“When will the autopsies be conducted?” Jerry yelled out.

  Didn’t the lieutenant just say he wasn’t taking questions?

  Largo stepped up to the microphone to introduce himself. “I’m Dr. Largo, chief medical examiner, here at Chief Baxter’s request to let you know that we had a busy night due to a car-racing pileup on the 805, so we’ll be doing multiple autopsies this weekend, including these fine folks. We should know more by Monday. That’s all, everybody.”

  After the news conference, Goode leaned into his van to grab another bottle of water before taking off for the RCFL.

  “Hey, Surfer Man,” a familiar female voice said behind him. “Is this your fine-looking surf-mobile?”

  He turned around and was so surprised to see Katrina—holding a notebook, no less—that the bottle fell out of his hand and started rolling away. He had to run over to pick it up.

  “Wait, you’re a reporter?” he asked. “How did I not know that?”

  “And to think, you call yourself a detective,” she said, smiling mischievously.

  Now that she was standing before him, he couldn’t help but notice that her dark-brown hair had wavy curls underneath, falling past her shoulders to a pair of nearly perfect breasts. Her slender runner’s body was about five-foot-six, with long shapely legs below her flowered skirt, which fell, professionally, right above the knee. Her eyes reflected the same sarcastic wit they’d shared the night before, and the emotional wall that masked whatever was behind them. It was like a dare to him.

  “Who are you with?” he asked.

  “The Sun-Dispatch.”

  He was confused. “Really? Because I saw Jerry here, one of my least favorite people, I have to say. This story needs two reporters?”

  “Jerry’s doing the daily today, but I’m writing a bigger story. Whatever that turns out to be. Because, as my editor said, they were such ‘high-profile and influential people.’”

  “Is that code for rich folks?”

  “I’m sure that’s part of it,” she said. “Listen, I didn’t say anything when you got the call last night, because I’m not a police reporter. I’m on the Watchdog team, and I didn’t even get assigned to this story until an hour ago. I only started working at the paper last week.”

  “Figures. Just my luck.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well . . . this . . . just . . . complicates things a bit, that’s all,” he said, choosing his words carefully. Those knowing eyes made him nervous. It was like she could see into his brain, and reporters could be so manipulative. He needed to proceed with caution, especially given his attraction to her, which was formed before he knew who she worked for.

  “It doesn’t have to,” she said. “I’ve got a job to do, and so do you. You’ll get to trust me, you’ll see. I’m good at what I do.”

  See? She’s starting the charming manipulation already.

  “I’m sure you are,” he said.

  As much as he’d wanted to stay and chat the night before, he now felt the need to flee before he said something that got him in trouble. “Listen, I’ve got to run and drop some stuff at the RCFL.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Regional Computer Forensics Lab. You know, computers, phones.”

  “Oh, okay. Could you possibly show me around the house first, point to where you found the bodies?”

  “Sorry, no can do.”

  “Okay, then can you describe the death scene to me? Tell me how they died?”

  “That’s what we’re investigating. If we release specific details, we could tip off the killer that we’re on to him. Or her. If this turns out to be a homicide, that is.”

  “So, you think it might be a female killer?”

  “Simmer down now, Ms. Investigative Reporter. I was simply attempting to avoid sounding sexist. Women kill too.”

  “What about the condition of the victims? Were they shot, strangled, or beaten up? In the same room, or in bed together? My editor was wondering if they were having sex, because of the drug Simon Fontaine was developing, although that was before we knew the victims were father and daughter. Do you think one of them killed the other? Or does it look like a hit of some kind?”

  It was hard for Goode not to smile a little.

  She’s a firecracker. A much better reporter than Klein, that’s for sure.

  “Seriously, I can’t tell you anything on the record. You’ll need to talk to Sergeant Stone for that. But maybe later I can tell you a few details off the record,” he said.

  “Great. So, when can I call you?” she asked.

