Scent of Danger

  "It's really none of my business."

  "Actually, it is. You should know the kind of man Carson is. If this doesn't tell you, nothing will."

  "All right. Go on."

  "Like I said, Carson needed some part-time help. He showed up at my school during one of my countless detention periods. He'd reviewed my records, both academic and personal, then set up a meeting with my principal and, ultimately, with me. He pulled up a chair, told me I reminded him of himself at my age—except that he was already in the gutter by age sixteen, while I had two more years to go before I got tossed there. He advised me to lose the anger, because no matter how pissed off I got, life would still be unfair, and it would still be up to me to even the odds. He said I was smart and tough, and that I could choose to rot in the streets or make something of myself. He added that unless he'd sized me up wrong, I was too shrewd not to take his job offer. Said he'd pay me a decent hourly wage, and increase it monthly as I proved myself. Along with the added pay would come added responsibilities, including a chance to work on some projects with him, once we had a better idea where my talents and interests lay.

  "In return, I had to clean up my act, show some respect to my foster parents, go to school, cut out the drinking and brawling, and work my ass off." Dylan gave a reminiscent chuckle. "Talk about shrewd. He never patronized me, never showed me a shred of disrespect or censure. It was hard to abuse myself with someone like that believing in me. From that point on, everything changed. My grades skyrocketed. I finished high school with straight A's and a corporate internship at Ruisseau. I got into Columbia on scholarship. They gave me a huge financial aid package. The remainder of my expenses were subsidized by Ruisseau. I graduated with honors, and went on to Columbia Law, where I did the same. The day I got my LLD, Carson had a brass plate engraved, 'Dylan Newport, Corporate Counsel.' I helped him hang it on my office door. It's been there ever since. As have I. So you see, I owe Carson Brooks everything."

  Sabrina had been totally absorbed in Dylan's story. Now, she blinked, an odd lump forming in her throat. Surprisingly, the lump wasn't pity. It wasn't even admiration, although she felt tremendous respect for what Dylan had accomplished. It was envy. There was an incredible bond that existed between him and Carson Brooks—a bond that had formed over nineteen years. They were tight. Really tight. And here she was, a total stranger, about to meet her "father" for the first time.

  The whole situation was becoming more and more unsettling.

  "So now you know my life story," Dylan was saying. "That makes us even."

  "I suppose."

  He was watching her intently again. "If I can help make this easier for you, let me know."

  "I'm not sure that's possible." She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. "When you called the hospital before, was he conscious?"

  "Yeah. The police were with him."

  "Will they tell him about me?"

  "I asked them to stay out of it. I think they'll go along with that. They know we're on our way back to New York. I'm sure they'd rather leave emotional disclosures to friends and family, and stick to solving the crime."

  "Do they have any leads?" Sabrina asked. "Anyone who might have a grudge against him? Anyone who stands to gain huge amounts of money or power if he dies? Or are they concentrating on digging up information on Ruisseau's rival companies—checking out people who'd benefit by killing off the competition?"

  "They have their suspicions." A muscle flexed in Dylan's jaw. "I don't know how far they've gotten with the investigation. We'll find out soon enough."

  Sabrina was taken aback by the hostility in his tone. He was certainly bugged by something pertaining to the investigation. Was he unhappy with the detectives' speed and thoroughness, or was it the direction they were taking that was ticking him off?

  She opened her mouth to ask.

  He cut her off before she could.

  "Do you want to talk to Carson by yourself, or should I be there with you?"

  That was enough to startle her back to the face-to-face meeting that was about to occur. "By myself?" She blinked. "Don't you think that's a little extreme? The man is fighting for his life. He has no idea I exist. If I march in there and announce who I am without any preparation from you—God, I can't imagine a shock like that being good for him."

  Dylan was shaking his head, his earlier hostility having vanished as quickly as it came. "That's not what I meant. For his sake—and yours—I planned to go in first and lay the groundwork. What I wanted to know is, once I've given him the facts and introduced you, do you want me to stay or leave?"

