Kane, Andrea (14 page)

Dylan tensed. "You said that would be risky because of where
it's located."

"Not as risky as leaving it. Not at this point."

A muscle flexed in Dylan's jaw. "What time are you
operating?"

"Nine-thirty. The good news is, the bullet shifted after
piercing the lung. It's now lodged closer to the skin. I'll make a small
incision and extract it. I don't expect complications. Hopefully, the
antibiotics will take over. In the meantime, I want him to rest. Minimal
visitation. One person at a time. Five minutes max."

"Understood. What about his kidneys?"

"They're still not responding on their own. But the dialysis
did its job. And his blood pressure's stable. So, first things first. Let's get
rid of the infection. Then we'll discuss the kidney options."

Sabrina felt the doctor's gaze slide to her. It was a reflexive gesture.
Nonetheless, it served as a blatant reminder of the pivotal role she might be
called on to play.

Her insides clenched.

Dylan was looking elsewhere. He'd twisted around, and was scanning
the lounge to determine who was there. Sabrina followed suit, unsurprised to
see Susan Lane hovering near the window, her face lined with worry, and Stan
Hager—whom she'd met briefly before going in to see Carson—seated on the couch,
slumped forward, his head in his hands. From the opposite direction, two
official-looking suits were approaching—one man, one woman—bearing down on them
like two lions about to pounce. It didn't take a genius to figure out they were
detectives.

"Oh, joy, rapture," Dylan muttered under his breath.
"Here come Whitman and Barton." He turned back to Dr. Radison.
"Have you brought them—or anyone else for that matter—up to speed on where
things stand with Carson, or about your plans to remove the bullet?"

"No. I wanted you and Ms. Radcliffe to know first." Dr.
Radison cleared his throat. "I assumed there'd be questions. And I wasn't
certain who'd been told about the biological ties between the patient and Ms.
Radcliffe."

"I appreciate your discretion. But the detectives know. I
told them before I flew up to Auburn. I'm sure that's why they're here—to meet
and greet Carson's daughter." Dylan turned to Sabrina, presumably to give
her some insight into what to expect. He took one look at her sheet-white face,
and changed his mind. "Are you okay?" he demanded, frowning.
"You look like you're about to collapse."

"I'm fine." She was beginning to sound like a broken
record. And the truth was, she was anything but fine. She was on major
overload. And the doctor's update had only made things worse. Dammit. More
surgery. More risk. No improvement in kidney function. Less time to make an
increasingly critical decision.

"Sabrina." Dylan's tone was more gentle than she'd heard
him use until now. "I told Carson I'd take care of you, starting with
getting you over to your hotel. If you're not up to speaking with those
detectives, say the word. I'll tell them you're drained and their questions
will have to wait. I've gotten good at putting them off. Besides, they already
think I'm scum. This will just feed into that opinion."

"What?" Sabrina didn't understand what he was talking
about.

"Never mind. Just say the word and I'll delay this
interrogation."

"That's not necessary," she said tonelessly. "There
won't be any interrogation. Since I never met Carson Brooks before today, I
don't have much to tell them. So let's go ahead and get this over with."

"You're sure?"

A nod. "Yes. As long as we can go into an empty office or
lounge. I won't have this conversation in the open."

"You can use my office," Dr. Radison offered quietly.
"You'll have all the privacy you want there."

"Thank you." Sabrina assessed the detectives as they
closed the gap between them. The woman looked like a cornstalk with hair and an
ice-blue gaze so razor-sharp it reminded Sabrina of Superman's X-ray vision. As
for the man—well, excluding his suit and the slight paunch around his gut, he
could have passed for a bouncer, complete with bulldog expression and kick-ass
demeanor.

They stopped in front of her, and the bouncer spoke first.
"Mr. Newport, Doctor Radison." A questioning glance at Sabrina.
"I assume you're Sabrina Radcliffe."

"I am."

"I'm Detective Barton. This is my partner, Detective
Whitman." He gestured toward the cornstalk, who acknowledged the
introduction with a nod. "We're investigating the shooting."

"So I've been told," Sabrina replied.

"I'm sure you have." Barton slanted a look at Dylan— one
Sabrina could swear was accusing.

If so, she'd have to set them straight. Dylan had actually been
very close-mouthed on the subject of the investigation. Whatever Sabrina had
picked up on had been based on attitude, not words.

"In any case, Ms. Radcliffe," Barton was continuing,
"we'd like to talk with you.
Alone."
Another sharp glance at
Dylan. "You don't have a problem with that, do you, Mr. Newport?"

Anger glinted in Dylan's eyes. "Nope. Like me, Ms. Radcliffe
is perfectly capable of taking care of herself."

The tension here was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

"Good." Barton turned to Sabrina. "Is now all
right?"

Sabrina nodded, wondering at the dynamics here. Whatever was going
on, it clearly went beyond a difference in philosophy. The detectives didn't
like Dylan, and the feeling was mutual. Why?

"Dr. Radison said we could use his office," she informed
them. "I'd prefer that this conversation remain private. I'm sure you
understand."

"No problem." There was a hint of compassion in
Detective Whitman's tone—whether it was because she was naturally less abrasive
or because she and Barton played good cop, bad cop, remained to be seen.
"Let's go."

"I'll wait for you in the lounge," Dylan told Sabrina.
"As soon as you're done—which, as I see it, should be ten minutes max
given how little you can do to help the detectives build their case—I'll get
you over to your hotel so you can rest."

Talk about pointed. And obvious. Coming from a man who knew all
the rules of subtlety, as well as how to turn on the charm to achieve his
goals, it seemed as if Dylan
wanted
to antagonize the cops.

