"He's never crossed the line."
"That depends on where you draw it."
"I'm lost again," Sabrina interjected.
Dylan propped his elbow on the arm of the wheelchair and turned to face her. "In a nutshell, Stan stays on top of his game by keeping tabs on the competition's marketing, sales, and research strategies. And I don't mean by reading their press releases. I mean before those strategies are released or implemented."
Sabrina's jaw dropped. "You're saying he's getting inside information? From whom? Which of our competitors are selling out?"
"Just one. Pruet. And it's not as cut-and-dry as selling out. But, yeah, Stan's got an inside contact. He has for twenty years."
"I don't believe this." Sabrina sank down into a chair. "Carson, how can you say that's not crossing a line? That's industrial espionage, for God's sake."
"It would be, if money were being exchanged, and if Stan had actually done anything with the information he got hold of," Carson defended immediately. "But it isn't and he hasn't. All he's done is assuage his insecurities by feeling like he's one step ahead in the fragrance industry."
Dylan grunted. "Let's not make his actions sound so noble. First of all, we limited his opportunities to use anything he learned. And second, even if he'd managed to use his inside information, you're always two steps ahead of the competition. So there was no worthwhile material that would benefit Ruisseau. I shudder to think what would have happened if Etienne Pruet had been half the genius you are."
A muscle worked in Carson's jaw. "I like to think Stan would stop short of using what he knew. He's been a jerk, Dylan, but he cares about me, and he cares about this company. I don't think he'd put it at risk. Besides, the situation's more complicated than that. There are emotions involved."
"Yeah." Dylan rubbed the back of his neck. "Stan's contact is Karen Shepard," he explained to Sabrina. "She's executive assistant to Louis Malleville. And Louis Malleville is..."
"... the head of Pruet's New York division," Sabrina finished for him. "And since there's no money involved, I'm guessing the payoff is sex. Boy, this just keeps getting better and better."
"Stan's crazy about Karen," Carson stated flatly. "On the mornings after he's spent the night at her place, he still acts like a teenager who just had his first lay. Both his marriages broke up because of Karen, whether or not his ex-wives figured it out."
"He told you all this?"
"No." Carson shook his head. "A couple of years after the affair began, I started getting some bad vibes about Stan's frenzy to stay on top of things, his erratic behavior, and his periodic disappearances. I kept an eye on him, and put together a few pieces. Then, I hired a PI. He got me the information I needed about Stan's ties to Karen."
"Yeah," Dylan added dryly. "For obvious reasons, Stan's kept the relationship a secret."
"For twenty years?" Sabrina asked in amazement.
"Yup."
"Great secret. Who else knows about it?"
"The three of us, my PI, and, most recently, Roland Ferguson," Carson replied.
"Wait." Sabrina held up her palm. "How did Roland get into this equation?"
"I'm not sure exactly how he found out." Carson shrugged. "I sure as hell wasn't about to march into his office and ask. But he's head of human resources. For all I know accounting gave him copies of phone records and Karen's number showed up repeatedly. It doesn't matter. However it happened, he knows. Stan's been keeping him in check since then, which has been about the last year or so."
"Keeping him in check—does that mean paying him off?"
Carson averted his gaze. It was obvious he was loath to answer.
"I'll take that to be a yes," Sabrina presumed aloud. "Carson, this is serious."
"It's not serious. But, yeah, it's snowballing," he admitted.
"Did Stan use company funds to bribe Ferguson?"
"No." Carson wasn't happy with her using the word bribe. But he didn't call her on it. "Like I said, Stan never crossed the line. That includes stealing. He paid Ferguson with money from his personal account."
Grimly, Sabrina turned to Dylan. "When did you get included in this juicy secret?"
"About ten years ago. Not long after I passed the bar exam."
