Scent of Danger

"How can you be so sure? Are you saying that no one here was unhappy or disgruntled? That no one ever felt pissed about the way he or she was treated, or bitter about being passed over for someone else when it came time for a promotion?"

"Of course I'm not saying that," Roland replied defensively. "But feeling angry or overlooked is a far cry from taking a shot at someone."

"I agree. Someone else doesn't." Barton leaned forward. "We've spoken to all the company VPs, other than Claude Phelps, the VP of research and development. His name's come up several times in our discussions. What's your take on him?"

They were starting to head into choppy waters.

Roland kept his features schooled, opting for a basic rundown rather than a personal critique. "Claude's office isn't located here. It's at our New Jersey research facility, for obvious reasons. He makes weekly trips into the city to attend management committee meetings. The rest of the time he stays in touch by phone or e-mail. Oh, and Carson rides out to Englewood Cliffs a lot, maybe three or four times a week when he's working on something. So he sees Claude pretty frequently."

"Yes. That much we already knew." Whitman was staring at him. He hoped that didn't mean she'd interpreted his reply as being intentionally ambiguous. "We also know that Phelps has been with Mr. Brooks since the company's inception."

"Pretty much. Claude started about six months after Ruisseau got off the ground. Stan Hager's the only employee who's been here longer. He and Carson knew each other as kids."

"Stan Hager. Right. The chief operating officer." Whitman's clipped tone said she wasn't about to be diverted. "We already spoke briefly with him. When we saw him today, he was on his way to the hospital. We arranged to have an in-depth talk with him there." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Let's get back to Claude Phelps, shall we? I asked for your opinion, not a job description."

Roland made one last-ditch effort, just in case whatever they'd heard about Claude was vaguer than he thought. "I don't know him very well. We rarely see each other, except at meetings, and we never socialize outside the office. He takes his work seriously, that much I can tell you. He only uses a fraction of his vacation time each year." Seeing the expectant look on Whitman's face, Roland realized she was waiting for more. "What in particular do you want to know?"

"For one thing, why you're uncomfortable talking about the guy. Is it because he's been a problem lately, like we've been told? Or do you just dislike him?"

There was no way out of this one. Not when it was clear they'd been told about Claude's disruptive conduct He had to open up. If he didn't, someone else would fill in the missing pieces and the cops would be right back in his office for details—and answers as to why he hadn't leveled with them right away.

Still, he had to handle this delicately.

Lowering his gaze, Roland steepled his fingers in front of him. "My personal feelings aren't the issue here. I just don't want to bad-mouth someone who's been a loyal employee for twenty-seven years. But, fine. Since you've already heard bits and pieces, yeah, Claude's had some problems recently."

"What kind of problems?"

"The last few times he showed up at the New York office, he'd been drinking. He wasn't out-and-out drunk," Roland hastened to clarify. "But there was definitely alcohol on his breath. And his behavior was out of character."

"In what way?"

"Claude's kind of a quiet guy, keeps to himself. On these occasions, he was loud and belligerent. He made a couple of unpleasant scenes during each visit. In his defense, he's taken quite a verbal beating since the release of C'est Moi—everything from friendly ribbing to nasty comments. A few business analysts have gone so far as to speculate bluntly on why Carson needs Claude at all. That's a low blow, especially for Claude. His professional ego's always been a little shaky. He's taking this very hard."

"So it seems." Whitman didn't look surprised by anything he'd said, although she did jot down an additional note or two. "Okay, so the bottom line is that Phelps is freaked out because Carson Brooks came up with the bank-breaking formula for C'est Moi, and that, as a result, Phelps is being labeled a lame duck."

"That pretty much sums it up, yes."

"You said he's taking this hard. Explain."

Roland gave an uncomfortable cough. "Like I said, the last few times he showed up here, he'd been drinking. He dropped in on a few executives, rantin

g about how he was being cut out of C'est Moi's success and squeezed out of his job. In one case he went so far as to claim he'd come up with the preliminary formula. He ruffled a lot of feathers. Four written complaints were filed with my office. Eventually, I was asked to have a talk with him, and to issue a gentle warning about his behavior. I did. He didn't take it well."

"Meaning?"

"He blew up at me. He called me a few unpleasant names, then paced around my office, waving his arms and yelling that Ruisseau would be nothing without him. He threatened to sue the company if he was fired, said he'd show Carson just how essential he was."

"Those were his exact words?"

"Yes."

"Did anyone else hear him say that?"

Roland shrugged. "It's possible. His voice was raised at the time. Either my secretary or someone passing by my office might have overheard. If so, I haven't gotten wind of it. That wouldn't surprise me. Ruisseau's a tight organization. We don't gossip about each other."

"Yeah," Barton muttered. "We noticed. We've got to pry information out of you people with a crowbar."

"That's loyalty, Detective. It's one of the traits Carson Brooks insists on from his staff."