Kane, Andrea (2 page)

Now came the hard part. Taking a talented, aggressive bunch of
people and transforming them from a collection of ambitious individuals into an
integrated management team.

Making that happen was Sabrina's job. Whether or not she was
successful, only time would tell.

After spending four years as a management consultant—three in the
big leagues and one right here at CCTL—Sabrina had learned that no team was
standard, few transitions took place without a snag, and nothing should be
taken for granted.

Still, her track record was pretty damned good. Which was why so
many corporations that were either expanding or needed a jolt of adrenaline to
get them back on track sought her out.

"I'm Sabrina Radcliffe," she began, intentionally
staying on her feet even though everyone else was seated—a routine ploy aimed
at retaining control of a meeting. "As you know, I'm the president of
CCTL. I won't waste time spouting my background and credentials, since I'm sure
you've done your homework and know all about my reputation, and CCTL's. So I'll
just invite you to take full advantage of our facilities—for recreational and
mental health, as well as for professional growth.

"Plan on being busy over the next four days. We'll be holding
frequent team meetings. Workshop times are listed on the agendas you received
with your registration packs. That having been said, you'll also notice we left
chunks of unscheduled time. That's where your mental recharging comes in. We
cover both ends of the spectrum: unwinding and pumping up. For starters, our
staff offers stress management and yoga classes. We also have a
state-of-the-art health center—you'll have full use of that. And, last but not
least, Lake Massabesic is right at our doorstep; it's great for sailing,
canoeing, or hiking. Do whatever moves you."

Sabrina gauged the attention span of her audience. Time to talk
food.

"On to meals."

Everyone sat up a little straighter. Not a surprise. Food did it
every time.

"Our chefs are unbelievable," she continued.
"They've been recruited from top restaurants worldwide. So don't expect to
lose weight. You won't. Unless, of course, that's your goal. If you do have
specific requests or dietary restrictions, be sure to let them know. They'll be
happy to work with you."

Sabrina's fingers swept over her cranberry silk blazer and slacks.
"Dress at team meetings is business casual. The last thing we need is
constrictive ties and waistlines. I'm convinced that anything that inhibits
breathing, also inhibits creativity."

A few smiles.

Time to allow for assimilation of information.

11:15 A.M.

Mt. Sinai Hospital

Dylan gulped down the last of his coffee, crumpled the Styrofoam
cup, and tossed it in the garbage.

The past sixteen hours had been a surrealistic blur.

The ER. Then the OR. Carson had been in there for ages, undergoing
extensive surgery to repair organs and suture blood vessels. Now he was in the
ICU, stuck with tubes and IV drips, hooked up to all kinds of monitors, and
with no definitive assurances of recovery.

Christ, what a nightmare. Dylan shut his eyes, massaging the
throbbing sockets to ease a headache that wasn't about to go away. Not without
food, sleep, and results. He'd made the necessary phone calls, set in motion
what needed to be done. But there were so many damned loose ends to connect....

"I can't take this uncertainty much longer. Not knowing, not
hearing a word—I'm losing my mind." Susan Lane jumped up from the waiting
room chair, her entire body taut with worry. She raked her fingers through her
sleek frosted-blond hair, rumpling it even more than it already was. It
occurred to Dylan that he'd never seen Susan so disheveled. At forty, Carson's
significant other looked thirty, and was always impeccably made-up and dressed.
Not this morning. After a night of pacing, she was definitely the worse for
wear. Then again, so was he.

"Why don't they tell us something?" she demanded.

"Probably because there's nothing new to tell," he
replied. "Carson came through the surgery. He's a fighter. He'll make
it."

"He has to." Susan sounded as if she were trying to
convince herself rather than Dylan. She started pacing again, her voice choked
as she remembered aloud. "I had a feeling something was wrong. He was very
late, even for Carson. This wasn't a boring dinner party, it was a night at the
U.S. Open. I should have listened to my instincts. I should have called."

"It wouldn't have mattered, so don't beat yourself up. The
match started after seven. Carson was shot before six."

"Right. And you didn't call me till almost ten," Susan
reminded him, pain and accusation lacing her tone. "When I was sitting in
Carson's courtside box with my cell phone turned off."

"I called you as soon as I could think straight." Dylan
felt as if he were talking about something that had happened a year rather than
a night ago. "I'm sorry you had to hear about Carson through voice mail.
I'm sure my message shocked the hell out of you." He blew out a weary
breath. "Frankly, I don't remember much about those first few hours."

"I'm sure you were a wreck," Susan acknowledged, her
demeanor softening. "I didn't mean to jump all over you like that. I just
keep thinking that if I'd gotten here sooner, it might have made a difference.
Maybe if he heard my voice, or knew I was there..." She swallowed hard.
"Anyway, what's done is done. All that matters is for Carson to pull
through this."

She walked over to the ICU, circling it as she tried to see in.
But the curtains were drawn, as they had been since Carson's surgeon went
inside. "Dr. Radison's been in there a long time."

Dylan crossed over to stand beside her. "Radison's being
thorough. You know his reputation as well as I do; he's the best there is. He's
more than aware we're still out here. He'll give us an update as soon as he
can."

"Mr. Newport?"

The voice came from the corridor behind them. Dylan turned, not
particularly surprised to see Detectives Barton and Whitman standing there.
They'd questioned him last night before Susan arrived—about his relationship to
Carson, Carson's lifestyle, his friends and enemies—the usual criminal
investigation rundown. He'd responded on autopilot, although he doubted those
responses had been too coherent. Not that it mattered. Even if he'd been in top
form, he'd still be high up on their suspect list. He'd been the only other
person at Ruisseau when the shooting took place. His tight relationship with
Carson and the edge it gave him in the company was no secret. And by now they'd
done their homework. They knew what kind of background he had, and they knew
how much he stood to gain if Carson didn't make it. So here they were, back to
probe further. Unless of course they'd found out something...

