“Really? I was wondering if you could meet for happy hour tonight. Around five at the Hotel Del?”

  Regardless of whether this was for business or pleasure, both seemed oddly inappropriate. “Is this a social call or is it related to the Fontaine case?”

  “A little of both,” Darla said.

  Katrina felt a little ragged—and paranoid—given recent events, and Darla’s voice sounded a bit off.

  “Can you give me a hint?” she asked cautiously.

  “No, I’d rather talk in person. My fiancé has been reading your stories, and he wants to meet you.”

  Rolling her eyes, Katrina was tempted to ask if he liked to dress up as a police officer, but she held her tongue. More often than not, meetings like this were a waste of time. But under the circumstances, it was a good opportunity to get some scoop on Dallas Fairchild, the stolen drugs, and who at Vitaleron rode a motorcycle.

  As long as we meet in a well-lit, public place.

  “What’s his name?” she asked.

  “Congressman Brandon Winchester,” Darla said coyly. “He knew Dr. Fontaine pretty well and he wants to give you some insights into the campaign donations that William Fontaine mentioned.”

  Whaat?

  “That’s what we call burying the lede!” Katrina said brightly.

  So, Winchester doesn’t return my call, and now he wants to meet me for a drink?

  “Don’t tell him I told you about the fiancé part,” Darla said. “It’s supposed to be a secret. His divorce isn’t finalized yet.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  They agreed to meet in the Viennese, a hotel bar that Katrina found on the Del’s website while they were talking.

  I’m betting the congressman wants to give me the “it’s all legal” spiel.

  That said, only the contributions and gifts he reported could be traced by searching public records. The reports wouldn’t cover any secretly exchanged jewelry, favors, or shares in Vitaleron. What if Dr. Fontaine had been trying to bribe and/or extort faster action from Winchester or had threatened to expose him, to which the congressman—or a henchman—responded by killing him and Victoria?

  Plenty of links existed between these players, through Vitaleron, the Fontaines, and the Battrelle family. No wonder Vincent had been pushing so hard to get her off the story.

  They’ve arrested Alex Battrelle, so Goode surely knows more than I do after interviewing the whole family. Has he seen these emails too?

  Joanne was far more excited about Katrina’s happy-hour date with Congressman Winchester than any of the other stories they’d discussed.

  “I’ll put this on the budget as a follow-up to our campaign donation story,” Joanne said, immediately typing it in. “Turn in some A-matter before you go, and you can write a new top when you get back.”

  Katrina called Goode to share the news about her happy-hour meeting, but also to pick his brain.

  “Your possible suspects don’t include Brandon Winchester, do they? I don’t know much about him other than the donations yet, but I just found out he’s engaged to Darla, the receptionist at Vitaleron,” she said.

  “You’re kidding. Really?” he said, sounding genuinely surprised. “That’s quite an interesting connection. Where are you meeting them?”

  “At the Del.”

  Goode paused and sighed heavily.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I’m trying to decide what I can, can’t, and shouldn’t tell you.”

  “So this is something?”

  “Yes, it’s definitely something. More than you or I probably even know yet.”

  “Are you telling me to be careful again?”

  “Always. Where at the Del are you meeting them?”

  “Why, are you going to spy on me? I have a job to do, you know.”

  “Of course, so do I, which is why you should definitely meet them somewhere busy and public, so they won’t notice me.”

  “Right. That’s why I picked the Viennese bar.”

  “I’ll be there, as incognito as possible.”

  Chapter 51

  Goode

  Friday

  After hanging up with Katrina, Goode realized that Darla Johansen must be the third in Victoria’s alleged threesome with Winchester, and the fact that Darren McMurphy was at the same hotel with his fiancée, Esperanza, was no coincidence. Was that the second couple to whom she was supplying the drug?

  The rats are gathering, and they’re luring Katrina into their nest.

