by Tami Hoag
“We hope not,” Hicks said.
Monique studied the photos one at a time, very methodical, looking carefully at one, then setting it aside, looking at the next one. Surfer clerk waited on the next customer.
“These here are some good-looking men,” Monique said. “I don’t mind no men like this coming through here—you know what I’m saying? This one here, he look like a movie star,” she said, holding up the photo of Steve Morgan. “He’s bad, though. I can tell. He got that pout. I don’t never trust no good-looking man with a pouty mouth.”
She took a good long look at Mark Foster. On the next one she stopped.
“He looks familiar,” she said.
Darren Bordain.
“I think he might have been in here,” she said. She stared at the picture and chewed her bottom lip. Something wasn’t striking her quite right.
“He would have had a brown box about yea big,” Hicks said, guesstimating the dimensions of the box with his hands.
Monique thought about that.
“He’s very charming ...”
She frowned and shook her head. “No. I don’t remember that. That’s not what I’m remembering with that face.”
She turned the photo over—not really a photo, but a page cut out of Oak Knoll magazine. Mendez had folded the other people in the picture out of the way—the Bordains and another prominent area family at a charity event.
“Oh!” Monique cried out. She tapped a long, curved purple fingernail on the picture. Her eyes were as wide as if she had been frightened. “That one I remember!”
97
“Bruce Bordain?” Vince said. “Bruce thought he was Haley’s father?”
Gina nodded wearily. “It’s a long story.”
“You need to tell me the short version of it now, Gina,” Vince said.
Bruce Bordain had been in a hurry to catch a plane the day before. If he had left the country, they couldn’t lose any more time than they already had getting on his trail.
“I’m so tired,” she said.
“I know you’re tired,” Vince said, glancing out the glass wall to check for anyone watching. He’d gotten tossed out of her room once already for overtaxing her. “But this is so important, Gina. We want to bring Marissa’s killer to justice, right?”
“Yes,” she said. Her respiration had begun to quicken. “Of course.”
“Was Marissa involved with Bruce?”
“Yes. For about a year.”
“And at some point she told him she was pregnant.”
“She was,” Gina said.
“Gina, I saw photographs of you and Marissa just a couple of months before Haley was born. She wasn’t pregnant.”
Frustration and exhaustion furrowed her brow. Another few tears squeezed out between her lashes. “I’m so tired.”
“I know, sweetheart. I’m really sorry,” Vince said, “but this is so important, Gina. Is Haley Marissa’s daughter? Is she Bruce Bordain’s daughter?”
“No.”
Marissa had been pregnant, but Haley wasn’t her daughter, nor was Bruce Bordain her father. Vince swore under his breath. Now he’d opened an industrial-size can of worms and his witness was running out of gas.
“But Marissa was blackmailing the Bordains?” he said.
“You make it sound so dirty,” she said. “It wasn’t like that. She was trying to do something good. For Haley.”
“Gina, Bruce Bordain has been paying for four years for a child that isn’t his. Did he find that out?”
“He might have,” she admitted in a small voice. “Marissa was tired of it. She’d had it with Milo trying to manipulate her and treating her like she was a doll to play with. At first, she had wanted him to pay for what he’d done to her. But it wasn’t worth it.”
“What had he done to her?” Vince asked.
Tears ran from the corners of Gina Kemmer’s closed eyes. She was slipping away from him, slipping away from the bad memories.
“Gina?”
“Mr. Leone?” The nurse supervisor came into the room with her hands on her hips. “Don’t make me throw you out of here again.”
Vince staved her off with one finger raised. “Just one more question.”
“Mr. Leone ...”
“Gina, what had he done to her?”
He had to lean in close to hear her.
“He killed her ...”
98
“That one I remember,” Monique the mail clerk said.
The picture was of the Bordain family—Bruce, Milo, and Darren—and another prominent Oak Knoll family in formal dress at a charity fundraiser.
Mendez had expected her to point to Darren Bordain.
