“There are quite a few local investors, or so I hear, but not many with large shares in the company,” he said.

  “You’re aware of who they are, though, right? From your campaign statements?”

  The congressman’s irritation was showing now, as his jawline and phony smile tightened. “I don’t study names on the reports if that’s what you’re asking. My staff keeps track of them, and I assure you it’s all done legally,” he said.

  “Have you thought about investing in Vitaleron? I noticed it’s not listed on your financial disclosure reports.”

  “Sure, who hasn’t? It seems like a very promising drug.”

  “Darla, you know some of the investors, don’t you?” Katrina asked, assessing her tipsiness.

  “Yes, but I’ll never tell,” Darla replied. As she drained her martini glass, the stick of olives hit her in the face, then toppled end over end to the floor, splashing her blouse with the cloudy liquid. “Now look what you made me do. I ordered extra olives on purpose.”

  Giggling, Darla touched Katrina’s forearm as she wobbled her way upright, shaky at best on four-inch spike heels. But Katrina could see that her body was firm, athletic, with narrow hips and small breasts. Like a lean runner.

  Could she be the one in the police uniform?

  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go to the little girls’ room to put some cold water on this mess,” Darla said. “You two make nice.”

  Once Darla was out of earshot, Katrina took a more direct tact. “Okay, Congressman, why did you want to meet with me? You never even returned my call.”

  Caught off guard again, Winchester was one of those old-boy politicians who traditionally got away with talking around the issue. Deflect, deflect, deflect.

  “As I’ve said, these were all legal contributions, and I’m not sure why you’ve chosen to try to link me with Vitaleron, as if I had something to do with these deaths. Victoria was known to be unstable, and from what I hear, she overdosed,” he said. “Dr. Fontaine had a weak heart, in more ways than one.”

  “No one has said anything like that to me,” she said. “My sources say they were both murdered.”

  Shaking his head, he said, “Well, my sources are saying the opposite. And as a member of Congress, I’m sure I have access to better information than you do.”

  “Let’s be honest, how much have you invested in the company?”

  “I didn’t say I had any money invested,” he said, a sweaty sheen catching the light on his upper lip and forehead. He took a long sip of his gin and tonic and reached into his jacket pocket. “Excuse me, my phone is vibrating. I need to take this call.”

  As Winchester headed for the patio, Katrina looked around the bar and saw Goode in sunglasses and a baseball cap a few tables away, nursing an iced tea and nibbling at a bowl of cheese-doodle pretzel mix. He raised his eyebrows with a questioning thumbs-up. She replied with a “who knows” shrug.

  When Winchester returned a few minutes later, he had his arm around Darla, who kissed his cheek after applying red lipstick. Thinking he knew better, he swiped at the red mark on his cheek, but simply smeared it, patting her on the butt like a dog.

  Is she his pet or his amulet of protection? Maybe sweet Darla isn’t so sweet.

  “Listen, I have some paperwork I want to show you up in the room,” he said.

  “What type of paperwork?” Katrina asked.

  Sounds like a ruse to me.

  “It will prove that everything between Dr. Fontaine and me was on the up-and-up. Your story and your questions today implied that there was something improper about our relationship. I want to be as transparent as I can with you,” he said, using the telltale buzzword among politicians that usually signaled they were being anything but.

  “Can’t you run up and bring them down?”

  “No, I can’t. They’re personal documents, and they don’t leave my room.”

  Katrina’s curiosity was piqued, but she didn’t want to leave the bar. She trusted this couple even less than when she’d first sat down. However, she knew Joanne wouldn’t be happy if Katrina didn’t allow him to explain the donations.

  Maybe I’m being paranoid. What if these donations truly are legal?

  Despite her fear of mortality, a jolt of adrenaline hit her once again, fortifying her natural tendency to take risks. If she followed them upstairs, surely Goode would watch where she was going and follow if necessary. A congressman couldn’t go around murdering people at the Hotel Del, especially reporters. It wouldn’t play well in the polls.

