Scent of Danger

"Feel better?" Carson asked.

"Um-hum." Sabrina's wheels were turning, this time in a slightly different direction. "Carson, would you mind if I met with Stan privately and told him what was on my mind? Not about the shooting, obviously, but about my concern that it's me who's making him ill at ease? I think I could help smooth things over without pushing any buttons or rubbing the second-best thing in his face. Plus, I want to give him a heads-up about the announcement we're making this afternoon. He deserves to know ahead of time, not find out along with everyone else."

"That's fine with me. Go for it. The more you bond with Stan, the more productive your work relationship will be..."

"... and, as a result, the more productive Ruisseau will be," Sabrina finished for him.

"You got it."

"Done." Sabrina rose. "I'm out of here. I've got a million things to do. First up, is calling my mother and grandparents. I'll do that in the limo. I'll also call CCTL, set up a conference call with Deborah and Mark. They know pieces of the puzzle, but they need to be aware of the entire situation, including the fact that the press is going to be camped on their doorstep. Once that's done, I'll torn my attention back to Ruisseau. I've got to get things on track, read those reports, go over the R&D results, see if Stan's free for lunch, have Donna and Mari

e get the conference room ready..."

"Hey, easy," Dylan interrupted. "You'll collapse by noon. I'll get going on the videographer. After that, I can supervise the conference room setup."

"You've got a pile of legal papers so high you can't see your desk."

"They'll wait a day. This comes first."

"Don't forget dinner," Carson reminded him. "At your place. I don't want Sabrina going to her apartment tonight. Not until every reporter's either given up and gone home, or fallen asleep on the sidewalk."

"I haven't forgotten." Dylan looked distinctly amused. "I'll even brew espresso. That'll kill time and keep us both up until the wee hours, when I can sneak Sabrina past the snoozing media-mongers. Okay?"

"Not really." Carson scowled. "Then you'll both be wired till dawn, and crash just in time to screw up a day's work."

"There's no pleasing you, is there?" Sabrina said with mock irritation. "Why don't I just bring a sleeping bag and camp out on Dylan's living room rug?"

"Now that's an idea. Not the living room rug part—I think Dylan can come up with something better than that. But staying at his place? Good solution. See? And you said there's no pleasing me." Carson waved the two of them off before they could probe his underlying meaning, which was becoming increasingly clear with each pointed comment. The question was, how much of his Cupid-playing was based on having actually figured out what was going on, and how much was based on matchmaking for what he hoped would go on?

"Well? Get going," he ordered them. "You've got your work cut out for you. Oh, and on your way out, tell someone at the desk to page Radison and let him know about the taping in ICU later today. If he gives his okay without bitching or making trouble, maybe I'll be nice and give him a twenty-second walk-on part."

CHAPTER 23

11:20 A.M.

Midtown North Precinct

Frank chewed his piece of gum like a demon, partly because he was starving and partly because he was frustrated as hell.

This damn Brooks shooting kept turning up more questions and fewer answers.

The bullet analysis had been a bust. Ballistics couldn't tell them a thing besides what they already knew—that it was a badly distorted slug fired by a .22 Walther TPH from below and behind the victim. Nice gun. Light. Easy to hide. Not hard to get. Not cheap. But the suspects in this case weren't poor.

Whoever shot Brooks hadn't stabbed Russ Clark to death. Frank was almost positive of that. The stabbing had been a dirty, back-alley deal, and the angle of the wound suggested it had been done by someone who, although not a pro, wasn't new at this either. As a rule, white-collar criminals who took shots at CEOs with expensive pistols didn't hone their stabbing skills or bide out in seedy alleys. They didn't wield butcher knives, either, which was what the weapon that killed Clark had been. It had sliced through his flesh, lacerated his liver, perforated a couple of major blood vessels, and the poor kid had bled to death.

No finesse there, that was for sure.

Still, the two crimes were connected. Frank and Jeannie were convinced of that. Clark didn't have an enemy in the world. He didn't owe anyone money, didn't even have any credit card debt. And there was no steady girlfriend, jealous or otherwise. He was clean as a whistle.

The only plausible reason for his being murdered was because he'd found out something that threatened Carson Brooks's assailant. Either Clark had uncovered some incriminating evidence, or stumbled upon the identity of the shooter. Either way, he'd been disposed of. By a hired hand, judging by the crude manner in which he'd been killed.

There was no point in trying to coordinate the key suspects in the Brooks case with those who were minus an alibi at the time of Clark's murder. Two different people had done the jobs. But Frank would bet his badge that whoever had hired the thug to knock off Clark, was the one who had shot Brooks. That person had had the right access to the building, the smarts to get by the surveillance cameras, and the class to fit into a fashionable mid-town office building in case he was spotted. It hadn't been a pro, or Brooks would be dead. But it hadn't been a street punk either.

Idly, Frank wondered if Brooks's assailant had used his hired hand for more than just stabbing Clark. Like for getting hold of a gun, for example. Hell, a well-connected punk could do that no sweat, without ever dirtying his employer's hands. Made sense. Also made sense that he could lead Frank and Jeannie straight to the son of a bitch who'd hired him—if they could get their hands on him. So far, they'd turned up nothing. And there was a sense of urgency building inside them both—an innate awareness that the clock was ticking. Whoever had shot Brooks was desperate. And that opened the door to all kinds of grim possibilities and repeat performances.

Frank yanked the list of suspects that was sitting on his desk toward him and pored over it again.

Dylan Newport. The guy had grown up on the streets. He'd know how to unearth the right scum to kill Clark. As for Brooks's shooting, he had both motive and opportunity. So, the fundamentals all checked out. But Frank wasn't buying it—not anymore. Jeannie was right. Newport was too devoted to Brooks to bump him off for money, and too smart to do it under such incriminating circumstances. And as for arranging to kill a twenty-one-year-old kid in cold blood—nope. It just didn't fit the guy's character.