Silent Fall

by Barbara Freethy

  "Very impressive," Catherine said. "Since Deborah wasn't in Mexico, then her husband was the one who brought the poison home."

  "But that still wasn't enough, because the senator claimed his wife simply asked him to pick up the discounted medication. Unfortunately for him, I discovered a money trail that revealed that the senator had paid the Mexican physician five times the going rate. I also located a female friend of Deborah's who was willing to testify that there was no way Deborah would have used any medication from Mexico, because a friend of theirs had almost died from a diet pill obtained from the same doctor."

  "And is that where the senator got his idea?" Catherine asked.

  Dylan nodded. "That's my guess."

  "It's a pretty good way to kill your wife, because even with all your evidence, it wouldn't be easy to prove beyond a reasonable doubt."

  "I agree. It's not a slam dunk, but when you lay everything out the picture is pretty clear as to what happened. Whether or not the DA can get a conviction is still to be determined."

  "It certainly sounds like the senator has a good reason to hate you, since he was getting away with murder before you got involved. If he killed his wife, then he probably wouldn't hesitate to kill again. But wouldn't he hate Erica just as much as you—if not more? She betrayed him as well. Why would he use her to set you up? Why wouldn't he set you both up?"

  Catherine made a good point. It was something he'd been thinking about as well.

  "Maybe that's what he did," Catherine mused, continuing. "Perhaps Erica thought she was setting you up, but in actuality . . ."

  "Ravino was setting her up, too," Dylan finished. "If that's the case, then Erica could be . . . in danger." He couldn't bring himself to use the word dead. He hoped to God she was still alive, but he couldn't deny that the facts were leading in the other direction. And if that was the case, it was his fault. He was the one who'd found her, who'd made her talk, who'd told her she'd be safer going to the police with her tape than keeping her mouth shut.

  "Dylan, don't go there," Catherine said. "You're not to blame."

  "Shit," he swore in annoyance. "Are you reading my mind now?"

  "I'm reading your expression. It's obvious you're starting to feel guilty. But you should at least wait until you have your precious facts and see what they add up to."

  "Unfortunately, I don't have very many facts," he grumbled.

  She paused, tipping her head toward his computer. "What are you looking for now?"

  "I'm not sure. First I'd just like to see if anyone has been on my computer or opened any of my files. That might lead me in a specific direction. I also want to refresh my memory on what I know about Erica. If she's still alive and on the run, I need to figure out where she might hide."

  "If she was meant to disappear and make it look like murder, she'd have to go far," Catherine said. "She'd have to vanish in a very complete way, no contact with her friends, no use of her credit cards, no trips to her apartment. She would have had to plan her next stop after this before she ever came here."

  Catherine's reasoning was right on the money. She wasn't just a quirky psychic painter with a smoking-hot body; she also had a very good brain. And she seemed to understand how people thought. Smart, pretty, and mysterious—a dangerous combination.

  "You're going to have to think like Erica," Catherine continued. "Where would you go if you were in her shoes?"

  "Probably some remote island in the South Pacific."

  Catherine smiled. "That sounds good to me, too."

  He grinned back at her. "A few rum drinks with umbrellas in 'em and I could hide out for a while. I'm sure whoever convinced Erica to participate in this plot persuaded her that she could lead a very luxurious life with enough money to make her happy, and all she had to do was put something in my drink and take me into the woods. Easy as pie."

  "Then the double cross," Catherine said. "I would have expected that."

  "You're smarter than Erica, but to be fair, we don't know that she didn't anticipate the double cross."

  "What I felt at her cabin was surprise. Something unexpected happened last night. Someone showed up at her door who wasn't part of the plan."

  Catherine's analysis made sense, but he still didn't have any hard facts to back up her theory.

  Catherine shook her head, her gaze meeting his. "You're such a skeptic, Dylan. Haven't you ever had an intuition about something, an instinct that you couldn't explain, but it came true?"

