Kane, Andrea (53 page)

"Obviously not." Susan's smile didn't quite reach her
eyes. "So when's the big day?"

"We're not sure yet. We're waiting until we know Carson's
prognosis, and have a better idea when he'll be on his feet and ready to walk
me down the aisle. Then, we'll set a date." Sabrina's voice was getting
raspier again. And the tingling in her nose was intensifying.

But it was the reason for it that was freaking her out.

She began to cough.

"Can I get you some water?" Susan asked at once.

"Please," Sabrina grated out.

Susan hurried out to the bottled water dispenser in the outer
office and began filling up a paper cup.

"Are you okay?" Dylan's lids were hooded, his expression
pensive.

"No." Sabrina squeezed her eyes shut as tears filled
them.

"Sabrina?" Dylan grabbed her arm. "What is
it?"

"It's my nose...." She dissolved into another spasm of
coughing. "After the water... let's get out of here."

"Yeah. Good idea."

When Susan walked in, Sabrina was taking slow, deep breaths
through her mouth.

"Goodness." Susan looked alarmed. "Are you all
right?"

"Smoke inhalation," Dylan explained, taking the cup and
handing it to Sabrina. "After she drinks this, I think I'll take her
outside for some air."

"Of course." Susan twisted at the tissue in her hands,
watching nervously as Sabrina sipped at the water.

Slowly, the fit of coughing subsided, but Sabrina's eyes continued
to water.

"Susan, I hope you understand... if we leave," she
managed, her voice breaking and scratchy. "We just wanted to... make sure
you were doing better... and to tell you our news."

Five minutes later, Sabrina sank back in the limo, leaning her
head against the cushioned neck rest, as the car made its way uptown.

"Better?" Dylan asked, smoothing her hair off her cheek.

"Actually, no. I feel sick to my stomach."

Dylan tensed. "The aftermath of last night?"

"No, the meeting with Susan."

A harsh glitter came into Dylan's eyes. "So you heard it,
too. Yeah, I'd say you have reason to feel sick. I just keep wracking my brain,
trying to come up with a logical explanation."

"Oh, there's a logical explanation, all right," Sabrina
bit out. "And it makes me ill."

The vehemence in Sabrina's tone gave Dylan pause. "Are we
talking about the same thing?" he demanded.

"We sure as hell are. You're talking about the fact that when
we were discussing the damage to your apartment, Susan said it was hard to
believe that a couple of bottles could do so much damage. How did she know it
was 'a couple' of bottles? The news didn't mention it. No one mentioned it. No
one knew but you. And the only people you told were the detectives and Carson,
none of whom have spoken with Susan since then. The detectives are with Pruet,
and Carson's sleeping."

"So who told Susan?"

"She already knew," Sabrina stated flatly.

"It sure as hell seems that way. But let's not jump the gun.
We can't be sure."

"We damned well can be." Sabrina glanced at her watch,
then flipped open her cell phone and dialed. "Detective Whitman? It's
Sabrina Radcliffe. Are you finished at Pruet's? Okay, good. Don't go back to
your precinct yet. I need to see you right away. It's urgent. Dylan and I are
on our way to Ruisseau. Could you meet us in my office ASAP? Thank you."

She punched end.

"Sabrina, what is it?" Dylan pressed. "I know what
Susan said sounds incriminating, but we can't assume she's involved without
having more evidence than that."

"We've got more evidence. It's right here." Sabrina
tapped her nose.

"Your reaction in Susan's office, you mean?"

"Yes, my reaction. The tingling in my nose just wouldn't go
away because of the odor."

"What odor?" Dylan's voice had gone deadly quiet.

Sabrina angled her head, met his gaze head-on. "The smell of
gasoline."

11:35 A.M.

Ruisseau Fragrance Corporation

The tension in Sabrina's office was so thick you could cut it with
a knife.

Dylan was perched at the edge of the desk, Sabrina was sitting
behind it, and Frank and Jeannie were seated across from them, digesting all
they'd just been told.

