CHAPTER 3
2:30 P.M.
341 West 76th Street
Dylan stepped out of the shower to a ringing telephone. He swore softly, knotting a towel around his waist and making a mad dash for the bedroom.
It was probably one of those pain-in-the-ass detectives at the other end, ready for another round of grilling. He was in no mood for it, either. He'd been in perpetual motion for the last three hours.
First, he'd given blood. Then, he'd checked on Carson, who'd drifted off to sleep, after what was evidently a short session with the detectives. Whitman and Barton had moved on to interviewing Susan, an interview Dylan interrupted long enough to get the list of people Susan had reached.
She was in the process of describing to the detectives how she and Carson had met, and their mutual interest in YouthOp, the charitable organization that she headed and Carson supported. Dylan hadn't stuck around to hear the rest. No doubt the cops would get around to asking her questions about him. Well, that would be a dead end. He and Susan got along fine. All she really knew about him was how tight he was with Carson. And since Carson was a very private man— one who wasn't in the habit of discussing his relationships, business or personal, not even with Susan—and who never divulged the details of what went on at Ru
isseau, there was no fuel Susan could add to the detectives' fire.
When Dylan got home he'd spent over an hour on the phone, managing to round up four or five people who were willing to be screened. Not that he blamed the ones who said no. Having respect, even affection, for someone was one thing. Giving them an organ from your body was another.
That's where blood relations came in.
And, with luck, came through.
He'd gone into the shower, letting the hot water spray over his head and down his back, hoping it would ease his tension and frustration. Fat chance of that. He was so tight he was practically vibrating. And now the damned phone was ringing.
He snatched up the receiver just before the call went to voice mail. "Yeah, hello."
"Dylan?" the voice on the other end asked. "I was just about to hang up and try your cell phone again."
"Stan." Equal amounts of relief and apprehension flooded Dylan, and he sank down in a chair. "Tell me you have something for me."
"I do. It took a while because the doctor's retired. My guy had to find out where the records were stored. Then, he had to get his hands on them. But he managed."
"Are you sure they're legitimate?"
"Positive. I worked there, too, remember? I know the doctor. I know where he retired to. I also know what his forms and his letterhead look like. And the fax I got is authentic. It gave me the woman's name, her personal data, the works. The rest was easy. Our PI traced her, and her family. Gloria Radcliffe. She's a fashion designer, lives in Rockport, Massachusetts. Her family's loaded; from Beacon Hill, just like I remembered. It's all here. Now that I know where you are, I'll fax all the information directly to your apartment."
"Now."
"Of course now." An uneasy pause. "How's Carson?"
"His kidneys aren't functioning right. He might need a transplant."
Stan swore under his breath. "Do they have him on dialysis?"
"They didn't when I left. By now, they might. Let's cut to the chase. Does Carson have a living child or not?"
"Yeah. A daughter. Her name's Sabrina. Born June third, nineteen seventy-five, Newton-Wellesley Hospital—almost ten months to the day from when Carson made his donation. Born perfectly healthy, according to her birth records."
"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."