The Senator’s Daughter Page 7

  Fine with Lyle. Neither of them needed to suggest what searching for the bikers implied.

  At his loft, wearing comfortable sweats and drinking a late-night cup of decaf in front of the TV news, Lyle tried to unwind. He’d spent the past few hours making calls, invoking the sacred holy name of Chatsworth and stating he was empowered by the Senator to investigate on his behalf.

  All he’d learned was the obvious. There was an APB out for all law-enforcement officers to be on the lookout for Sylvia’s license plate and red Jaguar convertible. The public was also on alert, her photo on every channel and the Internet, along with the bikers.

  Everything in Lyle urged him to throw the Senator’s money and assignment back in his face. How in hell was he supposed to find her?

  Getting up from his couch, Lyle punched the “mute” button on his remote to silence the TV talking about Sylvia. The on-screen photo of her was one he had not seen; it looked recent, she wore the red leather dress he knew …

  With a start, he realized it was probably a still from “On the Spot.” Fearing there might be another showing of the kiss, he powered off and pitched the remote away. The press would probably start hounding him by morning, making it even harder for him to be effective.

  Thinking back on the embrace he’d shared with Sylvia, he had trouble believing she’d been unaffected. If he’d ever held a woman who was aroused by his touch, it had been Sylvia on the bar stool in the blue glow at Ice. When he’d tackled her on the street, he’d again sensed her reluctance to leave his arms. But at her place, when she’d mentioned drawing a bath and he’d responded like Pavlov’s dog, she’d ended up slamming the bedroom door in his face.

  A wave of longing swept over Lyle. To make her laugh, to get lost in her dark, dark eyes, to draw her against him and wrap his arms around her warmth. In the past, when he’d been attracted to someone, it had usually been mutual. Never had he been in the position of yearning for the sight, the touch of a woman who was so far out of reach.

  He felt hollow; the part of him that said he could not find her was voted down. He’d seen too many files on kidnap victims in his line of work; they most often ended up dead.

  If he played only a small part in preventing such a fate for Sylvia …

  Lyle swallowed and tried to avoid the inevitable image of beauty ruined, of her lifeless remains lying beneath the sky while buzzards made an eternal circle.

  Chapter 6

  Sylvia swam up from sleep and calculated it was Saturday morning.

  She’d spent five nights at the Lava Springs Inn. Mary Kline, a former RN, had put her to bed when she fainted, disinfected and bandaged her wounded leg and temple, and kept questions to a minimum.

  How fortunate that with her medical training Mary had known a call to 911 wasn’t in order. And lucky Sylvia’s hosts believed her a battered woman on the run. No ID, no luggage, no vehicle … and no sign, either, of the innkeepers had seen her face on television.

  Sylvia sighed and stretched her limbs in the antique pineapple bed in a lovely room overlooking the Lava River. A breeze from the window she’d left open stirred the lace curtains.

  How long had it been since she’d simply rested? Slept and ate when she felt like it, read ancient classic novels she found on the lobby shelves, hardback books bound in cloth; Ernest Hemingway, Willa Cather, Ayn Rand …

  A tap on her bedroom door announced Mary. At a word from Sylvia, the older woman came in wearing a navy tracksuit and carrying a breakfast tray.

  Sylvia sat up and arranged the folds of the cotton nightgown Mary had loaned her. One she normally would not have been caught dead in, but the soft material felt oddly comforting.

  As usual, the older woman’s inquisitive blue glance skittered over Sylvia’s bruised temple and then fixed her with a determined smile.

  “It’s gone from purple to pale green,” Sylvia told her. “I think I’m going to live.”

  “Yes, but have you learned anything?” Mary set the tray down on the bedside stand with a definite sound.

  Not to tangle with a tanker truck?

  When Sylvia failed to reply to the fishing expedition, Mary surveyed the contents of the tray. “Oatmeal, banana, hot tea.”

  Sylvia never ate breakfast, only strong black coffee. Mary had been feeding her every morning: eggs, sausage, pancakes, waffles, blueberry muffins, okay … but oatmeal?

  Pushing the wheeled stand, clearly hospital surplus, in front of her charge, Mary moved to shut the open window as though the draft was unhealthy.

  She came back and lifted the covers with the practiced hands of a nurse and examined the butterfly closures on the two-inch gash in the meaty part of Sylvia’s calf. “Looking good. We’ll have those off you in another week.”

  Mary sat in a burgundy-upholstered wing chair across from the bed.

  Beneath her steady regard, Sylvia lifted the spoon and dipped it into the cereal. With dread, she conveyed it to her mouth. And began to chew. Or rather, to manipulate the viscous gray paste. Round and round her mouth it traveled, seeming to get bigger with each circuit.