  "Oh." Sabrina hadn't actually thought that one through. Still, it was a no-brainer compared to the other decisions she'd made since yesterday. "Under the circumstances, I think that choice should be his. I'll go along with whatever he decides."

  "Good enough. One more thing. As I said, Carson's heavily medicated. I'm not sure he's cognizant of the fact that he's been on dialysis, or that he might need a kidney transplant. It's going to hit him hard when he finds out. So let's not get into it just yet."

  "Don't worry, I won't say a word. It's better that way anyway, since I haven't made any decision about what my next step will be—until after I've met him."

  The words sounded hollow and insincere, even to Sabrina.

  What's more, she realized with an abrupt flash of insight, they sounded equally insincere to Dylan. He'd led her right where he wanted her, acquainting her with Carson Brooks by presenting him in the most likeable, emotionally-compelling light possible. And he'd managed it either totally by chance, through his own opportune, yet genuine affection for the man, or through one of the most cleverly manipulated conversations she'd ever fallen victim to.

  Sabrina didn't know why that bothered her so much. Maybe it was because she hated being bested, and she rarely was. More likely, it was because it drove home how emotionally involved in this whole situation she was. She hadn't expected it. It made her feel much too vulnerable. And she had no intention of letting Dylan Newport play on that vulnerability, no matter how worthy his motives were.

  She edged a quick, sideways glance at him. He was putting up his tray, then repositioning his seat as the plane began its rapid descent into LaGuardia.

  He was either giving her the space she needed to get herself together, or giving her a chance to steep in her newfound personal connection to Carson Brooks—a connection he'd made sure to foster.

  Putting her at ease. Sharing his own personal story. A little flirtation. A hint of humor. A touch of compassion.

  Nice work.

  Sabrina snapped her own seat upright, feeling Dylan's gaze slide over her. He was assessing her, trying to figure out how won-over she was.

  Good question.

  A meeting was one thing; donating her kidney was another. Especially when donating her kidney meant affecting not only her life but the lives of her family.

  Deliberately, Sabrina kept her face averted, busying herself with her seat belt, not giving Dylan anything definitive to go on. She wasn't ready to commit herself. Not yet.

  But the next phase of the decision-making process loomed just a cab ride away.

  CHAPTER 8

  11:35 A.M.

  Ruisseau Fragrance Corporation

  Roland Ferguson was fifty-six, and had been Ruisseau's VP of human resources for eleven years. He'd left corporate America at forty-one to start his own recruiting firm. He liked being his own boss, and had fully intended on keeping and running his small but successful company until retirement.

  That was before Carson Brooks got ahold of him.

  He'd called Roland out of the blue. But he'd sure as hell done his homework. He knew Roland's résumé inside out, including every promotion he'd ever received from the three different human resource departments he'd worked in, as well as the promising reputation he'd established since going out on his own. And, yes, he was impressed. Impressed and impressive. Carson Brooks was a dynamo. Saying no to him was almost as hard as say
ing yes. "No" meant walking away from the opportunity of a lifetime; "yes" meant committing yourself body and soul to your work.

  It was a tough choice.

  Not that Carson gave you one. When he wanted something, he was like a dog with a bone. And he wanted Roland to head up HR. It wasn't just what he'd seen on paper. He liked Roland's style, his inherent people skills. And he wanted those skills applied at Ruisseau.

  After two weeks of intense negotiations and equally intense soul-searching, Roland had hired a manager for his recruiting firm, and had gone to work for Carson Brooks.

  Two months later he'd sold his company outright and made his stay at Ruisseau permanent.

  His job wasn't easy. Working for a hard-assed genius with the energy level of an eighteen-year-old and a 24/7 work ethic produced an environment that was fast-paced, high-pressure, and crackling with ambition. Which meant equal amounts of success and tension, commitment and rivalry.

  As a result, Roland had faced his fair share of hostile employees and explosive situations.

  But the current crisis blew the rest of them out of the water.

