Kane, Andrea (55 page)

"If
that's
what this is all about, then you've got a
much longer wait than you think," Sabrina retorted. "I don't
gush."

Carson's lips twitched. "I guess not. Okay, I'll settle for a
rosy glow." He settled himself against the pillows. "Did you at least
get Dylan moved into your place?"

"No. Dylan got himself moved into my place."

A snort. "Damn, you're difficult. Semantics are bullshit.
But, fine, Dylan moved himself. The important thing is, he's living with you,
right?"

It was Sabrina's turn to stifle a grin. "Yes, Carson. He's
living with me. But if you don't stop meddling, I'm going to relegate him to
the guest room."

"Shut up, Carson," Dylan ordered.

"Gotcha." A chuckle. "All I care about is that you
two are on your way. I'll stop sticking my nose where it doesn't belong."

"That'll be a first. Sabrina and I are lucky you haven't
ordered Bernard to post himself in the master bedroom and keep a running count
of how many times we..."

"Time to change the subject," Sabrina announced.

"... snore," Dylan finished with a straight face.
"I was going to say snore."

"Oh." Sabrina shot him a yeah-right look.

"Don't worry," Carson assured them. "Bernard knows his
limits. He'll keep his distance at the appropriate times. That includes when
you're at Tiffany's and Central Park, by the way. Believe me, he'll be the soul
of discretion. And he'll be staying outside the apartment, not in it. Intimate
moments are yours and yours alone."

"See? You are a romantic," Sabrina teased. Sobering, she
asked something that had been nagging at her all afternoon. "Did you have
a chance to talk to Stan after the meeting with Whitman and Barton?"

"Yup. He called here around three."

"Did he sound okay?"

"Actually, he sounded better than I expected. I guess that's
because he and Karen will be paying their own visit to Tiffany's pretty soon.
Hell, those diamond rings are flying." Carson's amusement vaporized.
"Seriously, Stan said the talk with the detectives went well. Did
it?"

"Very well," Dylan supplied. "Stan stuck to our
story. He said he'd just come from the hospital where he'd informed you that he
was going to tell the authorities the truth about him and Karen, even if they
chose not to believe he was innocent of committing a crime. He was frank and to
the point—very effective. He even cleared up the issue of Roland's jitters by
explaining that Roland didn't realize that the relationship between Stan and
Karen was an open book, especially to you. Whitman and Barton were fine with
the alibis and the explanation. So that chapter's closed."

"Really." Carson eyed his friend. "It sounds a
little too easy. They didn't pump Stan? Didn't try to trip him up?
Nothing?"

"Nope."

"Odd, isn't it? Considering how convinced they were that he
was involved. Unless, of course, things have changed and they have their sights
set somewhere else— on someone else. Do they?"

This was the discussion Sabrina and Dylan were most hoping to
dodge—at least until it was necessary for it to be had.

"What are you two hiding?" Carson barked.

It appeared that the necessary time had arrived.

Still, maybe it could arrive in stages.

"If we tell you, it has to remain among us—
just
the
three of us," Sabrina began, delivering the most impersonal aspect of the
facts, that part that would be least likely to hit Carson like a blow to the
gut.

"Fine." Carson waited expectantly.

"It's possible that whoever threw those Molotov cocktails
last night and, presumably, who also killed Russ is affiliated with
YouthOp."

Carson's jaw set. "Why do you think that?"

Sabrina didn't flinch. "Because Dylan and I were there today,
visiting Susan. She called your room this morning after you'd fallen asleep,
and she sounded really rattled. We wanted to calm her down. So we went to
YouthOp, chatted with Susan in her office. There was a persistent, lingering
odor of gasoline. I smelled it the entire time we were there. Which suggests
that whoever threw those Molotov cocktails was, at some point, in Susan's
office."

Carson didn't so much as blink. "Go on."

"The YouthOp connection makes sense," Dylan continued,
following through with Sabrina's approach. "Russ worked there. He could
have found out that some son of a bitch was making extra bucks hiring out as a
paid killer. You know the type. He was probably selling drugs, maybe even
weapons, which means he's already responsible for God knows how many deaths.
It's not a reach that he'd go one step further, knock off a few people for the
right price."

