Secrets to the Grave (39 page)

“No, I think I know what you mean,” Vince said. “Some people have a lot of layers. Only the top one looks uncomplicated.”

She nodded.

“So, even though Marissa wasn’t giving off that vibe, you still had that feeling something was going on.”

“From Steve. He avoided talking about her. He was secretive about meeting with her.” She paused, weighing what she was about to say next. “Steve and Wendy and I ran into Marissa and Haley during the music festival, and Haley looked at Steve and called him Daddy.”

The admission clearly hurt her. Vince patted her shoulder.

“Don’t take that too much to heart, Sara,” he said. “Haley has some confusion about the daddy issue.”

Turning from the monitor, Hicks gave Mendez a sideways look. “You going back in there?”

“No.”

“You need a cup of coffee?”

“I need a drink.”

“Later.”

“Damn straight.”

“Bordain is in two waiting for us.”

“I know,” Mendez said, still staring at the monitor screen. It irritated him that Vince was touching her. Just as it irritated Vince when Mendez came within two feet of Anne. Hmmm ...

“Come on,” Hicks said, sliding off the table. “Let’s go see what the Golden Child has to say for himself.”

Darren Bordain sat in the interview room impeccably dressed in a pinstriped suit that looked like it might cost more than Mendez’s car. He smiled easily as Mendez approached the table and stretched out his hand.

“How is your mother doing today?”

“She’s been busy telling everyone about her harrowing brush with death last night,” Bordain said. He sat back in his chair, relaxed, with his legs crossed. A pack of cigarettes and a lighter lay on the table in front of him. “I’m sure you’ll see it on the news at eleven.”

“Do you not believe her?” Hicks asked.

“My mother isn’t given to lying.”

“But you don’t seem very concerned about it if someone really did try to kill her.”

“They didn’t succeed,” Bordain pointed out.

“You all left the restaurant last night around ten thirty, right?” Mendez asked.

“Yes.”

“And you went straight home?”

“Yes.”

“Were you alone?”

“Yes,” Bordain said, getting annoyed. “I thought I was here to help you build some kind of timeline to do with Marissa.”

“We need to do the same thing with your mother’s case,” Mendez said. “Might as well kill all the birds with one stone, right?”

“I suppose, but I don’t like the implication,” Bordain said. “AmIa suspect in what happened to my mother?”

“We just need to have a clear picture of everything that took place last night, Mr. Bordain,” Hicks said.

“Well I didn’t run my mother off the road,” he said. “I don’t know how much clearer I can make that picture.”

“We’re paid to be suspicious of everyone, Mr. Bordain,” Mendez explained. “Most interpersonal crime is committed by people who know their victims. Family is always one prong of an investigation like this. It’s not personal on our part.”

“It’s difficult not to see it as personal from where I’m sitting,” Bordain said.

He shook a cigarette out of the pack on the table before him and lit up, blowing smoke at the acoustic tile ceiling.

“I know I make a lot of sly remarks about my mother,” he said. “But I wouldn’t kill her, for God’s sake.”

“We aren’t accusing you, Mr. Bordain,” Hicks said.

“Think of it this way,” Mendez said. “Our questions might be an irritation to you, and you might feel like we’re being insulting or insensitive, but the person we’re working for is usually injured or dead and she won’t ever have the luxury of feeling irritated again.”

Bordain conceded the point with a nod of the head. “Well put. I’ll stop my whining now.”

“When was the last time you saw Ms. Fordham?” Hicks asked.

“I saw Marissa Sunday, a week ago—the Sunday before she was killed. There was a fall festival at the Licosto Winery between here and Santa Barbara. Food by local chefs, wine tasting, rides in a horse-drawn wagon and games for the kids. There was sort of a loose group of us from Oak Knoll. Marissa brought Haley. How is she, by the way?”

“She’s doing well, considering,” Mendez said. “Her memory is getting clearer every day.”

Bordain frowned and tapped the ash off his cigarette into the small ashtray that had been provided for him. “I hope that’s a good thing.”

