What the hell did I do, coming back here?

  She couldn’t even guess who had drafted the note, because the references seemed so all-inclusive. Was this related to her parents’ murders, her brother’s suspicious death, or, given the “watch your back” language, possibly to the Mattie Sienkiewicz situation back in Northampton?

  I’ve only written one story so far about the Fontaine case. Is that what triggered this?

  Whirling around, she scanned the canyon’s edge for anyone hiding or scurrying away. Had they been watching her through the sliding glass doors of her living room from up here? The angle didn’t seem right, seeing that the carport was up and around the corner from her apartment. No one could see into her second-floor unit from the driveway below her balcony, either, and the canyon sloped down from there. So, she didn’t see any possible vantage point where someone could sit and observe her. They would have to stand with binoculars half a mile away on the UCSD Medical Center’s rooftop to do that. Seemed like a lot of trouble to go to, but still doable. The question was, how did they know where she lived?

  Did someone follow me home from the paper last night?

  She whipped out her cell phone to call Goode, but after thinking it over, decided it was best to keep her work and personal issues separate. She punched in 911 instead.

  While she waited for a patrol officer to arrive, Katrina snapped photos of her broken window, the rock sitting on the hood, and a close-up of the note.

  Is “watch your back” standard gangster language?

  She also left a voicemail for Joanne, asking her to call as soon as possible.

  When an officer rolled up to take a report, she told him that she couldn’t be sure if it was the work of the Polish mafia in Northampton, someone local who knew her family’s history, or if it could be related to the Fontaine case. He took photos of the car and the note as well.

  Katrina was still shaking as he drove away, and she hadn’t even had any caffeine yet.

  Chapter 24

  Goode

  Tuesday

  Due to the potential link to the Fontaine case, Goode got a call from HQ, alerting him to Katrina’s 911 call shortly after she made it. But before he had a chance to follow up with her personally, his phone rang with the number he recognized from not-so-pleasant past experiences. It was the FBI.

  What the hell do the Feebs want? Did they find out about the threat to Katrina already? I wonder if they have a lead on her parents’ murder case.

  “Detective Goode?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Supervisory Special Agent Martin Watts with the FBI.”

  “Yes, I recognized the number. What can I help you with?”

  “I understand you were calling the airlines, inquiring about Alex Battrelle.”

  So, it’s not about Katrina. They’re calling about Alex? Interesting.

  “Correct.”

  “I wanted to let you know that he’s under active investigation by the bureau, the SEC, and the IRS. We have him flagged with the airlines, which is how we learned of your inquiries. As you can imagine, this is, well, a delicate situation.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We’ve been watching him for the past eighteen months and as of this week we have him right where we want him. He’s in the Cayman Islands, as you now know, where he’s conducting illegal transactions as we speak. We’re letting that play out so we can obtain an arrest warrant in the case we’ve been building.”

  “I see.”

  “What’s your interest in Alex Battrelle, Detective?”

  “He’s a person of interest in a special death investigation.”

  “The Fontaines?”

  “Yes. So, I have a delicate situation as well, Special Agent Marty—I’m sorry, what did you say your last name was?”

  “It’s Martin Watts, and that’s supervisory special agent, Detective.”

  “Right. We need him to come in for questioning right away. He’s at least a material witness and at worst a killer, so maybe we can help each other here.”

  “Well, we don’t want to alert him to our investigation at this critical juncture, so I’m not sure how we can help, but I’m happy to look over your evidence and see if it holds water.”

  Goode felt his blood pressure rising. “Holds water? Listen, I can’t just ‘send over’ my evidence. We’re trying to build a case too. How long before you have what you need from him?”

  “Maybe a week. It depends on how fast he works.”

  A week? That’s no bueno. Especially now that we have the Katrina potential-victim angle, as unfortunately convenient as that may be.

  “I don’t know that we have a week. There’s another potential victim who might be in imminent danger. That’s why we want to talk to Battrelle ASAP. He fled the country hours after the Fontaines were killed, and if he didn’t do it, he most likely knows who did. You want that on your head?”

  Watts was silent a moment. “I thought you hadn’t decided that it was a murder.”

  “Technically we haven’t, but we’re definitely leaning that way. What exactly is Alex Battrelle doing in the Caymans, anyway?”

  “He’s hiding money for some of the wealthiest men in La Jolla, Del Mar, and Rancho Santa Fe. Men going through messy divorces, men having affairs, men being dogs. You’re a homicide detective; you know the kind I’m talking about. The men who feel entitled to do whatever they please, screw the tax and securities laws, until they get caught. If they get caught. Those men. The problem is they all have very good lawyers who make our jobs difficult, so we need to have them cold, and we don’t want Mr. Battrelle dumping accounts because he knows we’re on to him.”

  “Gotcha. So, how about this. There’s a two-hour time difference and it’s a six-hour flight. Why don’t we agree that he has to be at the police station for questioning by Thursday at three p.m., but we won’t mention any federal investigation.”

  “That’s not long enough.”

  “This is not just a professional courtesy. I’ve got two dead and the life of a third potential victim is at stake. Plus, when my lieutenant breathes down my sergeant’s neck, my neck gets pretty hot too. Who is Mr. Battrelle’s lawyer?”

