Scent of Danger

Carson's features softened, and Sabrina noted that his cardiac monitor had returned to a more regular rhythm. "Sounds fair."

She leaned closer, meeting his gaze with solemn understanding. "Carson, I know you feel responsible for my safety. But cut the guilt. None of this is your fault. And look at the bright side. Out of this horrible series of events came a few wonderful things, too. Hey, I got a father, a fiancé, and the career opportunity of a lifetime. Those were worth walking through flames for." On impulse, Sabrina bent down, kissed his cheek. "I'll get the nurse to bring in that pill. You sleep. Dream about those grandchildren you're waiting to spoil."

CHAPTER 32

Wednesday, September 21st, 1:25 P.M. Mt. Sinai Hospital

The appointment with the nephrologist had gone off like clockwork.

Dr. Mendham was sharp, to-the-point, and thorough, just as Dr. Radison had described. She'd examined Sabrina from head to toe, asked her a ton of questions, and conducted a whole battery of tests, including a chest X ray and EKG. She'd also explained the renal angiogram in detail, addressed some of Sabrina's concerns, and provided some promising information about the prospect of Sabrina undergoing laparoscopic, rather than conventional, surgery, which would be much less invasive and translate into a quicker, easier recovery.

All in all, the appointment was enlightening and positive. With a modicum of luck, all systems would be go. When Carson was ready, Sabrina would be, too.

In the meantime, however, she was practically jumping out of her skin.

She and Dylan had darted out of Dr. Mendham's office, Bernard looming close behind, and the three of them had jumped into the limo and headed straight for Mt. Sinai. Dylan called the hospital from the car and was told that Carson was dozing fitfully, awakening every few minutes to ask if the detectives had called yet.

They hadn't.

It was twelve-forty by the time the limo got there, and Sabrina and Dylan went straight to Carson's room, where a brawny police officer was posted outside the door.

"Is everything all right?" Sabrina demanded, recognizing Officer Garner.

"Fine," he assured her. "Everything's been quiet. Mr. Brooks had two visitors—Stan Hager and Susan Lane. Mr. Hager arrived at eight-fifteen; Ms. Lane arrived at eight-forty. They each left promptly and without protest as soon as they were told how exhausted Mr. Brooks was and that Dr. Radison had ordered no visitors until later today. I checked in with Stick and Stone around nine and filled them in. Nothing since then."

"Thanks." Dylan guided Sabrina through the door.

They'd tiptoed into the room in case Carson was asleep, but his eyes popped open the minute they entered. He'd looked tired and drawn, and Sabrina had the distinct impression that Dr. Radison's story about the sleepless night hadn't needed to be fabricated.

Carson pumped them for details on Sabrina's appointment with Dr. Mendham, absorbing all the information with a terse nod. He waved away their concerns about his exhaustion, assuring them that he was fine, other than the fact that he was losing his mind waiting.

It was one-thirty when the waiting ended.

The telephone rang, and all three of them jumped. It couldn't be anyone but the detectives; no one else's calls were being put through.

Carson picked up the receiver. "Hello?" He paused. "Yes, they're both with me. What happened?" Another pause. "Here? Yes, fine, all right. Just hurry up." He hung up. "That was Whitman. She and Barton are driving into the hospital parking lot. She wants to come up and see us." His expression was grim. "She didn't elaborate. But it's obviously not good."

"We didn't think it would be," Sabrina put in quietly.

"No. We didn't." Carson interlaced his fingers and fell silent, waiting and steeling himself simultaneously.

Dylan paced over to the door, standing there and staring at it as if willing it to open.

Eventually, it did.

"Hey." Detective Whitman walked in alone. She didn't mince words, or waste time. "Everything went down as planned. The search warrant was just a formality. Ms. Lane cooperated fully. She was definitely antsy about the fact that we'd tracked Mr. Molotov to YouthOp, but she had no idea that she was also under suspicion. So she kept herself in check. Until we started digging up financial records that were majorly out of whack. Then, she caught on, and freaked out. We told her she wasn't going anywhere, so she cried and wrung her hands and paced around while we searched the place."

Jeannie drew a sharp breath. "We got everything we need. Gross misappropriation of funds, the name and lowdown on Mr. Molotov—thanks to Russ Clark, who'd hidden some pretty comprehensive notes inside the textbook he used to teach his Saturday writing workshops. And we got Mr. Molotov himself who, according to the call I just got from my precinct, was picked up at his apartment, along with a closetful of illegal narcotics and stolen weapons. His name's Joseph Kenman, and he's got a juvenile record as long as my arm. Now, he's in the big leagues—twenty years old and very much an adult. With charges like murder, attempted murder, and conspiracy to commit murder facing him, he's not worried about the drug and weapons crimes Ms. Lane was holding over his head to keep him in line. He's singing like a bird. Not that we need it. Ms. Lane broke down and gave us a full confession."

"All of it?" Carson fired out. "She confessed to hiring that Kenman kid to kill Russ, and to murder Sabrina and Dylan?" His jaw was so tight, it looked like it might snap. "And she admitted to shooting me—or rather, going to Ruisseau to shoot Dylan and mistaking me for him?"

"Yes, Mr. Brooks." Jeannie didn't look happy. She looked resigned. "I'm sorry. But she did. She used your extra key to get into the building through the freight entrance. She avoided the surveillance cameras by scooting up the stairs. The rest happened pretty much like we figured—the shot, the mistaken identity, the works. The twenty-two's at the bottom of the Hudson. She tossed it there from the Seventy-ninth Street boat basin. We'll keep dredging. With any luck, we'll find it. The gun's hot. Kenman got it for her. We certainly don't need to get our hands on it to convict either of them, but it'll be one more nail in their coffins if we do."

A pause, as Jeannie cleared her throat. "I could have told you all this on the phone. The reason I didn't is because Ms. Lane is insisting on seeing you. She's downstairs in the car with Frank. Normally, I'd tell her to stuff it, but I wanted to make sure you had no interest in speaking with her before we take her in and book her. Her attorney's already on his way to the precinct. What do you want me to tell her?"

Dylan's expression was murderous. "How many words would you like it in? You can start by telling her that she's a—"

"Bring her up," Carson interrupted in a hard, implacable voice.