Silent Fall

by Barbara Freethy

  "Really? I must be shooting out fireworks right about now, then," he drawled, enjoying the flush that reddened her cheeks. "And your tell is that your face turns red every time you get excited or scared. Which is it now?"

  "You're not turning the tables on me."

  "I think I am." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You try to be blunt, in my face, but then you back off, as if it's not really your true nature to be so direct. But it is mine."

  "It's also your nature to redirect the conversation away from yourself to whoever is sitting across from you."

  "Touché."

  "And the only reason you're flirting with me is so you won't have to think about that photo that's in the drawer upstairs."

  "That's not the only reason. And you know it."

  She met his gaze and gave a reluctant nod. "I do know it, but I don't want to get hurt again."

  "Again?" he queried, realizing it was the first time she'd volunteered anything about her past romantic life.

  "There you go, trying to get into my life when yours is the one we're supposed to be figuring out."

  "I wouldn't hurt you, Catherine." Even as he said the words, he wondered if they were true.

  "I'm not talking about a physical hurt, Dylan. But I like you, and if I have sex with you I might fall in love with you, and you wouldn't want that. You'd leave. And I've been left many times in my life. I don't want it to happen again. How's that for direct?"

  His gut clenched at the image of them together. Catherine wasn't the only one who could envision them in bed together. But he could also see himself leaving, because he didn't do love. He didn't do commitment. He couldn't afford to give up any of his power to another person, especially not a woman who claimed to be able to see into his head.

  "So, back to Erica," Catherine said.

  He wasn't quite ready to move on, but he could see by the resolve in her eyes that she was. "Back to Erica," he echoed. But his mind wasn't really on the missing brunette. It was still on Catherine, on what she hadn't told him, and what he knew he needed to ask, even though his every instinct said not to go there. "When you touched the photo album before, you jerked as if you'd seen something."

  "I thought you didn't want to talk about your mother."

  "Just tell me before I change my mind."

  "She was sitting on a porch swing looking out at the ocean. She was crying. She felt tremendous regret, but also a weary resignation that she couldn't change what had happened."

  His chest squeezed so tight he could barely catch his breath. "Are you sure it was my mother?" he asked, struggling to get the words out.

  "Yes."

  He looked away from Catherine's penetrating gaze, trying to absorb what she'd just told him. He couldn't compute what she'd said and what he knew about the past. And a part of him didn't want to let go of the anger he held toward his mother. He didn't want to soften his attitude. He didn't want to think of her as being sad. Maybe she deserved to be unhappy, to have regrets. She'd left her children behind.

  "She probably should be crying," he said harshly. "She wasn't exactly mother of the year."

  "But you don't really know her story, do you?" Catherine asked, compassion in her eyes.

  He wished he could say that he did, but he remembered little about his mother or his life before she left. "I

  know enough. The facts speak for themselves."

  "The facts don't always tell the whole story."

  "Why are you defending her? I thought you, of all people, would understand what it's like to grow up without a mother, although you haven't told me what happened to yours. Did she leave you? Did she die? What's her story? What about your father? What happened to him? How did you end up in foster care without anyone?"

  Catherine shrank back in her seat with each pounding question. Her face paled under the attack. "Dylan, stop."

  "You want to dig into my life, then I'll dig into yours." He felt a twinge of regret as pain fluttered through her eyes. He knew he was taking out his frustration and fear on her, but he couldn't stop himself. She'd brought him to a place he didn't want to be, and he didn't know how to get out.

  After a moment Catherine straightened in her chair. She lifted her chin, her eyes refocusing on his. "Nice try. You do know how to go for the jugular, don't you? But I'm not going to stand in as a punching bag for your mother. So stop attacking me. I didn't hurt you. She did."

  He let out a sigh. "I'm sorry."

  "You should be." She stood up and took her empty food container to the counter. "Do you know where the trash bags are?"

  It was such a mundane question and an abrupt change of subject, it took him a moment to catch up. "Under the sink, if there are any."

