The Senator’s Daughter by Christine Carroll Page A

flannel shirt ($7.99). Her mirrored face, captured in the wavy glass above the bureau, showed no makeup, her hair a curling cloud over her shoulders instead of being tamed by brush and blow-dryer. The bruise was less noticeable than the day before, and the ache in her calf had dulled.
    Down the darkened hall, through the lobby and dining room with their view of mist rising from the river, and she found out she’d beaten Mary to the kitchen.
    Hands on hips, Sylvia surveyed her new domain. It was a far cry from her parents’ stone and stainless decor and different from the smaller high-tech space in her town house. The Victorian’s rustic theme continued into its kitchen with a wood-burning stove along with an electric, a copper sink, and matching pots suspended from an overhead rack. A microwave rested discreetly within the generous walk-in pantry.
    Knowing Mary would be along soon to help direct her in the menu, Sylvia located placemats and silverware. With nine rooms of two-person parties, she set places along the big oak table seating ten and the two smaller tables for four each.
    Finding linen napkins in a drawer, Sylvia recalled the way she’d seen them folded and placed atop the plates in fancy restaurants. It took a few minutes to duplicate the results. In the fridge, she found a gallon jug of orange juice and poured into crystal goblets she found in a cabinet.
    While she was spooning aromatic fresh-ground beans into the basket of the coffee machine, Mary came in. “Good morning, Sylvia.”
    Maybe she should have called herself Jane or Carol. What would Mary think if she knew the identity of the woman working in her kitchen?

    When it had been two weeks since Sylvia stopped using her credit cards, Senator Chatsworth ordered Lyle to make a Sunday afternoon command appearance at his Sausalito home.
    Taking the ferry across the Bay, Lyle enjoyed this first day of October. The clear sky reflected in the water, and perspective made the Golden Gate Bridge appear colossal. Though he sat on the upper deck with the breeze in his face, he envied the folks taking weekend sails or windsurfing. Since Sylvia disappeared, he had spent his days and most of his evenings combing the Internet, making calls, and visiting people who knew Sylvia for clues as to her whereabouts.
    Unsurprisingly, he had confirmed no activity on her cards, cell phone, or any other sign of her. And despite cops, highway patrol, sheriffs, and half the population of central California being on the lookout, the Senator’s daughter appeared to have dropped off the planet.
    As for Lyle’s fingerprints in Sylvia’s town house, his position and association with Chatsworth had spared him a trip downtown for interrogation. Nonetheless, he’d spent an uncomfortable hour with a detective, explaining how “the kiss” had led to his being all over Sylvia’s town house the Friday night before she disappeared.
    From the moment Lyle stepped off the ferry by the Sausalito marina, he enjoyed the little Mediterranean-style village. Walking along the level quayside street at the base of a cliff, he appreciated a display of oil paintings outside a gallery. Couples strolled with their arms around each other’s waists, their faces turned up to the fall sun. A man and woman shared an ice-cream cone. Another fellow was composing a photo of his girl with the waterfront in the background; Lyle paused and offered to take a picture of them together.
    Leaving the bustling village, he began the climb toward Chatsworth’s home. Within a few minutes, he felt the grade in his calf muscles and slowed to avoid arriving at the Senator’s place in a sweat. According to the map he’d downloaded on his computer, he had at least a half mile of uphill. The steep streets curved back on each other with hidden cul-de-sacs.
    What the map did not show was the banks of ivy lining the street and the thick stands of evergreen and eucalyptus, each