Scent of Danger

Sighing, Gloria replied, "No. If we initiated legal action, it would only magnify the scandal that's already going to swallow us whole." She stared off into space for a moment before looking back at Sabrina, her eyes filled with tears. "Dylan Newport is waiting for your answer?"

Sabrina nodded. "I told him he couldn't have it till tomorrow. He's staying at the Center."

"And you're staying here." Gloria crossed over to the hall, opening the linen closet and tugging down a blanket and pillow. "I'll make up your old bedroom. It's after midnight. You're exhausted, physically and emotionally. I was worried enough when you drove here an hour ago. Now you're in even worse shape. Get some sleep. You'll drive home after breakfast. That'll give you plenty of time to give Dylan Newport his answer..." She turned back to her daughter. "...and to catch a late afternoon flight to LaGuardia. Which I presume you'll be doing."

It was a statement, not a question. Sabrina answered it anyway. "I think so, yes."

"Fine. I'll go with you."

Sabrina was touched but not surprised by her mother's selfless generosity. And she was all prepared with her answer.

"No you won't," she refused gently. "You just got back yourself. You're worn out and probably a week behind on your sketches. You need to get past this and get back to work."

"That's not likely to happen."

"You'll make it happen. You love your work. In the meantime, you're going to have your hands full. Breaking this news to Grandmother and Grandfather will be an ordeal unto itself. If I know you, you'll want to drive

down to Boston and tell them right away, so they're not caught off guard."

Gloria couldn't deny that one. She gave a frustrated sigh, torn between familial obligation and maternal support.

Sabrina helped ease the impasse. "Mother, let's be practical. We have a better chance of keeping my hospital visit hush-hush if I go alone. You're well known on the Manhattan fashion scene. I'm not." Sabrina cut off Gloria's protest, giving her arm a warm squeeze. "I appreciate your offer. But it's better this way. I'll make the initial appearance on my own. You, in the meantime, deal with Grandmother and Grandfather. Then—assuming I take this any further—we'll talk about emotional support, all ways around."

Reluctantly, Gloria nodded. "I suppose that makes sense. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. After all, who knows how this will play out?"

"Exactly," Sabrina agreed, too tired to analyze the past or contemplate the future. "Who knows?"

CHAPTER 6

Wednesday, September 7th, 8:15 A.M.

Mt. Sinai Hospital

Detectives Eugenia Whitman and Frank Barton had been partners for ten years. Around the Midtown North Precinct, they were known as "Stick" and "Stone"; Eugenia for her beanstalk figure and stinging interrogation style, and Frank for his solid build and blunt delivery. Eugenia was subtle in approach and patient in timing— until she closed in for the kill—at which point, look out. Frank was the ultimate Type A, a cut-to-the-chase kind of guy to whom temperance was an ordeal. He readily admitted that he lacked Eugenia's patience and people skills, but was the first to add that what he lacked in finesse, he more than made up for in good, old-fashioned gut instinct.

Outside work, their lives were as different as their personalities. Frank was a homebody. Happily married to the same woman for fifteen years, he liked tinkering in his workroom, cheering at his kids' soccer games, and investing in the stock market to ensure his family's future. He was battling middle age—and its accompanying spare tire around his middle—with a vengeance, dieting and going to the gym, and hating every minute of it.

Eugenia—or Jeannie as she preferred to be called— was divorced, and relieved to be so, after a five-year try at marriage. During that time, she discovered that permanently entwining her life with someone else's was definitely not for her. Since then, she'd been very much her own person, indulging her need for spontaneity and diversity of interests through avenues ranging from solitary excursions to the Museum of Natural History to nights out clubbing with her friends. A self-proclaimed junk-food addict, she snacked nonstop, yet never gained an ounce. Thanks to a super-fast metabolism, she still tipped the scales at exactly the same hundred and thirty pounds as she had the day she'd reached her current height of five foot eleven, back in the eighth grade.

Frank and Jeannie never socialized together when they were off duty. But when they were on duty, well, everyone at the precinct agreed that they were a formidable team that lived up to the adage "sticks and stones may break your bones"—although their way of breaking guilty suspects was a lot more civil, but no less effective.

This morning what they wanted to break was this case.

They arrived at the precinct early, gulping down their first cup of coffee while watching the early business news that included the breaking story of Carson Brooks's shooting. As soon as the news clip ended, they put in a call to Dr. Radison, and inquired about Carson Brooks's condition. Hearing he was conscious but undergoing tests, they left the station, picked up some breakfast, and headed over to Mt. Sinai.

The place was hopping when their Ford Crown Victoria pulled into the hospital parking lot, TV news vans lined up as close to the entrance as they could get, business correspondents and their camera crews getting set up for whatever medical updates they could obtain.

"They're circling like hawks," Frank noted from behind the steering wheel. He pulled off to the side and parked where they could keep an eye on things, opening up the brown bag that contained his breakfast.

"Security's tight," Jeannie assured him, popping her third Dunkin' Munchkin into her mouth. "The press won't be getting in anytime soon. In fact, they won't be getting anything at all, except the prepared statements Dr. Radison issues."

"Yeah, you're right." Frank scowled at the dry bagel, taking an unenthusiastic bite and washing it down with a gulp of black coffee.

"That bad, huh?" his partner inquired, licking the final crumbs of chocolate glaze off her fingers, and reaching into the box for a powdered Munchkin.

"Worse." He shot her an irked look. "Do you have to look like you're enjoying those things so much? It's bad enough having to smell donuts when I'm eating this piece of cardboard and counting these goddamned points. But, I sure as hell don't need to watch you suck down every drop of glaze and every speck of sugar. Cut it out, Jeannie."

Her pale brows rose, and she reached for a napkin, wiping her fingers in a more conventional way. "My, aren't we in a foul mood today. Ah, last night was your weekly weigh-in. What happened—were you up a pound?"