  "I suppose," he conceded. "Don't take it personally. It's just the way I am." He turned toward his computer, then paused. "Before I do anything else, I want to call Erica."

  "Why? She's not going to answer, and won't that raise even more suspicion when the cops get her telephone records, which they might do if she stays missing?"

  "Exactly why I should call. I can argue that why would I try to contact her if I knew she was dead?" As he'd expected, Erica's voice mail picked up. He waited for the beep and then said, "Erica, it's Dylan. Hope you're all right. Call me back, would you? I'm very worried about you, and I want to know why you drugged me and left me in the woods."

  "You're pretty clever," Catherine commented.

  "I've spent a fair amount of time on criminal cases the past year. I've picked up a few things. You seem to know a lot about the police as well, for a woman who lives a quiet life in a seaside town," he said pointedly, knowing there was far more to her past than she'd revealed.

  "It's no secret that I grew up in foster care and on the streets. I'm not naive when it comes to law enforcement. Like you, I've picked up a few tricks over the years. What about Erica's work? Her colleagues might know where she would stay if she wasn't at home."

  "I'll call them tomorrow. Her modeling agency won't be open on a Sunday, and she hasn't worked at the Metro Club since the Ravino case broke."

  "What about Erica's friends?" Catherine asked as she got to her feet. "Do you know any of them?"

  "No."

  "Family?"

  "We talked mostly about Ravino."

  "When you talked," she said dryly.

  "I'm not going to try to pretty up my one-night stand, Catherine," he said bluntly. "It was what it was."

  "At least you're honest about it," she said with a sigh. "Most men pretend they have deeper intentions when they don't."

  "Are you speaking from experience?"

  "Perhaps."

  "You don't seem the type to have had many casual affairs."

  "What type is that?" she asked.

  "The easy-come, easy-go kind of woman. Nothing is easy about you, as far as I can tell."

  "You don't know me very well."

  She was right. He didn't know her, but he wanted to. She was different from anyone he'd ever met, and he was a sucker for secrets. Finding the truth was the driving mantra of his life. He couldn't walk past a mystery without trying to solve it, and Catherine was definitely a puzzle to him.

  "Actually," she added, interrupting his thoughts, "I think sex can be easy. It's intimacy that's much more difficult. You can give away your body, disconnect— but your heart, your mind, that's a whole different thing."

  "I wouldn't have thought you'd want one without the other—sex without love, love without intimacy. You have so much . . . You're so . . ." He couldn't find the right words to describe her.

  "I have so much what?" she asked, curious.

  "Passion. Intensity. Depth. You're emotional. You're sensitive."

  "That's why intimacy is more difficult. It takes a lot out of me. It opens me up and makes me vulnerable," she confessed. "And the intensity I have . . . it scares people. No one really wants to see the future, not even when they think they do. You'll be scared one day, too, and you'll leave, and you'll hope to God you never see me again."

  "You've already scared me, and I'm still here," he reminded her.

  "For the moment. It will get worse, especially when you start to believe in me, which you haven't done yet."

  She was right.
He still didn't trust her sixth sense, so to speak, but he doubted that would ever happen. "Why are you trying to warn me away?"

  "Because you and I . . . we shouldn't get involved." She paused, biting down on her bottom lip, her deep blue gaze fixed on his. "Even if we . . ."

  "Even if we what?" he asked, unsettled by the way she was looking at him now—not like a psychic but like a woman, a woman who wanted him. His body hardened as his mind immediately stripped off her clothes. She would not appreciate that he was now imagining her naked, her beautiful breasts filling his hands. Or maybe she already knew what he was thinking. There was knowledge in her eyes, as well as desire.

  "Even if we have an attraction. I feel the pull between us," she said simply. "Don't you?"

  "Uh, yeah, sure." He cleared his throat. "Are you saying you want to have sex with me?" His body began to sing with anticipation.

  She hesitated and then said, "Maybe I do. But not now." She turned quickly and headed toward the door.

