Kane, Andrea (23 page)

Sabrina sidestepped that one, at least for now. Besides, she had
another matter on her mind—one that needed to be addressed before this meeting
ended. "What about Stan? Where does he fit into all this?"

"Same as always... Runs the company's day-to-day
operations... In on almost everything... But not the formula... He's got a
crappy memory.... Can't retain a damned thing... Forgot his first wife's
birthday four years in a row... probably why they're divorced."

"Got it." Sabrina wasn't up for humor. Not when beads of
perspiration were dotting Carson's forehead, showing her how much he was
suffering. Further, she sensed there was more to this issue with Stan than he'd
let on. "So you're not giving him the formula. And my guess is, you don't
want me, or eventually Dylan, to clue him in to the fact that you gave it to
us."

A raspy chuckle. "You're good. Damned good. And you're right.
I don't."

"Which is the real reason why you didn't want him staying
till the end of this meeting."

"Um-hum. Not lack of trust... Meant it about his memory... But
he wouldn't believe that… He'd take it the wrong way.... Stan's insecure
enough.... Don't want to add to it. Easier to say it was personal... about you
coming on as president. He knows... you're my daughter.... Understands what I
want for you... what you can bring to Ruisseau... No resentment there... Don't
worry."

"I wasn't. Not about me."

"Not about anything... It's all under control."

So
that
was the missing link. Stan Hager was insecure. And
insecurity made people act in strange ways, do strange things. Carson was far
from naive. Regardless of what he said, how lightly he touched on—and seemed to
dismiss—the subject of Stan's low self-esteem, he was aware of its
significance. He didn't want to bad-mouth Stan. That much was clear. But what
was also clear, at least to Sabrina, was that Carson recognized that Stan ran
the risk of being a loose cannon. Bottom line? He was protecting his friend
and
his company.

"The basis for Stan's insecurity—is it anything I should know
about?" she asked carefully.

"Nothing sinister... or specific... We'll discuss it next
time.... Right now, all we've got time for is the formula."

Sabrina placed her hand on Carson's arm. "Are you sure you're
up for this?"

"Yes."

"Just as important, are you sure this is what you want?"

"That depends—are you sure it's what
you
want?"

She met his gaze, pain-filled but intense. Was she sure? Very. She
didn't know why, but somehow she was.

Slowly, she nodded. "Yes. I'm sure." An attempt at a
smile. "As sure as I'll ever be. My entire world's been turned upside down
these past few days. I don't expect it to right itself anytime soon."

"With me for a father?... And a boss?... Don't count on
it." With great effort, Carson raised his arm, sticking out his hand to
seal things in a handshake. "So you're on board. Welcome to the
team."

"Yes, I'm on board," she echoed. "And thanks."
She met his grip, feeling a sense of comfort at the physical contact. Was that
some unfathomable instinct because he was her father? Or was it just relief
that he had enough strength left to master a handshake?

"Go to Ruisseau tomorrow morning...." Carson instructed.
"Dylan will have the paperwork done by then.... Stan will introduce you
around.... Nothing formal... Just a top-notch consultant who's there to help
Ruisseau stay on track... Won't make an official announcement till you're
ready... Anyway, come see me afterward.... I want your take on my people... my
company...."

"Only if you promise to be at the top of your game when I
report in," Sabrina returned lightly. "Meaning you rest, follow
doctor's orders, and stop causing trouble. Too much to ask? Tough." She
forced a teasing smile to her lips as she echoed what he'd said to her earlier.
"You're going to be busting your ass for me. I don't tolerate less."

A tight grin permeated his physical distress. "I'll keep that
in mind.... Now let's get to the formula...."

"Right." Sabrina wet her lips, focusing all her energies
on her powers of concentration. "All I know is that it's based on human
pheromones, right?"

"Pheromones and a compound that enhances male receptivity to
those pheromones..." he clarified. "... Variations in men's brand,
obviously... But both are blends of natural essences and synthetic
chemicals.... Musk. Cinnamon and ginger... Orange. Three floral scents... Other
stuff. I'll give it to you exactly. And I'll have Dylan and Stan run you over
to the lab later today.... You can check out R&D firsthand.... Now
listen... and lock what I tell you into your brain."

