Kane, Andrea (51 page)

As their driver pulled away, he informed them that, at the request
of Detective Whitman, he'd stopped at the Midtown North Police Precinct, and
picked up the clothing and personal items that the police had rescued from
Dylan's smoky brownstone and brought to their precinct. As a result, he could
take them straight to Ms. Radcliffe's.

Sabrina was grateful. She was also relieved. She was eager to
continue the conversation she and Dylan had begun in the elevator at Mt. Sinai.

While the driver helped Dylan carry in his bags, Sabrina went into
the kitchen and brewed a huge pot of coffee. She carried it into the living
room, placed it on the coffee table, and waited until she and Dylan were alone.

He joined her, dropping onto the sofa and running both hands
through his hair. "Damn, that coffee looks good. Thanks for making
it." A quizzical glance. "It's not decaf, is it?"

"No way," Sabrina assured him, sitting down on the
adjoining love seat so they could maintain eye contact. "Not after the
night we had. It's ultra-leaded. This way, we can hydrate ourselves, warm up,
and get our caffeine fix all at once."

"Don't forget to add 'and talk,'" Dylan reminded her,
taking a huge, grateful swallow. "I know you're chomping at the bit—even
though you're supposed to be resting your voice."

"I'll rest my voice later. Or, better yet, I'll listen. You
talk. Unless your head hurts too much."

"Nope. My head's much better. I'm in fine shape for
talking."

"Good. Because I want to hear what you meant when you said
Susan bugs you."

"Was it really such a surprise revelation?"

"Of course not." Sabrina sipped at her steaming coffee.
"But I can't help feeling like the reasons behind it are more than just
the fact that she's emotionally selfish,"

"They are."

"Let's start with my most fundamental concern. Last time we
touched on this subject, you said you believed Susan genuinely loved Carson.
I've got to assume you meant that."

"Definitely." Dylan set down his cup. "I'd never
lie about that, or look the other way if it weren't true. Like I said, if I
thought Susan's feelings for Carson were anything but real, I'd go straight to
Carson with it. Hey, I was planning on going to him with a lot less. I was just
trying to find a way to say what I had to without pissing him off."

"About what? What is it about Susan you feel honor-bound to
tell Carson?"

"That's the problem. I can't give you a specific answer. My
entire argument is based on instinct. My feelings about Susan are ambiguous, at
best. Sometimes I think she's full of it, and sometimes I think she's
everything she seems to be and I'm imagining things. She sends out mixed
signals. But my gut instinct just won't shut up. And it tells me that most of
what she does, she does for personal gain. No matter how altruistic her actions
appear."

A major piece fell into place. "You're not talking about her
commitment to Carson. You're talking about her commitment to YouthOp."
Sabrina leaned forward. "Is it that you don't think her heart's really in
it?"

"I think her heart's in the perks she gets from running it.
Carson's her principal supporter and her biggest fan. That certainly solidifies
her place in his life. On top of that, the columnists eat it up in their
personal interest stories. The participating schools praise her up and down. To
read about her contributions, you'd think she was a regular Mother Teresa."

"But you think she disingenuous, that she doesn't really care
about the kids."

"I wouldn't go that far. She cares. The question is, who
comes first—her or the kids? My guess is, she does. All the time, personally
and professionally. Her reaction since Carson was shot is just one example of
that. Her needs first, his second. Sure, she helps the kids. Like I said when
we talked about Stan, we're not talking black and white. We're talking gray.
There's just something about her priorities—it comes through in the way she
runs her charity functions, the angle she takes when she's interviewed. She
puts herself in the limelight—subtly, but every time the opportunity presents
itself. Then there's the way she disburses the funds...."

"You think she's misappropriating them?"

"Let's just say I've never seen such a posh office occupied
by the head of a charitable organization. An office which, I may add, I'm one
of the few outsiders who's seen. And that's only because I do the legal
paperwork that allows a YouthOp kid to intern at Ruisseau. She never conducts
interviews there. It might make her look materialistic, rather than
benevolent." Dylan rubbed a palm over his jaw. "I could be way off
base. She could have paid for the damned interior decorating with her own money,
for all I know."

"She told me she grew up on a farm in upstate New York. I
doubt she has a huge trust fund to dip into. What did she do before she started
YouthOp?"

"Various corporate positions, mostly in the public relations
departments. Could she have saved a bundle that she's now spending on herself?
Of course. She sure as hell spends it on her clothes and makeup. I've never
seen that woman in the same outfit twice, or with a hair or eyelash out of
place. As for the place she calls home, she lives on the Upper West side—not
far from here. Nice area, not cheap. And hey, I'm sure the apartment's
furnished to the nines, also."

Sabrina had to stifle a smile. "You really don't think much
of her, do you?"

"That's not the issue. It's just that my warning bells go off
when I'm around her. She's done nothing overt. She makes all the right moves at
all the right times. Maybe that's part of the problem. She's
too
smooth,
too
impeccable. I don't know. I only know that I can't turn those
warning bells off. Remember, Sabrina, when it comes right down to it, I'm a
street kid. I grew up relying on my instincts to survive. They rarely failed
me. That hasn't changed. And when it comes to Susan—they just can't get
comfortable."

Sabrina was feeling more uneasy by the minute. Dylan was a clever,
astute man. If his feelings on this matter were so strong, she wasn't about to
pooh-pooh them. "You said you planned to bring this up with Carson. Why
didn't you?"

