Al walked into Captain Davidson’s office and sat down without an invitation to do so. As usual, Captain Davidson sat erect behind his messy desk, puffing on a cigarette. Oh, how Al wanted to fill his lungs with the comforting smoke.

“So,” Al said, “what were the results of the autopsy?”

Davidson slapped his hands on the metal desk. “There is no fucking autopsy.”

“It’s not done yet?”

“It’s not going to be done,” Davidson said.

“What gives?”

“Does the last name Foster mean anything to you? Does it ring any bells?”

Considering that the name was common, he wasn’t sure where the captain was going. “Nothing jumps out at me, Captain.”

“The victim is Judge Foster’s daughter. The Supreme Court Judge for the State of California. Not exactly a lightweight.”

“What does his stature have to do with an autopsy?”

“Judge Foster will not give his consent.” The captain sucked on his cigarette. “If he wasn’t such a high-profile person, we could turn the thumbscrews and convince him to approve it. But we have to handle him with kid gloves. And that’s a direct order from Police Chief Larson.”

“Fuck Larson,” Al almost yelled. “Without an autopsy, we’re pissing in the wind. Besides, who more than a judge knows firsthand the importance of an autopsy?”

“I know that, and you know that. But we don’t make the rules.”

“So when I meet with Judge Foster, what the hell am I supposed to do, kiss his hairy ass?”

“And his balls.”

“So I should wave a magic wand and make the judge change his mind?”

“Look, Al, what I want you to do is to be firm yet diplomatic, which isn’t exactly your strong suit. You’re leading this investigation because of your experience in apprehending that fucking nutcase who was crucifying young women. Sami and you did a stand-up job. I need you on board.” Davidson’s voice softened. “Get his approval, but don’t kick the shit out of him. If Larson gets a call from the judge—”

“Okay, okay. I get it. Does Larson want me to give him a blow job, too?” Before the captain could respond, Al bolted out of the office, slamming the door harder than he’d wanted to. He wished he could pass this interview with Judge Foster off to Ramirez. But this was a task he needed to handle himself.

Sami tiptoed to the side of the bed and gently grasped her mother’s hand. Josephine lay on her back, her eyes barely open. “Hi, Mom,” Sami said, her voice little more than a shaky whisper. She inventoried the numerous tubes and IVs attached to her mother. Under her nose, a small plastic hose provided oxygen. Wires hung from beneath her hospital gown and snaked over to a heart monitor. The room smelled like Pine-Sol.

Josephine adjusted her body and moaned. “Who’s watching Angelina?” The question didn’t surprise Sami. Even lying in intensive care, fighting for her life, Grandma Rizzo put her only granddaughter first.

“Emily’s with her, Mom.”

Josephine forced a smile. “Then she’s in good hands.”

“Are you in pain?”

“Of course I’m in pain. I just had a heart attack.”

“Let me find a nurse and get you some pain medication.”

“No need. I don’t think there’s much more they can do.”

Sami wanted to press it, but feared it was futile. “Has Doctor Templeton been in to see you?”

She nodded.

“Then he’s told you about the bypass surgery?”

Josephine’s face tightened. “He told me.”

“He’s one of the best surgeons in the country.”

“Makes no difference. I’m not going to let them cut me open.”

Sami stepped back as if her mother had shoved her. “What the hell are you talking about? You’ve got to have the surgery.”

“I don’t have to do nothing but pay taxes and die.”

“Well, if you don’t have the surgery, you will die.”

“So be it. If it’s my time, it’s my time. It’s all in the Lord’s plan.”

Sami had to enlist every ounce of energy to suppress her anger. “Open heart surgery has become routine. It’s like getting your appendix removed.”

“Then let them take my appendix out. I’m not going to let them cut me open like a dead fish.”

“Mom, you’re only sixty-seven years old. With this surgery, you can live another twenty years or longer. Don’t you want to be around to watch Angelina grow up?”

Josephine squeezed her eyes shut but could not stop the tears from streaming down her face. “I’m scared, Sami. Really scared.” She reached for the box of tissues on the table next to the bed. “When they cut you open, you’re never the same again. Remember our neighbor Helen? As soon as they cut her open, everything went wrong.”

“Helen had stage-four stomach cancer, and her prognosis was terrible. They gave her a ten percent chance of survival.”

“I love you, Sami, and I love Angelina. But I’m not signing the release form.”

Still seething from his talk with Captain Davidson, Al took a couple deep breaths before he walked into the interrogation room where Genevieve Foster’s parents waited. The Fosters stood and each graciously shook his hand.

“I’m Joseph Foster and this is my wife, Katherine. And you are?”

Al thought it odd that Foster did not introduce himself as Judge Foster. Most judges demanded that everyone address them formally. “I’m Detective Diaz. But please call me Al.”

Judge Foster, a tall, lean man with a full head of mostly silver hair, looked to be a generation older than his strikingly attractive wife. Only a few inches shorter than her husband, Katherine carried a few extra pounds but hid them well. Her eyes, swollen and bloodshot, were the color of dark chocolate. And her hair, flowing to her shoulders, was jet-black.

“First, let me offer my deep condolences for your loss,” Al said softly. “I can’t begin to imagine how difficult this is for you. So I will try to make this as brief as possible. Please understand that some of my questions may be of a sensitive nature, but as you know, Judge, they’re necessary.” He removed a digital tape recorder from his pocket and set it on the desk. “Do you mind if I record this interview?”