  That’s not going to happen. This isn’t a crime novel.

  “Okay, but only for a few minutes. I really do need to be back here to meet my colleague.”

  “Very good,” Winchester said.

  After exchanging looks with Darla, as if to say “All is well with the world again,” he gestured for Katrina to walk ahead of him as they headed for the elevator. She shuddered inwardly as he put his hand on her lower back to guide her up the steps, just as Vincent had.

  The touching was not only inappropriate, he’d prevented her from following behind him and signaling to Goode. She jumped at the sound of a hand smacking clothed flesh a few feet behind her, followed by giggling, though she couldn’t be sure who was slapping whom.

  The three of them stepped into the elevator, where Darla clung to Winchester like a mudpack at a spa in Palm Springs. Laying her head on his shoulder, she winked at Katrina, while Winchester gave her a heavy-lidded look and licked his lips.

  Gross. Are they coming on to me? Does he really want to discuss business, or is he trying to compromise me by playing Hide the Olive Jar in their room? What if Darla was the one stealing the medication to share with this creepy dude?

  “Fifth floor, please,” Winchester said to the operator, whose face was so wrinkled he looked like he’d been around since the hotel was built.

  “Yes, sir,” the operator replied.

  The antique elevator ground its way up the floors, making Katrina feel like they were in slow motion as each floor passed by through the brass grating.

  She didn’t know if she was more worried that they were going to tie her to a chair and inject her with something or that they were going to force her to have sex with them. She could still feel the spot on her lower back where Winchester had touched her.

  It was too late now, but she realized that Goode wouldn’t know where to find her because the antique elevator didn’t show lit floor numbers on the ground floor like a modern elevator did.

  Oh, shit.

  “Fifth floor,” the operator announced, pulling back the grating with a rattle to reveal a beige carpet with red octagons. The antique floor squeaked beneath them with every other step along the narrow hallway, dimly lit by mushroom-shaped sconces on the ceiling. Her nose itched from the musty smell as her mind flashed to the scene from The Shining, where the hallway filled with blood.

  Redrum, redrum.

  They were approaching the end of the hallway when a door opened and out stepped a tall man, built like a linebacker, wearing a navy blazer, a tie, and one of those earplugs with the coiled wire. Seeing a bulge under his jacket, she assumed he was packing a gun.

  How did he know we were here? That must have been him calling Winchester. Wrong build for the officer in the video, but based on Goode’s description, he’s good for the guy in my driveway.

  “Evening, Congressman, Darla,” he said.

  “Good evening, Walter,” Winchester said.

  The elevator bell dinged down the hall behind them, but when she turned around, hoping to see Goode poke his head out, no one was there.

  “Right this way, Miss Katrina,” Winchester said, touching her lower back again as he followed her into the room.

  I really wish he’d stop doing that.

  Winchester closed the door and secured the horseshoe latch, preventing even the housekeepers or hotel security from getting in—if they got past Walter.

  Katrina felt a tight ball of anxiety and nausea in her stomach. What had she gotten herself into? She was about to text Goode when Winchester grabbed her phone and set it on a table next to a bucket of champagne on ice.

  “We don’t really need to be texting or making calls at this point, do we?” he asked rhetorically. “This won’t take long.”

  What won’t take long?

  Katrina didn’t know what to do. There was no such lesson in the investigative reporter’s handbook. She’d have to wing it.

  She thought of Daniel Pearl, the Wall Street Journal reporter who’d been abducted while pursuing a hot story about terrorists in Pakistan and ended up beheaded. This, she imagined, was similar to the dilemma he’d been in, thinking that covering terrorism was dangerous but that his story was important enough to take a risk. He probably hadn’t felt entirely safe when he’d climbed into that taxi but chose to do it anyway. And that decision proved fatal.

  “Let’s see that paperwork,” she said.