"Not a reach at all. As for weapons, you're figuring he got
hold of the twenty-two that shot me, right?"

"Right. And when the little shit realized Russ knew who he
was, he stabbed him."

"Not of his own accord, he didn't." Carson's expression
and tone were flat. "They don't call them
paid
killers for nothing.
So who's paying him?"

"We don't know."

"Ah." Carson fell silent, his lips pursed as he thought.
"Tell me, how much of this theory has Susan been told?"

"None of it. The detectives asked us to sit on this. They
want to handle things their way. We gave them our word we'd say nothing to
Susan."

"Because she might be involved," Carson concluded in
that same monotone.

Sabrina blew out her breath. They were up against a wall, and she
knew it. "It's possible," she said at last.

"In what way?"

Silence.

"I asked you a question." Carson's wooden tone was gone,
and irritation glinted in his eyes. "Stop dancing around the issue. And
stop protecting me like a goddamned child. What's Susan's alleged involvement
in this? I have a right to know."

"Yes, you do." Sabrina should have realized there was no
putting one over on him. "But you're not going to like it."

"I'm sure I won't. But I
am
going to hear it."

"Fair enough." Sabrina turned to Dylan. "You've
been wrestling with this for a while. For once, I'm less personally involved.
I'll provide the details. You fill in whatever you need to."

Dylan nodded, looking as troubled as she felt.

Sabrina proceeded to tell Carson everything—about the verbal slip
Susan had made in her office, about Dylan's intrinsic concerns about her skewed
priorities, and about the various scenarios they'd bandied around with Whitman
and Barton.

"No wonder you had no time for ring shopping," Carson
said tersely when she was through. He adjusted his pillow, propped one arm
behind his head in a deceptively casual gesture. But there was a vein pulsing
at his temple, and a hard glitter in his eyes. "You've certainly been busy."

"You're ripping mad at us," Sabrina stated.

"I haven't gotten that far. I'm still trying to visualize
Susan as being capable of hiring someone to stab Russ to death and to burn you
two to a crisp." Carson inclined his head toward Dylan. "Is Susan the
personal matter you wanted to talk to me about the night I got shot?"

"Yeah, but purely from an ethical standpoint; nothing of this
magnitude," Dylan qualified. "I was bugged, really bugged, by the
vibes I was picking up from Susan—her priorities, her agenda with regard to
YouthOp, even the allocation of the charity's funds. I knew that by coming to
you I was taking the risk of pissing you off. I didn't have anything solid to
go on. And, yeah, I realized you'd probably dismiss my misgivings as garbage.
But I couldn't live with myself if I didn't say something. If Susan was taking
you for a ride, or at least taking your money for a ride, you deserved to
know."

Carson stared into space for a long, silent moment. When he spoke,
his tone was, once again, emotionless. "Look, Dylan, I've got the same
keen instincts you do. I might not be objective on the subject of Susan, but I
do know her. Sure, she loves the limelight. She also loves living the high
life. Would she compromise her integrity, even screw around with the YouthOp
books, if it meant cashing out? Maybe. Would she kill anyone who stood in her
way? I can't even fathom it. How did she know there were two Molotov cocktails
tossed through your window? Only she can answer that."

With a hard swallow, he continued. "In any case, let's play
this out in brutal extreme. Say Susan was ripping off money from YouthOp and,
when Russ discovered what was going on, she hired someone to get rid of him.
Then, she found out I have a daughter, which translated into an obstacle in
Susan's path to me and my money. So she got her punk to knock off Sabrina.
Sounds preposterous to me, but you could make a case for it, saying she had
motive. But now comes the major stumbling block in this theory. Me. Why the
hell would Susan shoot me? She'd get nothing if I were dead. Plus, the woman
loves me. Hell yeah, I know she also loves the wealth and notoriety I give her.
But there's no way you're convincing me she'd put a bullet in my back."

