Tami Hoag - Secrets to the Grave

“You can’t have it both ways—so to speak,” Mendez said dryly. “Either Darren fathered this woman’s child, got tired of the blackmail and killed her, or he couldn’t have killed her because he was in bed with his boyfriend. Which is it, Mr. Bordain? Which of those is the lesser of evils for you?”

“You could both take a paternity test,” Dixon said. “Then there’s no question who did what to whom.”

“Last I knew we had an amendment to the Constitution protecting us against self-incrimination,” Bordain said.

He stood up again. This time he really meant it. “We’re through here. If you want to speak about this further, Cal, call my attorney. He’s in the phone book under ‘Fuck You.’”

88

“If Bruce Bordain did it—or had it done,” Hicks said, “why would he turn around and send the breasts to his wife? Or try to run her off the road?”

“To make it look like someone has it in for the family,” Campbell said.

“But it looks like someone just has it in for the wife,” Trammell pointed out.

They helped themselves to doughnuts if for no other reason than to perpetuate the stereotype. The war room smelled like grease and coffee.

“My money here is still on Darren,” Mendez said. “Unless Mark Foster steps up, he’s got no alibi. And even if Foster comes forward, it’s like he said himself last night: ‘So what?’ That’s like uncorroborated accomplice testimony. It’s useless. Why wouldn’t his lover lie for him? Isn’t that part of the job description?”

“And your mother wonders why you’re single,” Campbell said.

“Well, come on,” Mendez said. “Really. Wouldn’t you rather have people think maybe you bat from the other side of the plate than have them suspect you of murder? You go to prison for murder.”

“A pretty boy like Bordain goes to the can he’ll find out all about being a good boyfriend,” Trammell said.

“Say he thinks he’s Haley’s father—or he finds out that’s been a hoax all along—either way,” Mendez went on. “He kills her and makes it look like some lunatic did it. He sends the breasts to Mom for good measure. Then he tells everybody he couldn’t have done it by admitting to something that’s so scandalous no one would ever think he was lying about it.”

“Right,” Dixon said. “And who believes Milo Bordain knows about all of this and is just blithely writing the blackmail checks while treating Marissa Fordham like her long-lost daughter?”

Hamilton issued a low whistle. “These people would make Shakespeare’s head spin.”

“Tony,” Dixon said. “You and Bill go up to Lompoc with that photo array and add a shot of Bruce Bordain. If one of them sent that box, there’s our killer.”

“That’s a great plan, boss,” Hicks said. “Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s Sunday.”

“Shit. How did that happen?” Dixon scowled.

“What about Gina Kemmer?” Trammell asked.

“No change in her status,” Hicks said. “The doctors aren’t very hopeful.”

“Then we don’t have a choice. We need to speak with Milo Bordain.”

“The problem with that is going to be that Milo Bordain isn’t going to want to speak with us,” Mendez said. “There’s no way her husband will allow it.”

“She’ll do it if she thinks she can move everyone around the chessboard the way she wants them,” Dixon said. “I’m going to offer her the opportunity to set us straight. I think she won’t be able to resist.”

“Good luck, Boss,” Mendez said. “Just one question: Are you up-to-date on your tetanus shots?”

“I’m fine. What about you?” Dixon asked, heading toward the door. “You’re coming with me.”

89

Gina, you have to wake up.

Why?

You have to wake up so you can tell the story.

But this is so nice. It’s like sleeping, only better.

You can’t just stay this way. All your muscles will atrophy and your body will feed on itself until you look like a petrified cadaver.

Gross.

And you know your mouth is hanging open, don’t you? You’re drooling.

You’re such a bitch, M.

I love you too.

Gina’s mouth began working first, opening and trying to close. So dry. Parched. She needed a drink. No one noticed. The nurses were busy. One had checked on her not that long ago. They wouldn’t look in on her for another fifteen or twenty minutes unless one of her monitors went off.

That was all right. She was already tired from the effort of moving her mouth. She would rest awhile and try again later.

Open your eyes, G.

What? I’m trying to rest. Go away.

You’re done resting. You have to open your eyes.

They’re stuck shut.

You have to open your eyes. There’s so much for you to see.

Like what?

You’ll see.

See what?

You’ll see when you open your eyes.

You’re so annoying.

Her eyelids weighed a thousand pounds. Gina tried to lift them. They were like stone weights. Maybe they had coins on them. She had seen that in an old Western movie—when someone was dead, the undertaker put coins on the corpse’s eyelids to keep them shut.

Maybe she was dead after all.

But if she was dead, how could her heart start beating faster? It wouldn’t beat at all.

She must not be dead.

She tried harder to open her eyes. A little wedge of blurred colors appeared. But that was the best she could do for now. She would try again later.

Promise me, G.

I promise, M.

90

The weather system that had settled rain and fog over the area for the last several days had moved out, leaving the air crystal clean and the sky a sparkling, brilliant blue. The drive out to the Bordain ranch was like being in a video for a luxury car—except that they were in the usual ordinary Ford from the SO fleet of unmarked units.

This road, lined with spreading oak trees and white board fences, was where Bordain Motor Cars shot their commercials for the Mercedes dealership: a beautiful silver sedan slinking around the curves of the road, Darren Bordain leaning against the white board fence looking elegant and wealthy, telling all viewers they deserved a Mercedes.

The Bordains’ shaggy red imported cattle grazed in the emerald green grass along the edge of the blue reservoir. As Mendez turned in at the gate and they rolled down the driveway, exotic-looking chickens of all colors with fantastic plumes atop their heads clucked and squawked as they pecked at the ground beneath the lush pepper trees.

Milo Bordain, in a huge straw hat and loose gardening clothes, was tending her roses, looking calm and relaxed. Not what Mendez had expected from her, considering the circumstances. She barely looked up at them from her work.

“Of course I knew all about it,” she said, snipping the huge wilted head of a salmon-colored rose from its stem. “I’m not a fool, Cal. I know how the world works. I know men.”

“And you were fine paying blackmail to Marissa Fordham?”

“I never considered it blackmail. I considered it an investment. It wasn’t as if Marissa didn’t have something to contribute to the world. She was an amazing artist.”

“Who happened to have your son’s illegitimate child,” Mendez said.

She glanced at him like he was an annoying horsefly buzzing around her.

“I’ve told you Haley is like a grandchild to me.”

“Because she is your grandchild.”

“Now that her birth certificate has surfaced, I’ve already spoken with our attorney about beginning adoption proceedings. The records will remained sealed, of course. It isn’t necessary for the entire world to know the circumstances of Haley’s birth.”