"Because we were always busy. Because we never got a quiet
minute alone. Because I wanted to be wrong." Dylan blew out his breath.
"And because I knew he'd dismiss it as crap. I guess I was hoping to have
something concrete to show him or tell him, anything to prove my concerns had
merit. But nothing presented itself. Finally, I thought, screw it, I'll go to
him anyway, if for no other reason than to keep him on his toes by putting the
bug in his ear. That never happened. He got shot, so I obviously put the whole
discussion on hold. I'm sure as hell not going to add to his burden with this
petty garbage. He's going through enough. Whether Susan is Florence Nightingale
or a social-climbing schemer whose main goal is to enrich herself and score
Brownie points, it can wait until Carson's stronger."

"Maybe it doesn't have to."

Dylan arched a brow. "What does that mean?"

Sabrina put down her cup. "It means that I've learned to
trust your instincts. There's only one person whose instincts I trust more:
mine. Susan and I haven't spent a lot of time together. When we did, it was in
the ICU lounge. We talked about YouthOp, and she got very emotional. On the
other hand, maybe she's just a drama queen about everything. She certainly was
a basket case on the phone before. She wasn't even ready to see Carson, that's
how upset she was. She wanted time to compose herself. She was going in to
YouthOp to do some work."

"So?"

"So—" Sabrina's chin came up and a purposeful glint lit
her eyes. "You're right that this Susan-issue pales in comparison to
everything Carson's been through in the past weeks. But it still affects his
well-being. And that's something you and I need to look out for. He loves this
woman. If she's not everything he thinks she is, it's up to us to find
out."

"I see." Dylan's lips twitched. "So now we're on a
crusade?"

9:45 A.M.

Mt. Sinai Hospital

Stan popped another Zantac into his mouth and gulped it down with
water.

Dr. Radison was in with Carson now, checking out his vital signs
and whatever else surgeons did after their patients went through a traumatic
morning like the one Carson had just endured.

When Radison was done, it was his turn up.

He refilled his cup, drank some more water, then tossed away the
paper cup and headed back to the lounge. He began to pace. There was no point
in standing still, much less sitting down. He was a wreck, and his stomach was
killing him. He'd spent the whole morning trying to figure out what Carson
wanted to see him about. He'd sounded deadly serious. Had Whitman and Barton
paid him a morning visit? Had they actually accused Stan of trying to kill
Sabrina, on top of shooting Carson? Had they managed to convince Carson he was
guilty?

If so, what could he say in his own defense? Just his luck, he'd
been with Karen again. How many times could he spout that crap about being home
alone and falling asleep in front of the TV? Why was it that whenever some dire
crime occurred, his alibi was one he didn't dare provide?

Talk about being in deep shit.

The thought of Karen made him glance at his watch. Whitman and
Barton were still with Pruet's staff, probably grilling the hell out of them.
Normally, Karen was cool as a cucumber. But under the kind of pressure being
exerted, he prayed she'd hold up. Because if those detectives found out about
the two of them, he'd be in jail with the key thrown away.

He could hear the charges now. Collusion. Industrial espionage.
Expensive gifts provided in exchange for sexual favors and corporate secrets.
And motive for attempted murder? How about fear of his CEO-slash-oldest-friend
finding out what he'd been up to for the past twenty years and pulling the
plug? Couldn't get a better motive than that. Oh, and what about motive for
attempted murder number two, tonight at Dylan's place? Let's see. The CEO's
daughter had just been made company president. She was smart as a whip, and
already suspicious of Stan. Hell, he even had the perk of being one of the few
people who knew she'd spent the night at her boyfriend's.

It was a tidy little package. He'd be handcuffed and led away
before he could catch his breath, if he didn't do something to save himself.

But how?

He'd told Karen he was taking matters into his own hands, nipping
things in the bud. Well, he'd planned to. He'd already taken steps to achieve
that end, although he'd veered in a different direction than he'd originally
intended. But he had to live with himself— and, hopefully, with Karen. If those
damned detectives had only solved the crimes, he could have slithered off into
the sunset, leaving minimal upheaval in his wake. Instead, they'd come up empty
and now there'd been another murder attempt, which meant a stepped-up
investigation and an accusation waiting right around the bend. An accusation
against the most likely suspect— him.

He was damned if he told the truth and damned if he lied. And he'd
just run out of time. "Mr. Hager?"

Stan nearly jumped out of his skin as Dr. Radison approached him
from behind. He whipped around. "Yes?"

The doctor gave him a curious look. "Mr. Brooks is asking for
you. He's doing well, by the way. No lasting effects from this morning's shock,
if that's what's got you so on edge."

"Great." Stan's relief was as tangible as it was real.
Carson had to get well. He had to. Because no matter how things played out,
Stan had a painful and long-overdue confession to make.

"You can go down to his room now," Radison prodded.

"Oh. Thanks." Stan sucked in his breath, straightened his
shoulders, and marched down the hall. This whole meeting could be a no-biggie.
Maybe he was blowing the whole thing out of proportion. But he didn't think so.

He pushed open the door and walked in.

Carson was sitting up in bed. He did look stronger, and there were
only a few tubes and contraptions still hooked up to him, plus his IVs and that
shunt-thing in his arm used for the dialysis. But his expression was intense,
brooding, like he had something heavy on his mind.

Stan knew that look. And it wasn't a good sign.

"Hey," he greeted his friend, pulling up a chair and forcing
himself to sit down and appear relatively calm. "Radison says you're doing
great."

Angling his head slightly, Carson gave Stan a penetrating stare.
"I'm not going to beat around the bush. And I'm sure as hell not going to
sugarcoat what I have to say. Not to you. Not after what you've done. Whitman
and Barton are another story. They'll get the modified version. That way we can
minimize the trouble you get into. I'm not sure you deserve the protection. But
you're my friend, so you're getting it. As for now, when we're one-on-one,
you're going to hear exactly what I think of you. Then, we'll get into the song
and dance we're going to lay on the cops to save your ass."