Kane, Andrea (40 page)

Frank yanked the list of suspects that was sitting on his desk
toward him and pored over it again.

Dylan Newport. The guy had grown up on the streets. He'd know how
to unearth the right scum to kill Clark. As for Brooks's shooting, he had both
motive and opportunity. So, the fundamentals all checked out. But Frank wasn't
buying it—not anymore. Jeannie was right. Newport was too devoted to Brooks to
bump him off for money, and too smart to do it under such incriminating
circumstances. And as for arranging to kill a twenty-one-year-old kid in cold
blood—nope. It just didn't fit the guy's character.

Stan Hager—now there was one that seemed to fit a whole lot
better. Hager had grown up on the streets, too, so he'd know how to find the
right contact to stab Clark. As for shooting Brooks, Hager had no alibi and a
motive that seemed more and more plausible each day. He hadn't just walked in
Brooks's shadow for thirty years, he'd raced at warp speed to keep up. And
now—well, talk about someone reaching the breaking point. The guy was like a
time bomb ready to go off.

Both Hager's ex-wives had confirmed that motive when Frank and
Jeannie interviewed them. They'd each described their ex as an obsessive
workaholic who was consumed with the need to keep up with and live up to Carson
Brooks. Nothing else in his life came close.

Interesting though. When Frank had conducted his heart-to-heart
with Lily, Hager's first wife, she'd confessed that for a good chunk of their
marriage she'd sensed that Stan was cheating on her. She couldn't put her
finger on why she felt that way, since he was fixated on his work, nor did she have
a clue who the woman might be. It was just a gut instinct—but one that
persisted right up to the time of their divorce.

Frank had passed that tidbit along to Jeannie when she'd gone to
chat with Hager's second wife, Diane. Jeannie, in turn, had asked Diane if
she'd ever suspected Stan of being involved with another woman. Diane had
shrugged it off and said, yeah, sure, the thought had occurred to her,
especially since he wanted sex about as often as he wanted any other kind of
fun— which was not nearly often enough for her. But, she'd assumed that most of
that was due to his obsession with work. On the other hand, yeah, there were
times he seemed distracted, times he came home late and looking like he'd just
showered. So another woman was a distinct possibility.

Odd. Hager had been single for some time now. So if there was
someone else, why would he still be keeping the whole thing hush-hush? Unless
he was no longer involved with the same woman, or unless it was she who wanted
the secrecy, maybe because she was married.

Or maybe for some other reason.

Hager was a good-looking guy. He was also rich and not much older
than Brooks. Doubtful he was living an entirely celibate life. So what was the
story there?

"Hey. A penny for your thoughts." Jeannie walked over,
perched on the edge of his desk.

"They're not worth that much." Frank scowled, doodling
on his pad. "Do you think Hager's gay?"

"Nope." Jeannie didn't look a bit surprised by Frank's
train of thought. "I asked Diane that very question, point blank, probably
for the same reason you're asking it now—this whole long-term mystery woman
thing. Anyway, Diane said no way. Hager's apparently a pretty amazing lover,
when his mind is in it. That's why she didn't get out of the marriage sooner.
Plus, I watched him interacting with the staff of Ruisseau, when he didn't realize
I had my eye on him. There's no doubt about it; he definitely notices women,
not men."

"Yeah, I agree. Plus, he'd have no reason for keeping it a
big secret if he was gay. Carson Brooks isn't exactly a judgmental guy. He
wouldn't give a damn who Hager was sleeping with."

"Not to mention that after a thirty-year friendship, I doubt
a shrewd guy like Brooks would be oblivious to the fact that his best friend
was gay. No, if there's a mystery bedmate, it's a woman, not a man."

"Do you think it was the same woman throughout both Hager's
marriages? And, if so, who the hell is she and why is her identity still being
kept so hush-hush?"