Jeannie tapped her pen against the side of her leg, her eyes
narrowed in concentration. "Let's start with the smell of gasoline. If
you're right, then one theory is that whoever made those Molotov cocktails was
in Ms. Lane's office."

Sabrina slapped a palm on her desk. "First of all, I
am
right.
Don't insult me. I know the smell of gasoline, and that was it. Second of all,
if Susan's only involvement is that her office was used as a laboratory—without
her knowledge or consent—how do you explain her little slip about the 'couple
of bottles' that were used? She had to know what was going on."

A frown. "That bugs me, too. My first instinct would be to
say that whoever threw those bottles last night and stabbed Russ Clark to death
is affiliated with YouthOp. Which makes sense. Not every street kid is
reformable. And those who aren't make the people in charge look bad. In the
case of YouthOp, that would be Ms. Lane. Maybe she's protecting the kid—and
herself, in the process."

"Bullshit." Dylan rose, pacing restlessly around the
room. "Susan would go to great lengths to keep her nose clean. But she
wouldn't protect a murderer, certainly not one who could lead us to the person
who shot Carson."

"You're
sure
she used the phrase 'a couple of
bottles'?" Frank asked for the third time.

"Yes." Sabrina glared at them. "My olfactory sense
is hypersensitive. My hearing's just plain old keen. Dylan's hearing is just as
good. And we both heard the same thing. Loud and clear. So can we move off that
sticking point?"

"I think we should," Jeannie agreed. She still looked
bugged. "Something's not connecting. Obviously these two murder attempts
are related. It doesn't make sense for them not to be. And yet, if Susan Lane
is the mastermind, I just can't think of an explanation for Carson Brooks's
shooting."

"As an aside, Susan knew Dylan and I were together last
night," Sabrina added to the mix. "Carson's been filling her in on
the progress of our relationship. Oh, and Russ Clark came to Ruisseau from
YouthOp. There's another tie-in between the two organizations."

"I hear you. And I'm not arguing with your logic. When it
comes to last night's attack, the YouthOp connection can't be ignored. So let's
work with your theory. Let's say the worst is true—that Ms. Lane hired one of
her kids, some lowlife scum, to kill you off. Maybe she wanted you out of the
way so no one would stand between her and her ambition to become Mrs. Carson
Brooks, at which time she could stake her claim on your father's fortune.
That's a solid motive. But it doesn't provide a single link to Mr. Brooks's
shooting. The weapon's easy. She could have gotten it from her scummy little
sidekick. But what about motive and opportunity? She had neither—no motive, not
as long as she was still Mr. Brooks's girlfriend and not his wife. And no
opportunity, not when she was en route to the U.S. Open."

Sabrina dragged a hand through her hair. "You're right,
especially about motive. There's not a damned thing she'd gain by killing
Carson. Plus, I'm convinced she loves him. She doesn't want him dead."

"Maybe killing him wasn't her intention," Dylan
suggested. "Maybe she just meant to hurt him. That way she could get loads
of publicity from hovering by his side, nursing him back to health. I can see
the headlines now: 'YouthOp's beautiful and benevolent leader lavishes her
beloved Carson Brooks, millionaire CEO of Ruisseau Fragrance Corporation, with
love and tender ministrations as he recovers from his wounds.'"

Frank shook his head. "If that were her plan, she'd have gone
about it differently. A bullet in the back? That runs a high risk of being
fatal. An inch in the wrong direction, and he'd be dead. It's too chancy. If
she wanted him hurt and needy, she'd have had her punk attack him in the alley,
steal his wallet, and break a few ribs. No, Mr. Newport. What happened in Mr.
Brooks's office was attempted murder."

Jeannie was studying her notes. "Let's get back to
opportunity, and see that through, before we even try to figure out motive. Ms.
Lane was at the U.S. Open. The game began at five after seven. She caught a cab
there, since Mr. Brooks had the limo. She'd have to leave her apartment by
sixish."

