Was it his father? Was it Ravino? Was it Blake Howard?
He sat down in the desk chair and loaded the video. He played it over and over, scanning every blurry face in the background in search of clues. When he got to the man with his hand on Erica's waist, the ring on the man's finger tugged at his brain. He knew he'd seen that ring before. It was probably Blake's. He wore one of those Ivy League school rings on his left hand, a sign of his importance.
Taking out a piece of paper, he jotted down some names, leaving space under each one. He put Ravino at the top, then his father, then Blake. Who else? He tapped his pencil on the desktop. Then he wrote down Erica. She had an obvious tie to Ravino, a link to his father through the club and possibly Blake. That was one connection he could check out right away. Setting down his pencil, he typed out a quick e-mail to Blake's assistant, Rita Herriman, asking if Blake was a member of the Metro Club. He made it appear as if he were also interested in joining the club and wanted a sponsor. That might get him a direct answer to at least one question. He wanted to ask Rita if Blake had received any phone calls from Erica, but he had to consider how she would view the question when she found out Erica was dead and he was the prime suspect.
How could it hurt? He typed in the question and hit the send button before he could change his mind. Like most newspeople, Rita would no doubt check her messages before the end of the day.
Clicking out of his mail program, he pulled out the tapes of his interviews with Erica, slipped them into his minicassette player, and pushed play. Erica's nervous voice gave him a jolt. It was eerie to hear her speaking and know that she was now dead.
Turning off the tape, he got to his feet and returned to the kitchen. Catherine was reading the newspaper.
"I'm going down to the corner," he told her. "There's a pay phone there. I didn't have any e-mails from Mark, but I want to check in with him."
"Do you want me to come?"
"I'll just be a couple of minutes."
"Be careful," she said, concern in her eyes. "I'm almost afraid to let you out of my sight. It's strange, because I've been living on my own for years, but I'm getting kind of used to having you around."
To his surprise, he felt much the same way. "Don't worry; I'll be back."
* * *
Mark answered on the third ring. "What's up?" Dylan asked.
"I was just about to e-mail you. The woman in the park has been positively identified as Erica Layton. The Lake Tahoe Sheriff's Department is now working with the San Francisco Police Department. They've officially turned over their information to our guys here, including the circumstantial evidence that they have against you."
"That evidence shouldn't mean anything, since Erica didn't die in Tahoe."
"Unfortunately we're going to have to wait for the coroner's report to establish time and date of death, and that she wasn't killed elsewhere and then left in the park. There's more. The drug screen you had done yesterday came back negative."
Dylan couldn't believe what he was hearing. "That's impossible. Erica put something in my drink."
"There are certain drugs that leave the system fairly quickly without a trace. Fortunately DNA will take some time to get back, so if your blood was planted in Erica's Tahoe cabin or here in Golden Gate Park, it will be a few weeks before anyone figures that out. But I have to warn you, Dylan, that the SFPD has requested a search warrant for your house, which means they think they have enough evidence to show probable cause. Once they analyze your phone records, it will be clear that you were here in San Francisco at least near the time of Erica's death."
Dylan's stomach began to churn. He'd been expecting the other shoe to drop, and now it had. He was going to be an official suspect in a murder investigation.
"I talked to a friend of mine in the SFPD," Mark continued. "He told me you should turn yourself in as soon as possible so that they can clear your name."
"They're not going to clear my name; they're going to clear out a cell with my name on it."
"Dylan, Erica is dead. The police may be the least of your worries. Whoever killed her could be coming after you next."
"They want to frame me, not kill me."
"Are you sure about that?"
He wasn't at all sure. He had no real idea what the next move in this game would be. But Erica's murder had certainly upped the ante. Someone was playing for keeps, and depending on who was calling the shots, it wasn't impossible that they also wanted him dead.
"Do you know anything about the way Erica was killed?" he asked.
"She was shot—that's all I know."
"Any evidence at the crime scene?"
"Not that anyone wanted to share with me, but if her murder was part of your setup, then I'm betting something was there to tie you to the crime. I don't think you have a choice, Dylan. You have to turn yourself in."
"Not yet. I need a little more time. But listen, next time you talk to your cop buddy, tell him that there's another person who has a good reason for wanting Erica dead, and that's Joseph Ravino. She helped the police put him in prison. He could easily want revenge, not to mention the fact that it would probably weaken the case against him if she weren't alive to testify about their affair or her conversation with Ravino's wife. Instead of focusing solely on me, they should work that angle."
"I'll pass it along. Unfortunately, Ravino's being in jail means he couldn't have personally committed the crime."
"He didn't personally kill his wife either. He just made sure the Botox she injected into her face would kill her."
"Allegedly," Mark said.
"Well, the one thing I know for sure is that I didn't kill Erica. That means someone else did."
"Aside from the senator, do you have any other ideas?"
Dylan hesitated. "I recently uncovered a link between my father and Ravino. They both socialized at the Metro Club."
"What are you saying? You think your father is involved?" Mark asked, amazed. "I know you two don't have a good relationship, but a frame for murder? Your father is an upstanding citizen."
