Kane, Andrea (8 page)

It was a statement, not a question. Sabrina answered it anyway.
"I think so, yes."

"Fine. I'll go with you."

Sabrina was touched but not surprised by her mother's selfless
generosity. And she was all prepared with her answer.

"No you won't," she refused gently. "You just got
back yourself. You're worn out and probably a week behind on your sketches. You
need to get past this and get back to work."

"That's not likely to happen."

"You'll make it happen. You love your work. In the meantime,
you're going to have your hands full. Breaking this news to Grandmother and
Grandfather will be an ordeal unto itself. If I know you, you'll want to drive
down to Boston and tell them right away, so they're not caught off guard."

Gloria couldn't deny that one. She gave a frustrated sigh, torn
between familial obligation and maternal support.

Sabrina helped ease the impasse. "Mother, let's be practical.
We have a better chance of keeping my hospital visit hush-hush if I go alone.
You're well known on the Manhattan fashion scene. I'm not." Sabrina cut
off Gloria's protest, giving her arm a warm squeeze. "I appreciate your
offer. But it's better this way. I'll make the initial appearance on my own.
You, in the meantime, deal with Grandmother and Grandfather. Then—assuming I
take this any further—we'll talk about emotional support, all ways
around."

Reluctantly, Gloria nodded. "I suppose that makes sense.
Let's not get ahead of ourselves. After all, who knows how this will play
out?"

"Exactly," Sabrina agreed, too tired to analyze the past
or contemplate the future. "Who knows?"

Wednesday, September 7th, 8:15 A.M.

Mt. Sinai Hospital

Detectives Eugenia Whitman and Frank Barton had been partners for
ten years. Around the Midtown North Precinct, they were known as
"Stick" and "Stone"; Eugenia for her beanstalk figure and
stinging interrogation style, and Frank for his solid build and blunt delivery.
Eugenia was subtle in approach and patient in timing— until she closed in for
the kill—at which point, look out. Frank was the ultimate Type A, a
cut-to-the-chase kind of guy to whom temperance was an ordeal. He readily
admitted that he lacked Eugenia's patience and people skills, but was the first
to add that what he lacked in finesse, he more than made up for in good,
old-fashioned gut instinct.

Outside work, their lives were as different as their
personalities. Frank was a homebody. Happily married to the same woman for
fifteen years, he liked tinkering in his workroom, cheering at his kids' soccer
games, and investing in the stock market to ensure his family's future. He was
battling middle age—and its accompanying spare tire around his middle—with a
vengeance, dieting and going to the gym, and hating every minute of it.

Eugenia—or Jeannie as she preferred to be called— was divorced,
and relieved to be so, after a five-year try at marriage. During that time, she
discovered that permanently entwining her life with someone else's was
definitely not for her. Since then, she'd been very much her own person,
indulging her need for spontaneity and diversity of interests through avenues
ranging from solitary excursions to the Museum of Natural History to nights out
clubbing with her friends. A self-proclaimed junk-food addict, she snacked
nonstop, yet never gained an ounce. Thanks to a super-fast metabolism, she
still tipped the scales at exactly the same hundred and thirty pounds as she
had the day she'd reached her current height of five foot eleven, back in the
eighth grade.

Frank and Jeannie never socialized together when they were off
duty. But when they were on duty, well, everyone at the precinct agreed that
they were a formidable team that lived up to the adage "sticks and stones
may break your bones"—although their way of breaking guilty suspects was a
lot more civil, but no less effective.

This morning what they wanted to break was this case.

They arrived at the precinct early, gulping down their first cup
of coffee while watching the early business news that included the breaking
story of Carson Brooks's shooting. As soon as the news clip ended, they put in
a call to Dr. Radison, and inquired about Carson Brooks's condition. Hearing he
was conscious but undergoing tests, they left the station, picked up some
breakfast, and headed over to Mt. Sinai.

