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"Right. Well, whoever shot him wasn't loyal."
"That's why I don't think someone here is guilty."
"Let's get back to Phelps's threat," Whitman interceded. "You were the only person actually in the office with him when he issued it."
Damn, this woman just wouldn't be sidetracked.
"Yes." Roland shifted uncomfortably beneath Whitman's scrutiny, feeling compelled to defend himself by stating the obvious. "All meetings between employees and Human Resources are conducted in private. That's company policy. It's especially important in cases like this, where there's a reprimand involved."
"It sounds like he was pretty agitated."
"He was." Roland couldn't leave it at that. If he was the one who hung Claude out to dry, it would get out, and his name would be mud. "Detective, I realize how this sounds. But please put it in context. Claude was furious. He felt professionally vulnerable and personally attacked. So, yeah, he threw a few threats around. But they were all business-related. He never once hinted at violence."
"Professionally vulnerable," Whitman repeated. "In other words, his job was on the line." Her gaze hardened. "You said you were asked to have a talk with Phelps and issue a warning. Who asked you to do that?"
Roland swallowed. "Carson Brooks."
A swift exchange of glances between detectives. "We'd like to have a look at those written complaints," Barton informed him.
"I anticipated you might." Slowly, Roland opened his drawer and removed the sheets of paper he'd placed there earlier, sliding them across the desk. "Here. I made copies for you. But I think you're barking up the wrong tree. Claude's all bluster. He wouldn't shoot anyone."
"Everyone's capable of violence, given the right circumstances," Barton refuted, picking up the pages. "And we're barking up every tree, not just this one. We plan to find out who did this."
"I understand."
Whitman was still watching him. "I'd like access to all the personnel files. And there's no need for you to make photocopies. We'll copy what we need."
Roland's gut knotted. He didn't like Detective Whitman's tone, or the vibes he was picking up from her. Whatever she was thinking, it wasn't good. "All right," he agreed, trying to seem as cooperative as possible. He reached for his phone. "I'll arrange for you to have immediate access."
"Fine. We're heading back to the hospital now. We'll check back with you later today." Whitman paused. "By the way, where were you on Monday evening, between the hours of five and six?"
His forefinger paused on the keypad. "At my home on Long Island. Throwing some franks on the grill for our annual barbecue. I was there all evening."
"I assume someone can verify that?"
"My wife." He licked his suddenly dry lips. "Why? Am I a suspect?"
"This is an attempted murder, Mr. Ferguson. Everyone's a suspect."
"Until our alibis are confirmed," Roland amended.
"Until we find the assailant." Whitman wasn't giving, not an inch. "Which we will, Mr. Ferguson. You can bet the bank on it."
1:35 P.M.
Mt. Sinai Hospital
Pop.
The sound echoed inside his head. White-hot pain. It lanced through him, a bolt of lightning in his back. Colors. A kaleidoscope rushing up at him. And that sticky-sweet smell. Blood. His blood. Oozing from his body... Trickling down his back... draining away his life.
Dying. He was dying. And it was too soon... too soon...
He heard his own groan at the same time that a firm hand shook his shoulder. "Carson? Carson, it's me."
He jerked awake, fighting the cobwebs that clung to his mind as a result of the drugged sleep. A nightmare. He'd been having a nightmare—or rather reliving one that had actually occurred. But it was over. He was alive. The wetness trickling down his spine was sweat, not blood. And the concerned face swimming into view over the sea of tubes and monitoring equipment was Dylan's.
"Are you all right?" he demanded.