  Finally, Sylvia tried to get rid of it by swallowing, but her throat tried to close, as if to say, “Don’t send that down here.” In desperation, she lifted the china teacup painted with violets and washed the offending mass down with bitter tannic liquid.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say, “I despise oatmeal and tea, and bananas are for babies.”

  Then she looked at Mary, who watched her with a concern so sincere Sylvia felt ashamed. “You’ve been so good to me. You and Buck.” She spooned up more oatmeal. “I guess this stick-to-your-ribs stuff keeps the Quakers milking cows and slopping hogs on cold mornings.”

  Mary pounced. “Do you come from farm country?”

  How was it possible her notoriety had not spread to this peaceful mountain glen? Taking a bite of banana, she played for time.

  “Or are you a city girl?” Mary pressed.

  Sylvia swallowed and reached for the tea. It kind of grew on you.

  Mary leaned forward, her hands on her knees. “You’ve brought some baggage along with you despite your lack of luggage. I’m here if you care to talk about it.”

  Sylvia directed her regard at the polished hardwood floor. She could feel Mary studying her profile; her father had always used the trick of waiting to make her get on with it.

  She sipped more tea. “I’ve been letting you take care of me … now I need to do something in return. Can’t I help out around the place?”

  If Laura Cabot Chatsworth could hear her daughter, she’d fall into a genuine Virginia swoon—”Mammy, my smelling salts … no child of mine is going to work waitin’ on people.”

  Sylvia ignored the image and gestured to her tray. “I could help you out with breakfast.”

  Too late, she realized the guests might recognize her. “I mean …”

  Mary gave her a look that said she understood Sylvia must stay hidden from the person who’d harmed her. “You can work in the kitchen and stay out of sight.”

  On Sunday morning, Sylvia rose when only a faint gray brightened the eastern horizon. Who would have believed she had been alone on a Saturday night, rather than coming back to her town house after last call and sleeping till afternoon?

  Without TV, she couldn’t even find out what Julio Castillo had to say about her not being around. Or had he forgotten her so soon?

  One thing she knew was she had not forgotten Lyle Thomas. Every moment of their encounter had etched itself into her memory, from walking up to the big blond in the undersea light of Ice, to hearing him entreat her to open her bedroom door.

  If she had, where would she be now? In bed with Lyle, having finally gotten around to experimenting with the effect of Puget Sound oysters on libido?

  Stretching, she closed her eyes again. A sweet ache stole over her while she envisioned him lying on his side by her, stroking her skin, bending to kiss her breasts. The need sharpened when she imagined his bare chest against
hers, belly to belly …

  With a sigh, Sylvia got up and dressed in the clothing Mary had brought her from Wal-Mart, things her mother would faint at the sight of.

  Yet, Sylvia kind of liked the well-fitting Levis, a black ribbed tank top that had cost $2.99 according to the tag, and a red and black flannel shirt ($7.99). Her mirrored face, captured in the wavy glass above the bureau, showed no makeup, her hair a curling cloud over her shoulders instead of being tamed by brush and blow-dryer. The bruise was less noticeable than the day before, and the ache in her calf had dulled.

  Down the darkened hall, through the lobby and dining room with their view of mist rising from the river, and she found out she’d beaten Mary to the kitchen.

  Hands on hips, Sylvia surveyed her new domain. It was a far cry from her parents’ stone and stainless decor and different from the smaller high-tech space in her town house. The Victorian’s rustic theme continued into its kitchen with a wood-burning stove along with an electric, a copper sink, and matching pots suspended from an overhead rack. A microwave rested discreetly within the generous walk-in pantry.

  Knowing Mary would be along soon to help direct her in the menu, Sylvia located placemats and silverware. With nine rooms of two-person parties, she set places along the big oak table seating ten and the two smaller tables for four each.

  Finding linen napkins in a drawer, Sylvia recalled the way she’d seen them folded and placed atop the plates in fancy restaurants. It took a few minutes to duplicate the results. In the fridge, she found a gallon jug of orange juice and poured into crystal goblets she found in a cabinet.

  While she was spooning aromatic fresh-ground beans into the basket of the coffee machine, Mary came in. “Good morning, Sylvia.”

  Maybe she should have called herself Jane or Carol. What would Mary think if she knew the identity of the woman working in her kitchen?

  When it had been two weeks since Sylvia stopped using her credit cards, Senator Chatsworth ordered Lyle to make a Sunday afternoon command appearance at his Sausalito home.

  Taking the ferry across the Bay, Lyle enjoyed this first day of October. The clear sky reflected in the water, and perspective made the Golden Gate Bridge appear colossal. Though he sat on the upper deck with the breeze in his face, he envied the folks taking weekend sails or windsurfing. Since Sylvia disappeared, he had spent his days and most of his evenings combing the Internet, making calls, and visiting people who knew Sylvia for clues as to her whereabouts.

