Secrets to the Grave (49 page)

“Marissa’s blood, not mine.”

“Marissa’s blood—AB-positive. Lots of it. But also a little A-negative,” he lied. “She must have scratched you, or you cut yourself. Knives get slippery when they’re covered in blood.”

“This is ludicrous!” Bordain shouted up at the ceiling, throwing his arms up. “I didn’t kill Marissa!”

“What’s that cut on your wrist?”

Bordain looked at his left wrist and quickly pulled the cuff of his shirt over it. “I—I—must have done that on the golf course.”

“They golf with knives now?” Mendez asked. “That might make it interesting enough to try.”

Bordain pushed his chair back and got up. “I’m done now. That’s it. I don’t have to talk to you. I’m free to go.”

He went to the door and turned the knob, but it didn’t open.

“It’s like I told you yesterday, Darren,” Mendez said. “Some of our guests are not as free to go as others.”

80

“Dennis. What are you doing here?” Anne asked.

How the hell had he gotten her address? Their phone number was unlisted. She had a P.O. box for an address on her business cards.

“How did you find me?” she asked.

“I asked your dad.”

“You went to my father’s house.”

Dennis nodded. “Uh-huh. He’s really old.”

“And he gave you my address?”

“Uh-huh.”

Anne’s gaze skated past Dennis to the sheriff’s radio car sitting parked at the sidewalk. The deputy was eating a sandwich, paying no attention. Why would he pay attention to a little boy in a baseball cap? His assignment here was to keep Anne and Haley safe from a murderer.

“I set the hospital on fire,” Dennis announced.

“I know. I heard about that,” Anne said calmly.

“It was really cool,” he said, his eyes lighting up in that glassy, unnatural way they did when he talked about killers and crimes. “This one guy came running out of his room and his arms were on fire! And he was screaming and shit. It was so cool! And then this oxygen tank exploded and
BAM
!! It went right through a wall and killed a lady!”

Anne’s blood ran cold at his obvious delight—not just in his attempt to shock her but in the actual details of what he had done. The burned man and the dead woman meant absolutely nothing to him except in terms of his own amusement.

“Why did you do that, Dennis?”

He shrugged, his hands tucked into the big pouch on the front of his too-big hooded sweatshirt. “’Cause I wanted to. ’Cause I was mad. You said you were gonna come yesterday, and you didn’t. You said you would bring me something cool, and you didn’t.”

“I called to say I couldn’t make it, Dennis.”

“No, you didn’t,” he said, getting angry. “You never called. You don’t care about me. You’re such a liar!”

“Dennis—”

“Shut up!” he shouted, his temper about to erupt. “You’re just a lying, fucking cunt and I hate you!”

Before Anne could react Dennis had pulled his hands out of his pockets and came at her swinging and screaming. She wasn’t aware of what he had clenched in his fists until she felt something sharp and pointed stick her in the breast. By the time it registered he had struck her twice more.

There was nothing she could grab to hit him with. She didn’t want to run backward into the house. If Dennis saw Wendy or Haley she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt either one of them.

She tried to grab at his arms as he swung at her, and his weapons cut her hands and forearms. She shouted at him, “Dennis! Stop it! Stop it!”

Wendy had heard the commotion and came running from the kitchen. As soon as she saw Dennis, she started screaming at the top of her lungs. And right on her heels came Haley.

“Wendy, run!” Anne shouted as Dennis struck her again. “Take Haley and run!”

Haley stood at the end of the hall, shrieking.

Oh my God
, Anne thought as she tried to fend off her attacker,
she’s seeing it happen all over again.

Dennis was in a frenzy. He was big for his age, and strong, and with strength of purpose he kept coming at her, shouting and swinging and pushing her backward into the house. They were now out of sight of the deputy parked at the curb.

“I fucking hate you!” Dennis yelled, bulldozing into her.

Anne’s feet tangled with his and then she was falling backward. The back of her head struck the floor so hard it bounced. Blackness rushed in from the outer edges of her vision.

Dennis Farman came down on top of her, one arm raised high, ready to plunge a blade into her chest.

81

“I did not kill Marissa,” Darren Bordain said.

Mendez got out of his chair. “Why don’t you have a seat for a little longer? I’ve got to step out and get a cup of coffee. Would you like one?”

Bordain looked at him like he had lost his mind completely. “Do I want a cup of coffee? No, I don’t want a fucking cup of coffee! No, I don’t want to sit down!”

Big sweat stains ringed the underarms of his blue oxford shirt with the neat little logo embroidered on the pocket: MEF.

“I’ll be right back,” Mendez said, unfazed.

He let himself out of the interview room and went across the hall to the break room where Dixon, Hicks, and Vince were watching the monitor.

Vince smacked him on the back. “Good job, Junior.”

“You’ve got him back on his heels,” Dixon said. “I can’t believe he hasn’t asked for a lawyer.”

“I think he wants to tell you something,” Vince said. “But he can’t quite do it.”

“If he confesses to killing her, then it’s out there,” Mendez said. “He can’t take it back.”

Vince went to the machine and rewound the tape. “Watch him when you ask about the nights in question. Watch what he does.”

Mendez stared hard at the monitor as the moments that had just happened unfolded again in front of him.

“Watch him here when you ask him about last night, if anyone saw him at home. Watch how he kind of closes his shoulders like he wants to wrap his arms around himself.”

“Protective?” Mendez said.

“And the same thing here when you press him about his alibis,” Vince said. “He’s hiding something.”

“The fact that he’s a murderer?” Hicks suggested.

“Press those points again,” Vince said. “See what he does.”

“Okay.”

Mendez poured two cups of coffee and went back across the hall.

“I brought you one anyway,” he said, setting the cups on the table. “It’s not half bad today. Someone brought Irish Cream beans in.”

Bordain had taken his seat and lit another cigarette. He ignored the coffee. His hands were still trembling.

“I did not kill Marissa,” he said again. “I had no reason to kill Marissa.”

“I’m thinking you got tired of her blackmailing you.”

“No one is blackmailing me.”

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” Mendez said. “You say you toyed with the idea of going out with her because it would wind your mother up like a top—but you get her pregnant and have a child out of wedlock and you keep that information to yourself—and the old lady would really blow a gasket over that.”

“It’s not ironic. It’s not true.”

“You can’t account for your whereabouts the night she was murdered. Your name is on her daughter’s birth certificate. And you’re sitting here in front of me sweating like a whore in church.”

“I was at Gina’s house the night Marissa was killed,” Bordain said.

“Gina, who is still conveniently in a coma.”

“I didn’t try to kill Gina.”

“Is that why you wanted to go into her room this afternoon? To say your last good-byes and accidentally pull a plug?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“She can’t help you, Mr. Bordain. By your own admission, you left her house and were home alone by eleven thirty.”

Bordain closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Mendez waited, watching his shoulders draw inward toward his chest, holding whatever it was inside.

“Darren,” Mendez said quietly, leaning across the table. “There’s nothing worse than murder. That’s the big enchilada. It doesn’t get worse than that. Whatever it is that you’re not telling me could not possibly be worse than that.”

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.