Kane, Andrea (15 page)

"So you phoned her?"

"No, I drove over to her house."

"To Rockport?" Whitman gave a low whistle. "Wow. It
must have been close to midnight by the time you got there. Between Mr. Newport
breaking his news to you, and the hour plus drive from Auburn to Rockport—I
can't imagine you getting there sooner. You must have scared her to death,
waking her up like that."

"I didn't wake her." Sabrina had a bad feeling about
this. She was being led somewhere. She just wasn't sure where or why.
"She'd just gotten home from the airport."

"She'd been away?"

"On a business trip, yes."

"For how long?"

"A week."

"Where did she go?"

"To New York. She's a clothing designer. And Manhattan is the
center of the fashion industry."

"True." Whitman pursed her lips. "So she was here
since last...?"

"... Wednesday," Sabrina supplied.

"Hmm. That's five days before Labor Day."

"Which is when Carson Brooks was shot." Barton fired
away like a canon. "Now
that's
an interesting coincidence. And what
were your words—that your mother was protecting you? I'm sure she was, not to
mention protecting her elderly, vulnerable, and socially connected parents,
too. The question is, to what extreme would she go to do that?"

Sabrina felt as if she'd been punched in the gut as the
detectives' deplorable, utterly insane intimation struck home. They had to be
kidding. They couldn't possibly believe...

"Ms. Radcliffe?" It was Detective Whitman addressing
her, but this time that calm, even tone did nothing to cool Sabrina's rage.
"Are you all right?"

Ice chips glittered in Sabrina's eyes. "No, I'm damned well
not all right. If your partner is trying to imply that my mother is a suspect
in the shooting of Carson Brooks, then he's lost his mind, I'm sickened, and
this meeting is over." She started to get up.

"We're not implying anything," Whitman quickly refuted,
stretching out a detaining arm. "Believe me, Ms. Radcliffe, there's a
long, long list of potential suspects. Your mother's just another name on the
list. We'll have to talk to her, of course, to establish her whereabouts at the
time of the attack. If she was on a business trip like you said, I'm assuming
she was probably with clients who can confirm her story. Also, if we determine
that she had no foreknowledge of Carson Brooks's decision to find you, her
motive would become more obscure. So please—don't overreact."

"I'm not the one who's overreacting," Sabrina shot back,
with a pointed glare at Detective Barton. "Your partner is. I realize he
wants to find the assailant. So do I. But not this way. He needs to take a few
training classes at CCTL. They would improve his people skills."

Whitman's lips twitched. "We'll keep that in mind. Won't we,
Frank?"

Barton scowled. "Yeah. Right."

"Let me ask
you
a question now." Sabrina was
sticking her nose where it didn't belong, and she knew it. But with the
detectives backpedaling to try to appease her, she had the upper hand—for a
brief time. "What's the situation between you and Dylan Newport? Why is
there so much animosity?"

"Why? Has he said something?" Whitman's comeback was
whip-quick, although her expression remained nondescript.

Sabrina had definitely struck a nerve. "He doesn't need to.
It's obvious. What I can't figure out is the basis for it. Did you grill him
the way you grilled me? Is that what pissed him off so much? Or are you
hassling people he thinks are innocent?"

"We grill everyone, Ms. Radcliffe," Barton said tightly.
"This is an attempted murder, not a petty theft. As to whether someone's
innocent or guilty, time will tell. Time and a thorough investigation. Who
knows what Newport's problem is? Some people get riled up when we get close to
the truth. Especially if uncovering that truth means wrecking their efforts,
their freedom, their future—or all three."

Sabrina blinked in stupefied amazement. "You can't possibly
mean you think Dylan shot Carson?"

"I didn't say that"

"You didn't have to." This guy was
really
starting
to get on her nerves. "Let's stop playing games, Detective. You're
implying that Dylan's a suspect—not a random name on a very long list, but a
prime
suspect," Sabrina amended. "Why?"

She was greeted with silence.

"Need I remind you that I'm Carson Brooks's daughter,"
Sabrina heard herself say. "I'm entitled to know the status of the
investigation."

Whitman's brows rose. "You certainly took on your new role in
a hurry."

"I improvise quickly."

"That's an understatement. Okay, look, we have nothing
concrete to tell you. Let's just say that Mr. Newport was the only other person
we can place in the building at the time of the shooting, and that he would
benefit big-time if Mr. Brooks weren't around."

"Financially, you mean." Sabrina shook her head in
disbelief. "Do you have any idea how much Carson means to him? How far
back they go? The life Carson yanked him out of?"

"We do." Whitman leaned forward with interest.
"Evidently, so do you. You know a great deal about Mr. Newport considering
you two just met."

"We had an hour's plane ride to talk. I'm nosy. I ask a lot
of questions. And I'm a
very
good judge of character. Dylan Newport is
tough, arrogant, street-smart and book-smart. You might even be able to add
manipulative to that list. The jury's still out on that one. But his feelings
for Carson are as real as they come. He'd never harm the man, much less for
money. And he'd certainly never be stupid enough to do it in a situation where
every drop of circumstantial evidence would point at him."

"I doubt you realize what Carson Brooks is worth. The thought
of inheriting that kind of wealth entices even the most noble of people to
commit criminal acts. As for the poor choice of timing, I agree. But time
wasn't on Mr. Newport's side, not when Carson Brooks had already clued him in
to the fact that he was launching a search for you. To be more precise, he
didn't just clue him in. He confided in him—and
only
him—then asked for
his help. Talk about waving a red flag. If you turned up, a genuine heir, that
could change everything, especially the allocation of assets to an outsider, no
matter how dear. The prospect is enough to push a smart, cautious man into
taking dumb, reckless risks."

