“Let’s keep going,” she said. “I’m on deadline.”

  The next sign of movement was a silver Jaguar pulling up at 7:45. The car looked familiar, but she couldn’t place it right away. “Again, slowly, Charlie? Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. I’m getting good at this drill.”

  She couldn’t help but gasp again, because this time she recognized the driver as he typed in the security code.

  “Oh, my God, that’s Vincent!” she squeaked.

  “Vincent who?”

  “Vincent Battrelle, the owner of my newspaper!” she squeaked again, popping her hand over her mouth. But it was too late.

  Dang it, I did it again.

  Seeing Charlie’s expression, she could see that she had a more immediate problem. “Please promise me you won’t tell anyone, Charlie. This is serious now. It’s not only my story at stake, it’s my job. You understand that, right?”

  Charlie nodded noncommittally.

  “Let’s zoom in on the license plate to make sure,” she said.

  Yep, it’s SDPUB.

  Charlie’s eyes flitted skittishly back and forth, as if having this knowledge had compromised him somehow.

  “I don’t know, Katrina. I feel like we should tell the police,” he said, his voice going high-pitched now, too, a strange sound coming from such a large, round man.

  “They’ve already got this footage, right?”

  “I didn’t make the copy, so I don’t know what timeframe they got, or if they’ve even looked at it yet. If you know these people’s identities and have information that could help them, I think you should tell them. One of these people could be a murderer.”

  She knew she had to talk some sense into Charlie before he did something to ruin her story.

  “That’s not really how this works,” she said as calmly as she could. “I don’t work for the police. Reporters are independent watchdogs. That’s how we protect democracy and regular people like you and me.”

  She didn’t really care if the police had already watched the tapes or if they were too busy holding news conferences, acting like they were on top of things. This was her story now.

  Who knows, maybe my story will force an arrest.

  As her phone vibrated, she looked down and saw Joanne’s name in the caller ID. She asked Charlie for directions to the restroom, where she turned on the tap with the hope of having a semiprivate conversation.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Joanne told her.

  “Same here,” Katrina said.

  “I’ll go first,” the editor said. “Channel 10 just aired footage of Alex Battrelle walking into the police station for questioning in quote ‘federal and local matters’ unquote.”

  “You’re kidding,” Katrina said, the adrenaline flooding into her veins so abruptly that she felt a jolt to her forehead.

  What the hell? Is this why Goode camped outside my apartment last night, to protect me from Alex Battrelle? So, was that him in the car? Did he kill the Fontaines? Or did he and Vincent do it together?

  She looked in the mirror. It could have been the fluorescent lighting, but her face seemed ghostly pale and gray, with a greenish hue.

  “So, what have you got?” Joanne asked. “Please tell me it’s something exclusive that TV can’t beat us on. We need to get out in front of this story again. Norman Klein can feed you an insert about Alex from the cop shop, or we can run it as a sidebar. I assume your detective didn’t tip you to this?”

  “No, he did not. I talked to him last night and he sounded like he was holding something back, but all he said was ‘off the record, investigation-blah-blah-blah.’ Although he did tell me he thinks it’s a murder now.”

  “Well, that’s something, but ‘off the record’ doesn’t help us. Tell me what you’ve got on the record that I can put on the budget,” she said, referring to the editors’ list of stories for that day.

  Katrina was hesitant to say, knowing it would give them enough time to line up lawyers to insert their sticky fingers into her story.

  What if they won’t run it?

  Turning up the tap water so Charlie couldn’t hear, she quietly laid out the timeline of who and what she’d seen.

  “Wow,” Joanne said, pausing. “Wow.”

  “I know, right?”

  Then Joanne went quiet.

  “Hello?” Katrina asked.

  “I’m thinking. Since we don’t know the time of death or how they died, we don’t know if the Fontaines were already dead for several hours by the time Alex or Michael—whoever it was—and Vincent got to the house. But if they aren’t the killers, what the hell were they doing between seven fifteen and the nine o’clock 911 call? Messing with the evidence? Deleting or stealing secret Vitaleron computer files?”

