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"He saw Karen and me come out of a hotel together— twice. We were rarely that stupid or careless. Just our luck, the two times we met in the city instead of at her place, Roland spotted us. He recognized Karen from some industry event they'd both attended. The second time he saw us together, he also overheard us saying some guilty good-byes and making plans to meet at her place where no one from Pruet's or Ruisseau could see us. Our conversation sounded pretty incriminating. The next morning, Roland confronted me. I freaked out. I gave him two personal bonus payments of ten thousand dollars each. He's been a twitching wreck ever since. Like I said, I let him off the hook today. I told him my plans. Needless to say, he was relieved."
Carson's eyes narrowed. "Your plans? What plans?"
Stan planted his feet firmly apart, and crossed his arms over his chest. "I won't lie to you. There's been too much of that already. Originally, I was just going to shred anything that could incriminate me or hurt Ruisseau, then bribe Roland with as much money as it took to get him to resign his position and to move far, far away. I told myself I'd make it up to you. I'd comb the globe until I found the best VP of human resources known to mankind to replace Roland. I'd never discuss business with Karen again. I'd bust my ass to help Sabrina, and to make her transition as easy as possible. I'd do it all, and I'd do it with the morals of a boy scout. But guess what? That bogus attempt at altruism didn't work. I discovered that my conscience has a lower threshold than I thought. It wouldn't shut up. Also, my insides feel like shredded wheat. My peptic ulcer has graduated to a bleeding ulcer. I'm killing myself, and I'm not ready to die. The only way to stop that from happening is by taking a major stand—now."
His shrug with filled with weariness and defeat. "Look, Carson, I can't keep fighting to be what I'm not. So I changed my original strategy, decided to go about things differently. Instead of bribing Roland, I gave him back his integrity this morning. I told him I was going to resign as soon as the cops caught whoever shot you, at which point I could tell you everything and walk off into the sunset. Actually, the conversation we're having now changes that timing. Since you already know everything, we can give the cops my alibi, tell them whatever you and Dylan decided on, and I can resign now rather than later."
"The hell you can." Carson's eyes blazed and his jaw set. "Let me get this straight. You're saying you figured that if you spilled your guts to me now, I'd assume that anyone who'd screw around with my company, might also put a bullet in my back."
"Something like that, yeah."
"Well, you were wrong. Your logic sucks. Just like it sucks that you never came to me, not in twenty years, and told me what was really going on with you and Karen. It sucks that you thought I'd just throw you to the wolves. It sucks that you didn't think I'd get it that you were in love with this woman. It sucks that you don't realize how well I know you, that I know how nuts you are about proving yourself. It sucks that you never caught on to the fact that I feel guilty as hell for making you feel so desperate that you had to go to these lengths to stay on t
op. And you know what sucks most of all? That after all we've been through together, all the years we've been friends, I had more faith in you than you had in me. Or in yourself, for that matter. You really are an asshole."
"That's a fair assessment. As for the last part, thanks for the compliment." Stan smiled faintly, his tone as wry as his expression. "It's good to know that, even with my life coming apart at the seams, some things never change."
"Yeah. Things like our friendship. And your job. You're not leaving Ruisseau. You're not going anywhere. Try handing me your resignation. I'll tear it up and throw it in your face. Now sit the hell down," Carson ordered, pointing at the chair. "We'll go over the explanation Dylan laid out for us to share with the detectives. It's pretty close to the truth. Once we're in sync, we'll contact Whitman and Barton, and arrange for you to give them your statement. Oh, and call Karen. Let her know what's going on. Tell her she's keeping her job and you're keeping yours. I'll give Pruet a call. If he feels better, Karen can sign a confidentiality agreement. But I doubt he'll insist on that. He'll be satisfied with her verbal assurance that whatever happens in her professional day isn't discussed outside the office. As for you, the employment agreement you signed as COO already binds you to maintain confidentiality about Ruisseau.
"And one more thing." Carson shot Stan a no-bullshit look. "On a personal note, would you get off your butt and ask this woman to marry you? It's the only way you're ever going to get this marriage thing right."
"I will." Stan's throat was working convulsively as he lowered himself into the chair. He stared at the floor, and there was no sarcasm in his tone when he spoke, only gratitude and humility. "Thanks, Carson. I said it when we lived in that cockroach-ridden dump, and I'll say it now. You're one hell of a friend."
"Yeah, well, that goes both ways. Without your passing along that sperm donor information twenty-eight years ago, Sabrina would never have been conceived. And without your digging it up again now, she'd never have come into my life. So we're even. Now let's stop slobbering and get busy."
10:25 A.M.
YouthOp, East 23rd Street
Whatever tranquilizer Susan had taken hadn't done much good.
She was shaky and uptight as she ushered Sabrina and Dylan into her office.
"I hope our dropping in isn't an inconvenience," Sabrina said.
"Not at all. I'm touched that you're here." Susan took out a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. Then, she sat down behind her desk, folding her manicured hands in front of her. "It's good to see for myself that you're both all right. I just wish I'd known you were coming. I'd have had a fresh pot of coffee ready, maybe brought in some muffins from that little bakery down the street."
"Thanks. But we just downed an entire pot of coffee. Any more caffeine and I think we'll twitch." Sabrina smiled politely, settling herself in a chair and glancing at her surroundings.
Okay, Dylan was right about the office. It looked like a Maurice Villency showroom, all cream leather and exquisite lacquered wood. Even the paintings on the wall screamed Upper East Side gallery.
Interesting. Especially since the rest of YouthOp's modest-sized office space was a complete one-eighty— inexpensive, spartanly furnished rooms with basic berber carpeting, and metal desks and file cabinets.
"Your office is lovely," Sabrina commented, pausing as the scratchiness in her voice swallowed her words. Simultaneously, she became aware of a disturbing odor aggravating her nose—an odor that sidetracked her big-time.
"Pardon me?" Susan inquired, brows drawn in question.
Sabrina forced herself to keep it together. She couldn't let her reaction show. She had to shelve it, to think about the implications later.
"Your office," she repeated, operating on autopilot. "It's lovely. Did you decorate it yourself?"
"Actually, no. I worked with a professional decorator." Susan didn't look the least bit put off by the question. On the other hand, her fingers were still trembling from the upset of the day. "He's on the expensive side, but he's phenomenally talented. For months I was on the fence about whether or not I should spend thousands on my office. But, the truth is, I'm in this room over fifty hours a week. So, in the end, I decided to splurge. I sold one of my stocks and went for the works. I've never been sorry. I'm far more motivated when I feel good in my surroundings." She gestured at her stylish taupe suit, striving for a lighter note. "It's like putting on one of your mother's designs when you're going through a bad time. It lifts your spirits—most of the time," she added ruefully, clearly self-conscious about the emotional state she was in.
She drew a calming breath, then glanced at Dylan. "I should give you my decorator's name and number. From that news report I heard, it sounds like the explosion and fire at your apartment were bad. The place must be in shambles."
"The ground floor's a disaster," Dylan confirmed with a nod. "Aside from that, I got lucky. The firefighters put out the flames before they could spread upstairs. But, yeah, I'm going to have to do some major renovating. The hallway as I knew it is gonzo."
"Wow." Susan shook her head in dismay. "I'm hardly an expert on Molotov cocktails, but it's hard to believe a couple of bottles could do that amount of damage." A concerned frown. "Where will you live in the meantime—at Carson's place?"