She hadn’t.
Nor had she pointed to Bruce Bordain.
She pointed to Milo.
“Are you sure?” Hicks asked, sounding as doubtful as Mendez felt.
“I’m sure all right. I’m not forgetting that nasty piece of business any time soon. She was so rude!”
“She came in here with a box to mail?” Mendez asked.
“Yes. And she had it wrapped in brown paper and trussed up with string like a Thanksgiving turkey,” Monique said. “And I explained to her very polite that we don’t want packages wrapped in paper and tied up with string because it gets caught in the machinery. Well, you would have thought I’d told her to stick it where the sun don’t shine. And I wished I had!”
Milo Bordain.
Mendez couldn’t even hear Monique the mail clerk going on. He was trying to get his head around this new twist in the Bordain tale.
He nodded to the door. Hicks thanked the clerks and followed him out onto the sidewalk.
“Milo Bordain?” Mendez said as they emerged from the Lompoc post office. “Milo Bordain?”
No other words came. They stood on the sidewalk outside the post office, oblivious to the citizens of Lompoc going in and out of the building. Mendez knew his partner’s brain was doing the same thing his brain was doing: spinning its wheels crazily.
“I don’t get it,” Hicks said. “She mailed that box to herself?”
“She packed that box herself?” Mendez said, sick at the thought.
He couldn’t help but picture the murder scene, the incredible brutality, the blood. He could imagine Marissa Fordham’s screams of terror as she tried to escape her killer.
“That can’t be right,” Hicks said, rejecting the idea entirely. “The postal worker; she’s got to be wrong. That can’t be what happened.”
“She recognized the photograph,” Mendez said. “We didn’t even ask her to look at that photograph. And the attitude. That’s Milo Bordain all over.”
Hicks shook his head. “There’s no way. No woman could do that to another woman. Women don’t kill like that—hands-on, crazy, violent. Cut another woman’s breasts off? No.”
A woman with a toddler in tow caught the last of that and gave them a wide berth on her way into the building.
“Maybe she mailed the box but didn’t know what was in it,” Hicks said.
“How could she not know what was in it?”
“The husband or the son gave it to her to mail.”
“To mail to herself?” Mendez said. “And she drove way the hell to Lompoc to do it? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“And Milo Bordain as a homicidal maniac does? No woman could do that to another woman. No way.”
Mendez put his hands on top of his head and walked around in a little circle.
“Marissa Fordham was the daughter she never had,” Hicks said. “The little girl was like her granddaughter.”
“Was her granddaughter,” Mendez said. “Or so she thought.”
“Then why would she try to kill the girl?” Hicks asked. “What grandmother does that?”
Mendez tried to lay out a scenario that worked. “Milo Bordain and Marissa get into it. Maybe Marissa wanted more money or maybe she was done with it. Either way, Milo snaps and goes nuts. She realizes too late that the little girl saw her and can ident
ify her. She has to kill her, too.”
“A woman can snap and kill somebody as easily as a man,” Hicks conceded. “But the mutilation? Shoving the knife in the vagina like that?”
Two elderly women leaving the post office gasped and stared.
Mendez got the picture out and opened it flat. Bruce Bordain, Darren Bordain, and his mother at a charity function.
“Look at them side by side,” he said. “If not for the age gap, they could be brother and sister. Twins, even.”
“The son dresses up in drag,” Hicks ventured. “Mom is on the masculine side. He’s on the feminine side. He pretends to be her and brings that box up here to mail it.”
“That would make a hell of a movie,” Mendez said, “but it doesn’t make any sense.”
Hicks threw his hands up. “What part of this lunatic family does?”
“I don’t know,” Mendez said, digging the car keys out of his pocket. “But we’re not going to figure it out standing here. Let’s try to find a pay phone and call the boss.”
99
After the bright sunshine, the interior of the barn was so dark, it took Anne a moment to adjust her eyes.
