The Senator’s Daughter (9 page)

Once in his office, he played investigator on the Internet.

No, he didn't play. He was damned fine at ferreting out the smallest tidbit he might use to paint a defendant in the kind of light that would sway a jury of his or her peers.

This morning's project lacked both defendant and jury. But Lyle smelled victim all over the missing person of Antone … Tony Valetti.

He thought back over their exchange and didn't see a personality who would have slipped away and harmed himself. No, someone must have had it in for Tony, and it must have something to do with money.

What if Tony had borrowed from the wrong Italian family? Some of that ilk still used strong-arm tactics on their debtors.

Lyle decided to follow the money by finding out what deals Tony was involved in.

At the charity auction he'd overheard something about an oceanfront property named Emerald Cliff, but found nothing on it online. Must be too early for the sales phase.

Tony had also mentioned something up north, so Lyle started a county-by-county search of property tax ownership.

He hit pay dirt in Napa County. It seemed that Tony was the owner of a large tract in the foothills where the vineyards of the Napa Valley gave way to the Mayacamas Mountains. Only last month Tony had purchased over five hundred acres from the estate of a woman named Esther Quenton. The price appeared cheap for the area.

Intent on his computer screen, Lyle barely heard the swish of pant legs. He fumbled his index finger on the mouse and slid the cursor to bring up his screen saver.

He didn't move fast enough.

“The hell you doing?” asked his boss, David Dickerson. “Esther Quenton …”

Lyle's heart slammed; the last time he'd heard that voice he'd been on the carpet for improper public image. Nonetheless, he placed his hands flat on the table, told his shoulders to relax, and turned. “Getting a jump on the day.”

He made it sound like Dickerson, dressed in a pale pinstripe with the suit jacket gaping over his ample stomach, was coming in late … at five-thirty a.m.

In the next instant, he regretted his tone.

Dickerson glanced at the computer monitor with disdain. Lyle waited for him to finish his statement about the late Mrs. Quenton, but instead he shook his head.

With a sinking heart, Lyle looked at his screen saver. Friday afternoon before going over to Ice, he'd downloaded a newspaper photo of Sylvia from a couple months ago when her “engagement” to Rory Campbell had been announced and as quickly withdrawn.

“Looks like you've got it bad,” the DA announced.

Though Lyle felt a fool after Sylvia's Sunday foray with the bikers, he pushed to his feet, towering over his balding fifty-something boss. “You're talking about my private life again.”

Dickerson's already small gray eyes narrowed. “As I think I made clear on the phone the other night, if you're in public service, you don't have a private life. If you're famous, like the Senator's daughter, you don't have a private life. That's reserved for dried-up recluses like Esther Quenton was before she … died.”

“What do you know about Quenton?” Lyle kept his voice controlled. “Tony Valetti bought some land out of her estate …”

Dickerson's jaw set. When he spoke, his voice was icy. “I don't think, Mr. Thomas, that the district attorney's office has a case that concerns either Mrs. Quenton or Mr. Valetti.”

Lyle spread his hands. “Come on, Dave.” Too late, he remembered Dickerson hated to be called by his first name. Or maybe he deliberately forgot. “As soon as someone dredges up Tony's body …”

“Dredges up?”

“The odds are, Valetti, as they say, sleeps with the fishes.”

“Think the Mafia got him?” Dickerson managed to make it sound silly. “How ‘bout some java?”

Though Lyle had already put away several cups, as his bladder was aware, he forced his lips into a semblance of a smile.

Leaving his office, he looked once more at the screen saver. Sylvia wore white, a debutante shot. Holding a bouquet of white roses, she looked pure, like a bride.

Dawn had broken over the mountains north of Calistoga by the time Sylvia dragged herself up the last few feet to Highway 29. Her shoulder ached where the seat belt had grabbed, the back of her neck was stiff, and she felt nauseous. She'd managed to slip in gloppy mustard-colored mud and blunder into a tree trunk; the lump on her temple throbbed with every heartbeat.

It started to rain again.

Thank God she'd struggled around and managed to kick the driver's door open enough to squeeze through. Her leg had caught on something on the way out; she'd felt a stinging on her calf.

Once out, she realized she'd left her keys in the ignition. If she were going to get her tote bag out of the trunk … but the pitch of the slope beneath her feet said it would be impossible to carry her clothes out of the canyon.

Now, breathing hard, Sylvia stood on the verge of the highway and looked back the way she'd come. There was no sign of her car, not a hint of red paint peeked through the dense forest canopy. Down about a hundred feet, broken branches revealed raw yellow wood.

Muddy tracks on the road and a pair of furrows through the shoulder marked her ill-fated path. She glanced again toward the hidden automobile with her money, ID, and phone inside. What to do? A car or truck would come by soon and see her and the evidence of the accident.

Looking around in the early morning light, she saw a sign at the entrance to the side road.

