Kane, Andrea (20 page)

"Carson goes camping?"

Susan chuckled at the disbelief in Sabrina's voice. "You mean
the tough city boy? Yup, he sure does. The last weekend of June every year. I
can vouch for it, since I'm there, too."

Okay, now that vision was even more incomprehensible than the
last. The thought of Susan Lane, the ultimate cosmopolitan woman who wore every
one of Gloria Radcliffe's most expensive, high-end designs, marching through
muck and mire and sleeping on a cot or, better yet, in a sleeping bag? No way.

"Are we talking about camping-camping?" Sabrina tried.
"You know, hiking, sleeping in layers so you don't freeze, roughing it in
the great outdoors—that kind of camping? Or is there another, less rustic kind
I'm unfamiliar with?"

"No, that's the one." Susan's eyes twinkled.
"Gotcha, didn't I? Well, not only do I go, I help run the event. I also
hike four miles, pitch a perfect tent, and build a mean campfire.
And
I
cook dinner over that campfire, all weekend long. That's three whole days with
no designer clothes, no soft mattress, and no makeup. Impressed?"

"Actually, stunned. You're a better woman than I. And here I
was, all proud of myself because I can finish the two-hour hike at Lake
Massabesic in an hour and a half, and then go on to beat any of my coworkers in
a canoe race. But when I'm done, I drag myself home to a yoga class, a hot
bath, and a soft bed."

Susan laughed, reaching over to give Sabrina's arm a sympathetic
pat. "Before you write off those accomplishments, I should tell you that
my camping weekend isn't really as big a stretch as you'd think. Despite the
way I come off, and the fact that I've lived in—and loved— Manhattan for
fifteen years, I was raised in a rural town in upstate New York. I can milk a
cow and plant tomatoes with the best of them. Back then, it was home cooking,
not restaurants, and fresh air, not air-conditioning. So a few days of roughing
it doesn't phase me. Although, I must admit, I prefer AC to humidity and a
toasty bed to the freezing ground any time. And bugs... yuck. But the kids
don't know that. And I don't plan to tell them."

"Your secret's safe with me," Sabrina assured her. With
another fascinated shake of her head, she reminded herself of one of the
iron-clad rules of her profession: Never judge a book by its cover. If this
wasn't a perfect example of that, nothing was.

Studying the fashionable woman beside her, seeing the genuine
pleasure on her face as she discussed the kids she helped, another, more
important thought occurred to Sabrina. "I'm really impressed," she
told Susan. "Not just with Carson, with you. Clearly, you love what you
do, and you do it with your heart and soul. Helping those kids gives you great
joy."

"Yes, it does." Susan's lightheartedness faded, her
expression turning earnest. "I feel for them. And you're right, I have a
tendency to throw myself into whatever I do. That was certainly the way it was
when I first started YouthOp." She paused, and it was apparent she was
trying to keep herself emotionally in check. "But, the truth is, my
dedication to YouthOp is no longer rooted solely in altruism. Not since I met
Carson." A hard swallow. "I'm sure you're aware of Carson's
background. He's been written up in every business publication in the
country—the street-kid-turned-business-mogul success story. Well, everyone sees
him as he is now, a secure, dynamic, successful CEO. I keep picturing him as he
must have been then—a frightened kid, a troubled teen—always alone, usually on
the streets. If a program like this had existed back then... Well, let's just
say I wish someone had extended a hand to him."

"I agree." Sabrina was deeply moved by Susan's words.
"But in looking at Carson now, I see more than a successful CEO. I see a
very lucky man—one who has loyal friends like Dylan and Stan, and a sensitive
woman like you in his life. To my way of thinking, he's got a lot to be
thankful for—and to live for."

Susan's eyes misted. "That's very kind of you."

At that moment, Stan Hager strode into the lounge. He was a stocky
man of medium height with steel-gray hair and tight, solemn features. He
glanced around the room until he spotted them. And when he did, and recognized
the emotional scene taking place before him, he went sheet-white.

He was beside them in an instant. "What is it? Is Carson
worse?"