Whatever was bugging him, he was ripping mad.

Closeted in Dr. Radison's office, the detectives didn't waste any
time.

"Mr. Newport seems very protective of you," Whitman
said. "Yet you've only known him since yesterday." She perched at the
edge of the desk, her long legs crossed in front of her, while her partner
stood, arms folded, near the windows. They were clearly establishing a dominant
stance, but Sabrina didn't care. She was worn out and stressed to the max.

"It's Carson Brooks he's protective of," Sabrina
corrected, easing back in a thick leather chair and eyeing the detective to
determine if her earlier personable manner was indeed a facade. "For
obvious reasons, Dylan views me as an extension of his mentor—and a possible
lifeline, as well."

"So it's true that you're Carson Brooks's biological
child," Detective Barton clarified.

"Yes."

"Did that news come as a surprise to you? Or were you aware
of your paternity?"

"I had no idea Carson Brooks was my father." Sabrina
didn't appreciate the dubious glint in his eyes and, reflexively, her chin came
up as she prepared for a less amiable talk than she'd expected. "Frankly,
I was shocked."

"Shocked." Barton repeated the word with more than a
trace of cynicism. "You're a very bright woman, Ms. Radcliffe. You've got
an IQ that's through the sky, and a career that's based on identifying problems
and figuring out solutions. Are you saying you never questioned your mother
about something as fundamental as who your father was? That you never demanded
answers?"

Okay, now Sabrina was getting pissed. "That's definitely
not
what I'm saying."

"In that case, are you suggesting your mother refused to
answer, that she never told you she and Carson Brooks were once involved?"

"I'm not saying that either. And, with all due respect,
Detective, I'd appreciate your losing the attitude. You don't win allies by
biting their heads off. Nor do you get answers by firing questions so rapidly
there's no time for answers."

Was it Sabrina's imagination, or did Detective Whitman shoot her
partner a cool-it look?

Barton's tense response was to yank out a pack of gum, unwrap a
piece, and pop it in his mouth. "Fine. I'll chew. You talk."

"Sounds fair." Sabrina gave him a tight-lipped smile.
"To begin with, my mother and I discussed my conception as soon as I was
old enough to understand the facts of life. She answered all my questions. As
for mentioning Carson Brooks or the fact that they were involved, she didn't.
Because they weren't. You're apparently unaware that I was conceived through
donor insemination. My mother was unmarried and unattached. My father was an
independent sperm donor. I learned yesterday that that donor was Carson
Brooks."

Both detectives looked startled by the revelation.

"That explains a lot." Detective Whitman spoke first,
having chewed over the various ramifications. "An independent sperm donor.
So Mr. Brooks was anonymous."

"Right."

"Which means that neither he nor your mother knew the other's
identity."

Well, that wasn't entirely true. And Sabrina knew enough about law
enforcement to know that if she shaded the truth, it would come back to haunt
her.

"That's too broad a generalization," she clarified.

"Fine. Narrow it down for us."

"They didn't know each other's names, no. Nor did they ever
meet. But my mother had specific, strict criteria in mind for the man who
fathered her child, which was why she chose this route to begin with. So it
wasn't just a case of the donor leaving a sperm deposit and going home. Carson
was given enough facts to make that clear. As for my mother..." A brief
hesitation. Odd, how calculated her mother's motives sounded, when she'd really
just been a clever, levelheaded woman doing the best she could to ensure her
child was all he or she could be. "It was more complicated for her."

"How so?"

"To begin with, the entire donor insemination process was
relatively uncommon in those days. And my grandparents were against it."

"Because of their social status."

"Among other reasons, yes. Anyway, my mother handled the
whole procedure very discreetly, through a private fertility specialist. I
don't know all the details, but I do know she insisted on seeing medical,
intellectual, and social backgrounds on all the prospective donors."

"That's understandable. But she still never knew any of their
identities, including that of the actual donor."

"Not at the time, she didn't."

Whitman's brows rose. "Are you saying that changed?"

God, Sabrina didn't want to go there. But she had no choice.
"Yes, that changed. But before you jump to conclusions, it was strictly
coincidental. Besides all the background information my mother received when
she was choosing a sperm donor, she got photos of each candidate."

"Photos." A lightbulb seemed to go off in Detective
Whitman's head. "In other words, she saw a photo of Carson Brooks—and
studied it closely. Over the past dozen years, his face has been plastered on
the cover of
Business Week
and shown regularly on CNN and CNBC. He's a
striking guy. My hunch is that no woman could forget his face. Am I right? Did
your mother recognize him at some later date?"

"Yes, she did."

"When?" Barton was back in the picture. He'd stopped
chewing gum and was staring her down.

Warning bells screamed inside Sabrina's head. "I'm not sure.
Several years ago, I think. She told me this last night, after I learned Carson
was my father."

"Several years ago," Whitman repeated, scratching her
head in puzzlement. "Why didn't she say anything to you before now?"

"She was protecting me, Detective Whitman. She was afraid I'd
try making contact with a man who, as far as she knew, had no interest in
having me in his life. And she was right. I would have."

"She might have been right about you, but she was wrong about
Mr. Brooks. As we understand it, he was in the process of trying to locate
you—or at least to determine if he had a living son or daughter."

"I realize that now."

"But your mother didn't?"

"Of course not. How could she?"

Rather than answering, Whitman asked another question of her own.
"You said you spoke with your mother last night. Did you tell her about
Mr. Newport's visit and about your plans to go to New York and see Mr. Brooks?"

"Absolutely. It was a big step on my part, one that could
lead to an even bigger step. I wanted to prepare her."