Scent of Danger

  Frank studied his partner intently. "You're not worried about what Brooks thinks. The truth is, you really don't believe Newport did it."

  Jeannie released a harsh breath. "I told you, it doesn't sit right with me. His commitment to Brooks is just too real, and his mind's too sharp to plan a crime in which the key circumstantial evidence points to him." Her jaw tightened. "In the meantime, we're at no loss for suspects. The list seems to grow, rather than shrink. Roland Ferguson gave off some strange vibes when we talked to him yesterday. He's also got no witness to corroborate his whereabouts Monday evening but his wife. And she's so jittery, it's like trying to make eye contact with Road Runner. I actually had palpitations when we left her house."

  "Stan Hager's a nervous wreck, too," Frank murmured, lacing his fingers behind his head. "I know we've only talked to him sporadically while he's pacing around outside ICU, but he's so hyper he's about to pop. I called him this morning to set up a meeting, and he fell all over himself setting up a time. I swear he was practically vibrating. He explained it away by saying he feels the weight of the company on his shoulders, but I'm not sure I buy it. He and Brooks go back thirty years—and he's lived every one of them in Brooks's shadow. I feel like he's holding something back; I just don't know what."

  "What time's our meeting with him?"

  "Two-thirty."

  "Okay." Jeannie glanced quickly at her watch, and gave an exasperated sigh. "In the meantime, we've got three major competitors of Ruisseau we still need to do rundowns on. And now we've got Gloria Radcliffe to check into."

  "Don't forget Claude Phelps," Frank reminded her. "We've got our heart-to-heart with him in an hour. He's making a special trip in to the corporate office just to meet with us."

  "I can hardly wait. Sounds like a loose cannon, too, if you ask me."

  "Agreed." Frank rubbed his eyes. "As you said, the list just keeps on growing."

  "Let's slash a few names." Jeannie picked up the phone. "It's time to start setting up a few more appointments and verifying a few more alibis."

  CHAPTER 13

  12:35 P.M.

  Mt Sinai Hospital

  The upper half of Carson's bed was at a slight incline when the three of them walked in. He looked pale, but his eyes were sharp and alert.

  "Don't even think about doping me up," he warned the nurse, who was in the process of adjusting his IV. His speech was still a little slow, but it was much clearer than yesterday. And, although he spoke in staccato phrases, he wasn't nearly as winded as before. "I mean it," he reiterated, glaring at the uniformed woman as she jotted down a few notes. "No drugs. I'll live with the pain. I'm conducting business. I need to be lucid."

  She lowered her clipboard and rolled her eyes, looking more frustrated than intimidated. "Fine. But after your visitors leave..."

  "We'll discuss it then. So long." A meaningful look until, muttering under her breath, the nurse left.

  "You're obviously the most popular patient in ICU," Dylan observed dryly. "They'll probably throw a huge party when you leave."

  "That's the point. If I'm a pain in the ass, maybe they'll kick me out sooner." Carson's gaze shifted immediately to Sabrina. "You look better. Did Dylan feed you?"

  "Fed me and delivered me to my door," Sabrina confirmed. "He obeyed your orders to a tee. And I do feel better. I'm fine."

  "Liar. You're a wreck." With that, his gaze shifted to Stan. "Morning, Hager. Or is it afternoon? Either way, I didn't expect you. Have you been hovering around, too, making sure I don't crap out on you? Because I'm not planning to die. So relax."

  "Thanks for the reassurance." Stan didn't miss a beat. "Now I can sleep tonight. And here I thought I had to wait for the doctor to give me a prognosis. Stupid me. As for hovering around, don't flatter yourself. I dropped by because the coffee's good here, and I'm too lazy to brew my own."

  "Well, buy yourself a cup and get over to Ruisseau. They need you. I don't. Christ, between you, Dylan, and Susan, I have three damned mothers."

  Listening to this exchange, Sabrina's lips twitched in spite of herself. "Are you always this obnoxious?" she asked Carson.

  "Only when I'm not running the show."

  "Which happens about as frequently as a solar eclipse," Stan clarified. He patted Sabrina's shoulder in a paternal gesture. "You'll get used to him. We all do. Just take him with a grain of salt. His bark's a whole lot worse than his bite. Especially with you, I have a strong feeling."