  I’m going to have to be careful with this one. I had my guard down last night, but that changes now. I have the information, and information is power.

  “How ’bout I give you a call when I have something?” he asked rhetorically.

  “You gave me your card last night,” she said. “With your cell phone number on it. Remember?”

  “That’s right, I did,” he said. “But I’ve got a lot on my plate with this case. You know, the first forty-eight, and all that.”

  “Yes, I know. That’s exactly why I think we should talk.”

  Chapter 7

  Goode

  Saturday

  Antsy to see the most recent texts and call logs on the victims’ phones, Goode headed east to the RCFL office, which was housed in the FBI building in Sorrento Valley, the region’s high-tech and biotech hub. Byron, his teammate, had submitted the search warrant affidavit for the security footage that morning, hoping the judge would approve it in time for Goode to serve it that afternoon.

  Goode called ahead to let the RCFL know he would need a cart to transfer the Fontaines’ computers and phones out of his van, which he realized needed vacuuming to suck up the small dunes of sand on the floor.

  But first he needed to grab some lunch. The triple espressos made him smarter, but they also caused his blood sugar to drop. His protein bars were gone by 6:00 a.m., so it was time for something more substantial, like a ham-and-cheese sub.

  Goode briefed the RCFL examiner, John London, at the kiosk in the lobby, where he copied the data from Victoria’s and Simon’s phones onto two thumb drives that he would review on his laptop. Goode also gave London a preliminary verbal list of keyword search terms for combing through the computer data.

  “I’ll be back with the security video that you can upload to the CAIR system,” Goode told London, referring to the Case Agent Investigative Review system, which allowed him to log in from a private connection and access the RCFL’s “data dump” of case documents or images. “In the meantime, it would be great if you could send me emails and browser-history pages from both computers so I can read them tonight.”

  “Sorry, we’re down a couple of guys, plus it’s the weekend. No way that gets done today,” London said. “I’ll get to it when I can.”

  Back in his van, Goode plugged the drive with Victoria’s phone data into his laptop with great anticipation and pulled out his notebook to flag anything important to check or print out later.

  Her last texts and calls were with an Alex B. and a Michael B., both of whom were in her contact list, which listed other contacts with their full first and last names. To him, this indicated the two men might not only be related, but also familiar enough to be listed in this shorthand manner.

  She called Alex briefly on Thursday night, apparently to leave him a message, because he texted her back a few minutes later: ​​On my way. Can’t wait to see u.​​

  He texted her again Friday morning at eight fifteen: ​​Best ever, babe. It only took 18 years. I’ll let u get some sleep. Love u. Feels good to say that. See u tonight???​​

  Victoria responded right away: ​​Tummy still not good, but it was worth losing some sleep to see u. Luv u too.​​

  She called Michael a little later, around 9:45 a.m. That call was also a minute or less, indicating she had left a voicemail. Her only other call was to her father’s surgery office, one of two work numbers she had for him in her contact list. The other one was at Vitaleron.

  Was that to ask him to call in those prescriptions? If so, I still can’t understand why he would agree to do that.

  Michael called her back a few hours later, which was also a short call, but she didn’t respond. He called her again at 3:00 p.m. and followed up with a text at 5:00 p.m.: ​​Did u get my messages?​​

  His text at 6:30 p.m. sounded frustrated: ​​R u there? Was shocked and bummed by yr voicemail this morning. Can we talk? I love you. Pls call me.​​

  It sounded like a love triangle was unfolding. Googling “Victoria Fontaine and Alex and Michael,” he confirmed his hunch that Michael B. and Alex B. were, in fact, related, based on the society photos that came up.

  The Battrelle brothers. Of course. That makes sense, and it also adds a layer of complication to this case. A messy love triangle could even give us a motive. The question is, which one is the baby’s father? Or did she even know? I’ll need to interview them both, obviously.

  Goode checked a folder on the phone called “Notes,” which contained a variety of journal-like entries. The top two were written in the last few days before she died.

