Tummy still not good, but it was worth losing some sleep to see u. Luv u too.

  She didn’t feel well enough to drag herself out of bed and into the office, not with the shitstorm going on right now. It was Friday and Halloween, so she might as well take a sick day, because that’s what she was. Sick. All she wanted to do was lie there and sleep. Watch some TV. Drink ginger ale.

  It had been a rough week, wondering if it was stress or an ulcer that constantly made her feel like retching. She’d finally faced reality and bought a pregnancy test. As the little purple cross emerged, it was like an apparition showing itself to her.

  Simple math told her it could be Alex’s, but she couldn’t be sure, because she’d been seeing his younger brother, Michael, for the past five months. Still, after the last abortion debacle, she called Alex right away this time. He was at her house within an hour, happier than she’d ever seen him. Clean and sober too. Her ultimatum had worked.

  It’s all coming together. I know I need to tell Michael we’re over, but he’ll be devastated. So, I’m not going to tell him about the baby. Or Alex. Yet.

  She’d been trying to deal with the “morning” sickness without anyone knowing at work, especially Michael. But that was tricky, because she felt nauseated off and on throughout the afternoon, when round two often hit without much warning. Luckily, she had a private bathroom in her office. She didn’t want to seem weak, with the human vultures watching her every move. Not now, with so much at stake.

  She didn’t take extortion sitting down, so she’d issued another ultimatum, this one very different from the one she’d given Alex a year earlier. If the vultures didn’t comply with her demands, she would follow through on her threat to notify the full board.

  If any of this becomes public, we’re all going down, and Daddy’s life’s work at Vitaleron will be ruined.

  Four hours later, Victoria Fontaine was dead.

  Chapter 1

  Goode

  Halloween Friday

  Ken Goode spent the whole flight home from Maui craving a dry martini with extra olives, followed by his usual bowl of steamed mussels and ciabatta toast to dip into the broth.

  But after landing in San Diego, he had to make one stop before heading to Piatti, his favorite Italian restaurant in La Jolla. Cutting through Pacific Beach and Bird Rock, he cursed the traffic lined up at the stop signs, wishing he’d taken the freeway instead. He needed to get to Windansea before Sunset, the neighborhood’s daily ritual he’d attended habitually since he was a kid. Every evening, he stood with the locals along the block with their dogs, watching the sun slip lower in the sky, while the surf rats gathered in clusters, vaping and drinking beer from red cups to skirt the no-alcohol laws. As soon as he headed down Nautilus, he breathed easier, taking in the full panoramic view of the reddish-orange horizon that stretched across the ocean as far as the eye could see. Even better once he eased his vintage sky-blue Volkswagen van into the last open slot in the parking lot, closest to the shack.

  Originally built with simple eucalyptus poles and palm fronds to provide shade for the surfers on the rocks below, the iconic shack had been smashed to bits by huge waves numerous times since 1946. But the surfers always reconstructed the structure, where they gathered at dawn for a paddle-out ceremony every time another brother died too young.

  Windansea was Goode’s go-to place for calming his brain, a respite from the blood, fractured skulls, and darkness that made up his life as a homicide detective. Even fifteen minutes could be restorative as he meditated to the hypnotic rhythm of the waves crashing on the shore, breathing in and around the rocks and smoothing them into shapes like the curves of a woman. The rippling patterns and soothing reflection of light on the water was enough to lull him into a Zen state.

  Although he’d just spent ten days riding some gnarly twenty-five-footers at Jaws, an epic surf break on Maui, he still needed to come back to this, his emotional docking station for the past thirty-seven years. Like a homing pigeon returning to the roost before setting off again.

  Meandering down the dirt path to the sand, he kicked off his flip-flops and approached the water’s edge. He let the foam lap over his toes before backing up a few steps to lean against the ledge and watch the whitecaps crest and tumble.

  The Maui trip had been energizing and Zen in its own way, because it had pulled him out of his head for a long stretch of time. That was unusual for him, because he was constantly stuck in there, thinking about thinking. Knowing he still had another couple of days of vacation before obsessing over his next case, he was determined to spend it lollygagging.

