Silent Fall (12 page)

He smiled and impulsively leaned over and kissed her mouth. He was tempted to linger, to bring her fully awake, but he would need a lot more time to do it right. "I suppose you want to drive now," he said.

"Would you let me?" she asked with a gleam in her eye. "Or would it kill you to be in the passenger seat?"

"It would kill me, but for you I'd do it."

This time Catherine leaned in and kissed him. "Thanks, but I don't need to drive. I just need you to be willing to let me."

"I'll never understand the way women think."

She laughed. "You don't have to. Let's go, old man. We're not getting any younger."

* * *

Twenty minutes later Dylan parked down the street from Erica's condo. The new development was in the trendy South of Market area, where a lot of young singles lived. As they left the car Dylan and Catherine strolled arm in arm down the block, as if they were an older couple out for an evening walk. As they passed Erica's front door Catherine looked for any sign of police activity, but there was no yellow tape on the door, no police cruisers nearby, nor were there any lights on inside the condo.

"What do you want to do?" Catherine asked.

"That's Joanna's place," Dylan said, tipping his head toward the condo next to Erica's.

"How do you know that?"

"Research. There's a light on. Hopefully she's home. Are you still up for it?"

"Absolutely." Catherine felt a tingle of excitement at the challenge ahead of her.

"Make sure you push as much as you can. Ask her about Erica's male friends, her finances, visitors to her house, and her family. Don't let her sidestep the questions."

"I won't."

"What exactly are you going to say?"

"I'll figure that out when she answers the door." She could see by Dylan's disgruntled face that he wasn't happy with her answer.

"You have to have a plan of attack," he said. "Maybe I should do it."

"I can handle it. Trust me."

"All right," he said slowly. "I guess I'll wait down at the corner at the Java Hut."

"Order me some tea and maybe some for yourself. You are way too wound up." She gave him a gentle push.

"You and your damn tea," he grumbled as he stomped off, looking decidedly younger and sprier than his clothing suggested. So much for staying in character.

Deciding it was time to change her look, Catherine pulled off her scarf and her coat, tossing them over one arm as she knocked on Joanna's door. She wanted to look more like a peer of Erica's than her maiden aunt.

A moment later a striking blonde with long legs and big boobs opened the door. She was dressed in a jean miniskirt and a bright red tank top that showed off her cleavage. Dylan would have died and gone to heaven, Catherine thought. He was really going to be sorry he'd given her this job.

"Yes?" the woman asked.

"Are you Joanna?"

"Who wants to know?"

"I'm Catherine, a friend of Erica's," she replied. "I went to high school with her, and I came up from Bakersfield to visit her, but she's not answering the door, and I've been waiting over an hour. I was wondering if you know where she is. She mentioned you were one of her friends."

"Yes," Joanna said, her wary expression softening somewhat. "But I don't know where she is or why she'd have you meet her tonight. She told me she was going out of town when I ran into her the other day. She said she needed a break before the trial starts in a couple of weeks."

"Right, the trial," Catherine echoed. "Erica told me she's been really stressed about that, but she never mentioned leaving town. Where would she have gone?

I'd really like to find her. I'm very concerned about her. She hasn't been herself lately. You don't have a key to her place, do you?"

Joanna stiffened. "I can't let you in. I don't know you."

"Of course you don't," Catherine said with a reassuring smile, realizing she'd moved a bit too fast. "Maybe you could go in and just see if she left any brochures out or reservation confirmations on a notepad or anything like that." She paused, trying to sound like a worried friend. "I guess I could go to the police and ask them. Maybe they could get the key from you."

She could see by the sudden light that passed through Joanna's eyes that the last thing she wanted was the police at her door.

"No, don't do that," Joanna said. "I guess I could check her place. Hang on a second." She walked over to a table in her entryway and took some keys out of a drawer. She pulled her own door shut and then led Catherine to Erica's condo.

Catherine would have preferred to go in alone, but at least she was getting in. That was something. She felt a jolt of adrenaline as Joanna opened the door. With any luck Catherine could find a clue to Erica's whereabouts. Her optimism faded as she took in the state of the apartment, the upturned laundry basket on the living room couch, the open door to the hall closet revealing empty hangers. She had the feeling Erica had packed up and left in a hurry.

