No problem. I don’t care who writes the checks as long as they’re written and don’t bounce.

I gather up the pages and take them back out to the desk. Frey’s book gets put aside.

It doesn’t take me long to go through the stack. There’s the original police report made on the scene. Harris caught the case. It came in on a 911 call from Mrs. O’Sullivan at 9:10 p.m.

Harris’ notes are precise, detailed and objective. No weapon was found at the scene. The ME put time of death somewhere between 2:00 and 6:00 p.m. O’Sullivan was killed by a small-caliber weapon, one shot to the back of the head. No sign of forced entry. No obvious sign of a struggle. The only thing disturbed was a stack of papers on the desk.

The interview with Mrs. O’Sullivan is more interesting. She named Gloria as a suspect right off. Talked about the affair and hinted that there were improprieties in their business dealings as well. She said she didn’t know the details, but her husband indicated he had hired a forensic accountant to go over the restaurant’s books. She assumed he’d found something because the last few days Rory had been furious with Gloria and tried several times to get in touch with her.

The next interview was with the son, Jason. Fourteen years old. Home from Loyola Prep School for the holiday break. He and his stepmom had spent the afternoon shopping and then went to dinner. He said he didn’t know anyone who would want to hurt his father. He was with his stepmother when she found the body.

There was no one else in the home. The staff had the day off. The house is secluded behind a gated brick wall and is not visible from the street. To gain access, a key card is needed. As far as she knew, Mrs. O’Sullivan said, all the cards were accounted for, but she couldn’t be sure if Gloria had one. She thought she probably did . . .

I have to smile at that. Mrs. O’Sullivan was doing a masterful job of steering the investigation toward Gloria.

The rest of the pages include pictures of the crime scene, O’Sullivan slumped across his desk, close-ups and wide range shots. The room. The outside of the house showing the windows and the ground beneath. The ground was not disturbed, and the notes indicated the area was muddy because the sprinklers had run that morning. If someone had broken in through the windows, there would have been footprints.

There are booking files. There’s a mug shot, but damn if Gloria doesn’t look beautiful. In a mug shot. She stares right into the camera, eyes wide, head up. An expression of shock and bewilderment casts a shadow on those perfect features, but not a hair is out of place.

The last page is the result of the warrant search of Gloria’s suite at the Four Seasons and her vehicle. Nothing of interest found. No weapon. No key card for O’Sullivan’s home. A request is to be filed to search her L.A. residence. The restaurant.

And David’s condo.

That brings me straight up in the chair. Naturally they’d include David’s condo. Not only because David and Gloria are a well-known local celebrity couple, but because of the way David acted with Harris. Now with the revelation that Gloria and O’Sullivan were lovers, this search may be a fishing expedition for an accomplice. Or worse. David may actually be a suspect.

Why didn’t I think of that this morning?

I grab the phone and put a call into SDPD. When I ask to speak to Detective Harris, I get an officer in his unit that tells me he’s not available.

I don’t leave a message. I’m out of the office and into my car so fast, the detective on the other end of the line may not yet realize it’s gone dead.

DAVID’S CONDO IS DOWNTOWN, A QUICK TEN minutes from our office. On the way, I call his cell. It’s still turned off but I leave a message, though I suspect he won’t pick it up when he sees who it’s from. He’s being such an ass. I’d certainly want to know if the police were searching my home. I hope I get there before they do.

I don’t. Harris is coming down the front steps with three uniforms. I slide into a loading zone parking space and propel myself out of the car.

“Detective Harris.”

He stops when he hears his name and meets me at the bottom of the stairs. The uniforms at his side step between us, frowning, until he waves them off. He says something to them and they move away toward the waiting police cars. Then he turns his attention to me.

“Ms. Strong.”

I gesture toward the building. “What were you doing in my partner’s condo?”

He smiles. “You aren’t that naive.” He reaches into a pocket and pulls out the search warrant. “I would give this to Mr. Ryan but he doesn’t seem to be around. It’s a copy of a search warrant. Duly executed. I left another in the apartment. Care to tell me where he’s gone?”

I glance over the warrant. No surprises. It lists the same items as Gloria’s. When I look back up, two more uniforms and another suit have come downstairs. Empty-handed.

Harris takes the warrant out of my hand. “Where is he, Ms. Strong?”

I put on an innocent face and shrug. “Don’t know, Detective. He left town after you arrested his girlfriend. He was a bit upset.”

Harris laughs. “I can imagine. You find out your girlfriend is unfaithful and a murderer all in the same evening. It would ruin my night.”

The next instant the amusement is gone from his face. “That’s assuming he hadn’t learned about the affair earlier. If I find out he had, Mr. Ryan may have more to deal with than a broken heart.”

He turns away then and rejoins the cop waiting by the patrol car. I watch them pull away. At least he didn’t press me for information about David’s whereabouts. Nor did he threaten me with obstruction. I guess Gloria is still number one on his hit parade.

I let myself into David’s condo with my key. There are two ways to toss a place—the neat way if you don’t want to make it obvious what you were looking for or the trash it way if you don’t care.

Harris didn’t care. Not that he broke anything or deliberately went out of his way to mess things up, but drawers and cabinets were left open, the clothes in the closet pushed to one side, items on David’s desk rearranged. David, the neat freak, will not be happy.

I’m not going to straighten up. David should have been here to supervise instead of slinking away like a whipped puppy. Serves him right to come home to a mess.

On my way out, I do stop, though, to scoop up the newspapers accumulating on the doorstep. He hadn’t bothered to stop delivery. David takes both San Diego and L.A. papers, and when I toss them onto the living room coffee table, a picture on the front page of the Los Angles Times catches my eye.

More than catches my eye. Trips that memory switch I’d been waiting for.

Rory O’Sullivan and his wife and son.

Jason. The kid I saw on the court steps with Gloria.

JASON O’SULLIVAN. NOW I REALIZE WHERE I’D SEEN him before. Not in person, but in media accounts of the restaurant opening. He’d accompanied his parents that night. Video of the three of them exiting a limo and being greeted at the door by Gloria had run on every newscast.

So what was he doing this morning hugging the woman accused of killing his father?

I pick up the phone and call the hotel. When I ask to be connected to Gloria’s room, I’m told she’s left a “do not disturb” message. Crap. I leave a message for her of my own—“Call me. And do not ever have the operator refuse my calls again.”

I slam the receiver down. She’s probably in a sedative-induced coma. She made it clear on the courthouse steps that she wasn’t going to talk about Jason, which leaves only one other person to ask.

Jason.

David doesn’t have a desktop computer at home, only a laptop, and it’s nowhere in sight, so I figure he must have it with him. That means back to the office.