The Senator’s Daughter (35 page)

He didn't have an answer, so he tried a different tack. “I don't want you staying with Andre. The man looks at you like a cat watching a canary. He thinks you're a servant he can dazzle with money and have his way with.”

“You're jealous.”

“Damned right I am.” By now she ought to know he wanted her for himself.

A scowl took over her lovely features. “You're saying you don't trust me?”

“I do. I just …”

He saw on her face the old defiance. In addition, he saw doubt, as though she feared Lyle believed the version of her the paparazzi had invented.

She started to turn away.

“Sylvia.” His voice was low, urgent. “We have to trust each other after …” After making love to her had been the defining experience of his adult life. He didn't say it because a couple of women in scrubs came out carrying cigarettes and lighters and made themselves comfortable leaning against the wall within earshot.

For the length of a lingering gaze, last night hung between them. Then Sylvia gave a tight nod. “You need to go.”

“If I can't get away sooner, I'll come up Friday afternoon,” he said to her retreating back.

Though the doors, he saw Andre waiting for her.

O
n the way back to San Francisco, Lyle drove into a chilly rain. What a day for a Pacific front. What little was left of the inn would be a sodden mess.

As he drew closer to the City, he beat himself up over not giving Sylvia his cell number. This evening he would phone Villa Valetti, but after business hours he would probably get a recording. The vintner's personal phone was no doubt unlisted, and if not, Lyle wouldn't put it past Andre to say Sylvia wasn't there when she was.

How could Lyle have been so stupid as to let his jealousy be obvious and upset her? He'd hated to leave her with that creep.

Instead of calling this evening, he would drive back up to the hospital after work. Try again to talk her into coming back with him.

By nine thirty he had showered and changed into a gray suit, tailored shirt, and tie, and parked beneath the I-80 ramp. Feeling odd dressed up, though it had only been a few weeks, he fast-walked between the raindrops over to the Hall of Justice entry and passed through security.

Since getting Dickerson's imperial summons, he'd been too focused on Sylvia and Andre to wonder much about why he'd been called back. Now, he figured something must have broken on one of his cases, and they had a court date. He needed to brief whoever was taking it.

A week ago he would have pounded the table and insisted he get back to work, at least part time, entreated the Senator to realize he wasn't going to find his daughter. Now, all he wanted was to get whatever it was over with and get back to Sylvia.

He reached his office.

The door was closed. Though the cleaning folks shut them all each evening, it gave him a hollow feeling.

Lyle turned the knob and pushed. His files, normally littering every flat surface, including some on the floor, were gone. The desk and credenza were dustless.

Feeling as though he'd checked his back pocket and found his wallet gone, he went in. He closed the door behind him so no one would come in to glad-hand him.

Seated at his desk, palms flat on the laminate finish—Dickerson had mahogany—Lyle envisioned his piling system, with stacks applying to each case on the desk or floor Of course, he should have expected some urgent case files would be in other peoples' offices, but not all of his projects would have required oversight during his absence.

Lyle pulled open the knee-level drawer to his left. His personal files were in place, an out-of-date résumé, some unpaid remodeling invoices from his loft, his past performance reviews—all superior. He'd never thought about securing his desk and cabinets; now he felt vulnerable about leaving this stuff unlocked.

He turned to the right side where he kept his colder case files.

Empty.

He slapped the desktop. It stung.

He swiveled his chair and opened drawers on his credenza.

Empty. Empty. Empty.

At a dead end, he used his office phone to let Lara know he was in.

“I'll call you when Mr. Dickerson wants you,” she replied.

Lyle drummed his fingers and looked around. Even without hard copy, almost everything was on his computer. He turned to look at it, resting on a separate stand facing the window, and all thought of his prosecution work went out of his head.

Dickerson would tell him soon enough what was up. Right now, he could take some time to check more thoroughly whether Tony Valetti had additional investors in the Quenton deal. The DA's office had several subscription databases Lyle could only dream about having on his personal laptop.

He rolled his chair over and started booting up. It was raining harder, rivulets chasing one another down the window.

