The Senator’s Daughter (40 page)

Lyle stared at him. “You're making my head hurt again. I've got to get some sack time.”

His friend pulled out some bills. “All right, but in the morning I'm going to take some time off work and find Esther Quenton's servants—see what they know about her movements that last day. Whether or not someone picked her up at the house.”

Lyle threw some of his money out. “I'll think about what I'll do when I wake up.” He rose. “But if you hear something, call me anytime.”

As he walked down the long bar toward the door, Lyle recognized the redhead talking with the bartender. Shana Weston, who had accompanied Corinne Walker the night of “the kiss.”

She swiveled her stool. “Cliff! And Lyle. Lyle Thomas. I haven't seen you since—”

The grapevine hadn't brought her the news of his firing or it would have been her opening statement. In his lousy frame of mind, Lyle didn't handle it as well as he could. “Since the night you and Corinne performed a character assassination on Sylvia Chatsworth.”

Shana's green eyes, uncannily matching the color of Cliff's, went wide. “I'm insulted to be lumped into the same category with Corinne. Sylvia was so … vibrant. She could hold her own.”

“Could?”

“She's bound to be dead, isn't she?” If Lyle had heard that yesterday, he'd have laughed. Then he'd known Sylvia was safe. But now…

“Too much time has passed,” Shana argued. “If Sylvia were trying to hide out, her cover would have been blown by now. So she must be in a ditch somewhere near her car.”

“Thanks for the encouragement,” Lyle spoke dryly. She was like too many folks who didn't know Sylvia and let the sensationalism of the situation get her carried away.

Shana looked distressed, as though she was sorry to have suggested a bad end for Sylvia.”

“I've got to go,” Lyle said tiredly. “See ya, Cliff.”

On his way out of Ice, Lyle glanced back and caught Cliff climbing onto the bar stool next to Shana. He wished his friend better luck than he was having.

It looked like love did make your gut twist and put a hole in your heart.

S
ylvia gauged the drop from the town-house balcony to the street. At least forty feet, far too long a fall, even with the old sheets-knotted-together trick.

She would have to leave the bedroom. Pray Andre wasn't there.

Right.

Then she'd try to bluff her way out. Act as though she thought she'd gotten sick rather than been drugged. If he didn't fall for it, she'd knee him where it hurt and get the hell out.

Pausing to slip on her shoes that were side by side near the bed, Sylvia went to the door. The knob turned in her hand; she tugged.

Locked. There was a deadbolt on Andre's bedroom door.

Did he habitually take advantage of women? Or did he use it for protection against enemies like whoever caused his brother, Tony, to disappear? Did he fear he would be next?

Her mind still felt sluggish. Had Andre's lack of surprise at her identity been because he knew her all along? It had seemed bizarre that they had met several times and he didn't recognize her.

Fear made her mouth dry and her limbs weak; a wave of paranoia swept over her. Her father knew Andre … did her father know where she was? Were the drugs and the locked door some kind of bizarre punishment?

Tempted to scream and kick at the portal, she decided to remain silent. At least until the drug had a chance to work its way through her system.

Unfortunately, she wasn't given that luxury. Footsteps sounded outside the door, and her pulse surged into overdrive.

“Sylvia.” Andre's tone said he was still playing it persuasive. “Are you all right?”

Her first impulse was to back away from the door. When her shoulder blades hit the far wall, she shrank against it.

“Sylvia?”

No way.

“I was worried when you got sick.” A pause. “That's the worst review ever for one of my wines.”

His pretending she had been taken ill would help her bluff.

She glanced at the antique wall clock. Almost eleven.

“The National Guard ordered an evacuation in Lava Springs. Palisades Pure found the mercury levels up, so I put you in the backseat of the Hummer and drove us to the City.”

Like she was going to believe that excuse. She looked at the clock again, gauging its weight.

Closer to the door, he said, “I've brought you something to eat.”

Drawing a fortifying breath, Sylvia moved as fast as she could. A tug at the wooden clock and a peek behind revealed a wire over a stout nail.

A click from the doorknob.

Sylvia started to pull the clock off the wall. The pendulum weight inside moved and tapped the glass front.

“Sylvia?”

Biting her lip, she tried to hold the clock upright to keep it silent. Very carefully, she moved to stand behind where the door would open. This was going to be now or never.

The doorknob started to turn.

If she attacked him and was wrong, it would be assault. If she wasted time and let him get the upper hand, she might be raped … or worse.

A sliver of light fell across the carpet and widened.

Dammit, he had drugged her. A few sips of wine had knocked on her backside. Out cold so she had no recollection of being brought here.

More light wedged in, revealing she wasn't on the bed.

“Sylvia?” Andre's tone went sharp.

She peered through the crack between the door and jamb and saw he carried no tray or plate of the promised food. One hand reached behind him at waist level, and he drew an ugly snub-nosed pistol from a holster at the small of his back.

Sylvia held her breath, certain he could hear the roaring of her blood. Had she recovered enough to do what she had to?

Andre appeared in profile, frowning and scanning like a movie gangster. The deadly weapon preceded him into the bedroom and tipped the balance.

Sylvia swung the clock high. At the renewed clatter of the pendulum against glass, he started to turn.