  If he showed up early with reinforcements, he could try to mitigate any danger by picking up Esperanza, unsuspecting, by the pool, or, more likely, in a bar, and persuading her to confess, hopefully thwarting any move to harm Katrina or anyone else. He also didn’t need to lie to Katrina now about using her as bait, because she’d put herself into this position and had no qualms that he was going to observe the meeting. But he also didn’t tell her that he was organizing a sting operation around it.

  If Esperanza was with McMurphy, Goode would wait until he went to the bathroom to whisk her away, then go back and grab him too. As long as he had backup, he could make sure Katrina wasn’t left unguarded during her meeting with Winchester.

  Still camped out in the far corner of the Sun-Dispatch lot in his unmarked car, Goode called Stone to discuss options.

  “Is she going to write about the autopsy reports?” Stone asked.

  “I don’t know. I tried to discourage her, but I think she’s got her hands full now with a five o’clock meeting with Shady Winchester at the Del,” he said. “I don’t see how she has time to write anything else before that. If I know my girl, she’ll have her head buried in campaign reports all afternoon.”

  “Your girl?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Did you follow my instructions last night?”

  “No comment.”

  “Aw, man.”

  “Dude, relax, I stayed the night, but I was camped out in my car in her carport. She’s got no furniture, no bed, not even a couch. Just a single sleeping bag and two guitars. She’s almost like—a guy—only much hotter.”

  “All right, good.”

  “Not really, my back is killing me.”

  “Moving on.”

  “Happy to,” Goode said. “Listen, we’ll need the whole team at the Del to spread out around the hotel and mic the tables in the bar. Once I see Winchester in person, I’ll know whether he’s our ‘uniformed’ officer. But my gut says he’s not the type to get his hands dirty. I suppose it could even be Darla.”

  “Unless he’s the father of Victoria’s baby.”

  “That is dark.”

  “This whole thing is dark. We can’t pick up Winchester simply for having a drink with a reporter. The feds would have to follow up on bribery by campaign donation if that’s what happened. But if Darla is stealing trade secrets and IP from Vitaleron and sharing them with the congressman, then we could get them on that.”

  “We’re in the right lane for conspiracy to murder as well.”

  “That works for me, too, but first things first. The Del is a big property. Why don’t you get on the horn with Watts and get him to join the party?” Stone said. “They’ve got more resources and better recording equipment than we do. If this really is a murder conspiracy, we don’t know what all they’ve got planned, and the bigger the team, the better.”

  “True,” Goode said. “I’m still not sure about Michael Battrelle’s role in all of this. He lied to us and to Katrina too. But the only people who have direct or indirect access to drugs at both the surgery and Vitaleron are Dr. Russell and Darren McMurphy, through his nurse girlfriend.”

  Stone jumped back in: “Just because the sex drug didn’t turn up in the Fontaines’ bodies doesn’t mean one or more of these jackals didn’t kill them, hepped up on dopamine and whatever the hell else those pills do to your brain—and your pecker.”

  “That’s why I’d go with McMurphy. The guy’s been an arrogant tool since junior high school, and Russell wouldn’t leave such a messy injection site. Although I do still like the hit man idea.”

  “Well, let’s go find out.”

  “I had another dark thought. What if it is one of our guys, hired to do the dirty deed? If McMurphy is bribing a congressman, he could easily bribe a cop, and it’s a good cover to do it on Halloween.”

  “I sure hope you’re wrong. I always come back to Occam’s razor. Go for what makes the most logical sense.”

  “None of this makes sense. I’ll call Watts right now and try to arrange a joint op, starting with a rendezvous a few blocks from the Del at two o’clock. I’ll text you once I find a place to park. You know how hellish it can be over there in the afternoon.”

  “Don’t tell Katrina she’s bait. Vincent Battrelle and his paper will eat our ass for lunch.”

  “I’m way ahead of you, chief.”

