief when he
saw that she and Dylan were all right, then to anxiety when he saw that Dylan
was in the wheelchair.

"Just a precaution," Dylan assured him immediately.
"The doctor was afraid you'd take a swing at me and make my concussion
worse."

"You have a concussion? How bad is it?" Carson barked.

"It's mild. Please, calm down." Sabrina glanced at the
three nurses, who were mopping their brows, totally spent and at their wits'
end. "Thanks so much," she croaked with a grateful smile.
"Please. Go take a break. Put your feet up and have a cup of coffee."

"Spike the coffee," Dylan advised. "You won't be
the first to do that after going a few rounds with this guy."

"Sounds good," one of them muttered. "Our shift's
over in ten minutes. A seven A.M. cocktail might be a first, but till Eleven
West gets him, I doubt it'll be a last." She assessed Sabrina and Dylan,
her demeanor softening. "We heard the news. Are you both all right?"

"Good as new," Sabrina assured her. "Now go home
and get some rest. We'll take it from here."

The RNs didn't need a second invitation. They blew out the door
like three fleeing bandits.

Carson didn't even seem to notice. He was eyeballing, first
Sabrina, then Dylan, and back again. "You scared the shit out of me,"
he accused, clearly shaken. "What happened? Who did this? What did the
cops find out?"

Sabrina pushed the wheelchair over to his bedside, then walked
over and took his hand. "Carson, listen to me. We'll answer all your
questions and stay as long as you like. Just please, settle down. Dr. Radison
stopped us on the way in, and warned us that this kind of excitement could
raise your blood pressure and cause a setback. So take a few deep breaths and
lie back. Dylan and I are both fine, thanks to his quick thinking and amazing
reflexes. He saved our lives."

Carson squeezed her fingers, then gave Dylan a look filled with
profound emotion and pride. "Doesn't surprise me. He's one in a
million—always has been." Swallowing hard, Carson brought himself under
control. "On the news they said something about an explosion and a fire.
They're speculating it was a Molotov cocktail. Was it?"

"Two Molotov cocktails, actually," Dylan amended.
"I heard both bottles break. Whoever threw them must have assumed we were
upstairs and wouldn't have a chance of getting to the front door in time.
Fortunately, we were down in the sitting room. We made a break for it before
the fire got out of hand."

"How'd you get the concussion? How much smoke did Sabrina
inhale that she can barely talk? And what other injuries don't I know
about?"

"My throat's scratchy," Sabrina replied. "My eyes
are still burning. Mostly, my nose is irritated. Not a surprise, given how
sensitive it is. Other than that, I've got a couple of burns and some cuts and
bruises—nothing worse than you'd get from falling off a bike. Dylan, on the
other hand, had to outdo me—as usual. He came away with a big gash across his
chest, more impressive burns than mine, and a concussion." Her light tone
vanished. "Of course, that could also be because he used his body to
protect me when we ran through the fire and when we hit the concrete." She
dissolved into a coughing spasm.

"Sabrina," Dylan interjected. "Rest your
voice."

She waved away his protest. "He wrapped blankets around us
and made a mad dash for the front door. By the time we got outside, the
blankets were on fire. He shoved us to the pavement—slamming his head in the
process— and rolled us around until the flames were out. Then he passed out.
Talk about being scared to death. I crawled over to make sure he was breathing.
I could barely find a pulse. By the time the ambulance arrived, I was beyond
frantic."

Dylan angled his head toward her, a surprised expression on his
face. "I didn't know that."

"How could you? You were unconscious."

"Beyond frantic, huh? Did you call me your hero and beg me to
live?"

Sabrina shot him a look. "Very funny. No, as I remember it, I
threatened to kill you if you died."

"Wow. That's even worse than firing me." He turned to
Carson. "She threatened to do that, too, earlier tonight. It was a
different set of circumstances, of course. But she was frantic then, too. I
tell you, Carson, she's one demanding president. I'm lucky I'm still
employed."

Hot color flooded Sabrina's cheeks. "Can we stick to the
subject?"

Carson's lips had begun to twitch. "I'm beginning to think
there's more than one of those."

"There are," Dylan assured him.

"Dylan..." Sabrina's voice might have been raspy, but
there was no mistaking the warning note there. "Cut it out."

"You're the one who asked him to settle down," Dylan
reminded her. "I think we can do one better. I think we can get him to
grin like a Cheshire cat." He gave Sabrina a quick, conspiratorial wink.
"Don't worry. What I'm planning won't make you blush. I just say we go
with the good news first. After that, we can get into the messy details of
tonight's break-in, and the conversation we had with Whitman and Barton. What
do you say?"

Sabrina got his drift, and she had to agree that it made sense.
"I say there's no time like the present."

"What good news?" Carson demanded.

Dylan arched a quizzical brow at Sabrina. "Who gets the
honor—you or me?"

"You've known him longer." She smiled, then coughed
again. "I'll save my voice and watch like a fascinated spectator."

"What good news?"
Carson blasted.

"Okay, okay." Dylan gave him that lopsided grin.
"I'll make it short and sweet. I'm wildly in love with your daughter.
Fortunately, she feels the same way about me. I asked her to marry me. She said
yes. Now how's that for an incentive to get well? We need you to walk her down
the aisle."

Disregarding the quiet demanded in ICU, as well as the twinges of
pain he caused his injuries, Carson let out a whoop and punched the air
triumphantly. "Yes! I knew it! Gloria knew it, too. We were both right.
Damn, I can't wait to start spoiling my grandchildren."

The grandchildren bit didn't even register. Sabrina was too fixed
on the part before that. "What do you mean, 'Gloria knew it, too'?"

An offhanded shrug. "I think that's pretty
self-explanatory."

"No, it's not. Dylan and I knew
you
were playing
matchmaker. You weren't exactly subtle. But where does my mother fit into this
equation? She's never even met Dylan."

Carson rolled his eyes. "You forget how smart Gloria is, and
how well she reads you. She guessed where this was headed right after I told
her you couldn't keep your hands off each other. She's probably starting a line
of designer booties as we speak."

Twin spots of red stained Sabrina's cheeks. "You told her we
couldn't keep our hands off each other?"

"Not in so many words. I was a little less crude. I think I
said something about sparks flying between you. But she got my drift. Hey,
don't sell your mother short. According to my nurses, two surgeons tried to hit
on her the day she visited me. Believe me, she's no stranger to sex. And you
and Dylan are about as transparent as the couples in the C'est Moi ads. You
undress each other with your eyes whenever you're in the same room. To tell you
the truth, I was a little worried that you'd never make it out of El Faro, at
least not fully clothed."

"Oh, God," Sabrina groaned, covering her hot face with
her hands.

"What'd I say?" Carson asked Dylan, totally baffled.

"Go easy," Dylan suggested, amused by Carson's utter
lack of comprehension when it came to this particular difference between
himself and his daughter. This was one time when upbringing and experience—or
lack thereof—superseded heredity. And while Dylan understood both perspectives,
and was personally unbothered by Carson's pointed innuendos, Sabrina most
definitely was not. "You're embarrassing Sabrina," he explained to
his friend. "She's not used to your, uh, uninhibited approach."