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.”
Bordain didn’t answer. He apparently would have rather gone to prison as a murderer than admit it.
“You’re wearing his shirt,” Mendez pointed out.
“Am I?” Bordain said. He was rattled, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. “The laundry must have made a mistake.”
“Did Marissa know?”
“We never had a conversation about laundry services.”
“Did she think keeping the secret of your sexual orientation might be worth some cash?”
Darren Bordain was the only heir to Bruce Bordain’s fortune, and Milo Bordain’s only hope for a grandchild. He was being groomed for a big political career in a party that would never embrace a gay candidate. The scandal would be huge—worth killing over.
But Darren Bordain had kept that secret for a very long time, and he wasn’t going to give it up now.
“Do you really want us digging into this?” Mendez asked. “Tell me the truth now and it doesn’t have to go any farther than this room.”
Bordain laughed at that. “Right.”
“You’d rather we start digging around, asking your friends ... your enemies?”
“I don’t need an alibi,” Bordain said, pulling his composure completely back in place. “I never slept with Marissa, nor did I kill her. And since I know you can have no evidence of me having committed a crime because I have not committed a crime, I’ll be leaving now or calling my attorney. The choice is up to you.”
Mendez sighed. They had nothing to hold him on. If he called an attorney there would be no chance at any further conversation with him. Damn. He’d had Bordain on the ropes there for a minute. He wanted more time.
Mendez sighed and tapped the file folder against the table again. He still had Bordain’s name on Haley Fordham’s birth certificate.
“Am I supposed to believe there’s another Darren Bruce Bordain walking around Southern California?” he asked.
“Actually, yes,” Bordain said. “Yes, there is. He’s my father.”
82
Anne got her arm up in time to block him and swung her other arm in from the side to try to hit Dennis in the head. But that wide swing left her right shoulder vulnerable and he was quick enough to stick his weapon into the hollow of her shoulder all the way to the hilt.
This was incredible. She was down. He had the complete advantage over her. He was striking her, stabbing her with two different weapons. She was going to be killed in the hallway of her own home by a twelve-year-old boy she had only ever wanted to help.
And somewhere behind her a four-year-old child was witnessing her second murder in less than a week.
She could hear Haley’s hysterical screams.
Where had Wendy gone? Had she run out the back door to go get the deputy who was sitting in his car curbside eating a baloney sandwich, oblivious to what was happening in the house he was supposed to be guarding?
Above her, sitting on her stomach, Dennis was still raging. His eyes bugged out of his head. His face was so red she couldn’t see his freckles. His mouth tore open, a gaping maw with a wild animal sound pouring up out of some terrible part of his soul.
The scent of urine was strong. All control gone, he had wet his pants in the frenzy.
As he raised an arm to stab her again, Anne tried to twist her hips beneath him to throw him off.
“STOP IT!! STOP IT!! STOP IT!!” Wendy screamed.
Suddenly Dennis Farman’s head snapped to the side and blood spewed from his mouth and cheek all over the wall.
“STOP IT!! STOP IT!!”
Wendy, wielding a poker from the fireplace in the family room, struck at him again, hitting him on the shoulder, and once more, hitting him in the side.
Dennis fell sideways and over, dazed.
The deputy called from out on the lawn. “Mrs. Leone? Is everything all right in there?”
No, Anne thought as she lay there on the floor, cut and bleeding. Everything was not all right.
Nothing was right at all.
83
Darren Bruce Bordain.
The name had been in the family for generations, alternating generations using the first name Darren or the second name Bruce as the name they went by.
Mendez got up and left the room again, going across the hall, where his audience of three were all looking as stunned as Mendez felt.
“What the hell do we do now?” he asked.
“We’re supposed to believe Bruce Bordain is Haley’s father?” Hicks asked.
“Thinks he is,” Vince corrected him.
“And Darren Bordain is so afraid of being outed that he’d rather go to jail as a murder suspect,” Mendez said.
“He knows he isn’t going to jail. He’s too damn smart to fall for that,” Dixon complained. “And now we know the whole damn family had a motive to want Marissa Fordham dead. What a freaking nightmare.”
“Your cup runneth over, Cal,” Vince said. “Daddy Bordain Senior fathered her child and she blackmailed him. Bordain Junior fathered her child and she blackmailed him. Or Junior is light in the loafers and she knew it and she blackmailed him. I don’t know which motive I like better.”
“No matter which one we go after, the press will smell a story like stink on shit and the Bordains will have my head on a platter,” Dixon said.
“Press the gay angle first,” Vince suggested. “The Bordains will circle the wagons around their own. Mark Foster is an outsider.”
Dixon nodded. “Bill, go pick up Mark Foster and bring him in.”