  “Milton Biggs.”

  “Of course he is. How ’bout this. I’ll tell Biggs that we’d like his client to be at the police station Thursday at three o’clock, but we’re asking that he come back voluntarily. Otherwise, we’ll have to ask the Cayman authorities to escort him onto a plane. That way, he won’t dump any accounts, because he’ll think it’s about the Fontaine investigation.”

  Goode could hear Watts breathing as he mulled Goode’s proposal. “Okay, Detective. Give it a shot and get back to me, but do me a favor. Don’t blow my investigation trying to save a potential victim’s life.”

  After they hung up, Goode couldn’t help himself.

  “Asshole.”

  Chapter 25

  Katrina

  Tuesday

  Despite the early hour, the café in Bankers Hill was surprisingly busy with patrons dressed in flannel jammies or workout clothes. Katrina ordered her usual double cappuccino, along with egg bites for a protein boost, and a slab of lemon bundt cake to salve that morning’s traumas.

  Picking up the local news section from one of the tables, she was pleased to see her story displayed across the top. She’d given Norman Klein a tagline at the bottom as a courtesy, but an editor had added his name to hers in a double byline. It wasn’t that she minded sharing a byline, but this story didn’t warrant it. She already had the quotes he’d sent her, and she’d only included one of them to be gracious.

  Is that a message from John Palmer that he wants Norman or Jerry—anyone but me—on this story?

  Just then, Joanne called back. Katrina had wanted to discuss the Vincent situation and the deal that Goode had offered her, but now she was going to have to report the death threat as well.

  “I need to tell you something upsetting that happened this morning, and I also need some advice, but it has to be on the DL,” Katrina said. “Could you possibly come meet me? It’s important.”

  “Sure, I agree, best not to meet at the paper. Let’s say eight o’clock at the koi pond next to the arboretum in Balboa Park,” Joanne said.

  Katrina agreed, pleased that the rendezvous spot was conveniently within walking distance.

  With some time to kill before heading over, she whipped out her journal. It had been a while since she’d had the time or the mindset to write in it. She was describing how she’d met Goode at Piatti when he actually sauntered into the café with Sergeant Stone.

  The sergeant was stockier and older than Goode, with graying temples and a soft belly, but he had a friendly face and a thick head of hair, so they were both good looking enough to qualify as models in Middle-Aged Surfing Magazine. Clutching zip-up leather man-pouches, they looked out of character in jackets and ties.

  Huddled up in line, they talked softly into each other’s ear. Goode shrugged at one point, as if to say “Hell if I know.” They were both laughing when Goode glanced over Stone’s shoulder and saw her sitting there. He gave her a discreet nod and whispered to Stone, who turned around indiscreetly and stared at her. She waved at them, Goode waved back, and Stone’s face turned red.

  After picking up their coffee, they stopped by her table in the corner, brows furrowed with concern.

  “Hey, Katrina. I got a call from HQ alerting me to your 911 call this morning. Are you okay?” Goode asked. “Is your car drivable?”

  Katrina was taken aback, not expecting him to find out before she had a chance to tell him herself.

  “Yeah, I’m okay, the car’s fine. A little shaken up is all,” she fibbed.

  “Did you take photos, I hope?” Goode asked.

  “Of course,” she said, pulling out her phone to show the detectives.

  “Wow,” Stone said. “That’s not good.” Catching himself, he apologized and extended his hand to shake Katrina’s. “Hi, sorry. Rusty Stone. Goode has told me all about your investigative talents, which, I guess, some folks are pretty scared of.”

  “Seems that way. Nice to meet you. I recognize you from both news conferences,” she said. Trying to change the subject, she asked, “What’s with the ties? Big powwow somewhere I should know about?”

  Stone looked at Goode, opening his eyes wide melodramatically, like a cartoon. “Oh, she’s good,” he said, smiling mischievously, relieved, apparently, that she was taking the rock incident in stride.

  “I know, I keep telling you that,” Goode said to Stone, then to Katrina he said, “I’ll call you in a bit and you can tell me more about it.”

  “Actually, we do have to run to a powwow, as a matter of fact. Nice meeting you,” Stone said. “I’m sure we’ll be talking.”

  As they headed out, Stone tried to whisper, but Katrina heard every word.

  “You never said she was that attractive. You’re right. You’d have to be comatose not to want to hit that. But don’t.”

  Well, then.

  Sucking down the foamy dregs of her cappuccino, Katrina picked up her purse and followed the surfing duo from a safe distance down Fifth Avenue, where they headed into an office building.

  When she caught up a few minutes later, she scanned the directory of occupants. Only one popped out: Milton Biggs & Associates.

  That’s where Darren McMurphy works. Maybe they’re questioning him?

  By then it was seven thirty, so she turned around to head back. She was wearing heeled sandals, but it was such a nice sunny morning that she took them off to go barefoot for the twenty-minute walk to the arboretum.

  Turning right on Laurel, one of the cross streets near Balboa Park, which were all named after a different type of tree, she veered onto the wet grass to clean the soles of her feet on the morning dew.