Lava Springs Inn. Rustic charm on the edge of the vineyards. 3/4 mile.

Sylvia ducked her head against the increased onslaught of rain and kicked at the muddy tracks to make them less noticeable.

Half an hour later, after following a tortuous, single-lane road down into a valley, Sylvia shuffled across a bridge spanning a lively stream and saw the driveway for the inn.

Turning in, she had a view of a stately, two-storied Victorian mansion. Painted white, with spruce-colored trim, the building's patterned tin roof matched the dusty green.

Moments later, she made her painful way up three steps to the landing. A bronze plaque next to the front door indicated the inn had been constructed in 1880 for guests desiring to bathe in the healing warm waters of Lava Springs. A small map showed where the springs bubbled to the surface a hundred yards upstream from the hotel and sourced the Lava River she had crossed.

Sylvia tried the screen door. It opened, as did the shining oak one with stained glass in the upper panel. Pale light from inside illuminated a colorful depiction of men and women bringing in the grape harvest.

Noting a coco mat on the porch, she made an effort to wipe the mud from her shoes.

Inside the generous high-ceilinged entryway, narrow stairs went down and a broad flight with a carved wooden banister led up a half story. Sylvia gripped the rail and chose up, surprised at how weak she felt.

A beacon in the gray morning, a brass lamp with a green glass shade cast a soft glow over the mahogany reception desk. The only other interior light came from a milk glass lamp beside an overstuffed burgundy sofa in the large room serving as the lobby.

Her shoes squishing, Sylvia crossed the big comfortable room on glowing hardwood floors. Through the glass in a pair of French doors, she saw a high, columned rear porch overlooking the Lava River.

Looking back at the bell on the reception desk, she wondered what she was going to say. How to explain showing up sodden and filthy, no car, and no luggage? No credit cards, no cash.

Why not start with the truth?

She'd been in a car accident. Had to leave her car and purse. Her name was … Sylvia Cabot—using her middle name was not too big a lie. Get a room, a bath, and some rest and then figure out how to explain not calling someone to bring her help and money.

She went to the desk and rang the bell next to an antique clock whose hands pointed to six-forty a.m.

In less than a minute, a fit-looking woman with short, curly gray hair came up the stairs into the lobby. Wearing well-worn Wranglers and a Western-style shirt with pearl snaps for buttons, she appeared wide awake. “I was ready to start breakfast. My husband and I live downstairs …”

She stopped, blue eyes rounding at the sight of Sylvia, covered with mud and dripping onto the Oriental runner before the desk. “What happened to you?”

A wave of dizziness forced Sylvia to grab the desk.

The woman looked her over. “Your head … you know your leg is bleeding?”

She looked down. In addition to the mud, her red tracksuit pants were dark with what must be fresh blood; trails of droplets on the polished wood floor outlined her path from the stairs and round trip across the room.

“I … no.” More dizziness. If she'd been bleeding all the way from the highway …

She tried to get her tongue around her story. “I …”

A tall man with thinning sandy hair above a broad forehead appeared behind the woman. “What's going on?”

Black spots ate their way in from the edges of Sylvia's vision, and she fell into roaring darkness.

B
y Friday afternoon, Lyle was still angry.

How could he have believed during their kiss that he'd detected an essential vulnerability in the Senator's daughter? As Julio Castillo had predicted, Lyle had landed squarely in the chump category.

Sitting at his office desk, he noticed from the corner of his eye his computer screen saver popping up again. As he'd done all week, he looked at a younger version of Sylvia and wondered if she'd been different then.

He'd been meaning to deep-six the photo, but these past days had been hectic. A member of the DA's general litigation team, Lyle had the career-broadening opportunity to work on diverse types of crime, from the domestic case he'd just completed, putting away an abuser turned killer, to various lesser offenses.

Busy as Lyle was, he vowed to lose the Sylvia screen saver by the end of the day.

With a ham and Swiss on rye a few hours in the past, he headed for the kitchen.

On the wall-mounted TV, cops milled about before a pale stucco façade. Lyle moved closer and turned up the volume. Those steps, a metal railing … potted geraniums and yellow crime-scene tape.

He tried to swallow; it hurt too much.

Then her face filled the screen, the same image Lyle had downloaded from the
Chronicle.
The debutante thing, impossibly young, black eyes blazing like coals in her high cheekboned face, white teeth lined up like piano keys.

Inhaling through his nose, he willed his muscles to relax and let down some air. God, oh, God. Had Sylvia been murdered?

Major network news displayed the irate countenance of Senator Lawrence Chatsworth.

“My daughter is missing,” he announced.

Two hours later, Lyle was shutting down his office computer and preparing to meet Cliff for a prearranged toast to the weekend. He'd never felt less like celebrating.

Though he'd pretended to work, since seeing the crime scene tape and thinking Sylvia had been killed, he'd seen nothing in his mind but her bright image. The screen saver of her photo was still on his machine.