“Oh, good. That’s a relief. Start writing now so we can get it online before anyone gets wind of this. If we give our competitors something to chase, we’ll stay one step ahead of them. I’ll have Norman Klein feed you what he’s got from the presser. He might have gotten a few tidbits that you didn’t. Send me the story when you’re done, and we’ll run it up the pike.”

  “What does that mean?” Katrina asked.

  “John Palmer and the lawyers will have to sign off on it,” she said. “He’s not going to like it, but we don’t have much of a choice. For now, it’s mostly about Vitaleron, so we should be okay.”

  Frozen in her chair, Katrina stared at the blank computer screen. It was difficult to navigate the land mines, but once she got going, the words started to flow. She had plenty of good material for a daily story.

  Thankfully, the editing went pretty quickly, because she purposely pulled her punches for another day. The rest of her research needed more time to steep, anyway.

  While she was waiting to be released, she ran Goode’s name through the archives. She was surprised to find a year-old story by Norman Klein, describing how Goode had saved him from an armed, mentally ill woman from the cliffs of Black’s Beach, right before she jumped to her death.

  Wow. That is some crazy shit. Goode is a good man.

  Linda let her go at 7:30 p.m., after which she headed straight to Vincent’s place.

  Chapter 20

  Goode

  Monday

  After the news conference, Goode headed inside police HQ to his desk, wondering why the mayor had asked the chief to hold the damn thing and then didn’t show up. Maybe a politically savvy insider had warned him at the last minute that it would be ill advised to appear at a news conference with Vitaleron flunkies on city property. Because it was. Good call.

  It also had been niggling him all day why the Vitaleron parking lot was so empty. Whoever owned the building could be doing more with it—unless, as he’d theorized, they were running a black ops program on the other floors that required absolute secrecy and no visible staffing.

  Clicking on the county assessor’s website, he learned that the building was owned by Lexicon Group LLC, registered to an address on Prospect Street in La Jolla. Lexicon appeared to be a shell company, because its corporate formation paperwork listed no other specific purpose.

  Cross-checking Lexicon with the secretary of state, he found corporate formation documents filed eight years earlier, stating that Simon Fontaine was president, Peter Chopin was vice president, Vincent Battrelle was treasurer, and Francis Chopin was the registered agent. But when its annual form was filed three years later, Fontaine and the Chopins were gone. Vincent was president, and his two sons were vice president and treasurer.

  Typing “Vitaleron” into the same corporation-search page, he saw that it was formed two years before Lexicon bought the building that now housed Vitaleron’s HQ, and it originally had three founding partners: Simon Fontaine, Vincent Battrelle, and Peter Chopin. But Chopin’s name was dropped from the paperwork the following year, just as it was with Lexicon.

  Vincent Battrelle must have bought the other partners out of the building or made some other arrangement. And this Peter Chopin character was also involved in Vitaleron as well. Was Fontaine having financial troubles even back then?

  Then it hit him.

  Peter and Francis Chopin? Was that Katrina’s family?

  Googling “Double-Judge Murders” again, he reread the stories: Peter and Aphrodite Chopin were Katrina’s parents, and their son was Francis. It hadn’t clicked before because he didn’t focus on their names. At Piatti, Katrina never mentioned her last name or her parents’, and when she did mention her brother, she always called him Franny.

  Goode found it curious that the Vitaleron website made no mention of Peter Chopin as a founding partner. The man was a ghost. Vincent Battrelle wasn’t credited as such either, only as the second-largest investor to the founder, Simon Fontaine.

  So, Peter was either a silent partner or he dropped out entirely. Was that because he was a judge? Or something else?

  Diving back into the Advocate story about the judge murders, he viewed the conspiracy theory with a whole new perspective, noting that Vincent Battrelle had also invested in Franny Chopin’s final project, the one that tanked before he died.

  Maybe it’s not so crazy that the Advocate linked all three deaths in the Chopin family to this failed hotel project. You’d think the PD would have been all over this. Did the killer have an inside guy in our agency, and if so, does this mean Katrina could be in danger? Should I even tell her about these filings? If she’s already done the same research I did, you’d think she would have said something about it.

  Either way, he needed answers, because right now, Vincent and his family were looking more and more like the nexus. Growing up, Goode had learned a lesson as he watched a few of his wealthier classmates and their family members go to prison: Follow the money. That lesson had served him well in Vice, and even more so in Homicide.

  With this new information and Alex MIA, he needed Vincent to explain what was going on behind the scenes at Vitaleron. He also needed a better understanding of the dynamics between the Fontaines and Battrelles, all the way back to their partnership with Peter Chopin. It was time to pay Vincent a surprise visit.

  Vincent Battrelle answered Goode’s knock holding a crystal tumbler of whiskey on the rocks that was almost overflowing. He was visibly surprised and disappointed to see Goode standing there.

  “Detective Goode, Homicide,” Goode said, pulling out his badge.

  “I was expecting someone else,” Vincent said, pausing, apparently, to get his bearings.

  Looks like he’s had a couple of those. He seems confused. And agitated.

  “Can we talk inside?” Goode asked.

  “Can we do this tomorrow?” Vincent countered.

