Kane, Andrea (12 page)

"We don't know, Mr. Ferguson," Detective Barton
retorted. "Why? Do you think someone here's guilty?"

"Definitely not."

"How can you be so sure? Are you saying that no one here was
unhappy or disgruntled? That no one ever felt pissed about the way he or she
was treated, or bitter about being passed over for someone else when it came
time for a promotion?"

"Of course I'm not saying that," Roland replied
defensively. "But feeling angry or overlooked is a far cry from taking a
shot at someone."

"I agree. Someone else doesn't." Barton leaned forward.
"We've spoken to all the company VPs, other than Claude Phelps, the VP of
research and development. His name's come up several times in our discussions.
What's your take on him?"

They were starting to head into choppy waters.

Roland kept his features schooled, opting for a basic rundown
rather than a personal critique. "Claude's office isn't located here. It's
at our New Jersey research facility, for obvious reasons. He makes weekly trips
into the city to attend management committee meetings. The rest of the time he
stays in touch by phone or e-mail. Oh, and Carson rides out to Englewood Cliffs
a lot, maybe three or four times a week when he's working on something. So he
sees Claude pretty frequently."

"Yes. That much we already knew." Whitman was staring at
him. He hoped that didn't mean she'd interpreted his reply as being
intentionally ambiguous. "We also know that Phelps has been with Mr.
Brooks since the company's inception."

"Pretty much. Claude started about six months after Ruisseau
got off the ground. Stan Hager's the only employee who's been here longer. He
and Carson knew each other as kids."

"Stan Hager. Right. The chief operating officer."
Whitman's clipped tone said she wasn't about to be diverted. "We already
spoke briefly with him. When we saw him today, he was on his way to the
hospital. We arranged to have an in-depth talk with him there." Her eyes
narrowed slightly. "Let's get back to Claude Phelps, shall we? I asked for
your opinion, not a job description."

Roland made one last-ditch effort, just in case whatever they'd
heard about Claude was vaguer than he thought. "I don't know him very
well. We rarely see each other, except at meetings, and we never socialize
outside the office. He takes his work seriously, that much I can tell you. He
only uses a fraction of his vacation time each year." Seeing the expectant
look on Whitman's face, Roland realized she was waiting for more. "What in
particular do you want to know?"

"For one thing, why you're uncomfortable talking about the
guy. Is it because he's been a problem lately, like we've been told? Or do you
just dislike him?"

There was no way out of this one. Not when it was clear they'd
been told about Claude's disruptive conduct He had to open up. If he didn't,
someone else would fill in the missing pieces and the cops would be right back
in his office for details—and answers as to why he hadn't leveled with them
right away.

Still, he had to handle this delicately.

Lowering his gaze, Roland steepled his fingers in front of him.
"My personal feelings aren't the issue here. I just don't want to
bad-mouth someone who's been a loyal employee for twenty-seven years. But,
fine. Since you've already heard bits and pieces, yeah, Claude's had some
problems recently."

"What kind of problems?"

"The last few times he showed up at the New York office, he'd
been drinking. He wasn't out-and-out drunk," Roland hastened to clarify.
"But there was definitely alcohol on his breath. And his behavior was out
of character."

"In what way?"

"Claude's kind of a quiet guy, keeps to himself. On these
occasions, he was loud and belligerent. He made a couple of unpleasant scenes
during each visit. In his defense, he's taken quite a verbal beating since the
release of C'est Moi—everything from friendly ribbing to nasty comments. A few
business analysts have gone so far as to speculate bluntly on why Carson needs
Claude at all. That's a low blow, especially for Claude. His professional ego's
always been a little shaky. He's taking this very hard."

"So it seems." Whitman didn't look surprised by anything
he'd said, although she did jot down an additional note or two. "Okay, so
the bottom line is that Phelps is freaked out because Carson Brooks came up
with the bank-breaking formula for C'est Moi, and that, as a result, Phelps is being
labeled a lame duck."

"That pretty much sums it up, yes."

"You said he's taking this hard. Explain."

Roland gave an uncomfortable cough. "Like I said, the last
few times he showed up here, he'd been drinking. He dropped in on a few
executives, ranting about how he was being cut out of C'est Moi's success and
squeezed out of his job. In one case he went so far as to claim he'd come up
with the preliminary formula. He ruffled a lot of feathers. Four written
complaints were filed with my office. Eventually, I was asked to have a talk
with him, and to issue a gentle warning about his behavior. I did. He didn't
take it well."

"Meaning?"

"He blew up at me. He called me a few unpleasant names, then
paced around my office, waving his arms and yelling that Ruisseau would be
nothing without him. He threatened to sue the company if he was fired, said
he'd show Carson just how essential he was."

"Those were his exact words?"

"Yes."

"Did anyone else hear him say that?"

Roland shrugged. "It's possible. His voice was raised at the
time. Either my secretary or someone passing by my office might have overheard.
If so, I haven't gotten wind of it. That wouldn't surprise me. Ruisseau's a
tight organization. We don't gossip about each other."

"Yeah," Barton muttered. "We noticed. We've got to
pry information out of you people with a crowbar."

"That's loyalty, Detective. It's one of the traits Carson
Brooks insists on from his staff."

"Right. Well, whoever shot him wasn't loyal."

"That's why I don't think someone here is guilty."

"Let's get back to Phelps's threat," Whitman interceded.
"You were the only person actually in the office with him when he issued
it."

Damn, this woman just wouldn't be sidetracked.

