Kane, Andrea (52 page)

The knot in Stan's gut tightened, and he paled as his worst fears
were confirmed. "You honestly believe I tried to kill Sabrina
tonight?" he blurted out. "Worse, you think I tried to kill
you?"
He groped for his pills, popped another into his mouth. He didn't give a
damn how many he'd taken. His insides were on fire.

He reached over to Carson's tray. Taking a glass, he poured some
water from the pitcher with a hand that shook so badly the water sloshed
everywhere. Then, he swallowed the pill and put down the glass. He was
sweating, and he yanked out a handkerchief, mopping at his forehead. "Christ,
you really think I'm a killer. The scary part is, I can't blame you. But I'd
never... I'd never..." He broke off, dropping his head in his hands as he
realized how lame anything he said would sound.

"Hey." Carson's voice brought his head up. There was an
odd expression on his friend's face—a combination of sorrow, pity, and
nostalgia. "You've suffered a hell of a lot, haven't you?" Carson
muttered. "I guess in many ways that's punishment enough. No, Stan, I
don't think you tried to kill anyone. In fact, I know you didn't. It's time the
cops knew, too. So later today, we're going to tell them."

Taken aback by Carson's response, Stan turned his palms up in a
baffled gesture. "I've already told them. Repeatedly."

"They need proof. You've got it. Give them your alibi."

"What alibi? I was home watching TV and—"

"You weren't home watching TV," Carson interrupted.
"You were in Tuckahoe, screwing Karen. Just like you were last night when
Sabrina and Dylan were attacked. Once the cops know that, they'll go away."
Silence.

"And before you ask, I know everything. About Karen, about
the updates on Pruet, about the twenty years it's been going on. The
works."

Stan sank weakly back in his seat. "I don't believe this. Why
didn't you call me on it? Why didn't you do something, like throw my ass out
the door?"

"Because you're a better COO than you give yourself credit
for. Also, because you're my oldest friend. And don't make me sound quite so
soft and squishy. I
did
do something. I kept tabs on you like you
wouldn't believe. My PI practically lives up your ass. I also made sure you
were isolated from any projects that might entice you to use what you'd learned
from Karen. You have Dylan to thank for that. He's a hell of a lawyer. He kept
you clean, and now he's laid out a plan to help keep your ass out of jail. But
before I get into that, tell me two things. Where do things stand with
Ferguson, and what the hell were you shredding when I called today?"

"Dylan's in on this, too?" Stan managed in a faint
voice.

"Damn straight. I'm not a lawyer. I needed to protect
Ruisseau. That's what I pay Dylan for. Now answer my questions—Ferguson and the
shredding."

Ferguson. The shredding. Jesus, Carson really did know everything.
And apparently, so did Dylan.

"I'll answer your questions. Just tell me who else
knows."

"Sabrina. I told her a few hours ago. Whitman and Barton will
come later. I wanted to talk to you first."

Nodding, Stan rose, drawing in a breath and running a shaky hand
through his hair. "Ferguson's off the hook. I told him so this morning.
What I was shredding were any personal notes from Karen, copies of Pruet's
internal memos, and details I'd jotted down based on what Karen passed along. I
never used any of it, by the way. I'm not sure I could have brought myself to,
even if they'd been needed. I felt like a shit. I just needed to feel in
control." A hard swallow. "No point in telling you what you already
know. Just tell me what you don't know, and I'll fill you in."

"How did Ferguson find out what was going on?"

"He saw Karen and me come out of a hotel together— twice. We
were rarely that stupid or careless. Just our luck, the two times we met in the
city instead of at her place, Roland spotted us. He recognized Karen from some
industry event they'd both attended. The second time he saw us together, he
also overheard us saying some guilty good-byes and making plans to meet at her
place where no one from Pruet's or Ruisseau could see us. Our conversation
sounded pretty incriminating. The next morning, Roland confronted me. I freaked
out. I gave him two personal bonus payments of ten thousand dollars each. He's
been a twitching wreck ever since. Like I said, I let him off the hook today. I
told him my plans. Needless to say, he was relieved."

Carson's eyes narrowed. "Your plans? What plans?"

Stan planted his feet firmly apart, and crossed his arms over his
chest. "I won't lie to you. There's been too much of that already.
Originally, I was just going to shred anything that could incriminate me or
hurt Ruisseau, then bribe Roland with as much money as it took to get him to
resign his position and to move far, far away. I told myself I'd make it up to
you. I'd comb the globe until I found the best VP of human resources known to
mankind to replace Roland. I'd never discuss business with Karen again. I'd
bust my ass to help Sabrina, and to make her transition as easy as possible.
I'd do it all, and I'd do it with the morals of a boy scout. But guess what?
That bogus attempt at altruism didn't work. I discovered that my conscience has
a lower threshold than I thought. It wouldn't shut up. Also, my insides feel
like shredded wheat. My peptic ulcer has graduated to a bleeding ulcer. I'm
killing myself, and I'm not ready to die. The only way to stop that from
happening is by taking a major stand—now."

His shrug with filled with weariness and defeat. "Look,
Carson, I can't keep fighting to be what I'm not. So I changed my original
strategy, decided to go about things differently. Instead of bribing Roland, I
gave him back his integrity this morning. I told him I was going to resign as
soon as the cops caught whoever shot you, at which point I could tell you
everything and walk off into the sunset. Actually, the conversation we're
having now changes that timing. Since you already know everything, we can give
the cops my alibi, tell them whatever you and Dylan decided on, and I can
resign now rather than later."

"The hell you can." Carson's eyes blazed and his jaw
set. "Let me get this straight. You're saying you figured that if you
spilled your guts to me now, I'd assume that anyone who'd screw around with my
company, might also put a bullet in my back."

