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"To begin with, the entire donor insemination process was relatively uncommon in those days. And my grandparents were against it."
"Because of their social status."
"Among other reasons, yes. Anyway, my mother handled the whole procedure very discreetly, through a private fertility specialist. I don't know all the details, but I do know she insisted on seeing medical, intellectual, and social backgrounds on all the prospective donors."
"That's understandable. But she still never knew any of their identities, including that of the actual donor."
"Not at the time, she didn't."
Whitman's brows rose. "Are you saying that changed?"
God, Sabrina didn't want to go there. But she had no choice. "Yes, that changed. But before you jump to conclusions, it was strictly coincidental. Besides all the background information my mother received when she was choosing a sperm donor, she got photos of each candidate."
"Photos." A lightbulb seemed to go off in Detective Whitman's head. "In other words, she saw a photo of Carson Brooks—and studied it closely. Over the past dozen years, his face has been plastered on the cover of Business Week and shown regularly on CNN and CNBC. He's a striking guy. My hunch is that no woman could forget his face. Am I right? Did your mother recognize him at some later date?"
"Yes, she did."
"When?" Barton was back in the picture. He'd stopped chewing gum and was staring her down.
Warning bells screamed inside Sabrina's head. "I'm not sure. Several years ago, I think. She told me this last night, after I learned Carson was my father."
"Several years ago," Whitman repeated, scratching her head in puzzlement. "Why didn't she say anything to you before now?"
"She was protecting me, Detective Whitman. She was afraid I'd try making contact with a man who, as far as she knew, had no interest in having me in his life. And she was right. I would have."
"She might have been right about you, but she was wrong about Mr. Brooks. As we understand it, he was in the process of trying to locate you—or at least to determine if he had a living son or daughter."
"I realize that now."
"But your mother didn't?"
"Of course not. How could she?"
Rather than answering, Whitman asked another question of her own. "You said you spoke with your mother last night. Did you tell her about Mr. Newport's visit and about your plans to go to New York and see Mr. Brooks?"
"Absolutely. It was a big step on my part, one that could lead to an even bigger step. I wanted to prepare her."
"So you phoned her?"
"No, I drove over to her house."
"To Rockport?" Whitman gave a low whistle. "Wow. It must have been close to midnight by the time you got there. Between Mr. Newport breaking his news to you, and the hour plus drive from Auburn to Rockport—I can't imagine you getting there sooner. You must have scared her to death, waking her up like that."
"I didn't wake her." Sabrina had a bad feeling about this. She was being led somewhere. She just wasn't sure where or why. "She'd just gotten home from the airport."
"She'd been away?"
"On a business trip, yes."
"For how long?"
"A week."
"Where did she go?"
"To New York. She's a clothing designer. And Manhattan is the center of the fashion industry."
"True." Whitman pursed her lips. "So she was here since last...?"
