Silent Fall

by Barbara Freethy

  It bothered him that he was even thinking of that man now. A lifetime had passed since he'd tried to live up to expectations, to fit into a world that wanted to control him. Now he was his own man. He took the jobs he wanted. He called the shots, and he got paid well for what he did.

  "When do you want him to die?" he asked.

  Silence met his question. Finally the answer came. "I want him to suffer more. I want him to be afraid, to realize there is nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. He's trapped. And soon he will die . . . like everyone else."

  There was passionate lust in the voice that gave him his next instructions and the name of his victim. Dylan Sanders had made one hell of an enemy.

  * * *

  Dylan woke a little after nine thirty in the morning. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so late, but then again, he'd gotten only about three hours of sleep the night before. He was actually surprised he'd slept at all with so much going through his mind.

  Getting up, he jumped in the shower, reviewing what he needed to get done. First things first—strong coffee. He needed caffeine, and he needed it badly. After throwing on some clothes, he headed down the block and picked up coffee, tea, bagels, and the morning newspaper. He also called Mark from a pay phone to update him on what was happening. When he returned to the house all was quiet, so he figured Catherine was still asleep.

  He entered the kitchen and turned on the small television set on the counter, eager for his morning news fix. Unfortunately it was just about eleven o'clock on a Sunday morning, and the only news was on the national cable channels. He opened the newspaper, skimming the front-page headlines. There was no report of a murder in Golden Gate Park, which wasn't surprising, since the paper had probably already gone to press before the police arrived at the scene.

  Damn. He wanted to know if that woman in the park was Erica. He had some friends on the police force whom he often used to get the news, but he was leery of announcing his presence in the city, especially to the cops. However, he might take a risk and call the station. They'd be preparing the story for the evening news.

  He hoped it wasn't Erica in the park, but he was starting to trust Catherine's instincts as much as his own, and she was so certain, how could he doubt her? He was lucky Catherine had been with him last night. He could have made a huge mistake by getting out of the car and putting himself at the scene of the crime. He was still kicking himself for acting on instinct instead of thinking things through. He was usually practical, logical, thoughtful—well, maybe not always. He did have a tendency to act first, think later, but not when the stakes were this high and this personal. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

  He glanced up as Catherine entered the kitchen. His stomach clenched at the sight of her. It had been a long time since he'd had such a powerful reaction to a woman. They'd been together almost every minute of the last two days, but a few hours away from her and he almost felt as if he'd missed her. How stupid was that?

  Frowning, he picked up his coffee, trying not to look at her, but he couldn't help noticing that she'd taken a shower and changed into a pair of blue jeans and a tank top, both of which molded nicely to her curves. Her reddish blond hair was still damp from her shower, the ends curling around her face. Her blue eyes were bright and sparkling, and he appreciated the absence of fear. She'd recovered from the night before. He wished he could say the same about himself.

  "How are you doing?" she asked. "Did you get any sleep?"

  "An hour or two. How about you?"

  "The same. I must admit I'm always relieved to see the sun come up. Is that tea?" she asked, tipping her head toward one of the paper cups on the table.

  "Decaffeinated, some sort of herbal thing."

  Her smile broadened. "Thank you. That was thoughtful."

  "Yeah, well, I didn't want to hear you complain."

  "When have I complained?"

  "I'm sure you would have."

  "You're in a grumpy mood."

  "I am not," he snapped, knowing he was taking his restlessness out on her. He had two choices: yell at her or kiss her, and at the moment yelling was probably safer.

  She sat down across from him, took a sip of her tea, and pointed to the newspaper. "Anything about Erica?"

  "No. And there's no local news on this morning." He checked his watch. "Although there should be a news break coming up at eleven, with the sound bites for what will be on at five. We've got about ten minutes."

  She pulled a bagel out of the bag and covered it with cream cheese, then took a bite. "Mmm, good," she muttered as she swallowed. "I'm always starving in the morning All the dreams, probably. I think I burn up more calories when I'm asleep than when I'm awake." She paused, studying his face. "You wish I hadn't stopped you from barreling into the bushes last night, don't you?"