  The most recent one read: ​​Having a latte at the Pannikin. Lots on my mind. On top of all the crap at work, my period is late, but I’ve lost track of how long it’s been, so I just bought a pregnancy test to find out. I’ve been feeling like using again. But so far, I’ve stayed strong. Not even a glass of wine, especially if I’m pregnant. God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.​​

  Recognizing that as the serenity prayer for AA, Goode thought it was telling that was her last note.

  The next one read: ​​I’m going to write a memo to the board tonight about all the shit that’s going on, because it’s too long to type here while I drink my coffee. I don’t know if I’ll send it or not, but I need to get it out of my head and down on paper. I’ll probably show it to William first to make sure it’s the right way to proceed, because at this point, I don’t know who to trust.​​

  Figuring that memo would be on her laptop, Goode made a note to keep an eye out for it.

  Sounds like a road map to the challenges she was facing at work, which hopefully will give us some leads on motive. Like whether she was a target, i.e., murder, or was just having a rough time, i.e., suicide.

  Moving on to Simon’s phone contents, he read the last outgoing text first, which was to his surgical partner, Dr. Warren Russell, just before noon on Friday: ​​Wish I’d scheduled a back-up tee time. These women are going to kill me. See you at the golf tournament tomorrow.​​

  Was that reference to “women” killers a joke? Hard to say given the circumstances.

  A few minutes earlier, around 11:45 a.m., Simon had texted Esperanza Cepeda, another coworker, apparently: ​​Surgery cancelled. No need to come back to the office.​​

  Later that day, Simon received a call and several texts from a lady friend, Lucinda Robinson, asking whether they were still meeting for dinner. He never responded.

  Her first text landed at 5:15 p.m.: ​​What time r u picking me up?​​

  The next one came forty-five minutes later: ​​Are we going casual for sushi or did u feel like going to George’s downstairs tonight? I made 7pm reservations for both. Let me know.​​

  She texted again at 7:00 p.m.: ​​OK, I’m getting annoyed—and hungry! Where r u?​​

  Her last message was at 9:00 p.m.: ​​Now I’m worried. R u OK? Did u get stuck in surgery or are u still mad about this a.m.??? Pls call me.​​

  At that point, Stone texted Goode the approved warrant for the security footage, so Goode fired up his van, which had a recognizably loud engine as most old VWs do, and made a mental call list as he headed toward Fullerton Security in Kearny Mesa.

  Besides Simon’s brother, I also need to get ahold of these coworkers to see what was going on in his life.

  But first, he tried Lucinda, who he hoped could fill him in on Victoria’s love triangle and interpret Simon’s remark about the women trying to “kill” him.

  “I still can’t believe it,” Lucinda said, sniffling, saying she’d learned about Simon’s death on the TV news that morning. “He spent the night Thursday. We had dinner plans last night, but he never answered my texts. I thought he was mad at me or was out with another woman, because we argued yesterday morning.”

  “Yeah, I saw your texts,” Goode said, proceeding to nail down the timeline: She said they’d had a spat around 9:30 a.m. over coffee on her veranda, then he left in a huff. “What was the argument about?”

  “Whether he should get involved in Victoria’s mess with the Battrelle brothers,” Lucinda said, blowing her nose. “I told him to give her some fatherly advice. He disagreed.”

  “What mess, exactly?”

  “She’d been dating Michael Battrelle for five months, but she’s always had this thing for his brother Alex, ever since they met in rehab when she was just a seventeen-year-old kid. After being AWOL for months, Alex showed up unexpectedly Thursday night, right before Simon left for my house. That’s all I know. When I said, ‘Alex is bad news, always has been,’ Simon said, ‘I can’t help who my daughter is in love with, and it’s none of my business anyway. Or yours.’ Then he stormed out, saying he didn’t like me ‘meddling.’ But I didn’t see it that way. I was trying to offer help and support. Lord knows Nancy never did that.”