  Chapter 52

  Goode

  Friday

  Supervisory Special Agent Watts was surprisingly cooperative. Goode could almost hear him salivating as he listened to the new theory that the uniformed officer could be a real cop involved in a scheme of bribery, theft of IP, trade secrets, and an experimental sex drug, plus a murder conspiracy involving a congressman, an FDA official, and the Battrelles, one of the region’s most illustrious families.

  “I’ll mobilize the Public Corruption Unit, get an emergency warrant, and get those mics planted,” Watts said. “But we’ll need to move fast to beat the Friday afternoon happy-hour crowd. My guys will stick around to make sure the meeting goes as planned and your asset is secure.”

  “Whoa, slow down. She’s not my asset,” Goode said. “She has no idea this is going on. I told her I would be nearby to observe her meeting, but she’s not working with us by any stretch. In fact, we’ve been chasing her tail because she’s too frickin’ good at her job.”

  “That’s not surprising,” Watts said. “Both of her parents were very sharp. You ever wonder if this is all somehow related?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Goode fibbed.

  This was his investigation, and he didn’t want to share Katrina or his suspicions with anyone else.

  Goode and Stone drove separately in case things went awry, as they often did during a joint operation like this.

  Coronado was surrounded by water—the Pacific Ocean to the west and the San Diego Bay to the east. If you were heading south, you would cross the Coronado Bridge, but if you were heading north, you could take the scenic ocean route to the village along a finger of land that ran parallel to the mainland.

  The Del had always been a special, albeit expensive, place to go for a drink after his annual ritual on the bridge, where he stood with one long-stemmed red rose, peeled off one petal at a time, and released it into the wind at the spot where his mother jumped.

  But, for the first time ever, he’d skipped the ceremony this past year. Something had changed after the Tania Marcus case, the homicide of a young girl with long, raven-black hair, turquoise eyes, and an uncanny resemblance to his mother. Stunning even in death. It was almost as if the deep pain of his mother’s suicide had dissipated after Clover, the young woman they suspected of killing Tania, jumped to her death at Black’s. He’d apprehended Tania’s actual killer later that afternoon, the skateboarding biochem grad student he’d seen touching her face when Goode almost ran over her body in an alley.

  As Goode drove over the Coronado Bridge, he passed the fateful spot and realized with bittersweet relief that the memory of his mother was still as clear as ever, just less painful. He could still picture his six-year-old self with her, parked in the far-right lane with their hazard lights flashing as she applied a coat of red lipstick that matched the roses on her dress. How she got out and gave him her trademark droopy smile through the driver’s-side window before she walked behind the car and climbed over the railing. How he sat waiting for her to return until a friendly young police officer pulled up and took him home.

  Turning left on Orange Avenue, Goode cruised alongside the wide, grassy median that ran along the commercial strip of boutiques, family-owned stores, and restaurants in the village. As he approached the Del, he felt like he was visiting an old friend, its red, pointy towers reaching toward the sky with an almost royal grandeur.

  John D. Spreckels, the heir to the sugar fortune, had bought up all the undeveloped property on Coronado Island in the 1880s and helped build this hotel in 1888. Since then, the Del had remained an exclusive destination for the wealthy and a staycation treat for the locals. The Viennese, where Katrina was headed, was the most casual of the hotel bars, overlooking the patio and a spacious pool.

  At the rendezvous point a few blocks from the Del, his crew joined up with the FBI agents and walked over to the hotel in pairs. Wearing khaki shorts, Hawaiian shirts, and baseball caps, they carried athletic bags full of electronic gear.

  At the bar, the agents spread out, sipping iced tea while surreptitiously planting a mic in each centerpiece. Meanwhile, Goode’s team circulated around the expansive property, searching for Esperanza or McMurphy, who proved to be elusive. The detectives mostly wandered around, watching, waiting, and taking turns in the men’s room.

  Where is she? Does McMurphy have her locked up somewhere? Or vice versa?

  Chapter 53

  Katrina

  Friday

  Katrina had hoped to arrive first. She wanted to sit at a table where she could watch the entire room and outdoor patio with her back to the wall. But the bar was crowded, and Winchester was already sitting in a booth with Darla.

