"Let's go talk to the fact-checkers," Dylan said to Catherine as Ron continued his conversation. "Irina may have called in to ask them to get background information on the victim."
"Which might bring up your name," Catherine said.
"Hopefully not yet, but I want to know sooner rather than later what the police have. I've been thinking, too, that I've been so caught up in what this means to me that I haven't considered what Erica's death means to Ravino. The case against him could certainly be made weaker without Erica's personal testimony."
"Could that be the point?" Catherine asked, as a new angle suddenly opened up. "Maybe it's not about revenge, but a way for Ravino to get rid of someone who is willing to expose all his secrets."
"It's certainly possible, although Erica already gave her taped conversation with Deborah to the police and made her statement regarding her affair with the senator. The other evidence tying Ravino to the physician who provided the poisoned Botox is much stronger."
"It could still be about revenge on both of you," Catherine put in. "Ravino might have made Erica believe that by helping him nail you, she'd be protecting herself from payback."
"When all the while he was planning to kill her."
"Two birds with one shot."
"Hopefully I can convince the police to look into that angle at some point. Certainly Ravino has more motive than I do for wanting Erica dead."
"Did anyone know that you and Erica had an affair?" Catherine asked.
"It wasn't an affair. It was a one-night stand. But I didn't tell anyone. Erica may have. Who knows?"
"I think she must have, because someone had to believe that Erica could get you to do what she wanted."
"Or Ravino just knew that because I'd worked with Erica before, I would trust her enough to go with her into the woods." Dylan pushed open the door to another office. Two of the four desks were occupied. The room was filled with books, computers, and the usual television monitors across one wall. A man and a woman sat in front of their respective computers. The man had on headphones, his fingers flying over the keys. He didn't bother to look up as they entered the room. The woman, however, was quick to turn around.
"Hello, Dylan," she said, a surprised smile on her face. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in Tahoe."
"I just got back. Julie Bristow, this is my friend Catherine Hilliard. Julie is one of the best fact-checkers in the business, Catherine. She's already saved my ass a few times."
Julie pushed her loose glasses back up her nose. "Dylan thinks flattery will get him anywhere."
Despite the fact that she was addressing Catherine, Julie barely glanced in her direction. The slightly plump brunette with her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail seemed entranced by Dylan. Catherine couldn't help wondering if she'd had the same dazed look on her face when Blake Howard had been talking to her.
"Yes!" the young man suddenly shouted, pumping his fist in the air. He must have realized they were there, because he took off his headphones and turned around. "I finally cracked the code."
"Of his computer game," Julie said with annoyance. "He's supposed to be working."
"Hey, I'm on a break. Chill. What's up, dude?"
"Not much, Ryan. This is my friend Catherine. I'm giving her a tour."
"Friend, huh?" Ryan said with a wink. "Wish I had friends who looked like her."
"That might happen if you got out of the video arcade once in a while."
Catherine wasn't surprised to learn that Ryan was a video game freak. He appeared to be in his early twenties, and with his long hair, an earring in his ear, and a couple of tattoos on each arm, he looked like the kind of guy who would be more at home playing videos than checking facts all day long. "Congratulations on cracking the code," Catherine said.
"Thank you. Thank you. I am the best."
Julie rolled her eyes. "He's hopeless," she said.
"I liven this place up," Ryan replied. "Did you take Catherine to the studio yet?"
"No," Dylan answered. "I heard there was a murder last night in the park. Do you have anything on it yet?"
"Irina called in about ten minutes ago and asked us to do a background check on a woman named Erica Layton," Julie said. "I was just about to get started on it."
Catherine's heart skipped a beat at hearing Erica identified as the victim. She'd known it all along, but now it was definite. The pretty brunette she'd seen in the bar with Dylan just two days ago was no longer breathing. It seemed impossible to believe, even though she'd seen her in her head. She'd still been harboring some secret hope that it was all a bad dream.
"What do you know so far?" Dylan asked.
"Not much," Julie replied.
"Did Irina tell you the cause of death?"
"She didn't say, and I didn't ask. Why are you so interested?"
Dylan gave a casual shrug. "I might want to cover it tomorrow."
"You think you're going to take the story away from Irina?" Ryan asked in amazement. "What have you been smoking, dude?"
"Good point," Dylan conceded. "Irina is very territorial," he explained to Catherine. "She doesn't like to share her stories."
"Neither do you," Julie said pointedly. "So what's up?"
"Nothing. Just curious."
"Do you want me to call you later if I find out anything?" Julie asked.
"That would be great."
"No problem. I won't mention it to Irina either," Julie added with a small smile.
"You're a peach. Thanks."
"It was nice to meet you," Catherine said. Ryan nodded and returned to his game. Something fluttered in Julie's eyes, something she quickly tried to hide as she said good-bye and turned back to her computer.
