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With great irritation, Dylan rubbed the back of his neck. "I've already told you more than I should have— none of which is to be made public," he added meaningfully. "I only disclosed this much because you'd demand a credible reason for my leaving town, and so you'll understand why the media needs to be kept out of this, at least until tomorrow. But this is a personal, not a police, matter. I can't get into the details without breaking Carson's confidence."
"We're not interested in leaking a scandal," Barton said tightly. "We're interested in solving a crime. We said we'd put off the press, and we will. As for relevance, it's up to us to decide what does and doesn't pertain to our investigation. So you'll have to give us a little more information than you have. Why the trip?"
"Let's just say that my news might catch Carson's daughter off-guard."
"News of the shooting?"
"News of who her father is."
"I see." Whitman pursed her lips. "She doesn't know. And you're going to be the one to break it to her."
"I'm the only one Carson entrusted with this information, and with the job of finding her, so, yes. It's my responsibility."
"Entrusted?" Whitman pounced on him like a hunter on its prey. "So Carson Brooks does know he has a biological child. You just said..."
"He suspects. He's not sure," Dylan said, cutting off her interrogation. "Let's not play cat and mouse. Not now. Later, you can get into this with Carson. Use the next seven minutes to grill me on whatever you've been saving up. Then I'm out of here. Unless you plan on stopping me."
"Now why would we do that?"
"Because you think I shot Carson."
"Did you?"
Dylan stared Whitman down. "No." Barton tore open a pack of gum and popped a stick in his mouth. "Do you own a gun, Mr. Newport?"
"Ah, now we're getting down to it. I'm sure you already know I don't I didn't borrow or steal one, either. Besides, if I was the one who shot Carson, what did I do with my weapon? Toss it out the twelfth-floor window or down an elevator shaft?"
"That's one of our question marks. No weapon. No bullet."
"But lots of motive and opportunity," Whitman chimed in. "You were the only other person at Ruisseau at the time of the shooting."
"The only other known person," Dylan amended.
"Right. That gave you both the time and the access. As for motive, the amount of money, company interest, and corporate power that would go to you if Carson Brooks was out of the way is staggering."
Dylan's eyes glinted. "True. I'd get a bundle. I'd also lose the closest thing to a father I've ever had. The tradeoff sucks."
"You've known Mr. Brooks for nineteen years." Whitman skimmed some pages that Dylan recognized as Child Welfare records. "You came to him with a colorful background. In and out of five foster families..." A pointed pause. "Three juvenile arrests."
"I fought with fists, not guns."
"Yes, and frequently, too. Street brawls, discipline problems in school."
"That's right. I had a lousy childhood." Dylan's jaw tightened. "Now skip ahead. Read the part about after I met Carson Brooks. Straight A's, work-study program, corporate internship. Graduated from Columbia University and Columbia Law School with honors. Did any of that register? Because if it did, you know the difference Carson's made in my life."
"He's certainly been a generous benefactor. Any idea why? I mean, why you?"
A muscle in Dylan's cheek flexed. "You'll have to ask Carson that one, too. Now, are you going to let me go to Auburn, or not?"
Whitman studied him for a long moment. Then, she nodded, tearing off a scrap of blank paper and handing it to Dylan. "Write down Mr. Brooks's daughter's name and address," she instructed. "And keep your cell phone on. If we need you, we'll find you."
CHAPTER 4
8:15 P.M.
Center for Creative Thinking and Leadership
Sabrina was just finishing up an evening workshop when her assistant, Melissa Andrews, poked her head in.