  “Nancy, Victoria’s mother, right? Where is she now, do you know?”

  “Off gallivanting to Wherever with the Prince of Whatever.”

  “Do you know how we can reach her? I’d like to talk to her,” he said.

  And see if she’s a possible suspect.

  “That’s all I really know. Simon said she left a week ago for a Mediterranean cruise on some Saudi prince’s yacht and thankfully would be out of touch. He only mentioned it to me because they had a hearing date coming up next week on a property that’s holding up the divorce settlement. You can probably get her number through Simon’s attorney.”

  “Okay, thanks. So, Friday morning was the last time you saw or talked to Simon.”

  “Yes. He had a rhinoplasty scheduled for one o’clock.”

  “I see. So, he had narcotics, syringes, the whole deal, at his office?”

  “Yes, it’s an outpatient clinic. That’s actually how we got together. He gave me an eye lift. Did a great job too.”

  “Uh-huh. What was his state of mind lately? Any depression?”

  “No, none of that.”

  “Problems at his practice or Vitaleron? Or any serious medical conditions, like heart trouble?”

  “Other than high blood pressure, he was healthy. Virile, even. He was relieved to finally be getting divorced, and he was optimistic about the drug trials.”

  “Any women bothering him besides Nancy?” he asked, mentioning the text.

  “No, not to my knowledge. That’s just his dark sense of humor.”

  “Any idea who might want him dead?”

  “No, I mean, he wasn’t the easiest person to be around, but he was well respected, and he was in charge. Maybe someone resented that or wanted what he had. I know he and Vincent Battrelle haven’t always gotten along. I have to wonder about Nancy, since they were fighting over that property, but Victoria’s dead too, and Nancy would never hurt her own daughter. Maybe she hired a hit man who wasn’t expecting Victoria to be home?”

  “Sounds like Simon wasn’t supposed to be home either.”

  “Yes, I guess that’s true.”

  “What else was going on in Victoria’s life?”

  “Oh, well, she’s a whole other thing. Lots of emotional baggage. Never been able to commit to one man. I blame her mother, although Simon wasn’t around much either. That’s why William stepped in. That was ages ago, but who knows. You should talk to him.”

  “Yes, I plan to. How do you know all this history?”

  “I was Nancy’s best friend until she ghosted me. I still have no idea why. Simon and I didn’t get together until after she stopped talking to me, and that was after she and Simon split up. I saw my chance to grab him, and I took it.”

  “Do you know why Victoria didn’t have her own place? It seems a little odd for a thirty-five-year-old executive, who I assume is financially solvent, to be living at home with her father.”

  “Well, the house was so big and empty. After Nancy left a few years back, Vincent told me that he could use some help taking care of it. Victoria moved in earlier this year because her house, which is down the street, was undergoing some renovations and they found mold. Personally, I think they both liked the living situation so neither one had to commit to a romantic partner—Simon with me, and Victoria with Michael, or anyone else for that matter.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt her?”

  “It could have been a jealous lover, although good luck trying to figure out which one. Poor Michael. He’s such a good man, and so loyal too.”

  “How would Simon fit into that?”

  “I don’t know. Wrong place, wrong time?”

  “Did Simon own a gun?”

  “No, he wasn’t interested in guns.”

  “Victoria?”

  “Not that I know of. They weren’t that kind of family.”

  “Was Simon seeing other women?”

  “If he was, I didn’t know about it. But we also weren’t officially exclusive. I’m—I was—still working on that. Simon definitely liked his personal space.”

  Goode ended the call as he pulled up to the Fullerton Security office, a glass box with dark-tinted windows that reminded him of a drug dealer’s car. He jotted down some notes from the call, then tried to reach William Fontaine. No answer, so he left a voicemail, then tried Alex Battrelle. Goode left another message, then went inside to serve the warrant. He didn’t see an immediate need to try Nancy or Cal Fontaine since they were apparently both out of the country on Friday.