Built in the 1960s, the living room had dark wall-to-wall paneling. The tiny kitchen still had the original appliances, and the master bathroom’s faux-marble countertop was stained and chipped. The apartment also came with a parking space under the carport and a convenient lap pool. But the winning feature was the panoramic view. Two side-by-side sliding glass doors opened onto a shallow balcony that looked down to a lush, green canyon. It literally felt like she was living in the canyon.

  If she positioned a couch and chairs just so on the orange shag carpet, she could gaze all the way down to the freeway and golf course, a few blocks from the newspaper.

  By 6:00 p.m., she’d checked out of the Sheraton, loaded her belongings back into her car, and moved them into her new living room: two suitcases of clothes, a sleeping bag, two pillows, her and Franny’s guitars, and a few small but necessary items, such as a corkscrew. The other boxes still had yet to arrive.

  Although her parents both came from old San Diego families, their wealth was nowhere near Vincent Battrelle’s. Still, Katrina rejected even a marginally materialistic lifestyle. She’d maintained a nomadic mindset since college and saw no reason to change that now. If and when The New York Times called, she didn’t want to be weighed down by armchairs, lamps, and end tables.

  Walking from room to room, she pictured where she would place the few pieces of her parents’ furniture from the storage units. No sense bringing much. She’d have to move it back to the house anyway.

  Although she knew their antiques were valuable, they weren’t really her style. She hadn’t been able to face selling any of them, but she wasn’t sure if she could live with them either, haunted by the memories.

  Settling into her sleeping bag on the living-room floor, she leaned back on a pillow against the wall, with her laptop resting on a second pillow across her thighs. She was still doing research when Goode called around 8:15 p.m.

  “What’s the news today, Scoop? Figure out where Alex Battrelle is yet?”

  “Have you been talking to my editor? It’s Sunday, if you haven’t noticed. But no. Have you?”

  Either he was playing dumb, or he didn’t understand that she couldn’t share information with him. There was a big red line between reporters and their sources, but the sources often didn’t understand this was an “us” and “them” relationship.

  “Am I supposed to be looking for him?” he asked coyly.

  “You know I can’t share information with you, right?”

  “Really?”

  Definitely playing dumb.

  Long pause.

  “Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he said. “Hey, one thing. Did your source mention any bad blood between Michael and Alex Battrelle?”

  “No, not at all. In fact, the opposite. Why do you ask?”

  “Because one or both was seeing Victoria. But that’s off the record for now as well.”

  “Yeah, I was wondering about that,” she said.

  “Oh, really, why’s that?”

  “I found some photos of her with each of them, holding hands and arms around each other, but not at the same time.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “By the way, you need to say ‘off the record’ before you tell me something—it’s supposed to be an agreement between us, not a statement after the fact—or it’s fair game.”

  “Ah, maybe that’s how I’ve gotten myself into trouble in the past.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was joking, but she had to lay the ground rules with him. He was one sarcastic dude.

  “Sounds like it,” she said. “I’ll let it slide this time, because I already confirmed it elsewhere, but that’s your last warning.”

  “Check. Autopsies are done, by the way. See you tomorrow at the news conference. Ciao.”

  News conference? About what? But he’d hung up before she could ask what they’d learned.

  Damn him.

  Chapter 13

  Goode

  Sunday–Monday

  Stone called Goode, all pumped up, right before midnight.

  “Byron got the warrants for tomorrow morning,” he said. “You two should team up at the surgery, and I’ll meet Foster at Vitaleron. Before they open, like, 7:30 a.m. Then we’ll do the switcheroo so we don’t miss anything.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Goode said.

  “The lieutenant got us a few guys as backup so no one can sneak out the side door with a computer. I have no idea why he wants to call attention to the search at a news conference. Seems unusual and unwise.”

  Goode managed to get a few hours’ sleep, but he was up at five o’clock, beating his coffee brewer to the punch. By seven twenty, he was practically vibrating, fully caffeinated, in the Explorer outside Dr. Simon Fontaine’s surgery on Nobel Drive, waiting for the employees to show up. His team had synchronized their watches to enter both sites at the same time in case an employee called to warn the other location.

  “Let me do the talking,” Goode said as he and Byron followed an older man and a younger woman inside.

  “Sure, boss. No problem. I’ll be the muscle,” Byron said, referencing a long-standing joke about his stocky weight lifter’s physique, a stark contrast to Goode’s long, lean surfer body.

  The older man proved to be Fontaine’s partner, Dr. Warren Russell, and the woman was his daughter, Regina. Goode talked to the doctor in one of the waiting rooms while London, from the RCFL, packed up the computers.

  Russell’s eyes were puffy and red. He explained in a raspy voice that he hadn’t slept since he’d read the Sun-Dispatch Saturday morning.

  “Is this really necessary, Detective?” he asked, referring to the computer seizure. “We’re trying to run a business here, and these contain all our patients’ medical records.”

  “Right, we’ll copy them as soon as we can,” Goode said, noting that they might have to get a special master to review the medical records before they could actually read them, though he didn’t know if that would even be necessary. “Don’t you back up to an external drive or the cloud?”

