Secrets to the Grave (16 page)

“She should be placed with
me
,” Bordain argued. “She knows
me
.”

Upchurch didn’t like the judge’s tone. “But she’s a ward of the state, Your Honor. Her case clearly falls under the auspices of CPS.”

“But
I’m
the judge,” Espinoza explained calmly. “And what I love about being a judge is that what I say goes.”

He turned to Dixon. “What’s your position on this, Sheriff?”

Dixon sighed. “Obviously, what’s best for the little girl is most important. She’s the only witness to a brutal homicide. At this point, we have no idea who the killer is, if he’s someone known to the girl, if he’s still in the area. The child was strangled and left for dead. If the perpetrator knows she’s alive ...”

“She’s potentially still at risk.”

“Yes, Your Honor. And, therefore, whoever has custody of her.”

“How do you expect to place this child into foster care, Ms. Upchurch?” Espinoza asked. “You’d be putting your foster family at risk.”

“There doesn’t
need
to be any foster care!” Milo Bordain insisted. No one seemed to be listening to her.

“If you aren’t willing to award custody to Mrs. Bordain at this time, I have a foster family willing to take her temporarily. The Bessoms.”

Willa Norwood rolled her eyes to look at Upchurch. “Are you serious? The Bessoms already have five foster children and run a day care center. You seriously think that’s an environment for this little girl, as psychologically fragile as she is?”

“Being around other children will take her mind off what happened,” Upchurch said, as if witnessing a murder and nearly being murdered were no more traumatic than losing a tooth or scraping a knee.

“She’ll be lost in the shuffle,” Anne said. “How can she get the kind of attention she needs? Is Mrs. Bessom trained in child psychology? Does she have any experience grief-counseling children?”

“A stable environment is just as important as any of that,” Upchurch declared. “Mrs. Bessom runs a tight ship. Those kids say ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and ‘No, ma’am.’ They toe the line and do their chores—”

“Great,” Anne said sarcastically. “Why don’t we just send Haley to a military school? They can drill the grief out of her.”

Upchurch glared at her. “I don’t appreciate your smart mouth.”

“And I don’t appreciate that, so far, all your concern has been about pissing on fences,” Anne shot back.

Milo Bordain stood up, red faced, shouting, “
LISTEN TO ME! I WANT HER WITH ME! SHE SHOULD BE WITH ME!
”

“Mrs. Bordain.” Judge Espinoza stood up and tried to put a hand on Milo Bordain’s arm in attempt to calm her. She jerked away.

The uncomfortable silence embarrassed her back to her senses. Tears squeezing from her eyes, she sat down and dug a linen handkerchief out of her Hermès bag.

“I’m sorry,” she said tersely. “I’m so distraught. I’ve lost Marissa, now Haley ... I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Mrs. Bordain could apply to become a foster parent,” Upchurch suggested. “If Mr. and Mrs. Bordain became foster parents, I have the authority to place the child—”

“The circumstances here are extraordinary, Your Honor,” Dixon said. “The child needs to be in protective custody with people trained to help her through the nightmare of what happened to her. Both Mrs. and Mr. Leone have degrees in psychology. Anne was a teacher. She dealt with the grief of her students last year—”

“She’s not even an employee of the state, Your Honor,” Upchurch argued. “She’s a
volunteer
. And they’re not licensed foster parents. Their home hasn’t been screened—”

“Are you kidding me with that?” Anne said. “You’re objecting on the basis that I haven’t filed the proper paperwork? That you haven’t come to my home to see if I have dust bunnies under my bed?”

“There’s much more to it than that.”

“Yes, there is,” Anne said passionately. “There’s what’s best for Haley. She’s a victim of a violent crime. Do you know what that’s like, Maureen? Mrs. Bordain? Because I do. I know exactly what that’s like.

“I know exactly what it’s like to wake up screaming in the night, to be terrified to walk around a corner, or to turn your back even to someone you know, let alone a stranger.

“Do either of you know how that feels? Do you know what it is to suddenly, inexplicably, be filled with so much fear you think you’ll choke on it? To break out in a cold sweat in the middle of a crowded room? I do. I’ve had those experiences. I know exactly what Haley is going to face. I can help this child in ways no one else can.”

