“One final issue: Last year, Vincent Battrelle purchased a majority interest in Keller Chemicals, which supplies several ingredients for our new drug. I thought that was curious at the time, but it didn’t affect the company until Keller jacked up its prices. I questioned Vincent about it a couple of weeks ago, but he shut me down. He said Alex handled the purchase for him, and that it was ‘good business’ to ensure we have a reliable supplier. I disagreed, told him it was a conflict, and that he should divest from the company within two weeks or I would bring it to the board’s attention.

  “Since Darren and Vincent haven’t acted on these matters as I’ve requested, as CFO I’m forced to formally seek the board’s authorization to determine if we should retain outside counsel to evaluate or investigate them before the IPO next year. They may not only get us into legal trouble as individuals, but they could also cause significant financial losses to the company and its investors, which would endanger Vitaleron’s future. We don’t need the SEC and FEC in our books, the DEA in our lab, or the FBI in our business. We also don’t want any of this leaking out before the IPO.”

  Whoa. Talk about a smoking gun. So, was Victoria really in love with Alex, or was she having sex with him to get information to protect Vitaleron? How deep was Alex into this financial mess? Would he, Vincent, or McMurphy, for that matter, kill her to save themselves?

  Clicking back to Katrina’s story, Goode took a closer look at the photo and caption: Darren McMurphy, Congressman Winchester, and Marcia Copeland, the FDA’s new drugs director, sipping martinis at a political event in Washington, DC.

  There she is. Ms. Token of Appreciation. Nice work, Katrina.

  It was fortuitous that the SDPD, working under FBI cover, had prodded Alex Battrelle to come back for questioning, because the content of this memo would necessitate hauling in his father and brother—and Darren McMurphy—as well.

  But after reading Katrina’s stories, Goode was worried that she’d seriously escalated the danger to herself by placing an even bigger target on her head. The perpetrators would have to assume that she would reveal more details in future stories.

  I don’t want to see her get hurt.

  Still, Goode was in a difficult place. Until he had access to Victoria’s emails, he had no way of knowing if she’d ever sent this “draft” memo. He also couldn’t share it with Katrina because that would compromise the investigation.

  He’d have to walk the line, somehow. He was prepared to camp outside her apartment to make sure no one tried to shoot her up with something, but he didn’t want her to feel like he was spying on her. At first, he thought it would be better to obtain her address off the rock-threat incident report, but he decided he should go the honest, straightforward route. Mostly, anyway.

  He tried calling Katrina’s cell phone at 10:30 p.m., figuring she would be at home and done with work by then. But he got her voicemail, so he left her a message.

  “Can you call me, please? It’s important.”

  In the meantime, he emailed Victoria’s memo to Stone with “Motives aplenty” in the subject line. But then he immediately called the sergeant, too excited to wait for a response.

  “Did you see my email?” Goode asked.

  “No. I’m walking the dog. Good news, I hope. Give me the short version.”

  Fired up with adrenaline, Goode let it all out in one stream of thought. “So now we’ve got multiple motives to kill Victoria, and probably Simon, too, because the killer probably assumed she’d confided in her father. But the chief may be telling the truth about the donation after all. I’m going to question Esperanza Cepeda first thing tomorrow, before she gets plowed. Maybe she can fill in some blanks.”

  “Good plan.”

  “The whole Battrelle clan seems to have their hands in this, along with McMurphy and Winchester. With the sex drug ruled out as the cause of death, Artie sent the logs and audits to the private lab to determine what to test for next.”

  “Pretty dumb to make an unauthorized donation in the police chief’s name. But that’s why we have jobs. Criminals are dumb.”

  “So true. Gotta run; that’s my other line,” Goode said.

  “What’s up, Surfer Man?” Katrina asked with a deeper, sexier voice than usual.

  She sounds a little buzzed.

  “Out for an adult beverage tonight?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” she said coyly.

  “No judgment. I can hear it in your voice. You sound, uh, happy. Great job on the stories tonight, by the way.”

  “Thanks. It was a long day, but it was good. My editor took me out for some wine. What’s so important?”

  “I don’t want to worry you, but with you getting that death threat even before these stories tonight, I thought it would be good if I knew where you lived,” he said, trying not to sound too dramatic.

  “Um, yeah, okay. I live in a funky apartment complex at the end of Brant Street, behind the Albertsons in Mission Hills. It’s on the backside, upstairs, overlooking the canyon. But there’s something you’re not telling me. What happened today?”

  Goode paused. Here we go. Be careful.

  “Let’s say we’re pretty confident now that the Fontaines were murdered. You and I have both uncovered some pretty good motives, and I want to make sure you’re safe.”

  “C’mon. What did you find out?”

  “You’re going to have to trust me. We’re still in the thick of it, but the pieces are starting to come together.”

  “Well, I haven’t gotten any more threats, but my worry level has increased ever since. Back in Northampton, I had a recurrent nightmare of getting abducted by the Polish mafia, and it actually started up again the night before I found my car window smashed. It was almost like I knew it was happening, even in my sleep,” she said. “I’m trying not to be alarmist, because I need to focus on this story, but I can’t stop thinking that all of this might be related somehow to my family’s murders.”