  “It won’t take long, and we may need to follow up tomorrow at the station, because I will probably have more questions.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  Vincent wasn’t budging, and Goode was tiring of the delay tactics. “Are you going to let me in?”

  Sighing, Vincent finally stepped aside. “Yes, all right, I suppose. Let’s go to the living room, right down here,” he said.

  Plopping into the armchair next to Goode on the couch, Vincent took a sip of his drink, then smacked it down on the table.

  “Sorry,” he said. “The glass is wet and slippery. So, what’s so important that you needed to come to my house?”

  “First, I’m sorry for the loss of your friends, the Fontaines, and second, I’m sorry for the loss of what was likely your grandchild. I assume by now you’ve heard that Victoria was pregnant.”

  “Yes, I heard it on TV. You guys could have given us a private heads-up. My son Michael didn’t tell me until afterward that they’d been dating for the past five months and that it was possibly his child she was carrying.”

  “Yes, or his brother’s,” Goode said.

  “Alex? No. I haven’t seen him in six months.”

  “Well, I have texts from Victoria’s phone showing that Alex was at the Fontaine house the night before they were found dead and that he left the following morning.”

  Vincent shook his head. “That’s not possible.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he’s literally been off the radar for six months. I actually hired an investigator to find him.”

  “Just because you don’t know where he is doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. I have an independent source who says Simon Fontaine saw him there Thursday night. What was your relationship like with Simon?” Goode asked.

  Vincent’s eyes flashed with anger. “What are you implying?”

  “It’s just a question. Was there some bad blood, a financial problem, or a falling-out between you?”

  “No, nothing like that. The last disagreement we had was about Alex, and that was two years ago.”

  “Oh?”

  “Simon said he wanted Alex off the board for missing too many meetings, but I just think he didn’t like having my son on there, challenging his ideas. Alex is brilliant, you know. He’s had his problems, but he’s got a great business mind. Nonetheless, Simon seemed threatened by him, so he orchestrated a vote to remove him. When I countermanded by getting Michael appointed, Simon backed off. He seemed to like Michael well enough. He’s easier to control.”

  “Did you know that Simon Fontaine was shot in the head?”

  Like his son, Vincent was guarded, but he didn’t look entirely surprised by the question.

  “Yes, I think I heard that,” Vincent said with a careful, if not calculated, nonchalance. Knowing they hadn’t released that detail publicly, Goode threw him a baited fishing line.

  “Do you think he was the kind of man who would kill himself?”

  Vincent’s face brightened, almost too predictably. “You know, it’s curious you say that, because he didn’t seem like himself lately.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He was far more irritable and irrational than usual. Like he had too much on his plate.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think there was more going on at home or at work than we know about?”

  “I think that’s a very real possibility.”

  Now for the zinger.

  “I see that Peter Chopin partnered with you and Simon on the Vitaleron building, but then he dropped off the paperwork. And he was also one of the original founding partners of Vitaleron, yet he’s not even mentioned on the website. Was he bounced before or after he was murdered?” Goode asked.

  Vincent dropped his glass, which shattered on the tile floor, sending shards in every direction as the pool of whiskey crept toward the steps.

  “Dammit!” Vincent said loudly, but he didn’t move. Paralyzed, apparently. I guess I hit a nerve.

  The sound of the doorbell chiming brought Vincent back, as he looked around frantically for something to wipe up the mess. Goode, who was enjoying the spectacle, didn’t offer to help. He was too busy observing.

  “Could you get the door, please?” Vincent muttered. “I’ve got to find a towel or something.”

  “Sure, why not,” Goode muttered back, more than a little annoyed that his interrogation ploy had not only lost its spontaneous impact to the doorbell but also created a delay that gave Vincent time to conjure up a creative answer.

  The detective made his way through the labyrinthian maze to the front door, where he was pleased, and a bit amused, to see Katrina. But the serendipity seemed to startle her, as she stood silently staring back at him. As if she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to.

  “What are you doing here?” she blurted out.

  “I could say the same to you,” he said, relishing the moment. “I’m doing a little police business. How ’bout you?”

  “I came to talk to Vincent,” she said. “I mean, Mr. Battrelle.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But I’m going to go since you guys are obviously busy,” she said, turning to leave. “Can you please tell him I’ll come back in a bit?”

  “Sure thing.”

  What was that all about? I’ll have to pry the details out of her later.

  Back in the living room, Vincent was picking up the glass shards and placing them into the small kitchen trash bin.

  “Ow, shit!” he exclaimed, dropping one of them to shatter some more.

  As the blood streamed from Vincent’s index finger and dripped on the floor, Goode grabbed a roll of paper towels from the coffee table.

  “Here, give me your hand,” he offered.

  Looking panicked, Vincent extended his bloody right hand. While his finger was being bound with a folded towel, Vincent’s shoulders slumped with what Goode imagined was embarrassment and humility, two emotions the man likely didn’t exhibit often. As Goode squeezed tighter, Vincent grimaced and looked away.

  “Am I going to need stitches?” he asked.

