Scent of Danger

"I think her heart's in the perks she gets from running it. Carson's her principal supporter and her biggest fan. That certainly solidifies her place in his life. On top of that, the columnists eat it up in their personal interest stories. The participating schools praise her up and down. To read about her contributions, you'd think she was a regular Mother Teresa."

"But you think she disingenuous, that she doesn't really care about the kids."

"I wouldn't go that far. She cares. The question is, who comes first—her or the kids? My guess is, she does. All the time, personally and professionally. Her reaction since Carson was shot is just one example of that. Her needs first, his second. Sure, she helps the kids. Like I said when we talked about Stan, we're not talking black and white. We're talking gray. There's just something about her priorities—it comes through in the way she runs her charity functions, the angle she takes when she's interviewed. She puts herself in the limelight—subtly, but every time the opportunity presents itself. Then there's the way she disburses the funds...."

"You think she's misappropriating them?"

"Let's just say I've never seen such a posh office occupied by the head of a charitable organization. An office which, I may add, I'm one of the few outsiders who's seen. And that's only because I do the legal paperwork that allows a YouthOp kid to intern at Ruisseau. She never conducts interviews there. It might make her look materialistic, rather than benevolent." Dylan rubbed a palm over his jaw. "I could be way off base. She could have paid for the damned interior decorating with her own money, for all I know."

"She told me she grew up on a farm in upstate New York. I doubt she has a huge trust fund to dip into. What did she do before she started YouthOp?"

"Various corporate positions, mostly in the public relations departments. Could she have saved a bundle that she's now spending on herself? Of course. She sure as hell spends it on her clothes and makeup. I've never seen that woman in the same outfit twice, or with a hair or eyelash out of place. As for the place she calls home, she lives on the Upper West side—not far from here. Nice area, not cheap. And hey, I'm sure the apartment's furnished to the nines, also."

Sabrina had to stifle a smile. "You really don't think much of her, do you?"

"That's not the issue. It's just that my warning bells go off when I'm around her. She's done nothing overt. She makes all the right moves at all the right times. Maybe that's part of the problem. She's too smooth, too impeccable. I don't know. I only know that I can't turn those warning bells off. Remember, Sabrina, when it comes right down to it, I'm a street kid. I grew up relying on my instincts to survive. They rarely failed me. That hasn't changed. And when it comes to Susan—they just can't get comfortable."

Sabrina was feeling more uneasy by the minute. Dylan was a clever, astute man. If his feelings on this matter were so strong, she wasn't about to pooh-pooh them. "You said you planned to bring this up with Carson. Why didn't you?"

"Because we were always busy. Because we never got a quiet minute alone. Because I wanted to be wrong." Dylan blew out his breath. "And because I knew he'd dismiss it as crap. I guess I was hoping to have something concrete to show him or tell him, anything to prove my concerns had merit. But nothing presented itself. Finally, I thought, screw it, I'll go to him anyway, if for no other reason than to keep him on his toes by putting the bug in his ear. That never happened. He got shot, so I obviously put the whole discussion on hold. I'm sure as hell not going to add to his burden with this petty garbage. He's going through enough. Whether Susan is Florence Nightingale or a social-climbing schemer whose main goal is to enrich herself and score Brownie points, it can wait until Carson's stronger."

"Maybe it doesn't have to."

Dylan arched a brow. "What does that mean?"

Sabrina put down her cup. "It means that I've learned to trust your instincts. There's only one person whose instincts I trust more: mine. Susan and I haven't spent a lot of time together. When we did, it was in the ICU lounge. We talked about YouthOp, and she got very emotional. On the other hand, maybe she's just a drama queen about everything. She certainly was a basket case on the phone before. She wasn't even ready to see Carson, that's how upset she was. She wanted time to compose herself. She was going in to YouthOp to do some work."

"So?"

"So—" Sabrina's chin came up and a purposeful glint lit her eyes. "You're right that this Susan-issue pales in comparison to everything Carson's been through in the past weeks. But it still affects his well-being. And that's something you and I need to look out for. He loves this woman. If she's not everything he thinks she is, it's up to us to find out."

"I see." Dylan's lips twitched. "So now we're on a crusade?"

"Let's just say that I'm interested in seeing this incredible organization where Carson finds great interns like Russ Clark. By the same token, I'm sure Susan could use some company. She was so distraught when we spoke. I say we kill two birds with one stone. It's still early. We can shower, change, and pay a quick visit to YouthOp before we head into the office."

9:45 A.M.

Mt. Sinai Hospital

Stan popped another Zantac into his mouth and gulped it down with water.

Dr. Radison was in with Carson now, checking out his vital signs and whatever else surgeons did after their patients went through a traumatic morning like the one Carson had just endured.

When Radison was done, it was his turn up.

He refilled his cup, drank some more water, then tossed away the paper cup and headed back to the lounge. He began to pace. There was no point in standing still, much less sitting down. He was a wreck, and his stomach was killing him. He'd spent the whole morning trying to figure out what Carson wanted to see him about. He'd sounded deadly serious. Had Whitman and Barton paid him a morning visit? Had they actually accused Stan of trying to kill Sabrina, on top of shooting Carson? Had they managed to convince Carson he was guilty?

If so, what could he say in his own defense? Just his luck, he'd been with Karen again. How many times could he spout that crap about being home alone and falling asleep in front of the TV? Why was it that whenever some dire crime occurred, his alibi was one he didn't dare provide?

Talk about being in deep shit.

The thought of Karen made him glance at his watch. Whitman and Barton were still with Pruet's staff, probably grilling the hell out of them. Normally, Karen was cool as a cucumber. But under the kind of pressure being exerted, he prayed she'd hold up. Because if those detectives found out about the two of them, he'd be in jail with the key thrown away.

He could hear the charges now. Collusion. Industrial espionage. Expensive gifts provided in exchange for sexual favors and corporate secrets. And motive for attempted murder? How about fear of his CEO-slash-oldest-friend finding out what he'd been up to for the past twenty years and pulling the plug? Couldn't get a better motive than that. Oh, and what about motive for attempted murder number two, tonight at Dylan's place? Let's see. The CEO's daughter had just been made company president. She was smart as a whip, and already suspicious of Stan. Hell, he even had the perk of being one of the few people who knew she'd spent the night at her boyfriend's.

It was a tidy little package. He'd be handcuffed and led away before he could catch his breath, if he didn't do something to save himself.

But how?