Someone knocked. Lyle didn't answer.

It seemed like forever until his screen saver came up. The young Sylvia looked out at him; now that he knew her intimately, he could see she'd matured in the way she regarded the world. Just seeing her photo made his chest hurt.

Another knock.

“Later,” Lyle called. Whomever it was seemed to give up. Not Dickerson then.

He brought up his computer file structure. There were his e-mail folders; notes to his remodeling contractor, banker, and broker … at least these were password protected.

He moved the cursor to the folder marked “DA.” When he'd named it, he'd dreamed of walking in those shoes. Within it, the subfolders came up in alphabetical order. Scanning down, he searched for the “V”s.

There, where “Valetti” should be, he saw “Titus” sitting above “Williams.”

For a moment, Lyle sat motionless, watching a trapdoor open beneath his feet. How could anyone have invaded the network of the San Francisco district attorney's office?

Unless the Valettis were that kind of Italian family.

Pulse pounding, Lyle shoved to his feet. Across the room, he tore open the door. Down the hall, he rushed past Lara, who sputtered, “Lyle … he'll call you when …”

He knew he should slow down, think through what to say, but he opened David Dickerson's door and strode in.

His boss was on the phone, facing the windows. “… All right, Valetti… That you, Lara?”

“No, it's not.” Lyle spoke in as even a tone as he could muster.

Dickerson swiveled his chair. “I'll talk to you later,” he told the phone, and set it into its cradle.

“Andre Valetti?”

Dickerson blinked. For a moment, Lyle thought he wasn't going to answer. “Andre and I play golf occasionally.”

“My computer files on Tony Valetti's disappearance have been erased.”

Poker-faced, Dickerson pointed to a chair opposite. “Have a seat and calm down.”

“Calm down? Not only are confidential files missing from this office, which shouldn't happen … last night I was almost killed.”

Dickerson looked startled. “What?”

“I was staying at the Lava Springs Inn in the northern Napa Valley … tracking down a lead on Sylvia Chatsworth …” He didn't say he'd found her. “Yesterday evening at dusk, I saw Andre skulking around the hot springs where I was bathing. In the middle of the night, an arsonist torched the inn. I barely escaped, and the innkeeper is in the hospital.”

“Are you suggesting Valetti did it?”

“The fire was hours later, but …” Was he prepared to go that far when talking to the DA? Did his dislike of the vintner make him a potential killer? Had Andre's warning Lyle off meant he would use deadly force?

Dickerson scowled. “You say you were at the inn chasing a lead on Sylvia Chatsworth. Andre told me you were there, poking around, asking prying questions about the death of Esther Quenton that was settled as accidental, throwing wild accusations. Like thinking someone tried to kill you.”

Lyle's blood beat in his ears.

“Andre told me about the fire, just now. His version is the target was Sylvia Chatsworth, who was saved because she was sleeping in your room.”

Whoa. Andre had never indicated he knew who Sylvia was. Had someone told the Senator that Lyle was with her?

Dickerson went on, “For falsely acting under the authority of the San Francisco district attorney, I'm afraid you need to clean out your desk.”

Lyle came to his feet. “It looks like somebody did most of that for me.”

The DA stabbed a finger at Lyle. “I've never liked your ‘Mr. Too-Good' attitude. Well, it makes me feel good to tell you you're fired.”

A
fter Lyle left, Andre Valetti's wealth immediately began smoothing the way for Sylvia, Buck, and Mary. Around nine o'clock he took her to a department store, where he bought new clothes for the three of them, she guessing at the innkeepers' sizes. Sylvia emerged from the dressing room wearing black slacks and a woven silk sweater in her favorite true red. She also had new lingerie and a pair of slim black leather flats.

Back at the hospital, Andre suggested to Buck if money was an issue, he'd be happy to buy the forty acres surrounding the inn, leaving just a lot to rebuild on. The innkeeper said he'd discuss it with Mary.

