“She’s got a long road ahead of her, and it’s all uphill. I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head as she took her seat behind the desk. “She’s had two surgeries now to try to repair the damage to her inner ears, without much success. She’ll never see again. She can talk to us, but all we can do is answer her by writing on the palm of her hand with a finger.
“She’s extremely depressed, and who can blame her? She can’t even testify against the man who kidnapped and tortured her—if he ever goes on trial for those crimes—because she can’t identify him. She asked us if we knew who he was. Either she never saw him, or he drugged her and she can’t remember, or she was too traumatized to remember.”
“It’s frustrating for us too,” Mendez said. “We still have no idea where he held the women. If we could find a location and link it to Peter Crane, we’d be in business.”
“He’ll go away for a long time for what he did to Anne Leone,” Hicks said. “That’s something anyway. I don’t see how he gets out for twenty-five years. Maybe more.”
“I hope so,” Jane Thomas said. “But I don’t think you gentlemen have come here to talk about Peter Crane, have you?”
“No, ma’am,” Mendez said.
“Cal came by earlier and told me about Marissa. I don’t even know what to say. How can something like that happen? It’s a nightmare.”
“Did you know Ms. Fordham well?” Hicks asked.
“I’ve known Marissa socially since she moved here. Her daughter was just a baby then. She did that remarkable poster for us,” she said, pointing to a two-feet-by-three-feet framed print on one wall of her office.
The poster depicted the Thomas Center logo—a stylized woman with her arms raised in victory—against a rich backdrop of magenta and purple, lavender and pink.
“We’ve raised a lot of money selling the prints,” she said.
“Were you friends?” Mendez asked.
“We were friendly. Milo Bordain, who sponsors her, is also a big supporter of the center. We would see each other at dinners and so on. I have a couple of Marissa’s paintings at my house. She did some wonderful work in the plein air style.”
“Do you know anything about her private life?” Mendez asked.
“Not really. She volunteered some time here as a guest teacher in our art therapy program. She came to fund-raisers. I saw her at gallery parties.”
“You didn’t know her daughter’s father?”
“No. I never heard her speak of him.”
“Did you ever see her in the company of a man?”
“At functions from time to time. I saw her with Mark Foster a couple of times. I saw her with Don Quinn a couple of times.”
“Don Quinn from Quinn, Morgan?” Mendez asked. Quinn, Morgan and Associates was a local law firm that did a lot of pro bono work for the center. The Morgan of Quinn, Morgan was Steve Morgan, Sara Morgan’s husband.
“Who is Mark Foster?” Hicks asked, taking notes.
“Mark Foster is the head of the music department at McAster,” she said. “But I didn’t get the impression Marissa was serious about anyone. They looked like casual dates. You know, Guest Plus One. She was fun. She liked to laugh. She was a very devoted mother.
“Milo would be able to help you more than I can,” she said. She flipped through her Rolodex for Bordain’s address and jotted it down on a piece of paper, then handed it across the desk. “She’ll be devastated. Marissa was like the daughter she never had.”
Mendez took the piece of paper and tucked it inside his little notebook as he rose from his chair. “We’ll speak to her. Thank you for your time.”
As they started toward the door, Jane Thomas asked, “Marissa’s daughter—have you heard anything? Will she be all right?”
She held up a hand before Mendez could draw a breath to answer. “What am I thinking? She witnessed her mother’s murder. What could be all right after that?”
14
Don Quinn was a good-looking guy in his late fifties—tan, a mane of silver hair, chiseled features, wide white smile. He could have been an actor on one of the prime-time soaps. He could have been the roving guest star who appeared one night as a deadly doctor on Murder, She Wrote, and as an oil tycoon days later on Dynasty.
Here in Oak Knoll he played the role of senior partner of a successful law firm.
The John Forsythe smile dropped away when Mendez told him why they were in his office.
“Oh my God,” he said, sinking down into his leather executive’s desk chair. He aged suddenly as the tan seemingly drained from his face.
“We understand you sometimes saw Ms. Fordham socially,” Hicks began.
Quinn didn’t respond for several moments as he tried to absorb the shock of the news.
“No offense intended, Mr. Quinn,” Mendez said, “but you seem considerably older than Ms. Fordham.”
Though he clearly didn’t want anyone to think of him as “older,” Mendez thought. The man was in great shape, dressed in a black T-shirt under his tan sport coat. Probably the only reason he didn’t dye his hair was that it made such a striking contrast to his tan.
Quinn shook off whatever memories had been playing through his mind. “Marissa and I have gone out a few times. Not lately. She was a lovely young woman. Interesting, vivacious. Is there some reason I shouldn’t have enjoyed her company?”
“Your wife, maybe?” Mendez said, shooting a pointed look to a framed family photo on the bookshelves behind Don Quinn. Quinn, Mrs. Quinn—a slightly plump woman his own age, and two good-looking kids—a boy and a girl in their late teens or early twenties. The trendy Quinns posed on a sandy beach, all of them in khaki pants and French blue turtlenecks.
“I’m divorced,” Quinn said. “Was it a robbery?”
“No.”
“Oh my God. Someone murdered her? Why?”
“We were hoping you might be able to shed some light on that subject for us,” Hicks said. “When did you last see her?”
“I saw her at fund-raiser for local school music programs back in September.”
“You were together?”
“No. She was with Mark Foster. Marissa and I were friends. We dated off and on. It wasn’t serious.”
“Do you know if she was serious with Mr. Foster?”
“No,” Quinn said dismissively. “Marissa enjoyed the company of men. She was a delightful date. But she only let you get just so close and no closer. I always imagined she’d been hurt badly by someone—presumably Haley’s father.
“Haley!” he said, realization dawning. “Oh my God. Where is Haley? Was she ... ?”
“She was taken to the hospital,” Hicks said. “We don’t know the extent of injuries at this point.”
“Oh, no. That just makes me feel sick.”
“So Marissa and Mark Foster were dating?” Mendez asked, steering them back on point.
“They were friends.”
“Like you were friends?” Hicks asked.
“Not exactly. Mark occasionally needs a date for a function. Marissa was happy to step in.”
“I don’t understand,” Mendez said.
“I don’t think Mark really dates women,” Quinn said.
“He’s gay?”
He shrugged. “In the closet. That’s my impression. He’s a nice guy. It’s nobody’s business.”
“But there might be some members on the board of McAster who wouldn’t be happy.”
“It may be a liberal arts school, but not everyone on the board takes that word ‘liberal’ to heart,” Quinn said. “You know, it wasn’t five months ago the Supreme Court ruled homosexual activity between consenting adults in the privacy of a home is not protected by the Constitution. Men like Mark have to be discreet. I think Marissa was his beard.”