  “After finding those property records, I’ve been wondering that myself.”

  “It’s sweet of you to worry about me. It’s more than I ever got from the Northampton PD.”

  “That I do.”

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but my entire living-room wall to the outside is made of glass.”

  Great, she’s even more vulnerable than I thought.

  “Sorry,” she said, unable to suppress a yawn.

  “Am I boring you?”

  “No, not at all. Anyway, now you know where my apartment is. Maybe you’ll see it someday, in our future lives. But I’m sleepy, and I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

  “Goodnight, Katrina. And be careful, okay? Do you have drapes or blinds you can pull?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Do me a favor and close them tonight.”

  “I’m way ahead of you. Goodnight, Surfer Man.”

  As soon as they hung up, Goode put on some sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and a jacket, and threw a pillow and a blanket into his VW van.

  I’m going over there to make sure no one is lurking around or cutting her brake lines. I’ll sit up and watch, maybe even crash for a while. She’ll be asleep. Won’t even know I’m there.

  Chapter 39

  Katrina

  Thursday

  As exhausted as she was, Katrina was wide awake after hanging up with Goode. Before the rock incident, she’d enjoyed falling asleep with the moonlight shining in through the glass doors in her living room. But now that she felt someone was watching her, those blinds were closed.

  What the hell happened today, and why’s he doing the Vague about it?

  She lay down and read her phone until midnight, when her eyelids finally grew heavy again. As she was dropping off, she thought she heard the roar of Goode’s VW outside, up the hill in the carport. But she didn’t want to get dressed to take a look.

  He can’t be that worried. He would’ve told me, wouldn’t he? Unless something is really wrong, in which case it’s good that he’s out there. I’m not going to think about it. Go to sleep.

  Four hours later, she awoke to the same roaring sound, only this time it was receding into the distance.

  That was his van. It’s touching, really, that we hardly know each other, but he already cares enough to watch over me during his off hours. If he left, I guess I’m not in immediate danger. Go back to sleep. You’ve got a big day ahead.

  She managed to catch a few more hours of sleep in between flashes of the recurring nightmare, but they were so light and fitful that she decided to get up and take a quick run around the neighborhood to burn off the excess energy.

  Should I ask Goode directly if that was him outside? Don’t I have a right to know what’s going on?

  After climbing the stairs to the carport, she saw that a big asterisk made of duct tape was now holding the broken glass of her car window together to prevent it from imploding. She’d been meaning to do that herself but had been too flipping busy.

  So, he was here. That was thoughtful of him.

  Smiling, she took off on her run, keeping an eye out for strange or suspicious men who looked out of place.

  After showering, she headed into the empty newsroom with her muffin and cappuccino to read the paper and listen to her voicemails without interruption. Once other reporters started straggling in, she figured it was late enough to head north to knock on the Fontaines’ neighbors’ doors.

  Because the mansions on La Jolla Farms Road were spaced so far apart, she hoped she could quickly determine who on the block had heard the gunshot and called 911. By now, the yellow police tape was gone from the Fontaine house, signaling that the detectives had finished processing the house.

  I wonder if William Fontaine has been inside yet or if the grief is still too fresh to dive into his family’s closets, belongings, and accounts like I did after Mom and Daddy died.

  Katrina remembered that time well. The emotional toil of sifting through boxes of her parents’ belongings, some handed down over several generations. The sadness that gripped her as she went through her brother’s things, and the memories that went with them. She couldn’t stop crying.

  As she peeked through the Fontaines’ gate, she heard a buzzing sound and saw that the security camera moved or stopped when she did.

  Is someone watching me here, too, or am I being paranoid? The camera seems to be triggered by a motion detector, but if it’s videotaping me now, the security footage will be key to knowing who came in and out of the house last Friday. Maybe Goode has already watched it, and that’s why he camped outside my place last night.

  She waved at the camera to see if someone would open the gate or talk to her via the intercom, but she got no response. In the middle of the bushes was a blue sign that read This property is being monitored by Fullerton Security, with a phone number, which she promptly called.

  “I’m standing outside the Fontaine house on La Jolla Farms Road and I’m wondering if you guys are running the security camera from your office or if someone’s watching me from inside?”

  “I’m sorry, who are you with?” the clerk asked.

  “The Sun-Dispatch.”

  “Okay, well, I’m not authorized to talk to anyone but the homeowner.”

  “That’ll be tough. He’s dead. You guys wouldn’t want me to write that the house isn’t being watched, would you? Who knows what liability that could create if this empty house were vandalized.”

  “I never said we weren’t monitoring the house, ma’am.”

  “I didn’t say you did. I said you wouldn’t want me to say that you weren’t.”

  “Whatever. I’ve got to go. My other line is ringing.”

  “Okay, but I still need to know—”

  Click.

  He hung up on me? No, I don’t think so.

  “Fullerton Security.”