"Something like that, yeah."

"Well, you were wrong. Your logic sucks. Just like it sucks
that you never came to me, not in twenty years, and told me what was really
going on with you and Karen. It sucks that you thought I'd just throw you to
the wolves. It sucks that you didn't think I'd get it that you were in love
with this woman. It sucks that you don't realize how well I know you, that I
know how nuts you are about proving yourself. It sucks that you never caught on
to the fact that I feel guilty as hell for making you feel so desperate that
you had to go to these lengths to stay on top. And you know what sucks most of
all? That after all we've been through together, all the years we've been
friends, I had more faith in you than you had in me. Or in yourself, for that
matter. You really are an asshole."

"That's a fair assessment. As for the last part, thanks for
the compliment." Stan smiled faintly, his tone as wry as his expression.
"It's good to know that, even with my life coming apart at the seams, some
things never change."

"Yeah. Things like our friendship. And your job. You're not
leaving Ruisseau. You're not going anywhere. Try handing me your resignation.
I'll tear it up and throw it in your face. Now sit the hell down," Carson
ordered, pointing at the chair. "We'll go over the explanation Dylan laid
out for us to share with the detectives. It's pretty close to the truth. Once
we're in sync, we'll contact Whitman and Barton, and arrange for you to give
them your statement. Oh, and call Karen. Let her know what's going on. Tell her
she's keeping her job and you're keeping yours. I'll give Pruet a call. If he
feels better, Karen can sign a confidentiality agreement. But I doubt he'll
insist on that. He'll be satisfied with her verbal assurance that whatever
happens in her professional day isn't discussed outside the office. As for you,
the employment agreement you signed as COO already binds you to maintain
confidentiality about Ruisseau.

"And one more thing." Carson shot Stan a no-bullshit
look. "On a personal note, would you get off your butt and ask this woman
to marry you? It's the only way you're ever going to get this marriage thing
right."

"I will." Stan's throat was working convulsively as he
lowered himself into the chair. He stared at the floor, and there was no
sarcasm in his tone when he spoke, only gratitude and humility. "Thanks,
Carson. I said it when we lived in that cockroach-ridden dump, and I'll say it
now. You're one hell of a friend."

10:25 A.M.

YouthOp, East 23rd Street

Whatever tranquilizer Susan had taken hadn't done much good.

She was shaky and uptight as she ushered Sabrina and Dylan into
her office.

"I hope our dropping in isn't an inconvenience," Sabrina
said.

"Not at all. I'm touched that you're here." Susan took out
a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. Then, she sat down behind her desk, folding
her manicured hands in front of her. "It's good to see for myself that
you're both all right. I just wish I'd known you were coming. I'd have had a fresh
pot of coffee ready, maybe brought in some muffins from that little bakery down
the street."

"Thanks. But we just downed an entire pot of coffee. Any more
caffeine and I think we'll twitch." Sabrina smiled politely, settling
herself in a chair and glancing at her surroundings.

Okay, Dylan was right about the office. It looked like a Maurice
Villency showroom, all cream leather and exquisite lacquered wood. Even the
paintings on the wall screamed Upper East Side gallery.

Interesting. Especially since the rest of YouthOp's modest-sized
office space was a complete one-eighty— inexpensive, spartanly furnished rooms
with basic berber carpeting, and metal desks and file cabinets.

"Your office is lovely," Sabrina commented, pausing as
the scratchiness in her voice swallowed her words. Simultaneously, she became
aware of a disturbing odor aggravating her nose—an odor that sidetracked her
big-time.

"Pardon me?" Susan inquired, brows drawn in question.

Sabrina forced herself to keep it together. She couldn't let her
reaction show. She had to shelve it, to think about the implications later.

"Your office," she repeated, operating on autopilot.
"It's lovely. Did you decorate it yourself?"

"Actually, no. I worked with a professional decorator."
Susan didn't look the least bit put off by the question. On the other hand, her
fingers were still trembling from the upset of the day. "He's on the
expensive side, but he's phenomenally talented. For months I was on the fence
about whether or not I should spend thousands on my office. But, the truth is,
I'm in this room over fifty hours a week. So, in the end, I decided to splurge.
I sold one of my stocks and went for the works. I've never been sorry. I'm far
more motivated when I feel good in my surroundings." She gestured at her
stylish taupe suit, striving for a lighter note. "It's like putting on one
of your mother's designs when you're going through a bad time. It lifts your
spirits—most of the time," she added ruefully, clearly self-conscious
about the emotional state she was in.

She drew a calming breath, then glanced at Dylan. "I should
give you my decorator's name and number. From that news report I heard, it
sounds like the explosion and fire at your apartment were bad. The place must
be in shambles."

"The ground floor's a disaster," Dylan confirmed with a
nod. "Aside from that, I got lucky. The firefighters put out the flames
before they could spread upstairs. But, yeah, I'm going to have to do some
major renovating. The hallway as I knew it is gonzo."

"Wow." Susan shook her head in dismay. "I'm hardly
an expert on Molotov cocktails, but it's hard to believe a couple of bottles
could do that amount of damage." A concerned frown. "Where will you
live in the meantime—at Carson's place?"

A heartbeat of silence.

"No. Dylan's staying with me," Sabrina supplied, seizing
the awkward moment by transforming it into an opportunity to deliver their big
news. "Which brings me to the one happy development we were able to share
with Carson today. Dylan and I are getting married."

"Oh, my." Susan blinked, then leaned across the desk to
squeeze both their hands. Her own palms were icy. "That's wonderful. It's
just the outcome Carson was hoping..." Her voice trailed off.

"You don't need to protect him," Dylan assured her
dryly. "We're already onto the fact that he was doing a little
not-so-subtle matchmaking. Fortunately, he didn't have much work to do."