  Finished with his Albert Camus deconstruction phase, he was ready to read some inspirational Paulo Coelho, and get together with his sister, Maureen, whom he hadn’t seen in many moons. She was all he had these days, orphans that they were. Other than their aunt Katherine, that is, who raised them after their parents passed, one tragic death at a time. Goode had just had dinner with Katherine and her husband on Maui, where she’d moved after Maureen graduated high school.

  Maureen was smart, but in his view, she was a career underachiever. He’d tried to persuade her to follow him into police work, because, like him, she’d always been good at solving puzzles. But she preferred the freedom of waiting tables at a high-end restaurant, which left her plenty of time to surf and seemed to subsidize her low-end lifestyle. She was also a little crazy, like him, often driving two and a half hours north to Malibu after the dinner shift to surf solo by moonlight.

  That’s why he wanted to talk to her about his trip. She might be the only person who would really get his Jaws revelations. What it was like to be pushed down and tossed around in a giant whitewash machine and still go back for more, not really sure what he was trying to achieve other than the thrill of riding a glassy aquamarine tunnel that closed around him. The high took him to a new plane of existence. But she was elusive. Always busy, and hard to pin down.

  For now, he was grateful to be home for Sunset, to watch the yellow orb dip lower still, narrow into an orange strip, and disappear with a flash behind the flat line of the ocean.

  Feeling recalibrated, Goode climbed the path to his van and drove through town to La Jolla Shores, where the wealthy lived among the palm trees. Although they stood tall, like soldiers guarding the beachfront, the trees were no match for high winds, to which they bent in surrender.

  As a public servant, he could only afford a one-bedroom rental cottage near the high school, where his parents taught when he and his sister were very young. Goode’s rental was right down the street from their old house, just a few blocks from Windansea, only it was smaller and more cramped, crammed with remnants of a lifetime. Divorce could do that to you.

  But then so could trying to love again. He’d had no serious romantic entanglements since his ex-wife Miranda had left him at the altar. It was some years ago now, but he still felt humiliated by his misguided attempt to give her yet another chance. It was simpler to stay celibate.

  After a brief, covert, and unwise interlude with Alison—an attractive witness from the Tania Marcus murder case, his first big case, which greased the way for his official transfer to Homicide a year ago—he’d crawled back into his cave of celibacy. Technically, he’d never left that cave, because he knew in his heart that Alison was another wrong choice, so they’d never actually slept together. Clearly, he needed more time alone. It wasn’t as often lately, but he still heard that voice in his head, saying Never again.

  Women weren’t an addiction per se, but he was honey to the Queen Bees of Damage, which made him fall prey to manipulative love addicts like Miranda, who’d bailed on their second wedding for a Caribbean escape with her boss. These women were drawn to him, and he, unable to resist the urge to rescue them, went down trying. It was a vicious cycle. He had a hard time repressing the savior in him, because it was, in part, what made him a good detective. But it could also compel him to take risks that he shouldn’t, which sometimes worked to his disadvantage.

  After bumper-bumping into a tight parking spot, he changed into a dress shirt and shoes in the personal greenroom of his van before heading into Piatti. He preferred flip-flops, but as a man of law enforcement, rules were rules. Piatti was a white-napkin-and-tablecloth kind of place, with an unwritten dress code communicated only by raised eyebrows.

  There was one seat left at the bar, next to a stunning thirtysomething brunette who was staring off into the distance as she cradled a glass of amber liquid. Scotch, most likely. Goode didn’t even have to order. Matt, the bartender, started making his usual martini as soon as they made eye contact.

  As he came closer to the woman, he sensed that she, too, wanted to be alone with her thoughts, so he felt safe sitting next to her. In hindsight later, he realized that it was silly to think he could have resisted her.

  “Are you waiting for someone?” he asked.

  “No, not really,” she replied, sighing, though not in an off-putting way.

  “You’re not sure?”

  “Well, I was wondering if my dad might show up.”

