The Senator’s Daughter (12 page)

She must know the longer a person was missing, the greater the chance they were no longer living.

Lyle turned to her. “We have to face the fact that something terrible may have happened to Sylvia. In addition to the bikers, who haven't been located, there's the issue of a random … or a not so random attack.” He looked back at Chatsworth. “Is there anyone who might want to get at you through kidnapping or killing your daughter?”

“All powerful men have enemies, right or wrong.”

Lyle nodded. “Look at Tony Valetti … I'm convinced it's only a matter of time before he's found.”

“Or not,” Chatsworth said. “Tony was getting into waters over his head.”

Lyle stifled his reaction. He'd been using Tony as an example.

While he cast about for a way to probe the subject, Chatsworth snapped, “Let's get back to finding my daughter.”

“But what you said about Tony is the kind of information we need,” Lyle tried. “Say, you refused to help him in some way … perhaps he's got associates who take it hard …”

Chatsworth placed his hands flat on the Chippendale desk. “What if I told you I …” he glanced at Laura, “we … have reason to suspect Sylvia took off on her own?”

“How's that?” Lyle's pulse accelerated. “I've been trying to tell myself she got fed up with being shadowed by the paparazzi.”

The Senator sighed. “It seems on the last day any of Sylvia's circle heard from her, the last time her cell phone and credit cards were used—”

Laura was on her feet, her hands twisting the material of her skirt. “Let me.”

“Honey, you don't have to.”

“But ah do.” Her heels clicked on the parquet as she approached and took the straight chair next to Lyle. Her black eyes fixed on his. “Sylvia came here that Sunday. Larry wasn't here, but he and I were both very angry about her pulling stunts like kissing you for ‘On the Spot.' She came back at me, wild and hostile, and … I said …”

Chatsworth came out from his throne position and put a hand on his wife's shoulder. “Laura said if Sylvia disgraced the family again, we'd as soon she disappeared like Tony Valetti.”

Lyle gave him a hard look. “Why didn't you tell me this right away? My God …”

The Senator's expression sharpened, and Lyle wished he hadn't let his emotion show. A powerful man always kept such things in his back pocket.

“I didn't tell Larry until recently. I was afraid he would be upset.”

Lyle would have been livid, but he noted the support this husband was giving his wife.

Beneath Chatsworth's steadying hand, Laura raised her head to Lyle. “You see, on her way out, just before Sylvia slammed the door, she said, ‘Be careful what you wish for.'”

a
s October followed September and grape clusters grew heavy on the vines, Sylvia found her new existence surreal. Instead of the faintly orange night sky devoid of stars, she could view the pale band of the Milky Way, Orion, and actually count all seven of the sister stars in the small constellation of the Pleiades.

Used to the City's eclectic aromas of salt air, restaurant grease traps, and exhaust, she exulted in the sweet water smell of the Lava River, the scent of ripe sweet grapes, and the pungency of redwood forest.

Her skin, which had known the most expensive creams and unguents, became accustomed to dishwater and Mary's almond-scented Jergens lotion.

No longer did she go to the gym, where she and her girlfriends had donned Lycra tights and bras and sweated while they grape-vined left and right. Now she wore jeans made in Madagascar and a polyester jacket to walk among real grapevines and savor the deep and meditative stillness beneath the redwoods.

However, as days slipped past, it was hard not to feel queasy about her parents. Did they care about her disappearing? It had seemed so right when her mother said they hoped she'd stop disgracing the family and disappear …

She found when it bothered her most, the only cure was a brisk walk on the dirt roads through the vineyards. No running yet in deference to her healing leg wound. Afterward, she'd have a relaxing soak in Lava Springs. Open to the public by day, when the pools “closed” at sundown, it was time for the locals.

Behind a wrought-iron gate that creaked when she opened it, steam swirled up from the springs. The Lava River sourced from the base of a travertine cliff into a rock-lined sluice and ran through a small park with a footbridge, past the rear of the Lava Springs Inn.

This evening, with a crisp autumn bite in the air, Sylvia had the place to herself.

Going to the main pool, she placed her flashlight on the rock edging. Then shed her clothes down to a slim black tank suit from Wal-Mart and slipped into the hot water. With no roof above or smooth cement bottom, she rested her head on the stone rim. And watched Venus and Mars brighten in opposing quadrants of twilit sky, digging her bare feet into black lava sand on the pool's floor.

Could anything be more different from her prior existence? None of the resorts she'd frequented, with their clubs set up for dancing till dawn and their turquoise pools spotlighted by night, had offered such serenity.

However, her peace was precarious at best.

When she closed her eyes, a jerky black-and-white newsreel of images played on the backs of her eyelids; she saw herself throwing clothes into her suitcase, losing control of the Jag, dragging herself through the chill dawn, and collapsing in the inn lobby.

Sylvia opened her eyes. Illumination faded from the sky, and the stars joined the planets. Against the natural backdrop, Lyle's face came into focus.

No surprise, there. His image haunted her at odd times, while she was exercising her new talent at making beds, kneading dough for homemade cinnamon rolls, or reading yet another classic novel.

With the water swirling around her, Sylvia permitted herself to savor the memory of Lyle's arms around her, the way his heat had seeped through their clothes on the rainy sidewalk … if only he were in the pool with her.

He'd be blond everywhere, golden fur on his broad chest, with a whorl below his navel and an arrow pointing the way to …

But there was more to it than the physical. From what she knew of him, she thought he'd be patient, savoring each caress as though lovemaking was an art.

Lava Springs was hot, but Sylvia's spreading heat came from inside.

