by Tami Hoag
Haley was on all fours on the banquette, playing with her stuffed cat. “Meow. Yes. Meow. Meow.”
Wendy laughed. “Haley, are you a kitty?”
“Meow. Meow. Meow.”
Anne filled the pasta pot with water and put it on the stove to heat, then cut up an onion and diced it in the food processor.
“Mommy Anne? When can we go and see my kitties?”
“I don’t know yet, sweetie. We’ll wait for a nice sunny day.”
“Will that be tomorrow?”
“I don’t know.”
“I hope it’s tomorrow.”
“Haley, what are the names of your kitties?” Wendy asked.
“Scat and Mittens and Kittywampus.”
“Kittywampus?” Anne said. “That’s a funny name.”
How nice is this? she thought as Haley told a story about Kittywampus. She had grown up in a home that was often filled with tension and sadness and her mother’s desperation to be the best possible wife to a man who deserved nothing of the kind. Anne had tiptoed through that minefield her entire childhood, and unlike Wendy, by the time she was eleven she had wished every day that her parents would get divorced.
This was how a family should be. Enjoying each other. Being together. The picture was only incomplete in that Vince wasn’t there. It didn’t matter to Anne that these girls weren’t her children. She loved having them, getting to know them, figuring out their burgeoning personalities and how their little minds worked.
Life was good.
Until the doorbell rang.
Wiping her hands on a dish towel, Anne went to the front of the house, muttering her too-familiar ritual that she was all right, she was in a safe place, Peter Crane would not be standing on her doorstep.
But Dennis Farman was.
79
“Do you spend much time in Los Angeles, Mr. Bordain?” Mendez asked.
Darren Bordain was nervous and suspicious, and had been from the second Mendez had asked him to come back to the sheriff’s office with him. His first instinct had been to say no, but he had thought better of that when Mendez asked him why not.
Refusing made it look like he had something to hide. He had already refused to let them take his photograph. He had refused to take a polygraph. If he refused to come in to look at a new piece of evidence he might be able to shed some light on, the cops were surely going to think he had something to hide.
“I go down there maybe once a month.”
“Business? Pleasure?”
“Usually some of each. I went to school at UCLA. I have friends there.”
“Did you know Gina or Marissa from LA?”
“No. I told you before: I met them both after they had moved here in—what?—’81, ’82,” Bordain said. “Why are you asking me this? I thought you wanted to show me something.”
“We’ll get to that,” Mendez said.
The closed file folder lay on the table between them. Bordain eyed it like it might open and a rattlesnake would pop out of it and strike him.
“You also told us you never dated Marissa,” Mendez said.
“That’s right. We were just friends. We hung out with the same people.”
“You didn’t find her attractive?”
“Of course I found her attractive. She was a beautiful woman.”
“A beautiful, single, free-spirited woman,” Mendez said. “It’s probably not a stretch to think she wasn’t all that hard to get in bed.”
“That’s insulting.”
“To you?”
“To Marissa. She wasn’t like that.”
“She was a single woman with a child.”
“That doesn’t mean she was easy.”
“And you were never tempted to find out?” Mendez asked.
“No.”
“Even though you admit it would have yanked your mother’s chain if the two of you had gone out.”
Bordain rolled his eyes and shifted positions on his chair for the tenth time. “Just because I can yank my mother’s chain doesn’t mean I always take the opportunity to do it.”
“And last night, when you went home after dinner, did anyone see you?”
“I don’t know. Ask my neighbors,” he said, clearly annoyed. “I thought we went over all of this. I did not run my mother off the road.”
“Hmmm ...”
Mendez pulled the file folder to him, opened it and looked at the document, sighed and closed it again, returning it to its resting place.
“You’re telling me you didn’t know Marissa before Haley was born,” he said.
“That’s right. I’m telling you that, but you don’t seem to be comprehending it.”
“It’s not that, Mr. Bordain. It’s just that I have some documentation here that contradicts what you’re saying in a pretty big way.”
Bordain looked at the file folder but didn’t touch it. Sweat was beginning to bead on his upper lip. He wiped it away, shook a cigarette out of the pack on the table, and lit it.
People always thought they looked cooler and more relaxed when they smoked. The thing they never accounted for before they lit up was that if their hands were trembling even a little bit, with the cigarette perched between their fingers it would then look like they had Parkinson’s disease.
Darren Bordain’s hands were shaking.
“And I have some problems with your explanation of your whereabouts both the night Marissa was killed and last night when your mother was run off the road,” Mendez admitted. “ ‘Home alone’ is one of those alibis that really isn’t.”
“I wasn’t aware at the time I would need an alibi.”
“It seems like you’re home alone a lot for a guy who gets around town,” Mendez said. “Dinners with friends, all those civic and charity functions you go to. You go home alone. That doesn’t make sense to me. You’re rich, charming, good-looking. I wouldn’t think you’d ever have to sleep alone.”
“Maybe I’m not as promiscuous as you would apparently like to be,” Bordain said, flicking ash into the ashtray. Flicking too hard because he was nervous, a good bit of it missed the ashtray and landed on the table. He swore under his breath, stuck the cigarette back in his mouth, and quickly brushed the ashes onto the floor.
