"I doubt you realize what Carson Brooks is worth. The thought of inheriting that kind of wealth entices even the most noble of people to commit criminal acts. As for the poor choice of timing, I agree. But time wasn't on Mr. Newport's side, not when Carson Brooks had already clued him in to the fact that he was launching a search for you. To be more precise, he didn't just clue him in. He confided in him—and only him—then asked for his help. Talk about waving a red flag. If you turned up, a genuine heir, that could change everything, especially the allocation of assets to an outsider, no matter how dear. The prospect is enough to push a smart, cautious man into taking dumb, reckless risks."
"Nice theory." Sabrina looked from one detective to the other. "Where's the proof?"
"If we had proof, he'd be in custody," Barton replied.
"Right." This time when Sabrina got to her feet, she wasn't going to be stopped. "No wonder he's bent out of shape. Not only do you think he tried to kill a man he loves like a father, he's probably afraid that since you have him all but in handcuffs, you're not exactly busting your tails to find the real shooter."
"Wait a minute." Whitman blocked her path. "I resent the hell out of that. Yeah, we have our qualms about Dylan Newport, but that's all they are—qualms. We have qualms about a bunch of people. And we're investigating every one of them—every person who might have a grudge against him, every individual who might gain something from his death. Until we find a theory that's fact, this case will stay wide open—and so will our minds. We're very good at our job. We will find the person who did this. So tell Mr. Newport not to be so damned paranoid, and not to bitch about how we're conducting our investigation."
Sabrina stared Whitman down. "He hasn't bitched, at least not to me. If he does, I'll pass along your message. In the meantime, I've had enough for one day. I'm exhausted. I'm going to get some rest. I'll be back at the hospital later this evening. If you need to reach me before then, I'm staying at the Plaza Athenée."
"Until when?"
"I haven't set a departure date."
"Does that mean you're planning to be tissue-typed? Have you decided to volunteer one of your kidneys to your father?"
"I haven't thought that far ahead. When I do, I'll let you know. Now, if you'll excuse me..."
Sabrina sidestepped Detective Whitman and walked out.
CHAPTER 10
4:15 P.M.
Rockport, Massachusetts
Gloria put down her sketch, which was less inspiring than anything she'd done since she was a first-year design student. It was no use. She couldn't concentrate. Not with all that was going on.
She went into the kitchen, made herself a cup of tea, then curled up on the sofa to drink it and think. The phone call from Sabrina hadn't held any major surprises. She'd met Carson Brooks. She'd been moved by the experience, whether or not she chose to admit it. She'd been sucked up into a vortex of activity and emotion, and they both knew how it was all going to play out, at least as far as Sabrina's decision was concerned.
No, none of that was a surprise.
It was the speed with which everything was unraveling that was alarming. The police interrogation, the media clustered outside the hospital, the sacrifice that Sabrina was going to have to make without being given nearly enough time to prepare herself.
Gloria's hand trembled on her cup. She'd restrained herself from getting involved as long as she could.
She had to fly back to New York.
It was inevitable, really. Those detectives would be contacting her soon enough anyway, and it would make things easier if she talked to mem in Manhattan rather than here. It would, at least, keep her parents removed from the heart of the scandal. As it was, she had to stop off and see them on her way to the airport, break the news to them about what was going on.
She could hardly wait.
Sighing, she put down the cup and massaged her temples. Twenty-eight years was a long time, but a person didn't forget a pivotal milestone like the one that had started all this and, ultimately, created Sabrina. Gloria hadn't come to her decision lightly. Donor insemination was still somewhat of an eyebrow-raiser in the mid-seventies, even when the patties involved were a married couple. But for an unmarried woman such as herself, one who wanted to bear and raise a child alone, it was a major tongue-wagger. Which to her parents, who were so enmeshed in their Beacon Hill world, translated into scandalous behavior.
