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"C'est Moi." Susan realized aloud where Dylan was headed. "It hit the market in June. Carson's shooting has to be related to that." She gave Whitman a quizzical look. "Have you heard of it?"
"The fragrance that rocked the nation?" Whitman's sarcasm was so thick you could cut it. "You'd have to be dead not to. The sensationalism surrounding that ad campaign caused riots at every cosmetic counter in the country."
"It's not the campaign," Dylan said tightly. "It's the product. The ads just captured the world's attention. But it's the scent itself that's caused the rest of the fragrance industry to go into a tailspin."
"Because it turns every woman into a goddess," Whitman said.
"It's a perfume, Detective, not a magic potion. It doesn't create what isn't there. It just enhances what is. Truly the ultimate fragrance. Ask around. Or, better yet, try some yourself."
"I'll do that. As soon as we solve this case." Whitman wasn't about to be sidetracked. "So let's say this perfume is all it's cracked up to be. How does its success tie in to Brooks's shooting? The product's already out there. Why would killing Brooks change that? Ruisseau's a solid company. I'm sure it wouldn't fold without its CEO."
"No, it wouldn't. But in the case of C'est Moi, there's an Achilles' heel," Dylan explained. "Its formula is unique. It took almost two years to develop. The process was done in absolute secrecy."
"By Brooks's R&D team."
"No. By Carson himself."
An intrigued lift of Whitman's brows. "Brooks invented the formula?"
"Yup. And he's the only one who knows it."
For the first time, the detective looked startled. "The only one? No one else is privy to that information?"
"Not a soul. Including me, by the way. But there are lots of folks who'd like to be.
It's raking in millions."
"So you think someone tried to kill Brooks to get the formula."
"Or to stop production in its tracks. Not only has C'est Moi made millions in a few short months, it's also cutting into the sales of every other perfume manufacturer in the business. Their stocks are plummeting. That doesn't exactly endear Carson to his competitors."
"You didn't mention these details before."
"Frankly, I assumed you'd done your homework. Or were you too busy doing a background check on me?"
Before Whitman could respond, the door to the intensive care unit swung open, and Carson's lead surgeon strode out, brows drawn as he studied a chart.
"Dr. Radison." Dylan went straight over, blocking the surgeon's path. "How is he?"
The surgeon halted, glancing up from his clipboard with a guarded expression. "He's holding his own."
"Is he conscious?" Barton demanded.
Dr. Radison gave the detectives a measured look. "He drifts in and out. A lot of that's due to the pain medication."
"Was he awake just now?" Whitman pressed.
"Yes." The surgeon held up a palm, setting immediate limits to the oncoming request. "He's on an endotracheal tube and a respirator. So he can write, but he can't speak. Plus, he's not up for a long interrogation. A few questions, but that's it." His gaze flickered back to Dylan. "He scribbled down that I should send you home. His note said you'd better be rested enough to work round the clock till he's back."
A corner of Dylan's mouth lifted. "That sounds like Carson."
"Does he know I'm here?" Susan interrupted.
Radison nodded. "I told him. He was pleased to hear it, until I added that you'd been here all night. At that point, he scrawled down that he wants you to go home and rest, too."
"Is there anything else we should know about Mr. Brooks's condition before we go in?" Whitman was already inching toward the ICU.
"Actually, yes." Dr. Radison's tone stopped her in her tracks. "We have an additional complication. If you remember, I said the bullet nicked Mr. Brooks's abdominal aorta."