  Waving her over, Winchester stood up and flashed the sleazy smile she recognized from his website, his mouth stretched horizontally to almost cartoonish proportions. He was a good foot taller and a dozen years older than Darla, who beamed up at him as if he were a walking pile of cash. Based on his Armani suit and the sizable yellow-diamond ring on Darla’s finger, he appeared to be just that. His smug demeanor confirmed Katrina’s sense that he not only accepted campaign donations in exchange for quid pro quos, i.e., bribes, he actively solicited them.

  But he’s too tall and big-boned to be the police officer on the video.

  “Nice to meet you, Katrina,” he said, giving her a wimpy, loose handshake.

  Like a woman. Ewww.

  “And please call me Brandon,” he said.

  “Hi, Katrina,” Darla said with a glassy-eyed sweetness as she emptied the last of her martini into a new one the waiter had just delivered.

  “How long have you been here?” Katrina asked.

  “About twenty minutes,” Winchester said, “but we didn’t order any food because we thought we’d take this meeting up to our room.”

  Katrina had her guard up, intending to follow Goode’s advice to keep their interaction in public view—while eating a tasty appetizer that she would expense to the paper.

  “Actually, I’d prefer to stay in the bar,” she said. “I’m meeting a colleague here in a little while.”

  When she saw Winchester and Darla exchange looks, Katrina couldn’t tell if she’d derailed some nefarious scheme or if they were simply surprised she’d declined their offer.

  Leaning toward Katrina, Darla whispered, “I think Brandon is worried someone will see him talking to the reporter who is investigating the Fontaine deaths and think he’s involved somehow.”

  “No one knows who I am or what I look like,” Katrina whispered back, “and I’m sure he’s talked with plenty of reporters before me. He’ll be fine.”

  I’m not going to any hotel room with this creep. If I ignore him, he’ll get the message and sit his ass back down.

  Signaling to the waiter, she avoided the congressman’s eyes and sat down with finality, while Winchester continued to stand, as if this would somehow force her to accept his invitation.

  “I guess we’re staying here,” he said passive-aggressively, lowering himself into the booth and straightening his tie, all in one motion.

  Katrina ignored his tone and turned on her own fake smile. She ordered some overpriced Thai chicken sticks with peanut sauce, deciding against the Chardonnay she would normally order at happy hour.

  Got to stay sharp.

  “So, tell me, how is your committee involved in the FDA’s drug-approval process?” she asked, opening her notebook.

  Eyebrows raised, Winchester seemed taken aback by her opening gambit, but, as a consummate politician, he spent the next ten minutes offering an extremely sanitized explanation that she suspected had little bearing in reality. Still awaiting the purpose of this meeting, she wondered what he was so worried she would find out. Or already knew.

  “Do all those campaign contributions influence your votes or actions when it comes to Vitaleron?” she asked.

  “Of course not,” he said with the cartoon smile again, an obvious tell that he was lying. “We don’t deal with drugs going through experimental trials.”

  “Where are Mantabulis and Femtastica in the approval process?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said snappishly. “I don’t keep track of individual drugs.”

  A bit testy, aren’t we?

  “I assume you’ve met many of the local investors, because they’re listed on your campaign disclosure forms,” she said. “I found them on the SEC reports for Vitaleron. The donations were all collected at two fundraisers for your reelection campaign.”

  As she waited for him to answer, he stared at her without blinking.

  Ohhh, good party trick.

  “I was waiting for a question,” he said. “I’m sure I’ve met some of them, but at fundraisers, it’s generally ‘Hello, nice to meet you,’ and then on to the next donor.”

  What she really wanted to know was whether he was an investor, or even a silent partner, so that only a select few would know he wasn’t disclosing the conflict of interest while lobbying his buddies on the golf course—and that female FDA official—over drinks. But she stayed silent, hoping he would feel pressured to fill the space. It worked.