Kane, Andrea (54 page)

"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, to 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."

"They get internships and scholarship money," Jeannie
reminded him.

"True. And I wholeheartedly support that. It made all the
difference in my life. But it's step two. Step one is for someone to get them
on track, moving in the right direction so they'll take advantage of those
opportunities. As I've told Susan before, YouthOp needs to hire some professionals,
counselors who go out to the high schools and zero in on kids who could benefit
from this program, counselors who can help them along the way. Charity events
are great. But once the money's in YouthOp's coffers, then what? Where's it
going? To flashy events that are covered by the press? That's what eats at me.
The donations should be used to create an environment where these kids feel
like there's a place to go, a person to talk to. Russ Clark's a perfect
example. If he'd been able to confide in someone about whatever the hell he'd
uncovered, maybe warning bells would have gone off in that someone's head.
Maybe Russ would be alive today."

"Unless what he uncovered was at YouthOp itself. Then, he
wouldn't know where to turn. And, if he did, maybe he couldn't get to that
person in time." Jeannie leaned forward, and it was obvious her mind was
going a mile a minute. "As Ms. Radcliffe pointed out, Clark came to
Ruisseau from YouthOp. We've been assuming that whatever incriminating
information he dug up, he found at Ruisseau. Maybe he didn't. Maybe he found it
at YouthOp. And maybe he was spotted by Mr. Molotov cocktail, who happened to
be at YouthOp at the same time. That would certainly be an incentive to shut
Clark up."

Frank twisted around to face Jeannie. "That might explain why
we didn't find any notes, scribbled memos— anything that could help us—in
Clark's office at Ruisseau. He wasn't checking out this place. He was checking
out YouthOp. And if he was keeping some kind of running report, he might have stashed
it right where he was poking around. It was convenient and he probably had no
idea anyone was onto him."

"Which means that report could still be there—unless the
Molotov kid found it. He sure as hell would have looked, to save his own ass.
Whatever Russ Clark dug up, we can assume it was incriminating."

"And if it also implicated Susan..." Sabrina swallowed
the bile that rose in her throat. "That would give her motive to have Russ
killed."

"Enough theorizing. We need answers." Jeannie shut her
notebook with a thwack. "We've got to get our hands on a list of all the
teenagers and young twenties who've been affiliated with YouthOp since its
inception. My guess is that would lead us to Mr. Molotov. And the list wouldn't
take long to compile, since the organization's relatively new."

"The problem is, who's going to compile it?" Frank
muttered. "It has to be Susan Lane. She runs the place. Trying to go
around her would be stupid. She'd inevitably find out what we were doing, which
would piss her off and make her suspicious."

"Um-hum," Jeannie agreed. "We've got to spin this
so we get her cooperation." A thoughtful pause. "Mr. Newport, did
Russ Clark spend any scheduled time at YouthOp? I realize he visited the place
now and then— the YouthOp staff confirmed that for us when we interviewed them
after his murder—but we need more than an occasional drop-in. Did he have any
formal reason to go to the organization with any regularity?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." Dylan nodded. "He
taught a writing class there every Saturday afternoon to a bunch of twelve- to
fourteen-year-olds. There's a subway station a couple of blocks away from
YouthOp, so getting there was easy for everyone. The staff might not be aware
that that class was going on, since most of them don't work Saturdays."
Awareness flashed across Dylan's face. "Which would make it the perfect
time for Russ to do some snooping."

"That's enough for probable cause, Jeannie," Frank
declared. "We've got an ongoing murder investigation, a connection between
the victim, YouthOp, and—after the gasoline Ms. Radcliffe just smelled in Susan
Lane's office—the assailant. Plus, we've got statements from Ms. Radcliffe and
Mr. Newport affirming that they heard Ms. Lane use the phrase 'a couple' of
Molotov cocktails in referring to last night's attack. It's search warrant
time."

"I agree," Jeannie said. "And we'll lay it all out
for the judge. But as far as Susan Lane's concerned, let's soft-pedal it. The
lower key and less personal we make this visit, the better. Let her believe
she's out of the mix for now."

"Right. No point in tipping our hand. Let her think we're
just checking out the possibility that some slime-bag kid slipped through the
cracks and got into her program."

"She'll understand that in order to find him, we'll need to
access the computer, go through the personnel files, and get into the financial
records." Jeannie gave an innocent shrug. "After all, you never know
if the punk stole money from YouthOp, or if somebody paid him off. You and I
both know it's highly unlikely we'll find information like that neatly listed
in the financial records. But it is possible. And it'll give us the grounds we
need to review the charity's financial transactions. Which, in turn, will give
us a chance to see how the YouthOp funds have been allocated—or manipulated—as
the case may be. Ms. Lane won't have an inkling that's part of our agenda.
Unless we stumble upon something incriminating—
then
she'll know, and
fast."

"Just having you walk in with a search warrant will make
Susan freak out," Dylan noted.

