Scent of Danger

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."

CHAPTER 30

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.'"