When she was about to be moved from the ER to a hospital room for what they termed “several days” of observation, Andre arranged for a private nurse instead. By ten thirty, the home-health-care folks had agreed to drive Buck and Mary up the valley to his villa, while Andre insisted Sylvia ride with him in his Hummer.

“One of fifteen vehicles I own,” he explained, steering them expertly toward the upper valley.

Sylvia dutifully asked about the others.

While he spoke of a Shelby Cobra, Lotus Europa, vintage Mustang, Lincoln Navigator, and the same model Jaguar she drove … used to drive … she zoned out. Buzzing from lack of sleep and exhausted from the adrenaline burnout of last night's narrow escape, she continued to worry about Mary and Buck.

And she wished Lyle's boss hadn't called him back to work. Sure, she was upset with him for not trusting her with Andre, but just thinking of him brought back the feeling of completeness she'd found in his arms.

At eleven by the dash clock, Andre turned the Hummer onto Tubbs Lane in Calistoga. He drove past the hill that concealed the cellars of Chateau Montelena Winery. “I need to make a stop up ahead.”

At a discreet blue and white sign for “Palisades Pure Water,” he pulled into the drive. A Quonset hut housed the bottling plant; a set of garage doors stood open at the end. Inside, wooden pallets piled with bottles of water awaited distribution. At the opposite end of the building, a silver tanker truck discharged a load of spring water into a tall metal tank.

A stocky white-haired man in gray coveralls came toward them. Andre got out, and they shook hands. He motioned for Sylvia to join them, and she did, slowly, once more risking recognition.

“Frank Fiamma, Sylvia Cabot.” Andre put a hand on her shoulder.

Sylvia stepped away and shook hands with the bottler. She didn't tell him his tanker truck had run her off the highway.

“What brings you by today, Andre?”

“Wondering how the Lava Springs water looks after the quake.”

“We're just analyzing samples.” Fiamma frowned. “Heard Buck Kline's place burned last night. Hell of a note.”

Sylvia didn't say she had nearly been killed.

“A terrible thing.” Andre looked grave. “I came by because Buck said we'd better check the water carefully … the springs started surging and got hotter after that earthquake.”

“They did?” Fiamma looked up toward the mountains, then glanced back west toward neighboring Old Faithful Geyser, whose faithlessness had warned of the quake.

Then he led the way into the Quonset hut, through an office, and into a bright room lit with fluorescent lights. The countertops were covered with sample bottles filled with water. Each was labeled with masking tape and a mark of the day's date.

At the end of one of the counters sat a black plastic box. The lid was closed, but by the label of Eco-osmotics, Sylvia surmised it was the type of apparatus she and Lyle had been curious about in Andre's lab.

“Mr. Fiamma.” She stopped beside it. “Can you tell me what this is?”

Though intent on their mission to check the water analysis, he paused politely.

Andre broke in. “Why would a pretty girl like you want to clutter up her head with science?”

Sylvia shot him a death-ray look and immediately toned it down for Fiamma. “I guess I'm just curious about anything in a black box. It's such a cliché.” She laughed at her own performance. “So, Mr. Fiamma …?”

He lifted the lid, and she saw the same interior as before. “You fill a bottle with a chemical solution and set it up here.” He pointed to the rack where there had been an upside-down bottle in Andre's device. “This osmotic membrane …” he indicated the mesh disk, “releases the liquid at whatever rate you set.” He finished by showing her the timer, like something for a sprinkler system or for turning on a lamp while on vacation.

Sylvia wondered why she'd bothered. It was just science stuff.

In a glass booth at the rear of the lab, a woman with long brown hair sat with her back to them on a high stool in front of a larger, more impressive piece of machinery. Sylvia watched her place a strawlike tube into a sample bottle.

The machine drew water through the tube and aspirated it in a burner with a glowing yellow-orange flame. The sound of the liquid flowing through the fire was a sharp hiss.

In answer to Sylvia's raised brow, Fiamma replied, “This is the atomic absorption spectrophotometer that detects concentrations in the range of parts per billion.”

“I mentioned it the other day,” Andre told Sylvia.

“Right now Sarah is running the chromium analysis,” Fiamma went on.