"Not the way we'll handle it, she won't. We'll ask for her
help, make her our ally. Believe me, Mr. Newport, she won't freak out—not if
she's innocent," Frank clarified. "If she's innocent, she'll thank
us. Her organization will be cleansed of a bad seed, and she'll have helped nail
him. Hell, she'll look like a heroine in the press. Isn't that what she thrives
on?"

"You've got a point," Dylan conceded. "Well, good
luck. I'm half-hoping you'll find something to fry her ass, and half-hoping
she's innocent as a lamb—for Carson's sake."

"You're emotionally involved. We're not. That's why things go
much smoother when Detective Barton and I handle the situation ourselves,"
Jeannie told him.

"In other words, butt out." A corner of Dylan's mouth
lifted. "Don't worry, Detective. Sabrina and I have had more than our
share of excitement. This one's all yours. Just keep us posted."

"Will do."

"Speaking of which, what happened at Pruet's this
morning?"

"A dead end," Frank stated flatly. "Ten people, nine
alibis. Everyone could account for their whereabouts except Karen Shepard,
who's the executive assistant to Louis Malleville. She was at the movies alone.
We'll check out her story as best we can. Not that I expect to find
anything."

Sabrina and Dylan exchanged glances.

"What?" Frank demanded. "What do you two
know?"

Dylan reached for the phone. "Let me just make a quick call
to Carson, see what he's up to. Then, I'll answer your question."

He'd pressed three buttons when there was a knock on the door.

Sabrina frowned. "I asked Donna not to interrupt under any
circumstances. Yes?" she called out.

The door opened, and Stan walked in. He looked exhausted, and like
he'd been through hell. But there was a peace in his eyes that Sabrina had
never before seen. "Don't blame Donna," he said quietly. "I
pulled rank on her. I knew Detectives Whitman and Barton were here. And I need
to speak with them right away. This can't wait."

Silently, Dylan hung up the phone.

"Go ahead, Mr. Hager," Jeannie replied. "We're listening.

5:35 P.M.

Mt.
Sinai Hospital

If looks could kill, Sabrina and Dylan would both be dead.

Carson glared at them, pushing himself higher up in the bed.
"What do you mean you didn't pick out your rings? You both look fine. Much
better, in fact. And Marie said you were both at work the whole day. So what
gives? What happened to the Fifth Avenue marriage proposal?"

Dylan provided the answer they'd rehearsed, which was the truth,
sans the part relating to Susan. With events unraveling so quickly—and so
unpleasantly—the last thing they wanted to do was sandwich a joyous and
memorable occasion like getting engaged between Stan's confession and Frank and
Jeannie's YouthOp investigation.

Especially with Susan smack in the middle of it.

"It was a rough day, Carson," Dylan explained, smooth as
silk. "Whitman and Barton were with us at noon which, if you recall, was
when we'd planned to go to Tiffany's. That's when Stan walked in. He had a
tough hurdle to leap, and we wanted to be there to support him. Plus, Sabrina's
nose and throat were still burning her, and my head was aching. A marriage
proposal isn't something you bulldoze your way through, like a rough business
meeting. It's a once-in-a-lifetime event. So we decided to wait. Tiffany's is
opened until seven P.M. every weeknight. For us to go tonight would be pushing
it. It's already close to six o'clock. We want time to browse, to pick out just
the right rings. So we have a date for tomorrow night. We'll leave work early,
which will give us plenty of time for shopping. Then, I'm taking Sabrina to
Central Park for a sunset proposal."

"What's wrong with tomorrow morning? You can propose in the
sunlight, too."

Sabrina rolled her eyes. "Gee. Aren't you the romantic?"

"No. I'm a get-it-done guy. So's Dylan. You and I both know
he can't wait to slip that ring on your finger. So what's really going on? Why
can't you be at the doors of Tiffany's at ten A.M. to open the store?"

Another sore subject that seemed impossible to avoid.

Fine. If avoidance was out, then shoot-from-the-hip was the next
best alternative.

"Because I've got an appointment with the nephrologist
tomorrow morning at ten, remember?"

"Yeah, I remember," Carson grumbled. "I was hoping
you'd
forget."

"Not a chance. Anyway, Dylan's going with me. And so, I'm
sure, is Bernard," Sabrina added dryly, referring to the linebacker of a
bodyguard who'd been appended to her since mid-afternoon. "By the way, is
it okay if he hangs out in the waiting room during my physical exam? He's a
great guy and all, other than the fact that he never cracks a smile, but I'm
not quite ready to do a strip show for him."

"Very funny. He's not paid to smile. He's paid to keep you
safe. And, yeah, he'll wait outside while you get checked out."

"Good. So much for that. And don't worry about the proposal.
By tomorrow night, Dylan's knee will be sore and grass-stained, and there'll be
a glistening diamond on my left hand, which we promise to come by and show you.
Okay?"

Carson's glare softened, and he appeared slightly mollified.
"Yeah, I guess I see your point. Getting engaged is a big deal. Fine,
okay, it can wait a day. But come by here afterward, no matter how late it is.
I can't wait to see you gushing over your ring."