“Have you thought this all the way through, Anne?” Willa Norwood asked. “You know our policy as advocates is never to take a client to our homes. There’s a reason for that. I don’t want you to put yourself at risk.”

“My husband is a former Chicago police detective and a former agent for the FBI. Our lives are filled with law enforcement personnel. You can’t swing a stick at my house without hitting a cop.”

“That’s not the only kind of risk I’m talking about.”

She was talking about the risk of becoming too emotionally involved, Anne knew. She had already chosen to ignore that risk.

The judge turned to Vince. “What about you, Mr. Leone? You’ve been awfully quiet through all of this. Do you have an opinion to contribute?”

Anne tensed. Vince was against the idea of her fostering Haley Fordham or being attached to this case in any way. He was afraid it would upset her, set her back, put her in danger physically and psychologically.

He looked down at her and said, “Honestly? I have to say ... there is no one more uniquely qualified to help this child than my wife.”

Anne let the air out of her lungs and her chest flooded with warmth. Tears rose up behind her eyes. Still holding her hand, Vince gave her fingers another reassuring squeeze.

Judge Espinoza nodded and placed his palms down on the tabletop, pushing up out of his chair. “Then, as far as I’m concerned, it’s all over but the paperwork. Anne will be appointed guardian. When the little girl is released from the hospital, she’ll stay with the Leones. We’ll revisit the issue if a relative turns up.”

25

“Guess who’s babysitting on date night?” Vince said.

Mendez grimaced. “I volunteer. I know you’re pissed. I don’t blame you.”

They had met up at the SO and were driving through a beautiful old neighborhood near the college. A pricey part of town, Vince knew. The streets were lined with big mature trees. The houses were a mix of styles and sizes, built mostly between the thirties and forties with excellent craftsmanship. The house he and Anne had settled on was in this neighborhood, just a few blocks away.

Vince sighed. “I’m over it. I’m trying to look at it from a different perspective. It might actually be a good thing for Anne. She’s pretty passionate about helping this little girl because they share the experience of having been victims of violent crimes. That might help her as much as it helps the child.”

“If that happens, do I get a big pat on the back?”

“Don’t get greedy. I could still kick your ass.”

“You kind of did that this morning,” Mendez pointed out.

Vince laughed. “You think I was hard on you?”

“You made me look like an idiot.”

“You did that on your own by not being prepared. You present a case at the Bureau, you had better have those fucking ducks lined up beak to tail.”

“So you were just trying to toughen me up,” Mendez said, clearly not believing a word of it.

“Hell, no,” Vince chuckled. “I was pissed. I wanted to punish you.”

“Just so we’re clear on that.”

Vince dug a prescription bottle out of the pocket of his sport coat and shook out a colorful variety of pills. One for pain, one for nausea, an antidepressant ...

“You should have seen her take on that horrible woman from CPS,” he said, glowing with pride. “She’s a tough little mouse. She’s got a lot of spunk.”

“I wouldn’t want to cross her,” Mendez said. “She sank her teeth into me a couple of times over her students last year.”

“She stands right up to me,” Vince said, a sudden wave of love swelling through him.

“You’ve got a good thing going, man,” Mendez said. “Look at all the marriages that fail and fall apart these days. People have no sense of commitment anymore.”

“You really think Steve Morgan was having an affair with the vic?” Vince asked.

“Gut feeling.”

“You don’t like him.”

“I’m not crazy about you either, at the moment,” Mendez complained.

Vince rolled his eyes. “Get over yourself.”

He chose a trio of pills, tossed them back, and washed them down with locally bottled orange cream soda.

“He worked with Lisa Warwick on projects for the Thomas Center,” Mendez said. “He had an affair with her. He worked with Marissa Fordham on a project for the center. She was beautiful, sexy, single, liked men ...”

“Why would he kill her?”

“Say she threatened to tell his wife. What’s left of his marriage falls apart, and he loses his daughter.”

“What about the wife?” Vince asked, watching his reaction. Confusion.

“What about her?”

