"No arguments. I'm well acquainted with the C'est Moi rage. My wife was first on line to buy a bottle. Said it was supposed to make the wearer irresistible."
Jeannie grinned. "And did it work? Was she irresistible?"
"I wouldn't know. She didn't buy it. She thought there was a man's brand, too. Turned out they've only marketed a woman's so far."
The grin widened. "Linda wanted to buy it for you to wear?"
"Yup. Like I'm not irresistible enough."
Jeannie patted his sleeve sympathetically. "Don't sweat it. From the ads I've seen, they're coming out with the male version for Christmas. I'll give Linda a heads-up call. That way, we'll make sure you find a bottle in your stocking."
"Gee, thanks."
"Look at the bright side. Linda might be so turned on, you won't see the light of day for a week. Think how much weight you'll lose."
"Cute. Really cute." Frank shot her a look. "I'm not in the mood for jokes. In fact, I'm feeling pretty testy today."
"No kidding."
"Starving to death will do that to you. So will lack of sleep. Especially when it comes from working on a case like this."
Sobering, Jeannie nodded. "I'm with you there. This investigation gets more involved by the minute. Rather than narrowing things down, we've got a growing list of suspects, a ton of alibis to confirm—and very little to go on."
"I'd say I wish we already found the weapon, but I doubt it'll help us, even when we do," Frank added in disgust. "We know from the shell casings on Brooks's rug that the gun was a twenty-two caliber. Not exactly an uncommon choice. And I doubt it'll have a name tag on it. More likely, when we trace it, we'll find out it was hot. That'll be another dead end."
"Let's hope we have some luck at Ruisseau today." Jeannie glanced at her watch. "It's eight-forty. Brooks must be out of radiology by now. Let's see if we can get a word with him."
8:45 A.M.
Center for Creative Thinking and Leadership
Dylan swallowed the last of his muffin and coffee, then left the lounge on his floor that served light breakfast, and headed down to the reception desk for the third time that morning.
"Any word from Ms. Radcliffe?" he asked.
The young woman looked up from her paperwork. "No, Mr. Newport. She's still not back." She cleared her throat, evidently deciding he was losing patience with that response. "Why don't I buzz her assistant, Melissa Andrews? She might have heard from Sabrina."
"There's no need, Kim." Sabrina's voice came from behind him. "I'm here. I'll talk to Mr. Newport."
He turned, struck again by Sabrina Radcliffe's startling resemblance to Carson. It wasn't so much her features, which were softer, more delicate and refined. But her coloring—the contrast of jet black hair and intense blue eyes—plus that high forehead, and her mannerisms—the way she held her head, the stubborn line of her chin and jaw when she was speaking, the astute, no-nonsense delivery... damn, it was like seeing a smaller, slighter, feminine version of Carson. The rest of it—the fluidity of her movements, her innate poise, and her patrician bearing, not to mention the incredible body that only a dead man wouldn't notice—those attributes she obviously owed to her mother.
She looked exhausted, with lines of fatigue around her eyes and dark circles beneath them. At the same time, she was composed, her corporate training kicking in to help her hide whatever emotional turmoil she was experiencing. He wished she were more readable; he was good at seeing through people, and he would have given a king's ransom to be able to read her mind.
What had she decided to do—or not to do—about Carson?
"Let's go up to my office," she said quietly.
He nodded, following her down the hall and up a short flight of stairs. Her office was in a private alcove at the end of a plant-lined corridor, with only her assistant's cubicle sharing that section of the building.
"Hi." Melissa Andrews greeted Sabrina, then started as she saw who was with her. Glancing from Sabrina to Dylan and back again, she sat up straighter, her brows arching with interest. "Did you just get back?"
"Um-hum." Sabrina paused beside Melissa's desk, rummaging through the early morning memos and telephone messages already waiting for her. "I did. Mr. Newport didn't. He spent the night at CCTL. I spent the night at my mother's. I'm assuming Mr. Newport slept alone. But you can check with him after our meeting." Sabrina looked up. "Anything urgent I should know about?"
"Nope. Business as usual." Her assistant didn't seem thrown by the curt, no-bullshit reply. For his part, Dylan had to bite back a grin. If that response wasn't Carson, nothing was.
"Good." Sabrina plucked out two memos and one phone message, handing them to Melissa before placing the rest of the pile back where she'd found it. "Deal with these. Also, ask Deborah and Mark to divvy up my workshops for the next day or two. Everything else can wait till I come back."
"Back? You're going away?"