"On the outside he is, but you don't know the real man," Dylan said heavily.
"But murder? Is he capable of that?"
Dylan didn't even hesitate. "Absolutely. I'll be in touch, Mark, and I'll have my computer, so if you need to get hold of me send me a message."
Dylan hung up the phone. He couldn't believe the drug test had come back negative. The noose around his neck was drawing tighter. He didn't know how much longer he'd be free; he had to make use of every second.
* * *
"That's it," Dylan said as he finished updating Catherine on his conversation.
"That's a lot," she replied, worry in her eyes.
He tipped his head. "Which means I need to find a way out fast. I'll be in the den."
"Do you want my help?"
"No, there's nothing you can do."
Catherine wasn't surprised he declined her offer. Since she'd shared her vision about his mother, Dylan had cooled toward her. He didn't like that she'd seen that tender moment between him and his mother. It went against the grain. He saw his mother as an evil woman who'd abandoned him, and her vision had poked a hole in his picture. He didn't want to change his attitude. And he didn't want her reading his mind. She should have kept her mouth shut.
Every boyfriend she'd ever had she'd eventually scared away. She'd tried to keep her visions to herself. She'd tried to act normal, like everyone else, but then came the moment when she inadvertently revealed something that was uncomfortable or disturbing. Dylan probably wanted to send her packing. In fact, she wouldn't be surprised if he made the suggestion—but she wasn't going to leave. Whether he believed she could help him or not, she knew she was supposed to be here. And she wasn't going to run from the fear, not anymore. If Dylan could face his problems head-on, then so could she.
With Dylan holed up in the den, she decided to explore his grandmother's house. If she could find any clues to the relationship between Dylan
's parents, it might help her understand the family dynamics.
Starting in the kitchen she went through every drawer, trying to open her heart and her brain to the vibrations and the memories. Dylan's grandmother's spirit was still within these walls, a woman who had ties to everyone in the family. Even though she'd never admitted to Dylan that she'd known of her son's abusive attitude toward his grandson, perhaps she had. Perhaps somewhere in this house that knowledge would be evident.
Catherine made her way through each room, eventually ending up once again in the master bedroom. It was the one place in the house that called to her more than any other. She took out the photo album she'd discovered the night before and went through the pictures again, settling on the wedding photograph. Now that she'd seen Dylan's father in person she had a better reference for the differences and similarities between the man in the photograph from thirty-something years ago and the man she'd seen today.
Richard Sanders had his arms around his bride. He looked like someone in love, as did his wife. Dylan's mother was slender and petite, with golden brown hair swept up under a veil. Tiny diamond earrings matched the diamond necklace around her neck. She was a pretty woman with a spark in her eyes that reminded Catherine of Dylan.
Why had she walked away from Dylan and Jake? And just as important, why had she never come back?
Maybe there was no good reason. Catherine had certainly grown up with a lot of kids who'd been deserted by their parents. That wasn't a new story or even an unusual one. So why did she have the feeling that there was something about Dylan's mother that needed to be discovered? It had to exist in her relationship with Richard.
Putting the album aside, Catherine went through the rest of the dresser drawers, striking pay dirt when she got to the last one. It was filled with papers and envelopes and, most important, journals. She pulled out one after another, realizing that Dylan's grandmother had kept diaries her entire life.
She sat down on the floor, leaned her back against the wall, and began to read. The journals began almost sixty years earlier, when his grandmother, Ruth Monroe, had been a little girl. Catherine skimmed through the first book. Apparently Ruth had been born and raised in San Francisco. Her father had run a hardware store. Her mother had been a teacher. Ruth had been the oldest of three children and the only girl, which often made her feel like an outsider, as her brothers were inseparable.
As Catherine continued to read, she began to feel a connection to the little girl telling her life story in bits and pieces. Her heart began to open, and she felt the emotions when Ruth graduated from eighth grade, when she went to high school, had her first kiss, fell in love, lost that love and thought her heart was broken. She followed Dylan's grandmother into her early twenties, to her first job as a receptionist at the San Francisco Herald and her desire to work her way up to reporter, only to continue to be shunted to the society and fashion pages instead of hard news.
Catherine wondered if Dylan knew that his grandmother had shared his passion for journalism. Or maybe he did know, and that was why there was such a closeness between them.
Eventually Dylan's grandmother's ambition was tempered by love. In covering a high-society party, she met and fell in love with Conrad Sanders, the executive vice president of an insurance company. Within a year they were married and expecting a baby, a girl they named Eleanor. Two miscarriages followed Eleanor's birth, and Ruth despaired of ever giving her husband a son.
Catherine wiped her eyes, feeling the woman's sadness and burden as if they were her own. Then she smiled as she flipped through the pages and saw the entry announcing that she was pregnant. Ruth would have her baby boy. And she would name him Richard. Dylan's father had certainly been wanted. And spoiled, according to Ruth, who had chronicled her years as a mother and her guilt at wanting to give everything to the son she had waited so long to have, even at the expense of favoring Richard over Eleanor. Treated in many ways like a little prince, Richard had apparently earned his sense of entitlement at an early age.