  “We seem to have gotten cut off.”

  “Ma’am, I really can’t help you, and I’m the only one here answering the phones.”

  “Why don’t I talk to your supervisor. Maybe he’d like to help me write an accurate story.”

  “I’ll have him call you.”

  Two minutes later, her phone rang.

  “Hi, this is Charlie Fullerton. Are you calling from a Massachusetts number?” he asked.

  What does that matter? Nosy man.

  “Yes. I just moved here from there. Do you guys have footage of who went in and out the day of the Fontaines’ deaths?”

  “Yes, a homicide detective picked it up four days ago. You should talk to him.”

  “Can I get a copy? The paper will be happy to pay for it.”

  “Sorry, no can do.”

  “How about letting me watch it there? You have a master copy, right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Before he could say no, she said, “Great, I’ll be down in a bit.”

  As Katrina walked west toward the ocean, the hot asphalt heated the thin leather soles of her pumps with each step. The horizon seemed to grow wider, the strip of greenish-gray ocean expanding in front of her.

  I’m sure Goode is way ahead of me on this, because he’s finally admitting that he thinks it’s a murder case.

  Reaching the next driveway, she was relieved to see there was no security gate to prevent her from entering the shadowy tunnel of trees leading to the house. She was about three steps in when she was startled by an athletic-looking, dark-haired man who emerged from the leaves on the right. He was about her age, wearing khaki shorts, a red polo shirt, and a worried expression.

  “Can I help you?” he asked in a Latin accent with an edge. But once she explained the purpose of her visit, his tone softened.

  “Sorry, we’re all a little jumpy after the shooting,” he said. “The whole neighborhood is in shock.”

  Katrina scribbled his comment into her notebook. “Can I get your name?”

  “It’s Pablo, but I don’t live here. I’m visiting from Brazil. It’s my sister and brother-in-law’s house.”

  “That’s okay. Were you here Friday night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you hear the shots fired?”

  “No, we were watching a movie, and the surround sound was up pretty loud. We wouldn’t have known the difference.”

  “So, you guys didn’t call 911?”

  “No. You should try Cat, the lady two houses down on the left. My sister calls her the Gossip Queen.”

  His words were like chocolate. She thanked him and headed back toward the road, figuring she’d try the homes in between as well.

  The next house had a gated entrance and an intercom, just like the Fontaines’.

  “Hi, I’m with the Sun-Dispatch and—”

  “We already take the paper,” the woman interrupted.

  “I’m not selling the paper, I’m a reporter,” Katrina said.

  Silence. She tried pushing the intercom again but got no response.

  Gossip Queen will talk to me. If she’s home, that is.

  Her house was much closer to the street than the others and, like Pablo’s, had no security gate. A woman in her mid-fifties answered the door in red-framed, cat-eye glasses that matched her spiky bright-red hair and perfectly manicured nails.

  A trust-fund hipster?

  “Yes, dear?” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  After hearing Katrina’s spiel, the woman invited her in. “Let’s talk in the kitchen,” she said, breaking into a wide smile. “I’m cooking spaghetti sauce.”

  Katrina breathed in the aroma appreciatively as the woman introduced herself. “But everyone calls me Cat,” she said, explaining that she sold real estate in La Jolla, and specifically the Farms.

  “I was home with a cold on Halloween, gardening out front, and I’ve been wondering ever since why the police never mentioned that an officer went into the Fontaine house around lunchtime. The news stories said police didn’t show up until almost ten o’clock at night, an hour after the 911 call.”

  “Wait, what?” Katrina asked, confused.

  “Yeah. I saw an officer walk up to the gate and make a call on his phone. He didn’t use the intercom. The gate opened, and he went inside,” she said. “But there was no police car parked anywhere. I don’t even know where he came from.”

  Katrina was befuddled. “Are you sure he was a police officer?”

  “Well, he was wearing a uniform. He even had on one of those hats, like you see on TV,” she said.

  “What time did you say this was?”

  “Around noon,” Cat said. “I didn’t think anything of it until I read your story, but when I called the police’s nonemergency line yesterday, they told me I must’ve been seeing things. The dispatcher was so patronizing: ‘Ma’am, it was Halloween, and our patrol officers don’t wear hats,’ he said. I told him I was only telling him what I saw, that this was an adult, not a kid playing dress-up, and there was no costume party going on at the Fontaines’ from what I could tell.”

  Katrina shook her head with disbelief as she scribbled in her notebook.

  Can’t wait to hear what Goode says about this.

  “What time did he come out?” Katrina asked.

  “No idea. I was only outside long enough to pull some toadstools that popped up after the rain. They were irritating me. Like a hangnail.”

  “Did you know the Fontaines well?”

  “No,” Cat said. “They kept to themselves, and they were hardly ever home anyway. Workaholics, the both of them.”

  “Thank you, this is very helpful,” Katrina said, handing her a business card. “Please call me if you think of anything else.”

  “Will do. I hope they catch the bastard who did this,” Cat said. “I haven’t slept right since it happened. And you can quote me on that.”