  “That’s a good guess, but I still haven’t watched all the footage. The 911 call hasn’t even come in yet.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell Big Ed, but I’ll also need to inform John Palmer about this. Even if he doesn’t put his hands on the story, he’ll still have some PR issues to deal with,” Joanne said.

  “Yes, I figured,” Katrina said, turning off the tap and flushing the toilet.

  When she opened the door, Charlie was standing right outside, as she would expect from a security executive.

  “Everything all right in there?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Let’s finish up,” she said. “I’ve got to get back to the newsroom.”

  “Did you consider what I said about calling the police?” Charlie asked.

  Such an overgrown Boy Scout.

  “Don’t you worry. I have to call them for my story either way,” she said.

  That seemed to satisfy him. Back in the screening room, they saw no movement until 8:45 p.m., when the two Jags drove up in tandem from the house to the gate.

  “Can you zoom in again on the driver of the first Jag?” she asked.

  That looks more like Michael now. Spooked and upset.

  After the gate opened and both cars drove through, the time clock clicked past nine o’clock and kept going. But there was no action.

  Where are the police?

  It was 9:45 p.m. by the time the SDPD cruiser drove up to the gate, where a hatless officer pushed the intercom button. Getting no answer, he got out and looked around, then made a call on his cell.

  With the phone still to his ear, the officer climbed back into his car and backed out of view. About fifteen minutes later, a white car with a Fullerton Security logo arrived. A young security guard got out and typed into the keypad, which allowed both cars to drive through the gate.

  As Charlie advanced the rest of the footage, a second police car arrived, and then a bit later, Goode came up to the gate.

  “Great, that’s all I need, Charlie. Thank you so much. You’re the best.”

  “I don’t want to get in trouble with the police for interfering in the investigation,” he said.

  “You did the right thing.”

  “Maybe. But do me a favor and leave me out of it.”

  Joanne called again as Katrina was driving to the newsroom.

  “Where are you?” she asked anxiously. “John Palmer looked like he wanted to shoot himself when I told him about the footage. But he didn’t even try to talk me out of the story. He knows the Battrelles are in such deep doo-doo that we couldn’t ignore the story even if we wanted to.”

  “Yikes. I’m in my car. I was able to get a better view of the younger man as he and Vincent were leaving the house, and I think it was Michael. But I’m going to call the DMV to confirm the plate number as soon as I get back. Whoever it was, he was in the house for thirty minutes before Vincent showed up, then they left together at 8:45 p.m., fifteen minutes before the 911 call.”

  “Got it. It’s almost five o’clock and Big Ed is worried about meeting deadline since everyone but the janitor will need to read this baby before it gets posted, and I’m sure the lawyers will want changes. What’s your ETA?”

  “Five minutes.”

  Chapter 42

  Goode

  Thursday

  As soon as Katrina left his office, Charlie Fullerton called Goode, who was trying to track down Vincent and Michael Battrelle for a round of recorded questioning at the station.

  “Have you viewed our security tape yet?” Charlie asked.

  “No. I’ve been trying, but the forensic examiners are backed up. Why do you ask?”

  “I thought you’d want to know that I just watched it with Katrina Chopin from the Sun-Dispatch. Has she called you yet?”

  “No. What’s on the tape that I need to know about?” Goode asked.

  As Charlie recounted the events, he triggered a near panic in Goode that was unusual for him. His concerned responses prompted Stone to come over and stand next to him to listen more closely.

  “So, a nurse showed up in the late morning and a uniformed police officer around noon?” Goode repeated for Stone’s benefit.

  Why would a cop be at the house nine hours before the 911 call?

  Charlie also described the arrival and departure of the two guys in Jags, noting that Katrina thought they were Vincent Battrelle and one of his sons.

  “I figured I’d better let you know, because she asked me not to tell anyone, and then went to the bathroom to talk to her editor,” Charlie said. “It sounds like they’re going to run a story tonight.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate the heads-up,” Goode said, hanging up. “Shit.”