  Nothing had prepared him for the past two days. First, walking into Ruisseau and finding a roped-off CEO's office that was now a crime scene. Second, hearing that Carson was hovering somewhere between life and death. And third, enduring the somber aura enveloping the office, not to mention the taut apprehension emanating from an office full of coworkers who were now attempted murder suspects.

  Including him.

  He'd seen the two detectives briefly, first yesterday when they'd dropped in on the team of cops scouring Carson's office for clues, then again this morning when they'd arrived around ten-thirty, only to vanish into the executive wing for almost an hour, presumably to interview people.

  Now it was his turn.

  There they were in his office, pressing him for whatever leads they could find.

  God, this was a political nightmare. And it might end up being a personal one, as well.

  He had to be careful.

  "Mr. Ferguson, we appreciate your time." Detective Whitman was seated adjacent to her partner in one of the two chairs directly across from Roland's desk. "We'll try not to keep you long."

  "I'll help in any way I can." Roland pulled off his glasses, rubbing his eyes in a few unsteady motions before shoving the glasses back onto his nose. "I still can't believe this happened."

  "We understand your shock. Hopefully, Mr. Brooks will pull through. In the meantime, it's up to us to find out who's responsible." Whitman glanced over her notes. "Let's start with some basics. In total, how many employees work at Ruisseau?"

  "Just over a hundred. That includes the part-timers, and the R&D staff at our New Jersey research facility in Englewood Cliffs. We also have about a dozen interns in the various departments. In addition, there's our European Operations, headquartered in Paris. It's got a managing director and a half-dozen employees."

  She nodded. "And how many of the people you just described would have access to Mr. Brooks?"

  That question was safe enough. Answering it candidly required no finger-pointing. "If you're asking about the chain of command here, it's very informal. Carson's not into protocol. If the custodian came up with a great idea, Carson would meet with him. So I don't think you can zero in on anyone using that method." Roland cleared his throat, giving the detectives a cautious look. "I realize you're just doing your job, but do you really believe someone at Ruisseau shot Carson?"

  "We don't know, Mr. Ferguson," Detective Barton retorted. "Why? Do you think someone here's guilty?"

  "Definitely not."

  "How can you be so sure? Are you saying that no one here was unhappy or disgruntled? That no one ever felt pissed about the way he or she was treated, or bitter about being passed over for someone else when it came time for a promotion?"

  "Of course I'm not saying that," Roland replied defensively. "But feeling angry or overlooked is a far cry from taking a shot at someone."

  "I agree. Someone else doesn't." Barton leaned forward. "We've spoken to all the company VPs, other than Claude Phelps, the VP of research and development. His name's come up several times in our discussions. What's your take on him?"

  They were starting to head into choppy waters.

  Roland kept his features schooled, opting for a basic rundown rather than a personal critique. "Claude's office isn't located here. It's at our New Jersey research facility, for obvious reasons. He makes weekly trips into the city to attend management committee meetings. The rest of the time he stays in touch by phone or e-mail. Oh, and Carson rides out to Englewood Cliffs a lot, maybe three or four times a week when he's working on something. So he sees Claude pretty frequently."

  "Yes. That much we already knew." Whitman was staring at him. He hoped that didn't mean she'd interpreted his reply as being intentionally ambiguous. "We also know that Phelps has been with Mr. Brooks since the company's inception."

  "Pretty much. Claude started about six months after Ruisseau got off the ground. Stan Hager's the only employee who's been here longer. He and Carson knew each other as kids."

  "Stan Hager. Right. The chief operating officer." Whitman's clipped tone said she wasn't about to be diverted. "We already spoke briefly with him. When we saw him today, he was on his way to the hospital. We arranged to have an in-depth talk with him there." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Let's get back to Claude Phelps, shall we? I asked for your opinion, not a job description."

  Roland made one last-ditch effort, just in case whatever they'd heard about Claude was vaguer than he thought. "I don't know him very well. We rarely see each other, except at meetings, and we never socialize outside the office. He takes his work seriously, that much I can tell you. He only uses a fraction of his vacation time each year." Seeing the expectant look on Whitman's face, Roland realized she was waiting for more. "What in particular do you want to know?"

