Scent of Danger, Page 3

  "You've got those?"

  "Right here in my hand. I'm reading from them now."

  "Is her blood type listed?"

  "Um..." A pause, as Stan skimmed the page. "Here it is. O positive."

  Dylan blew out a breath of sheer, utter relief. "I assume you've got current information on this Sabrina Radcliffe. Where is she now?"

  "She runs some high-level corporate training center near Manchester, New Hampshire. It's a combo business center and resort. She lives there."

  That clinched it.

  "I can fly to Manchester in an hour. I'll talk to Carson's surgeon. Then, I'll jump on a plane. In the meantime, you keep Carson's name out of the press, just like we discussed. Cash in some favors. Do whatever you have to. It'll just be for a day, until I can get to Sabrina Radcliffe. And Stan—thanks. This could be Carson's best chance, maybe his only chance."

  "Wait a minute, Dylan." Stan cut him off before he could hang up. "Are you nuts? You can't just burst into that training center tonight—no phone call, no warning, and lay this on that girl."

  "Watch me."

  "But..."

  "Look, Stan. This isn't just a sentimental request anymore. We're talking about Carson's life. You know the kind of man he is; he won't accept a damned thing from anyone. Long-term dialysis? Depending on hospitals, tubes, and machines? That would destroy him."

  "I'm not arguing with you. But someone has to be the voice of reason here. What you're about to do will turn Sabrina Radcliffe's life upside down. To begin with, you don't even know if she's a compatible donor. More important, you don't know if she's willing. Yeah, Carson's her biological father. But they've never even met. It's possible she's not even aware he exists. Who knows what her mother's told her? The path Gloria Radcliffe took was pretty radical for the seventies; I doubt she shared the details with her kid."

  "That kid is twenty-seven now. She'll handle it."

  "Maybe. Maybe not. You have no clue how she's going to react, or if she'll cooperate."

  "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."

  "She might throw you out on your ass."

  "And her mother might sue me," Dylan added dryly. "She'd win, too. She's got enough grounds to have me disbarred and a bunch of us tossed in jail. Obtaining confidential medical records and divulging their contents without permission—that's criminal and unethical. But it's a chance I'll have to take."

  "Dylan..."

  "Don't worry. Your name won't ever be mentioned. I'm in this alone. But come hell or high water, I'm flying up to Manchester. I've got to."

  "Yeah... I know you do." As Stan spoke, Dylan's fax machine started to ring. "That's everything you'll need— all seven pages' worth. Good luck."

  3:15 PM.

  Mt. Sinai Hospital

  Dylan blew by the ICU waiting room and went straight to the desk. "I need to see Dr. Radison," he told the nurse. "It's urgent."

  She glanced up from the chart she was reading. "Mr. Brooks is resting comfortably, sir. There's no cause for alarm."

  "I'm not alarmed. I'm time-stressed. I've got to talk to Dr. Radison—now." He glanced back over his shoulder, noting the cop posted outside Carson's door, and eyeing the ICU with a somber expression. "That's a dialysis machine Carson's hooked up to, isn't it?"

  "Yes. Dr. Radison started the procedure about an hour ago. But there haven't been any complications. Mr. Brooks is responding well; his blood pressure's steady and he's showing no major side effects or discomfort."

  "That's because he's too drugged up to understand what that machine means to his life." Dylan leaned forward. He wasn't about to be placated or put off—not on this one. "Is Radison in surgery?"

  "No, but..."

  "Then page him."

  The nurse eyed Dylan for a minute. Something in his expression must have convinced her, because she picked up the phone and complied.

  Across the waiting room, Detective Barton slid forward in his chair and started to get up.

  "Wait." His partner stopped munching on her potato chip long enough to stretch out an arm and deter him.

  "Why? Newport's a wreck. His defenses are way down. It's the best time to put the screws in."

  "I agree. But let's get the whole picture first. Let's find out why Dylan Newport's so freaked out. Whatever it is, it must be pretty serious if he's insisting on paging the surgeon. Let him do his thing. Then we'll do ours."