  Stone looked stricken. “How did we not have this already?”

  When Goode told him about London and his pregnant wife going into labor, Stone shook his head.

  “It’s going to look like we dropped the ball,” the sergeant said. “I’m going to have to do some serious damage control.”

  “I know. I’ll run over to the RCFL right now and demand that someone run the tape for me.”

  “I don’t know why you didn’t do that already.”

  Goode ignored him and pressed on. “Can you take over getting the Battrelles down here for questioning? I’ll be back as soon as I can. Sounds like we have a genuine murder conspiracy on our hands. The Battrelles look good for obstruction and evidence tampering at the very least.”

  “I can’t wait to hear whose bright idea it was to shoot a dead man,” Stone said.

  “I don’t care what Alex said, my money’s on Vincent. Seems like the impulsive type,” Goode said. “And I’ll bet Michael just did what he was told. But what I want to know is, was this one of our guys who came in while the nurse was there?”

  “You got me,” Stone said. “I’ll check with Patrol and Community Relations, but you’d think they would have told us by now if it was.”

  When Goode came back with a cup of microwaved office coffee to grab his phone, he overheard Stone on the phone with Milton Biggs.

  “Michael and Vincent Battrelle need to get down here right away,” Stone said, “or we’ll pick them up and do a real perp walk this time.”

  Goode drove to the RCFL as fast as he could, feeling the jitters of cheap java.

  Now that I’ve interviewed the major players, hopefully I’ll be able to identify some or all the people Charlie described going in and out of the mansion.

  The receptionist said London had just left to take his wife back to the hospital due to some postnatal complications, so she called for his supervisor, a sturdy woman with a short, black, military-style buzz cut.

  “Alicia Cortez,” the woman said, giving Goode a firm handshake. “How can I help you? You missed London by ten minutes.”

  “Sorry to hear about his wife. Thing is, we’re about to have a PR nightmare. A Sun-Dispatch reporter viewed the security footage from the Fontaine mansion today—before we did—and they’re running a story tonight. So, I need to see the video ASAP.”

  “Gotcha. Be right back,” Cortez said, sitting him in front of a computer. Returning a few minutes later with the drive, she plugged it in and started scrolling. The footage started at 10:00 a.m.—too late to confirm Alex’s alibi via the texts.

  Cortez nimbly fast-forwarded to the first sign of action, which was the nurse showing up at 11:30 a.m.

  “There she is,” he said. “Let’s go back a bit and zoom so I can see her face.”

  Cortez rewound, then slowly advanced and zoomed in until he recognized the young Filipina, who pushed the intercom.

  “No shit. That’s Esperanza Cepeda,” he said, taking note of the time.

  Why didn’t she mention she was at the house that morning?

  From the magnification, Goode could also see the red pharmacy logo on the smaller of two bags she was carrying, which was just the right size for vials of oxy and Xanax. The other one looked like takeout, possibly the chicken soup.

  Is she the one who shoved the oxys down Victoria’s throat? If she also injected Victoria with something, you’d think she’d have done a cleaner job of it.

  The man in blue arrived next, around noon.

  “What’s with the hat?” Goode asked.

  He’s purposely turning away from the camera so I can’t see his face. He’s also not wearing a badge or any equipment or gun on his belt. Doesn’t look like one of ours.

  “Ready to proceed, Detective?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Goode also recognized the silver convertible that pulled up at 12:32 p.m. “That’s Simon Fontaine’s Mercedes. I saw it parked in the driveway that night.”

  Simon is home because his surgery was cancelled, Alex is allegedly long gone, Victoria has broken up with Michael, and Esperanza and the “officer” are both inside. What is going on in there?

  When Esperanza appeared at the gate again, it was one o’clock, and she looked shell-shocked.

  Is she crying? Does that mean they’re dead?