  "Thanks for the pep talk." Sabrina was fascinated by the change in Stan. Gone was the man who was so taut he was practically vibrating. This man was relaxed, witty, comfortable as he bantered with his oldest friend.

  Interesting.

  " 'Bye, Hager," Carson told him purposefully. "No need to stay. You know what this meeting's about. You know what I'm proposing. You can guess why. But Sabrina needs to hear the details first. I obviously want my attorney present, too. Problem is, Radison's being a stickler about the two-visitors-max rule. He says I'm weak and can't handle too much stimuli." A wry grin as Carson stopped to catch his breath. "I told Radison you were too boring to count as stimuli. But he wasn't buying. So, beat it. I've got limited time to get this show on the road. Check in with me later."

  "That's what I planned," Stan agreed, totally unruffled by Carson's ribbing and, more significant, clearly aware of the agenda for this meeting. Okay, so Sabrina had been wrong. Whatever Carson was about to get into, Stan was privy to it. So why had he acted so out of touch when Susan brought up the subject of the meeting earlier? And why the complete mood swing?

  Evidently, she had yet to figure out what made Stan Hager tick.

  "I wasn't even going to stay this long," he was continuing. "But Susan was asking questions about today's powwow, wondering why I wasn't in the thick of things. I didn't know how to play it, since I had no idea if you'd told her the truth about Sabrina yet."

  "No. Not yet."

  "I figured as much. So I appeased whatever doubts she had by making myself part of the meeting. Which is why I'm poking my head in for the opening remarks."

  Carson nodded. "Good move. Thanks."

  "Sure." Stan paused, scrutinizing Carson for a moment, and Sabrina saw a muscle working in his jaw, as if he were fighting some internal emotional battle. "You're still wiped out," he pronounced. "Don't overdo. That's not just the doctor's orders; they're mine." He cleared his throat, his composure restored. "I have a vested interest in your getting well. Running the company without you is a pain. It's cutting into my social life."

  Carson's brows rose. "Two ex-wives and work. You call that a social life?"

  "No. That's why I need time to get one. So start healing, fast."

  "I'm working on it. Now get going. I just lost three of my fifteen minutes."

  "Only two. And I'm on my way." He slanted a look of mock sympathy at Sabrina. "Try to hang in there."

  "I'll do my best," she assured him.

  The instant Stan was gone, Sabrina turned to Carson. "What's this about? What details do I need to hear? What is it you're proposing? And why am I the reason Dylan's here in his official capacity?"

  "Sit," Carson replied, pointing to a chair. "You, too," he ordered Dylan.

  "Did you know more about this meeting than you let on?" Sabrina muttered to Dylan as they got themselves settled.

  "Nope." Dylan seemed as unruffled as Stan had been. "But getting blindsided by a punch and jumping up to come out swinging is business as usual with Carson." He yanked out a pad. "All set."

  Carson adjusted his pillow, waving away Sabrina's offer to help. "That's not what I need you for." Impatiently shifting his weight so the tubes and drains caused him the least amount of discomfort, he grimaced in annoyance, then settled back, his hard stare fixed on Sabrina. "What I need you for, is Ruisseau. I've got to make provisions. Because I don't know when—or if—I'm getting out of here."

  He cut off Dylan's immediate and vehement objection. "Don't interrupt me. I've got to talk before I run out of steam. A
nd, Dylan, let's cut the bullshit. I'm fighting like hell. But that bullet did a good job on my insides. My intestines, my lung, my kidneys—that's a lot of organ damage. There's plenty of room for complications. I've got to get things in order, just in case. That's where Sabrina comes in."

  Sabrina was as thrown by Carson's grim assessment as Dylan was. It was the first time she'd heard him allude to the possibility that he might not make it. Somehow, she'd assumed he'd never considered losing this battle. He was a fighter, a survivor.

  He'd pull through. He had to pull through.

  She swallowed, hard. "You're a strong man, Carson. You're not going to die."

  "Glad to hear it. But you're not God. And, even if I do live, I'm not getting out of here anytime soon. I won't be at my desk. I won't be running my company." He took a few more breaths. "No matter what happens, Ruisseau needs to be protected."