"You're wondering if this factors into this case,"
Jeannie murmured. "I'm right there with you. I can't shake the
not-quite-right feeling about Hager, either. He's hiding something. Whether or
not it ties in to whoever he's sleeping with or not, I'm not sure. But there's
definitely something he doesn't want us to know. The question is, why would a
sexual affair prompt Hager to murder Carson Brooks? And what about Russ
Clark—why would Hager want him stabbed?"

"Speaking of Clark, there's something else bugging me. The
kid wanted to be an investigative reporter. Whatever the hell he was poking
into that spooked someone enough to get rid of him, he must have kept notes. So
where are they? We've torn his apartment apart and gone through everything at
his desk at Ruisseau."

"We're missing a major piece of this puzzle," Jeannie agreed.
"It's right at our fingertips, too. I feel it."

"More than one piece. Ferguson's not sitting right with me,
either. And not because of his iffy alibi. Believe it or not, I actually buy
the guy's story that he was home grilling a steak. But he refuses to make eye
contact with either you or me—no matter what we ask him, and he jumps out of
his skin before we even say hello. The guy has something eating at him."

"We've got a couple of nervous Nellies over at Ruisseau,
that's for damned sure." Jeannie ripped open a package of Milk Duds and
popped one in her mouth. "Still, I don't see Ferguson at the helm. His
life's about as boring as it gets. And his street contacts are nil. Where would
he find a street punk to stab Clark, and to buy him a gun?"

She didn't wait for a reply, but popped another Milk Dud in her
mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Here's a name that's back in the picture
again, along with an interesting twist. Etienne Pruet."

"The French perfumer who's Brooks's chief competitor?"
Frank's brows rose. "We crossed him off our list over a week ago. He was
in Paris when Brooks was shot."

"We did and he was. Here's the twist. I just got a call from
Jason Koppel at Merrill Lynch. He did some more poking around. It seems that
Pruet assembled all his top execs behind closed doors in his Paris
headquarters. He was determined to come up with something—anything— that would
stop C'est Moi's spiraling sales before the men's version hit the consumer
market, and the whole phenomenon exploded in Europe."

"Wait a minute. You lost me. Why is Pruet worrying about
Ruisseau? His fancy-schmancy French corporation's profits are sky-high. The
company's been in the fragrance business for something like three hundred fifty
years."

"Longer. Koppel said something about them achieving
prominence as the royal perfumer of King Louis the something-or-other—I think
it was the fourteenth—in the mid-1600s. Hoity-toity, huh?"

"I'm overwhelmed," Frank returned dryly. "But I
still don't get it. Are you telling me our information was wrong, and Pruet's
company is hurting?"

"Not hurting. But not happy. Ruisseau is kicking butt with
the advent of C'est Moi. And it's now spreading to the European market. Up till
now, Pruet's aristocratic roots have kept him on top with elite
fragrance-wearers over there. But this is the twenty-first century. It's a new
world. Sex outsells pedigree. C'est Moi is threatening to take a chunk of
Pruet's sales. And without knowing what's in that formula, they don't know what
they're competing with or how to win."

"So Pruet's got an incentive to get rid of Carson Brooks, the
only person who knows C'est Moi's formula. Fine, that's motive. But what about
opportunity? If the guy was in Paris..."

"Then he couldn't have done it," Jeannie finished for
him. "But that doesn't mean that one of the other ten people at his New
York branch—including a couple of executives on the rise—couldn't have done it.
They were here."

"And you're standing at my desk to let me know we're heading
over to that New York branch to talk to those ten people."

"In half an hour," Jeannie confirmed, polishing off her
Milk Duds. "The office is right down Fifth Avenue—just three blocks from
Ruisseau."

"Good. Next question—what about Hager? When do you want to
meet with him again?"

"Meet with him or push him to the wall?" Jeannie
muttered. It was a rhetorical question, since she knew full well what the
answer was. "Yeah, you're right. It's about time we stopped dancing around
him. We're getting nowhere fast. How about late today? We'll call and set up an
official appointment. That'll give Hager a whole afternoon to sweat over what
we want."