She walked over to the couch and picked up a white jean jacket that had been left behind. An image flashed in her head, taking her back into the past.

She dug through the laundry basket, slipping her hand into the pocket of every pair of pants, every coat. It was gone. Panic ran through her. She couldn't have lost it. Then relief washed away the fear as her fingers closed around the cool metal. She pulled out the key. Attached to the ring was a small piece of paper and the numbers 374. Scribbled in ink were the directions: right after the bridge, left on Falcon, pink flowers in the window box. She would be safe there. No one would find her. She would be free to start again.

Catherine blinked as Joanna's voice sent the image from her mind.

"I found this brochure on her desk," Joanna said.

Catherine turned toward the other woman and took the folder from her hand. It showed a resort in Hawaii. Was that where Erica had gone, number three seven four?

"I'll check the bedroom quickly, and then I really have to go," Joanna said.

While Joanna disappeared into the other room, Catherine moved to the kitchen counter, her gaze settling on the pad by the phone. Erica had jotted down a number, but there was no name attached to it. It could mean nothing, or it could be important. Catherine ripped off the page and stuffed it in the pocket of her jeans. Then she saw Erica's checkbook. Her heart began to pound. Erica's bankbook might show who was paying her. She swiped it off the counter and stuffed it in between the layers of her coat as Joanna returned to the room, shaking her head.

"Nothing else," Joanna said. "She must be in Hawaii."

"I'll give this place a call," Catherine replied as Joanna ushered her to the front door. "Maybe she just forgot to tell me or got the dates of my trip mixed up."

"She's had a lot on her mind," Joanna said. "Frankly I wouldn't be surprised if she never came back here, after what happened. You can't bite the hand that feeds you, especially when it belongs to a senator. Did she tell you what she did?"

"Yes. She got trapped in a bad situation," Catherine said slowly. "She feels terrible about everything that happened."

"She never should have talked to that reporter. She should have kept her mouth shut. I thought she was smarter than that."

"She was afraid she'd be next," Catherine said. "I hope nothing has happened to her now."

For the first time a shadow passed through Joanna's blue eyes. "I hope not, too. But I'm sure she's just lying on a beach somewhere, drinking a margarita and working on her tan." Joanna locked Erica's door behind them. "If Erica comes back I'll tell her you were here."

"Thanks. I'd appreciate it."

Catherine let out a breath of relief as Joanna returned to her condo. She walked down the street quickly, quite satisfied with herself. She'd actually stepped outside of her safe zone and taken a risk, and it felt good. It felt as if she were living again, instead of hiding in the shadows. And it was about damn time.

When she reached the Java Hut she found Dylan pacing impatiently by the front window. "What happened?" he demanded.

"Where's my tea?"

He tipped his head to the cup on the nearby table. "It's probably cold by now. It took you long enough."

"Because I did a good job," she said with a proud smile.

"I saw you got into Erica's condo. How did you manage that?"

"I told Joanna I was worried about Erica. She found this brochure. She said Erica told her she was going on vacation and this is probably where."

Dylan took the flyer from her hand. "Hawaii, huh? I doubt she's managed to get that far, but perhaps that's where she's headed."

"I got a couple of other things." Catherine pulled out Erica's checkbook and saw Dylan's eyes light up. "Not bad, huh?"

"Not bad at all. With her account number I might be able to find a money trail between her and whoever paid her to set me up."

"This was written on a pad by her phone." Catherine handed him the piece of paper. "I don't know who the number belongs to, but maybe it's important." She took a quick breath. "And I had a vision of Erica digging through her pockets for a key. There was a torn piece of paper attached to the ring, and the numbers three, seven, four. There were also some directions: right after the bridge, left on Falcon, pink flowers in the window box," she said, trying to remember every word. "I don't know where the key goes—maybe to a room at the Hawaiian resort." She opened her purse and pulled out her memo pad as she finished speaking. "I'd better write it down before I forget." She quickly jotted down the directions.

"You did good," Dylan said with an impressed nod.

"I know," she said, unable to keep the pleased note out of her voice. "And I think I deserve a reward."

"I already got you your tea."

"I was thinking of something a little more interesting."

"Oh, yeah? Like what?"

