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"I'm sure you were a wreck," Susan acknowledged, her demeanor softening. "I didn't mean to jump all over you like that. I just keep thinking that if I'd gotten here sooner, it might have made a difference. Maybe if he heard my voice, or knew I was there..." She swallowed hard. "Anyway, what's done is done. All that matters is for Carson to pull through this."
She walked over to the ICU, circling it as she tried to see in. But the curtains were drawn, as they had been since Carson's surgeon went inside. "Dr. Radison's been in there a long time."
Dylan crossed over to stand beside her. "Radison's being thorough. You know his reputation as well as I do; he's the best there is. He's more than aware we're still out here. He'll give us an update as soon as he can."
"Mr. Newport?"
The voice came from the corridor behind them. Dylan turned, not particularly surprised to see Detectives Barton and Whitman standing there. They'd questioned him last night before Susan arrived—about his relationship to Carson, Carson's lifestyle, his friends and enemies—the usual criminal investigation rundown. He'd responded on autopilot, although he doubted those responses had been too coherent. Not that it mattered. Even if he'd been in top form, he'd still be high up on their suspect list. He'd been the only other person at Ruisseau when the shooting took place. His tight relationship with Carson and the edge it gave him in the company was no secret. And by now they'd done their homework. They knew what kind of background he had, and they knew how much he stood to gain if Carson didn't make it. So here they were, back to probe further. Unless of course they'd found out something...
"Detectives." He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to assess their demeanor. They sure as hell didn't look like satisfied law officers who'd just made an arrest. "Do you have anything for us?"
"Nothing you don't already know." Frank Barton's reply had a definite edge to it—an edge and an implication. "We spoke to the two guards who were on duty at the building last night—the one at the front door and the one monitoring the video surveillance. They saw nothing and no one, except you and Mr. Brooks. We reviewed the surveillance tapes and confirmed that. So if anyone else got into the building, they used the freight entrance." Barton didn't meet Dylan's gaze, but instead shot an inquisitive look at Susan.
"This is Susan Lane," Dylan supplied in a stiff tone. "Her name's on that list of Carson's friends I gave you. Susan, Detectives Barton and Whitman."
"Ms. Lane." Eugenia Whitman acknowledged the introduction. "I'm glad you're here. We were going to contact you later today to ask you a few questions. Now we can do it here."
Susan nodded. "Of course. Whatever I can do to help."
"Good. Also, just so you know, we're posting twenty- four-hour security outside Mr. Brooks's hospital room, just in case whoever did this decides to try again. Officer Laupen should be showing up any minute now. He'll be taking the first shift." Whitman's attention switched back to Dylan. "You seem to be in better shape than you were last night. Does that mean there's positive news on Mr. Brooks's condition?"
Like they hadn't already called the hospital and checked, Dylan reflected dryly.
"It means last night I was in shock," he said aloud. "That shock is wearing off, so today I'm a little more collected. As for Carson, he's hanging on. He had a lacerated artery, a pierced lung, and a perforation of his intestines. He's also lost huge amounts of blood. So with regard to the prognosis, the jury's still out. For the time being, he's doped up and in ICU. His surgeon's in with him now. If you stick around, I'm sure you can hear the latest firsthand."
"That's what we had in mind," Barton assured him. "I understand from the surgeon's report that the bullet wasn't removed."
"You understand correctly. The bullet's in Carson's chest, lodged somewhere close to his lung. Taking it out would have been more dangerous than leaving it."
Barton folded his arms across his thickening middle. "So we have no bullet, no weapon, and a victim who can't talk to us yet."
Dylan noticed he didn't say anything about having no motive or suspect.
"Talking to Carson won't help. He didn't see his assailant." Rather than provoking the detectives, Dylan repeated what he'd told them last night. "He was shot from behind. He said the whole thing happened too fast for him to turn around."
"According to your story, he said that in the ambulance. Unfortunately, no one but you heard him." Detective Whitman fiddled with the ends of her short puff of curly platinum-blond hair—a deceptively casual gesture, since she was studying Dylan intently.
"The paramedics were a little busy, Detective." Dylan was starting to get pissed. "They were working to save Carson's life. He only managed a few words. And the only one he spoke to was me." He met Whitman's cool stare. She was tall—almost as tall as his own six foot one—with pale coloring, a straight, stick-thin build, and cottonball hair. She looked just like a Q-tip.
"Um-hum." She scanned her notes. "That's what you told us."
"And that's what happened. Look, let's not waste time debating the facts. You can confirm them with Carson the minute the doctor gives his okay."
"That's why we're here, Mr. Newport. To see if the victim's story matches yours."
That did it.
"Look, Detective," Dylan said icily, "I hear your message—loud and clear. For the record, you're barking up the wrong tree. But you'll find that out for yourselves. Just don't waste too much time in the process. I want you to get whoever did this. Dig around. Carson's shooting wasn't random."
"That's one point we agree on. It wasn't random. But it wasn't robbery either. When the ambulance brought Mr. Brooks in, he had five hundred dollars and a solid gold money clip in his pocket. Neither was touched. And since, allegedly, the assailant had vanished without a trace by the time you walked onto the scene, he would have had more than enough time to snatch those items before taking off."
"Robbery? That never occurred to me. Yeah, Carson's rich, and he's high-profile. But if someone wanted to rob him, they'd have mugged him on the street comer, not gone up twelve floors to shoot him in his office."
"Makes sense." Barton eyed Dylan thoughtfully. "So tell me, Mr. Newport, do you have a particular motive in mind?"
Mine, you mean, Dylan mused silently. Aloud he replied, "It could be any one of several. Revenge. Greed. A desperate need for financial survival. As I told you last night, Carson's not your average CEO, or even your average self-made man. He grew up in the streets. He started with nothing, and made a fortune by busting his ass, and relying on nothing but his brains and his instincts. He's a brilliant chemist and businessman—a true genius, if you ask me. People like that bring out the worst in their enemies."
"And why would those enemies choose to act now?" Whitman probed.