“If she can name her mother’s killer, why wouldn’t it be?”

“You’re kidding, right? Didn’t she see the whole thing? Would you want a memory like that in your head for the rest of your life? Better for her if she never remembered any of it.”

“Better for the killer too.”

“I suppose.”

“Did Marissa ever tell you someone was bothering her, that someone in her life scared her, anything like that?” Hicks asked.

Bordain raised an elegant eyebrow. “Marissa? Scared? No. What’s that beer commercial about grabbing all the gusto?”

“Did she ever say anything to you about Haley’s father?”

“No. I got the impression that was a sore subject. As open and free a spirit as she was, there was always a little reserve in Marissa. It was like you got ninety-eight percent of her, which was a lot—until you started thinking about that missing two percent that she never gave to anybody. I think she’d gotten hurt somewhere along the line. I assumed by Haley’s father.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“No. She had Haley when she moved here. I assumed he was wherever she came from.”

“The East Coast.”

“I guess so.”

“Would it surprise you if I told you Marissa came up here from Los Angeles?” Mendez asked.

“Nothing about Marissa would surprise me.”

“Would it surprise you to know her real name wasn’t Marissa Fordham?”

Bordain shrugged. “I don’t know. Why would I care? She was who she was. Are you going to tell me she was a secret agent or something? In witness protection?”

“How did you feel about your mother’s relationship with Marissa?” Mendez asked. “The daughter she never had.”

“Well, since I can’t be the daughter my mother never had, it was okay by me.”

“Your mother spent a lot of money on Marissa.”

“My mother spends a lot of money. Period. Luckily, my father is filthy stinking rich. My mother’s hobbies have no impact on my life.”

“It didn’t bother you even a little bit?” Mendez asked.

Bordain gave him a hard look. “No. I liked Marissa. She had a great joie de vivre. If she could get my mother to foot the bill, more power to her.”

Mendez pushed a little harder. “Why do you think someone would murder Marissa, cut off her breasts, and send them to your mother?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t that your department?”

“That’s a very personal offense,” Mendez said. “First, the murder. Stabbing is a very personal crime. Sending the breasts to your mother, also a highly personal gesture. It’s a big Fuck You, if you’ll pardon my language.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Have you been in Lompoc recently?” Hicks asked.

“No. Why would I go there?”

“You’ve got a car dealership up there.”

“Yes, but we’ve got a good manager. There’s no reason for me to go there when I can pick up the phone. I divide my time between here and Santa Barbara.”

“Where were you last Sunday night?” Mendez asked.

“The night Marissa was killed?” Bordain tried to laugh. “You want my alibi?”

No one laughed with him.

“We need to know where you were.”

He stalled, lighting another cigarette. His hands shook a little. “I was at Gina’s house.”

Mendez exchanged a long look with Hicks.

“You were with Gina Kemmer?”

“Not in the Biblical sense. She had a couple of friends over. Marissa called and said she was busy. We ate a pizza and watched a couple of movies. I was home by eleven thirty.”

“Have you heard from Gina lately?” Mendez asked.

“A couple of days ago.” He looked increasingly uncomfortable with the pace and nature of the questions. “You asked me that last night. Why?”

“Where were you this past Wednesday from, say, five o’clock on?” Hicks asked.

Bordain sighed impatiently, tapped off his cigarette, took another drag, and blew the smoke out his nostrils. “I worked until about six, had a couple of drinks at Capriano’s, ate some dinner ...” His memory seemed to start failing then. “I don’t know. I went home. I don’t account for every hour of every day of my life, do you?”

“I’m pretty much here,” Mendez said. “You didn’t see Gina Kemmer that day?”

“No. She called me that afternoon about a funeral for Marissa. I didn’t see her. Why?”

“Gina Kemmer has been missing since late Wednesday afternoon,” Hicks said.

“Missing?” Bordain said stupidly, as if he didn’t understand the meaning of the word.