  "Hey, where are you going? We're in the middle of something, in case you hadn't noticed."

  "I'm going for a walk before I do something I regret."

  "You wouldn't regret it," he told her.

  She smiled. "You're not short on confidence, are you?"

  "We'd be good together. Just remember you're the one who ran away, not me. I'm not scared of you."

  "Not yet," she murmured before slipping out the door.

  Dylan let out a breath as she left the room, feeling frustrated and yet a little relieved that she was gone. He was attracted to her. What man wouldn't be? But, dammit, no matter what he'd told her, the truth was that she did scare him. He liked casual relationships, fun in the sack, nobody saying, Good bye, or love you, or Don't leave me. He couldn't give a woman anything more than a good time. And he'd never pretended otherwise.

  Intimacy was almost impossible for him. The only person he'd ever cared about was Jake. He'd tried to love his father, but he'd had the love beaten out of him. And his mother . . . well, she hadn't stuck around long enough for anyone to love her. He was just like her, he thought. At least, that was what his father had told him over the years, so much so that he'd come to believe it.

  He rolled his head on his shoulders, hearing his joints crack from the tension. He was tired, but there was no time to rest. He had to find Erica. He had to get himself out of this mess before it got worse. But as he focused on his computer he knew that he was in quicksand and sinking fast. He just hoped Catherine hadn't gone far. He suspected he was going to need her help to get out.

  * * *

  Catherine had intended to settle herself in one of the chairs on the outside deck overlooking the lake, but once she got there she was too restless to sit. Bypassing the deck she headed toward the path, the one Dylan had taken with Erica the night before. Maybe she could pick up on something if she followed the same trail.

  As she walked, she mentally retraced her conversation with Dylan. She certainly hadn't meant to tell him she wanted to have sex with him. She had a tendency to blurt out her thoughts without editing them first, and this had definitely been one of those times. And her words had been like throwing a red flag in front of a bull. If she hadn't left the room, she and Dylan would probably be rolling around in the sheets right now. That thought gave her libido a nice little jolt.

  Despite the fact that she'd told Dylan she thought sex was easy, she knew that sex with Dylan would be anything but easy. He would ask too much of her. He

  would demand more than she wanted to give.

  So she would keep her distance—until she couldn't.

  Continuing down the path, she focused her mind on Erica. She'd barely looked at her the night before, but the woman's image was ingrained in her brain. Why had Erica lured Dylan out to these woods? Had she wanted to get him away from the lodge so she could fake her disappearance? Her public appearance in the bar had certainly set the stage for everyone to see her leaving with Dylan.

  When the concrete walkway ended, Catherine continued into the woods. Dylan said they'd walked a fair distance from the lodge, so she would keep going, see what else was out here. The lodge and adjacent cabins were the only buildings on the hillside for at least a mile or two in either direction. Part of the appeal lay in the rustic nature of the location. The isolation had certainly made it easier for Erica to get Dylan into an area where no one would see what was going on. Perhaps that was why she hadn't gone to him in San Francisco and instead had waited for the opportunity to get him away from his home turf.

  As she hiked Catherine began to grow warm, and she pushed the sleeves of her sweater up to her elbows. The noonday sun was beaming down through the trees. It was a pretty day, the kind of day when summer seemed around the corner, a day when only good things should happen. But as she moved farther into the thick forest, she began to feel nervous. Was she picking up on what had occurred the day before, or were the sudden shadows sparking her active imagination?

  The hairs on the back of her neck suddenly stood up. She swung around quickly, expecting to see someone behind her. Had Dylan followed her?

  There was no one, and yet she felt as if someone were watching her.

  Every sound became acutely loud: the snap of a twig, a rustle in the brush, the sudden squawk of a bird overhead. They were all sounds of nature—or were they?

  She put a hand on the trunk of a nearby tree to steady herself. It didn't help. Images flashed through her mind.