"No arguments on that one," Dylan replied. "It's
the sticking point for us, too—
all
of us, Whitman and Barton
included." He cleared his throat. "I don't want to hang the woman,
Carson. I'm as confused as you are. I'm not happy with the Molotov cocktail
coincidence, or any of the theories that have spun off from it. But let's put
those aside. I don't believe she'd shoot you. She's crazy about you. The whole
scenario falls flat right there. On top of which, I can't even picture the
woman holding a gun, much less using it—on anyone, least of all you. Hiring someone
is one thing. But killing someone herself? Uh-uh. Not even a stranger, much
less the man she loves. Susan's emotional, she's squeamish, and she's not
exactly the rustic type."

"If you're trying to find solid reasoning that'll convince
you Susan's not guilty, you can chuck that description. It won't fly,"
Carson stated flatly, even as an odd expression flickered across his face.
"Susan's a survivor. Believe me, she's not squeamish. Emotional, yes, but
gutsy. As for the rustic part, you've never seen her camping. You wouldn't
recognize her."

"Um-hum. Susan and I discussed that camping trip when we were
in the ICU lounge," Sabrina recalled aloud. "It sounds like she holds
her own. Then again, that's not a surprise, given the way she grew up. She
described that rural town in upstate New York where she lived before moving to
Manhattan. She milked cows, planted tomatoes, and did all kinds of outdoorsy
things. Sounded pretty rustic to me. I guess that life on a farm teaches you
all kind of skills—"

Abruptly, Sabrina broke off, as she remembered another
conversation. And, suddenly, the reason for Carson's odd expression made all
the sense in the world.

"Carson," she said quietly, "when we were
discussing Stan's marksmanship, you told me he drove up to Susan's parents'
farm with you to do some target practice. Did Susan shoot, too?
Can
Susan
shoot?"

"Yeah, Susan can shoot." Carson's lips tightened.
"Damned well. Not as well as Stan, but close. But she doesn't want me
dead, and she doesn't own a twenty-two."

"Not a surprise," came Detective Whitman's voice from
the doorway. "Mr. Molotov probably got it for her. She'd be an idiot to
use her own gun. And one thing Susan Lane is
not,
is an idiot."

Neither Sabrina, Dylan, or Carson had seen Jeannie and Frank
arrive. But arrive they had. They'd eased open the doorway, and were standing
just inside the room.

"We weren't eavesdropping," Frank supplied. "The
nurse said to go right in."

"Looks like you've already done that," Carson observed
dryly.

"You're right." They completed the process, shutting the
door behind them, and pulling over two chairs to sit down.

"Where is Ms. Lane, by the way?" Jeannie asked.

"Not in the hospital, or we wouldn't be having this
talk," Dylan supplied. "She left about an hour ago, went home to take
a hot bath and a three-hour nap. She's a wreck from the day—for a change."
Dropping the sarcasm, he shot Jeannie a questioning look. "Did you get the
warrant?"

"No sweat. We'll be paying YouthOp a visit tomorrow. We also
did lots of other homework." She hesitated, glancing uncertainly at
Carson.

"They told me everything," he confirmed. "So
talk."

"All right. First of all, the TV station was very
cooperative. We watched an hour's worth of video clips from Monday night's U.S.
Open match. There were three occasions when we got a dead-on view of your
courtside box—one at seven-ten, one at seven thirty-one, and one at seven
fifty-six. The box was empty during the first two video shots. During the
third—the one taken just before eight o'clock—Ms. Lane was in her seat. She was
all settled in, so my guess is, she'd arrived a good few minutes before. But
she wasn't there for the first half hour of the match."

Sabrina edged a quick glance at Carson. He was sitting very still,
listening.

"We also contacted the USTA National Tennis Center, got the
names and phone numbers of a dozen and a half spectators in the immediate
vicinity of Ms. Lane's seat. We called them all. Guess what? Two of the women
and—surprise, surprise—seven of the men, remember an attractive, well-dressed
woman with frosted blond hair arrive late. Five of those nine people remembered
what the logistics of the match were when that woman arrived—what the score was
and where each player was standing, since they were in the process of changing
sides. All five reports matched. So we fast-forwarded our videotape to that
particular moment. Based on that information, Ms. Lane's arrival time was seven
forty-three."