  "You have Dylan and Stan for that."

  "You're my daughter."

  It was the first time he'd actually said those words. And Sabrina felt them like a blow to her gut. "Carson..."

  "Hear me out," he commanded. "Then you can blow me off if you want to. This has nothing to do with Dylan or Stan. Not personally or professionally. Stan's my COO. He's also my oldest friend. He'll continue to be both. Dylan's my corporate counsel. He's also my surrogate kid. Our bond's unique. That won't change. Neither will Dylan's place in my life or my company. Satisfied?"

  Sabrina sucked in her breath. "I don't know what I am, or what you want of me," she replied, totally stymied as to where Carson was going with this. "I assumed you wanted to utilize my consulting expertise. Actually, I didn't even assume that. I thought that whole story was a smoke screen, one Dylan had invented to explain my being here. Then you asked me to sit in on this meeting. Now you're implying you want me to take on some major role in helping to protect Ruisseau. I'm not qualified...."

  "You sure as hell are." Carson pushed himself up a bit more, trying to find a position that would help him get out his words faster and with more fervor. "You've fixed companies that are in the Dumpster. Mine's flying high. You understand the corporate sector. You're skilled at strategic planning. You're creative and proactive, and you've got the guts to use those qualities. You're a born leader. And you know what makes people tick. That's essential in understanding consumer products marketing, as well as corporate politics. You're smart. You're experienced. And you've got my blood flowing through your veins—right down to my heightened olfactory sense. Who better than you to see Ruisseau through this crisis?"

  Sabrina's adrenaline had begun to pump. It wasn't the flattering portrayal, although it was certainly nice to hear that Carson thought so much of her. It was the reason for his blow-by-blow delineation of her assets. It had been done very deliberately, not to praise, but to lead up to something. And whatever that something was, every instinct told her it was big. Very big.

  "What did you have in mind?" she questioned.

  A hint of a smile. "Intrigued, huh?"

  "Curious," she corrected. "Wary, but curious."

  "You sense a challenge. And your adrenaline's picking up, no matter how much you wish it wouldn't. You can't help it. Like I said, it's in your blood."

  "Carson, stop baiting me. What is it you want me to do?"

  "On a simple, superficial level? Exactly what you said. Come on as a management consultant. Work with Stan. Assess the major issues facing Ruisseau. Set up an action plan for each key initiative. Drive the company forward. I'll pay you double your normal rates, to cover the inconvenience of keeping you away from CCTL for so long. Speaking of CCTL, I'd suggest you turn things over to that consultant you hired away from the snooty firm in L.A.—Deborah Ogden. Between her and that other winner you hired—Mark Weiss—they can run things for a few months. Whatever help they need, your assistant Melissa Andrews can provide. As for you, you can fly home weekends, be there Friday through Sunday—if you take Ruisseau projects to work on while you're in Auburn, and on the plane. You'll have to burn the candle at both ends. Because you're going to be busting your ass for me. I don't tolerate less."

  The lengthy speech obviously taxed Carson's strength, because he finished by leaning back against his pillow to rest.

  Sabrina was speechless—something that was getting to be a habit when she was around this man. He'd done major research on CCTL, that was for damned sure. "Exactly how much do you know about my company?"

  "Just as much as I expect you to know about mine." He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to hold on to his rapidly ebbing strength. "Dammit," he muttered. "Goddammit."

  "Carson, maybe that's enough." Dylan spoke up for the first time. "You said your piece. We've only got a few minutes left before Dr. Radison comes in and tosses us out anyway."

  "Screw Radison." Carson forced his head upright. "Sabrina, you asked what I want you to do. The consulting part just skims the surface. The rest is more substantial, and more complicated. I want to make you an officer of the company. Specifically, president. Dylan can draw up the paperwork. He and Stan can also be the only ones who know about the appointment, if that's the way you want it. I told you yesterday, I'm not pushing you to announce who you are. Wait as long as you want." Weakly, he angled his head toward Dylan. "There'll be legal loopholes, like how does she vote at board meetings if no one knows she's president. Maybe by proxy. I don't know. That's your job. Come up with something. But I want her in there... if she'll do it." A heavy-lidded stare at Sabrina. "Will you?"