  He shook his head. "No, you were right. I'm just frustrated that I don't know for sure that it was Erica who died. The idea that someone could have really killed her boggles my mind."

  "Because up until now you thought it was just a sick game. But it's real."

  Catherine was on the money again. The setup, the frame, had seemed like an elaborate hoax, not the foreshadowing of an actual murder. He'd been worried about going to jail, but now he had to wonder if he would get out of this alive—if either of them would. His gaze drifted back to Catherine. He never should have involved her. He'd had no idea what kind of danger he was dragging her into.

  Catherine set down her bagel, her eyes darkening with emotion. "Don't worry about me."

  "I can't help it. Erica is . . . dead." He finally forced himself to say the word. "We could be next."

  "Or whoever is behind this wants you to be charged with a real murder. Maybe they didn't think the circumstantial evidence would be enough. And if that's the case, I suspect that something related to you was left in the park to make sure you can be tied to the crime."

  He suspected Catherine was right. But the motivation was what bothered him. "You really think someone just wants me to go to jail? I don't know. Why wouldn't they kill me? They've already killed Erica."

  "If they want you to suffer, jail would be worse than death. It would last longer."

  "You should go home, back to San Luis Obispo, or stay with some friends."

  "I'd spend the whole time worrying about you, and being tormented by nightmares. I'm sticking with you, Dylan."

  "It's too dangerous. You need to get out."

  "But I'm the conduit. I'm the one who's getting the visions. I know I haven't been very helpful so far, but maybe that will change."

  "You might not have the visions anymore. If Erica is gone, then the connection with her is broken."

  Catherine considered that for a moment. "I think the connection is with you. That's why I first started getting the dreams after I met you. And besides you, I seem to have a link with the killer. So maybe I'll be able to see him coming at some point. I guess we'll have to wait and see." She paused, tipping her head toward the TV. "Hey, there's the news break."

  Dylan pumped up the volume as the weekend news anchor, Blake Howard, forecast the upcoming stories: the latest developments in the Middle East, the details on a murder in Golden Gate Park, and the newest drug to prevent hair loss. "Shit. No name given." Dylan wasn't really surprised. It was early yet, and the police liked to wait until next of kin had been notified.

  "At least we know we didn't imagine it," Catherine said.

  "I wish we had."

  "So, do you know that guy—the one on TV?"

  "Blake Howard? Unfortunately, yes."

  "Why do you say it like that?"

  "Howard is a pretty boy and an idiot. He's a talking head; that's it."

  "Tell me what you really think," she said with a smile.

  "Hey, you asked."

  "Are you jealous of him?"

  He snorted at the ridiculous question. "Hardly."

  "Don't all news reporters want to sit at the anchor desk? Isn't that your goal?"

 
; Dylan hesitated at the simple question. At one time he would have said yes, but now he wasn't so sure. He'd spent the last ten years chasing one promotion after another, his eye on that top prize, but he hadn't considered exactly how he'd feel about desk duty until recently. "It's certainly the money spot," he conceded. "Actually, Blake is at the lower end of the anchors. What everyone really wants is the five o'clock in the evening weekday newscast at the local station, or the six thirty news for one of the big networks. But I'm afraid I'd get bored waiting for the news to come to me. I like the freedom of chasing down a story, investigating the details, getting out on the streets, talking to the people who are directly affected. I don't know if I want to give that up yet. Plus, I'd have to cut my hair, wear a suit, and suck up to the bosses, and that's not really why I got into the news."

  Catherine smiled back at him with complete understanding. "You're a little too rebellious for the anchor desk, huh?"

  "I tend to piss people off. I like to get right in their faces and shake 'em up."

  "I've noticed," she said dryly.

  "Hey, you've done the same to me," he returned. "You've gotten into my head. And I can't shake you loose no matter how hard I try."

