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about Blake Masters between the time he was noted as a person of interest in his father’s death until he reemerged in San Francisco, a multi-billionaire with an up-and-coming company. The seeming cover-up also pointed toward guilt.
    That still left means and opportunity. I wasn’t sure about the means because I still didn’t know what exactly happened to his father. Had he been shot? Stabbed? Bludgeoned to death? Had he died in a gas explosion? Or car accident? It was so odd! The brief write-ups that I found in the newspaper online only mentioned the murder, not how Jeremy Masters died.
    Maybe if I could find his widow, Eileen, I might be able to get more information. I had no idea where Blake’s mother lived, whether she was even alive, or if she would be willing to talk about the incident. I shook my head and continued to stare unseeing out the window. Angela had said nothing about an expense account. I certainly couldn’t go traipsing off to Kansas to interview any law enforcement officers, nor take the time to go look for surviving family members on my own dime.
    It was expensive to live in San Francisco and my pay from the magazine was just enough to take care of my rent, utilities, groceries, and car insurance. I tried to keep my car well-maintained, had driven it from Texas to San Francisco, but I wasn’t about to go putting thousands of miles on it for the sake of a magazine article that might, just might, only net me fifteen hundred dollars tops — if I were lucky. As a newbie, I figured my article would net me closer to a grand, minus taxes.
    When all that was said and done, I also worried about something else. My safety. What if Masters didn’t like my digging around in his past? While I wasn’t that concerned — nervous yes but not concerned — with my initial interview today with Masters, I was concerned about digging around and poking my nose into someone else’s business, especially someone who might have killed his father in cold blood. What would happen to me if I unburied something he wanted to keep buried?
    “Lady, we’re here.”
    The voice sounded impatient. I was startled out of my musings and glanced at the taxi driver, his arm draped across the front seat, his head turned back to look at me. “Oh, thank you,” I said. I glanced at the meter, barely held back a scowl and dug a twenty out of my wallet. “Keep the change.”
    The driver took my money without as much as a thank you. I opened the door and stepped onto the curb. I’d barely shut the door when the taxi shot forward in search of another fare. A stiff breeze from the bay tugged at my hair as I turned to marvel at the view. From the top of the hill, I admired the panoramic vista. The dark orange Golden Gate Bridge rose in the distance, a beautiful sight, one that never failed to take my breath away. Even from way up here I could see the cable spans, marveling at the construction of its structure, which never ceased to amaze me. A fog bank rolled in from the Pacific, partially obscuring Alcatraz. Seagulls flew overhead, squawking as they vied for scraps of food with crows along the strip of green between the city and the sea.
    I took a deep breath, turned, and walked to the entrance of the glass and cement structure. The office building was of older construction with ornate moldings and multi-paned windows, rising four stories on the top of a hill, nearly dwarfed by more modern developments nearby. It had character to it. Even though it was older, I preferred it to some of the sleek, metal and glass structures on neighboring blocks. There was something to be said about the past, I thought as I entered the building. Unless of course, there was a murder in it.
    *
    I made my way up to the third floor. A little mini directory with company names and suite numbers directed me to the offices of Hard Impact, which looked to take up about half the office space on the top floor. I was impressed. While I knew outdoor adventures were