  She pulled out a white plastic bag and opened it, then dumped her container. Crossing the room, she cleared off the rest of the table and set the bag on the floor. "We should remember to take this out before we leave, since no one may come here for a while."

  "Good idea." He paused. "I am sorry. You're right. I jumped on you, and I shouldn't have, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm very curious about your background."

  Something wavered in her eyes. "I never talk about my past, not with anyone."

  "I'm not just anyone," he told her.

  "I know," she admitted. "But right now we have to think about Erica and how to find her." Catherine sat down at the table. "What about Erica's friends? She might have told one of them something."

  "I've been thinking about that. One of the other Metro Club hostesses, Joanna, lived next door to Erica. She was probably the closest to her. Although I'm not sure what happened to their relationship after Erica ratted out Ravino. I know the club kicked Erica out. She may have lost her girlfriends there as well. No one likes a snitch."

  "Erica risked a lot to talk to you," Catherine commented.

  "Because she feared for her life. She thought Ravino could come after her, but in the end I guess she did give up a lot." He was surprised he'd never considered that before. He'd been so intent on getting the story he hadn't really thought about Erica's involvement beyond what she could do for him. He'd used her to get to the truth, and the realization left him with a bad taste in his mouth. Maybe there was more of his father in him than he'd realized. That disturbing revelation made him pick up his beer and drain it to the last drop.

  "You didn't make her talk," Catherine said.

  "Trying to let me off the hook?" he drawled. "Why don't you say I'm a ruthless, selfish bastard?"

  Catherine smiled. "I don't have to, because you just did. But whatever the reason, Erica did the right thing by telling the truth. If Senator Ravino killed his wife, then he deserves to pay. And you should be glad you got involved. I'm just wondering if the fallout affected Erica in such a way that she had to go along with this plan to set you up. Someone has to know what she's been up to the last two months. I think we should talk to Joanna."

  "I agree. We'll go to Erica's apartment and kill two birds with one stone."

  Catherine frowned. "It's a risk, don't you think? What if the police are watching her place?"

  "Doubtful. Even if they did a drive-by to check on her, they wouldn't have cause to break in, especially since she's been gone less than twenty-four hours. I think we have some time. But if you want to stay here, I understand."

  "Are you kidding me? I'm not staying behind. Where you go, I go. Besides, if you're thinking of knocking on Erica's neighbor's door, I might get farther than you. If Erica suffered repercussions from her snitching, I can't imagine that you would receive a warm reception from

  anyone who worked for the Metro Club."

  "Good point."

  "Thank you," she said with a smile. "And I have another idea. I think you should wear a disguise. You're on television. You're very recognizable, and right now that's the last thing we want. Do you think your grand-mother's husband left any clothes behind?"

  "I can certainly check," he said, smiling back at her. Catherine was defi
nitely pulling her weight as a partner. He was beginning to wonder why he'd ever liked working alone. "I'll look in the hall closet. You might want to put a hat over that gorgeous hair of yours. It's not exactly forgettable." He saw the glitter of surprise in her eyes. "You don't know how beautiful you are, do you?"

  "I'm not . . . not beautiful," she said, stumbling over the words. "I have freckles and pale skin."

  "And beautiful breasts and gorgeous eyes and a very nice pair of hips." As he'd expected and hoped, a delicious flush spread across her cheeks. He wondered if the rest of her body would show such heat.

  "Stop that," she told him. "You are very bad, Dylan."

  "I'd like to be." He laughed at her expression, a mix of curiosity and dismay.

  "You're good with the lines, aren't you?"

  "I'm good with a lot of things."

  She rolled her eyes. "And quite full of yourself—not your most attractive quality. I'm going to look for a disguise. We'll need to find a big hat to fit that enormous head of yours." She got up from her chair and headed into the hallway. She was already rifling through the clothes when he got there.