  She nodded, her gaze meeting his. "We're connected."

  He wondered what she'd say if he told her he'd like to be connected in a very physical way, that he wanted to get so close to her that he wouldn't know where he ended and she began. His pulse began to race at the thought of them naked and in bed together. He should never have let her go to bed alone the night before. He should have taken the damn connection between them all the way home.

  Catherine glanced away, two fiery spots burning in her cheeks. "It's still not the right time, Dylan."

  He knew that. Hell, it would probably never be the right time. So he needed to stop thinking about her in that way.

  "So, what's on the schedule for today?" Catherine asked, changing the subject.

  "I called Mark from a pay phone at Starbucks to tell him I think Erica may have been killed last night here in the city. He'll check with the Tahoe sheriff's department later this morning and see what's happening there. He's not going to tell them about my suspicions, in case they figure out where he got the information. The last thing I want to do is add another accessory to this crime."

  "If it is Erica in the park, then what does Mark think will happen to you?"

  "He doesn't like the fact that I'm here in the city at the time of her murder. It may get the Tahoe sheriff's department off my back, but the San Francisco police will surely be interested in me once they learn about the Tahoe incident."

  "So you're still going to be the main person of interest?"

  "I believe so," he admitted. "And as you suggested, there's probably something in the park that ties Erica to me, too. By leaving Tahoe and coming here I played right into their plan. However, at the moment no one but Mark knows where I am. That could easily change, since I used my cell phone yesterday in San Francisco. We probably have a day or two before the police start putting all the information together and have enough probable cause to get phone records and search and/or arrest warrants. It's all going to move faster now that there's a body."

  "It will be difficult to tie the senator to Erica's murder, since he's in jail. How on earth are we going to prove he's the one who's doing this?"

  "I wish I knew. What I'd like to do this morning is run down to the station. I taped a lot of my conversations with Erica when I was writing the story. I asked her detailed questions about Ravino's life, who his friends were, who he had dinner with, who he talked to on the phone, who was in his inner circle. Maybe she told me something about herself or Ravino that I've forgotten."

  "Isn't it risky to go out in public?"

  "Well, since neither Erica nor I has made the news yet, this is my best chance to get the tapes. Once the finger points to me I won't be able to get around freely."

  "All right," she said with a nod. "I'll come with you. I'd like to see the inside of a newsroom."

  "It's not that exciting," he said.

  She grinned as she stood up. "Dylan, with you, every moment is exciting."

  He laughed. "You ain't seen nothing yet."

  "That's what I'm afraid of."

  * * *

  KTSF was housed in an unassuming three-story building at the edge of downtown San Francisco. The satellite dish on the roof was the only giveaway that they were entering a television station. A security guard checked Dylan in as they entered the underground garage. For a moment Catherine held her breath, wondering if a swarm of police would suddenly descend upon them, but the guard simply raised the gate and waved them through.

  They received the same reception from the guard stationed in the first-floor lobby. Dylan was greeted by name and asked how his weekend was going. He responded with a breezy, "Fine," and then they were in the elevator.

  "There won't be many people around today, since it's the weekend," he told her.

  "I thought the news never stopped."

  "It doesn't, but the weekend staff just covers the day's news. During the week we have more people working on long-term investigations, and generally there's more political and business news."

  "I never realized that TV newspeople followed stories over a long period of time. I thought it was more about just reporting current events."

  "It can be. I've been given a little more latitude to conduct longer investigations, which I enjoy, because there's usually more to any story than what is seen on the surface."

  "That's for sure."

  They exited on the third floor. After passing a vacant reception desk, they entered the main newsroom, where a couple of people were at work. Some of the desks were out in the open, whereas others were tucked away in cubicles, giving at least the appearance of privacy, although Catherine suspected that just about anything could be heard anywhere in the large room. Along one wall was a display of at least ten different television monitors that were each tuned to a different station. Most were on mute, with the dialogue running in tag-lines across the bottoms of the screens.

