Secrets to the Grave (19 page)

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Authors: Tami Hoag

BOOK: Secrets to the Grave
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“This is quite a place you have, Mrs. Bordain,” Hicks said. “Is it a working ranch?”
“Yes. We raise exotic cattle—Highland cattle. And of course we have a few horses—pure Spanish Andalusians—and some interesting types of chickens.”
Even the animals on her ranch had designer labels.
She was dressed to go riding in tan jodhpurs and tall boots, and a butter-soft suede jacket that probably would have cost Mendez two weeks’ pay. A beautifully patterned silk scarf was wound around her throat into an elaborate cravat inside the open collar of her crisp white blouse. She wore kid gloves so thin and fine she didn’t bother taking them off.
The boots didn’t look like they had ever seen the inside of a barn or stepped into a stirrup.
“Do you know anyone in Lompoc, Mrs. Bordain?” he asked.
“No.”
Lompoc didn’t have the right zip code for the Bordains, who had a mansion in posh Montecito on the coast adjacent to Santa Barbara, and a condo on the Wilshire Corridor in Los Angeles.
“The box was postmarked Lompoc.”
A city roughly the same size as Oak Knoll, Lompoc was north and west of Santa Barbara. Its biggest claim to fame in Mendez’s book was the federal penitentiary.
“You’ll get fingerprints from the box, won’t you?” Bordain asked.
“If we’re lucky,” he said. “Mrs. Bordain, do you have any idea why the killer would send that box to you?”
“No! My God! Of course not! I don’t understand any of this! Why would anyone kill Marissa? She was like a daughter to me. And why send that—that
thing
to
me
?”
“Maybe that
is
why,” Mendez said. “She was like a daughter to you. Could someone have been jealous of her or angry that you supported her?”
“I suppose so,” she said. “I get a lot of requests from people who want someone to pay their way for something.”
“You get letters?”
“Yes. I have one of Bruce’s secretaries deal with them.”
“We’ll need to see those letters, if possible,” Dixon said. “In case somebody’s holding a grudge.”
The kettle whistled and she jumped as if she’d been shot. Hands shaking, she made her tea with a teabag, and the scent of peppermint filled the air on a cloud of steam. The cup rattled against the saucer as she took it to the kitchen table and sat down.
“This is such a nightmare,” she said. “I’d just gotten back from the meeting about Haley when the mail came. I was already upset. I’m filing the paperwork to become her foster parent. That woman from Child Protective Services is coming tomorrow to see the house. Haley should be with people she knows, people who care about her.
“What must she be thinking?” she said. “She has to be terrified, surrounded by strangers. Has she said anything about what happened?”
“Not so far,” Dixon said. “She was unconscious for some time. She may never remember anything.”
Bordain sighed. “I hope so, for her sake. Poor little thing.”
“If she remembers and can give us a name or a clue,” Mendez said, “we can catch Ms. Fordham’s killer. Isn’t that what you want?”
“Of course, but Haley is only four years old. Would she have to testify in court? Is a four-year-old child considered a credible witness?”
“I had a case in LA County years ago,” Dixon said. “A triple homicide—a mother and two children. The only person left alive was a twenty-two-month-old baby.
“The killers let him live because they didn’t think he was able to talk,” he said. “Turned out they were wrong. He was perfectly able to speak, he just didn’t speak to strangers.
“He had heard their names. He had seen the whole thing go down. He didn’t testify in court. We had to corroborate what he told us through a third party. But that baby solved the crime. Haley could do the same thing.”
“And be traumatized all over again,” Bordain said. “She’ll never be normal. People will always look at her as the girl whose mother was murdered, the girl who was left for dead. She’ll have to live with this for the rest of her life.”
“Anne Leone will help her through it,” Dixon said.
Bordain frowned. “I don’t like that woman. She’s very bossy and manipulative.”
“I know Anne quite well,” Dixon said. “She’s a fierce advocate for children. Haley couldn’t be in better hands.”
“She would be in good hands here,” Bordain argued, “and be with people she knows.”
“Mrs. Bordain,” Mendez jumped in. “How did you meet Ms. Fordham?”
She huffed a sigh, not happy to let go of the subject of Haley.