  Unsurprisingly, he had confirmed no activity on her cards, cell phone, or any other sign of her. And despite cops, highway patrol, sheriffs, and half the population of central California being on the lookout, the Senator’s daughter appeared to have dropped off the planet.

  As for Lyle’s fingerprints in Sylvia’s town house, his position and association with Chatsworth had spared him a trip downtown for interrogation. Nonetheless, he’d spent an uncomfortable hour with a detective, explaining how “the kiss” had led to his being all over Sylvia’s town house the Friday night before she disappeared.

  From the moment Lyle stepped off the ferry by the Sausalito marina, he enjoyed the little Mediterranean-style village. Walking along the level quayside street at the base of a cliff, he appreciated a display of oil paintings outside a gallery. Couples strolled with their arms around each other’s waists, their faces turned up to the fall sun. A man and woman shared an ice-cream cone. Another fellow was composing a photo of his girl with the waterfront in the background; Lyle paused and offered to take a picture of them together.

  Leaving the bustling village, he began the climb toward Chatsworth’s home. Within a few minutes, he felt the grade in his calf muscles and slowed to avoid arriving at the Senator’s place in a sweat. According to the map he’d downloaded on his computer, he had at least a half mile of uphill. The steep streets curved back on each other with hidden cul-de-sacs.

  What the map did not show was the banks of ivy lining the street and the thick stands of evergreen and eucalyptus, each giving off distinctive and pungent aromas. Deep mossy shadows periodically gave way to breathtaking vistas of sea and sky.

  The architecture was also fascinating. Beyond a shingled chalet on pilings with rooftop parking stood a traditional brick mansion. Next came a place like something created by Frank Lloyd Wright, followed by a rock garden with thick evergreens that gave whatever was behind it complete privacy.

  Lyle wondered what the place where Sylvia grew up looked like.

  In a few minutes, he found it to be one of those flat-roofed white contemporaries with walls of glass. Austere to some eyes, but Lyle had always liked the look.

  He rang the bell, expecting to be let in by a servant.

  Laura Chatsworth opened the door.

  Lyle had seen her on TV, her Southern accent and practiced political expression making her seem aloof and unattainable. Today, if he hadn’t known whose house this was, he’d never have recognized her. Though she wore a stylish blue dress, her short hair lay flat. Her ink-dark eyes, reminding him of her daughter in a painful way, were red. Perhaps she suffered during the September allergy season, but he’d bet she’d been crying.

  “Mistah Thomas.” She failed to offer her hand. “My husband and I have been waiting for you.”

  Was he late? A look at the exquisite grandfather clock in the foyer told him it was exactly two o’clock.

  Laura followed his gaze. “That was mah grandfather’s …”

  Lyle nodded. “Really.”

  He followed her through one of those living rooms no one sat in, decorated in flowered chintz. The antique furniture in glowing woods caught his eye; he’d admired such things when furnishing his loft, but priced them and had to pass.

  Family photographs graced the bookshelves and occasional tables—Laura cradled a newborn, Lawrence lifted a toddler over his head, and there sat the original debutante-in-white shot Lyle had used as his screen saver.

  Chatsworth awaited in his study. Behind a Chippendale desk, he read the Sunday Chronicle with reading glasses perched on his nose. Lyle had never seen those in any photo op.

  “Ah, good afternoon, Lyle.”

  “Senator.” Lyle waited to be told to call him Larry.

  Chatsworth folded the paper, set his glasses alongside, and gestured to a ladder-back chair facing the desk. Sylvia’s mother came in and subsided into a wing chair farther back. She folded her hands in her royal blue lap.

  Lyle tried to imagine his mother in silk.

  “Now, then,” Chatsworth said in a brisk tone, “here’s the first check I’ve had prepared for you. Twice your normal two-week salary.”

  He pushed a folded piece of paper across the leather blotter.

  Lyle stared at the check. He had bills to pay.

  He reached and pushed the paper back toward the Senator. “I can’t take your money. I’ve got nothing on where Sylvia might be.”

  “Nothing?” Laura shrilled. “There’s got to be some …”

  Chatsworth’s eyes flicked toward his wife, and she went silent as though he’d thrown the switch on a mechanical doll.

  He looked back at Lyle, storm clouds gathering on his face. “Suit yourself.” He pocketed the check.

  Lyle watched it disappear with regret for speaking hastily.

  “But I want you to keep trying.” Chatsworth spoke more softly.

  “I’m not giving up, but the law-enforcement officers are doing everything they can to deal with the issue of foul play, something I can’t scratch the surface of with my resources.”

  “Foul play …” Laura’s tone was of a mother who’d turned around in a crowd and found her toddler gone. Her bold eyes shined with tears.

  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.