Scent of Danger

Stan's jaw tightened. "Carson's a genius. He could have taught college-level chemistry when he was in eighth grade. And he didn't drop out of high school; he was kicked out for being a smart-ass. He got his diploma the year we met, not that he needed it. He knew more, and taught others more, than any professor ever could. He made his first million, actually several million, by age thirty. Oh, and for the record, he never lied to the kids he tutored. They knew he didn't have any formal education. But guess what? When they saw those A's on their exams, they didn't care."

Barton crossed one leg over the other, his gaze narrowing a bit. "That was admiration you heard, not censure, Mr. Hager. Why are you so defensive? More important, why are you so jumpy? You've been a wreck since we walked in. Actually, longer. Since this investigation began."

"You're right. I have. Look, Detective, my oldest friend's been shot. His life's hanging in the balance. That's thrown me for a loop. On top of that, I'm operating on zero sleep. When I'm not at the hospital, I'm here, pushing to run this company the way Carson would want it run. I think that's grounds to be on edge, don't you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "So tell me, what else do you want to know?"

"What I want, is to get back to my original question," Whitman responded, like a damned dog with a bone. "Since you know Mr. Brooks for so long, can you think of anyone from your past who might have it in for him?"

With a half-laugh, Stan shook his head. "You're joking. We weren't exactly high-visibility types. We were dirt poor, Detective. Punks who were lucky to afford a room. We shared a hole-in-the-wall in those days—a cockroach-ridden dump in a downtown tenement that was barely big enough to hold two mattresses and a lamp. Carson didn't have a pot to piss in. Believe me, no one viewed him as a future candidate for making it big. So if you're picturing him being stalked by someone from our youth, someone who bided his time in the hopes of making a windfall, you can forget it."

"That's not what I was picturing. But, fine. Let's play this your way. What about later? Thirty years is a long time, providing lots of opportunity to meet people and form relationships."

"Most of that time was filled by the blood, sweat, and tears of building Ruisseau. That doesn't leave much time for forming close personal attachments. There were women, if that's what you're asking. Plenty of them. But never anyone serious. Never anyone who'd stand to gain anything if Carson were out of the way."

"Interesting the way you keep getting back to money," Whitman noted. "There are other reasons to kill someone, you know."

"A woman scorned, you mean." Stan tried that route, shrugging away the idea. "First of all, Carson's not the sentimental type. He doesn't do the head-over-heels-in-love thing. Never has, never will. I think that's why he never married. He's already married—to Ruisseau. He also doesn't mislead women. They know where they stand. It's Ruisseau first, sex and recreation second. So none of his ex-lovers would be home nursing a broken heart. It doesn't fit. Besides, they've all been out of the picture for a long time now. Carson and Susan have been exclusive for well over a year. She's nuts about him, and he seems very happy with her. So, no, I don't think this is a spurned-lover deal."

"I don't remember suggesting it was." Whitman leaned forward, staring him down in a way that said she'd grown tired of his evasion tactics. "Actually, my thoughts were going in an entirely different direction. I was wonde

ring if there's anyone you can think of who might carry a grudge against Mr. Brooks? Anyone who's known him for years and has watched his success explode like wildfire—with women, with business, with pretty much everything he's touched? Anyone who might have felt cheated by that success?"

"Anyone, Detective? Or me?" Stan went for the direct confrontation approach, slapping his palms on his desk. "Why don't you ask me straight out? Better yet, I'll save you the trouble. Do I hold a grudge? No. For what? Carson's worked for everything he has. No one handed it to him. Sure, he's got a lot going for him, but he never took the easy way out, and he never forgot his friends. Which brings me to your next question: Do I feel cheated? Nope. Carson was always incredibly generous with me. When he started Ruisseau, he took me right along with him. When the company's profits skyrocketed, so did mine.

"Now, I'll answer the questions you're about to ask.

Am I grateful? Yup. More than you can imagine. Have I ever wished I could trade places with Carson? You bet. He's got it all, and only a fool wouldn't wish for the same. Would I kill him to get it? Not for all the money, power, or position in the world. Oh, and one more thing. I have no desire to be CEO of Ruisseau, even if Carson asked me to be. I'm collapsing under the weight of that position right now, and it's just a temporary arrangement. I've got more than enough on my plate being the company's COO. My job's exciting, challenging, and rewarding. I like coming to work each day. I've got a seven-figure income, a retirement plan that'll keep me living in style for the rest of my life, the respect of my colleagues, and the pleasure of working with people who are also my friends. Does that about cover it?"

"If you say so." Whitman put away her pen. "Except for one thing—you don't happen to own a gun, do you?"

"No," he bit out.

"Okay, Mr. Hager. I trunk that's enough." Barton rose, exchanging a quick glance with his partner. "We'll be on our way now. If you think of anything else, you know where to find us. And if we need you, we know where to find you."

Stan waited until the detectives had gone. Then, he shut the door behind them, crossing over to drop into his plush leather chair. He propped his elbows on his desk, put his head in his hands. He should feel relieved. He didn't. He was far from out of the woods. Any one of several people could tip the scales against him. Starting with his ex-wives. If Whitman and Barton talked to either Lily or Diane, it was highly possible something would be said to raise their antennae.

And then there was Ferguson. He was the biggest potential liability of all. If he caved under pressure, or got scared enough, he might slip. One wrong word and Dick and Jane Tracy would come rushing back over here. Then what would he say? How could he explain the situation without making it look as seedy as it was? And how could he keep the detectives from making the assumption that, if he'd gone this far, he'd have the motive and the incentive to go the rest of the way?

Yanking open his drawer, Stan shoved aside a copy of the memo from Pruet calling an emergency meeting in Paris, and pulled out the bottle that contained his ulcer medication. His insides were on fire. They hadn't stopped burning since Monday. He popped a pill in his mouth, then went over to his office's fully stocked bar, pouring himself a glass of mineral water. He threw back his head, swallowed his medication in two hard gulps.

Talk about paying for his mistakes in spades. He was doing that. Every day of his life.

Being second best sucked.

7:40 P.M.

Plaza Athenée

Gloria Radcliffe arrived at the hotel in time to check into her room, freshen up, and go downstairs for a cocktail. She needed one.

The visit with her parents had gone pretty much as expected. They were angry, shocked, worried, and a few other choice adjectives they'd tossed her way.

She was weary. She was also worried. She'd reached Sabrina by cell phone when her plane landed. Her daughter had visited Carson Brooks twice that day. She'd then been whisked away by limo to a business meeting in Englewood Cliffs, and was now on her way back to Manhattan. Riding with her was Ruisseau's COO and its corporate counsel—Dylan Newport, the man who'd brought Sabrina to New York in the first place. Sabrina had asked Gloria to meet her at the hotel around nine o'clock for a late dinner, at which time she'd fill her in.

Well, that left an hour and twenty minutes. Gloria could spend it agonizing over things she couldn't change and wasn't privy to, or she could take a proactive step that had to be taken sooner or later.

Sooner was better for the psyche than later.

She turned on her cell phone, punched in the number the operator provided.