“I’d be upset if you didn’t,” Judge Foster said. “What is your capacity regarding this investigation, Detective?”

“I’m lead.”

“Good. I don’t want to waste my time talking to subordinates. Turn on that little recorder and let’s get down to business.”

“Thank you for cooperating,” Al said.

“So, Detective, what can you tell us thus far?” the judge asked.

And Al thought he was conducting this interview. “Not much at this point. But I’m hoping that you and your wife might be able to fill in a few blanks that will point us in the right direction.”

“What can we do to help you?” Katherine said.

“When was the last time you saw your daughter?”

“She recently moved into her own apartment in downtown San Diego, and hinted that she felt a bit lonely,” Judge Foster said. “She was twenty-three years old and had never been on her own—not even when she was in college. We invited her home for dinner the Saturday evening she went missing. My daughter is…I mean was…not the domestic type. In spite of my wife’s coaching, Genevieve didn’t have much of a command in the kitchen. We figured that she’d enjoy a home-cooked meal.”

“She wasn’t by any chance wearing an expensive cocktail dress, was she?”

“Can’t remember the last time I saw her in a dress,” Katherine said. “If my memory serves me correctly, she was wearing her favorite worn-out jeans and a green sweater.”

“What time did she leave your home?”

“Her best friend, Katie, picked her up around nine p.m.,” Judge Foster said.

“Do you have Katie’s last name?”

“Mitchell. Katie Mitchell.”

Al noted her name on his yellow pad. “Did they say where they were going?”

The judge looked at his wife as if to pass the baton.

“Detective,” Katherine said, “Genevieve was a wonderful daughter.” She paused for a moment and combed her fingers through her hair. “But no matter how hard we tried, neither my husband nor I could influence her lifestyle. She loved the bar scene, the nightlife, drinking way too much and…” Her eyes began to tear. The judge slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her toward him.

Al sat quietly and let her regain her composure.

“My daughter was not discreet,” the judge admitted. “From one week to the next, there was no telling what questionable person would be her latest flame. Some of the men she dated, well, let me just say that they were from the wrong side of town. But what can you expect when you’re looking for a quality person in a bar?”

“Where did she like to go?”

“Mostly the Gaslamp District,” the judge said. “She’d try to convince us that the crowd there was upscale, that it was where the in-crowd gathered. Whatever that means.”

“Did you ever meet any of her boyfriends?” Al asked.

“The ones who could put two sentences together without stuttering. For obvious reasons, she was very selective about who we got to meet.”

“Did she have a recent boyfriend, or a steady relationship?”

“She hasn’t brought anyone home for months.”

Al made more notes on his pad. “Do you have a recent photo of her?”

Katherine searched through her purse, opened her wallet, and handed Al a photograph. “This…is her…graduation photo.” Again, the tears seeped out of her eyes.

“This investigation is our top priority, and I promise you, we will hit the streets hard and check out every bar and pub in a ten-block radius of the Gaslamp District. And I personally will speak with Genevieve’s friend, Katie. With your permission, I would also like to examine Genevieve’s apartment.” He paused for a moment, sensing that this was the perfect time to go in for the kill. “I have to be honest with both of you. Unless we stumble upon some extraordinary evidence, or someone comes forward with some crucial information, we have very little to go on right now.”

Al, of course, knew that he was downplaying the evidence. But how else could he convince the judge to approve a full autopsy?

The judge sat forward and locked his stare on Al. “So what you’re telling me is this maniac that brutalized my daughter might never be brought to justice? He’s free to kill someone else’s daughter?”

“I’m only trying to point out that all we have to go on right now is a handful of circumstantial evidence.”

“What do you need from us, Detective?” the judge asked. “What can we do to ensure that you apprehend this monster?”

This was the opening he had been hoping for. “Judge Foster, you have many years of experience on the bench, and you’ve tried countless cases where forensic evidence helped us lock up hundreds of criminals. Even when there is a weapon and fingerprints, or even eye witnesses, there is still the possibility of error. But forensic evidence leaves no room for subjectivity because it’s scientific, and juries believe science.”

Now that Al had offered his most compelling argument, he remained silent and his eyes ping-ponged between the judge and Katherine Foster.

“So what are you saying, Detective?” the judge asked. “Is there a question or request hidden somewhere in your narrative?”

“If there is any hope of finding the monster who killed your daughter, then we must perform a thorough autopsy.”

The judge stood up and wagged his finger at Al. “You need not lecture me on the merits of autopsies. But it’s much different when it’s a stranger. I want to preserve what little dignity my daughter has left. She’s not a laboratory animal or a cadaver, Detective. She’s our daughter!”

“I respect your position, Judge. And please understand that it is not my place to browbeat you or try to convince you to approve something you’re uncomfortable with. But I must tell you that a preliminary exam of your daughter strongly suggests that the perpetrator may have left a roadmap to his doorstep. He was careless, and the only way to benefit from his mistakes is through an autopsy. I can see how grief-stricken your wife and you are, Judge. My heart goes out to you. All I’m trying to do is to see justice served and to ensure that no other parents have to share your pain. I want to see this lunatic behind bars for the rest of his miserable life.”

Judge Foster glanced at his wife, his lips tight and his eyes glassy. Katherine nodded her head ever so slightly. “Okay, Detective,” the judge said. “This totally goes against our will, but you have my permission to perform an autopsy. But be warned. If it doesn’t further the investigation and lead you to her murderer, prepare yourself for professional suicide.”