  “We’ve talked about it, but we aren’t very tech savvy here. Regina is stretched pretty thin as our bookkeeper and part-time receptionist. Simon was always telling me—” he said, his voice breaking as his upper lip shook.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”

  “Thank you. Sorry,” Russell said, wiping away a tear. “Simon, Vincent, and I had long been scheduled to play in an annual charity golf tournament this past weekend, so it’s tradition for my wife, daughter, and son-in-law to plan a getaway somewhere. Regina has been busy with her girls, so I’ve had to process this on my own. It was so sudden, so unexpected.”

  “How long have you known Simon Fontaine?”

  “He’s been my partner for the last twenty-five years. We met in medical school.”

  “Wow, that’s tough,” Goode said. “I need to ask, has your surgery practice been having any financial problems?”

  “No, not at all,” Russell said, frowning. “We’ve got more patients than we can handle. We had a full week lined up, in fact, but I can’t do all the surgeries myself. Our only surgical assistant called in sick today, and now you’re taking our records. We’ll have to close up shop entirely if we can’t access their files.”

  “Are these three your only computers?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll copy the hard drive of the computer with the patient records and leave it here, but we’ll take the other two. Here’s the warrant,” he said, handing him the document. “As you can see, we’re also looking for an inventory of drugs you have stored here. Who keeps track of that?”

  “That would be our nurse, Esperanza,” he said.

  “Is she here?” Goode asked.

  “No, like I said, she called in sick this morning, so we’ll have to cancel today’s procedures anyway.”

  Sick, really? That seems a little convenient. She’s already on my list to interview.

  “I see. You still have access to her drug files, correct?”

  “Yes, I would think so. She and my daughter share a computer, the same one with the patient files. We follow all DEA protocols,” he said.

  “Can I get her phone number?”

  “Sure, Regina has it.”

  Per the warrant, Russell directed Goode to the cold-storage area, then to the cabinet where they kept the drugs at room temperature.

  “You keep syringes here too?”

  “Yes, of course, there in the cabinet,” Russell said.

  “Do you keep track of those?”

  “Yes, but you can buy syringes over the counter at any drug store. They aren’t like controlled substances.”

  “Dr. Fontaine also kept some at home. Do you know why?”

  “We both take B12 pick-me-ups sometimes. He also used a little Botox now and then. I don’t go in for that stuff.”

  “I see. Do you own a gun, Dr. Russell?”

  “No, I don’t want one near me or my family. Why do you ask?” he said, frowning again.

  “We can’t discuss details of the investigation, but that’s good to know. Detective Byron will go through your drug inventory and compare it with your daily usage logs and invoices. Can your bookkeeper help him with that?”

  Russell nodded. “Regina!”

  Once Goode got through that, he texted Stone that he was heading over to Vitaleron.

  ​​RCFL collected computers, copying the server now​​, Stone wrote back. ​​Left Michael Battrelle for u to interview. He seems panicked re computer seizure. Let’s find out why.​​

  Heading northeast to Sorrento Valley, Goode drove toward the giant V of the Vitaleron logo on the futuristic, fifteen-story column of mirrored glass that reflected the pale-blue sky. He could see it from the freeway, towering above the squat cookie-cutter industrial parks surrounding it, and wondered if the architect had purposely designed it with sexual overtones.

  The lot was surprisingly empty when Goode parked his SUV in a visitor’s spot under the shade of a peppertree, leaving the window cracked so it was cool inside when he returned.

  Vitaleron occupied the top three floors, but the directory in the lobby downstairs didn’t list any additional companies. Were there no other paying tenants, or did they not want to be identified?

  I wonder if they’ve got some black ops going on in the rest of the building.

  The company’s reception area was in the penthouse suite, which offered a bird’s-eye view of the valley. Goode was greeted by a pretty receptionist with long blond hair who looked like a Barbie doll, only smarter. Her nameplate read Darla Johansen.

  “Michael, the other detective is here now,” she said, a sizable yellow diamond on her ring finger flashing in the sunlight as she hung up. “Down the hall, second door on your right, Detective.”

  That thing could sink her in the ocean. What’s she doing working here as a receptionist if she’s got a rich fiancé? Maybe she hooked up with one of the investors. Or a board member, perhaps.

  “That’s a beautiful ring,” he said, seeing if she might volunteer any information.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  As the buzzer sounded, Goode opened the hallway door and found Michael Battrelle’s office, where he stood, looking a bit frazzled, behind a formidable, but bare, black desk. He was wearing gray dress slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a purple tie, though his hair was askew as if he’d been running his hands through it.

  “This was Victoria’s office, and your people took her computer, which has all the files I need to take over her job,” Michael explained with frustration. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to do that now.”

  Gesturing toward a stuffed leather armchair for Goode to sit, Michael sat down at the desk and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the surface, his fingers joined together like a church steeple.

  “Should I be scared?” Michael asked, clumsily trying to make light of the situation. “The sergeant said he was leaving the questioning to you as the lead detective.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Goode said. “But to answer your question, I don’t know. Have you done anything wrong?”