“I met Marissa at the art fair in ’82,” she said at last. “I was one of the judges. I thought her work was extraordinary. So luminous, so full of joy.”
“And you decided to sponsor her? Just like that?”
“I have an eye for talent,” she said. “I introduced Marissa to the people from the Acorn Gallery. They agreed to represent her art here and at their gallery in Montecito. I persuaded Marissa to put down roots here. Haley was just a baby. They needed a home.”
“You own the property she lived on,” Dixon said.
“Yes. I lived in that house while this one was being built. My husband couldn’t understand why I didn’t just stay at the house in Montecito and drive back and forth. He, of all people, should know you can’t leave these contractors for a minute. Nothing would be right if I hadn’t been here to watch them like a hawk.”
“How long ago was that?” Mendez asked.
“I lived in that house most of 1981 and half of ’82. Of course this one wasn’t finished when they said it would be.”
Mendez let her prattle on about how she had fired the carpenters halfway through the project because they had paneled the study in pine with knots when she had specifically told them over and over that she wanted clear pine. The carpenters had probably wanted to put her in a pine box by that point, Mendez thought.
His mother would have told him to be kind. Despite Milo Bordain’s snobby character, she was nervous and upset. It made her feel a sense of control to divert the conversation off the main track to more mundane territory—and clearly, control was Milo Bordain’s thing. She was a woman used to being in charge and telling other people what to do.
Eventually he brought her back on topic. “Did she ever talk to you about Haley’s father?”
“No. I suspected he was abusive, and that was why she came to California, and why she didn’t talk about him.”
“But she never told you that,” Hicks said.
“No.”
“Had she seemed nervous lately?” Dixon asked. “Distracted? Upset?”
“No. Marissa was very self-possessed.”
“She didn’t mention having a problem with anyone?”
“Nothing she couldn’t handle.”
“What does that mean?” Mendez asked.
“It’s nothing, I’m sure,” she said. “She had complained to me about that strange neighbor of hers. He’s a professor at the college. I don’t know why they keep him. The man has something wrong with him. People pay a lot of money to send their children to that school. My husband sits on the board. I’ve told him several times he should get this taken care of.”
“What did Ms. Fordham say about him?” Mendez said.
“Well,” she said, avoiding his eyes, “that he was strange and made her uncomfortable. You should be questioning him.”
Undoubtedly, Zahn made Mrs. Bordain uncomfortable, Mendez thought. Everyone they had spoken to had told them Marissa Fordham was perfectly at ease with her strange admirer.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “We’ve already spoken with Dr. Zahn.”
“And?”
“Do you know if Marissa was dating anyone in particular?”
“You didn’t answer my question, Detective.”
“I’m not going to.”
“What Detective Mendez means to say,” Dixon explained, shooting Mendez a hard glance, “is that he isn’t at liberty to comment on an active investigation.”
Bordain was offended. “I consider Marissa and Haley family. I should be kept informed about the investigation. Especially now that—that—box—”
She went pale again and pressed a hand to her mouth. Tears rose up in her eyes.
“
I
could be a target,” she said, agitated. “You said so yourselves. Marissa could have been murdered to get to me.”
“Why would you think that?” Mendez asked, almost laughing at the absurdity of her statement. Marissa Fordham had been stabbed dozens of times and nearly decapitated, and Milo Bordain thought that was somehow all about her. Unbelievable.
“I’m a wealthy woman. My husband is an important man. My son has a big political career in front of him. People are jealous. Marissa was important to me—”
“Has anyone threatened you directly?” Dixon asked.
“Well, no, but—”
“It’s not about you, ma’am,” Mendez said bluntly.
She looked to Dixon again for interpretation.
“Most crime is pretty straightforward,” Dixon explained. “Most people are murdered because somebody wants them dead. Conspiracies only happen on television.”
“Most people don’t get a box like
that
in the mail,” she returned.
“Can you think of anyone in your life who might want to kill you, ma’am?” Hicks asked.
“No! I don’t have any enemies.”
“We’ll start with your friends, then,” Mendez said.
Bordain turned to Dixon again. “What does he mean?”
