Secrets to the Grave (36 page)

“I agree,” Vince said.

“We’ll start taking Polaroids of these guys,” Mendez said, tossing his coffee cup in the trash.

Hamilton stuck his head in the door, looking to Dixon. “Bruce Bordain is here.”

“I’ll see him in my office.” Dixon stood up. “Tony, you come with me.”

“I get to be there when he tells you to fire me?”

“Why should I have all the fun alone?”

“Tony,” Vince said, going for a refill on the coffee. “Did you find photographs at Gina Kemmer’s house?”

“Yeah. They’re in a box in the war room.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“Do you know Bordain?” Mendez asked Dixon as they went down the hall.

“I’ve met him. He’s a good guy, a bit of a hustler. Don’t play golf with him, you’ll lose your shirt.”

They went into Dixon’s office and the sheriff stuck his hand out to a very tan, very handsome, smallish man with thinning dark hair slicked straight back a la Pat Riley, the LA Lakers coach. Bruce Bordain, the parking lot king of California.

“Bruce, thanks for coming in.”

Mendez had expected Bruce Bordain to be a man as big as his fortune. But what he lacked in physical size, he made up for in magnetism. It beamed from him like an aura.

“Cal,” he said, flashing a big white smile. “How’s that slice?”

“Bad as ever. I’m taking up miniature golf. I don’t lose so many balls,” Dixon said, sitting back against the edge of his desk. “Bruce, this is my lead detective, Tony Mendez.”

“Tony.” Bordain gave his hand a firm shake. “How about you? Does the boss here drag you out on the course?”

“Not me,” Mendez said, shaking his head.

“He can’t play badly enough to lose to me,” Dixon joked. “Tony’s on our softball team. Hell of a shortstop. Have a seat.”

Bordain took one of the chairs in front of the desk. Mendez took the other. They settled in like they were just three guys talking sports and shooting the shit. It was hard to imagine a man as loose and affable as Bruce Bordain being married to a woman as buttoned up and stuffy as Milo Bordain.

“How is Mrs. Bordain this morning?” Dixon asked.

“Stiff, sore, out of sorts,” Bordain said. “She’s pretty shaken up about what happened last night.”

“Rightly so,” Dixon said. “Good thing she was driving that German tank.”

“She thinks you don’t believe her about someone trying to run her off the road.”

“It’s not that,” Dixon said. “I explained to her last night that without more information about the other car, there really isn’t anything we can do.”

“If the other car had made contact with her car, we’d at least have paint transfer, and we could be looking for a car with matching damage,” Mendez said. “I went back out to the accident site this morning. We don’t even have skid marks from a second car.”

“Could be she just pissed off the other driver when she hit her brakes,” Dixon said, “and he swerved at her to scare her.”

“Well, it worked,” Bordain said. “It takes a lot to rattle my wife, but she hardly slept last night. First that business with the box—and, Jesus, why would anyone do something like that?—now this accident.”

“You don’t have any reason to think someone would try to kill her, do you, Mr. Bordain?” Mendez asked.

“I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do that. I mean, Milo can rub people the wrong way, but she’s got a good heart and she’s certainly not involved in anything dangerous. She’s passionate about her causes, but none of her causes are controversial.”

“What about you?” Dixon asked. “Has anybody threatened you for any reason? Do you have any development projects going on that someone might be against?”

“I’ve got a big project going in Vegas,” Bordain said. “But believe me, I’ve greased all the right palms. Besides, it’s a parking structure. Nobody is against more parking spaces. It’s not like I put up nuclear power plants.”

“And how are things between you and Milo?” Dixon asked.

Bordain raised his eyebrows. “Fine. You don’t think I would try to have her killed, do you?”

“No. I was thinking more along the lines of her trying to get attention from you.”

“Oh. No.” He shook his head. “Are you married, Cal?”

“Divorced.”

“Tony?”

“No, sir.”

“Milo and I have been married thirty-seven years,” Bordain said. “After that many years a good marriage is like a business partnership. We each have our strong suits, we each bring something to the partnership, and we don’t get in each other’s way. We’re way past romance. We’re old friends. We’ve got our system down and it runs like a well-oiled machine.”

“And your wife feels the same way?” Mendez asked.

“Milo has everything she wants. She’s very good at being Mrs. Bruce Bordain. She makes it a full-time job. She doesn’t want me underfoot every day.”

“I’m going to have to be a little indelicate here, Bruce,” Dixon said. “Is there another woman in your life who might want to see Milo go away?”

Bordain didn’t even blink at the suggestion that he cheated on his wife. “No. I’ve learned to make sure that doesn’t happen. Pay now, not later. There are no angry women in my life.”

“Your wife supported Marissa Fordham in a very substantial way,” Mendez said. “Do you know of anyone who might have objected to that?”

“I imagine there are artists Milo doesn’t support who weren’t happy about that, but I don’t know any.”

“Did you have any objection?” Dixon asked. “Sixty grand a year and a place to live. That’s a lot.”

“Cal, I have more money than I could ever spend,” Bordain said with the big grin. “What do I care if Milo wants to buy herself an artist? Believe me, she spends more money than that on clothes every year.”

“What about your son?” Mendez asked, thinking of Vince’s theory that Darren Bordain may have resented his mother’s relationship with Marissa Fordham. “How did he feel about that relationship? Your wife made mention Marissa was the daughter she never had.”

“Why would Darren care about that? He had to be glad for the distraction on Milo’s part. The more time she spent with Marissa, the less time she spent smothering him.”

“How well did you know Marissa?” Mendez asked.