"Let's not give the same heads-up to Ferguson," Frank
said. "With him, it's better that we just drop in. I have a gut feeling
that, if anyone would crack under the pressure of a surprise attack, he's the
guy to do it."

"Fine. No preparation time there. We'll just make an
appointment with Hager and do a drop-in on Ferguson." Jeannie reached for
the phone on Frank's desk.

Simultaneously, her cell phone rang.

She punched the send button. "Whitman." Her brows lifted
slightly. "Well, hello." A pause. "Really. Yes, I understand.
Any more details you want to give me? Okay, fine. We'll be there. You're
welcome."

She pressed end and turned to Frank. "You're never going to
believe this one."

"Try me."

"That was Carson Brooks. Apparently, there's going to be a
company-wide announcement at five-thirty today, informing the entire staff of
Ruisseau that Sabrina Radcliffe is his daughter. He's making the announcement
himself, via a prerecorded videotape, from his hospital bed. He asked us to be
at Ruisseau when the tape is played—for protection purposes."

"Protection." Frank digested that information
thoughtfully. "I wonder if Brooks is afraid his daughter will be mauled by
the press, or if his fears run deeper than that."

"You know the answer to that, Frank. Brooks is as perceptive
as they come. He's well aware that there's a killer out there somewhere, one
with a motive we still haven't identified. I'm sure he's also aware that that
killer might try again, in any number of ways. One is to go for Brooks
directly, which isn't likely as long as he's in Mount Sinai with
round-the-clock police protection. The other is to go at him through his
daughter."

"Especially if that daughter is about to officially acquire
an extremely powerful role at Ruisseau."

"Which you can bet she is. She's smart, she's successful, and
she's his flesh and blood. It's a no-brainer."

"Agreed. So if Brooks's shooting was in any way related to
his position at Ruisseau, today's announcement might instigate the
shooter."

"Maybe. Maybe not. But it's clear that Brooks doesn't want to
take any chances."

"I don't blame him."

"Me either." Jeannie crumpled up the empty Milk Duds box
and tossed it into the trash. "And to think this morning started off
ordinary."

"Whatever ordinary means these days." Frank pushed back
his chair and rose. "This also solves our problem about when to meet with
Hager and Ferguson. We'll be at Ruisseau at five-thirty anyway."

1:45 P.M.

Ruisseau Fragrance Corporation

Sabrina tried Stan's extension to see if he was ready for their
lunch.

Lunch. If you wanted to call it that. Donna had ordered in
sandwiches, which were being delivered to Sabrina's office sometime within the
next half hour. That gave Sabrina forty-five minutes before her meeting with
R&D. Forty-five minutes to broach the subject of Stan's discomfort around
her and break the news of today's announcement, in between bites of a turkey
sandwich she had to wolf down since she hadn't eaten a thing all day.

Talk about a fast-paced agenda.

Then again, why should lunch be different than the rest of the day
had been?

Sabrina dropped her head in her hands and massaged her temples.

Her morning had been a soap opera. First, there'd been the
conversation with her mother. Gloria had taken the news of Sabrina's donor
compatibility with her usual controlled dignity. But Sabrina could hear the
tremor in her voice, and she knew her mother was frightened. She'd tried
soothing her to the best of her ability, but there were no guarantees she could
offer. Nor did Gloria request any. She just told Sabrina she was behind her,
and said she'd fly to New York as soon as the press—and her parents—were under
control.

Which led Sabrina into Act Two: the drama with her grandparents.

Abigail and Charles Radcliffe had been beside themselves, despite
whatever groundwork Gloria had laid. Sabrina's grandmother had wept; her
grandfather had lectured. They both had practically pleaded with her to
reconsider donating her kidney to a man she barely knew.

It had taken close to an hour to get through to them, to make them
understand even on a basic, fundamental level why she had to do this. And, no,
telling them about her newly acquired position at Ruisseau hadn't helped.
They'd been so worked up, they'd scarcely paid attention to her announcement,
much less focused on the prestige it denoted.