  Opening the towel, Goode was shocked by the amount of blood, but the seepage seemed to be slowing. “I’ll keep the pressure on for a bit longer, and hopefully it’ll start clotting up. If you can keep it higher, gravity will help.”

  “You threw me with that question about Peter,” Vincent admitted.

  “Okay, so do you want to explain that to me?”

  Visibly trying to shake off the whiskey fog, Vincent answered contemplatively: “The short answer is that Peter thought his wife and I were having an affair, which we weren’t, although I was probably still in love with her. He could never get past the fact that Aphy and I dated back in law school. She was quite a woman, but she said I wasn’t the one. Next thing I knew she was engaged, married, and pregnant with twins, and in what order, I’m not sure. Thirty years later, Peter still couldn’t accept that she’d already picked him over me. When I learned that we’d hired Katrina last week, I invited her over here for a drink. I couldn’t get over how much she reminded me of her mother. She’s just as beautiful and talented, too, it seems.”

  So, Vincent was her source.

  “This falling-out came after you all went in together on Vitaleron and the Lexicon property?”

  “Yes. We were all members of the University Club downtown. Peter saw me talking to Aphy at a couple of speaker lunches and cocktail mixers. Maybe they were having problems at the time. I don’t know. But he divested from Vitaleron and the building shortly after that and said he wanted his name wiped from any documents or websites.”

  “How did he know Simon?”

  “We were all in a family drug-and-alcohol treatment group together at the McDonald Center. Our kids were in and out of the group, but we, the parents, still attended the group periodically to share personal stories and challenges, because relapses were common. Simon was looking for investors in Vitaleron, then the property became available, and the rest is history.”

  Why did you drop the glass when I mentioned his name, then? I’ve got a hunch you’re holding something back, if not lying. Just like your son.

  “Where were you the day Victoria and Simon died?”

  “I was playing golf at Torrey Pines with some Vitaleron board members,” he said. “I’ve got a receipt from the clubhouse bar if you want to see it.”

  Well, that’s a convenient alibi.

  “What time was that?”

  “We were there all afternoon and into the early evening,” he said.

  Well, that doesn’t cover the timing of the 911 call. But it could help us flesh out the overall timeline.

  “Okay. Yes, I’d like to see the receipt, please.”

  Vincent seemed to have collected himself. “If I’m going to get it, I’ll need my hand back, Detective,” he said.

  “Looks like it’s stopped bleeding,” Goode said, opening the towel for another peek.

  “My wallet’s in the bedroom.”

  Goode thought about taking the bloody wad of towels on the coffee table as a DNA sample. But he figured he’d better go by the book.

  Who knows what these sex-crazed old dudes are up to these days. What if he’s the baby’s father? We might even find his DNA at the Fontaine house.

  After Vincent returned with the receipt, Goode stood up, holding the damp towel wad in his hand. “You want me to take care of this?” he asked nonchalantly.

  If he says yes, then it’s mine to enter into evidence.

  Vincent shrugged. “Sure, thanks. I’m going to leave this broken glass until tomorrow, when it’s lighter, so I can see what I’m doing without causing any more damage.”

  “Where did you go after drinks at the club?” Goode asked, shoving the wad into his pocket like it was no big deal.

  I’ll put this into a plastic evidence bag as soon as I get back to the car.

  “I stopped by the Shores to watch the sunset, then came home and fell asleep watching TV on the couch,” he said. “My wife and daughter were packing to leave for Italy the next morning—a trip planned for months, by the way—so they were running around in a tizzy.”

  “Planned for months?”

  “Yes, Warren and I were supposed to play with Simon at our usual annual charity golf tournament this past weekend, but neither of us were up for it after what happened.”

  Still seems convenient, but at least their stories are consistent . . . though it’s not an easy alibi to disprove with mom and daughter in Italy.

  “Is it possible Alex went with them?” Goode asked innocently.

  “No, they would have told me,” he said.

  “So, I won’t find him if I check the airline manifest?”

  “Do what you need to do, Detective, and if you do happen to find him, please let me know so I can call off the investigator,” Vincent said.

  “What are your wife’s and daughter’s names, and what airline did they fly?”

  “Ruth and Meredith. United to Heathrow and Alitalia to Rome, I believe. I assume we’re done here; I need to eat something,” he added, turning to walk away. “By the way, was that Katrina Chopin at the door? I was expecting her.”

  “Yes, it was. She said to tell you she’d come back in a bit. I’d ice that hand if I were you. Keep the swelling down. Then bandage it up.”

  Back in his vehicle, Goode tucked the bloody towel into a plastic evidence bag so they could run a profile to test for any DNA comparisons that might come up. First thing in the morning, he would call the airlines to check on flights from Halloween night and the next morning.

  It was all a little much to be a simple coincidence—the personal history between the Fontaines, the Battrelles, and now Katrina’s family too; Vincent Battrelle’s fallings-out with both Simon Fontaine and Peter Chopin; and the timing of Katrina’s reappearance in town, dovetailing with the Fontaines’ deaths.

  Stone was looking out for Goode by telling him not to step over the line with Katrina, but now that Goode had found this new information about her father’s connection to the Vitaleron clan, he felt he needed to stay even closer to her.