Then again, they'd come to expect that kind of behavior from Gloria. She'd always been a maverick. Growing up in the fifties, coming into her own in the sixties, she was too intelligent for a woman, too outspoken to keep her opinions to herself, too creative to fit in, too beautiful and well bred to abandon the country club life and—sin of all sins—become an artistic bohemian rather than an affluent housewife.
Of course she would have preferred finding the right man—one who loved her for who she was, rather than who he wanted to make her. But that wasn't in the cards. She knew that early on. She was too much the free spirit, too individualistic. Finding her soul mate would be like finding a needle in a haystack.
Time didn't prove her wrong. Every man she got involved with was a colossal disappointment. They either wanted to possess her or to change her. She could abide neither.
So marriage was out But, oh, how she wanted a child—one she could bond with through pregnancy and childhood; one she could love, give every emotional and intellectual advantage to, and encourage to be his or her own person. She had so much to offer. And if she could only integrate her own attributes with those of someone who was equally dynamic but different from her, with entirely distinctive traits of his own—what an extraordinary child she could share with the world.
With that thought, the idea was born.
And so, at the age of thirty-three, with her bio-clock ticking loudly in her ear, Gloria had taken the plunge.
Finding the right doctor had been imperative. He had to be an accomplished fertility specialist, as well as open-minded, and discreet Because the path she was taking was far more unorthodox than the customary one in which you paid the donor a nominal fee, got him to relinquish all paternal rights and—with a topical knowledge of the donor's background, interests, and profession, along with his clean bill of health and basic specs—you went for it.
Even now, she smiled, remembering how intrigued Dr. Oldsman had been by the intricacy of her plan. He'd chuckled, saying it was stretching the boundaries but not breaking the rules. Sure, offering twenty thousand dollars to a sperm donor was outrageous. But given how specific she was about what she wanted for the father of her child, how high she'd set the bar, and how extensive was the testing and paperwork she required, it was understandable. And since she had the luxury of money on her side, why not use it to her advantage?
Her criteria had been lofty, but clear. The donor had to be exceptional, both physically and mentally. He had to have strengths that would augment hers; a scientific mind to offset her creative one, and an ambition level as fiery as her own. She wanted to maximize her child's chances of being successful, no matter what direction he or she took.
Each donor was, of course, required to submit to an extensive medical examination. But that was just the beginning. He was also required to take various exams testing his knowledge and intellectual abilities, plus he had to participate in a personal interview with Dr. Oldsman, the transcript of which—with the full knowledge and consent of the donor—was given to Gloria for review. Last but not least, each donor was required to fill out a questionnaire, supplied by Gloria, one that explored his talents and aspirations.
Gloria pored over each candidate's questionnaire and interview transcript. She also scrutinized his test results—medical and intellectual—looking for just the right combination of qualities.
She'd quite nearly given up finding them.
Then, Candidate #67 had crossed her desk.
She remembered every detail of his application. He had an IQ of 176, and a propensity for chemistry and business. He was determined t
o use those talents to start his own company, build it from the ground up, and make it thrive. He planned to do that with the twenty thousand dollars he received, should he be selected as the donor. His passion was infectious. His charisma and self-assurance practically leaped off the pages. His age was ideal—a youthful twenty-two—and his health was perfect. His sperm count was also exceptionally high—a major plus since, given Gloria's age, she wanted to minimize the risk of failed attempts. All in all, his specs were outstanding. The only negative was his sketchy ancestry. He was a street kid, an orphan whose parents had been high-school lovers. They'd gotten through the pregnancy, then taken off in separate directions, dumping their kid in the process. On the positive side, from the information Gloria managed to dig up, there'd been no drugs or alcohol involved, and the baby was born in perfect health. So, okay, she couldn't trace his lineage back three generations. Given her own experiences, she wondered if that mattered. The truth was, she was far more impressed by ambition and potential than she was by pedigree.
The clincher was his photo. He was drop-dead gorgeous. And, yes, that damned well mattered. The world was such that, just or unjust, people judged others by their appearance. Cold, hard facts showed that being attractive opened doors both personally and professionally. If Gloria could give that advantage to her son or daughter, she'd be a fool not to.