She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her mouth against his, letting herself go, savoring the heat of his mouth, the dizzy spin her head took with each kiss. She wanted to go on kissing him for a long time, but the shrill clatter of the cappuccino machine reminded her where she was.

Pulling away, she said, "Thanks," with a breathless smile.

His eyes darkened as his hands gripped her waist. "Why are you thanking me?"

"For letting me do that on my own, when you really wanted to be the one to question Joanna. I finally feel like I'm helping you." She paused. "It's probably difficult for you to believe, but I used to fight for myself when I was a kid. I was pretty scrappy. I don't know what happened to me. I guess I got tired. I lost my way. I started to let the nightmares rule my life. I gave up. But today, in a small way, I took a step toward getting my life back. Because you let me."

"Because you demanded that I let you," he corrected. "I didn't give you anything."

"You're just being nice now."

"By admitting I'm not a generous man?" he asked with a quirk of his brow.

She smiled. "By letting me take all the credit."

"Well, hopefully these clues you found will allow us both to get our lives back."

Chapter 10

Several hours later Dylan's optimism began to fade. The telephone number Catherine had taken from Erica's apartment had rung through to a voice mail, a standard answering-service message, not a personal one. Rather than leave a message, he'd tried to match a name to the number using the Internet, but hadn't had any luck. The Hawaiian resort had no reservation for Erica, so that was a dead end, too.

While Dylan was on the computer, Catherine had gone through Erica's checkbook, jotting down anything that looked intriguing or suspicious. After skimming the entries Dylan couldn't find any clues. The bottom line was that they were no closer to finding Erica.

He sat back in the chair behind his grandmother's desk and stretched his arms high over his head, letting out a weary sigh. Catherine settled back in the chair

across from him and yawned, reminding him that they'd both had a hellishly long day.

"You should go to bed," he told her, the innocent suggestion sending an unexpected jolt through his system as his mind quickly flashed forward to Catherine in bed, her beautiful hair spread across the pillow. No matter how many times he tried to distract himself, the chemistry between them continued to sizzle. Well, it would have to slow-cook for a while. He needed to stay focused on finding Erica, and it was already clear to him that one kiss from Catherine would take his head right out of the game.

"I think I will turn in," Catherine said, a brisk note in her voice as she stood up, carefully avoiding his gaze. "I'll use the guest bedroom upstairs. You can have your grandmother's room."

"You don't want to share?" he asked provocatively, knowing he was playing with fire, but unable to resist.

"That would be a bad idea."

"Would it?"

His question hung between them for far too long. He hadn't intended it to be serious . . . or maybe he had.

"Yes," she said finally.

He felt a wave of disappointment, which he quickly masked with a sharp clearing of his throat. "I'll be in here. The couch is fine for me." The last thing he wanted to do was sleep in his grandmother's room, where the damn photo album lay. Nor did he want to be close enough to Catherine to change his mind about staying away from her. A good floor between them couldn't hurt.

"If you hear any screaming in the middle of the night, don't get too alarmed," Catherine said.

"I thought you just heard screams. I didn't realize you did the yelling."

"It works both ways; at least, that's what my last boyfriend said. Apparently I scared the crap out of him a few times. He started leaving right after we made love, so he wouldn't have to actually sleep with me."

"Sounds like a wimp to me."

Catherine shrugged. "He was a professor of art at Cal Poly in San Luis Obispo. He thought I was brilliant in the beginning. He found my gruesome pictures fascinating, but in the end I was just a little too crazy for him."

"His loss."

"Yeah, sure, and don't tell me you've never jumped out of a woman's bed after sex. I bet you do it all the time."

"I'll never tell," he said with a smile.

She smiled back at him. "Fine. Keep your secrets while you can. How long are you going to stay up?"

"A little longer. I keep hoping I'll have a breakthrough. I hate to waste a minute sleeping when who knows what tomorrow will bring. It seems odd that you haven't connected with Erica again."

"I think I tap into her fear. Maybe she's not afraid right now."

"I hope she's found a safe place to hide. I wish she'd call me back, though." His cell phone had remained ominously silent for the past few hours.

"Well, good night." Catherine moved toward the

door, then stopped, turning back to him. "Have you ever been in love?" "Where did that question come from?" he asked warily.