With a primal cry, she brought the valuable heirloom down on Andre's head. He gave a grunt, let the pistol fall, and crumpled to the carpet. The clock's bells clanged, a cacophony.

If someone else were here, they'd come running now.

On an adrenaline high, she leaped around the fallen man and kicked his pistol out of reach. His eyes were closed; he was breathing.

Playing possum?

Seconds passed; no one came and Andre remained motionless. The part of her that had permitted such violence urged her to finish the job. To make sure he'd never come after her again.

Yet, as she tried to swallow around the dry patch in her throat, she knew. Even if he had drugged her, she couldn't kill him. Imagine the boldface headline, “Senator's Daughter Murders Prominent Napa Vintner.”

She might not kill him, but she bent to snag the pistol off the floor.

Out on the street, a heavy mist soaked Sylvia's hair and clothes. Trying to get her bearings, she saw, as she had from the French doors, that the town house faced a narrow street on a steep hillside. Across, a streetlight reflected in cobbled pavement. On the opposite side of the curving road, a dense thicket rose.

Gradually, the low-hanging fog obscuring the hilltop swirled and lifted enough to reveal a white column of light reaching to the sky.

It was Coit Tower on Telegraph Hill. Andre's town house was up high on the winding corkscrew road.

Though her place wasn't far, down the hill toward Washington Square with its white-towered cathedral, she couldn't go there. She had no key and if Andre got up and came after her, he would try there first.

She'd find a phone and call Lyle. He'd know what to do.

With one hand on the pistol in her slacks pocket, she kept checking around her. As she spiraled down Telegraph Hill, she considered knocking on a door and telling them who she was. But with all the garage doors closed and no porch lights on, she imagined how readily she would open her door at midnight to a woman claiming to be Sylvia Chatsworth. She'd suspect it was a device to get the door open.

On the other hand, she might be able to talk someone into calling the police.

Before she could choose an entry, footsteps fell into place behind her. What if she hadn't hit Andre as hard as she thought? If he caught her on the street and she screamed, people would probably stay behind their locked doors.

She clutched the gun with no idea whether it was loaded or if it had a safety.

Giving up the idea of stopping, she tried to move faster. It would be easier if she hadn't been drugged. Turning the next corner, she was out of sight of whoever was behind her.

As the rain came down harder, it was like that other night when she'd torn out of Ice and steps had sounded behind her. And it wasn't. She'd had to worry then about losing her reputation, not her life.

Light spilled onto wet pavement from the windows of a small grocery. Sylvia slammed through the door, setting an attached bell to jangling, and smelled curry.

The man behind the counter registered her wild-eyed flight. “What—”

She whirled on him. “Are you alone?”

“My wife …” He glanced toward the rear.

“If somebody comes in looking for me, tell them you didn't see me.”

“I…”

Dripping, Sylvia stumbled down the aisle between shelves of bagged lentils, rice, and jars of chutney. A blue and white cotton curtain hung over the entry to the back of the store.

Ripping it aside, Sylvia rushed into the storeroom. Here the aroma of cinnamon, cardamom, and mint was strong. A pan on a hot plate held bubbling meat stew.

She hadn't eaten at all today except for the small snack at Andre's; saliva flooded her mouth.

A woman in a saffron sari tended the pot. Her deep brown eyes raked over Sylvia's stringy hair and soaking clothes.

“I need help,” Sylvia said as calmly as she could. “I need to use a phone.”

The street door opened on a jangling note. She shrank away from the curtain and looked around for a place to hide. There didn't appear to be a rear exit, and her location would be clear from the wet trail.

Holding her breath, Sylvia listened for Andre to give the proprietor the third degree.

It didn't happen. Seconds passed; she heard the murmur of a transaction, more footsteps, and the bell again.

Still, she didn't dare move. Someone was coming down the aisle.

“Mitra?” called an accented voice. He went on in Hindi or something, then pushed aside the drape. “A man bought cigarettes,” he told Sylvia. “He has gone.”

“She needs to call someone,” Mitra said.

The grocer reached to his belt and extended his cell phone. Sylvia took it, praying Lyle's number was listed.

Lyle was halfway down the second flight of steps below his loft when he thought he heard his phone ring.

To hell with it. Despite the rain, he'd thrown on a jogging suit and was on his way out for a run along the Embarcadero. He'd tried lying down, but sleep had eluded him.

From above, there was a second ring.

Lyle's steps slowed. What if Cliff's detective friend had called with news? Maybe Andre had been picked up with Sylvia.

While he hesitated, the telephone rang again.

He didn't believe in telepathy, but there was something about the way the sound scraped along his nerves.

He turned and took the stairs up two at a time. Key in hand, he fumbled at the lock. In another ring, his answering machine would pick up.

Door open, Lyle pushed through and ran for the cordless unit recharging on the kitchen counter. Halfway there, he heard a click and his voice spoke from the box. “Lyle Thomas here.”

He picked up the handset and thumbed the “talk”

button.

“Lyle?” A tremulous female voice.

His recording plowed on, “Sorry I missed your call…”

“Oh, no,” she sighed.

“Sylvia, I'm here,” he broke in.