by Tami Hoag
“It’s not against the law to cheat on your wife,” Mendez said, feeling himself get a little hot under the collar. “We’re not going to spend tax-payer dollars trying to prove the guy is an adulterer. But it doesn’t speak well for his character, does it?”
“Steve is a fine person,” Quinn said firmly as he sat back in his expensive leather chair—withdrawing from the interview. “He works hard. He gives back to the community. He’s a good father.”
“He’s just not a good husband,” Mendez said. “I guess everybody has their flaws.”
“I don’t see why we’re talking about this, Detective,” Quinn said. He propped his elbows on the armrests of the chair and made a tent with his hands—subconsciously putting a physical barrier between them. “Someone murdered Marissa Fordham. It wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Steve. You should look elsewhere.”
“Is he in today?” Mendez asked.
“I believe he’s in a meeting with a client.”
And if he wasn’t, Don Quinn was going to make damn sure he pretended he was. Mendez figured he’d be on the phone to his partner’s office the instant he and Hicks stepped out the door.
He glanced at his watch. 4:42. The office would close soon. Steve Morgan would leave and head home—or elsewhere.
Mendez rose from his chair. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Quinn.”
“If you think of anything that might be helpful to the investigation, please give us a call,” Hicks said, setting a business card on the desk.
“What’s with the hard-on for Steve Morgan?” Hicks asked as they walked back to the car parked down the street at a meter.
“The guy rubs me the wrong way,” Mendez said. “He’s got a beautiful wife, a beautiful daughter, a beautiful home, and he’s a fucking dog. There was no doubt in my mind he was sleeping with Lisa Warwick—who ended up murdered. Now he’s got a connection to Marissa Fordham—also murdered.”
“Peter Crane killed Lisa Warwick,” Hicks pointed out.
“I know. I just don’t like coincidence.”
“You just don’t like Steve Morgan.”
“No, I don’t. Do you?”
“He doesn’t mean anything to me one way or the other. He’s just another name on the list of people to talk to regarding our victim.”
“Then let’s,” Mendez said as they got in the car.
“You want to wait for him here?” Hicks asked. “Go back and park ourselves in the office?”
“No. I’d say we go park in front of his house, but there’s no guarantee he’s going home when he leaves here. Let’s go around the back and catch him coming out.”
They didn’t have to wait long.
They had just pulled down the alley when Steve Morgan came out the back door of the Quinn, Morgan offices. He was tall and lanky with a mop of sandy, wavy hair; the kind of guy who would look good with a tennis racket in his hand and a sweater tied around his neck.
Mendez pulled the sedan in directly behind Morgan’s black Trans Am, blocking his exit.
“Slipping out early?” he asked as Morgan got out of the car.
If Morgan was annoyed, he did a good job of masking it.
“Detectives. Don just told me about Marissa Fordham. She was a friend of my wife’s. I want to break the news to Sara before she sees it on TV.”
“She knows,” Mendez said. “As it happens, she had an appointment with Ms. Fordham this morning. I’ve already spoken with her.”
Morgan sighed. “Oh God, she must be upset.”
“She didn’t call you?”
“I’ve been in and out of the office today. I saw she left a couple of messages, but I haven’t had time to call her back.”
“She took it pretty hard,” Mendez said. “You knew Ms. Fordham as well.”
Morgan sat back against his spotless vehicle. “Yes. I knew her. Is this the part where you’re going to accuse me of sleeping with her?”
“Were you?” Hicks asked.
“No. I knew Marissa from the Thomas Center. I helped out with the copyright business on the poster she did. And I knew her socially a little bit—charity functions, cocktail parties, like that.”
“She dated your partner,” Hicks said.
“She dated a few different men. Marissa wasn’t interested in being tied down by anyone other than her daughter. She was a terrific mother.”
“You put together a trust for her little girl,” Mendez said. “Can you tell us who the trustee is?”
“I am. That’s not uncommon when people don’t have close family—and actually just as common when they do. They want a neutral third party. Relatives can get crazy when there’s money involved.”
“Are we talking about a lot of money?”
Morgan frowned. “I can’t tell you that. It’s confidential.”
“Your client is dead.”
“But her heir is alive, and who knows what relatives might crawl out of the woodwork now,” he said. “I can’t release the information without a court order or I could end up in front of the ethics committee and/or being sued.”
“Let me put it this way, then,” Mendez said. “Will the little girl be well taken care of?”
“Yes.”
“What about a will?” Hicks asked.
“I asked her about that. She said it was taken care of. I didn’t draw it up for her.”
“Did she tell you if she had made provisions for the care of her daughter in the event something happened to her?”
“No. Not beyond the trust. But I can’t imagine she hadn’t. Sara and I took care of that for Wendy before she was even born.”
“You’re an attorney,” Hicks pointed out.
“Yes, but I’m a father first,” Morgan said. “Marissa was a mother first—and a single mom at that. I’m sure when you go through her personal documents you’ll find everything you’re looking for.”
“Did she ever mention the little girl’s father to you?” Mendez asked.
“Not by name. And only to tell me he wasn’t a factor in Haley’s life.”
