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"We'll call Ms. Lane at home tomorrow morning, under the guise of our original plan. We'll tell her about our search warrant, and arrange to meet her at YouthOp," Jeannie replied. "Once we're in the door, we'll see what we can find. That will determine how we confront her, and with which crime first. Ideally, we'll get her on misappropriation of funds, then catch her off-guard on the big stuff. To a certain extent, we'll have to wing it. Leave it to us."
"We will." Dylan came to his feet, looking a little green around the gills himself. "Detectives, that's enough for tonight. I think we've all had it. Let's call it a day— for everyone's sake."
"I agree." Jeannie nodded, getting up and waiting while Frank followed suit. "We'll call you as soon as it's over."
"Wait." Sabrina stopped them. "What time tomorrow morning are you two planning on going over to YouthOp?"
"That depends on Ms. Lane. Why?"
"A couple of reasons. First of all, I don't want Susan paying Carson any visits before this whole thing goes down."
"Oh, cut it out, Sabrina," Carson barked. "I'm not a shriveled basket case."
"True, but you're not a diplomat either. You've got all the subtlety of a firing squad. Susan will know something's wrong the minute she sees your face." Sabrina was exaggerating and she knew it. Under circumstances like these, Carson would lie through his teeth if he had to. The truth was, she didn't want him having to face this woman—not alone.
Which brought her to the other potential schedule overlap she was trying to avoid.
"Second, I want to hear the outcome of this little tête-à-tête firsthand. Which means, I want to be here when you call Carson. The problem is, I've got an appointment with the nephrologist at ten. Time is of the essence, so rescheduling with Dr. Mendham is out. Can we work around that?"
Jeannie's gaze met hers, and a current of communication ran between them. Sabrina's message was getting through, loud and clear. She wanted to be with Carson, to help him through this emotional crisis. But she couldn't, wouldn't, do that if it meant neglecting his physical crisis. It was a juggling act. And she needed Whitman and Barton's help to manage it.
"That should be doable." Jeannie nodded, scratching her cheek thoughtfully. "Tell you what. Detective Barton and I will ask Dr. Radison to issue a no-visitors policy for tomorrow morning. He'll leave word at the nurses' desk that Mr. Brooks had a difficult night, that he was badly thrown by his daughter's brush with death, and that he'd been given something strong to help him sleep. As a result, he'll be out for the count until afternoon. That'll put a halt to any early morning drop-ins Ms. Lane might have planned. After that, she'll be kept plenty busy by us. She'll be compiling that list of potential Mr. Molotovs, while we're systematically compiling evidence. It'll take quite some time to do our thing at YouthOp. You'd be surprised how long it takes to review accounting data. Plus, we've got lots of questions to ask. And, of course, we've got to check out the place thoroughly for anything Russ Clark left behind. Trust me. We'll buy you more than enough time to get your physical exam."
"Thank you, Detective," Sabrina said. A wave of gratitude swept through her, and a grudging smile tugged at her lips. "Looks like I was wrong about you. You're a pretty decent human being after all. You both are."
"Yeah, well, don't spread it around," Jeannie warned. "It'll ruin our reputation."
"No chance of that," Frank muttered. "No one would believe her." He headed for the door, Jeannie right behind him. "Good night, all."
"Good night. And good luck." Sabrina waited until the two of them had left the room and shut the door.
Then, she turned, went back over to the bed where Carson was lying, stony-faced, staring at the ceiling. "Hey." She lay her hand over his. "Don't be pissed at me. I know I interfered. But I wasn't babying you. I was caring. Cut me the same slack you wanted from me. I can't help worrying. You're my father."
Carson's gaze shifted, dropping to where her fingers covered his. "I'm not pissed. And, yeah, I am your father. I'm the one who's supposed to be protecting you, not the other way around. Which is why I'm having a hell of a time coming to grips with the fact that it looks like the person who paid to have you killed is the woman who's been my partner for over a year. A woman I cared about." His use of the past tense was deliberate and emphatic. "And who claimed to love me."
"She does love you, for whatever that's worth."
"It's worth shit," he snapped. "So's the fact that it wasn't me she meant to shoot. It was Dylan, and that's worse than if she'd killed me three times over. Then, as if that wasn't despicable enough, she tried again. She hired some piece
of shit to kill both of you, and stab poor Russ to death to keep his mouth shut...." Carson's fists clenched, his fury a tangible entity. "God help her if Whitman and Barton are right."
"Carson, stop it." Dylan strode over, loomed at the foot of the bed. "Look at that cardiac monitor," he said, pointing. "It doesn't take a surgeon to see that your heart rate's up. So's your blood pressure, I'm willing to bet. So calm the hell down. You can't change what's happened. If—and I repeat if—Susan's guilty of everything the detectives speculated, she'll be punished for her crimes. We can't bring Russ back. That's a tragedy that can't be undone any more than your being shot. But we've got to focus on the positive. You're going to make a full recovery. Sabrina and I survived last night's attack. We're alive and well. So cut it out."
With a tight nod, Carson blew out his breath, visibly trying to force himself to relax. "I hear you. But it's easier said than done. I'll calm down. I just need some time alone—to think, to sort things out."
"The hell you do. What you need is a sleeping pill," Sabrina corrected. "I'm asking the nurse to bring one in now. I don't care if you call her every name in the book. You're taking that pill. You need some rest." Seeing him open his mouth to protest, she shot him one of her I-gotcha-on-this-one looks. "Let's put it this way—no sleeping pill and no rest means no rings and no proposal. And who knows when Dylan and I might feel compelled to do something so mushy and traditional again? Actually, our lives are so hectic these days—why, it could be months before we find the time to formalize things. And that would push the wedding back indefinitely."
"You're full of it." Carson eyed her knowingly. "You two are chomping at the bit to make this official."
A challenging stare. "Think so? Fine. Then call my bluff. But if you're wrong..." She shrugged. "A sleeping pill seems a small price to pay to ensure a romantic, one-day-away engagement. But it's your call, Mr. Matchmaker. So tell me, do Dylan and I go to Tiffany's tomorrow night, or not?"
Carson's mouth snapped shut, and he gave her a dark look. "Talk about going for the jugular. That's not a bargain; it's blackmail."
"Nope. Just a business deal where, for once, you're not in the power seat." Sabrina arched a brow. "So what's it going to be?"
"Fine. I'll take the damned sleeping pill. You can stay here and watch me swallow it, if it makes you happy."
"That won't be necessary. I trust your nurses." She smiled faintly. "And just to show you that I'm not such a piranha and that I do understand that in any good negotiation both sides should walk away feeling like they got something in return, I'm willing to make a concession, too. When Dylan and I come by tomorrow night, I'll gush my little heart out over my ring-—first to you, then to every nurse, intern, and medical technician who walks through that door. Okay?"