"I needed Dylan's legal guidance as to how I should handle things." Carson scowled. "It was a lousy dilemma. I didn't want to hurt Stan, but I sure as hell wasn't going to ignore behavior that could end up screwing over Ruisseau. Dylan and I made sure to isolate Stan from making decisions for Ruisseau that utilized information he had on Pruet, whether properly attained or not. That way, we minimized our risk. Ruisseau was protected, and Stan was protected."
"Wow." Sabrina felt a wave of compassion for Dylan. "What a great quandary to step into as a new lawyer. Talk about walking a legal tightrope. You must have felt like you were caught between a rock and a hard place."
"I did." Dylan shifted in the wheelchair—and winced a bit.
"Is it your head?" Sabrina asked at once.
"No, my head's better, thanks to the painkiller. It's just the bandage on my chest. It's pulling. I'll be happy to get rid of it." He shifted again, easing the discomfort. "I'm fine. Anyway, to answer your question, yeah, I wasn't happy with our iffy legal footing. Carson and Ruisseau were my primary concern, even though I knew how protective Carson was of Stan. Frankly, if the information exchange between Stan and Karen had been a little more formal, or if Stan had used what he found out to benefit Ruisseau in any way, I would have been on him like a hawk. But the fact is, nothing concrete took place. Nothing in this entire mess is black and white. It's all gray. Stan was, and still is, nuts about Karen. They spend two or three nights a week together. How do you differentiate pillow talk from industrial espionage when nothing's been used to benefit Ruisseau?"
"I see your point." Sabrina's nose and throat were beginning to burn badly, and she could see that Carson was starting to fade. This conversation was taking its toll on everyone. "I also see why this is coming to a head now. Whitman and Barton view Stan as a key suspect. You can clear that up by explaining what's really going on with him."
"We can also give him an alibi," Dylan told her. "Dollars to doughnuts he was at Karen's apartment when Carson was shot. It was a holiday weekend. Since Stan's last divorce, he's spent every one of those at Karen's place—day and night. And one small correction—it's not that we can explain. We have to explain. I told Whitman and Barton they were barking up the wrong tree. Not just to protect Stan, either. I don't want them wasting time drilling someone who's innocent. Not when the real murderer's still out there somewhere. Whitman got my drift. She gave me a day to get Carson's okay to forgo attorney-client privilege."
Carson frowned again, clearly fighting to keep his eyes open. "If you tell them the truth, will they have anything on Stan?"
"Not unless there's more going on here than we know. Remember, Stan has no idea you're aware of his twenty-year fling with Karen. Once you tell him, we can spin the explanation we give Whitman and Barton to his advantage. We'll describe it as a hot-and-heavy love affair that Stan kept under wraps because he was afraid of how it would look. You'll assure the detectives that Stan's just being his insecure self. Tell them you knew about the affair, and that no aspect of it has compromised the business ethics of either fragrance company. Since nothing illegal was done, that interpretation will work just fine." Dylan gave a humorless laugh. "Occasionally, spin works to our advantage."
He eyed Carson, wrapping up quickly as he saw how exhausted his friend was. "If you're asking if Whitman and Barton could go after Stan for small stuff, like giving Roland shut-up money—sure, if they want to, although there's no proof that was a payoff. By the same token, they could also go after Stan, and me, for getting hold of Gloria Radcliffe's confidential medical records. But I doubt they will, not when they have bigger fish to fry. They're not interested in bringing Stan up on charges. They have more important crimes to deal with. Crimes like murder and attempted murder." A shr
ug. "Even if I'm wrong, it's a chance we'll have to take. There's no choice. We have to give them the facts."
"And you have to rest," Sabrina informed Carson, placing her hand on his shoulder.
"I'm not tired."
"Then let's say we are. Dylan and I need to get him released and moved into my apartment. And you need to regain your strength for a conversation with Stan."
"Yeah." Carson nodded, stretching out his arm. "Before you go, hand me the phone. Punch up Stan's number."
Dylan glanced at his watch. Seven forty-five. Stan would be at the office.
He pressed the appropriate buttons and handed Carson the receiver.
Carson held it to his ear and waited until he heard the click that signified a connection, followed by Stan's preoccupied voice.