3:25 P.M.

Ruisseau Fragrance Corporation

Stan stood at his office window, staring out at the line of
buildings across West 57th Street, wondering if anyone in any of those jaillike
grids called offices could possibly be as strung out as he was.

He felt like a goddamned hamster in a maze. Well, he was tired of
running. Tired of scrambling to stay ahead. Tired of looking over his shoulder.
Tired of keeping secrets and doing damage control. Tired of trying to be more
than he was.

And most of all, tired of answering these detectives' questions.

"Mr. Hager?" It was Detective Whitman again, shoving
another question down his throat. She and her partner had been at it for almost
an hour, right on the heels of raking poor Claude over the coals. Claude had
emerged from the interrogation looking like a broken sparrow, making Stan's
guts twist with a sense of foreboding as he tried to imagine what they had in
store for him.

Well, now he knew. They'd poked, prodded, and probed into every
last facet of his life. They knew about his two divorces, his personal habits,
and his professional rise at Ruisseau. They'd delved into his take on every
corporate officer, every company executive—from upper management down to middle
management—then moved on, dissecting every one of Ruisseau's divisions, trying
to determine who might have even the slightest beef with Carson Brooks. From
there, they'd explored the in-house clashes Carson had been involved in—even on
the most peripheral level—over the past month or so, including such trivial
incidents as when he'd demanded that the custodial staff switch rug cleaners.

Then came reviewing Ruisseau's chief competitors, a topic that
always made Stan's guts twist. He could tell Whitman and Barton had done their
homework. They'd gotten Jason Koppel's name from Carson, and they'd gone over
to Merrill Lynch to meet with him. They knew exactly which companies' profits
had taken a downslide since C'est Moi hit the market. They ran through each of
them with Stan, questioning him about which high-level execs he knew at each
company and whether any of those people were, in his opinion, unbalanced or
over the edge.

He was a fine one to ask.

Oh, they'd tackled every subject imaginable, concentrating
particularly on him—his state of mind, his feelings about Carson, his status at
Ruisseau. Over and over, they came back to the fact that he had no alibi for
Monday evening, that he'd
allegedly
been alone in his apartment,
sleeping off a seventy-hour workweek, when Carson was shot. They kept harping
on how difficult it must be to stand in your best friend's shadow, day after
day, year after year, in all facets of your life.

The one thing they
hadn't
done was issue any accusations.
Not yet. But after fifty-five minutes, they were working their way there. In
fact, judging from the more intense tone and personal direction of the
interrogation these past few minutes, they were about to go for the jugular.

Sure enough, Whitman confirmed his suspicions by starting the
process. "You and Mr. Brooks go back thirty years. That's longer than any
other employee—actually any other person in Carson Brooks's life."

Give the woman a cigar,
he thought. "That's
true." He turned around to face her, folding his arms across his chest and
resupplying his history with Carson—the safest course of action he could take.
"Like I told you before, we met at City College. I was taking classes
there when I wasn't doing odd jobs to pay the rent. Carson was cleaning
offices, but making extra cash tutoring college freshmen."

"I didn't need a refresher, Mr. Hager. I know how you two
met." Whitman's gaze bore straight through him.

"Yeah. It's unbelievable," Barton muttered. "I
still can't get over it. A high school dropout tutoring kids who had more
education than he did."

Stan's jaw tightened. "Carson's a genius. He could have
taught college-level chemistry when he was in eighth grade. And he didn't drop
out of high school; he was kicked out for being a smart-ass. He got his diploma
the year we met, not that he needed it. He knew more, and taught others more,
than any professor ever could. He made his first million, actually several
million, by age thirty. Oh, and for the record, he never lied to the kids he
tutored. They knew he didn't have any formal education. But guess what? When they
saw those A's on their exams, they didn't care."

Barton crossed one leg over the other, his gaze narrowing a bit.
"That was admiration you heard, not censure, Mr. Hager. Why are you so
defensive? More important, why are you so jumpy? You've been a wreck since we
walked in. Actually, longer. Since this investigation began."