"Detectives." He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying
to assess their demeanor. They sure as hell didn't look like satisfied law
officers who'd just made an arrest. "Do you have anything for us?"

"Nothing you don't already know." Frank Barton's reply
had a definite edge to it—an edge and an implication. "We spoke to the two
guards who were on duty at the building last night—the one at the front door
and the one monitoring the video surveillance. They saw nothing and no one,
except you and Mr. Brooks. We reviewed the surveillance tapes and confirmed
that. So if anyone else got into the building, they used the freight
entrance." Barton didn't meet Dylan's gaze, but instead shot an
inquisitive look at Susan.

"This is Susan Lane," Dylan supplied in a stiff tone.
"Her name's on that list of Carson's friends I gave you. Susan, Detectives
Barton and Whitman."

"Ms. Lane." Eugenia Whitman acknowledged the
introduction. "I'm glad you're here. We were going to contact you later
today to ask you a few questions. Now we can do it here."

Susan nodded. "Of course. Whatever I can do to help."

"Good. Also, just so you know, we're posting twenty- four-hour
security outside Mr. Brooks's hospital room, just in case whoever did this
decides to try again. Officer Laupen should be showing up any minute now. He'll
be taking the first shift." Whitman's attention switched back to Dylan.
"You seem to be in better shape than you were last night. Does that mean
there's positive news on Mr. Brooks's condition?"

Like they hadn't already called the hospital and checked, Dylan
reflected dryly.

"It means last night I was in shock," he said aloud.
"That shock is wearing off, so today I'm a little more collected. As for
Carson, he's hanging on. He had a lacerated artery, a pierced lung, and a
perforation of his intestines. He's also lost huge amounts of blood. So with
regard to the prognosis, the jury's still out. For the time being, he's doped
up and in ICU. His surgeon's in with him now. If you stick around, I'm sure you
can hear the latest firsthand."

"That's what we had in mind," Barton assured him.
"I understand from the surgeon's report that the bullet wasn't
removed."

"You understand correctly. The bullet's in Carson's chest,
lodged somewhere close to his lung. Taking it out would have been more
dangerous than leaving it."

Barton folded his arms across his thickening middle. "So we
have no bullet, no weapon, and a victim who can't talk to us yet."

Dylan noticed he didn't say anything about having no motive or
suspect.

"Talking to Carson won't help. He didn't see his
assailant." Rather than provoking the detectives, Dylan repeated what he'd
told them last night. "He was shot from behind. He said the whole thing
happened too fast for him to turn around."

"According to your story, he said that in the ambulance. Unfortunately,
no one but you heard him." Detective Whitman fiddled with the ends of her
short puff of curly platinum-blond hair—a deceptively casual gesture, since she
was studying Dylan intently.

"The paramedics were a little busy, Detective." Dylan
was starting to get pissed. "They were working to save Carson's life. He
only managed a few words. And the only one he spoke to was me." He met
Whitman's cool stare. She was tall—almost as tall as his own six foot one—with
pale coloring, a straight, stick-thin build, and cottonball hair. She looked
just like a Q-tip.

"Um-hum." She scanned her notes. "That's what you
told us."

"And that's what happened. Look, let's not waste time
debating the facts. You can confirm them with Carson the minute the doctor
gives his okay."

"That's why we're here, Mr. Newport. To see if the victim's
story matches yours."

That did it.

"Look, Detective," Dylan said icily, "I hear your
message—loud and clear. For the record, you're barking up the wrong tree. But
you'll find that out for yourselves. Just don't waste too much time in the
process. I want you to get whoever did this. Dig around. Carson's shooting
wasn't random."

"That's one point we agree on. It wasn't random. But it
wasn't robbery either. When the ambulance brought Mr. Brooks in, he had five
hundred dollars and a solid gold money clip in his pocket. Neither was touched.
And since, allegedly, the assailant had vanished without a trace by the time
you walked onto the scene, he would have had more than enough time to snatch those
items before taking off."

"Robbery? That never occurred to me. Yeah, Carson's rich, and
he's high-profile. But if someone wanted to rob him, they'd have mugged him on
the street comer, not gone up twelve floors to shoot him in his office."

"Makes sense." Barton eyed Dylan thoughtfully. "So
tell me, Mr. Newport, do you have a particular motive in mind?"

Mine, you mean,
Dylan mused silently. Aloud
he replied, "It could be any one of several. Revenge. Greed. A desperate
need for financial survival. As I told you last night, Carson's not your
average CEO, or even your average self-made man. He grew up in the streets. He
started with nothing, and made a fortune by busting his ass, and relying on
nothing but his brains and his instincts. He's a brilliant chemist and
businessman—a true genius, if you ask me. People like that bring out the worst
in their enemies."

"And why would those enemies choose to act now?" Whitman
probed.

"C'est Moi." Susan realized aloud where Dylan was
headed. "It hit the market in June. Carson's shooting has to be related to
that." She gave Whitman a quizzical look. "Have you heard of
it?"

"The fragrance that rocked the nation?" Whitman's
sarcasm was so thick you could cut it. "You'd have to be dead not to. The
sensationalism surrounding that ad campaign caused riots at every cosmetic
counter in the country."

"It's not the campaign," Dylan said tightly. "It's
the product. The ads just captured the world's attention. But it's the scent
itself that's caused the rest of the fragrance industry to go into a
tailspin."