  Dylan felt the detectives scrutinizing him. He didn't give a damn. If Radison responded as expected, he'd have to tell the cops about his plans anyway.

  "Mr. Newport?" Radison strode into the corridor, brows knit. "I understand you need to see me. The nurse said it was urgent."

  A tight nod. "Is there somewhere we can speak in private?"

  "Of course." The surgeon led him down the hall into an unoccupied room. "What is it?" he asked, shutting the door.

  "Carson's on dialysis. Does that mean his kidneys are worse?"

  "It means they need help. Whether they'll rally and function normally on their own, it's too early to tell." The surgeon frowned. "This isn't an unexpected crisis. We discussed the possibility of dialysis."

  "Yes. But there's something I didn't know; something I just found out. It might make a huge difference if Carson's kidneys don't kick in as we hope." Dylan met Radison's gaze. "Carson has a biological child he isn't aware of—a daughter. She's twenty-seven and lives in New England. I don't have a detailed medical history on her, but I do have one crucial fact—her blood type. She's O positive."

  Radison stared. "How did you come by this information?"

  "That's not important. What's important is, it's accurate. Now you need to give me some facts. First of all, how likely is it that Carson's daughter's a match?"

  A pause, as the surgeon weighed his response. "There are no guarantees. But, excluding an identical twin or sibling, a parent or child is the most likely individual to be a donor match. You've already overcome one hurdle by telling me that father and daughter have the same blood type. That's step one. There's still tissue-typing to check for common genes, and a crossmatch test to perform. Until both of those are done, I can't tell you if this would be a go. After that, she'd see a nephrologist, who'd do a full evaluation, including a battery of lab tests. Last, she'd undergo a renal angiogram. The good news is that, if Mr. Brooks and his daughter are compatible, there are added benefits, should a transplant become necessary. Common genetic backgrounds will lower the risk of kidney rejection. And the odds of success are improved when the donor is young—which, in this case, she is. So if you're asking me if this is an encouraging discovery, the answer is yes."

  "That's good enough for me." Dylan shot a quick look at his watch. "How soon do I need to get her here?"

  Radison's frown returned. "You want a timetable. Frankly, before I even broach that subject, I feel compelled to remind you that Mr. Brooks is this young woman's father. He's been shot, and is in critical condition. For that reason alone, she should be advised immediately. She has every right, and every reason, to see her father."

  "Point taken." Dylan wanted an answer, not a lecture. "But with regard to the medical urgency..."

  "You're not under the gun. Even if Mr. Brooks's kidneys fail completely and don't recover, we wouldn't perform a transplant until his wounds have healed, and until he's been infection-free for six to eight weeks. On the other hand, that time frame is deceptive, because it also takes six to eight weeks to complete a full donor evaluation. Bottom line? If Carson Brooks's daughter is willing, the screening process should begin right away." He gave Dylan a quizzical look. "Would you like me to make the telephone call?"

  "No." Dylan shook his head. "This is a delicate situation. Very few people know the truth—including, very possibly, the young woman herself. News of her paternity could come as quite a shock to her. That's why I asked if we were racing the clock. I want a chance to do this in person. You just gave it to me. I'll fly up to her home tonight and break the news. Hopefully, I can convince her to c
ome back with me." Dylan's lips tightened. "But first I need to clear my plans with the detectives lying in wait outside."

  "There's our guy." Whitman crumpled up her empty potato chip bag and tossed it into the trash as Dylan plowed his way over to them.

  "Yup," Barton agreed dryly. "Certainly no need to track him down. He's heading straight for us. And, boy, does he have something on his mind."

  "We're about to find out what."

  "Detectives." Dylan stopped directly in front of them. "You said you had more questions for me. Ask them now. Because in ten minutes I'm leaving for the airport. I've got a plane to catch."

  "Do you?" Detective Whitman shot him an interested look. "To where?"

  "Manchester, New Hampshire. The flight leaves LaGuardia at six ten. It arrives at seven thirty-two. I'm staying in Auburn, just eleven miles from the Manchester airport. I'll give you the address and phone number. That way you can keep tabs on me—you know, make sure I don't flee the country."

