As Katrina swirled her Glenlivet around the giant cube, she tried to remember the last time her family had dined at Piatti together. Franny loved their veal piccata, her mom went for the risotto, and her dad had the daily special, no matter what it was. But toward the end, their family get-togethers were downright unpleasant.

  Looking over her shoulder at the adjacent room, Katrina recalled Franny slamming down his fork and storming out the night Daddy called him out on his boozing. Another evening, Franny performed a dramatic wine-bottle drop on the patio, splashing Zinfandel on every diner nearby, before silently turning to leave. Each time, their mother stared straight ahead, her bottom lip shaking, until Franny’s tantrum was over. Only then did she order her usual glass of Cabernet and finish her dinner in peace.

  As Katrina faced forward again, the bartender was salting the rim of a glass. He shook the silver canister vigorously, pouring out two foamy margaritas with a flourish. Maybe she’d have one of those next.

  She didn’t like to dive too deeply into these family memories because they made her sad, and who needed that? But she’d made a deal with herself—and her therapist—to visit Piatti, pull some out, and start processing them. Or the trauma would keep bubbling up and festering, as it had on those sleepless nights while she was writing the award-winning series that had brought her back home, recruited by the San Diego Sun-Dispatch.

  It was a tad surreal to work for the “conservative rag” her parents wouldn’t have in the house when she and Franny were growing up. They preferred the Los Angeles Times. But other than the comics and Dear Abby, teenage Katrina had no interest in either paper. And now look at her, a member of the Watchdog reporting team, driven to succeed as much or more than her parents ever were, trying to live up to the legacy they’d left behind.

  That said, she almost dreaded seeing anyone from her past life here. What would she say to them? Of course they’d ask how she was doing after Franny’s overdose, followed by her parents’ very public death, which the media dubbed the “Double-Judge Murders.”

  They always came up with catchy phrases for high-profile cases, but this one made her wince. Like her parents were a pack of gum or something. She was frustrated that neither the cops nor the FBI, which was called in to assist, had made any significant progress in the case, allowing the killer to go underground or remain hidden in plain sight. She had no idea, really, but she was determined to find out.

  Feeling a presence next to her, Katrina heard a male voice to her left.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  She turned to see an attractive man, slightly older than her, with a mirthful smile. His opening salvo didn’t sound like a pickup line. More like a polite question.

  “No, not really,” she said.

  She’d imagined saving the seat for her father as if he were the prophet Elijah. She wasn’t Jewish, but she’d been to a few Seders. The host always left an empty seat and a glass of wine for Elijah, knowing he would never show up.

  The man seemed friendly enough, but he was almost too handsome, with his sun-bleached brown hair and his pecs and shoulder muscles pushing against his long-sleeved fitted shirt. Royal blue made his tanned skin glow.

  As a general rule, she mistrusted men who looked this good because they were usually self-centered. Too often, they started a conversation, then picked up their phone to read messages while she was trying to tell them a story. She could read most anything upside down, and on two such occasions, the asshats were trolling for Tinder dates right in front of her. But she could tell this guy was for real as soon as their conversation went to death and suicide. He also had kind eyes.

  She talked to her parents too. Sometimes aloud or in her head, sometimes in her dreams.

  It’s not the same paper. It’s better these days. They’ve won a Pulitzer since you’ve been gone.

  In just minutes, she and Goode had gone deep, yet barely touched the surface, when he stepped outside to take a call.

  He apologized when he returned, touching her lightly on the forearm. “We’ve got two dead bodies in the Farms,” he said. “I’ve got to go.”

  “You’re a homicide detective,” she said, laughing a little.

  “’Fraid so,” he said, apparently confused by her amusement. “Is that bad?”

  She shook her head. She was laughing because she’d realized why she felt such a connection with him. They were both investigators, but on opposite sides of the fence. How much of a no-go was that right off the bat? He was one of them. A potential source, which could be a problem when he called her for a date. She knew he would. Despite his cool exterior, she could see it in his eyes.

  But he was gone before she had a chance to tell him what she did for a living. Or that she was going to be a burr in his department’s ass, pressuring them to pull her parents’ cold case out of the freezer and bring it back to a boil.

  Goode’s abrupt departure took the breath out of her evening, so she paid the check and headed back to the La Jolla Sheraton, where the paper was putting her up until she could find a place to live.

  Chapter 4

  Goode

  Saturday

  Once the two forensic tech teams arrived—one for each victim—Goode called everyone together for a briefing in the driveway. Thankfully, their lieutenant, Doug Wilson, had decided to wait until morning to swing by. Wilson aspired to be chief someday, and morning lighting was better for face time in front of the TV cameras.

  While they waited for the warrants to come through, Goode walked up to the street to determine how an intruder might have gained access to the house when Patrol had to call private security to open the gate.

  Could’ve scaled the wall, I guess, but I’m betting they knew the security code or got buzzed in somehow. So, if it’s a murder, that says inside job by a family friend or associate.