"She likes you," Catherine said as they left the room.
"Who? Julie? I don't think so."
"Oh, come on, Dylan. She couldn't take her eyes off you."
"She's nice, but I don't date my coworkers. Everyone here knows that."
"Knowing you can't have someone doesn't necessarily stop you from wanting them. Didn't you see the way she looked at you?"
"She's just one of those people who stares a lot," he said. "Maybe her vision isn't good; I don't know. She always has those thick glasses on."
"I don't think her eyesight is why she stares." Catherine fell silent as they headed toward Dylan's cubicle. "There are a lot of emotions in this building," she said a moment later. "They're swirling around—anger, jealousy, competitiveness, passion. I can sense them all. It's like a dark, thick cloud. I feel a little short of breath."
Dylan paused, his eyes narrowing. "Are you getting another vision?"
"Not a vision, but goose bumps," she said, holding out her arms to show him.
"TV news is a ruthless business. The stories that come through here can be horrific. Maybe that's what you're picking up on. We're almost done here." He entered his cubicle and immediately began rifling through the drawers. A moment later he pulled out a manila envelope. "Here it is." Opening the envelope, he dumped two tapes onto the desk. "They're still safe. Finally, a break." He put the tapes back into the envelope, then stopped. "What's this?" he muttered, picking up a CD case. "Looks like someone left me a present."
Catherine's nerves began to tighten as Dylan turned on his computer. "Maybe you shouldn't put that in."
"Someone wants me to see whatever is on this CD. And I'm going to look."
"It could be part of the plan. It could be booby-trapped."
His gaze darkened. "It's just a disc. It's not an explosive device. And it could be about one of the other stories I've been working on."
She doubted that, but there was no stopping Dylan.
He slipped the disc into the drive, and a moment later a video began to play. She moved in closer, not sure what they were looking at.
"It's the Metro Club," Dylan said. "I think this is a video from the security camera in the back room of the club."
They watched for several moments. Erica came into view holding two martini glasses. She moved across the room and set them down at a table where two men
were in deep conversation.
Dylan sucked in a breath. "Oh, my God."
"Who are they?" she asked.
"That's Ravino on the left," he said, his voice rough. "And the other man is my father."
Chapter 12
Catherine couldn't believe Dylan's words. She squinted at the screen, taking a better look at the men. Ravino was a blond-haired man in his forties. He was lean, and his face was long and angular. Dylan's father's face was square, his shoulders broad like a football player's, his jaw strong and determined. Whatever they were talking about had brought tension to both of their expressions. Then Erica said something, and the men smiled. Ravino got up and followed Erica across the room. They stopped to speak to another man, who had his back to the camera, and then someone walked in front of the group, blocking them all from view.
"Damn," Dylan swore as the video went blank.
"Who was that?" Catherine asked.
"I don't know."
"Play it again."
They watched in silence as the video replayed. When they came to the last bit Dylan hit pause. "That ring looks familiar. Where have I seen that before?" He pointed to the ring on the finger of the man who now had his hand on Erica's back.
Unfortunately he couldn't see anything more than that hand, as someone in the forefront blocked the view. Dylan pressed play again, and the video shut off in exactly the same spot. Dylan played the video three more times, tapping his fingers impatiently on his desk with each run-through. Catherine could see the frustration in his face as he tried to identify other people in the video, but the only one besides Ravino whom he recognized for sure was his father.
She didn't know what it meant, but too many things pointed to Dylan's father to be ignored. The fact that she'd been drawn to the wedding photo at his grand-mother's house—even the fact that they were at his grandmother's house—seemed as if it were meant to be. But would Dylan's own father want to see his son put in jail? Given what she knew about the man—his pride, his big reputation—why would he want to risk that to hurt Dylan? Or was his dislike so intense, so strong, that he'd jeopardize it all to send Dylan to jail?
"Why does he hate you so much?" she asked. "You can't tell me you haven't wondered over the years where so much of his animosity comes from."
Dylan hesitated, then shrugged. "I came up with dozens of reasons, but who knows the truth? My father is a perfectionist, a control freak. He couldn't stand a messy room, a spilled cup, any kind of chaos, and I was the kid who always came home with dirt on my shoes and a rip in my clothes. It made him crazy, and Jake was better at following the rules than I was. My father used to say that if I weren't such a stupid fool, he wouldn't have to continually teach me a lesson."
Catherine was sorry she'd asked, seeing the pain in Dylan's eyes. She knew there was never a good reason for abuse, and most abusers justified their actions by claiming it was the victim's fault. Obviously Richard Sanders had done just that. She shivered as Dylan's fa-ther's image flashed through her mind again. His features had become indelibly imprinted on her brain, and what she saw was a cold, hard, ruthless man.