  “Okay, how ’bout I sit here, and I’ll move if he comes?”

  The woman smiled and shook her head. “I wouldn’t worry. I meant his spirit might visit, because our family used to come here together. But I thought it would sound weird to say that out loud. Like I’m a crazy person. Which it did, right?”

  Actually, it didn’t. Goode knew exactly what she meant.

  “Thanks, Matt,” he said as the bartender placed the martini in front of him. “No, not at all,” he said, turning back toward the woman. “I’ve always talked to my mom on the Coronado Bridge, where she died when I was six.”

  “Bad accident?” she asked, hastily adding, “Unless you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “No, it’s okay. She jumped.”

  “Oh,” she said, pausing. “Wow.”

  “Yeah. It was brutal. She pulled our car over to the side and left me sitting in the front seat. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw her throw one leg over the railing, then drop out of sight. So, I just sat there, waiting for her to come back.”

  “I know,” she said, nodding.

  “You do?”

  Another long pause. “Yeah, my brother died by suicide too. Allegedly. I’m still not sure he did it on purpose. We were fraternal twins, and I had no clue he was going to do that.”

  For all his good intentions, Goode’s overactive brain was firing up a storm. He felt an immediate connection with this woman. Not the usual stab of the old pain, but a brief flash of bright hope. Kismet, even.

  Oh, get ahold of yourself. This isn’t a frickin’ rom-com.

  Maybe it would be her, maybe it wouldn’t, but he felt a glimmer of possibility, nonetheless. Unlike Alison, the pretty witness who proved to be another one of his vulnerable savior cases, this woman didn’t need saving. She seemed strong, as if she might fight any attempt to do so.

  “I’m so sorry,” he told her, trying not to look too long into her hyacinth-blue eyes. He felt drawn to her, beauty aside, partly because she seemed familiar, and partly because she looked at him as if she felt the same way. He took a sip of his martini.

  “Yeah, me too,” she said. “About your mom.”

  They chatted away, introducing themselves, but only by one name. She by her first, Katrina, and he by his last, because no one had called him Ken or Kenny Jr. since he was a kid. Somehow, talking about an immediate family member’s suicide—one of the most intimate subjects imaginable—was easier with a stranger he might never see again.

  “You’re a surfer, right?” she asked.

  Goode cocked his head. “How can you tell?”

  “Just the vibe. The way you carry yourself, I can see your upper body strength,” she said. “You remind me of my brother. I used to watch him surf at the OB pier. He was a kamikaze surfer, the kind who would fly to Maui to ride these ginormous waves. He would have died even sooner if he didn’t make a habit of wearing a life jacket. These guys on Jet Skis had to ride out and tow him in through the whitewash. It’s called Jaws. You heard of it?”

  Goode felt the breath go out of him for a moment. “You’re not going to believe this, but that’s where I spent the last week,” he said.

  Katrina looked as surprised as he did, when, of all the times for his cell phone to ring, Stone called. Goode couldn’t believe the bad timing, but he couldn’t ignore the boss. Talk about a buzzkill.

  Mouthing “sorry” to Katrina, he held up his index finger to indicate he’d be quick as he stepped outside to take the call.

  Sergeant Rusty Stone had been there for Goode ever since he’d lost his parents. Five years older than Kenny, Rusty was a big, stocky kid who lived down the street and stepped in as an older brother by another mother. Rusty brought his young friend to the beach, where he taught Kenny to surf. Although Rusty initially called them “Tuber” and “Mini Tuber,” it wasn’t long before the student surpassed his teacher, and the nicknames fell away. Rusty simply didn’t have the skill or coordination, nor the desire, to ride big waves, let alone in stormy conditions.

  They started going by their last names when Rusty hit seventeen. Stone thought it made them sound more macho, but he also loved making puns with Goode’s name. After graduation, Stone stayed in touch, because he still lived at home while he took classes at San Diego State. Later, Stone often drove up to party with his buddy once Goode started at UCLA, where he majored in psychology.