  The ground was flying by at an amazing pace, as i she were running. She could hear the blood pounding through her veins. Her chest hurt more with each breath o air in the high altitude. She stumbled and ell to the ground, then scrambled back to her eet, desperate to get away. He was coming closer. . . .

  But it wasn't her. Those weren't her shoes. And her hands . . . There was a ring on the finger of her right hand, a sparkling opal that was changing colors with the heat of her skin. Who was she? And who was she running from?

  The sound of a horn startled her.

  The images faded away. She was back to herself again. The sun seemed brighter. The shadows had lightened as well. Her heart began to slow down. The horn came again. Catherine moved closer to the edge of the cliff to investigate the noise. A sharp outcropping of rock fell down to the lake a few hundred yards below.

  Two boats were anchored not far offshore. One bore the logo of the coast guard. Someone was in the water, a diver. He held up something red to show to another man on board. Her heart skipped a beat. She knew exactly what it was—Erica's red scarf, the scarf she'd seen around the pretty brunette's neck not only last night, but also in her vision.

  Was there a body in the water, too?

  Had Erica run through these woods, taken a misstep, and tumbled to her death off the side of the sheer cliff into the cold waters of Lake Tahoe? Or had she been pushed?

  Chapter 6

  Dylan was immersed in his computer files when his cell phone rang. "Mark, what did you find out?" he asked, hoping for some good news.

  "You're in deep shit, buddy," Mark said.

  That was not what he wanted to hear. "What do you mean?"

  "I spoke to Detective Richardson at the sheriff's office. He said that Erica Layton is still missing and they're extremely concerned about her welfare. A guest in an adjacent cabin reported hearing a woman scream last night. A security guard investigated and discovered that the cabin where Erica was staying had been broken into, and apparently there was evidence of a struggle, including blood evidence, which they are now testing for DNA. Please tell me they're not going to find your DNA at the scene."

  "I wish I could, but I have a cut on my hand, which I acquired sometime in the night while I was passed out," Dylan said. "I suspect Erica cut me to plant the

  blood. It was part of the setup."

  "Not the best explanation I've heard."

  "It's the truth, and whatever other evidence they have Erica planted as well. The blood tests I took earlier this morning should prove that I
was drugged and incapable of hurting anyone."

  "Speaking of which, why the hell did you agree to have your blood tested without talking to me first? At the very least we could have stalled until we had a better idea what we were dealing with."

  "Yeah, I know. I thought I was going to prove my innocence before the drugs left my system, but I suspect I made things worse. Damn, I hate to be wrong."

  "You can't go off half-cocked anymore, Dylan. This is serious."

  "Believe me, I'm very aware of just how serious it is. What else did the detective tell you?"

  "Not much. They conducted a brief search of the woods but found nothing. They're trying to contact Er-ica's relatives and friends with the help of the San Francisco Police Department. They plan to launch another search tomorrow if Miss Layton hasn't turned up by then. You need to find her. If she's alive, most of your problems go away."

  "Most?" Dylan echoed.

  "They could still charge you with assault, breaking and entering, but at least you wouldn't be facing a murder charge."

  The idea that he could be arrested for murder sent chills down Dylan's spine. Surely it wouldn't go that far. It couldn't. He was an innocent man. "I can't believe this is happening. I drove up here yesterday for my brother's wedding, and now I'm a suspect in a murder investigation? How is that possible?"

  "You do lead an exciting life. I think I should come up there. I know you like to handle things yourself, but this is too big. If you didn't kill this woman, someone is working damn hard to make it look like you did."

  "Yes. And for the moment I'm going to stick with the belief that Erica is not dead, that this is just part of the frame. I have to find her and make her talk."

  "If someone is framing you for Erica's death," Mark said slowly, "they have extremely good motivation to actually kill her."

  Mark had a point. But Erica knew how to look out for herself. At least, Dylan hoped she did.

  "I need to take care of a few things here," Mark added, "but I can be in Tahoe by tonight. Don't do or say anything to anyone, Dylan. Just stay put. Keep your mouth shut. I'll be in touch."