So Candidate #67 got the nod of approval—and the twenty thousand dollars.
The procedure went flawlessly. Sabrina was the result.
And, Gloria suspected, so was Ruisseau.
Odd, how she and Carson Brooks had each gotten what they wanted. She got her precious daughter; he got the company he was burning to start.
Their lives should never again have touched.
But they had.
And now she had to see through what she'd started.
7:25 P.M.
Mt. Sinai Hospital
"Dylan?"
Hearing Carson's gravelly voice, Dylan snapped out of the doze he'd fallen into moments before.
"Hey. You're awake." He pulled the chair over to the bed, studying his friend. His breathing wasn't great, even though they'd put the chest tube back in. His color wasn't all that terrific, either. But his eyes were relatively clear, considering everything he was enduring, and the pain medication that was being pumped into his body.
"Is that a surprise?" Carson's voice was still hoarse and weak, and his speech was slow. "I've slept more these past few days... than I slept in fifty years combined."
Dylan's lips twisted into a grin. "I can't argue that But you look more like yourself."
"You look like shit."
"You sound more like yourself, too." Dylan felt a surge of relief he couldn't begin to define. "I see signs of the old Carson. Hell, you can insult me all you want."
A hint of a smile. "Sounds tempting... maybe later." The smile faded. "We have things to talk about."
"Yeah." Dylan had a pretty good idea what was coming. Carson wanted details, something he wasn't looking forward to supplying. But he'd never lied to Carson before, and he wasn't about to start now. "Sabrina first?"
A knowing look, as that sharp blue gaze bore through him. "Coward. That's the easy part of our talk."
"Cut me some slack. You've been out of commission since Monday. I'm off my game."
"I'll let you off the hook this time.... But only because I want to talk about my daughter." Carson said the word awkwardly, but with an awed expression Dylan had never seen before. "So, okay, yeah, Sabrina first." Raw pride took over. "She's incredible, isn't she?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Man, do I have amazing sperm."
"One amazing sperm," Dylan corrected wryly. "We can't vouch for the rest. Maybe it was just the luck of the draw."
"Maybe," Carson agreed, not bothered in the least by Dylan's ribbing. He held his friend's gaze. "Is she freaked out?"
"She's beat. Those detectives did a number on her before she left for the hotel. I guess they implied her mother might have been the one who shot you."
"Her mother?" Carson repeated in astonishment.
"To keep you from contacting her. It sounds pretty lame to me."
"To me, too... How the hell would she know my plans?" A pause. "Besides which, I thought the cops had decided you shot me."
Dylan started. "They actually laid that one on you?"
"Not in so many words... But I'm a pretty smart guy... even with all these damned drugs in me." Carson rested a few seconds. "They're being assholes. I told them so. They think I'm just protecting you. They'll figure out the truth... soon enough."
"Thanks," Dylan said simply.
"For what? Trusting you not to put a bullet in my back?" Carson snorted in disgust. "Give me a break... and some credit for knowing you." An off-handed shrug—and a wince. "Besides, I ruled you out. If you wanted me dead, I'd be in a box... not a hospital."
"Cute." Dylan knew Carson was trying to make light of the accusations, but he couldn't laugh off something of this magnitude. Still, it took the edge off his rage knowing Carson had dismissed the detectives' speculations without a second thought.
"Lighten up, Dylan.... They don't know you, or how tight we are.... They're just doing their job. They've got a great rep.... I had Stan check them out. They'll get it right.... Look at the bright side. I'm not gonna die... so I'll be around when they find whoever shot me.... Then I can make them apologize to you... in public, if it helps."
"What'll help is seeing you on your feet, and seeing whoever did this in jail."
"Sounds good." Another short rest. "When's Sabrina coming back to the hospital?"
