The Senator’s Daughter (10 page)

He couldn't bring himself to trash it.

The memory of her in his arms reminded him of the simple comfort of touch. Of how his mother had held him when he was a toddler.

A photo on his credenza showed him and his parents in front of a redwood tree in Yosemite National Park. A fellow tourist had taken it with the disposable camera his mother had bought to document the only vacation they had ever taken Lyle on; there was no money for a real camera. In the picture, Lyle had not begun his growth spurt, so a small blond boy squinted at the lens. His father wore a hat shading his face, making his features indistinguishable, while Maddie held her chin high and smiled. Lyle could still recall the warmth of her hand on his shoulder.

Lyle looked back at Sylvia's image.

Now, both of them were gone.

As Sylvia was replaced by blue screen and a box indicating, “Windows is shutting down,” someone rapped on his half-open office door.

The screen went dark, the hard drive wound down, and Lyle swiveled in his chair.

His mouth dropped open.

Staring at the computer where Sylvia's photo had just winked out was Senator Lawrence Arthur Chatsworth III.

“Lyle Thomas.” Chatsworth's pale blue eyes focused on him. The politician's hand was out.

Striving for composure, Lyle rose and put out his own. Chatsworth's handshake was brief, a quick, correct clasp. It matched the older man's neat blond hair, barely touched by gray, and his well-tailored midnight suit with the jacket buttoned. “We met at Wilson McMillan's house party, a few months back.”

“Certainly, Senator.”

“As you're wondering what the hell I'm doing in your office, I'll be blunt. I assume you've heard Sylvia is missing.”

Lyle nodded, noting District Attorney David Dickerson hovering in the hallway.

“As you were seen kissing my daughter on TV, I wonder if you might have some clue as to her whereabouts.”

“Sir … no, sir.” Whoa, he sounded like a boot camp inductee. He closed his mouth to prevent more denial.

“Have you been seeing Sylvia?”

Lyle couldn't help glancing at his boss, who listened with interest. “Once. When the cameras appeared …”

Chatsworth gave a tight smile. “She planted one on you?”

Thinking of his heated response, Lyle refused to deny it. “I'd say it was mutual.”

“Good.”

Good?

“Let's talk turkey.” The Senator gestured for Lyle to take a seat in his own office.

Lyle pointed in turn to one of his guest chairs.

Both men sat, at the same time. If the stakes weren't so high, Lyle might have laughed.

Dickerson took up a post inside the doorway.

“They didn't say on the news …” Lyle faltered. “Any sign of foul play?”

Waiting for the answer, he controlled his expression. The police must have found his prints all over her place, nice fresh ones. His were on record from having gotten a security clearance.

“Her apartment is clean. Her car is gone.”

Lyle shifted in his chair. “Begging your pardon, sir, but Sylvia's not a minor. Isn't she entitled to get away on her own without saying, ‘Father, may I?'”

“Quite right. She's taken off a number of times in the past, to New York City, Ibiza, the beaches in Mexico. The difference is, we never had any trouble finding out where she was. She either left a message or called in a breezy, ‘screw you, Daddy' sort of way and let me know she was on the go and making her own choices. Right or wrong.”

“So what's different this time? You haven't heard from her?”

“Not a peep. From Monday through Wednesday, her mother tried calling her town house and cell nonstop. On Thursday, I had someone check into her credit cards, and there was no action after a boutique purchase on Sunday.”

Lyle frowned. “When was the last you saw her?”

“I haven't in weeks.” Chatsworth made a tent of his fingers. “I want my daughter found. And you're the man to help me.”

His heart started to drum. “Why me?”

“I think you'll apply yourself to the job with more, shall we say, enthusiasm than the average detective or paid bloodhound.”

“Because of the kiss?”

“Because of the kiss.”

“If I told you seeing Sylvia with those bikers made me lose interest?”

“If I told you what I saw on your computer screen makes me doubt that?”

“I've got a full-time job here.”

“Take some time off.” Shocked, Lyle turned toward David Dickerson and found the DA's chin jutted out.

“Time off? I'm not exactly rolling in dough …”

“Lyle,” the Senator interrupted. “You'll be well compensated.”

“I'll take a personal interest in your cases,” Dickerson offered. Lyle couldn't believe how blatantly the DA was sucking up.

Chatsworth inclined his head. “Fine, Dave. Now if you'll excuse us, I'd like to speak with Lyle privately.”

Dickerson exited with obvious reluctance.

As soon as the door closed, Chatsworth turned a sincere gaze on Lyle. “You'll be paid double what you normally make, and I'll make sure Dave grants you a leave of absence so your benefits and seniority don't lapse. And if you find Sylvia, no matter how you find her …”

Lyle swallowed.

“I'll settle a half-million dollars on you,” the Senator finished. “That's twice what I'm offering on the street.”

The old pride that stemmed from being raised a pauper surfaced. Lyle earned his own way, and twice his salary was already generous. Surging to his feet, he felt his face redden. “That's too much …”

It was his daughter who might have been kidnapped or killed, but Chatsworth chuckled. “It's seems we've established what you are, now we're just haggling price.”

An hour later, Lyle and Cliff Ames sat before tall glasses, rising bubbles reflecting the blue neon of Ice's back bar. The mirror showed Cliff; though also tall, he was lanky as opposed to broad-shouldered like Lyle.

Cliff spoke to Lyle's reflection, his sea green eyes looking aqua in this light. The gold glints in his brown hair testified he didn't wear a hat while golfing. “You up for a round this weekend? Or a trip to the shooting range?”

Lyle shook his head. “I'm going to be too busy.”

“The hell?” Cliff's dark brows knitted. “I've never seen you anything but hot to hit the links or the range.”

Lyle spread his fingers over the wavy surface of the bar top. He took a swallow from his glass, an especially bitter brew from Ireland … an acquired taste.

Suitably fortified, he filled his friend in on what had happened during the past few hours.

“I saw the breaking news,” Cliff said, “but …” He gave a low whistle. “Half a million?”

“I'm not even thinking about the money.”

“Aha.” Cliff's tone spoke volumes. “You're telling me with your mortgage, car note, remodeling, and student loans, you don't care about the money?”

“At the moment, no.”

“I know what's destroyed your ability to reason. I saw the kiss.”

“Leave it.” Lyle spoke sharply.

Cliff set his glass aside and turned on the bar stool to face Lyle. “We've been friends since we traded notes in Business Law at UC. Don't try to tell me you aren't taking Sylvia Chatsworth's disappearance in the worst way.” He paused. “And I'm talking about having one of your major buttons pushed.”

Lyle sighed. Cliff knew all about his mother; it had come out in the early days of their college friendship.

“Okay,” he said evenly. “I know this is gonna sound nuts, but I thought I detected more to Sylvia than her public image suggests.”

Cliff nodded.

“I thought… maybe the nice guy could finish first.”

“All right.” Lyle's buddy put a grip and release on his shoulder. “I'll drop it.”

Cliff's expression clouded. “I know it's going to sound insulting, but with every law-enforcement agency looking for Sylvia, I'm wondering what more you can do.”

“No kidding.”

Lyle shifted in his seat. “You know, the detectives are bound to be showing the video of the bikers around in the Polk Street area, and putting them on TV and the Internet.”

Cliff remained silent with what Lyle liked to call his investigator's instinct. It had served him well with the organized crime strike force.

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.

S
ylvia 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.