"Stan Hager." There was a whirring sound in the background.
"It's me," Carson replied.
"Carson. I just got in and heard the news. Are...?"
"Yeah, Sabrina and Dylan are fine. They're about to leave the hospital. Listen, I need to see you. But first I need to get some sleep. It's been a rough morning. So wait a couple of hours. Then get yourself over here. That'll give me time to rest and you time to finish whatever the hell it is you're shredding."
A taut pause,
"Okay," Stan said finally. "I'll be there. What do you need me to bring?"
"Yourself." Carson hung up. "Damn fool," he muttered, already drifting off. "He must have kept notes or something... and now he's shredding them...." One heavy eyelid lifted. "By the way... you're getting that bodyguard, like it or not...."
"Okay," Sabrina conceded quietly.
The eyelid slid shut. Carson was asleep.
Sabrina and Dylan exchanged glances.
"Shredding papers?" Sabrina murmured. "This is getting dicey."
"Yeah," Dylan agreed. "But let's keep two things in mind. One, this is Stan. He's paranoid enough to be shredding love notes. And, two, this is Stan. He's Carson's oldest friend. So let's do what we can—for Carson's sake."
Nodding, Sabrina stood, walking around to grab hold of the back of the wheelchair. "Let's get going. I'll stop at the nurses' station and tell them to hold Carson's calls. He needs to sleep."
No sooner had she spoken than the phone rang. Sabrina made a dive for it, so it wouldn't disturb Carson.
"Hello?" she said hoarsely.
A tiny hesitation. "Sabrina? Is that you?"
"Yes. Who's this?"
"Susan." She sounded totally freaked-out. "I heard the news. Thank God you're all right. What about Dylan—is he okay, too?"
"We're both fine. Very lucky, very grateful, and very much alive," Sabrina assured her.
"Why didn't someone call me? I'm beside myself." Susan's voice quavered, and she gave a hard swallow. "I saw the news. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to call Carson right away, but I was terrified that I'd upset him if for some reason he was still asleep and didn't know about the break-in. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. I had to know if you were all right."
Sabrina felt a pang of guilt. "Susan, I'm so sorry. We should have called you. Things were just so hectic. We were in the emergency room until a little while ago and then we came up here to calm Carson down because he'd just seen the clip on TV. I'm sure he would have called you afterward, but he just drifted off. I think the emotional upheaval really wore him out."
"The poor man." Susan sniffled, and Sabrina realized she was weeping. "He must have been berserk."
"He was. But he's calm now." Sabrina glanced at the bed, saw that Carson's breathing was deep and even. "He's sleeping peacefully."
Another pause, followed by the sound of running water and a gulp. "I'm here. I just had to take something to help me calm down. I'm not big on tranquilizers, but in this case—" Susan broke off, taking another gulp of water. "This whole nightmare is really beginning to get to me. One thing after another. My nerves are shot. I don't know how much more I can take before I crack." Abruptly, she stopped herself, as if realizing how unglued she sounded. "Forgive me, Sabrina. You sound terrible. You must feel worse. You just went through hell, and I'm going on and on about how upset I am. I'll hang up now and give you a chance to go home and rest. I was going to visit Carson this morning, but under the circumstances, I think I'll wait. He's exhausted and I'm a wreck. I won't be any good for him. I'll head into YouthOp, get some work done. Maybe that'll help me get myself together. I'll drop by the hospital later this afternoon."
"Good idea." Sabrina's wheels were spinning. It was a good idea, and not only because of Susan's frame of mind. But because when Carson woke up, he had an unpleasant confrontation to face. His meeting with Stan would, no doubt, drain the hell out of him. The last thing he needed was a social visit, even from Susan, and especially if she was as overwrought as she sounded now. By later today, he'd be restored and, hopefully, so would she.
"Susan, we really are fine," Sabrina reiterated, trying to soothe her in the interim. "Again, I apologize for not calling you."