“Most people are murdered by people close to them,” Mendez explained, irritated that she kept turning to his boss, as if he weren’t speaking English and she needed a translator. “We’ll start by interviewing your husband. Did he know Ms. Fordham?”
“Is he trying to be amusing?” she asked Dixon.
Dixon shot him another glare. “There’s nothing amusing about Detective Mendez.”
“Where was your husband over the weekend?” Mendez pressed on.
“He’s been in Las Vegas on business since Friday.”
“He’s still there?” Hicks asked. “Have you told him about Ms. Fordham’s murder?”
“Yes, of course. But there wasn’t any point in him coming back. He had important meetings to attend. He’s flying into Santa Barbara tonight. He’ll go to the Montecito house.”
Mendez arched an eyebrow and made a few notes. “Even after you tell him about the box? Even if you tell him you think your life might be in danger?”
“If I ask him to come here, he’ll come here,” she said defensively. “I called my son. He should be here shortly.”
“Your son’s name?” Mendez asked.
“Darren Bordain.”
“What does he do?” he asked just to insult her. He knew who Darren Bordain was. He just wanted Milo Bordain to realize not everybody gave a rat’s ass.
She huffed a sigh. “Darren runs our Mercedes dealerships. He stars in all the commercials.”
“I don’t drive a Mercedes,” Mendez said. “Did your son know Ms. Fordham?”
“Of course he did. Darren is also very involved in state politics. He’s going to be governor one day.”
“Were they friends?” Mendez asked. “More than friends?”
“They were acquaintances.” She turned to Dixon. “Is this really necessary? My son had nothing to do with Marissa.”
“We’ll need to speak with him,” Mendez said. “And we’ll need to have you come into the sheriff’s office so we can take your fingerprints.”
“My fingerprints?!” she said, shocked.
“For elimination purposes,” Dixon explained. “Your prints will be on the box.”
“I was wearing gloves when I handled it.”
“There’s also Ms. Fordham’s house,” Hicks said. “You were there frequently. It’s safe to assume your prints will be among those found.”
“I feel like I’m being treated like a criminal,” she complained to Dixon.
“Not at all, Mrs. Bordain,” Dixon said. “We’ll need to be able to identify your prints—and the prints of anyone else who spent a lot of time in Ms. Fordham’s home—so we can take them out of the mix and hopefully eventually end up with only the prints of the killer. You can come directly to my office and we’ll take care of it in private.”
“Thank you, Cal,” she said. “At least
you’re
a gentleman.”
Dixon turned the laser-blue eyes on Mendez, and he knew he was cooked. One poke too many at Her Majesty. “Detectives, can I have a word with you both outside?”
29
“Do you realize who she is, Detective Mendez?” Dixon asked, herding them to one side of the porch, away from the door.
“Sure. She’s a snobby, rude, narcissistic bitch.”
“You must be talking about my mother.”
Mendez felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.
Darren Bordain stood up from the bent-willow bench on the other side of the door and casually put his cigarette out in a pot of his mother’s geraniums.
“Mr. Bordain, I apologize—”
Bordain waved it off. “No need. I’m well aware who my mother is. I’ve been putting up with her for thirty-two years.
“Did she treat you like a servant?” he asked. “Don’t feel special. That’s how she treats everyone except celebrities, conservative politicians, and people she wants something from.”
“Mr. Bordain. Cal Dixon.” The sheriff offered his hand.
Bordain shook it. “Call me Darren. No need to stand on formality. I try not to be my mother’s son whenever possible.”
Ironically, Darren Bordain was physically the spitting image of his mother—same height, same build, same straight blond hair, same green eyes, same square jaw. Every time he looked in a mirror, he saw his mother’s face.
His vintage silver Mercedes 450SL convertible was parked out by the sheriff’s car. But he had been in no hurry to come in the house.
“I was just trying to work up the energy to deal with her crisis du jour.”
“She’s pretty upset,” Dixon said. “She told you about the box?”
“Yes. She called my office and got my secretary and screamed at her until the poor girl came and got me off the golf course.” He took a pack of Marlboro Lights from the pocket of his leather jacket and shook one out. “I had two holes left to play, so I’m a little late. She told me she had already called you guys, so what was I going to do?”

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