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"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.