  "For one thing, why you're uncomfortable talking about the guy. Is it because he's been a problem lately, like we've been told? Or do you just dislike him?"

  There was no way out of this one. Not when it was clear they'd been told about Claude's disruptive conduct He had to open up. If he didn't, someone else would fill in the missing pieces and the cops would be right back in his office for details—and answers as to why he hadn't leveled with them right away.

  Still, he had to handle this delicately.

  Lowering his gaze, Roland steepled his fingers in front of him. "My personal feelings aren't the issue here. I just don't want to bad-mouth someone who's been a loyal employee for twenty-seven years. But, fine. Since you've already heard bits and pieces, yeah, Claude's had some problems recently."

  "What kind of problems?"

  "The last few times he showed up at the New York office, he'd been drinking. He wasn't out-and-out drunk," Roland hastened to clarify. "But there was definitely alcohol on his breath. And his behavior was out of character."

  "In what way?"

  "Claude's kind of a quiet guy, keeps to himself. On these occasions, he was loud and belligerent. He made a couple of unpleasant scenes during each visit. In his defense, he's taken quite a verbal beating since the release of C'est Moi—everything from friendly ribbing to nasty comments. A few business analysts have gone so far as to speculate bluntly on why Carson needs Claude at all. That's a low blow, especially for Claude. His professional ego's always been a little shaky. He's taking this very hard."

  "So it seems." Whitman didn't look surprised by anything he'd said, although she did jot down an additional note or two. "Okay, so the bottom line is that Phelps is freaked out because Carson Brooks came up with the bank-breaking formula for C'est Moi, and that, as a result, Phelps is being labeled a lame duck."

  "That pretty much sums it up, yes."

  "You said he's taking this hard. Explain."

  Roland gave an uncomfortable cough. "Like I said, the last few times he showed up here, he'd been drinking. He dropped in on a few executives, rantin
g about how he was being cut out of C'est Moi's success and squeezed out of his job. In one case he went so far as to claim he'd come up with the preliminary formula. He ruffled a lot of feathers. Four written complaints were filed with my office. Eventually, I was asked to have a talk with him, and to issue a gentle warning about his behavior. I did. He didn't take it well."

  "Meaning?"

  "He blew up at me. He called me a few unpleasant names, then paced around my office, waving his arms and yelling that Ruisseau would be nothing without him. He threatened to sue the company if he was fired, said he'd show Carson just how essential he was."

  "Those were his exact words?"

  "Yes."

  "Did anyone else hear him say that?"

  Roland shrugged. "It's possible. His voice was raised at the time. Either my secretary or someone passing by my office might have overheard. If so, I haven't gotten wind of it. That wouldn't surprise me. Ruisseau's a tight organization. We don't gossip about each other."

  "Yeah," Barton muttered. "We noticed. We've got to pry information out of you people with a crowbar."

  "That's loyalty, Detective. It's one of the traits Carson Brooks insists on from his staff."

  "Right. Well, whoever shot him wasn't loyal."

  "That's why I don't think someone here is guilty."

  "Let's get back to Phelps's threat," Whitman interceded. "You were the only person actually in the office with him when he issued it."

  Damn, this woman just wouldn't be sidetracked.

  "Yes." Roland shifted uncomfortably beneath Whitman's scrutiny, feeling compelled to defend himself by stating the obvious. "All meetings between employees and Human Resources are conducted in private. That's company policy. It's especially important in cases like this, where there's a reprimand involved."

  "It sounds like he was pretty agitated."

  "He was." Roland couldn't leave it at that. If he was the one who hung Claude out to dry, it would get out, and his name would be mud. "Detective, I realize how this sounds. But please put it in context. Claude was furious. He felt professionally vulnerable and personally attacked. So, yeah, he threw a few threats around. But they were all business-related. He never once hinted at violence."