Secrets to the Grave ok-2

by Tami Hoag

  Sara nodded and glanced at Mendez. “I told him to leave. I told him to get out.”

  “You told Steve to get out?” Mendez said. “When did you do that?”

  “Last night. He never called in the morning to tell us what had happened. Wendy saw his car in the driveway, but he wasn’t home, and there was blood ... We didn’t know what to think. Wendy thought he’d been killed.”

  Mendez wanted to bang his head against the wall, feeling stupid and guilty. “Oh, Sara, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe he didn’t call you. I would have called you if I had known.”

  “It’s not your fault my husband is a bastard,” she said. “Just like it’s not my fault his mother was a prostitute.

  “Everything is somebody else’s fault where Steve is concerned. He didn’t used to be that way,” she said. “He’s changed so much in the last year and a half, I don’t even know who he is anymore.”

  “His behavior has changed?” Vince asked. “How?”

  “He used to be happy. He loved us being a family. We were his dream come true. And then he started working more hours and getting more wrapped up in his work for the women’s center, and he just started to change.

  “I know you thought he was having an affair with Lisa Warwick when she was killed. And then, of course, Peter Crane was arrested. Peter and Steve were friends. That was hard on him. He just seemed to withdraw more and communicate less.”

  “You and Marissa were friends, right?” Vince asked.

  Sara shook her head. “I knew who she was. I didn’t try to get to know her until last April or May.”

  “After you already believed Steve was involved with her?” Mendez asked.

  “Yes. I wanted to know ... If he was in love with her, I wanted to know why. Why her? Why not me?” she asked, the pain in her voice so raw, Mendez wanted to take her in his arms and hold her.

  Vince shifted his chair a little and leaned forward, still holding Sara’s hand, his knees now almost touching hers. She gave him her other hand, wanting the contact, needing to feel Vince’s strength.

  “It’s okay, Sara,” he whispered. “You hang on to me as tight as you need to, honey, all right?”

  She was almost doubled over from the emotional pain. Mendez left his chair and squatted down beside her so he could hear her. He braced a hand against the back of her chair. He wanted to reach up and wipe the tears from her cheek.

  “Steve wasn’t in Sacramento last Sunday,” she said. “I don’t know where he was. I told him last night that I knew he wasn’t where he said he was. And he got really angry, and he said to me, ‘Do you think I was with Marissa? Do you think I was stabbing her forty-seven times and cutting her throat?’”

  The hair went up on the back of Mendez’s neck. He and Vince locked eyes.

  “Is that exactly what he said to you, Sara?” Mendez asked.

  “Yes. He was trying to scare me. I didn’t even know who he was when he said those things.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I just wanted him gone,” she admitted. “I just wanted him to leave. And Wendy was so upset—”

  “Did Wendy hear him say that?” Vince asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what she heard. I thought she was upstairs in bed. Steve was shouting at me, and suddenly she came in the room and hit him and screamed at him that she hated him. It was awful. I just wanted him away from us.”

  “And he left?” Vince said.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know where he is now?” Mendez asked.

  “I don’t know. He could be at work. He probably is. It’s raining. He can’t golf.”

  Mendez got up and left the interview room, going across the hall to the break room where Dixon and Hicks stood watching the closed-circuit television showing the interview.

  “Has that information been leaked to the press?” he asked. “The number of stab wounds?”

  “Not officially,” Dixon said. “Multiple stab wounds is all we’ve released. If the press has a number, they might have gotten it from the morgue.”

  “I can’t believe whoever did that to Marissa Fordham would have counted the number of times he stabbed her,” Hicks said. “He was in a rage, a frenzy.”

  “I know,” Mendez said. “But forty-seven? That’s pretty damn close to right. We can’t discount that out of hand just because it seems unlikely. What do we know? Maybe that’s a significant number to him for whatever reason. We need to talk to him.”

  “He’s not going to come in voluntarily,” Dixon said. “We’ve got no evidence of anything, Tony. Remember evidence? It’s what we use to prove guilt in a court of law. If we try to bring him in for an official questioning now and he lawyers up—which he’ll do because, hello, he’s a lawyer—we’re fucked.”

  “He could be a killer.”

  “You’re not going near him,” Dixon said calmly.

  “No, because I would fucking kill him for what he’s putting her through,” he said honestly, pointing at Sara on the monitor.

  “We need to get him to talk to Vince,” Dixon said. “And you need to calm down.”

  61

  “Bill,” Dixon said, “would you give us a minute?”

  “Sure, Boss.” Hicks raised his brows at Mendez as he exited the room, leaving the two of them alone.

  Dixon looked at him hard with the laser blue eyes. “Are you sleeping with Sara Morgan?”

  “No!” Mendez said, sure he probably looked more guilty than offended.

  “Because I’m watching your body language with her, and I’m seeing ownership there.”

  “Vince is holding her hands!”

  “I’m not worried about Vince. I’m worried about you,” Dixon said. “He’s giving her the Uncle Vince treatment. You busted her husband’s face yesterday—and don’t give me that ‘he hit me first’ bullshit. He may have hit you first, but you hit him to hurt him. I don’t like that, Tony.”

  There wasn’t much he could say to that. He looked down at the floor. Dixon waited with the patience of a man who had interviewed a few hundred criminals in his time.

  “I feel bad for her,” Mendez confessed. “She’s a beautiful, talented, intelligent woman. She doesn’t deserve to be treated the way he’s treated her.”

  “And you’re the white knight riding to her rescue.”

  Mendez said nothing.

  “That’s admirable, Tony,” Dixon said. “I mean that. You’re a good guy. Any mother would be proud to have you for a son. But you’re walking a fine line here. If it pans out that we like Steve Morgan for this murder, I can’t have one single solitary drop of impropriety muddy the waters.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dixon studied him for long enough that he wanted to move away from his boss’s scrutiny, but he held his ground like a good marine.

  “I’m not trying to be a hard-ass here, Tony,” Dixon said. “But I want you to remember two things. First, you’re a detective and you’ve got a murder to close. Second, Sara Morgan is vulnerable right now. She’s going to go for the first safe port in the storm. Don’t jeopardize your case or your career just to get your heart broken.”

  Mendez worked the muscles in his wide jaw, embarrassed at the whole conversation. Jesus. He felt like a high school kid getting dressed down by some girl’s father for trying to unhook her bra in the movie theater.

  “No, sir,” he said.

  Dixon, sitting on the break room table with his arms crossed over his chest, looked completely unconvinced.

  “You’re not to be alone with her,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The sheriff heaved a sigh. “Darren Bordain is waiting for you in two. I want you to take a few minutes and get your head where it needs to be, then you and Bill go have a talk with him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dixon gave him a fatherly pat on the shoulder as he left the room. Hicks came back in with a Snickers bar from the vending machine down the hall and the same raised-brow expression he
had left the room with.

  They both sat down on the table and stared at the television monitor. Vince was still talking with Sara, asking her questions about Marissa Fordham.

  “Did Marissa ever hint or let on to you that she and Steve might be involved?”

  “No. She was never anything but friendly and kind. It’s hard to describe Marissa. There was always this feeling of openness about her, and yet, you knew there was something more going on deeper down. I’m sure that doesn’t make sense.”

  “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.”