  Dylan pointed to several large offices around the perimeter of the room. "The anchors get those," he said. "As do some of the news producers. The main studio is downstairs on the first floor. There's nothing happening there at the moment, but that's where they'll do the five-o'clock newscast. Sales and circulation are on the second floor, as well as accounting, personnel, and the mailroom."

  "Isn't that the guy we saw on TV earlier?" Catherine whispered, tipping her head toward a nearby office. She felt a little starstruck by the fact that she was in a television studio, and the handsome morning news anchor was standing about ten feet away talking on the phone. With his slick good looks, dark hair, and blue eyes, Blake Howard could have posed for the cover of GQ. "Wow," she muttered. "Now, that's a man who can wear a suit."

  Dylan sent her a disgusted look. "Yeah, that's what all the girls say. Howard is all flash, no substance. The guy can't talk without a script and a teleprompter."

  "Maybe I can think of better things to do than talk to him," she said with a grin. "Sometimes all you want is flash. Surely you've felt that way on occasion."

  "Not about Blake. He's not my type."

  "Very funny."

  "Damn, he saw me," Dylan said.

  "Oh, my God, he's coming over here," she said, nervous at the prospect.

  "Of course he's coming over here," Dylan muttered. "You're a woman, and he can't resist the opportunity to schmooze."

  Sure enough, Blake was heading their way. He gave Dylan a curt nod and then blessed Catherine with his trademark smile. His teeth were movie-star white, his skin tan, his hair styled. His appearance was perfect: not one blemish on his face, not one hair out of place. He'd probably spent more on his suit than she had on her car.

  "Hello, I'm Blake Howard," he said to Catherine, extending his hand.

  "Catherine . . . Hilliard," she stammered, feeling a little dazed by the man's smile. "I
. . . I just saw you on TV."

  His fingers squeezed hers. "So, you're a fan," he said with pleasure.

  "She doesn't even live in the area," Dylan cut in. "She can't help you increase your numbers. What's happening today? Any breaking news stories?"

  Blake shrugged, his gaze lingering on Catherine as he slowly let go of her hand. "The usual stuff. A couple of murders, a carjacking, a bus accident, the standard Middle East crap."

  Catherine was surprised at Blake's lack of respect or even interest in the news. He rattled off devastating incidents with complete disregard for their seriousness. Perhaps he'd read the news so long he was unaffected by it. She could never do his job—or Dylan's, for that matter; she'd get way too involved in every story.

  "If you like, I can give you a personal tour of the studio," Blake said to Catherine. "Dylan doesn't know his way around the anchor desk."

  "What's to know? There's a desk and a chair and a dummy that sits in it," Dylan shot back.

  Blake's eyes glittered with anger, and it seemed he was searching for a quick comeback, but as the seconds ticked away his face just grew redder and redder. "Well," he sputtered.

  Catherine jumped into the breach. "Don't we need to get going?" she said to Dylan, grabbing his arm. "It was wonderful to meet you, Mr. Howard. I'll look forward to seeing you on the news."

  "You could do better than Sanders," Blake said, nodding at Dylan again. "He's not going anywhere."

  "Except away from you." Dylan shrugged Cather-ine's hand off his arm and headed across the room at a brisk pace.

  "Good heavens. Do you two always snap at each other like that?" Catherine asked, jogging to keep up with him.

  "He doesn't like me. I don't like him. Neither one of us loses any sleep over it."

  "Why the animosity?"

  He gave her a disbelieving look. "He doesn't give a damn about the news. It's a show to him." Dylan frowned. "You fell under his spell just like everyone else. I expected better from you."

  "I did not fall under his spell," she protested, knowing it was partly a lie. She had been a bit dazzled by the man, but only for a moment. She'd realized quickly that what Dylan had said was true—without a script, Blake Howard didn't seem to know what to say. "Okay, I know why you don't like Blake, but why doesn't he like you?"