  “I may not have done everything right in my life, but I haven’t done anything that would put me in prison, if that’s what you mean,” Michael said, shrugging defensively. “I work hard and do my best.”

  Michael tried to settle into his chair, but as it lurched back, he jerked forward, knocking his cup of soda and ice onto the floor. Opening a drawer, he quickly retrieved a stack of napkins and disappeared below to mop up the liquid.

  He rose from his knees, looking embarrassed, and dumped the wet, soggy mess into the trash. “You’ll have to forgive me,” he said. “I’ve been a wreck since I got the news. It’s unsettling being in Victoria’s office, especially now that it’s empty. I knew where she kept her napkins because we used to have lunch in here sometimes.”

  He seems jumpy. Anxious. And why is he overexplaining the napkins to me?

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Goode said. “I understand you two had been seeing each other for the past five months?”

  “Yes, although she never let me forget that we weren’t exclusive.”

  Goode had intended to ask about Vitaleron’s financial background and drug-trial status, but he took Michael’s cue and headed straight to the personal details. “How did you find out?”

  “About her seeing someone else or that she was dead?”

  “Let’s start with the first part.”

  Michael exhaled loudly. After taking another deep breath, his face crinkled as he fought back tears. Surviving men didn’t often cry during an interview, and this was the second one that day.

  “She called and broke up with me Friday morning, which came as a complete surprise. She said she really cared for me, but I wasn’t ‘it’ for her. She’d said that before, but I really thought I’d won her over. I was nicer to her than the other men in her life, like my brother. All those years he wouldn’t take his recovery seriously, and then he went wacko when he found out she’d aborted his baby. I’d hoped that she would appreciate someone more stable, who treated her with respect and didn’t call her in the middle of the night, high, asking to be picked up in a dark alley after being mugged by a dealer.”

  “Makes sense. Did she say why?”

  “Before we were dating, she always complained about her push-pull relationship with Alex, that she loved him, but they couldn’t be together. I suspected it was him, but all she said Friday was ‘There’s someone else.’ I didn’t ask, and she didn’t elaborate.”

  “I saw from your texts that you kept trying to reach her after that call. Did you ever make contact?”

  “No, but I wish I had. Maybe I could have stopped her. I don’t understand why she would do this now.”

  “Do what?”

  “Kill herself. She had a history of suicide attempts, as you’re probably aware. I’m sure Simon was devastated by the loss, since he’s the one who found her.”

  Attempts, plural? You’re the first one to definitively call this a suicide, brotha. Why are you so sure that Simon Fontaine found her? And if that’s true, then why would he promptly take his own life by injection in the neck?

  “You’re suggesting he was devastated enough to kill himself? Why?”

  “I don’t know, maybe out of guilt, or because he felt like a failure after she’d stayed clean all these years only to relapse under his watch.”

  Is that the real reason they were living together?

  “How do you think he killed himself?”

  “You guys haven’t released much information to the media, so I’m only speculating based on the ‘shots fired’ 911 call I heard about on the news.”

  “Why would Victoria kill herself the day she broke up with you to be with someone else? That doesn’t track.”

  “I’m just telling you what she said. But she also sounded ragged and weird on the phone. She’d been acting so distant and irritable lately, I thought maybe she’d relapsed, and that she broke up with me so I wouldn’t try to take her back to rehab. She could have accidentally overdosed, I guess. I don’t know. But that’s why I kept trying to reach her. Something was off.”

  That’s what the killer wants us to think, anyway. Michael has now added himself to my suspect list.

  “You said suicide attempts, plural. Tell me about that.”

  Michael described the fallout after the high school car crash as the first attempt. “She got really depressed about hurting that little girl, so she took a handful of her mom’s oxys with a bunch of whiskey. They had to pump her stomach. She almost died. You’d think Nancy would have been more careful about leaving the pills around, but she had issues too.”

  “You’d think. When did the cutting start?”

  “Sometime after Victoria OD’d. She went too deep and had to be hospitalized again. William finally stepped in, and she went to stay with him and his wife. They helped her get back on track.”

  “I see. How long ago was this?”

  “This was all toward the end of high school, so about eighteen years ago.”

  “I saw some cutting marks that looked pretty fresh.”

  “I did too, but they weren’t that deep. She got defensive when I asked her about them, so I didn’t push. Now I wish I had.”

  “How did you find out she was dead?”

  “I saw it on the news Saturday morning. I was totally shocked. Heartbroken, really. I’m sure Simon was too. I loved her very much and hoped to marry her someday. Our families are tied up financially, but emotionally it’s always been, well, complicated.”

  Goode felt bad for the guy, but his double-suicide theory didn’t jibe with the scene. Someone had moved Simon’s body, shot him in the temple, and shoved those pills down Victoria’s throat.

  Was it him, angry that she broke up with him, then wouldn’t answer his calls or texts? Either way, my gut says he’s lying.

  “Thanks for your time,” Goode said, standing up to leave.