The barn was cool and smelled of fresh hay and horses. Haley let go her hand and ran halfway down the center aisle then turned right. Anne followed. A door stood open to a feed room. A wide sliding door opened out onto a patch of shaded grass where two tiger-striped kittens were taking turns pouncing on a string of orange twine.
Haley dropped down on her knees in the grass and snatched at one end of the string. The kittens bounced into the air in surprise, dashed away, then came back in stalking mode.
Haley squealed and giggled in delight at the antics of the kittens. Anne stood in the doorway watching her, so happy to see her happy. She deserved to have some time to think nothing but little girl thoughts about kittens in the grass.
“Mommy Anne! Come and play with my kitties!”
Anne got down on the grass beside her and paid careful attention while Haley showed her what to do with the twine to make the kittens pounce on it.
“This one is Scat,” she said. “And the one with the white paws is Mittens.”
Scat bounced up on his toes with his back arched and his tail straight up in the air, then turned and dashed back into the barn. Haley ran after him, running smack into Milo Bordain’s legs.
She looked up at the tall woman whose face and hair seemed stark white against the black backdrop of the dark barn.
“Oops!” Anne said, laughing.
But Haley didn’t laugh, and Milo didn’t laugh.
Haley took a step back and then another, her eyes on Milo Bordain.
“Haley?” Anne said, puzzled by the expression on her face.
Bordain leaned over. “Haley? What’s the matter? You remember me. Auntie Milo.”
Haley’s lower lip began to tremble and tears welled in her eyes.
“B-b-b-bad,” she stammered.
“You didn’t mean to run into your auntie Milo,” Anne said. “It was an accident.”
“B-b-b-b-ad,” she said again. “Bad Daddy. Bad Daddy!”
It took a second for Anne to understand, but then the pieces snapped into place. Swallowed by the black background, with just her face standing out, Milo Bordain must have reminded her of the man who had attacked her mother. Darren Bordain was a prime suspect. He was the spitting image of his mother.
“Bad Daddy! Bad Daddy!”
Milo frowned sharply as Haley began to wail and shriek, only succeeding in making herself look more menacing.
“Haley!” she snapped. “Stop that!”
Before Anne could react, she took the girl by the upper arms and gave her a shake.
“Haley! Stop it! Stop it right now!”
Anne bolted forward and scooped Haley into her arms, ignoring the pain of her own injuries as she pulled the little girl tight against her. She wanted to knock Milo Bordain on her ass.
“Don’t frighten her more!” Anne snapped.
“She knows me, for heaven’s sake!” Bordain snapped back. “She’s being ridiculous!”
“She’s four!” Anne shot back.
Haley cried harder.
“What have you been putting in her head?”
“Nothing!”
“Cal Dixon and your husband are trying to frame my son—”
“That’s absurd! They’re trying to get to the truth—whatever it might be.”
“Darren did not kill Marissa.”
Anne walked away from her and the argument, cradling Haley’s head against her shoulder. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re okay.”
Haley cried and twisted in her arms. “No!!”
“Maybe we should just go,” Anne said. She turned back toward Milo Bordain. “We should just go. This isn’t a good day for anyone. We can come back another day.”
“No!” Milo said, instantly contrite. “No, please don’t go. I’m so sorry I lost my temper. I’m just beside myself with everything that’s gone on this week.
“Don’t go. I have a picnic lunch all ready,” she said. “We’ll go down by the reservoir. Haley, don’t you want to go for a ride in the golf cart?”
Haley looked up at her. They were out of the shadows of the barn now. The apparition that had frightened her was gone, replaced by a person she had known her whole life.
“Should we go for a ride in the golf cart?” Bordain said, forcing a smile.
Still unhappy and out of sorts, the little girl put her head back down on Anne’s shoulder and murmured, “Mommy Anne ...”
The muscles in Milo Bordain’s square jaw tightened against her annoyance at Haley’s name for Anne.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” Anne said. “Do you want to go for a ride and have a picnic?”
