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"They told me everything," he confirmed. "So talk."
"All right. First of all, the TV station was very cooperative. We watched an hour's worth of video clips from Monday night's U.S. Open match. There were three occasions when we got a dead-on view of your courtside box—one at seven-ten, one at seven thirty-one, and one at seven fifty-six. The box was empty during the first two video shots. During the third—the one taken just before eight o'clock—Ms. Lane was in her seat. She was all settled in, so my guess is, she'd arrived a good few minutes before. But she wasn't there for the first half hour of the match."
Sabrina edged a quick glance at Carson. He was sitting very still, listening.
"We also contacted the USTA National Tennis Center, got the names and phone numbers of a dozen and a half spectators in the immediate vicinity of Ms. Lane's seat. We called them all. Guess what? Two of the women and—surprise, surprise—seven of the men, remember an attractive, well-dressed woman with frosted blond hair arrive late. Five of those nine people remembered what the logistics of the match were when that woman arrived—what the score was and where each player was standing, since they were in the process of changing sides. All five reports matched. So we fast-forwarded our videotape to that particular moment. Based on that information, Ms. Lane's arrival time was seven forty-three."
A weighted silence, which Sabrina broke.
"When you first interviewed Susan, she never mentioned to you that she was over a half hour late to the match?" she asked Whitman, knowing full well it was a rhetorical question, needing to ask it anyway.
"Nope." Jeannie glanced at Carson. "How about you, Mr. Brooks? Did she tell you she missed the first chunk of the match?"
Carson shook his head. "Shit. I don't believe this." He raked a hand through his hair. "All right, Detective. I buy it. Susan had all the time she needed to blow my guts out. But why? Believe me, I'm no sentimental jerk. I don't believe love conquers all. But Susan's not insane. She'd need a reason to kill me. So what's that reason? And when you come up with it, you can also tell me why she picked that particular place and time to do it. She, of all people, knew Dylan and I were wrapping up by late afternoon. I was supposed to be out the door at five to get ready for the match."
Abruptly, something seemed to click in Jeannie's mind, because her back went rigid and an intent expression came over her face. "Right. You told us that you weren't supposed to be at the office at the time you were shot, that you were supposed to have left around five. Ms. Lane knew that?"
"Yup. We discussed it that morning, and I confirmed it with her at around three-ish, on the phone."
"What exactly did you say?"
"That Dylan and I were finishing up. That I'd be out the door right on schedule."
"But you weren't. Was that unusual?"
"When it comes to tennis matches, damned straight it's unusual. The Open's one of the few things that gets my juices flowing like my work does. I'm never late for a match."
"What held you up?" Frank asked. "Legal papers to review?"
"Not really. Yeah, Dylan had one more file to go over with me, but it wasn't crucial. It could have waited until morning. I stayed because Dylan said he had a personal issue to discuss with me. I could tell that whatever that issue was, it was weighing on his mind. So I hung around."
"And that personal issue was Susan Lane, and your uneasiness about her." Frank addressed Dylan, picking up on Jeannie's thought process and running with it.
"Yes." Dylan nodded.
Frank leaned forward. "Mr. Newport, when we spoke this morning, you said you made suggestions to Ms. Lane about allocating YouthOp funds differently, providing counselors instead of splashy fund-raising parties. Did you give her any other
advice?"
Dylan shrugged. "Here and there. She knew the way I felt. I never accused her of anything illegal, if that's what you mean...."
"But she had a good idea where your head was when it came to her. You're a pretty outspoken guy. And she's a pretty bright woman. She must have picked up on your disgust whenever you walked into her office and looked around. She must have blanched at your suggestions. And she must have known you had Mr. Brooks's ear."
"Not only his ear, but his inheritance," Jeannie reminded him. "Mr. Newport is Mr. Brooks's prime beneficiary."
"Was," Frank corrected. "My guess is that Ms. Radcliffe's going to claim that spot—or at least share it." A humorless laugh. "Share it with, of all people, the man she's romantically involved with. Quite a double-obstacle, huh?"
"Um-hum. A very inconvenient double-obstacle. Especially for a woman who's got her sights set on becoming Mrs. Carson Brooks—after which, it would all be hers; hers and her charity's. Wealth, notoriety, status— hey, she'd be a regular Jackie O. If she cleared the path to Carson Brooks."
Frank rose, walked behind the chair and gripped the back. "She's a good shot. I'm sure she's handled a twenty-two. She could master it like that." He snapped his fingers. "One shot, and there'd be no more threat to her future—personal, professional, or financial. The opportunity was perfect. Based upon Mr. Brooks's three o'clock call, he and Mr. Newport were the only people at Ruisseau—and Mr. Brooks would be leaving by five. So at five-forty, there'd be only one person left in the office—Dylan Newport. And that's just the person she wanted to kill. So off she went to do the dirty deed. She found Newport in her boyfriend's office, standing by the window with his back conveniently to her. She stooped down low, took aim, and fired from the doorway. Just one problem. There's not a lot of light by that office window, and it's an eastern exposure, so there'd be little sun at that time of day. Newport and Brooks are about the same height, and with similar builds. All that adds up to a perfect, if unfortunate, case of mistaken identity."
"Wow." Jeannie let out a low whistle. "After she pulled the trigger, she realized it wasn't Dylan Newport she'd shot. It was Carson Brooks." A mocking shake of that Q-tip head. "Imagine how she felt. Especially since she's the high-strung type, a woman who comes unglued easily. Talk about seeing your world go up in smoke. So much for the right corpse. So much for the windfall. So much for your future, if the guy it depends on bites the dust. Man, she must have been a mess. No wonder she was bawling her head off in the ICU lounge. Talk about enormous guilt mixed with colossal failure and sheer panic."
"Yeah, but she recovered enough to try again, through her good buddy, Mr. Molotov. We thought he was just after Ms. Radcliffe. Nope. He had two targets in mind last night. His job was supposed to make bye-bye Sabrina and bye-bye Dylan. Hello freedom and hello cash. And what happened? She was foiled again. No wonder the woman's been such a wreck. She's got a lot to be freaked out about."
"Okay, that's enough." Sabrina cut them off and rose. The sick expression on Carson's face had been intensifying by the second. And it was really starting to worry her. "Carson?"
He angled his head in her direction, and there was a kind of empty, shocked awareness in his eyes, mixed with disbelief and guilt. "I'm okay," he managed. "I feel like puking, but I think that's to be expected. If this is true..." He broke off, turned to Jeannie. "How do we find out? How do we see this through?"