“And then there’s this,” Mendez said, slowly tapping his finger on the file folder. He did it over and over and over and over, the sound seeming to fill the otherwise silent room like water dripping from a faucet.
He could almost see Darren Bordain’s nerves fraying.
“Why don’t you just show it to me and get it over with?” Bordain snapped. “Whatever it is, there’s probably a logical explanation for it.”
Mendez pretended to think about it, then shrugged. “Okay.”
He opened the folder and slid it across the table.
“You should pay particular attention to the box marked ‘Father.’ ”
As he looked at the birth certificate the color drained from Darren Bordain’s face, then rose back up again, bright red.
“That’s a lie.”
“That is an official document from the county of Los Angeles.”
Bordain shook his head. “It can’t be. It’s not. I am not Haley’s father.”
“No? We showed her a photograph of you. She called you Daddy.”
“She calls every man Daddy.”
“Yeah, but apparently with you it’s official,” Mendez said, tapping his finger on the birth certificate. “Do you happen to know your blood type, Mr. Bordain?”
“A-negative.”
Mendez raised his brows. “Really? Because we’ve got the sweatshirt you wore the night you killed Marissa. Man, it was soaked in blood.”
“Marissa’s blood, not mine.”
“Marissa’s blood—AB-positive. Lots of it. But also a little A-negative,” he lied. “She must have scratched you, or you cut yourself. Knives get slippery when they’re covered in blood.”
“This is ludicrous!” Bordain shouted up at the ceiling, throwing hi
s arms up. “I didn’t kill Marissa!”
“What’s that cut on your wrist?”
Bordain looked at his left wrist and quickly pulled the cuff of his shirt over it. “I—I—must have done that on the golf course.”
“They golf with knives now?” Mendez asked. “That might make it interesting enough to try.”
Bordain pushed his chair back and got up. “I’m done now. That’s it. I don’t have to talk to you. I’m free to go.”
He went to the door and turned the knob, but it didn’t open.
“It’s like I told you yesterday, Darren,” Mendez said. “Some of our guests are not as free to go as others.”
80
“Dennis. What are you doing here?” Anne asked.
How the hell had he gotten her address? Their phone number was unlisted. She had a P.O. box for an address on her business cards.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
“I asked your dad.”
“You went to my father’s house.”
Dennis nodded. “Uh-huh. He’s really old.”
“And he gave you my address?”
“Uh-huh.”
Oh my God. That man will be the death of me yet.
Anne’s gaze skated past Dennis to the sheriff’s radio car sitting parked at the sidewalk. The deputy was eating a sandwich, paying no attention. Why would he pay attention to a little boy in a baseball cap? His assignment here was to keep Anne and Haley safe from a murderer.
“I set the hospital on fire,” Dennis announced.
“I know. I heard about that,” Anne said calmly.
“It was really cool,” he said, his eyes lighting up in that glassy, unnatural way they did when he talked about killers and crimes. “This one guy came running out of his room and his arms were on fire! And he was screaming and shit. It was so cool! And then this oxygen tank exploded and BAM!! It went right through a wall and killed a lady!”
Anne’s blood ran cold at his obvious delight—not just in his attempt to shock her but in the actual details of what he had done. The burned man and the dead woman meant absolutely nothing to him except in terms of his own amusement.
“Why did you do that, Dennis?”
He shrugged, his hands tucked into the big pouch on the front of his too-big hooded sweatshirt. “’Cause I wanted to. ’Cause I was mad. You said you were gonna come yesterday, and you didn’t. You said you would bring me something cool, and you didn’t.”
“I called to say I couldn’t make it, Dennis.”
“No, you didn’t,” he said, getting angry. “You never called. You don’t care about me. You’re such a liar!”
“Dennis—”
“Shut up!” he shouted, his temper about to erupt. “You’re just a lying, fucking cunt and I hate you!”
Before Anne could react Dennis had pulled his hands out of his pockets and came at her swinging and screaming. She wasn’t aware of what he had clenched in his fists until she felt something sharp and pointed stick her in the breast. By the time it registered he had struck her twice more.
There was nothing she could grab to hit him with. She didn’t want to run backward into the house. If Dennis saw Wendy or Haley she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt either one of them.
She tried to grab at his arms as he swung at her, and his weapons cut her hands and forearms. She shouted at him, “Dennis! Stop it! Stop it!”
Wendy had heard the commotion and came running from the kitchen. As soon as she saw Dennis, she started screaming at the top of her lungs. And right on her heels came Haley.
“Wendy, run!” Anne shouted as Dennis struck her again. “Take Haley and run!”
Haley stood at the end of the hall, shrieking.
Oh my God, Anne thought as she tried to fend off her attacker, she’s seeing it happen all over again.
Dennis was in a frenzy. He was big for his age, and strong, and with strength of purpose he kept coming at her, shouting and swinging and pushing her backward into the house. They were now out of sight of the deputy parked at the curb.
“I fucking hate you!” Dennis yelled, bulldozing into her.