"No, no, nothing like that." Susan dabbed at her eyes.
"I didn't mean to frighten you. I was just talking about Carson and getting
all sentimental. His condition's status quo. Dr. Radison removed the bullet.
Detective Whitman took it to ballistics. Carson's resting now."

"But you saw him this morning?"

"Yes, before the surgery."

"And he was all right?"

"He was tired, but holding his own."

"What about his spirits—were they good?"

Susan blinked, startled by the barrage of questions. But a slight
smile curved her lips as she answered. "Let's see. When I walked in, he
immediately started complaining to Dr. Radison about not being allowed a
conjugal rights visit. If prisoners are entitled to them, why not hospital
patients, was his argument."

Stan relaxed a bit. "Sounds normal for Carson."

"I thought so." Susan made a puzzled gesture. "Is
there a particular reason why you're more concerned than usual?"

A brief hesitation. "He just sounded a little distracted when
I called earlier. But he hadn't slept well. That was probably it."

"He did have a rough night," Sabrina confirmed, watching
Carson's friend and wondering why he seemed so on edge. "I'm sure Dr.
Radison left orders for him to be given something to help him relax before
surgery."

"Yeah, true." Stan rubbed the nape of his neck as if it
pained him. Abruptly, he seemed to realize how extreme he must be coming off,
and how closely Sabrina was scrutinizing him. "Forgive my manners, Ms.
Radcliffe," he said, addressing her for the first time. "I didn't
even say hello."

"That's quite all right. You're worried. Everyone is. And by
the way, please call me Sabrina, both of you. I'm not big on formalities."
Another thing Carson and I have in common,
she reflected silently.

She saw her own thought mirrored on Stan's face. But aloud all he
said was, "We're all on a first-name basis. So you do the same."

"Absolutely," Susan concurred. "Oh, Stan. I'm sure
you're here for that meeting Sabrina was just telling me about. Dylan hasn't
arrived yet, but he must be on his way. I know Dr. Radison said noon, but if
Carson's still groggy, the meeting could get a late start. Is that a
problem?"

"Hmm? No, it's fine."

Sabrina had the distinct feeling that Stan didn't have a clue what
meeting Susan was talking about. How odd was that? The guy was COO of Ruisseau,
an aggressive go-getter, and a key officer of the corporation. Why would Carson
leave him out of the loop? It made no sense, especially since Stan was in the
loop about everything else. Besides, the official word was that Carson was
bringing Sabrina on as a management consultant, a process his COO would be
actively involved in. For Stan not to be right in the thick of things would
seem strange and, most likely, out of character.

"Stan?" Obviously, that was the case, because Susan
looked astonished. "You are here for that meeting, aren't you?"

Realization struck, and his entire demeanor changed. "Of
course. Just for the first few minutes though. Doctors orders. When I broached
the subject, Radison put his foot down about three of us being in Carson's room
at once. So I'll get a recap from Carson later today." He frowned.
"I'm not sure what time. Whenever I wrap up with Whitman and Barton."

Sabrina leaned forward. "The detectives?"

"Yup. They're coming by my office at two-thirty." He
tried to sound nonchalant. Instead, he sounded like a rubber band about to
snap. "They're grilling everyone at Ruisseau. They've been trying to pin
me down to do the same. We set up an official meeting. From what I've heard
about these interrogation sessions from the rest of the staff, I'm not looking
forward to it"

"I don't blame you," Sabrina muttered, grimacing in
remembered irritation. "Everything you heard is true."

"Are you saying they interrogated
you?"
Susan
looked stunned, and Sabrina wanted to kick herself for opening up Pandora's
box. "Why?"

"Sabrina was with Dylan when she met Detectives Whitman and
Barton." It was Stan who intervened, running welcome interference for her.
"They must have heard she was a management consultant and assumed she had
an established business relationship with Ruisseau. Besides, they're covering
all their bases by talking to everyone Carson knows—which is what they should
be doing."

"In any case, they now know Carson and I just met."
Sabrina took over, shooting Stan a quick, grateful smile. "So they'll be
doing their interrogating elsewhere."

