Kane, Andrea (4 page)

"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."

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."

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?"

"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?"