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Stan Hager—now there was one that seemed to fit a whole lot better. Hager had grown up on the streets, too, so he'd know how to find the right contact to stab Clark. As for shooting Brooks, Hager had no alibi and a motive that seemed more and more plausible each day. He hadn't just walked in Brooks's shadow for thirty years, he'd raced at warp speed to keep up. And now—well, talk about someone reaching the breaking point. The guy was like a time bomb ready to go off.
Both Hager's ex-wives had confirmed that motive when Frank and Jeannie interviewed them. They'd each described their ex as an obsessive workaholic who was consumed with the need to keep up with and live up to Carson Brooks. Nothing else in his life came close.
Interesting though. When Frank had conducted his heart-to-heart with Lily, Hager's first wife, she'd confessed that for a good chunk of their marriage she'd sensed that Stan was cheating on her. She couldn't put her finger on why she felt that way, since he was fixated on his work, nor did she have a clue who the woman might be. It was just a gut instinct—but one that persisted right up to the time of their divorce.
Frank had passed that tidbit along to Jeannie when she'd gone to chat with Hager's second wife, Diane. Jeannie, in turn, had asked Diane if she'd ever suspected Stan of being involved with another woman. Diane had shrugged it off and said, yeah, sure, the thought had occurred to her, especially since he wanted sex about as often as he wanted any other kind of fun— which was not nearly often enough for her. But, she'd assumed that most of that was due to his obsession with work. On the other hand, yeah, there were times he seemed distracted, times he came home late and looking like he'd just showered. So another woman was a distinct possibility.
Odd. Hager had been single for some time now. So if there was someone else, why would he still be keeping the whole thing hush-hush? Unless he was no longer involved with the same woman, or unless it was she who wanted the secrecy, maybe because she was married.
Or maybe for some other reason.
Hager was a good-looking guy. He was also rich and not much older than Brooks. Doubtful he was living an entirely celibate life. So what was the story there?
"Hey. A penny for your thoughts." Jeannie walked over, perched on the edge of his desk.
"They're not worth that much." Frank scowled, doodling on his pad. "Do you think Hager's gay?"
"Nope." Jeannie didn't look a bit surprised by Frank's train of thought. "I asked Diane that very question, point blank, probably for the same reason you're asking it now—this whole long-term mystery woman thing. Anyway, Diane said no way. Hager's apparently a pretty amazing lover, when his mind is in it. That's why she didn't get out of the marriage sooner. Plus, I watched him interacting with the staff of Ruisseau, when he didn't realize I had my eye on him. There's no doubt about it; he definitely notices women, not men."
"Yeah, I agree. Plus, he'd have no reason for keeping it a big secret if he was gay. Carson Brooks isn't exactly a judgmental guy. He wouldn't give a damn who Hager was sleeping with."
"Not to mention that after a thirty-year friendship, I doubt a shrewd guy like Brooks would be oblivious to the fact that his best friend was gay. No, if there's a mystery bedmate, it's a woman, not a man."
"Do you think it was the same woman throughout both Hager's marriages? And, if so, who the hell is she and why is her identity still being kept so hush-hush?"
"You're wondering if this factors into this case," Jeannie murmured. "I'm right there with you. I can't shake the not-quite-right feeling about Hager, either. He's hiding something. Whether or not it ties in to whoever he's sleeping with or not, I'm not sure. But there's definitely something he doesn't want us to know. The question is, why would a sexual affair prompt Hager to murder Carson Brooks? And what about Russ Clark—why would Hager want him stabbed?"
"Speaking of Clark, there's something else bugging me. The kid wanted to be an investigative reporter. Whatever the hell he was poking into that spooked someone enough to get rid of him, he must have kept notes. So where are they? We've torn his apartment apart and gone through everything at his desk at Ruisseau."
"We're missing a major piece of this puzzle," Jeannie agreed. "It's right at our fingertips, too. I feel it."
"More than one piece. Ferguson's not sitting right with me, either. And not because of his iffy alibi. Believe it or not, I actually buy the guy's story that he was home grilling a steak. But he refuses to make eye contact with either you or me—no matter what we ask him, and he jumps out of his skin before we even say hello. The guy has something eating at him."
"We've got a couple of nervous Nellies over at Ruisseau, that's for damned sure." Jeannie ripped open a package of Milk Duds and popped one in her mouth. "Still, I don
't see Ferguson at the helm. His life's about as boring as it gets. And his street contacts are nil. Where would he find a street punk to stab Clark, and to buy him a gun?"
She didn't wait for a reply, but popped another Milk Dud in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Here's a name that's back in the picture again, along with an interesting twist. Etienne Pruet."
"The French perfumer who's Brooks's chief competitor?" Frank's brows rose. "We crossed him off our list over a week ago. He was in Paris when Brooks was shot."
"We did and he was. Here's the twist. I just got a call from Jason Koppel at Merrill Lynch. He did some more poking around. It seems that Pruet assembled all his top execs behind closed doors in his Paris headquarters. He was determined to come up with something—anything— that would stop C'est Moi's spiraling sales before the men's version hit the consumer market, and the whole phenomenon exploded in Europe."
"Wait a minute. You lost me. Why is Pruet worrying about Ruisseau? His fancy-schmancy French corporation's profits are sky-high. The company's been in the fragrance business for something like three hundred fifty years."
"Longer. Koppel said something about them achieving prominence as the royal perfumer of King Louis the something-or-other—I think it was the fourteenth—in the mid-1600s. Hoity-toity, huh?"
"I'm overwhelmed," Frank returned dryly. "But I still don't get it. Are you telling me our information was wrong, and Pruet's company is hurting?"
"Not hurting. But not happy. Ruisseau is kicking butt with the advent of C'est Moi. And it's now spreading to the European market. Up till now, Pruet's aristocratic roots have kept him on top with elite fragrance-wearers over there. But this is the twenty-first century. It's a new world. Sex outsells pedigree. C'est Moi is threatening to take a chunk of Pruet's sales. And without knowing what's in that formula, they don't know what they're competing with or how to win."
"So Pruet's got an incentive to get rid of Carson Brooks, the only person who knows C'est Moi's formula. Fine, that's motive. But what about opportunity? If the guy was in Paris..."
"Then he couldn't have done it," Jeannie finished for him. "But that doesn't mean that one of the other ten people at his New York branch—including a couple of executives on the rise—couldn't have done it. They were here."
"And you're standing at my desk to let me know we're heading over to that New York branch to talk to those ten people."
"In half an hour," Jeannie confirmed, polishing off her Milk Duds. "The office is right down Fifth Avenue—just three blocks from Ruisseau."
