AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Sabrina placed her hand on Carson's arm. "Are you sure you're up for this?"
"Yes."
"Just as important, are you sure this is what you want?"
"That depends—are you sure it's what you want?"
She met his gaze, pain-filled but intense. Was she sure? Very. She didn't know why, but somehow she was.
Slowly, she nodded. "Yes. I'm sure." An attempt at a smile. "As sure as I'll ever be. My entire world's been turned upside down these past few days. I don't expect it to right itself anytime soon."
"With me for a father?... And a boss?... Don't count on it." With great effort, Carson raised his arm, sticking out his hand to seal things in a handshake. "So you're on board. Welcome to the team."
"Yes, I'm on board," she echoed. "And thanks." She met his grip, feeling a sense of comfort at the physical contact. Was that some unfathomable instinct because he was her father? Or was it just relief that he had enough strength left to master a handshake?
"Go to Ruisseau tomorrow morning...." Carson instructed. "Dylan will have the paperwork done by then.... Stan will introduce you around.... Nothing formal... Just a top-notch consultant who's there to help Ruisseau stay on track... Won't make an official announcement till you're ready... Anyway, come see me afterward.... I want your take on my people... my company...."
"Only if you promise to be at the top of your ga
me when I report in," Sabrina returned lightly. "Meaning you rest, follow doctor's orders, and stop causing trouble. Too much to ask? Tough." She forced a teasing smile to her lips as she echoed what he'd said to her earlier. "You're going to be busting your ass for me. I don't tolerate less."
A tight grin permeated his physical distress. "I'll keep that in mind.... Now let's get to the formula...."
"Right." Sabrina wet her lips, focusing all her energies on her powers of concentration. "All I know is that it's based on human pheromones, right?"
"Pheromones and a compound that enhances male receptivity to those pheromones..." he clarified. "... Variations in men's brand, obviously... But both are blends of natural essences and synthetic chemicals.... Musk. Cinnamon and ginger... Orange. Three floral scents... Other stuff. I'll give it to you exactly. And I'll have Dylan and Stan run you over to the lab later today.... You can check out R&D firsthand.... Now listen... and lock what I tell you into your brain."
CHAPTER 14
3:25 P.M.
Ruisseau Fragrance Corporation
Stan stood at his office window, staring out at the line of buildings across West 57th Street, wondering if anyone in any of those jaillike grids called offices could possibly be as strung out as he was.
He felt like a goddamned hamster in a maze. Well, he was tired of running. Tired of scrambling to stay ahead. Tired of looking over his shoulder. Tired of keeping secrets and doing damage control. Tired of trying to be more than he was.
And most of all, tired of answering these detectives' questions.
"Mr. Hager?" It was Detective Whitman again, shoving another question down his throat. She and her partner had been at it for almost an hour, right on the heels of raking poor Claude over the coals. Claude had emerged from the interrogation looking like a broken sparrow, making Stan's guts twist with a sense of foreboding as he tried to imagine what they had in store for him.
Well, now he knew. They'd poked, prodded, and probed into every last facet of his life. They knew about his two divorces, his personal habits, and his professional rise at Ruisseau. They'd delved into his take on every corporate officer, every company executive—from upper management down to middle management—then moved on, dissecting every one of Ruisseau's divisions, trying to determine who might have even the slightest beef with Carson Brooks. From there, they'd explored the in-house clashes Carson had been involved in—even on the most peripheral level—over the past month or so, including such trivial incidents as when he'd demanded that the custodial staff switch rug cleaners.
Then came reviewing Ruisseau's chief competitors, a topic that always made Stan's guts twist. He could tell Whitman and Barton had done their homework. They'd gotten Jason Koppel's name from Carson, and they'd gone over to Merrill Lynch to meet with him. They knew exactly which companies' profits had taken a downslide since C'est Moi hit the market. They ran through each of them with Stan, questioning him about which high-level execs he knew at each company and whether any of those people were, in his opinion, unbalanced or over the edge.
He was a fine one to ask.
Oh, they'd tackled every subject imaginable, concentrating particularly on him—his state of mind, his feelings about Carson, his status at Ruisseau. Over and over, they came back to the fact that he had no alibi for Monday evening, that he'd allegedly been alone in his apartment, sleeping off a seventy-hour workweek, when Carson was shot. They kept harping on how difficult it must be to stand in your best friend's shadow, day after day, year after year, in all facets of your life.
The one thing they hadn't done was issue any accusations. Not yet. But after fifty-five minutes, they were working their way there. In fact, judging from the more intense tone and personal direction of the interrogation these past few minutes, they were about to go for the jugular.
Sure enough, Whitman confirmed his suspicions by starting the process. "You and Mr. Brooks go back thirty years. That's longer than any other employee—actually any other person in Carson Brooks's life."
Give the woman a cigar, he thought. "That's true." He turned around to face her, folding his arms across his chest and resupplying his history with Carson—the safest course of action he could take. "Like I told you before, we met at City College. I was taking classes there when I wasn't doing odd jobs to pay the rent. Carson was cleaning offices, but making extra cash tutoring college freshmen."
"I didn't need a refresher, Mr. Hager. I know how you two met." Whitman's gaze bore straight through him.
"Yeah. It's unbelievable," Barton muttered. "I still can't get over it. A high school dropout tutoring kids who had more education than he did."