Bordain shrugged. “Well enough to have a conversation with her. It’s god-awful what happened. Do you have any idea who did it? Do we have another Peter Crane running around?”

“We don’t think so,” Dixon said.

“And the little girl? Has she said anything? Milo said you think she may have seen the killer. Has she named anyone?”

“Not yet,” Mendez said. “The woman taking care of her has training in child psychology. She’ll try to draw the memories out.”

“She’s what? Four years old?” Bordain said. “How reliable can she be? She could say anything. She could name someone just to make an adult happy that she answered the question.”

“Anne knows what she’s doing,” Dixon said. “She’ll be very careful in how she goes about it. And of course no one would be convicted on the testimony of a child alone. There has to be evidence to back it up.”

“And then what will happen to her?”

“We’re trying to find relatives,” Mendez said.

“Milo has it in her head she should have the kid. She’s fretting about it constantly.”

“It’s best that the girl is where she is right now,” Dixon said.

“Do you think you could arrange a visit, Cal?” Bordain asked. “Milo is beside herself with everything that’s happened. It would cheer her up to see the girl. She’s the closest thing to a grandchild Milo is going to have any time soon. Darren is still happily playing the field.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Dixon said, noncommittal.

“It would mean a lot,” Bordain said, getting up. “It could be worth, say, some new piece of equipment the sheriff’s office needs.”

He smiled again like the Cheshire Cat.

“I’ll give that some thought,” Dixon said.

“Let me know.”

He reached out and shook Dixon’s hand again, then turned to Mendez.

“Detective Mendez. Think about that golf game. I have a standing tee time at the Oaks country club. You should come.”

“At the Oaks,” Mendez said as Bordain disappeared down the hall. “I should come as what? His caddy?”

“I’m sure he pays well,” Dixon said.

“He just offered you a bribe.”

“Yes, he did.”

Mendez thought about it for a moment. “Do you think he’d spring for a thermographic camera?”

Dixon chuckled and waved him toward the door. “Don’t you have a murder to solve?”

57

Shut up and climb
.
We can’t both be dead. You have to live. You’re the only one who knows the truth, G. You have to live to tell the truth. For Haley.

Gina licked her cracked lips and looked up. She didn’t even like getting on a step stool to reach the highest shelf in her kitchen cupboards.

She put her stick in her left hand, reached up with her right and grabbed hold of the rusty iron rung. It was nothing more than a piece of bent rebar cemented into the wall. Who knew how long this well had been here or how long it had been abandoned and therefore not maintained in any way. Gina didn’t know if the rungs would even hold her.

She took a deep breath and pulled, got her good leg under her, and pushed herself upright. Colors burst before her eyes while black lace crept in on her vision. There were no words to describe the pain. Trying not to focus on it, she held on to the rung, hanging her full weight from her good arm as she lifted her good foot and placed it on the bottom rung of the ladder.

She had raised herself six inches off the bed of garbage. Her muscles twitched violently. Her stomach rolled with the bad food and bad water she had consumed. She had to fight hard to remain conscious.

Marissa shouted at her.

Gina looked up at the next rung. She would have to let go of the one she was holding in order to reach the next one. She would have to bring her foot up one, then spring upward to catch the next one with her hand.

She thought about what a miserable failure she had been in gym class. Marissa had been athletic enough to climb up the dreaded rope that hung from the gym ceiling. Gina could barely climb the stairs without tripping.

Holding tight she struggled to get her leg up where it needed to be. She panted a few breaths, then sucked one in, held it, and pushed herself upward, reaching for and grabbing the next rung up.

Gina hooked her arm through the rung and clung tight, her consciousness dimming again with the pain. If she got out of this alive, the first thing she would do would be to hire a personal trainer.

Of course, she would be destitute and homeless, but if she lived in her car, maybe she would be able to afford it.

Marissa’s laughter filled her head.

Gina’s own laughter startled her.

What the hell did she have to laugh about?

She had twenty-three feet left to go.

58

There were years of friendship contained in the box Mendez had pulled out of Gina Kemmer’s house. Years and years.

Vince spread the contents of the box out on a table that ran along one wall of the war room. He had removed the boxes of files pertaining to the See-No-Evil cases and put them under the table. One crime at a time.

Gina’s box contained framed photos, photo albums, and packages of photographs that had never made it out of the envelope from the drugstore that had developed them. All of Gina Kemmer’s life condensed into three-by-five and five-by-seven rectangles.

Vince went through them, separating them into groups—as to his best guess, at least. Family, school, friends, vacations.

Gina came from a nice, normal-looking family. Dad wore a crew cut. Mom wore cat-eye glasses. There were three kids: two boys and a girl—the youngest. They lived in a brown ranch-style house in Reseda, according to the loopy handwriting on the back. Reseda September 1969.

They vacationed at Big Bear and Yellowstone. There was Gina with Minnie Mouse at Disneyland. Robbie, Dougie, and Daddy at a Dodgers game in June 1972.

Funny the things that built a life. All these little moments knitted together. Another Christmas, another Easter, another Halloween.

He thought of his own family, and how many of these photos his girls had packed away in boxes. Photos without him in them. A familiar hollow ache filled the center of his chest. He made a mental note to call them on the weekend. They were always home Sunday night.

He would be in the next set of family photos. Him and Anne and the children they would have together. He thought of last night, sitting with his arms wrapped around Anne and Haley both.

He thought of Zander Zahn, who probably had no photos from his childhood—nor would he want any reminders of that painful, horrible time. He wouldn’t want even the memories—which was why he kept them locked away in his strange compartmentalized brain.