  Turning toward the ocean, he caught a whiff of night-blooming jasmine and tried to imagine the pristine ocean-bluff neighborhood before Texas oil baron William Black carved it into residential lots in 1947. It was called “La Jolla Farms” because Black and his wife bred and trained horses there, but every deed came with a covenant: Only “Caucasian[s] with European ancestry” could buy a parcel or join their Beach and Bridle Club of white supremacists.

  Such local covenants, which also banned Jews from buying property, had to be changed during the 1970s, when the new University of California, San Diego, began recruiting faculty members nationwide. But that didn’t eliminate the residual elitism that Goode felt from his classmates at La Jolla Elementary all the way through high school. While many of his classmates lived in mansions like the Fontaines’, his family’s bungalow was in the same hood, near the high school, in which the “help” for those mansions used to live.

  Many homes in the Farms were built during that same era but had since been upgraded or expanded to reflect the occupants’ wealth, often leaning toward the ostentatious. The Razor House, for example, which he’d passed on his way to the Fontaines’: With walls of glass and cold cement, the home had water flowing over its outside edges. Designed by a famous architect in 2007, the property, originally valued at $34 million, was used as a backdrop for high-end fashion and credit card shoots. Goode couldn’t even imagine living there. He felt like a trespasser just walking by.

  Once the warrants came through, Goode headed back inside the Fontaine mansion, pointing the techs toward items to photograph and mark with evidence numbers, such as the pregnancy stick. He liked his numbers to progress in logical order, to tell the story he would present to the prosecutor, and he—or she—in turn, to the jury. Other areas were identified for fingerprint dusting and swabbing for DNA.

  “Bag the hands of both victims, please,” he said. “We’ll need to check them for gunshot residue.”

  Although they’d turned on most of the lights, it still wasn’t very bright in the house. But even as a death scene, the stark rooms of wall-to-wall glass seemed right out of Architectural Digest. During the day, the ocean view had to be spectacular.

  Six bedrooms and five bathrooms were spread over three floors, including a master suite on the top, where Goode focused the next phase of his search. Because the enormous walk-in closet was half-empty, with men’s clothes and shoes on the other side, Goode figured the doctor was recently divorced or widowed.

  This was confirmed by the reading glasses perched on the spine of a book, opened and pages-down on one bedside table, but nothing except a clock on the other. Female companions usually left remnants of themselves, like earplugs or eye cream, which indicated that Simon was not in a serious relationship. Maybe a regular sex partner, but nothing more.

  Down the hall was a big office, where two wide-screen computer monitors spanned most of a massive cherrywood desk, most likely for viewing X-rays and medical records simultaneously. Several framed family photos showed Simon with a younger Victoria and an even younger blond man with the same nose and chin. Probably her brother.

  Simon had his arm stiffly around Victoria’s shoulder. Not the affectionate type, apparently. A framed news article hung on the wall, featuring a photo taken at the ribbon-cutting for Vitaleron Corp. at their HQ in Sorrento Valley. It identified Simon as founder, chief executive officer, and board chairman, and Victoria as the company’s chief financial officer.

  So, they worked together. That’s a start.

  Another photo featured Simon fishing on a yacht with an almost identical white-haired man. His brother most likely, possibly a twin. Neither of them looked particularly happy to be together, but at least they were trying.

  The rest of the wall was hung with Simon’s medical licenses and degrees, and photos with local celebrities and elected officials, including the mayor and several council members and port commissioners. Always with the serious expression, Simon was captured in a posed handshake with Police Chief Tom Baxter at a civic event.

  Just what we need. A victim who was a friend or associate of the chief and every politician in town. A major clusterfuck, indeed.

  There was also a plaque commemorating the groundbreaking of the Fontaine Room at the McDonald Center, a rehab facility for alcohol and substance abuse. With Victoria’s history, this was a strong indicator that she’d spent time there, because major donations are often gestures of thanks. Again, this pointed to suicide, or even an accidental overdose, at least for Victoria.

  Checking the master bathroom, Goode found a black medical bag of first-aid items: gauze, white tape, and an unopened box of syringes.

  This box hasn’t been touched. Still, people don’t shoot up a lethal dose, dispose of the needle, then go downstairs to make chicken soup.

  It also contained a silver-dollar-sized plastic box with several blue pills and two green capsules under the snap lid. He knew the blue ones were Viagra, but he didn’t recognize the green ones. That was a job for the medical examiner’s toxicology lab.

  But other than the dead bodies, he didn’t see any signs of foul play anywhere in the house—no blood, broken glass, splintered doorjambs, or forced locks.

  “Listen up, everyone,” he called from the top of the stairs. “We need to search every trash receptacle on site. Keep an eye out for syringes, drug vials, paraphernalia, and any traces of blood inside the house.”

  Walking down one flight, he identified the room with the balcony he’d seen from the patio below, and it felt as lifeless as the bodies. The only piece of furniture was a long, U-shaped sectional green couch facing a big flat-screen TV, where a family could gather to watch movies or play video games. Yet, he saw no toys or photos of children anywhere in the house. No flowers, sentimentality, feminine touches—or liquor—either.

  A set of French doors opened onto the balcony, which was enclosed by an ornate wrought iron railing. The door on the right was slightly ajar. The left side was closed.