"I just wondered. Erica was a one-night stand. I'm sure there have been other women. But what about a real relationship?"

"I don't do relationships," he said bluntly. "Not ever?" "No. And I don't intend to start." "Your brother's happy marriage hasn't put you a lit

tle more in favor of the idea?" He shook his head. "I'm not husband or father mate

rial." "How would you know that?" "I just do. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree." Her gaze narrowed. "You're not your father." "His blood runs through my veins. As much as I'd

like to believe we're completely different, I don't think we are. Go to bed, Catherine, and stop trying to convince me or yourself that I'm someone I'm not."

She looked like she wanted to argue, but after a moment of internal debate she left the room.

Dylan blew out a breath of relief at her exit and sat back in his chair. Rubbing his eyes, he knew he needed a break from the computer. He got up and stretched out on the couch. Despite his physical exhaustion, his mind spun with unanswered questions, all of them traveling back to the most basic question of all—how the hell had he gotten into this mess? He'd gone from having complete control over his life to having no control whatsoever, from being a respected TV news reporter to being a fugitive on the run, from living by a defined set of beliefs to not knowing what was real and what wasn't. He was starting to sound like Catherine.

And she was another problem. She was really getting to him. He didn't like how easily she read his thoughts or how perceptive she was. He liked being the man of mystery. He preferred being a person whom no one could quite figure out, but Catherine kept challenging him. She didn't buy into his act. She kept making him wonder if he was really who he wanted to be.

Damn her.
Shaking his head, he tried to force her face, her body, her touch, her kiss out of his mind. She'd been so proud earlier, so full of joyous satisfaction at having gotten into Erica's house. She'd glowed in a way he'd never seen before. There was a new spark in her dark-blue eyes. She was coming alive. And he couldn't wait to see her go all the way.

But not tonight, he told himself, tempted to go upstairs and take them both for a ride. He knew she wouldn't say no. She might not think it was a good idea, but once they touched each other neither one of them would be thinking anymore.

Letting out a breath, he forced his mind off of Catherine, back to Erica. He brought up Ravino's image, too. He remembered quite clearly the steel glint of anger in the senator's eyes when he'd been arrested, when he'd looked at Dylan and realized a reporter had tracked down some of his biggest secrets. Ravino would love to get even. The only puzzling piece was not only
why,
but also
how
Ravino could get Erica to help him. If they were connected there had to be some proof that they'd spoken. Some phone somewhere had to have recorded that trail, or an e-mail could have been sent, or perhaps Ravino had used an intermediary, someone on the outside, someone who could get to Erica, make a persuasive case.

Of course, the real beauty of the plot would be to kill Erica and frame him, Dylan, for her murder, thereby getting rid of them both.

He should probably go to the jail tomorrow and confront Ravino. Maybe the man would give something away. It was worth a try.

Feeling restless and revved up again, Dylan got up and went back to the desk. But as his fingers hovered over the computer keyboard, his eye was drawn to a photograph of his grandmother and his father on one of the bookshelves across the room. He wondered again if she'd ever known what a bastard her son was, and what she'd known about his mother. He should have asked her at some point over the years, but she'd never brought up the subject, and neither had he. It was as if there were an unspoken rule between them.

He'd never followed any other rules, so why that one? It was interesting that his grandmother had not gotten rid of the photo of his parents at their wedding. Had she forgotten about it? It seemed odd, though, after the fuss his father had made about destroying all evidence of his mother's existence.

On impulse he opened the desk drawers, wondering if his grandmother had kept in touch with his mother over the years. Had they had a secret relationship? He vaguely remembered them laughing together. They'd seemed to get along when he was a little kid. Hadn't they? Or had he just been too young to know?

Shutting the second drawer, he opened the bottom one. He found a manila envelope filled with cards that his grandmother had received over the years: birthday cards, thank-you notes, condolences for when his grandfather had died. And there at the bottom were several childish hand-drawn notes.

His heart quickened at the sight of a stick figure holding a brown teddy bear. Slowly he unfolded the paper and read the message.

Dear Grandma, I feel better now. Thanks for the bear. I love you. Dylan.