  Tapping two long fingers on her shoulder, Winchester pushed her gently into a chair. “What’s your hurry?” he said. “Let’s have some champagne first. Don’t you think, sweetie?”

  “Definitely! Let’s break out the hors d’oeuvres too,” Darla chirped, lifting the silver-domed cover of the buffet cart to expose a bounty of raw oysters, smoked salmon, crème fraiche, crackers, and caviar on ice.

  What the hell are they up to?

  The cork exploded across the room so loudly that Katrina almost dove under the bed for cover. But she tried to remain calm as he poured the fizzy liquid into three flutes.

  “We just got engaged, and we are in quite the celebratory mood,” Darla exclaimed.

  If they were simply two people in love who had invited her into their little bubble for a chat and paperwork exchange, then she should be free to go.

  So why take away my phone and lock the door? This feels a little surreal, but I’ll be fine. Right? Unless the man outside is there to ensure I don’t leave.

  “I’m not allowed to have sources buy me champagne and hors d’oeuvres,” she said. “It’s not ethical.”

  Winchester leaned down and put a full flute on the table next to her. “Who’s going to know? We certainly won’t tell, will we, sweetie?”

  “Don’t worry, Katrina,” Darla said. “Drink up!”

  Did she put something in my drink?

  “No, really, thank you, but I don’t drink on the job,” she said. “I’ve still got a story to write tonight. So, if you give me the paperwork, I’ll be on my way.”

  The congressman smirked and shook his head. “You didn’t really think we were just going to let you leave, did you?”

  What the hell?

  “I’m sure you don’t mean that you’re going to hold me hostage, do you, Congressman?” she said, laughing nervously. “That would constitute abduction, a criminal offense, which wouldn’t look great in the newspaper or in your opponent’s campaign brochures, where you know the story would end up.”

  “Katrina, what are you talking about?” Darla said in a Valley girl voice before stuffing a cracker heaped with caviar into her mouth, leaving a white, creamy trail on her lips and chin.

  Darla curled up like a cat in Winchester’s lap as they both sipped champagne on the chartreuse silk love seat. He seemed to be enjoying the head games, thinking he could manipulate Katrina now they were on his turf.

  “I was only teasing you, Miss Chopin,” he said. “You’re perfectly free to go. But there will be no paperwork for you unless we can talk about it. It’s pretty good stuff, you know. It would make a really great story. Award-winning, I’m sure.”

  Even after she’d called their bluff, Katrina honestly couldn’t tell if they were planning to hurt her or not. But whatever their intentions, she was leaving while she had the chance.

  “Your choice. As I said, I’ve got to meet my colleague. Why don’t you email me that paperwork,” she said, grabbing her cell phone and heading for the door.

  “I guess I could, but you’re being awfully rude,” Winchester said. “Sweetie,” he said to Darla, who was back at the buffet, “will you make me a plate too?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “I’ll see you later, then,” Katrina said.

  Opening the door, she couldn’t have been more relieved to see a familiar face.

  “No, you can’t go in there, the congressman is in a meeting,” Walter was saying.

  “There you are, Sergeant Stone,” she said, taking his arm and walking toward the elevator.

  “Have a nice evening, Ms. Chopin,” Walter called after them.

  Katrina hit the elevator call button repeatedly for good measure.

  “It’s okay,” Stone whispered. “I’ve got you.”

  “You have no idea,” she said.

  “Let’s get you out of here and you can tell us about it downstairs,” he said.

  The elevator rose up slowly from below, startling her as Darren McMurphy emerged into view through the grating. He looked equally startled to see her, which seemed strange because they’d never actually met.

  After an awkward dance of stepping around each other, he turned and walked toward Winchester’s room, where Walter had already opened the door for him.

  What’s he doing here? Was he supposed to be part of the “meeting” I was just in? Did I escape with my life?

  Back in the lobby, Stone led Katrina downstairs, through boutique row, and back to the bar, where Goode was waiting for them.

