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"I don't blame you," Sabrina muttered, grimacing in remembered irritation. "Everything you heard is true."
"Are you saying they interrogated you?" Susan looked stunned, and Sabrina wanted to kick herself for opening up Pandora's box. "Why?"
"Sabrina was with Dylan when she met Detectives Whitman and Barton." It was Stan who intervened, running welcome interference for her. "They must have heard she was a management consultant and assumed she had an established business relationship with Ruisseau. Besides, they're covering all their bases by talking to everyone Carson knows—which is what they should be doing."
"In any case, they now know Carson and I just met." Sabrina took over, shooting Stan a quick, grateful smile. "So they'll be doing their interrogating elsewhere."
Dylan walked into the lounge, followed by Dr. Radison.
"Sabrina," Dylan greeted her. "Carson's awake, alert, and asking for us."
"Ordering me to get you is more accurate." The doctor gave an exasperated shake of his head, gesturing for Sabrina to head down to ICU. "Go ahead. But don't be fooled by bis bravado. He's still very weak, and he's fighting that infection. I'll give you fifteen minutes. No more than that. And if he starts to tire sooner, you'll have to leave, whether he likes it or not."
"Of course." Sabrina turned to Susan. "Did you want to see him first?"
"That's not necessary, although I appreciate your asking. Knowing Carson, he's got Ruisseau on his mind. Business now, personal time later." Susan glanced at Stan. "Didn't you say you were popping in?"
"Sure did." Stan rubbed his palms together, gazing intently at Dr. Radison. "I know you set a limit of two visitors max, but I'll just stay for two minutes."
The doctor frowned. "All right, two minutes," he conceded. "But that's it. I don't want him overwhelmed. He thinks he's Superman. He's not."
Stan's smile was tight. "Tell that to Carson."
12:20 P.M.
Midtown North Precinct
Jeannie strode over and sat down next to Frank's desk. "Mission accomplished," she announced. "Ballistics has the bullet." A frown. "Not that it'll do us much good. They already warned me that the bullet's in so-so shape. The grooves are distorted. Plus, we've got no weapon to match it with. The damn twenty-two's probably at the bottom of the East River." She groped in her pocket for the Milky Way bar she'd stashed there. Man, did she need a sugar-fix. "In any case, ballistics will do what they can, then get back to us." She tore open the candy bar wrapper, then, seeing the dark scowl on her partner's face, reconsidered and tucked the whole Milky Way, wrapper and all, back in her pocket. "Sorry. Too early for candy anyway."
"Yeah. Right." Frank yanked open his desk drawer and pulled out a Ziploc filled with neatly sliced carrot sticks. "In that case, try these instead. They're my mid-morning snack. Linda gave them to me, partly out of desperation and partly out of pity. And for a special treat, she packed a matching bag of cucumber slices for my mid-afternoon snack. I don't know how I'll contain myself until then."
Jeannie stifled a smile. "Poor Linda. You must be a bear to live with these days."
"You can say that again. The good news is, I take out most of my lousy mood on you, so I'm not as bad when I get home."
"Gee, thanks. How are the kids handling this get-in-shape program of yours?"
A proud grin spread across Frank's face. "They're the best. Mart's been working out with me at the gym twice a week. He's developing quite a set of biceps for a thirteen-year-old. And Katie—the number one chocoholic in her fourth grade class—has developed a sudden preference for fruits and vegetables. Coincidentally, she wanted— and got—the same snacks in her lunch bag today as I did. Linda offered her a devil dog, some Oreos, you name it, but she chose the carrots and cucumbers. She said she's studying food groups in school, and she wants to eat healthy."
"You've got great kids."
"Yeah, I do." He nodded, looking significantly less grumpy than he had a moment ago. "Damn if the two of them and Linda don't keep me going. And Bruno, who takes me on a half-mile tear every morning. I'm telling you, that shelter was wrong about him being part weimaraner, part Saint Bernard. The way those long legs of his shoot out from under him—he's got to be three-quarters greyhound."
Jeannie chuckled. "Maybe. Or else Mart's slipping him a little food bribe on the side—one of Linda's awesome tacos, maybe—to make sure you get another daily workout." Satisfied that she'd taken the edge off Frank's lousy mood, Jeannie propped an elbow on his desk and met his gaze. "We've got to talk."
"How did I guess?"
"Because you know me. And you know what I'm about to say is true. Look, Frank, I know this whole Weight Watchers and gym thing is tough. I might not have firsthand experience with dieting, but I've got enough experience with eating to know that not being able to do it sucks. That doesn't excuse your hard-assed attitude yesterday."
She didn't cut him any slack, knowing he'd do the same for her if things were in reverse. What Frank needed right now was a good slap in the face, not tea and sympathy. "You went over the edge yesterday with Sabrina Radcliffe. You nearly ripped her head off, and with no justification. She's not a suspect. She's barely even a player, given the fact that she
just found out Carson Brooks is her father and therefore has zero firsthand exposure to the guy."
"Well, she's certainly in the picture now. She made that crystal clear."
"True. She's a smart woman, with good eyes, good ears, and a personal stake in finding Brooks's assailant."
Frank got the picture. "You're suggesting she could be an ally. That she might help us filter through the suspects. And that I blew our chances by getting in her face at the hospital yesterday."