  "Sudden, isn't it?" Barton ignored Dylan's sarcasm. "Not to mention that this trip must be pretty important for you to leave Mr. Brooks during his medical crisis."

  "It's for him that I'm leaving."

  Whitman responded by jerking her head in the direction of the empty lounge across the way. "Let's talk in there."

  With a tight nod, Dylan complied, and the three of them filed into the room.

  "What's in Auburn?" Whitman demanded the instant the door was shut behind them.

  "Not what—who," Dylan corrected. "And the answer is Carson's biological daughter."

  Whitman's Q-tip brows shot up. "I thought he had no living relatives."

  "We all thought that. We were wrong. I just found out about this woman's existence. I informed Dr. Radison. He wants her to be screened right away."

  "Makes sense. So call her. Telephones are a lot quicker and more convenient than planes."

  With great irritation, Dylan rubbed the back of his neck. "I've already told you more than I should have— none of which is to be made public," he added meaningfully. "I only disclosed this much because you'd demand a credible reason for my leaving town, and so you'll understand why the media needs to be kept out of this, at least until tomorrow. But this is a personal, not a police, matter. I can't get into the details without breaking Carson's confidence."

  "We're not interested in leaking a scandal," Barton said tightly. "We're interested in solving a crime. We said we'd put off the press, and we will. As for relevance, it's up to us to decide what does and doesn't pertain to our investigation. So you'll have to give us a little more information than you have. Why the trip?"

  "Let's just say that my news might catch Carson's daughter off-guard."

  "News of the shooting?"

  "News of who her father is."

  "I see." Whitman pursed her lips. "She doesn't know. And you're going to be the one to break it to her."

  "I'm the only one Carson entrusted with this information, and with the job of finding her, so, yes. It's my responsibility."

  "Entrusted?" Whitman pounced on him like a hunter on its prey. "So Carson Brooks does know he has a biological child. You just said..."

  "He suspects. He's not sure," Dylan said, cutting off her interrogation. "Let's not play cat and mouse. Not now. Later, you can get into this with Carson. Use the next seven minutes to grill me on whatever you've been saving up. Then I'm out of here. Unless you plan on stopping me."

  "Now why would we do that?"

  "Because you think I shot Carson."

  "Did you?"

  Dylan stared Whitman down. "No." Barton tore open a pack of gum and popped a stick in his mouth. "Do you own a gun, Mr. Newport?"

  "Ah, now we're getting down to it. I'm sure you already know I don't I didn't borrow or steal one, either. Besides, if I was the one who shot Carson, what did I do with my weapon? Toss it out the twelfth-floor window or down an elevator shaft?"

  "That's one of our question marks. No weapon. No bullet."

  "But lots of motive and opportunity," Whitman chimed in. "You were the only other person at Ruisseau at the time of the shooting."

  "The only other known person," Dylan amended.

  "Right. That gave you both the time and the access. As for motive, the amount of money, company interest, and corporate power that would go to you if Carson Brooks was out of the way is staggering."

  Dylan's eyes glinted. "True. I'd get a bundle. I'd also lose the closest thing to a father I've ever had. The tradeoff sucks."

  "You've known Mr. Brooks for nineteen years." Whitman skimmed some pages that Dylan recognized as Child Welfare records. "You came to him with a colorful background. In and out of five foster families..." A pointed pause. "Three juvenile arrests."

  "I fought with fists, not guns."

  "Yes, and frequently, too. Street brawls, discipline problems in school."

  "That's right. I had a lousy childhood." Dylan's jaw tightened. "Now skip ahead. Read the part about after I met Carson Brooks. Straight A's, work-study program, corporate internship. Graduated from Columbia University and Columbia Law School with honors. Did any of that register? Because if it did, you know the difference Carson's made in my life."

  "He's certainly been a generous benefactor. Any idea why? I mean, why you?"

  A muscle in Dylan's cheek flexed. "You'll have to ask Carson that one, too. Now, are you going to let me go to Auburn, or not?"

  Whitman studied him for a long moment. Then, she nodded, tearing off a scrap of blank paper and handing it to Dylan. "Write down Mr. Brooks's daughter's name and address," she instructed. "And keep your cell phone on. If we need you, we'll find you."