"I understand. And I'm sorry for overreacting. We'll talk later today. In the meantime, you take care."
A click signified she'd hung up.
Sabrina frowned as she replaced the receiver.
"What was that all about?" Dylan asked.
"Susan was checking up on us. She was practically hysterical. It's like she's coming apart at the seams."
"Yeah, she does that. Without much regard for the people it affects."
"Dylan." Sabrina shot him a quick look. "That's the second time you've reacted that way about Susan. She really bugs you, doesn't she?"
He glanced over at the bed. "Let's take this conversation elsewhere, okay?"
"Good idea."
They left Carson's room, headed for the elevator to go back to ER and get Dylan discharged.
The elevator doors slid open, and Sabrina pushed the wheelchair inside, maneuvered herself in behind Dylan.
The doors shut behind them.
There was no one inside but the two of them..
Dylan angled his head, gazed up at Sabrina. "You asked if Susan bugs me. The answer is yes."
CHAPTER 29
Dylan got a clean bill of health, along with a warning not to overdo from the staff in ER. With that, he and Sabrina were on their way.
They left the hospital, and were surprised to see Sabrina's limo waiting outside the emergency room exit. Surprised or not, they were thrilled to take advantage of climbing in, once they saw the line of news correspondents waiting to interrogate them about their close call.
As their driver pulled away, he informed them that, at the request of Detective Whitman, he'd stopped at the Midtown North Police Precinct, and picked up the clothing and personal items that the police had rescued from Dylan's smoky brownstone and brought to their precinct. As a result, he could take them straight to Ms. Radcliffe's.
Sabrina was grateful. She was also relieved. She was eager to continue the conversation she and Dylan had begun in the elevator at Mt. Sinai.
While the driver helped Dylan carry in his bags, Sabrina went into the kitchen and brewed a huge pot of coffee. She carried it into the living room, placed it on the coffee table, and waited until she and Dylan were alone.
He joined her, dropping onto the sofa and running both hands through his hair. "Damn, that coffee looks good. Thanks for making it." A quizzical glance. "It's not decaf, is it?"
"No way," Sabrina assured him, sitting down on the adjoining love seat so they could maintain eye contact. "Not after the night we had. It's ultra-leaded. This way, we can hydrate ourselves, warm up, and get our caffeine fix all at once."
"Don't forget to add 'and talk,'" Dylan reminded her, taking a huge, grateful swallow. "I know you're chomping at the bit—even though you're supposed to be resting your voice."
"I'll rest my voice later. Or, better yet, I'll listen. You talk. Unless your head hurts too much."
"Nope. My head's much better. I'm in fine shape for talking."
"
Good. Because I want to hear what you meant when you said Susan bugs you."
"Was it really such a surprise revelation?"
"Of course not." Sabrina sipped at her steaming coffee. "But I can't help feeling like the reasons behind it are more than just the fact that she's emotionally selfish,"
"They are."
"Let's start with my most fundamental concern. Last time we touched on this subject, you said you believed Susan genuinely loved Carson. I've got to assume you meant that."
"Definitely." Dylan set down his cup. "I'd never lie about that, or look the other way if it weren't true. Like I said, if I thought Susan's feelings for Carson were anything but real, I'd go straight to Carson with it. Hey, I was planning on going to him with a lot less. I was just trying to find a way to say what I had to without pissing him off."
"About what? What is it about Susan you feel honor-bound to tell Carson?"
"That's the problem. I can't give you a specific answer. My entire argument is based on instinct. My feelings about Susan are ambiguous, at best. Sometimes I think she's full of it, and sometimes I think she's everything she seems to be and I'm imagining things. She sends out mixed signals. But my gut instinct just won't shut up. And it tells me that most of what she does, she does for personal gain. No matter how altruistic her actions appear."
A major piece fell into place. "You're not talking about her commitment to Carson. You're talking about her commitment to YouthOp." Sabrina leaned forward. "Is it that you don't think her heart's really in it?"
"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."