  The officer walked up the driveway half an hour later. Observing him closely, Goode still couldn’t see his face but noted that his body was slender and athletic.

  Like a runner . . . or a bicyclist? Could that be Dallas Fairchild? It was his gun, after all.

  Only Fairchild didn’t have an arrogant swagger like this dude, who seemed familiar somehow. Goode had seen that swagger many times in the guys he played varsity sports with in high school. Entitled, cocky, and spoiled. And unlike Esperanza, this guy didn’t seem upset. If anything, he seemed a little manic.

  “Is that a smile?” Cortez asked. “And lipstick?”

  “Yes, on both counts,” Goode replied. “Lipstick or not, my gut says that’s a dude and not a real cop. It was Halloween, after all, so the lipstick could be part of a disguise. It’s almost like he knew about the security cameras.”

  “Dr. Fontaine was shot with a nine millimeter, though, right?” Cortez asked. “Standard issue.”

  “Right,” he replied. “But you can see that this ‘officer’ isn’t carrying one unless it’s strapped to his ankle. We’ve already identified the gun’s likely owner, who said Victoria carried it in her purse at night. If one of these people didn’t bring it in, then it came home with her.”

  Six hours later, when the dark-haired man in the blue Jaguar showed up at seven fifteen, Goode couldn’t tell which Battrelle son it was either.

  Katrina’s right, that could be Alex or Michael, but I’ve met them both and I can’t tell. They would both know the code.

  But he did recognize Vincent’s silver Jag from the SDPUB plates, which pulled up half an hour later.

  Timing fits with one of them being the shooter.

  As the two Jags left in succession at 8:45 p.m., he said, “Now that I have a better view of the younger one, I’d say that’s Michael Battrelle. Looks like he’s crying. Alex is older, a little gray at the temples.”

  Fast-forwarding through the rest of the tape, they stopped with Goode pressing the intercom.

  “Thank you, Cortez,” he said. “I know this isn’t your regular protocol, but would you be able to type up and send me a formal report ASAP, with the time of each person’s arrival, identifying description, departure, and plate number? We’re holding several suspects right now, and if we’re going to make any arrests tonight, we’ll need our ducks in a row.”

  “You got it, Detective,” Cortez said. “Stay safe out there.”

  “Thanks,” Goode said.

  Chapter 43

  Katrina

  Thursday

  First thing back at her desk, Katrina called the DMV.

  I felt bad for Michael, but did he kill Victoria? My reads on people aren’t usually that far off.

  Before Katrina could say a word, the clerk put her on hold. In the meantime, she multitasked, opening her computer file of typed notes and searching for “Filipino.”

  There it was: Daisy said Darren McMurphy’s new girlfriend was Filipino, like his wife before Daisy.

  “I knew I had this somewhere,” Katrina blurted out loud.

  Could she be the nurse on the video? There are probably a lot of Filipino nurses in San Diego County. It’s also Halloween. Just because she was wearing scrubs doesn’t mean she’s really a nurse, just like the guy in uniform may not be a real cop.

  As she compiled her call list, Katrina tried to ignore Joanne waving at her from across the room. Daisy the Muffin might be able to resolve the nurse question. Katrina also needed to ask Goode if he’d watched the footage and checked whether an officer had been sent to the house at lunchtime.

  I don’t have time to be micromanaged right now. They don’t know what I can do yet. But they will.

  Finally, the DMV’s bad hold music subsided. “Both plates come back to Jaguars registered to Vincent Battrelle on Whale Watch Way in San Diego, 92037,” the DMV clerk said, reciting the zip code for La Jolla.

  Daddy still pays for his grown son’s car? No wonder he thinks he can control him.

  Because the clerk couldn’t confirm the drivers’ names, Katrina would have to describe the younger one in her story as “dark-haired,” driving a car registered to Vincent. It would be up to the reader to decide.

  Tired of waiting, Joanne came over. “We’re out of time. You need to stop reporting and start writing,” she said firmly. “Big Ed has asked me where your story is three times in the past thirty minutes.”