"Nice theory." Sabrina looked from one detective to the
other. "Where's the proof?"

"If we had proof, he'd be in custody," Barton replied.

"Right." This time when Sabrina got to her feet, she
wasn't going to be stopped. "No wonder he's bent out of shape. Not only do
you think he tried to kill a man he loves like a father, he's probably afraid
that since you have him all but in handcuffs, you're not exactly busting your
tails to find the real shooter."

"Wait a minute." Whitman blocked her path. "I
resent the hell out of that. Yeah, we have our qualms about Dylan Newport, but
that's all they are—qualms. We have qualms about a bunch of people. And we're
investigating every one of them—every person who might have a grudge against
him, every individual who might gain something from his death. Until we find a
theory that's fact, this case will stay wide open—and so will our minds. We're
very
good at our job. We
will
find the person who did this. So tell Mr.
Newport not to be so damned paranoid, and not to bitch about how we're
conducting our investigation."

Sabrina stared Whitman down. "He hasn't bitched, at least not
to me. If he does, I'll pass along your message. In the meantime, I've had
enough for one day. I'm exhausted. I'm going to get some rest. I'll be back at
the hospital later this evening. If you need to reach me before then, I'm
staying at the Plaza Athenée."

"Until when?"

"I haven't set a departure date."

"Does that mean you're planning to be tissue-typed? Have you
decided to volunteer one of your kidneys to your father?"

"I haven't thought that far ahead. When I do, I'll let you
know. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

Sabrina sidestepped Detective Whitman and walked out.

4:15
P.M.

Rockport, Massachusetts

Gloria put down her sketch, which was less inspiring than anything
she'd done since she was a first-year design student. It was no use. She couldn't
concentrate. Not with all that was going on.

She went into the kitchen, made herself a cup of tea, then curled
up on the sofa to drink it and think. The phone call from Sabrina hadn't held
any major surprises. She'd met Carson Brooks. She'd been moved by the
experience, whether or not she chose to admit it. She'd been sucked up into a
vortex of activity and emotion, and they both knew how it was all going to play
out, at least as far as Sabrina's decision was concerned.

No, none of that was a surprise.

It was the speed with which everything was unraveling that was
alarming. The police interrogation, the media clustered outside the hospital,
the sacrifice that Sabrina was going to have to make without being given nearly
enough time to prepare herself.

Gloria's hand trembled on her cup. She'd restrained herself from
getting involved as long as she could.

She had to fly back to New York.

It was inevitable, really. Those detectives would be contacting
her soon enough anyway, and it would make things easier if she talked to mem in
Manhattan rather than here. It would, at least, keep her parents removed from
the heart of the scandal. As it was, she had to stop off and see them on her
way to the airport, break the news to them about what was going on.

She could hardly wait.

Sighing, she put down the cup and massaged her temples.
Twenty-eight years was a long time, but a person didn't forget a pivotal
milestone like the one that had started all this and, ultimately, created
Sabrina. Gloria hadn't come to her decision lightly. Donor insemination was
still somewhat of an eyebrow-raiser in the mid-seventies, even when the patties
involved were a married couple. But for an unmarried woman such as herself, one
who wanted to bear and raise a child alone, it was a major tongue-wagger. Which
to her parents, who were so enmeshed in their Beacon Hill world, translated
into scandalous behavior.

Then again, they'd come to expect that kind of behavior from
Gloria. She'd always been a maverick. Growing up in the fifties, coming into
her own in the sixties, she was too intelligent for a woman, too outspoken to
keep her opinions to herself, too creative to fit in, too beautiful and well
bred to abandon the country club life and—sin of all sins—become an artistic
bohemian rather than an affluent housewife.

Of course she would have preferred finding the right man—one who
loved her for who she was, rather than who he wanted to make her. But that
wasn't in the cards. She knew that early on. She was too much the free spirit,
too individualistic. Finding her soul mate would be like finding a needle in a
haystack.

Time didn't prove her wrong. Every man she got involved with was a
colossal disappointment. They either wanted to possess her or to change her.
She could abide neither.

So marriage was out But, oh, how she wanted a child—one she could
bond with through pregnancy and childhood; one she could love, give every
emotional and intellectual advantage to, and encourage to be his or her own
person. She had so much to offer. And if she could only integrate her own
attributes with those of someone who was equally dynamic but different from
her, with entirely distinctive traits of his own—what an extraordinary child
she could share with the world.

With that thought, the idea was born.

And so, at the age of thirty-three, with her bio-clock ticking
loudly in her ear, Gloria had taken the plunge.

Finding the right doctor had been imperative. He had to be an
accomplished fertility specialist, as well as open-minded, and discreet Because
the path she was taking was far more unorthodox than the customary one in which
you paid the donor a nominal fee, got him to relinquish all paternal rights
and—with a topical knowledge of the donor's background, interests, and
profession, along with his clean bill of health and basic specs—you went for
it.

Even now, she smiled, remembering how intrigued Dr. Oldsman had
been by the intricacy of her plan. He'd chuckled, saying it was stretching the
boundaries but not breaking the rules. Sure, offering twenty thousand dollars
to a sperm donor was outrageous. But given how specific she was about what she
wanted for the father of her child, how high she'd set the bar, and how
extensive was the testing and paperwork she required, it was understandable.
And since she had the luxury of money on her side, why not use it to her
advantage?

Her criteria had been lofty, but clear. The donor had to be
exceptional, both physically and mentally. He had to have strengths that would
augment hers; a scientific mind to offset her creative one, and an ambition
level as fiery as her own. She wanted to maximize her child's chances of being
successful, no matter what direction he or she took.