Morgan glanced at his watch and frowned. “I don’t know what else I can tell you. Does Jane Thomas know about Marissa?”
“Yes. We were there earlier,” Hicks said.
“I’d like to get going then—if there’s nothing else.”
“Not for the moment.”
“You know where to find me,” Morgan said.
Yeah, Mendez thought as he backed the sedan up to let Steve Morgan out of his parking place, just this side of a murder victim.
15
“Anne Marie! You look like something the cat dragged in!”
“There’s nothing like a good friend to brighten a dark day,” Anne said, sliding into the booth.
Fran Goodsell had been her best friend from her first day teaching at Oak Knoll Elementary six years ago. Completely irreverent in all the most inappropriate moments, he always found a way to distract her from whatever troubled her.
Sharp-witted and loyal to a fault, he was the fourteenth of fifteen children born to an Irish Catholic family in Boston and had just turned forty in the spring, celebrating with an outrageous costumed fete he called “Franival!”
His phenomenal teaching skills had helped him create an impressive résumé at top private and public schools on the East Coast before he had migrated to California.
Despite the fact that he actually loved his work and was brilliant with children and parents alike, he liked to profess that teaching kindergarten had driven him to drink and to contemplate the mandatory sterilization of most of the population.
“Honestly, darling,” he said, casting a disapproving eye at Anne’s present state. He was, of course, as always, perfectly preppy with a twist, dressed in khaki pants and not one but two Ralph Lauren Polo shirts—a vibrant blue one over a vibrant orange one—with the collars turned up.
Anne supposed she looked a little worse for wear at the end of this day, even though she had started out feeling smart and together in olive slacks and
a lightweight black sweater set. Now her slacks were creased and wilted, and her sweaters seemed to have stretched and grown in the heat of the afternoon.
She had cried off most of her makeup during what she called her “mini-meltdowns” of the day. At some point she had given up on her hair and pulled it back into a ponytail with a brown scrunchie she had found in the bottom of her purse.
“You’re not seeing me at my freshest,” she said. “I feel like something the cat threw up.”
“Are you pregnant?”
“No. And thanks for reminding me.”
It was no secret to Franny that she and Vince were anxious to start their family. He made it his life’s work to dig out the most private details of her life—and she usually gave them up without too much of a fight because he was in many ways better medicine than her therapist had ever prescribed.
His face softened and he reached across the table to put his hand over hers. “It’ll happen, honey. You’re just still under a lot of stress.”
“I know,” she said softly. And pushing thirty. Ticktock.
“For God’s sake, you haven’t been doing it all that long,” Franny said. “And don’t forget, we’re talking practically uncharted territories down there.”
“That isn’t true!” Anne protested, finding an embarrassed grin.
“Virgin forest,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Thank God you found yourself a lumberjack with a big axe.”
“Stop it!” Anne said, giggling as her cheeks burned. “You’ll get us thrown out of here.”
“You’re a lucky girl, Anne Marie. That’s all’s I’m saying,” he said with an extra-thick Long Island accent.
A waitress came by and took Anne’s order for a glass of pinot grigio.
Piazza Fontana was the restaurant where she and Vince had had their first unofficial date. He had asked her here on the excuse of wanting to talk about her students who had discovered the body of Lisa Warwick. She had gone, protesting the notion that she was interested in anything other than just that. After dinner he had stolen a kiss when he walked her to her car. Her lips had tingled all night.
The restaurant had become their favorite haunt. Vince, who came from—by his own description—a big, loud Italian family from Chicago, knew good food and wine. Anne loved the ambience of casual elegance—dark wood and white table linens, exposed brick walls, a fountain gurgling in a corner. They dined here at least once a week.
The owner himself, a transplant from Tuscany, brought her a glass of wine and a broad smile.
“Signora Leone! What a pleasure, as always.”
“Thank you, Gianni. It’s good to see you.”
“Where is your husband?” he asked, looking around. “He lets you out of his sight? All the young men will be looking and saying ‘Who she is?’”
“I’m here to protect her,” Franny announced.
Gianni Farina rolled his eyes comically, patted Franny on the shoulder, and muttered something in Italian.
“No tip for that!” Franny called after him.
Anne laughed and took a sip of her wine as the front door opened and Vince walked in, greeted by no less than three people before he made it past the maitre d’ stand. He traded a few lines of Italian with Gianni, an exchange that ended in laughter and a big grin from Vince.
“Are you keeping an eye on my bride, Franny?” he asked as he slid into the booth next to Anne.
“I can’t be held responsible for how she looks.”
Vince ran a hand back over her hair, his eyes shining as he looked down at her. “She looks beautiful.”
“You’re in love.”
“I am.” He leaned down and gave her a sweet little kiss that filled her with a soft, warm glow. “You look tired.”
Anne mustered a smile. “Long day. What’s your excuse?”
His head was hurting him. He wouldn’t say so, but she had learned to read the signs: the tightness around his eyes, the deepening of the lines across his forehead. He needed to lie down. She needed to take care of him.
“The same,” he said. “I told Gianni we’d take something home with us.”
“And ditch me,” Franny complained.