  You could have heard a pin drop in the room.

  Sabrina couldn't begin to process Carson's request. Talk about a bombshell. She'd expected something major—but this?

  Abruptly, she stood up and turned away, staring at the bare wall across the room. She was shaking, too overwhelmed to speak. She'd had it. This just might be the straw that broke the camel's back.

  "Like I said, you're a wreck." There was no trace of sarcasm or banter in Carson's voice when he spoke, only comprehension and regret. "I'm sorry. You're on overload. You don't need more pressure. Certainly not from me. I wish I had more time... that I could let you think this through. Whoever shot me didn't give me that luxury. I need to take care of Ruisseau—for now, maybe for good. So I'm asking—will you do it?"

  "I..." Sabrina edged a sideways glance at Dylan, who was scrutinizing her closely, his expression nondescript. "I don't know. I can't just give you an answer at the drop of a hat. It's too huge a—"

  "Which part's the problem?" Carson's voice was raspy now, and he was starting to sound winded. "I assume it's not the consulting."

  "No. No, of course not."

  "Okay, then, is it the lifestyle—having two residences and a weekly commute? Is it being away from CCTL? Having a vested interest in two companies?" A sharp intake of breath. "Or is it being tied to me? If it is, say so. You've got the right."

  "That's not it." She turned around to face him, this time making no move to hide the tears in her eyes. "I want to know you. I was going to bring that up myself. Ask Dylan. We talked about it last night. You just happened to beat me to it. As for making me an officer of Ruisseau, I... I'm touched and I'm flattered. And the challenge—you're right. I'd be lying if I didn't admit it excites me. But the enormity of what you expect—I'm not sure I can deliver. A long-term consulting project I could manage no problem. But the presidency of a company, your company, that's not just a temporary thing. Even if I agreed to stay at Ruisseau until you were well and back at the helm—which you will be—I couldn't make the arrangement permanent. It would involve my being in New York five days a week, reducing CCTL to less than my number one priority. I can't do that. CCTL is my baby, the same way Ruisseau is yours."

  "We could work something out...." Carson was forcing out the words. "Half week here... half week there... any arrangement we could... Don't say no."

  "Carson, please—stop," Sabrina burst out. "Not for me, for you. You're exhausted. Don't talk. Just rest. Let me think."

  She raked both hands
through her hair, her mind racing wildly. Arbitrary thoughts ran through her head. President of Ruisseau—my God. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. She'd be working for a genius—a genius who was her father. She'd have a chance to get to know him, to share in his vision, to be part of a company he'd created and raised from infancy. And she wouldn't have to give up her own growing company. CCTL would still be hers; Carson had as much as said so. He understood the way she felt about her "baby." He'd been in that position himself.

  Her presence at CCTL over the next few months was already in question, thanks to Carson's immediate health crisis. She was hell-bent on seeing through her kidney-compatibility process. And that meant time. To begin with, the tissue-typing results wouldn't be back for a week. Even if she flew home in the interim, she'd return to New York once the results were in. Then, if they showed she was the best donor match, she'd need to be examined by a nephrologist, go through a battery of tests. Finally, if the transplant became a reality, she'd be out of commission for at least a month. In which case, CCTL would have to do without her.

  She'd made contingency plans for these circumstances as she'd tossed and turned in her bed last night The funny thing was that her line of thinking had been identical to Carson's, only shorter-term. She'd take a leave of absence until she recovered from the surgery. During that time, she'd leave Deborah in charge, with Mark as backup and Melissa in the wings. When it became feasible, she'd go in part-time, handling as much as she could by phone and e-mail.

  Why couldn't the same plan work on a long-term basis? She'd physically be at CCTL every week for three-to-four day stretches—two days of which would be weekends, when Ruisseau was closed anyway. During that time, she'd run the show at CCTL and conduct her workshops. The rest of each week she'd spend at Ruisseau, learning the ropes, sharing her expertise, and working her butt off. Deborah would be her point person at CCTL. If any problem arose, she could just pick up the phone and call. By the same token, there were always telephones and e-mail for client contact, so Sabrina would never truly be out of touch. It was a feasible solution.