  The sidewalk felt warm and comforting as she made her way across the bridge into the Prado, where a light Santa Ana wind blew her hair into her face. Stopping to watch the cars whiz by on the freeway underneath, she recalled taking the same stroll on chilly December nights in years past, when the bridge was strung with festive holiday lights.

  A walk through the park always filled Katrina with civic pride. Its history was relatively recent compared to the East Coast, with its intricately carved facades of the Spanish Colonial Revival–style buildings dating back to 1915, when the Panama–California Exposition for the World’s Fair came to town. The Old Globe Theatre was even newer, because arsonists had burned it down—twice.

  After traveling through the covered walkways that connected museums exhibiting trains, planes, art, and anthropology, she soon reached her destination: an arboretum shaped like a giant birdcage, full of native plants, and the long rectangular pond, where foot-long orange and white koi darted around the lily pads.

  I would say it’s good to be home, but now I’m not so sure.

  Chapter 26

  Goode

  Tuesday

  Goode and Stone headed down Fifth Avenue, their ties and hair blowing askew, for a meeting with attorney Milton Biggs, which Stone arranged right after Goode’s call from the FBI. The dynamic duo was adept at double-teaming witnesses to make them and their lawyers squirm.

  The hot, dry, and dusty Santa Ana conditions, which often hit in October, exacerbated Goode’s allergies, making his eyes burn and his throat dry. The winds also made him feel a little out of sorts as they blew dirt and dust into the air. The only way to push through the discomfort was his standard answer to most any problem: more caffeine.

  As Biggs walked them into a narrow room typically used for depositions, Goode sensed that the intent was to cause intimidation, just like in a police interrogation, but he simply leaned into it.

  “Yes, we do represent Alex Battrelle, along with all the Battrelle family enterprises, including the newspaper and Vitaleron,” Biggs said smugly.

  “Why am I not surprised,” Goode said, eliciting a knee-slam from Stone under the table.

  Poor Katrina. What a quagmire. For us too.

  “We’ve already questioned Michael and Vincent Battrelle about the deaths of Victoria and Simon Fontaine, and now we need to talk to Alex,” Goode said.

  “Why’s that?” Biggs asked.

  “Because we know that he stayed Thursday night at the Fontaine house and left hours before they were found dead under very suspicious circumstances,” Stone chimed in. “He is the last known witness to see them alive.”

  “What makes their deaths so suspicious, if I may ask?” Biggs asked, looking to Goode for an answer. “And what proof do you have that he was at the house? I spoke with Vincent Battrelle before you arrived, and he claims that his son has been MIA for six months.”

  “We can’t discuss details of the scene, but we have calls and text messages between him and Victoria confirming that timeline,” Goode replied. “We also have a statement from Simon’s girlfriend that he saw Alex at the house Thursday night and that she and Simon argued about it.”

  “Okay, so a hearsay statement from another potential suspect?”

  “No one said she was a potential suspect, and we have no information that she was at the house like Alex was.”

  “But you did say she and Simon were arguing right before he was found dead.”

  “As you may have heard, Victoria was three months pregnant, and it’s clear from the call and text logs on her phone that she was having relations with both Michael and Alex.”

  Biggs raised his eyebrows, his lips curling with annoyance, as if his job had just gotten harder. “I see.”

  “The Fontaines’ deaths are obviously related, but we don’t know whether they were the result of a personal or business matter, or both, given how heavily connected the two families are. We do know, however, that a conflict between Vincent Battrelle and Simon Fontaine pushed Alex Battrelle off the Vitaleron board.”

  “So, you’re saying you have evidence of foul play?”

  “We can’t discuss specifics, but we’re leaning that way. We know Alex is in the Caymans, and the timing of his flight is suspicious in relation to the text messages, and also to the 911 call about shots fired near the house at nine o’clock, especially since both victims had already been dead for several hours. So, we’ll give your client a couple days—until Thursday at three o’clock—to get to the station for questioning. If he won’t come voluntarily, we’ll ask the Cayman authorities to escort him onto a plane.”

  “I’ll let him know, but I can’t force him to return. He’s not going to be arrested, correct?”

  “Depends on what he has to say.”

  “So, what is his standing in this case?”

  “He’s a person of interest, a material witness, and a possible suspect,” Goode said.

  “All right, I’ll let you know if I can reach him, but he may be totally off the grid. Sounds like you ought to pick up Simon’s girlfriend for questioning too.”

  Chapter 27

  Katrina

  Tuesday

  As Katrina waited for Joanne in front of the arboretum, she tried to figure out when she would have time to get her car window fixed.

  I guess I can put some duct tape across the cracks until I can take it to the dealer. Whenever that will be. Getting vandalized is so inconvenient during a breaking investigative story.

  She wondered if it was a good idea to confide in Joanne about this. The woman was twenty minutes late and counting. Long enough for Katrina’s butt to go numb on the stone bench.

  I wonder if news was committed, and she forgot about me. I’ll give her five more minutes.

  She felt like a CIA operative, developing relationships with all the opposing factions, hiding information from some, sharing it with others, and keeping most of it to herself.

  In sticky situations like this, it’s better to say too little than too much.