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"Don't they also have corporate sponsors?"
"Yeah," Dylan replied. "Carson gives a bundle. I know that for a fact. YouthOp has other sponsors, too—some personal, some corporate—although I doubt any of them gives close to what Carson does. Either way, the thing that gets to me is that I don't see enough of that money going to the kids. Listen, I was once in their shoes. I know what they need. Especially the older ones. They're beyond the point where baseball games and pep talks are going to help. They need hard-core support."
"They get internships and scholarship money," Jeannie reminded him.
"True. And I wholeheartedly support that. It made all the difference in my life. But it's step two. Step one is for someone to get them on track, moving in the right direction so they'll take advantage of those opportunities. As I've told Susan before, YouthOp needs to hire some professionals, counselors who go out to the high schools and zero in on kids who could benefit from this program, counselors who can help them along the way. Charity events are great. But once the money's in YouthOp's coffers, then what? Where's it going? To flashy events that are covered by the press? That's what eats at me. The donations should be used to create an environment where these kids feel like there's a place to go, a person to talk to. Russ Clark's a perfect example. If he'd been able to confide in someone about whatever the hell he'd uncovered, maybe warning bells would have gone off in that someone's head. Maybe Russ would be alive today."
"Unless what he uncovered was at YouthOp itself. Then, he wouldn't know where to turn. And, if he did, maybe he couldn't get to that person in time." Jeannie leaned forward, and it was obvious her mind was going a mile a minute. "As Ms. Radcliffe pointed out, Clark came to Ruisseau from YouthOp. We've been assuming that whatever incriminating information he dug up, he found at Ruisseau. Maybe he didn't. Maybe he found it at YouthOp. And maybe he was spotted by Mr. Molotov cocktail, who happened to be at YouthOp at the same time. That would certainly be an incentive to shut Clark up."
Frank twisted around to face Jeannie. "That might explain why we didn't find any notes, scribbled memos— anything that could help us—in Clark's office at Ruisseau. He wasn't checking out this place. He was checking out YouthOp. And if he was keeping some kind of running report, he might have stashed it right where he was poking around. It was convenient and he probably had no idea anyone was onto him."
"Which means that report could still be there—unless the Molotov kid found it. He sure as hell would have looked, to save his own ass. Whatever Russ Clark dug up, we can assume it was incriminating."
"And if it also implicated Susan..." Sabrina swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. "That would give her motive to have Russ killed."
"Enough theorizing. We need answers." Jeannie shut her notebook with a thwack. "We've got to get our hands on a list of all the teenagers and young twenties who've been affiliated with YouthOp since its inception. My guess is that would lead us to Mr. Molotov. And the list wouldn't take long to compile, since the organization's relatively new."
"The problem is, who's going to compile it?" Frank muttered. "It has to be Susan Lane. She runs the place. Trying to go around her would be stupid. She'd inevitably find out what we were doing, which would piss her off and make her suspicious."
"Um-hum," Jeannie agreed. "We've got to spin this so we get her cooperation." A thoughtful pause. "Mr. Newport, did Russ Clark spend any scheduled time at YouthOp? I realize he visited the place now and then— the YouthOp staff confirmed that for us when we interviewed them after his murder—but we need more than an occasional drop-in. Did he have any formal reason to go to the organization with any regularity?"
"As a matter of fact, yes." Dylan nodded. "He taught a writing class there every Saturday afternoon to a bunch of twelve- to fourteen-year-olds. There's a subway station a couple of blocks away from YouthOp, so getting there was easy for everyone. The staff might not be aware that that class was going on, since most of them don't work Saturdays." Awareness flashed across Dylan's face. "Which would make it the perfect time for Russ to do some snooping."
"That's enough for probable cause, Jeannie," Frank declared. "We've got an ongoing murder investigation, a connection between the victim, YouthOp, and—after the gasoline Ms. Radcliffe just smelled in Susan Lane's office—the assailant. Plus, we've got statements from Ms. Radcliffe and Mr. Newport affirming that they heard Ms. Lane use the phrase 'a couple' of Molotov cocktails in referring to last night's attack. It's search warrant time."
"I agree," Jeannie said. "And we'll lay it all out for the judge. But as far as Susan Lane's concerned, let's soft-pedal it. The lower key and less personal we make this visit, the better. Let her believe she's out of the mix for now."
"Right. No point in tipping our hand. Let her think we're just checking out the possibility that some slime-bag kid slipped through the cracks and got into her program."
"She'll understand that in order to find him, we'll need to access the computer, go through the personnel files, and get into the financial records." Jeannie gave an innocent shrug. "After all, you never know if the punk stole money from YouthOp, or if somebody paid him off. You and I both know it's highly unlikely we'll find information like that neatly listed in the financial records. But it is possible. And it'll give us the grounds we need to review the charity's financial transactions. Which, in turn, will give us a chance to see how the YouthOp funds have been allocated—or manipulated—as the case may be. Ms. Lane won't have an inkling that's part of our agenda. Unless we stumble upon something incriminating—then she'll know, and fast."
"Just having you walk in with a search warrant will make Susan freak out," Dylan noted.
"Not the way we'll handle it, she won't. We'll ask for her help, make her our ally. Believe me, Mr. Newport, she won't freak out—not if she's innocent," Frank clarified. "If she's innocent, she'll thank us. Her organization will be cleansed of a bad seed, and she'll have helped nail him. Hell, she'll look like a heroine in the press. Isn't that what she thrives on?"
"You've got a point," Dylan conceded. "Well, good luck. I'm half-hoping you'll find something to fry her ass, and half-hoping she's innocent as a lamb—for Carson's sake."
"You're emotionally involved. We're not. That's why things go much smoother when Detective Barton and I handle the situation ourselves," Jeannie told him.
"In other words, butt out." A corner of Dylan's mouth lifted. "Don't worry, Detective. Sabrina and I have had more than our share of excitement. This one's all yours. Just keep us posted."
"Will do."
"Speaking of which, what happened at Pruet's this morning?"
"A dead end," Frank stated flatly. "Ten people, nine alibis. Everyone could account for their whereabouts except Karen Shepard, who's the executive assistant to Louis Malleville. She was at the movies alone. We'll check out her story as best we can. Not that I expect to find anything."
Sabrina and Dylan exchanged glances.
"What?" Frank demanded. "What do you two know?"
Dylan reached for the phone. "Let me just make a quick call to Carson, see what he's up to. Then, I'll answer your question."
He'd pressed three buttons when there was a knock on the door.
Sabrina frowned. "I asked Donna not to interrupt under any circumstances. Yes?" she called out.
The door opened, and Stan walked in. He looked exhausted, and like he'd been through hell. But there was a peace in his eyes that Sabrina had never before seen. "Don't blame Donna," he said quietly. "I pulled rank on her. I knew Detectives Whitman and Barton were here. And I need to speak with them right away. This can't wait."