  Odd. Did someone forget to close both doors after pushing him over? If he was going to jump, he probably wouldn’t have closed them first.

  Still, with a gunshot wound to the head, it seemed unlikely that he would’ve shot himself, then fallen. The small amount of his thick blood on the patio also made a jump implausible because his noggin would have split open. In fact, the whole scene screamed oxymorons. Goode had seen some weird crime scenes, especially when they’d been staged, and this one was right up there.

  We should dust these doorknobs for prints.

  Heading back to Victoria’s bedroom, Goode opened the white, shuttered doors of the closet, which contained designer suits and casual business attire, sexy dresses and fancy gowns in plastic bags, a must so close to the ocean. But he didn’t see any computer or work area. Although she could have shared her father’s office upstairs, he figured she preferred keeping her personal and professional lives separate.

  Even if Victoria or Simon had a health issue, Goode still couldn’t conjure up a motive for either one to commit a murder-suicide. But it seemed like more grown children killed their parents than the other way around.

  Maybe I missed something in her bag.

  Although he had lost his mom on the bridge shortly after his sixth birthday, she’d already taught him not to go into her purse.

  “It’s like going through a woman’s private secrets,” she told him.

  But it was his job to paw through Victoria’s. After removing a heap of clothes from the armchair to sit down, he was pleased to find a laptop on the seat.

  Excellent. Got to get this to the RCFL to see if we can find some leads in her files or browser search history.

  Victoria’s bag was full of random pens, paper napkins, sticky wrapped cough drops, Stevia bags, a lipstick case, and her laminated Vitaleron security badge on a cord. But then, tucked in a side pocket, he found a surprising yet important clue: a single unspent 9mm round.

  Where did this come from? Is that her gun on the patio? Was she planning a round of Russian roulette when the events took an unexpected turn?

  It was an interesting find. But it only raised more questions.

  Googling Vitaleron, Goode found the news stories Stone had mentioned. According to The New York Times, the promising experimental sex drug was billed as a dopamine enhancement vehicle, more effective and broader in scope than Viagra. Unlike the little blue pill, which was for men only, this drug came in different gender-based formulations, to address men’s and women’s respective hormonal and other physiological needs: Mantabulis and Femtastica.

  You’ve got to wonder about side effects, though. Like Viagra’s four-hour erection warning.

  Goode had taken a brain chemistry class at UCLA, but he did a quick internet refresher on dopamine functions and its reward-seeking receptors before reading the rest of the article.

  The goal of the new drug was to heighten physical pleasures during sex. But what made the drug unique and unprecedented was the psychological boost it reportedly would provide to prolong or rekindle lost attraction to a long-term partner. In essence, this pharmacological rebirth of youth and virility was billed to maintain that new-relationship feeling, the butterflies and infatuation that typically lasted only six to eighteen months before fading away. The ramifications could be sweeping.

  “You know that euphoric feeling when you’re first attracted to someone? What if you were able to reinvigorate that excitement later in your marriage or relationship? Or, even better, if you never lost it?” Dr. Fontaine told the Times. “Studies show that’s often why married partners have affairs. They miss that desire, that urge. Having it with your spouse or significant other is certainly safer—and socially preferable—than trying to find it with strangers online or in dark bars.”

  Amen to that. Sounds like Simon was speaking from experience. I wonder if he or his wife was the one who lost the feeling?

  As a regular Times subscriber, Goode didn’t know how he could have missed this story when it came out, unless he was investigating a fresh murder or testifying at trial.

  Per Food and Drug Administration (FDA) protocols, Vitaleron had already completed animal trials and the first of three phases of human trials more than a year ago. But Goode couldn’t find any updates online.

  He pictured the rich white men lining up in the steam room at the La Jolla Beach and Tennis Club—with their limp penises, droopy bellies, and fantasies of eternally youthful erections—lobbying Simon Fontaine and Vincent Battrelle to let them into the human trials.

  If these deaths were related to Vitaleron, Simon’s phone might also hold some leads. Heading back downstairs, Goode went hunting for the device, which was covered by the warrant.

  Out on the patio, he waited for the criminalist to finish his measurements around the victim’s body. Careful not to disturb Simon’s position before the ME’s investigator arrived, Goode felt around and eased the phone from the front pocket of the doctor’s Bermuda shorts and dropped it into another Faraday bag.

  Goode picked up the gun in his gloved hand and opened the chamber. It was empty, which left one bullet in Victoria’s purse and one in her father’s head.

  Stone joined him outside. “Find anything else?” he asked.

  “Yeah, check this out,” he said, showing him the gun and the single round, which he dropped into two respective bags the tech held open for him. “This unspent cartridge came from a pocket in Victoria’s purse. We’ll need to check if either of them owned a gun, but if this was a murder, it could also be stolen.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving. Remember the Loricelli case?” Stone said, referring to the man who had staged his own suicide to look like a murder so his kids could collect on his life insurance.

  “Point taken,” Goode said. “But if that’s what happened here, then who benefits?”

  When the ME’s investigator showed up around 4:00 a.m., Goode was pleased to see it was his buddy, Artie Hayes. Goode had learned a lot from him over the past few years.