"Yes." Roland shifted uncomfortably beneath Whitman's
scrutiny, feeling compelled to defend himself by stating the obvious. "All
meetings between employees and Human Resources are conducted in private. That's
company policy. It's especially important in cases like this, where there's a
reprimand involved."

"It sounds like he was pretty agitated."

"He was." Roland couldn't leave it at that. If he was
the one who hung Claude out to dry, it would get out, and his name would be
mud. "Detective, I realize how this sounds. But please put it in context.
Claude was furious. He felt professionally vulnerable and personally attacked.
So, yeah, he threw a few threats around. But they were all business-related. He
never once hinted at violence."

"Professionally vulnerable," Whitman repeated. "In
other words, his job was on the line." Her gaze hardened. "You said
you were asked to have a talk with Phelps and issue a warning. Who asked you to
do that?"

Roland swallowed. "Carson Brooks."

A swift exchange of glances between detectives. "We'd like to
have a look at those written complaints," Barton informed him.

"I anticipated you might." Slowly, Roland opened his
drawer and removed the sheets of paper he'd placed there earlier, sliding them
across the desk. "Here. I made copies for you. But I think you're barking
up the wrong tree. Claude's all bluster. He wouldn't shoot anyone."

"Everyone's capable of violence, given the right
circumstances," Barton refuted, picking up the pages. "And we're
barking up
every
tree, not just this one. We plan to find out who did
this."

"I understand."

Whitman was still watching him. "I'd like access to
all
the
personnel files. And there's no need for you to make photocopies. We'll copy
what we need."

Roland's gut knotted. He didn't like Detective Whitman's tone, or
the vibes he was picking up from her. Whatever she was thinking, it wasn't
good. "All right," he agreed, trying to seem as cooperative as
possible. He reached for his phone. "I'll arrange for you to have
immediate access."

"Fine. We're heading back to the hospital now. We'll check
back with you later today." Whitman paused. "By the way, where were
you on Monday evening, between the hours of five and six?"

His forefinger paused on the keypad. "At my home on Long
Island. Throwing some franks on the grill for our annual barbecue. I was there
all evening."

"I assume someone can verify that?"

"My wife." He licked his suddenly dry lips. "Why?
Am I a suspect?"

"This is an attempted murder, Mr. Ferguson. Everyone's a
suspect."

"Until our alibis are confirmed," Roland amended.

1:35 P.M.

Mt. Sinai Hospital

Pop.

The sound echoed inside his head. White-hot pain. It lanced
through him, a bolt of lightning in his back. Colors. A kaleidoscope rushing up
at him. And that sticky-sweet smell. Blood. His blood. Oozing from his body...
Trickling down his back... draining away his life.

Dying. He was dying. And it was too soon... too soon...

He heard his own groan at the same time that a firm hand shook his
shoulder. "Carson? Carson, it's me."

He jerked awake, fighting the cobwebs that clung to his mind as a
result of the drugged sleep. A nightmare. He'd been having a nightmare—or
rather reliving one that had actually occurred. But it was over. He was alive. The
wetness trickling down his spine was sweat, not blood. And the concerned face
swimming into view over the sea of tubes and monitoring equipment was Dylan's.

"Are you all right?" he demanded.

Carson forced a half-grin. "I've been better.... But I'll live...
I think." A raspy breath. "You ordered me to... if I remember
right."

Dylan's features relaxed. "You remember right."

"Where the hell have you been?... It's been... a day... maybe
more...."

"You
gave
me
some orders, too."
Dylan pulled up a chair, sank down beside the bed. "I've been busting my
tail to carry them out. No easy feat, I might add."

Carson's brows drew together. "What're you talking
about?"

"I'm talking about the person you asked me to locate."
Seeing Carson glance around, Dylan added, "Don't worry. We're alone."

Physical discomfort became secondary, as Carson studied Dylan's
expression. "Well?" he demanded.

"I'd pass you a cigar, but there's no smoking in ICU."

That was the answer he'd been looking for. "I have a
kid," he realized in awe. "Damn... A kid."

A corner of Dylan's mouth lifted. "She's far from a kid.
Actually, she's a knockout. She looks a lot like you, only better. More
feminine and minus the scars. She's smart, too, and successful. Even you'll be
impressed."

"She,"
Carson repeated. "I
have... a daughter." It was the strangest feeling, one he couldn't quite
describe. "Tell me... about her."

"I'll do one better. I'll introduce the two of you."

Carson stared. "Now?"

"Can you think of a better time?"

The way Dylan phrased that... Suspicion clouded the picture, and
Carson's gaze flickered to the various contraptions he was hooked up to.
"You tell me… Am I out of time?... Is that it?... Am I losing this
fight?..."

"Not a chance."

"Then why did she agree to come?... How did you find her?...
Who...?" Winded, he broke off, suddenly and painfully aware how much he
was taxing himself.

"Try to be quiet and listen for a minute. I know it's against
your nature, but try," Dylan advised wryly. "That way you can save
your strength for your daughter. Stan helped me dig up the information I
needed. Once I got the basic specs—her name, her address—the rest was easy. She
lives in Auburn, just outside Manchester, New Hampshire. I flew up there last
night and told her about you. She wants to meet you. She's waiting outside. I'm
sure she can answer the rest of your questions better than I can. Okay?"

"Did she already know... about me?"

"Not who you were, no. But that her father was a sperm donor,
yes."

"She took... the news okay?"

As always, Dylan was straight with him—no sugar-coating, no
bullshit. "She was shocked. She came around. It's a sticky situation.
She's strong and gutsy, but she's also very tight with her family. Her mother's
in a high-profile industry, and her grandparents epitomize Boston high society.
A scandal wouldn't be welcome."