  Dylan wasn't surprised to see that his grandmother had kept not one but a half dozen of her deceased hus-band's jackets, as well as some baseball caps and fishing hats. She'd always been a pack rat.

  Catherine handed him a tan fishing cap and a bulky brown corduroy jacket. She put on one of his grand-mother's black peacoats and covered her hair with a blue floral scarf.

  "Sexy," he said with a sarcastic grin, as her outfit added twenty pounds to her frame and twenty years to her age. "You're going to look hot when you're old."

  "Stop flirting with me, Gramps," she chided.

  He laughed, and for a moment the weight he'd been carrying for the past twenty-four hours eased. "At least with these outfits we'll look right at home in my grand-mother's fifteen-year-old Ford Taurus."

  "Just don't speed. It will ruin the illusion," she told him as they left the house.

  "Hey, when I'm old I still plan to be driving in the fast lane," he said as they got into the car. "I'm not going to let anything slow me down." Catherine gave him a thoughtful look. "What did I say now?" he asked, wishing he could read her mind as well as she seemed to read his.

  "I was just thinking how I slowed myself down years ago, and how I've been living like a hermit for way too long," she said.

  He was surprised by her revelation, and by the fact that she'd actually given him the opening to ask a per

  sonal question. "Why have you been doing that?"

  She shrugged. "I don't know."

  "Yes, you do. Come on; tell me."

  "I guess I thought that if I hid myself away, the dreams wouldn't be able to find me, but they always do. And I'm tired of living in the shadows, afraid to go into the light, afraid to be myself. I haven't been in the fast lane for a very long time. I want to get back there, I think. Well, maybe not all the way to the fast lane, but the second to the slow lane would be a start," she amended.

  He smiled and impulsively leaned over and kissed her mouth. He was tempted to linger, to bring her fully awake, but he would need a lot more time to do it right. "I suppose you want to drive now," he said.

  "Would you let me?" she asked with a gleam in her eye. "Or would it kill you to be in the passenger seat?"

  "It would kill me, but for you I'd do it."

  This time Catherine leaned in and kissed him. "Thanks, but I don't need to drive. I just need you to be willing to let me."

  "I'll never understand the way women think."

  She laughed. "You don't have to. Let's go, old man. We're not getting any younger."

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later Dylan parked down the street from Erica's condo. The new development was in the trendy South of Market area, where a lot of young singles lived. As they left the car Dylan and Catherine strolled arm in arm down the block, as if they were an older couple out for an evening walk. As they passed Erica's front door Catherine looked for any sign of police activity, but there was no yellow tape on the door, no police cruisers nearby, nor were there any lights on inside the condo.

  "What do you want to do?" Catherine asked.

  "That's Joanna's place," Dylan said, tipping his head toward the condo next to Erica's.

  "How do you know that?"

  "Research. There's a light on. Hopefully she's home. Are you still up for it?"

  "Absolutely." Catherine felt a tingle of excitement at the challenge ahead of her.

  "Make sure you push as much as you can. Ask her about Erica's male friends, her finances, visitors to her house, and her family. Don't let her sidestep the questions."

  "I won't."

  "What exactly are you going to say?"

  "I'll figure that out when she answers the door." She could see by Dylan's disgruntled face that he wasn't happy with her answer.

  "You have to have a plan of attack," he said. "Maybe I should do it."

  "I can handle it. Trust me."

  "All right," he said slowly. "I guess I'll wait down at the corner at the Java Hut."

  "Order me some tea and maybe some for yourself. You are way too wound up." She gave him a gentle push.

  "You and your damn tea," he grumbled as he stomped off, looking decidedly younger and sprier than his clothing suggested. So much for staying in character.

  Deciding it was time to change her look, Catherine pulled off her scarf and her coat, tossing them over one arm as she knocked on Joanna's door. She wanted to look more like a peer of Erica's than her maiden aunt.

  A moment later a striking blonde with long legs and big boobs opened the door. She was dressed in a jean miniskirt and a bright red tank top that showed off her cleavage. Dylan would have died and gone to heaven, Catherine thought. He was really going to be sorry he'd given her this job.