Dylan glanced at his watch. "I checked in with her about an hour ago. She sounded pensive. I guess she's dealing with her family, and the shock of finding out who her father is. But she's holding her own. She said she'll be here around eight."
"She's got a lot more to be pensive about than putting a name to a sperm specimen.... And her family's got a lot more to worry about than a scandal.... But then, you already know that. Which brings us to our next topic..." Carson was forced to stop and rest his lungs. He began coughing, and gestured for some water.
Dylan poured him a cup, helped him drink it. "Maybe we should cut this talk short."
Carson waved away the notion. "Not a chance... We're finishing this before Dr. Kildaire comes in... and tosses you out."
As usual, Carson wasn't going to take no for an answer. "Okay," Dylan agreed. "What topic's next—Ruisseau?"
"Nice try. But you know better. I'm not worried about Ruisseau.... Not with you and Stan there... I have some thoughts... but we'll talk about those later." A concerned pucker formed between his brows. "Just tell me one thing... are the detectives bugging anyone?"
"Everyone. We'll survive. We're tough." Dylan braced himself for Carson's typically intensive probing. "So what's the next topic?"
"Sabrina's real reason for coming—what is it?"
"I already said, she wanted to meet you. Is that so odd?"
"No. But it's only part of the reason... and it doesn't explain the urgency of the visit.... She's a workaholic. She's got a pretty intricate business to run... yet she just dropped everything and flew here...."
"She thought you might not make it. Now she knows you will."
"Which takes the focus off me... and gives her time to decide whether or not she wants a relationship with me."
"Right."
"So you think she'd jump on a plane... and run home to work it through... with her family." Carson was starting to fade. But he was fighting it tooth and nail. "But she didn't do that, did she? She's still here."
Dylan blew out a breath. "Maybe she wants to get to know you better. Maybe she's curious. Maybe—"
"Dylan—stop. I saw the dialysis machine." Carson raised his wrist. "And I know what this shunt-thing is for."
Silence.
"Stop looking like a dog who got caught peeing on the rug… I called Radison in... made him tell me about it. I know my kidneys aren't kicking in
." Carson shut his eyes for a minute to regather his strength. Then, he opened them. "Tell me the truth. Did you bust your ass... to find Sabrina... in case I needed a transplant?"
Dylan didn't avert his gaze. "That, and because you asked me to."
A shaky nod. "Did you talk to her about the idea?"
"Yeah. She hasn't given me an answer."
"I don't... blame her. Christ... it's a huge sacrifice. I'm a stranger...."
"You're her father."
The barest hint of a smile. "Not really... Not in the ways that matter... You know that, too. You're just too stubborn to admit it... and too close to me to be objective.... Those are lousy traits for a lawyer...."
"So sue me."
"Give her room, Dylan.... Her family won't make this easy on her.... They're old money—lots of it.... Grandparents are very proper.... They're also in their eighties, and not about to mellow.... It was hard enough on their daughter.... She's made quite a name for herself in the fashion industry...."
Dylan's brows rose. "For someone fighting for his life, you've managed to do lots of homework."
"Stan ran the check for me. It wasn't hard to get a profile on the Radcliffes.... They're very visible.... I had to know something about my daughter's family... her real family...."
"And did they meet your expectations?" Sabrina inquired from the doorway.
"Actually... yeah." Carson angled his head in her direction, not missing a beat. "Come in... and pull up a chair."
Curiously, Dylan watched Sabrina, gauging her reaction. She was leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded across her breasts. Her expression was unreadable. If she was expecting contrition, she was talking to the wrong guy. Carson never apologized for being thorough.
"You're only allowed one visitor at a time," she reminded him. "I'll wait."
"The hell you will," Carson refuted, gesturing for
Dylan to stay put as well. "Forget the rules.... Radison's gone for the day... and I won't tell."
Sabrina's lips twitched. "All right." She walked over, nodding her thanks to Dylan as he dragged over an armchair for her. "So, Dylan, are you the one who played Magnum, PI again?"