  “Now that we know where McMurphy is, I’m going to grab him for questioning,” Stone said, jogging off again. “Meet you up there.”

  “That was one of the weirdest meetings ever,” she told Goode, giving him the brief highlights. “I wasn’t sure they were going to let me go.”

  “Everything is okay now,” he said calmly, rubbing the back of her hand.

  “If you say so,” she said. She still felt goose bumps across her arms and neck. “What’s going on?”

  “Off the record, we’re looking at McMurphy and Winchester, especially in light of the article you wrote, which was very helpful, by the way. We have other information linking both of them to the Fontaines, which I’ll tell you once this is over. It’s looking like a conspiracy case.”

  “But, of course, I can’t use any of that in today’s story.”

  “No, absolutely not, or you will blow everything for us. In fact, for the next day or two, you’ll need to be very, very careful. Don’t get yourself into a situation like that with any of these people again, because they, or one of their lackeys, might act recklessly. I would encourage you to go to your apartment, lock all the doors, and let us handle this.”

  “I think that guy from last night at my apartment could be Winchester’s bodyguard,” she said. “Walter Hall. He’s upstairs. But I can’t go home and hide. I’m on deadline and my editor is expecting a story. You’ve got to tell me what’s going on.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t say anything more. Go to the paper or go home, Katrina. It’s not safe for you here. I’ll call you later, I promise, but I’ve got to go.”

  “Dammit!” she muttered.

  Chapter 54

  Katrina

  Friday

  “Go to the paper or go home, Katrina. It’s not safe for you here.”

  Goode’s warning rang in her ears, but she couldn’t bring herself to follow his advice, even after everything that had happened over the past week. An intrepid reporter would hang around to watch the cops walk McMurphy and Winchester out in handcuffs.

  Maybe I should call Joanne to send a photographer over. How unsafe could I be in a public place, with so many people swarming around?

  She could also play it safe and go back to the newsroom as Goode suggested. See if she and Joanne could figure out a way to write it all up, with the hope that Goode’s prediction would come true and they’d top the story with a fresh arrest later that night.

  In the meantime, however, what would the story say, exactly? Winchester and his fiancée, the Vitaleron receptionist, invited me up to their room for a seafood buffet, played head games, and offered me paperwork I didn’t want to wait around for in case they drugged or sexually assaulted me?

  She could only hope that she could cobble together a story, possibly with Goode’s help. The conspiracy angle sounded intriguing, but it was off the record.

  Katrina was scanning the area for a private place to call Joanne when she felt a tap on her shoulder. It was a pretty young Filipino woman who resembled the nurse in the video, one of the last people to see Victoria Fontaine alive. She was petite, in her late twenties, wearing a black sleeveless top, black shorts, and a frantic expression.

  “I’m Esperanza Cepeda. You called me, and we need to talk,” she said, clutching Katrina’s arm. “In private.”

  Esperanza pulled her into the corner of the restroom, as far from the entrance as possible.

  “You have to help me,” she whispered, watching the door. “My life is in danger.”

  “From whom?”

  “My fiancé, Darren McMurphy. I think he’s going to kill me.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “You know I was Simon Fontaine’s nurse. Well, he and Victoria are dead because of Darren.”

  Oh, my God. Goode was right.

  “Have you called the police?”

  “No, it would take too long for them to build a case. I’d be dead by then. I want you to tell my story and get it online tonight. Then they can’t hurt me.”

  “Okay, so why don’t you come with me to the newsroom?” Katrina asked. “You’ll be safe there.”

  “No, that won’t work. Darren told me to stay in the room. If he comes back and I’m gone, he’ll send his people to find me.”

  “You have a room here too?” Katrina asked.

  That doesn’t sound like a coincidence.

  “Yes, Darren brought me here for the weekend to hide out. He left the room a little while ago, saying he had some business for a few hours. If I take you there and tell you my story, you can post it tonight, right?”

  “Theoretically, yes. How did you find me?”