"It was a holiday," Frank reminded her. "That means
no rush hour."

"Still, there'd be holiday traffic heading in and out of the
city. Tuesday was going to be a workday. The world was coming back to life
after the summer. Anything less than an hour would be pushing it." Jeannie
chewed the end of her pen. "She'd need time to get dressed and
ready...."

"That would take an hour by itself," Dylan muttered.
"Between her wardrobe, her hair gunk, and her layers of makeup, it's a
full-time job."

A corner of Jeannie's mouth lifted. "Yeah, she is the put-together
type, isn't she? Okay, let's say an hour, including showering, makeup, the
works. That means she'd have to be in her apartment around five o'clock in
order to get to the Open on time. Mr. Brooks was shot at approximately
five-forty."

"It doesn't fit," Sabrina murmured.

"Unless..." Jeannie's head came up. "We're all
assuming Ms. Lane was on time for the match. Maybe she wasn't. Maybe she was
late. If she shot Mr. Brooks, for whatever reason, she could have been dressed
and ready when she headed over to Ruisseau. A light trench coat would have been
enough to hide whatever she was wearing so she couldn't be identified. It would
also provide her with deep enough pockets to conceal her weapon. She could have
fired the shot, left the building, and headed home. She'd be there by
six-fifteen, even in heels and walking leisurely, so she wouldn't look
suspicious. She'd have enough time to lose the overcoat, throw the gun in the
Hudson, and hail a cab by six-thirty. She'd be late, but not by a lot."

Frank considered that scenario, and nodded. "Makes sense.
It's certainly possible. The question is, how do we find out? We can interview
every damned cab driver in the city to find the one who drove her to Queens.
But that's going to take more time than we've got."

"We don't need to do that." Jeannie turned to Dylan.
"Mr. Brooks was a big tennis fan, right?"

"Right."

"Then my guess is, he was a regular at the U.S. Open. After
all, it's the premier tennis match in the world, and it's played right here in
Queens."

"He was. He went to every game he could. Why?"

Rather than answering his question, Jeannie asked another of her
own. "And when he attended these games, where did he sit?"

Realization dawned in Dylan's eyes. "He has a court-side box.
He reserves all six seats for the entire two weeks of the U.S. Open, for
important customers and Ruisseau employees."

"Bingo." Jeannie gave a triumphant nod. "So we have
a couple of options here. Let's get some footage of the televised network
coverage of that Monday night match and see if we can spot Mr. Brooks's
courtside box, which should be empty except for Ms. Lane. That should make it
easier to spot her arrival. Also, let's find out who reserved tickets in the
nearby courtside boxes. Ms. Lane's a very attractive woman. I'd bet money that
someone noticed when she got there, and if she was in her seat when the game
began."

"That's brilliant." Sabrina felt her adrenaline begin to
pump.

"Don't get too excited," Jeannie warned. "At least
not yet. Besides, even if we do find proof that she was late, there's still the
problem of motive. We have none. We've got to take this one step at a time.
Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"Okay. You're right."

Inclining her head, Jeannie shot Sabrina a probing look.
"Tell me something, what made you become suspicious of Ms. Lane to begin
with? I have a gut feeling you didn't go down to YouthOp for a friendly visit.
I think you went to check out Ms. Lane. Am I right?"

"Yes." Sabrina met directness with directness. "In
my case, I can't say the word suspicious applied, at least not yet. I was
bothered, especially after talking to Dylan. And I was protective, since Carson
is my father, and Susan's a big part of his life."

"What about you, Mr. Newport? I take it your feelings in the
matter were stronger."

"Stronger and more definitive—yes." Dylan was equally
frank. "I've known Susan longer than Sabrina. I've spent a fair amount of
time in her company, both with and without Carson. And she makes me feel
uneasy, irked, and worst of all, mistrustful. I could elaborate with a few more
adjectives, but you get my drift."