The place was hopping when their Ford Crown Victoria pulled into
the hospital parking lot, TV news vans lined up as close to the entrance as
they could get, business correspondents and their camera crews getting set up
for whatever medical updates they could obtain.

"They're circling like hawks," Frank noted from behind
the steering wheel. He pulled off to the side and parked where they could keep
an eye on things, opening up the brown bag that contained his breakfast.

"Security's tight," Jeannie assured him, popping her
third Dunkin' Munchkin into her mouth. "The press won't be getting in anytime
soon. In fact, they won't be getting anything at all, except the prepared
statements Dr. Radison issues."

"Yeah, you're right." Frank scowled at the dry bagel,
taking an unenthusiastic bite and washing it down with a gulp of black coffee.

"That bad, huh?" his partner inquired, licking the final
crumbs of chocolate glaze off her fingers, and reaching into the box for a
powdered Munchkin.

"Worse." He shot her an irked look. "Do you have to
look like you're enjoying those things so much? It's bad enough having to smell
donuts when I'm eating this piece of cardboard and counting these goddamned
points. But, I sure as hell don't need to watch you suck down every drop of
glaze and every speck of sugar. Cut it out, Jeannie."

Her pale brows rose, and she reached for a napkin, wiping her
fingers in a more conventional way. "My, aren't we in a foul mood today.
Ah, last night was your weekly weigh-in. What happened—were you up a
pound?"

"I maintained," he grumbled. Giving up on the rock-hard
bagel, he tossed it back into the bag. "That's worse than gaining. At
least when I gain, I've had fun doing it. When I maintain, I've eaten zip, but
my body doesn't cooperate. So I get on that goddamned scale, and my Weight
Watchers leader looks at me with those cow eyes, like I'm a kid who needs a
hug. Then she gives me a pep talk that makes me want to puke. And I'm right
back where I started."

Jeannie's lips twitched. "Sounds like a blast."

"It's not." Frank took another gulp of coffee.
"Neither is this case. And keeping things quiet until this morning was a
major pain in the ass."

All humor vanished. "Yeah, it delayed grilling Brooks's
competitors, that's for sure." Jeannie rubbed her temples, pensively.
"On the other hand, we had enough conversations to know that Brooks has lots
of money, lots of visibility, and, as a result, lots of enemies. Okay, maybe
enemies is too strong a word. Let's say people with a motive to get rid of
him."

"True. But how many of them had access to his office? Or to
the building, for that matter?"

"All the assailant would need is a key and access to the
freight entrance," Jeannie pointed out. "It was Labor Day. Security
was light. Two guys and a camera, both stationary. Remember, we're not talking
about a high security building here. Eleven West 57th's got a bunch of
corporate offices in it. Ruisseau's top-secret stuff is done at the research
facilities in Jersey."

"But the man who invented C'est Moi wasn't in Jersey. He was
in his office, right here in Manhattan. So was his attorney. Yeah, there's the
freight entrance. But there's also the obvious. No one but Brooks and Newport
was seen entering the building that day."

Jeannie propped her elbow against the window and turned to face
her partner. "You really think Dylan Newport did it?"

A shrug. "He's got a sketchy background. He'd get big bucks
and controlling interest in the company if Brooks died."

"Yeah, and he was the only one who knew Brooks had a
daughter—one who might very well inherit if Brooks found her and changed his
will before leaving this world. That's more than enough motive. But it doesn't
answer my question. Do you think Newport did it?"

Frank polished off his coffee and crushed the Styrofoam cup.
"I can't decide. Part of me thinks he did. Part of me thinks he's too
smart to be that dumb. We know he wasn't lying about Brooks not seeing his
assailant. Not only did Brooks confirm the story, but the path the bullet took
tells us that the shot was fired from an angle that was behind and below the
victim. The shooter was either hunched down or crouched in the doorway when he
discharged that bullet. There was minimal chance of being spotted."