“Right,” Mendez said. “She won’t be able to corroborate your alibi for the night Marissa died because no one has seen or heard from her in two days.”

Bordain looked from one detective to the other.

“I think I should go now,” he said, standing up abruptly. “I don’t like the turn this is taking.”

Mendez sat back in his chair and spread his hands. “If you haven’t done anything wrong, there’s nothing for you to be uncomfortable about.”

“Look,” Bordain said, snatching up his cigarettes and lighter. “I had nothing to do with Marissa’s murder. I did not send severed breasts to my mother in the mail. I did not try to run her off the road. Wherever Gina is, I didn’t put her there.”

“Would you be willing to take a polygraph?” Hicks asked.

“No, I would not,” he said. “And you have no reason to keep me here, so—”

“You’re free to go at any time,” Mendez said. “We just need to get a quick photo of you before you leave.”

“For what?”

“For Haley. We’ll be showing her photographs of all the men in her mother’s life to see if she has a reaction—”

“Absolutely not,” Bordain said, angry. “You’re going to put me in a lineup for a four-year-old child who’s been traumatized and is probably brain damaged? Go to hell.”

They watched him go to the door and stand there. Mendez got up and made his way over to let him out.

“Some people who come in here aren’t as free to go as others,” he said.

Bordain said nothing, but walked out and wasted no time getting to the end of the hall. Vince came out of the break room to watch him go.

“He didn’t take that well,” Mendez said.

Vince shrugged. “Go figure.”

62

Halfway up the ladder the world went silent. Gina had no idea how much time it had taken her to get this far. It seemed like days must have passed. Each step up was more difficult than the last, her body was more exhausted, her mind drifting in and out of reality. With each step she had to rest longer, and with each rest she felt more inclined to just go to sleep and fall into the next dimension.

She thought she might be crying, but it was as if all aspects of her—body, mind, spirit—were drifting apart and losing the connection to one another. Marissa had stopped talking to her. Silence rang in her ears.

She was close to giving up. The little bit of rotten food she had eaten had come back up from the pain and the effort of moving. What adrenaline she had used to start the climb was spent.

Starving and dehydrated, she had no energy reserves to draw on. Unknown to her, the concentrated acid in her empty stomach had begun to eat through the stomach lining. She was aware of that pain because it was new and sharp. The pain in her broken ankle was so enormous and had been so continuous that in a weird way it had become like deafening white noise in her head. The pain in her shoulder where she had been shot throbbed now like a bass drum. Infection had begun to set in.

No one told her not to.

She couldn’t remember how long she had been standing on this rung. She had hooked her good arm through the iron loop and put her head against the dirty concrete wall to rest. Just for a minute ... and then another ... and another ...

In one tiny corner of her mind she was very afraid, but that little voice wasn’t strong enough to wake her. It tried to shout, but seemed so far away.

Her pulse was shallow and quick. She wondered dimly if that meant not enough blood was getting to her brain.

If she could just lie down and rest. If the pain would stop for just a while ...

If she could just let go ...

Then she did let go, and her body felt weightless, and it seemed to take forever just falling and falling.

“No!”

And BANG! Like that, all the disparate parts of her being slammed back together, and her body jerked as if she had been given an electrical shock. She grabbed tight to the iron rung as her good foot started to slip.

Climb!
Marissa’s voice shouted.
Damn it
,
G.
,
climb!

Dry wracking sobs shaking her, Gina forced herself to reach up for the next rung.

Even as she did it, she was thinking,
I can’t do it. I can’t make it. I’m so tired. I feel so weak.

One more.

And then one more.

Her head hit the rotten door. She pushed it open.

And then she was lying on the ground, in the mud, the steady cold rain drenching her to the bone.

63

“I love a school holiday,” Franny said, pouring the coffee. He made himself at home wherever he was, particularly in Anne’s kitchen. “Thanksgiving, Christmas, Sixth Graders Putting Cherry Bombs Down the Toilets Day.”