He remembered that bear. He had slept with it in his arms for weeks when he'd been in and out of the hospital with some type of infection. He remembered all the needles, the blood tests, the long nights, and his mother, who had never left his side.

He swallowed back an unexpected knot of emotion. She'd brought him ice cream and juice and held his hand when he was scared. She'd lain down next to him in the bed, refusing to leave.

Finally he'd gotten better and gone home. Six months later his mother had left forever.

How had she changed from devotion to complete and utter abandonment in just a few months? What had happened between his parents?

He would have to find out. When this was over he would get answers to the questions he should have asked a long time ago.

Moving back to the couch he settled down, closing his eyes. His mother's face floated through his brain, her pretty brown hair that always smelled like peaches, her warm brown eyes, and her encouraging smile. It was a long time since he'd seen her image in a picture or in his head. Now he couldn't seem to shake her loose. The floodgates had opened. He remembered other bits and pieces from his early years: running out for hamburgers when his father worked late, snuggling up in bed with his mother and a book, going to the island in the summer, building sand castles and playing in the waves until August turned into September and school started. Those were the good times, he realized, times when it had been just his mother, Jake, and himself.

Sighing, he tried to stop thinking altogether. What he needed now was a clear mind and a good night's sleep. Hopefully when he woke up in the morning, everything would be all right. Erica would turn up. The charges against him would be dropped, and his life would go back to normal.

Yeah, and he still believed in Santa Claus.

* * *

She probably should have stayed on the city streets, but she'd thought the tall trees and the thick bushes of the park would offer her protection, a place to hide. Now she realized how desolate the area was at night. There were no phone booths, no people, no businesses to run into. She was completely on her own.

She gasped and stopped abruptly as a shadowy figure came out of the undergrowth. Her heart thudded against her chest. The man walked toward her, one hand outstretched. His clothes were old and torn, and his face was covered with a heavy beard. He wore a baseball cap, and carried a backpack slung over one shoulder. He was probably one of the homeless people who set up camp in the park at night. Or maybe not . . .

"Hey, baby, give me a kiss," he said in a drunken slur.

"Leave me alone." She put up a hand to ward him off, but he kept moving forward.

"I'm just being friendly. Come on now, sweetheart."

Turning, she ran as fast as she could in the other direction, hearing him call after her. She didn't know if he was following her or not, and she was too terrified to look, so she left the sidewalk and moved deeper into the park, looking for a little corner in which to hide. Her side was cramping and her feet were soaked. She desperately needed to find some sanctuary. Branches scraped her bare arms and face, but she kept going. It was so dark in the heavy brush that she could barely see a foot in front of her. Tall trees and fog had completely obliterated the moonlight.

Fortunately she had her hand out in front of her when she ran into a cement wall that rose several stories in the air. She must have hit the side of one of the park buildings. Pausing, she caught her breath and listened. She could hear nothing but her own ragged breathing. Maybe she was safe, at least for the moment.

Leaning back against the cold cement, she pondered her next move, but she didn't know what to do, how to escape. She was out of options.

How had she come to this? Running for her life and all alone? This was not how it was supposed to go. This was Dy-lan's fault. He'd put her in this situation, and dammit, where the hell was he?

But she couldn't count on him to rescue her. She had to find a way out on her own. She couldn't let things end like this. She'd fought for her life before, and she'd won. She would do it again.

Her heart stopped as a nearby branch snapped in two. A confident male whistle pierced the silent night. Whoever was coming didn't care if she heard him or not. The bushes in front of her slowly parted. Terror ran through her body. There was nowhere left to run.

She screamed and screamed and screamed . . .

Catherine awoke with sweat drenching her body. She sat up straight in bed, disoriented, the terror-filled cries still echoing through her head. She was in Dylan's grandmother's house, she realized. Her gaze moved to the clock. It was two thirty-seven. Something was off.

The door flew open and she put up her hands in defense, letting out a breath when she realized it was Dylan.

"What the hell happened?" he demanded, his eyes wild and worried. "You were yelling your head off."

"A nightmare." She tucked a strand of sweat-dampened hair behind her ear and drew in a shaky breath. As always a restless, relentless energy filled her body, a desperate need to release the fear and darkness inside her. She swung her legs off the bed and stood up. She didn't have her paints set up, but she had to find a way to release her emotions.