As she picked up the next journal, Catherine realized she needed to turn on the lamp. The afternoon had passed and daylight had faded. Checking her watch, she realized it was almost seven. She'd been so wrapped up in the journals she'd lost track of time. The house was certainly quiet. Dylan must still be going over his tapes or working on his computer. Maybe she'd just read one more journal and then go see what he was doing.
The next diary picked up years later, and her pulse quickened as she realized that Ruth was writing about the fact that her precious Richard had asked a woman to marry him. The young woman's name was Olivia Marshall. She was a kindergarten teacher working at her first job. Richard's father, Conrad, was not happy about his son's choice. He thought Richard could have done far better than a teacher who came from a broken home and had not a speck of blue blood in her. But Richard was infatuated with Olivia. He'd even told his mother that Olivia had cast a spell over him. Ruth wrote in her diary that she was secretly thrilled about the match, because she thought Richard needed someone to soften him, to show him another side of life, but at the same time she also worried that Olivia wasn't strong enough to take on her son.
Had Richard broken Olivia's spirit? Was that why she'd run away? Catherine starting flipping pages, realizing that if Ruth had written about everything else, she'd surely written about the breakup of her son's marriage. But the journal ended with the celebration of Jake's birth, years before Richard and Olivia had split up.
Setting the book aside, she dug deeper into the drawer and pulled out two books tied together with a frayed light blue ribbon. As she held the journals, a wave of warmth started in her hand, spreading through her body. Her spine began to tingle. There was something in here, something important. She tried to untie the ribbon, but it was knotted. Anxiety pooled in her stomach. She looked up, wondering why the shadows on the walls were growing bigger. She felt as if something bad were coming. Perhaps she wasn't meant to know. The knot stubbornly eluded her attempts to undo it. She was about to go in search of a pair of scissors when the window shattered.
The blast drove her back against the wall as shards of glass flew across the room.
Shocked by the unexpected attack, she froze, trying to figure out what had happened. Had someone thrown a rock through a window? A baseball? But it was dark outside, and there was no sound of anyone yelling an apology.
"Dylan!" she called in a panic, terrified to take a step.
"Catherine," he yelled back, his footsteps quick as he bounded up the stairs. He ran into the room. "What the hell happened?"
"Something came through the glass."
He started forward. "Wait." She put up her hand. "Don't get too close to the window. It could be a trick, a way to get you in sight."
Dylan squatted down next to the jagged, shattered pieces of glass on the floor. He searched for whatever had broken the window.
"I don't see a rock or a brick or anything," she said.
Dylan glanced at the windowpane and then at her, his gaze worried. "I think someone shot the glass out."
"No," she breathed, putting a hand to her heart. Had whoever shot Erica in the park come after them?
Dylan grabbed her hand and pulled her from the room.
"Where are we going?" she asked as they ran downstairs.
Before he could reply one of the windows burst in the living room; a second later the one next to it suffered the same fate. Yet there was no preceding sound of a shot.
"Why can't I hear a gun?" she asked.
"He must have a silencer," Dylan said grimly as they took cover in the hallway.
"Oh, God," Catherine murmured, more scared than she'd ever been in her life.
"Stay here. I'm going to run to the den, grab my computer, and then we're getting the hell out of here."
"We need to call the police."
"If we do, I'll be arrested."
"It's better than being dead."
"Just wait here. Okay? One problem at a time."<
br />
Catherine put her hand against the wall, steeling herself for the sound of another window breaking, but all was quiet, almost too quiet. Her heart pounded against her chest. She had trouble taking a breath. And she felt almost light-headed. But she couldn't pass out. She had to fight for her life.
Think, she told herself. If they were going to make a run for it, she needed her purse, her money. She could live without the rest. Her bag was on a table at the end of the hall. Staying close to the wall, she moved down the corridor on silent feet. She stuffed the journals she still had in her hand into her purse and had just put the strap over her shoulder when the window in the dining room shattered. The scream came out of her mouth without conscious thought.
Dylan rushed out of the den, his computer case in his hands. He looked relieved to see her in one piece. "I told you to stay put."
"I had to get my purse. How are we going to get away? As soon as we try to leave, he'll shoot us. That's probably what he's trying to do right now, flush us out of the house."
"I know, Catherine, but if we don't go, we're sitting ducks."
A second window burst in the dining room. The shooter was playing with them. She blinked back tears of terror.
"The garage," Dylan said. "We'll take your car. We can get into the garage through the kitchen door."
With her heart in her throat, she followed him out to her car. He'd backed it in, so at least they'd be driving forward when he opened the garage door.
Dylan threw his stuff into the backseat while she buckled her seat belt. Then he pushed a button on the side of the garage, jumped into the car, and waited for the door to go up. The next two minutes would be the most dangerous.
"Get down," Dylan told her. "On the floor."
She undid the seat belt and tried to squeeze herself into the space between the seat and the front console. "What about you?"
"I'll be fine. Hang on."
She grabbed the edges of the seat and prayed as Dylan pushed his foot down on the gas and the car shot forward. The window next to her shattered, and she screamed as the car skidded out of the driveway.
Silent Fall Page 20