  Stone was hired by the San Diego Police Department (SDPD) right out of college and immediately started trying to convince Goode to join him. But Goode chose to stay in Los Angeles with Miranda and went to work for the LAPD instead. After Goode’s marriage fell apart, Stone didn’t give up, lobbying him to come home rather than apply to law school.

  “We need smart guys like you,” Stone said. “You’ll go far, fast. You can always take classes at night.”

  Goode took his buddy’s advice, put law school on hold, and transferred to the SDPD, where he did his requisite time in Patrol before moving on to an undercover narcotics gig. From there, Stone recommended him as a relief homicide detective, and after Goode’s exceptional work solving the Tania Marcus case, Stone helped facilitate his move from Vice to Homicide.

  Officially, Stone was now Goode’s supervisor, but they were such good friends they worked more as a team.

  “You’re up,” Stone said. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at Piatti. Flew in a couple of hours ago. Maui was awesome, by the way. Thanks for asking. What do you mean I’m up? You know my shift doesn’t start for a day and a half, right?” Goode asked this rhetorically, because he already knew the drill.

  “I hope you’re not trashed.”

  “No, not at all. I was just getting started, and my mind is pretty damn clear after facing down those waves.”

  “You’re crazy,” Stone said. “But it’s lucky you came out of it alive, because we’ve got a mondo suspicious death case. Slausson and Fletcher were supposed to be up, but they’re both down with food poisoning again. I keep telling them not to eat carnitas from the street vendors in Tijuana, but they’re pigheaded.”

  “Bada boom.”

  “You’re in luck, though. It’s in the Farms, right up the hill from you: two victims, one older male and one female, mid-thirties. The property is owned by a plastic surgeon, Simon Fontaine, so he’s probably the dude. The 911 call for ‘shots fired’ came in at nine o’clock from an anonymous male somewhere on the 9800 block. Wouldn’t give an address, so Patrol had to go door to door. The Fontaines were the only ones who didn’t answer. We had to call private security to open the gate.”

  “Who’s there now?”

  “The patrol officer, his sergeant, and the security guard. They did a sweep of the house and the grounds, but no shooter. The male victim was found with a gunshot to the head on the back patio. The female was unresponsive on the bedroom floor, no gunshot. I texted you the address. Punch the intercom and they’ll buzz you in. You’ll be the lead on this one.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Simon Fontaine isn’t just any plastic surgeon, he’s the go-to cosmetic guru in San Diego County. He’s also head honcho at Vitaleron, a biotech company that’s developing a new sex drug with Vincent Battrelle. So it’s going to be a major news clusterfuck on all fronts. See you in a few.”

  Goode knew exactly what Stone meant: The next forty-eight hours were going to be living hell because the likely victim was not only superrich, he was in business with another superrich dude, who owned the only newspaper in town.

  The brass is going to be second-guessing our every effing move.

  Rejoining Katrina, Goode tapped her on the forearm. “I’m really sorry. I was supposed to be on vacation for another couple days, but that was work calling,” he said. “We’ve got two dead bodies in the Farms. I’ve got to go.”

  “You’re a homicide detective?” she asked with amusement—or surprise—he couldn’t really tell.

  “’Fraid so. Is that bad?” he replied, frowning curiously.

  “No, not at all,” she said, shaking her head and chuckling.

  He gave her his card and asked her to write her number on the back of a cocktail napkin.

  “The next few days will be nonstop, but I’ll call. I promise.”

  “I know,” she said.

  Chapter 2

  Goode

  Halloween Friday

  It was only a five-minute jaunt up the hill to La Jolla Farms, but Goode had to backtrack to grab a triple espresso, or he wouldn’t make it through the next forty-eight hours. He’d driven his personal vehicle from the airport to Piatti, so he didn’t have time to drive across town to trade it out for the department-issued Ford Explorer he drove during work hours.

  After purposely parking his VW van down the street from the Fontaine estate in case any TV cameras showed up, he got out and leaned against the door to switch out his leather loafers for a pair of sneakers. Death scenes could get messy, and he didn’t want to get blood on his only pair of dress shoes.