"You're right. I have. Look, Detective, my oldest friend's
been shot. His life's hanging in the balance. That's thrown me for a loop. On
top of that, I'm operating on zero sleep. When I'm not at the hospital, I'm
here, pushing to run this company the way Carson would want it run. I think
that's grounds to be on edge, don't you?" He didn't wait for an answer.
"So tell me, what else do you want to know?"

"What I want, is to get back to my original question,"
Whitman responded, like a damned dog with a bone. "Since you know Mr.
Brooks for so long, can you think of anyone from your past who might have it in
for him?"

With a half-laugh, Stan shook his head. "You're joking. We
weren't exactly high-visibility types. We were dirt poor, Detective. Punks who
were lucky to afford a room. We shared a hole-in-the-wall in those days—a cockroach-ridden
dump in a downtown tenement that was barely big enough to hold two mattresses
and a lamp. Carson didn't have a pot to piss in. Believe me, no one viewed him
as a future candidate for making it big. So if you're picturing him being
stalked by someone from our youth, someone who bided his time in the hopes of
making a windfall, you can forget it."

"That's not what I was picturing. But, fine. Let's play this
your way. What about later? Thirty years is a long time, providing lots of
opportunity to meet people and form relationships."

"Most of that time was filled by the blood, sweat, and tears
of building Ruisseau. That doesn't leave much time for forming close personal
attachments. There were women, if that's what you're asking. Plenty of them.
But never anyone serious. Never anyone who'd stand to gain anything if Carson
were out of the way."

"Interesting the way you keep getting back to money,"
Whitman noted. "There are other reasons to kill someone, you know."

"A
woman scorned, you mean." Stan tried that route, shrugging
away the idea. "First of all, Carson's not the sentimental type. He
doesn't do the head-over-heels-in-love thing. Never has, never will. I think
that's why he never married. He's already married—to Ruisseau. He also doesn't
mislead women. They know where they stand. It's Ruisseau first, sex and
recreation second. So none of his ex-lovers would be home nursing a broken
heart. It doesn't fit. Besides, they've all been out of the picture for a long
time now. Carson and Susan have been exclusive for well over a year. She's nuts
about him, and he seems very happy with her. So, no, I don't think this is a
spurned-lover deal."

"I don't remember suggesting it was." Whitman leaned
forward, staring him down in a way that said she'd grown tired of his evasion
tactics. "Actually, my thoughts were going in an entirely different
direction. I was wondering if there's anyone you can think of who might carry a
grudge against Mr. Brooks? Anyone who's known him for years and has watched his
success explode like wildfire—with women, with business, with pretty much
everything he's touched? Anyone who might have felt cheated by that
success?"

"Anyone, Detective? Or me?" Stan went for the direct
confrontation approach, slapping his palms on his desk. "Why don't you ask
me straight out? Better yet, I'll save you the trouble. Do I hold a grudge? No.
For what? Carson's worked for everything he has. No one handed it to him. Sure,
he's got a lot going for him, but he never took the easy way out, and he never
forgot his friends. Which brings me to your next question: Do I feel cheated?
Nope. Carson was always incredibly generous with me. When he started Ruisseau,
he took me right along with him. When the company's profits skyrocketed, so did
mine.

"Now, I'll answer the questions you're about to ask.

Am I grateful? Yup. More than you can imagine. Have I ever wished
I could trade places with Carson? You bet. He's got it all, and only a fool
wouldn't wish for the same. Would I kill him to get it? Not for all the money,
power, or position in the world. Oh, and one more thing. I have no desire to be
CEO of Ruisseau, even if Carson asked me to be. I'm collapsing under the weight
of that position right now, and it's just a temporary arrangement. I've got
more than enough on my plate being the company's COO. My job's exciting,
challenging, and rewarding. I like coming to work each day. I've got a
seven-figure income, a retirement plan that'll keep me living in style for the
rest of my life, the respect of my colleagues, and the pleasure of working with
people who are also my friends. Does that about cover it?"