“The cart is right over here,” Bordain said, leading the way.
The golf cart, like everything else to do with Milo Bordain, was decked out elaborately, made to look like a Mercedes-Benz with the big logo on the front.
Anne got in and tried to set Haley on the middle of the front seat, but Haley crawled back into her lap and started to suck her thumb.
We should have gone, Anne thought. To hell with Milo Bordain’s feelings. Haley’s feelings were all that mattered. And yet, she couldn’t quite bring herself to tell the woman to turn the golf cart around and go back.
They drove through the field bordered by white fences and shaded by big trees. Shaggy red cattle watched them pass with only mild interest.
The reservoir—a grand name for a man-made pond the purpose of which was firefighting—shone like a blue jewel under the clear sky. Milo had sent her minions out earlier to make a picnic spot ready complete with a table and a red-and-white-checked tablecloth. A large wicker picnic basket sat on one end of the table with baguettes sticking up out of it and red and green grapes spilling over the side.
“You went to a lot of trouble,” Anne said.
“Oh, no, not at all. Nothing is too much trouble to make a nice event. All it takes is organization.”
And cheap hired help, Anne thought. She pointed at the table and leaned down to Haley. “Look, Haley, isn’t this special?”
Haley was unimpressed. She nudged a toe against the dash of the fancy golf cart and whined around the thumb in her mouth. “Mommy Anne ...”
“You really shouldn’t let her call you that,” Bordain said, irritated.
“If it makes her feel more secure,” Anne said, “there’s no harm in it.”
“You’re not her mother.”
“I know that. Haley knows that.”
“You’re not going to be either.”
Anne bit her tongue again, remembering what Vince had said at breakfast. Milo Bordain believed her son was Haley’s father. No one had told her differently.
“Haley knows her mommy is an angel in heaven. Isn’t that right, Haley?”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Milo muttered half under her breath.
We should have g
one home, Anne thought again. This was a mistake. Why subject Haley—and herself—to this unpleasant woman? Just to be polite? Just to keep the peace? Her tolerance for this kind of social posturing was almost nil, and yet here she was.
Now they were stuck out in a field with Milo Bordain, and Anne realized, well away from the ranch buildings. Well away from the deputy who had brought them out here. A vague sense of unease stirred inside.
We should have gone home ...
100
Vince went back to the SO to speak to Dixon in his office about what Gina Kemmer had told him.
“She said Marissa was involved with Bruce Bordain for about a year. At some point she says Marissa did get pregnant, but then she turned around and admitted that Haley isn’t Marissa’s daughter—or Bruce Bordain’s for that matter.”
“But she was blackmailing him?”
“Yes, but Gina said Marissa was done with it, that she had wanted Bordain to pay for what he’d done to her, but that it wasn’t worth the hassle to her anymore. She was tired of having to live under Milo’s thumb.”
“What had Bruce done to her?” Dixon asked.
Vince shrugged. “I don’t know. She said he killed her.”
Dixon’s brow furrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I don’t know. That’s when I got asked to leave,” Vince admitted. “Gina says there’s a lot more to the story. She claims they were trying to do something good.”
“For themselves?”
“For Haley. But Gina thinks Marissa was going to tell the Bordains Bruce wasn’t the father.”
“Four years of child support to a kid that wasn’t his,” Dixon said. “At the rate they were paying her, that’s about a quarter of a million dollars. I have to think that would be enough to piss off anybody—even Bruce.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“He flew to Vegas yesterday.”
“I’d call Vegas PD and see if they can’t sit on him for you,” Vince said. “If there’s anything to this, he’s a definite flight risk.”
“And he was willing to throw his own son under the bus for this,” Dixon said. “That’s cold.”
“I don’t know,” Vince said. “It’s like you said to him yesterday—that’s probably the best spin he could put on it. If the world thinks Darren got Marissa pregnant, that would dispel any rumors about him being gay.”