“Her good friend was having an affair with her husband,” Vince said. “Women aren’t that shocked when men cheat on them, but to be betrayed by one of their own ... That’s unforgivable.”

Mendez looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “You think Sara could have killed Marissa Fordham?”

“I’m saying if you’re looking at one spouse in a love triangle, you need to look at them both. They both lose in a divorce. The husband loses the wife and family. The wife loses a fairy tale—the handsome prince, the castle, the lifestyle ...”

“That’s crazy,” Mendez said. “Sara Morgan is just trying to hold herself and her family together. For her to have the kind of rage to do what was done to Marissa Fordham ...? No way. Besides, Fordham was found naked.”

“So? Maybe she slept naked and was attacked in the middle of the night. Or, let’s throw a twist into the story: Maybe she and Mrs. Morgan were more than friends.”

Mendez didn’t want to hear any of it. Interesting.

“The nine-one-one call,” he said. “The little girl said her daddy hurt her mommy.”

“People wear disguises.”

“The kid would know her own father.”

“Why?” Vince challenged. “Nobody else knows who he is.”

“Maybe Ms. Kemmer will know,” Mendez said, pulling the car to the curb in front of a fanciful Tudor cottage with a wildflower garden filling the front yard.

Dixon had asked them to bring Gina Kemmer in for the interview, but Vince wanted to see her in her own environment. A lot could be learned from a subject’s surroundings.

He got out of the car and looked around. Ms. Kemmer was the domestic kind. She loved her home, took pride in it, had literally and figuratively set down roots here.

The garden was an expression of joy, filled with old-fashioned climbing roses and tea roses, tall blue delphinium and pink foxglove, and snapdragons of all colors. Flower boxes under the front windows of the house spilled over with pink geraniums and ivy and blue lobelia.

The car in her driveway, parked in front of the little garage that matched the Tudor house, was a blue 1981 Honda Accord. Gina Kemmer was doing well for herself.

She wouldn’t like law enforcement officers coming into her sanctuary—not that anyone did.

She answered the door looking like she’d been knocked around. Her face and her eyes were swollen and red. Battered by grief. The girls working in the boutique on trendy Via Verde had told them their boss had taken the day off because of her friend’s death. They had batted their eyelashes at Mendez as they gave him Kemmer’s home address and phone number.

“Ms. Kemmer,” Mendez said, holding up his shield. “I’m Detective Mendez from the sheriff’s office. This is my associate, Mr. Leone.”

“We’re terribly sorry for your loss, Miss Kemmer,” Vince said gently. The kindly uncle act. “I apologize for the intrusion. We know this is a tough time for you.”

“I already spoke to detectives yesterday,” she said, looking worried. “I answered all their questions.”

Vince guessed she was probably around thirty. She was probably a pretty girl when she hadn’t been crying for a couple of days.

“Yes, ma’am,” Mendez said. “We’re just following up.”

“Having been Ms. Fordham’s best friend,” Vince said, “we’re hoping you might be able to give us a little more insight into who she was as person.”

“Oh.”

“May we come in?” Mendez asked.

Gina Kemmer nodded, tears welling up. She was in gray sweatpants and a McAster T-shirt that looked like she had slept in it. But she had made an effort and brushed her blond hair back into a ponytail. The girls from the boutique might have called to tell her the cops were on the way.

She turned away from them and walked back into the house, leaving them to follow.

“I can’t believe she’s gone,” she said, sinking down into an overstuffed chintz-covered chair in her living room. Her hand was shaking as she dabbed a tissue under her eyes. “Murdered. Oh my God. I heard she was stabbed like a hundred times! Is that true?”

She was afraid—like she thought if her friend had been murdered, she was probably next. The one good thing about murder, Vince thought: It generally wasn’t contagious.

“She was stabbed, yes,” Mendez said.

“You have a lovely home,” Vince said, admiring the space, checking for photographs. There were two of Gina Kemmer and Marissa Fordham in frames on the console table behind the sofa—one recent, one not.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Do you rent or own?”

“Rent.”

“Are you the gardener?”

“Yes.”

“That’s some green thumb you have,” Vince said with a smile as he took a seat on the end of the sofa nearest her.