Vanishing Point

“Terry-Jennifer’s sister.”

“Terry went home. Yesterday evening, after- Sharon, I have to go.”

I hung up before he did, and called Terry Wyatt in Davis.

“Damn right I left,” Terry Wyatt said. “There’s such a thing as family loyalty, but as far as I’m concerned, Mark isn’t family anymore.”

“What happened?”

“Yesterday afternoon he came home from an appointment in the city in a foul mood. Holed up in his office for a while, then came out, went straight to the wet bar and started sucking up Scotch. After his fourth drink, I suggested we eat the dinner the housekeeper had prepared and left in the oven. He said he wasn’t hungry. I told him he needed to eat and swilling booze wasn’t going to bring Jen home. And that’s when he attacked me.”

“Attacked you?”

“Threw his glass and hit me on the forehead-I’ve got a nasty bruise to show for it. Then he started ranting about what a bitch I was, but at least I wasn’t a lying cunt like my sister. I was trying to leave the room, but he got between me and the door and shoved me so hard I fell against the back of the sofa. He trapped me there, loomed over me, and said all sorts of awful things.”

“Such as?”

“That Jen was the worst thing that ever happened to him. That she was crazy and he ought to’ve had her committed months ago. That because of her he was ruined professionally, and he hoped she’d rot in hell. And then he just started cursing-some of the worst obscenities I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard plenty. Finally I managed to get away from him. I grabbed my car keys and ran out of there without taking any of my stuff. And I’m never going back. When you find Jen, I want her to come stay with my husband and me, so we can convince her she should divorce that maniac.”

“Those were his exact words-that he hoped Jennifer would rot in hell?”

“Yes. Why- Oh my God, you don’t think he killed her?”

“I doubt it,” I said quickly, with more confidence than I felt. “Mark had just suffered a major professional problem that probably wouldn’t have happened if your sister hadn’t disappeared. He was taking it out on you.”

“Well, he’s going to suffer a major personal problem before I’m through with him.”

“I think your anger’s fully justified. But now I need you to do something for me.” I explained about her sister borrowing the neighbor’s car. “Mark sounded as if he was incapable of notifying the highway patrol. He couldn’t even give me the color or license plate number of Estee Pearson’s Porsche.”

“I know Estee and her husband, and I’m sure they’re listed in the directory; they’re the kind of people who can’t bear to miss a call, even if it’s from an aluminum-siding salesman. I’ll phone them and get the information, then notify the highway patrol myself.”

“Thank you, Terry. Will you call in the information on the car to my office manager? He’ll notify any other agencies who’re cooperating.”

“Will do.” A pause. “Sharon, I’m scared for Jen.”

“Don’t be,” I said-again more confidently than I felt. “Just hang in there, and we’ll get through this.”

So what had happened to Jennifer Aldin? Had the story Melissa Baker told her about Josie’s last day triggered a breakdown? Had she then gone home to Atherton, taken her neighbor’s car, and begun running on a reckless course like her mother’s? No, not like her mother’s. Laurel Greenwood’s course had been well planned and deliberate. Emil Tiegs’s story had proven that.

And what if Jennifer hadn’t taken the neighbor’s car? What if she’d gone home, quarreled with her husband, and Mark, unable to cope any longer with her obsession, had killed her? I had only his word that he wasn’t aware that she and Estee Pearson possessed keys to each other’s vehicles. Knowing the Pearsons were away on vacation, he could have taken the Porsche, loaded Jennifer’s body into it, and left her SUV in its place. And then disposed of both the car and its burden.

When the Porsche was finally located, would it-and Jennifer-be in some remote place, such as the bottom of a ravine in the Santa Cruz Mountains, buzzards circling above?

God, McCone, get a grip on that imagination! Finish your report, e-mail it, and try to find an angle to work on Kev Daniel.

I don’t do waiting very well. Once I’d finished and sent my report, time lay heavy on my hands. I tried to read, but my thoughts kept coming back to the case. I channel-surfed and found nothing of interest on TV. Finally I decided to order dinner from room service and picked up the guest information folder; a map of area wineries was tucked into one of its pockets. Daniel Kane Vineyards was on Paloma Road, some ten miles east of town.

Fifteen minutes later I was speeding along Highway 46 in my rental car. Just checking out the territory, I told myself.

The winery was farther off the highway than it looked on the map. I was beginning to think I’d turned the wrong way on Paloma Road when rows of grapevines appeared, covering the flat fields to either side; then a floodlit sign, gray with gold-and-black lettering, loomed up on the right. Stone pillars flanked the foot of a blacktop drive that snaked off under a canopy of oaks. No gate.

I drove by, doused my lights, and pulled onto the shoulder next to a drainage ditch. Got out of the car and walked back. Slipped under the protection of the trees and moved along parallel to the driveway. After about a hundred yards it divided around another stand of oaks. I kept going to the left, following an arrow with the words “Wine Tasting” lettered on it. From the top of a low rise, I spotted a collection of brightly floodlit buildings: what looked to be an old barn, and several prefab metal structures-the winery itself. One of them bore a sign indicating it was a tasting room. Temporary, until the new one Jacob Ziff was designing could be built.

After studying the layout for a moment, I backtracked to the fork and followed the drive to the right. The trees ended, and I found myself in more vineyards. Faint lights shone ahead; I crouched down and made for them, peering through the vines as I got closer.

A house: gray wood and stone, one-story and sprawling, with plenty of large windows to take advantage of the vineyard views. The driveway ended in an oval in front of it. Floodlights illuminated the house’s facade, but its windows were dark. The vines grew up to within a few feet of a wide deck that wrapped around the entire structure. I hesitated only a moment before I moved closer.

The windows’ glass glinted in the moonlight. I crept through the vines toward the back, but saw nothing. Went around the entire house and was almost back to the driveway when headlights shone through the trees. I crouched down next to the side of the deck.

A low-slung car came out of the trees, going fast. For a moment I thought it would overshoot the pavement and plow into the deck, but then the driver geared down and slammed on the brakes. The car-a light-colored Jaguar-skidded and came to a stop near the house’s front steps. I edged around the corner of the deck and saw the headlights go out and Kev Daniel lurch through the door. He staggered toward the house as if he was drunk. In the brightness of the floods, I could clearly see his rumpled clothing and disheveled hair; one shoulder of his long- sleeved shirt was nearly ripped off.

Good God, had the man been in a bar fight?

Daniel paused at the bottom of the steps to the deck, placed a hand on the railing. Leaned there and hung his head, then shook it. When he looked up again, I got a good view of his face.

He wasn’t drunk. He looked sick-and terrified.

He remained there for at least thirty seconds, breathing heavily before moving up the steps. I was debating whether to go after him and confront him while his defenses were down when my cell phone rang.

Stupid to have left it on. Stupid!

I yanked the damned device from my bag, pressed the answer button, and scrambled away through the vines. Behind me Daniel bellowed, “Who’s there? Whoever you are, you’re trespassing!” His voice sounded more frightened than angry.

As I reached the shelter of the oak trees along the driveway, I heard a voice coming from the phone.

“Shar? Shar?” Charlotte Keim.

“Yes,” I whispered, “I’m here.”