Anne’s feet tangled with his and then she was falling backward. The back of her head struck the floor so hard it bounced. Blackness rushed in from the outer edges of her vision.
Dennis Farman came down on top of her, one arm raised high, ready to plunge a blade into her chest.
81
“I did not kill Marissa,” Darren Bordain said.
Mendez got out of his chair. “Why don’t you have a seat for a little longer? I’ve got to step out and get a cup of coffee. Would you like one?”
Bordain looked at him like he had lost his mind completely. “Do I want a cup of coffee? No, I don’t want a fucking cup of coffee! No, I don’t want to sit down!”
Big sweat stains ringed the underarms of his blue oxford shirt with the neat little logo embroidered on the pocket: MEF.
“I’ll be right back,” Mendez said, unfazed.
He let himself out of the interview room and went across the hall to the break room where Dixon, Hicks, and Vince were watching the monitor.
Vince smacked him on the back. “Good job, Junior.”
“You’ve got him back on his heels,” Dixon said. “I can’t believe he hasn’t asked for a lawyer.”
“I think he wants to tell you something,” Vince said. “But he can’t quite do it.”
“If he confesses to killing her, then it’s out there,” Mendez said. “He can’t take it back.”
Vince went to the machine and rewound the tape. “Watch him when you ask about the nights in question. Watch what he does.”
Mendez stared hard at the monitor as the moments that had just happened unfolded again in front of him.
“Watch him here when you ask him about last night, if anyone saw him at home. Watch how he kind of closes his shoulders like he wants to wrap his arms around himself.”
“Protective?” Mendez said.
“And the same thing here when you press him about his alibis,” Vince said. “He’s hiding something.”
“The fact that he’s a murderer?” Hicks suggested.
“Press those points again,” Vince said. “See what he does.”
“Okay.”
Mendez poured two cups of coffee and went back across the hall.
“I brought you one anyway,” he said, setting the cups on the table. “It’s not half bad today. Someone brought Irish Cream beans in.”
Bordain had taken his seat and lit another cigarette. He ignored the coffee. His hands were still trembling.
“I did not kill Marissa,” he said again. “I had no reason to kill Marissa.”
“I’m thinking you got tired of her blackmailing you.”
“No one is blackmailing me.”
“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” Mendez said. “You say you toyed with the idea of going out with her because it would wind your mother up like a top—but you get her pregnant and have a child out of wedlock and you keep that information to yourself—and the old lady would really blow a gasket over that.”
“It’s not ironic. It’s not true.”
“You can’t account for your whereabouts the night she was murdered. Your name is on her daughter’s birth certificate. And you’re sitting here in front of me sweating like a whore in church.”
“I was at Gina’s house the night Marissa was killed,” Bordain said.
“Gina, who is still conveniently in a coma.”
“I didn’t try to kill Gina.”
“Is that why you wanted to go into her room this afternoon? To say your last good-byes and accidentally pull a plug?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“She can’t help you, Mr. Bordain. By your own admission, you left her house and were home alone by eleven thirty.”
Bordain closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Mendez waited, watching his shoulders draw inward toward his chest, holding whatever it was inside.
“D
arren,” Mendez said quietly, leaning across the table. “There’s nothing worse than murder. That’s the big enchilada. It doesn’t get worse than that. Whatever it is that you’re not telling me could not possibly be worse than that.”
Bordain smiled bitterly as tears came to his eyes. “You’re not from where I’m from.”
“I’m going to read you your rights and put you in jail. Does that go over big where you’re from?”
“You don’t have any proof that I killed Marissa.”
“Not as much as I’d like,” Mendez acknowledged. He tapped the edge of the file folder against the table. “But I’ve got a hell of a motive.”
“She’s not my child. She couldn’t be my child.”
Again the protective posture.
“Why?” Mendez asked.
“I didn’t kill Marissa.”
“Find me someone to corroborate your alibi.”
Bordain put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands.
“I can’t,” he said in a tortured voice.
That wasn’t I can’t because there was no one to corroborate his story, Mendez thought. That was I can’t because he wouldn’t reveal the name of the person who could.
Mendez found himself staring at the logo on the pocket of Bordain’s shirt. He’d seen it before. Not in a store. He didn’t pay attention to stuff like that. His sister Mercedes did most of his fashion shopping.
MEF.
He thought back over half a dozen conversations with different people over the week. Where was Darren Bordain the night of Marissa’s murder? Gina Kemmer had some friends over, including Darren Bordain and Mark Foster. Where had Darren last seen Marissa? At the Licosto Winery event—the same last place Mark Foster had seen her. Who had Mark Foster been having dinner with the night he saw Marissa having dinner with Steve Morgan in Los Olivos—Darren Bordain? If they asked Steve Morgan, would he say Bordain?
Not a logo. A monogram.
Mark Foster. Mark E. Foster, the “not gay” head of the McAster music department.
Darren Bordain had either accidentally or who knew why gotten up that day and put on the shirt of his lover, Mark Foster.
“You’re gay,” Mendez said. “You were with Mark Foster when Marissa was being murdered.”