"You were right, Catherine. I shouldn't have dismissed my father as a suspect so quickly. I sure would like to know who left me this CD," Dylan said. "Is this supposed to help me? To point me in my father's or someone else's direction?"
She wished she could give him the answers he wanted, but she'd never felt more at a loss for words. Slowly she shook her head. "I don't know, Dylan."
He blew out a breath and threw back his shoulders. "Well, there's only one thing to do." He ejected the disc and slipped it back into the case.
She was almost afraid to ask. "What's that?"
"Talk to my father."
* * *
The tape of Ravino and his dad played around and around in Dylan's head as he drove across town to his father's house. He could see the two men hunched over the small table, deep in conversation, and then the way they'd both smiled up at Erica. His father had known Erica, too. Had he also had an affair with her? The thought made him sick to his stomach—that he and his father might have slept with the same woman . . . He was tempted to pull over and throw up, the way Catherine had done the night before. But he didn't have time to be sick. He needed to think. He had to figure out what was going on.
The idea that his father could be involved in his current troubles was mind-blowing, although he had to admit that ever since he'd woken up in the Tahoe woods he'd had the feeling that this particular payback was very personal. His father had hated him forever. The question wasn't really why would he do this, but why wouldn't he? And if he knew Ravino and Erica . . . hell, the three of them could have been in on it together.
But why had someone left him the video? And when had the meeting between his father and Ravino actually occurred—before or after Ravino had killed his wife? He had so many questions. But at least now he had someone else to ask. His father was probably home on a Sunday, in the house Dylan had grown up in. It wasn't where he would have chosen to have a meeting; just going into that house made Dylan feel like a vulnerable kid again. But he reminded himself that he was anything but that. And the only way to win was to take back control of the game.
"You might want to slow down," Catherine suggested as he took a turn on what felt like two wheels. "The last thing we need is to get stopped by the cops for speeding."
He eased his foot off the gas, wondering how his crazy, psychic partner had become the voice of reason, when he'd usually prided himself on acting on facts rather than emotion.
"Do you know what you want to say to your dad?" Catherine asked.
"I'm going to ask him if he's setting me up."
"That's one way to go," she said dryly. "Or you could be more subtle. If you put your father on the defensive right away he won't tell you anything. Why not go in with the question of how he knows Ravino—or Erica? Tell him you saw a video of them together at the Metro Club. That might get him talking about Ravino."
"It's not a bad idea," he said somewhat grudgingly. "But you don't know my father. No matter what I say to him, the conversation will go ballistic within thirty seconds. We've never been able to have a discussion that didn't end in an argument." He glanced over at her. "With Ravino in jail, I knew we needed to link Erica to someone else. I sure as hell didn't think it would be my father."
"Or the link could be any one of the other dozen people who were in the room that night. The video lasted for several minutes," she continued. "Erica and Ravino talked to other people, including that man with the ring that looked familiar to you. Maybe your father wasn't meant to be the focal point of that video."
"Of course he was. Otherwise no one would have given me that disc. They wanted me to see that Ravino and my father knew each other." Dylan stopped at a red light, hitting the steering wheel in frustration. "What makes me crazy is wondering whether going to my father is exactly what they want. I feel like a puppet.
Someone else is pulling the strings, and I just keep dancing to their tune."
"That's a good point. Maybe we shouldn't show up on your father's doorstep."
"I have to. I need to know one way or the other if my father is the puppet master. You'd better come in with me. I might need a witness—or someone to stop me from killing him."
"I'm more worried about someone trying to kill you. Erica is dead, Dylan. You could be next on the list. And if your father hates you . . ."
"That's why I want to take him by surprise. He's not going to shoot me in his own home. Not with his girlfriend around, or his housekeeper."
"I hope you're right."
Dylan turned off the busy commercial streets, driving through a neighborhood of tall, stately homes and mansions. He pulled up in front of a two-story Mediterranean-style villa with an ornate iron fence surrounding the property. He'd often felt like a prisoner behind that fence, and it took everything he had to park the car and turn off the engine. He'd been there only once in the past few years, and the last time was to swipe his father's Metro Club card. He'd deliberately gone at a time when his father would be at work. The housekeeper, Mrs. Rogers, who'd always had a soft spot for him, had let him in on the pretense that he wanted to get some old photos of Jake and himself for the wedding.
His father had probably figured out by now that he'd used his membership to get into the club, and it was possible Mrs. Rogers wouldn't let him in the door. But he had to try. He had to confront his father. And he gave himself a mental kick in the ass for even hesitating. There was nothing Richard Sanders could do to hurt him now. They were both grown men. His father no longer had a physical advantage.
"Beautiful houses often hide ugly secrets, don't they?" Catherine murmured.