“Three’s a crowd,” Vince returned.
“Do you have any leads on the case?” Anne asked.
“Some interesting possibilities,” Vince said evasively.
“What case?” Franny asked. “Peter Crane?”
Franny was obsessed with the prospect of the Crane trial. The idea that his dentist—the person he allowed to put his hands in his mouth, for God’s sake!—was a serial killer. And that Crane had abducted and hurt Anne made him all the more rabid on the subject.
“Somebody murdered Marissa Fordham, the artist,” Anne said.
“What?”
“Marissa Fordham,” Anne said again. “She did that beautiful poster for the Thomas Center.”
“Oh my God!”
“Did you know her?” Vince asked.
“I’ve met her a few times at social events. She just brought her little girl to school for the pre-kindergarten Halloween party. I liked her. She’s a cool lady. We talked about her coming in for a visiting artist day. What happened?”
“She was found dead this morning,” Vince said, giving no details away. “We’re trying to find out who her friends were in the hopes they might be able to turn the investigation in the right direction.”
“People aren’t supposed to get murdered here,” Franny said, getting angry. “Do we really have to go through this again? This is unbelievable!”
“People who kill other people don’t tend to stop and think how it’s going to impact the community,” Vince said. “They don’t stop in the heat of the moment and think Oh my God, there were all those murders here last year. Maybe I should wait.”
Franny ignored the edge of sarcasm in Vince’s voice. His mind was racing to try to make some kind of sense of a senseless act. “Was it a robbery or something?”
“No.”
“Oh my God. Someone just went to her home and killed her? At random?”
“We don’t think it was random,” Vince said. “In fact, I would say it was very personal with a lot of rage behind it. She managed to piss someone off to the point of no return.
“I remember you once telling me you know everybody worth knowing in Oak Knoll, Franny,” he said. “You run in some artsy circles. Have you ever heard anything negative about her?”
Franny looked uncomfortable. Vince sharpened his stare a little.
“She was single, independent, talented, and gorgeous,” Franny said. “A lot of not-single, not-independent, not-talented, not-gorgeous women are threatened by that. Surprise, surprise.”
“Women worried about someone stealing their husbands.”
Franny rolled his eyes. “Like anyone would want them.”
“Does anyone in particular jump to mind?”
“No, no. I’ve heard the odd catty remark, that’s all. She’s a sexy single mom—she must be a slut. That kind of thing. It’s 1986, for God’s sake,” he said. “Single women have children. Hello: The scarlet letter went out with the poodle skirt.
“What about her daughter?” he asked. “Where is she?”
“In the hospital,” Vince said. “Unconscious, the last I heard.”
That was the final straw for Franny. Color slashed across his pale cheeks and his eyes all but disappeared behind an angry brows-down squint.
“When you find who did it,” he said, “do the world a favor and just shoot him.”
“If only life was that simple,” Vince said.
“It should be,” Franny declared. “Bad people off the planet! Now! More wine for the rest of us!”
He raised his glass in a toast and tossed back the last of his cabernet.
16
Sara walked around her sculpture, trying to concentrate, trying to focus and see the direction she needed to go. Nothing came.
She had a vision a week ago, when she started the project. It
was supposed to be about strength and femininity. The metal—the strength—would bend but not break. From the wounded heart would flow feminine beauty in the form of hand-painted silk ribbons.
But as she looked at the piece now, she saw nothing but a mess of twisted wire and steel mesh. Car Wreck on a Stick. That was what it looked like.
Anxiety swirled through her. Fragments of the morning kept flashing through her mind like a strobe light. Detective Mendez, grim faced, mustache framing his downturned mouth. Marissa’s house. The ruined studio. The ruined art.
“Ms. Fordham is deceased.”
Oh my God.
“Ms. Fordham is deceased.”
“Oh my God,” she whispered, trembling.
In her mind’s eye she could see Marissa walking, talking. She used her hands when she spoke as if she were trying to draw a picture to illustrate her point. Vibrant. Animated. Full of life.
“Ms. Fordham is deceased.”
She felt nauseous.
She reached out and tried to adjust a piece of the wire mesh, and nicked the tip of a finger. A droplet of blood rounded bright red like the sudden bloom of a flower on a cactus, then rolled off her fingertip to splash like a tear on the heavy canvas drop cloth that covered the garage floor.
They had converted the space above the garage into a studio for her some months ago. But it was no place for a sculpture as tall as this was, made from steel and requiring welding. She had commandeered this far stall of their three-car garage for the project.
Her studio upstairs was a beautifully lit space with plenty of room for painting and crafts projects, and working with the silk, her latest passion. Although in empty moments when her head wasn’t full of whatever she was working on, she could never escape the thought that the studio was her consolation prize. It was her payment for not divorcing Steve.
He had been cheating on her with Lisa Warwick, a nurse who had volunteered her time to advocate in family court for women from the Thomas Center. Just as Steve devoted hours and hours of his time—their time—to the same cause.
Sara had suspected for a long time, but had never had the courage to confront him. If she had confronted him, she would have then had to confront the reality of the next step. Did they go to counseling? Did she just divorce him? Could she ever trust him again?