Dylan walked into the lounge, followed by Dr. Radison.

"Sabrina," Dylan greeted her. "Carson's awake,
alert, and asking for us."

"Ordering me to get you is more accurate." The doctor
gave an exasperated shake of his head, gesturing for Sabrina to head down to
ICU. "Go ahead. But don't be fooled by bis bravado. He's still very weak,
and he's fighting that infection. I'll give you fifteen minutes. No more than
that. And if he starts to tire sooner, you'll have to leave, whether he likes
it or not."

"Of course." Sabrina turned to Susan. "Did you want
to see him first?"

"That's not necessary, although I appreciate your asking.
Knowing Carson, he's got Ruisseau on his mind. Business now, personal time
later." Susan glanced at Stan. "Didn't you say you were popping
in?"

"Sure did." Stan rubbed his palms together, gazing
intently at Dr. Radison. "I know you set a limit of two visitors max, but
I'll just stay for two minutes."

The doctor frowned. "All right, two minutes," he
conceded. "But that's it. I don't want him overwhelmed. He thinks he's
Superman. He's not."

12:20 P.M.

Midtown North Precinct

Jeannie strode over and sat down next to Frank's desk.
"Mission accomplished," she announced. "Ballistics has the
bullet." A frown. "Not that it'll do us much good. They already
warned me that the bullet's in so-so shape. The grooves are distorted. Plus,
we've got no weapon to match it with. The damn twenty-two's probably at the
bottom of the East River." She groped in her pocket for the Milky Way bar
she'd stashed there. Man, did she need a sugar-fix. "In any case,
ballistics will do what they can, then get back to us." She tore open the
candy bar wrapper, then, seeing the dark scowl on her partner's face,
reconsidered and tucked the whole Milky Way, wrapper and all, back in her
pocket. "Sorry. Too early for candy anyway."

"Yeah. Right." Frank yanked open his desk drawer and
pulled out a Ziploc filled with neatly sliced carrot sticks. "In that
case, try these instead. They're my mid-morning snack. Linda gave them to me,
partly out of desperation and partly out of pity. And for a special treat, she
packed a matching bag of cucumber slices for my mid-afternoon snack. I don't
know how I'll contain myself until then."

Jeannie stifled a smile. "Poor Linda. You must be a bear to
live with these days."

"You can say that again. The good news is, I take out most of
my lousy mood on you, so I'm not as bad when I get home."

"Gee, thanks. How are the kids handling this get-in-shape
program of yours?"

A proud grin spread across Frank's face. "They're the best.
Mart's been working out with me at the gym twice a week. He's developing quite
a set of biceps for a thirteen-year-old. And Katie—the number one chocoholic in
her fourth grade class—has developed a sudden preference for fruits and vegetables.
Coincidentally, she wanted— and got—the same snacks in her lunch bag today as I
did. Linda offered her a devil dog, some Oreos, you name it, but she chose the
carrots and cucumbers. She said she's studying food groups in school, and she
wants to eat healthy."

"You've got great kids."

"Yeah, I do." He nodded, looking significantly less
grumpy than he had a moment ago. "Damn if the two of them and Linda don't
keep me going. And Bruno, who takes me on a half-mile tear every morning. I'm
telling you, that shelter was wrong about him being part weimaraner, part Saint
Bernard. The way those long legs of his shoot out from under him—he's got to be
three-quarters greyhound."

Jeannie chuckled. "Maybe. Or else Mart's slipping him a
little food bribe on the side—one of Linda's awesome tacos, maybe—to make sure
you get another daily workout." Satisfied that she'd taken the edge off
Frank's lousy mood, Jeannie propped an elbow on his desk and met his gaze.
"We've got to talk."

"How did I guess?"

"Because you know me. And you know what I'm about to say is
true. Look, Frank, I know this whole Weight Watchers and gym thing is tough. I
might not have firsthand experience with dieting, but I've got enough
experience with eating to know that not being able to do it sucks. That doesn't
excuse your hard-assed attitude yesterday."