If Lyle had taken her up on the bath at her place, if she'd opened her bedroom door.

If, if, if.

In fantasy, he surfaced at the far side of the pool. Rivulets of water ran down his shoulders and chest, the rest of him hidden beneath the swirling waters.

Healing waters, if their reputation were to be trusted.

She needed healing; perhaps Lyle did, as well. If she knew him better, she might dare to tell him her stories, how in their good times Mom and Dad taught her to fly kites on the beach, how she wasn't the airhead the media portrayed, how being a celebrity stank.

And she wanted to hear about him … her mother said he was trash, but Sylvia would go to her grave without believing that.

Beaten back on all fronts from finding Sylvia, on the first Thursday evening in October Lyle phoned Cliff Ames and suggested they meet for pizza at Ice. As the weather was exceptional, clear with a crisp fall touch, they sat on the outdoor roof deck and surveyed the sunset.

When their brews arrived, Cliff raised his in a toast. “To you, buddy. You look like hell.”

“Thanks a heap.”

“Any news on
la
Chatsworth?” Cliff sipped.

“Not a damned thing. I alternate between feeling sick because the stats say she's been dead for weeks and hoping she's hiding out.” His gut clenched at saying out loud what had been playing in his head.

“You told me her folks think she's running.”

Lyle made a fist and connected with the tabletop. “If she is all right, I could wring her neck for putting me through this.”

Cliff steadied the rocking table. “I knew you had a case for her.”

“I've got no case, in the court sense, and I don't want one. I hope she's sunning on the beach in Baja.”

Silence fell between the two men. In the gathering darkness, the first lights appeared on the Bay Bridge, red navigation beacons atop the towers. Then a string of lights appeared defining the suspension cables. Finally, streetlights illuminated the roadway.

The pizza arrived, and they served themselves.

“On another subject,” Cliff said, “I've got something for you. That is, if you're still sniffing around the Tony Valetti thing.”

“What've you got?”

“I ran into Julio Castillo in line at Little Joe's on Broadway.” No matter who you were, you waited in line, watching the cooks in the open kitchen tossing pasta in skillets over an open flame.

Cliff went on, “I asked how his investigative reporting was going on Tony. You know, was Tony cheating on his wife, hiding out down in Baja with a babe, sailing the French Riviera—”

“Will…you…get…to…the…point?”

“Castillo said if I had any information about this or any story, he'd trade information off the record.”

Lyle snorted.

“Don't be so sure.” The voice came from behind Lyle's left shoulder. He recognized it from both late-night TV and his disastrous debut costarring “The Senator's Daughter.”

“Speak of the devil.” Lyle turned to find Julio Castillo, hands spread to show he carried no microphone. The cameraman wasn't behind him.

The newsman made a show of letting Lyle see inside the cuffs of his crimson dress shirt worn with a sharp black suit. “No tricks, nothing up my sleeve.”

“Sure.” Lyle turned back and raised his brew for a long swallow. It wasn't as cold or as effervescent as before.

“Say, man.” Castillo snagged one of the vacant chairs and sat across. “Give me a chance.”

“A chance to twist my words? To embarrass me again like you did when I was with Sylvia Chatsworth?”

Castillo spread his hands. “Sorry, man. I wasn't sure how it lay between you two.”

Lyle chunked his glass down, setting the table to rocking again. He rose, leaned across, and watched his hand gather the reporter's jacket lapels. “You came over here for a reason. Get to it.”

He felt Cliff's hand on his arm and let Castillo go. The man had a knack for making him crazy.

Castillo made a show of straightening his clothing. “When I talked with Cliff, he thought you might like a chance to visit with me about a fellow who vanished.”

Lyle inclined his head for him to proceed and gestured to a nearby waiter to get the reporter whatever he wanted and put it on his tab.

After ordering soda with lime, Castillo settled in. “Ever since Tony Valetti came to town and made a splash on the developers' scene, I've figured he must have a sugar daddy, a mentor, whatever you like to call it. So I poke around and find out he's played golf no less than five times with Senator Lawrence Arthur Chatsworth the Third at the Marin Club.”

“So?” Lyle didn't say he'd been invited to play with Tony.

“One of the biggest deals to go down lately has been the purchase of a big tract in the northern Napa Valley. The books say Tony Valetti bought land adjoining his brother's vineyards from the estate of Esther Quenton …”

Lyle waved an impatient hand. “I know all that.”

“While you're digging, I'd look out for brother, Andre, being in on it. And maybe, just maybe, there's some ‘blind trust' money from a certain gentleman who spends a portion of his year in our nation's capital.”

Lyle's brows lifted. Chatsworth saying Tony was somehow out of his depth flashed on his memory screen. That wouldn't seem to indicate a partnership. In fact, the Senator had walked away when Tony spoke of something going on “up north.” And what had that been about Chatsworth being unable to assist in a zoning matter?

Castillo caught his expression. “Am I warm, my friend?”

As he'd tried earlier with Cliff, Lyle shrugged. “You may have filmed me with the Senator's daughter, but I've yet to become his confidant. Or yours.”

“So you have nothing for me,
amigo?”

Lyle gave him a direct look. “I'm afraid not…
amigo.”

“Then what's your take on where Sylvia is? I figure with the clinch I caught for the show, you must know …”

“You're the expert. Where do you think she is?”

“I don't know.” Castillo's expression turned sad. “I've been tough on her; when she disappeared it made me think. I go to mass, I send up a prayer.”

“Right,” said Lyle.

Castillo pushed back his chair. “You don't have to believe me, but I say,
por favor nos Padre,
some sunnavabitch hasn't raped that beautiful girl and left her for dead.”