  "Yes?" the woman asked.

  "Are you Joanna?"

  "Who wants to know?"

  "I'm Catherine, a friend of Erica's," she replied. "I went to high school with her, and I came up from Bakersfield to visit her, but she's not answering the door, and I've been waiting over an hour. I was wondering if you know where she is. She mentioned you were one of her friends."

  "Yes," Joanna said, her wary expression softening somewhat. "But I don't know where she is or why she'd have you meet her tonight. She told me she was going out of town when I ran into her the other day. She said she needed a break before the trial starts in a couple of weeks."

  "Right, the trial," Catherine echoed. "Erica told me she's been really stressed about that, but she never mentioned leaving town. Where would she have gone?

  I'd really like to find her. I'm very concerned about her. She hasn't been herself lately. You don't have a key to her place, do you?"

  Joanna stiffened. "I can't let you in. I don't know you."

  "Of course you don't," Catherine said with a reassuring smile, realizing she'd moved a bit too fast. "Maybe you could go in and just see if she left any brochures out or reservation confirmations on a notepad or anything like that." She paused, trying to sound like a worried friend. "I guess I could go to the police and ask them. Maybe they could get the key from you."

  She could see by the sudden light that passed through Joanna's eyes that the last thing she wanted was the police at her door.

  "No, don't do that," Joanna said. "I guess I could check her place. Hang on a second." She walked over to a table in her entryway and took some keys out of a drawer. She pulled her own door shut and then led Catherine to Erica's condo.

  Catherine would have preferred to go in alone, but at least she was getting in. That was something. She felt a jolt of adrenaline as Joanna opened the door. With any luck Catherine could find a clue to Erica's whereabouts. Her optimism faded as she took in the state of the apartment, the upturned laundry basket on the living room couch, the open door to the hall closet revealing empty hangers. She had the feeling Erica had packed up and left in a hurry.

  She walked
over to the couch and picked up a white jean jacket that had been left behind. An image flashed in her head, taking her back into the past.

  She dug through the laundry basket, slipping her hand into the pocket of every pair of pants, every coat. It was gone. Panic ran through her. She couldn't have lost it. Then relief washed away the fear as her fingers closed around the cool metal. She pulled out the key. Attached to the ring was a small piece of paper and the numbers 374. Scribbled in ink were the directions: right after the bridge, left on Falcon, pink flowers in the window box. She would be safe there. No one would find her. She would be free to start again.

  Catherine blinked as Joanna's voice sent the image from her mind.

  "I found this brochure on her desk," Joanna said.

  Catherine turned toward the other woman and took the folder from her hand. It showed a resort in Hawaii. Was that where Erica had gone, number three seven four?

  "I'll check the bedroom quickly, and then I really have to go," Joanna said.

  While Joanna disappeared into the other room, Catherine moved to the kitchen counter, her gaze settling on the pad by the phone. Erica had jotted down a number, but there was no name attached to it. It could mean nothing, or it could be important. Catherine ripped off the page and stuffed it in the pocket of her jeans. Then she saw Erica's checkbook. Her heart began to pound. Erica's bankbook might show who was paying her. She swiped it off the counter and stuffed it in between the layers of her coat as Joanna returned to the room, shaking her head.

  "Nothing else," Joanna said. "She must be in Hawaii."

  "I'll give this place a call," Catherine replied as Joanna ushered her to the front door. "Maybe she just forgot to tell me or got the dates of my trip mixed up."

  "She's had a lot on her mind," Joanna said. "Frankly I wouldn't be surprised if she never came back here, after what happened. You can't bite the hand that feeds you, especially when it belongs to a senator. Did she tell you what she did?"

  "Yes. She got trapped in a bad situation," Catherine said slowly. "She feels terrible about everything that happened."

  "She never should have talked to that reporter. She should have kept her mouth shut. I thought she was smarter than that."