"Yes, they do. I want to do this, but . . ."
"I know," she said, an understanding gleam in her eye. "It won't be easy. But you're good at the tough stuff, Dylan. You can do it."
"I don't suppose you have any insight as to what will happen inside?"
"Sorry. I guess we'll both find out at the same time."
"Which is now," he said decisively. "Let's go before I change my mind."
* * *
"I've never been very good at meeting the parents," Catherine said as they got out of the car and paused on the sidewalk. "I never know what to say, how to impress them. And what I do say usually comes out wrong and stupid, and I embarrass myself."
"This isn't that kind of meeting, Catherine."
"Are you good at meeting the parents?"
"I don't meet parents. In fact, I don't usually ask if the woman I'm with has parents."
"Really? That's the first question I ask a guy. I guess I always thought one day I'd meet a man with a wonderful family, and they'd become my family, and everything would be good again." She cast him a curious look. "You never thought that way? Never wanted to replace your bad experience with a positive one?"
"Too big a risk that the next experience would turn out just as bad." Dylan started down the path, moving more quickly with each step. She sensed he was gathering strength for the confrontation ahead.
Dylan rang the bell, which pealed loudly through the house. A moment later an older woman opened the front door. She wore black slacks and a white button-down blouse, and her hair was sprinkled with gray. Her dark eyes filled with surprise when she saw Dylan. "Oh, my goodness. What are you doing here?"
"Hello, Mrs. Rogers," Dylan said. "Is my father home?"
"Yes, but he won't want to see you. You have to go." The woman cast a quick look over her shoulder. "He's still upset that you snuck in here a few weeks ago and used his membership card for the Metro Club. He almost fired me for letting you in. I need this job, Dylan. I'm too old to get another one. And your father, for all his faults, pays me well."
"Don't worry. I'll tell him you tried to keep me out." Dylan pushed past the housekeeper. "Where is he? In the den?"
Catherine followed Dylan into the entryway, offering the housekeeper an apologetic smile, but the woman's anxiety was palpable. She twisted her hands together in agitation. "Dylan, this isn't a good time. Your father has been very stressed lately. He's been working long hours, getting telephone calls even after he comes home, holding late-night meetings. It's a busy time for him."
"Why? What's he working on?"
"I don't know. His business."
"Does Senator Ravino ever call here?'
"What the hell is going on?" Dylan's father demanded as he stomped into the entryway, interrupting their conversation.
Even though she'd seen him in the video, Catherine wasn't prepared for the size of the man. He was tall and broad-shouldered and wore a gray cashmere sweater over a pair of black trousers. There was a dark fire of rage in his eyes when his gaze settled on his youngest son. He didn't even glance in Catherine's direction. She felt almost invisible as the energy centered on the two men. Mrs. Rogers slid out of the room, obviously not wanting to be part of the conversation.
Dylan straightened, but he was still a few inches shorter and many pounds lighter than his father. He raised his chin in the air, threw back his shoulders, and said, "I want to know what your connection is to Joseph Ravino."
"That's none of your business," his father replied sharply. "Now get out."
Dylan stood his ground. "Not until you answer my question. I saw a video that shows the two of you together at the Metro Club. You were in an intense conversation."
"We're both members of the club; there's no crime in that. Or are you trying to frame me like you did Ravino?"
Catherine watched Dylan's father, hoping to catch some sign in his expression that would tell her if he was speaking the truth, if he really thought Dylan had set up the senator. But Richard Sanders was impossible to read, his emotions hidden behind a very cold facade.
"I didn't frame him. Ravino killed his wife. I just helped the police figure it out."
"You think you're some big man now?" Richard challenged. "You're not. You're a worthless piece of shit, and you always have been. Now leave, or I'll call the police and have you thrown out."
"I'll go when I'm ready. Do you know Erica Layton? And I'd suggest you think about your answer before you give it."
Something flickered in the older man's eyes, Catherine thought. Mr. Sanders did know Erica. But how close was their relationship? Did that flash of guilt have to do with Erica's death or something else?
"Erica Layton worked at the Metro Club," Dylan added. "She was a hostess in the back room."
"I know that," Dylan's father replied. "So what?"
"She had an affair with the senator. She revealed his motive for murdering his wife. And now she's . . . disappeared."
"Why should I care? She's nothing to me."
Before Dylan could reply, a very attractive woman came down the stairs. She was dressed in white cropped pants and a button-down pink blouse, her blond hair styled away from her face. His father's girlfriend, Catherine presumed. The woman appeared to be a good fifteen years younger than Richard. She had a cool, classic beauty, the perfect accessory for a rich and successful man. But perhaps Catherine wasn't giving them enough credit. Maybe they actually cared for each other, although it was hard to believe that the hard man standing in front of her was capable of caring for anyone.