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"Mr. Brooks." Jeannie pulled up a chair at the foot of his bed, trying a softer tactic. "You're exhausted. We don't want to push you. We also understand you view us as the enemy. We're not. We're not out to attack your company, or harass your employees. But someone tried to kill you. Our job is to find that someone. We want to keep you safe. I think you'll agree that, if your assailant happens to work at Ruisseau, he or she doesn't deserve your protection."
Carson turned his head slightly, staring past the tubes in his nose and fixing his probing blue gaze on her. "Nice try, Detective," he wheezed out. "But the bonding technique... won't work with me. I don't need... to feel loved. I need to survive. I'm not protecting anyone.... If I knew who put this bullet in me... I'd hand... the son of a bitch... over to you on a silver platter." He stopped, dragging in a few labored breaths. "But I'm not listening to you... spout crap about Dylan. Or the rest of my team... without good reason. If you want to know... if any of them shot me... ask them."
"We will. We're going over to Ruisseau this morning." Jeannie glanced quickly at her watch. "Let's talk about C'est Moi. Ms. Lane suggested that your attack might be tied to its success."
"Smart girl..." Carson rasped, his expression indicating he'd been thinking along the same lines. "That wouldn't surprise me."
"Is it true you're the only one who knows the formula?"
A nod. "In my head... Not written down anywhere..."
"I don't get it," Frank said. "That formula is a gold mine. Didn't you patent it?"
"Nope." Carson wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. "Took the risk not to.... Bigger risk if I had... Would have had to put the formula in writing. More chance of the secret leaking." A pained smile. "Besides, didn't you ever hear that mystery... in consumer products... is a great marketing ploy? Worked with the secret Coca-Cola formula... Did the same with C'est Moi."
"True. But getting nothing in writing—those are high stakes you're gambling with," Frank said in amazement.
"I'm... used to it. High-stakes gambling... is the only way to come out on top.... That's how I built... my company."
"So let's say someone was desperate to shut down the production of C'est Moi, so desperate they'd shoot you. Any particular rivals spring to mind who fill that bill?"
"Cut-throat bastards, yeah. Cold-blooded murderers, not off-hand... Primary competition's Etienne Pruet... Based in Paris and New York. Strong, at least on paper... Call Jason Koppel at Merrill Lynch... Great industry analyst... trustworthy, too... I've known him twelve years... Pick his brain. Maybe someone's company's... worse off than I know."
The door opened and Dr. Radison walked in. "That's it for now," he stated flatly, checking Carson's IV fluids and cardiac monitor as he spoke. "Mr. Brooks needs his rest."
"Of course." Jeannie stood, following Frank's lead as he inched away from the bed. "We'll get started with what we have."
"Do... that...."
She halted. "Unless you can think of anything we overlooked?" she added quickly, hoping to jog his memory before Dr. Radison intervened. "Anything you were too fuzzy to remember yesterday? Did you notice anyone in the building? Was there someone in particular you might have clued in to the fact that you planned to work on Labor Day?"
"Didn't need to make an announcement... I'm at Ruisseau every day... holidays included. I ran late.... Supposed to leave around five... U.S. Open... Was really looking forward to it..." Carson coughed. "Didn't see anyone... Don't remember much... Dylan went to get files.... I went to windows.... Heard pop... Felt pain... Smelled burning... Smelled..." He dissolved into a spasm of coughing.
"That's it, Detectives," Radison broke in. "I mean it. No more for this session."
Jeannie made an apologetic gesture. "We're on our way. You take care, Mr. Brooks. We'll be back another time."
"Wait." In a slow, pained motion, Carson turned his head in their direction. "Go easy... on my team. Even if one of them's guilty... which I don't believe... the rest are innocent... Remember that...."
"Will do."
Officer Laupen glanced up as Jeannie and Frank walked out of the hospital room. "Hey, Stick, Stone. Any breakthrough?"
"Nothing to write home about," Jeannie replied tersely.
"Sorry."
"So are we," Frank said.
The two of them headed briskly down the hall.
"We're on our own now," Jeannie muttered. "We can't push Brooks any more, not till he's stronger. If we want a rundown on his staff, we'll have to get it elsewhere."
"Yeah, but from whom? Dylan Newport?"
Jeannie shrugged, reaching the elevator and pressing the down button. "We'll pick his brain, yeah. He's certainly on the inside track. But in the meantime, he's in New Hampshire. We're here. Let's go meet the Ruisseau gang and see what we can dig up on our own."
Frank nodded. "We'll duck out the back way. The last thing we need is a swarm of reporters to deal with."