  CHAPTER 4

  8:15 P.M.

  Center for Creative Thinking and Leadership

  Sabrina was just finishing up an evening workshop when her assistant, Melissa Andrews, poked her head in.

  "Excuse me, Sabrina," she murmured, looking distinctly uncomfortable—a rarity for the thirty-five-year-old dynamo, who could cope with just about anything. "May I see you for a moment?"

  "Sure." Sabrina took the cue, gathering up her notes and gesturing for the group to disband. "We were just about to call it a night anyway. These folks need a little R&R." She smiled politely around the room. "The evening's yours. Enjoy it."

  She walked into the hall, edging toward the quiet alcove where Melissa had already positioned herself so they could talk in private. "What is it?"

  "There's a man here to see you," Melissa reported, folding her arms across her breasts and tapping one manicured nail against her sleeve. "His name's Dylan Newport. Evidently, he's corporate counsel for Ruisseau Fragrances."

  "Ruisseau?" Sabrina's brows rose with interest—an interest that was rapidly eclipsed by puzzlement. "Their corporate counsel? That's odd."

  "Almost as odd as showing up at my desk at eight o'clock at night, insisting on speaking to you and only you, now if not sooner. He practically forced me to interrupt your workshop. I swear, I think the guy would have broken down the door if I'd said no."

  "That sounds pretty extreme." Sabrina frowned. "We've never done business with Ruisseau, so this can't be a legal suit."

  "It isn't. I specifically asked him if he had documents for you. He said no. I pressed him as hard as I could. He finally acknowledged that he wasn't here on legal business. That's as much as I could get out of him. He refused to say another word, except that it was you he needed to see. Tonight." Melissa shot her a questioning look. "You're not having an affair with him, are you?"

  "Yeah, right," Sabrina retorted, her mind racing to find a logical explanation. "I barely have time for a nap, much less an affair."

  "I didn't think so. It's too bad, though. He's hot. Really hot. But he's not your type. This guy's too earthy."

  "Thanks for the assessment." Sabrina wasn't bothered by Melissa's bluntness. Her assistant was as plunge-in-and-get-it-done about relationships as she was about work. "But whatever this Dylan Newport wants to see me about, it's not s
ex."

  "Like I said, too bad. Anyway, he's definitely a man with a mission. He won't take no for an answer. Rather than test his limits, I decided to interrupt you."

  "A wise move. Where is he now?"

  "In the office behind the reception area. I showed him in there to keep the disruption to a minimum. He's waiting for you, pacing around like a caged lion."

  "Then let's not waste time—his or ours. Let's find out what he wants."

  "Have fun." Melissa patted her shoulder. "I'll be at my desk. Just hit the intercom and bellow if you need me."

  "I think I can handle this." Sabrina was already on her way, heading down the hall, her thoughts moving faster than her feet. Why would an attorney for Ruisseau Fragrances be here, demanding to see her?

  Only one way to find out.

  She cut across the marble and glass reception area and made a beeline for the rear office.

  Stepping inside, she nearly collided with the tall, dark-haired man who was pacing near the doorway. "Mr. Newport?"

  When he turned toward her, Sabrina knew instantly why Melissa had described him the way she had. He was earthy. And hot—if you went for the dark, rough-around-the-edges type. He was certainly both those things, more dangerous-looking than classically handsome, right down to his penetrating gaze and strong, slightly crooked nose that suggested it had been broken at least once. His stance and build were equally tough and Sabrina could sooner picture him in a black T-shirt and jeans than in the herringbone blazer and conservative wool slacks he had on.

  No, definitely not her type.

  "I'm Sabrina Radcliffe," she informed him, extending her hand. "I understand you're here to see me."

  He returned her handshake as if on autopilot, something akin to startled realization flashing in his eyes. Then, he stepped back, scrutinizing her with fierce, unnerving intensity, his stare raking her from head to toe— not in the usual suggestive manner Sabrina had been subject to all too often, but in a clinical way, like a scientist might examine a specimen under a microscope.