"The other thing is I can't help feeling that Newport's
concern for Brooks is real. Either that, or he's one hell of an actor."
Jeannie rotated her shoulders in a counterclockwise direction to ease her
tension. "As for entry keys, every employee at Ruisseau had them. Plus,
during those few minutes we had with Brooks, he said that the doors to Ruisseau
and to his office, were unlocked. Which means that the rest of the building
employees, including security and maintenance—anyone with keys to the
building—are suspect. So are their family and friends outside work who have
access to those keys. Add to that the fact that the assailant could have
bypassed the surveillance camera by avoiding the lobby and taking the stairs,
and we're back to square one."

"I realize Brooks was half out of it when we talked to him.
Even so, he was pissed as hell when we implied Newport was a suspect. His glare
could've lanced through us, and he underlined the words 'no way' about six
times. He's devoted to the guy."

"That's going to complicate the investigation," Jeannie
murmured. "And it's not just Newport he's defensive about. That glare
didn't go away. He's protective of all his employees, whether or not they're
personal favorites of his. It's kind of like family loyalty. I'm sure it'll go
both ways. We'll soon find out. I doubt we'll get much cooperation from his
staff. But now that the news about Brooks is out, we can get the investigation
into full swing. We'll head over to Ruisseau right after Radison gives us an
update and lets us in to see Brooks."

"If
he
lets us in to see
Brooks."

"He will. Brooks is conscious. We know that much. We also
know that Radison's taking him off the respirator and endotracheal tube to see
how he does on his own. All we need are a few minutes with him so we can get a
better handle on the personal rapport he has with his employees, and which of
them might have it in for him. Brooks isn't going to bad-mouth anyone, so we'll
have to read between the lines and watch his body language."

"In the meantime, do we tell him about his daughter?"

Jeannie contemplated her partner's question, then gave a
thoughtful shake of her head. "No. Not yet. Let's see if Dylan Newport
shows up with her like he said. Give him a day to play this out before we stick
our noses into it."

"For Brooks's sake or the Radcliffes'?" Frank asked. He
and Jeannie had done their homework, checking into the name that appeared on
the slip of paper Dylan Newport had given them. They knew just what kind of a
hornet's nest this was going to stir up.

"For
everyone's
sake," Jeannie replied.
"Including ours. This is a personal situation. Considering the players, it
could get very sticky."

"Yeah." Frank made a disgusted sound. "Talk about
complications we didn't need. It would be a lot easier if Brooks's daughter had
turned out to be an average woman. Instead, she's part of a big-time country
club family. This whole thing is like a soap opera—one with lots of potential
lawsuits."

"You got that right. It's a pretty safe bet that if Gloria
Radcliffe never told Brooks she was pregnant, much less that he had a daughter,
the Radcliffes aren't going to be thrilled about being dragged into this."

"I can't figure out Gloria Radcliffe being involved with
Carson Brooks back then—not in a long-term affair or a one-night stand. He was
a college-age nobody when their daughter was conceived. Gloria Radcliffe was an
established designer and a socialite in her mid-thirties. What's the deal with
that?"

Jeannie shrugged. "He's a charismatic guy. Maybe he was sexy
even as a twenty-two-year-old kid. Lots of women are attracted to guys that
age. Why—don't you know rich men of sixty who are shacking up with girls young
enough to be their granddaughters?"

"Yeah, and it makes me sick. But you're just proving my
point. There's usually an agenda in situations like that. Where's the agenda
here? Gloria Radcliffe is a class act. Back then, she was a knockout. You saw
the newspaper clippings we dug up. Between her money and her looks, believe me,
she'd have men breaking down her door."

"Fine, then I guess Carson Brooks just turned her on. He's
far from an average guy. Maybe he knew exactly what women are about, even then.
Remember, this is the guy who invented C'est Moi."

"Yeah, right. How could I forget."

Jeannie gulped down the last of her coffee. "Speaking of
C'est Moi, what do you think about the idea that someone was trying to silence
Brooks because he was the only one who knew the formula?"