Tami Hoag - Secrets to the Grave

“That news could hurt Darren’s political future,” Dixon said.

Milo Bordain laughed. “If I told you how many very powerful political figures in this state have a love child or two on the side, you would be embarrassed at your naïveté, Cal.”

“But how many have gay lovers?” Mendez asked.

For once, she spoke directly to him. Now the claws came out. “My son is not gay,” she snapped, “and if you persist in this line of investigation, my husband and I will sue you personally and the sheriff’s office for slander and defamation of character.”

“You would rather believe that Darren murdered Marissa than that he prefers male company?”

“Darren didn’t murder Marissa. He had no reason to. Marissa had no reason to blackmail anyone. She was very well taken care of.”

“I heard she was getting tired of being controlled by you,” Mendez said. “That maybe she was over being the daughter you never had.”

“That’s nonsense. Marissa was an artist. Artists have their fits. She may not have always appreciated my guidance, but she certainly appreciated the results,” she said. “I introduced her to all the right people, exposed her work to an audience she would never have had access to on her own.”

“And rubbed her face in it every chance you got, I’m sure,” Mendez said.

Milo Bordain looked at Dixon, irritated. “Why do you continue to allow him to upset me, Cal?”

“That’s his job.”

His answer didn’t please her. She should have been the queen of something, Mendez thought. Back in the day when monarchs could order people’s heads cut off—like Marissa Fordham’s.

“Maybe you were the one who got tired of her,” he suggested. “She was rebellious. She didn’t show proper appreciation for all you did for her. She knew all the Bordain secrets.”

“That’s absurd!” she said, tears springing to her eyes. She turned to Dixon. “I loved Marissa!”

“Not enough to let her marry your son,” Mendez pressed.

“Marissa had no interest in getting married! She had her art, she had Haley. She was happy with her life! I’m devastated by what happened to her!” she went on. “I don’t know who killed her, but it certainly wasn’t me or my husband or my son!

“Are you forgetting that I’ve been threatened too?” she asked. “Someone sent me that—that— box in the mail! Someone tried to run me off the road! What are you doing about that? Anything?”

“We’ll pursue it if we get a lead,” Dixon said. “There’s nothing we can do right now.”

“You’ll do something when I’m dead on the floor,” she snapped. “That’s a great comfort to me! And I heard that Kemmer girl was found not far from here. This killer is lurking out here and you’re wasting precious time accusing people who had no reason to be involved—”

Mendez’s pager interrupted the tirade. He excused himself and went back to the car to radio in. When he got the message, he ran back, dismissing Milo Bordain from his mind.

“We have to go,” he said to Dixon. “Gina Kemmer is conscious.”

91

“She’s drifting in and out,” Hicks said as they met at the elevators near the ICU. “She fights for it, she’s with it for a few seconds, and then she goes back under.”

“Has she said anything?” Dixon asked.

“Not that makes any sense. She mumbles when she’s out. Stuff like ‘stop it, go away, leave me alone.’”

“I wonder who she’s talking to?” Mendez asked. “Her assailant? She hasn’t mentioned a name?”

“No.”

“Is her family here?” Dixon asked.

“They left to go have lunch.”

She looked like hell. The rat bites had scabbed over and the bruises were in full bloom. Somehow Mendez figured she would have thought she looked pretty good compared to the alternative. She should have been dead. The shot that had been meant to kill her had passed through her shoulder doing the least amount of damage possible. She had been plucky enough to survive on garbage and tenacious enough to get herself up a ladder with only two good limbs.

Vince was sitting beside her, waiting. He had done most of the talking the day they had interviewed her. His voice was strong and distinctive. If Gina was going to connect with any of them, it would be with him.

“How’s Anne?” Dixon asked.

“Sore, tired, upset,” he said.

“That kid’s just bad,” Mendez said. “My mother would say he’s the son of the devil.”

“I don’t think even the devil would claim him,” Vince said. “Twelve years old and he’s done. He’s broken. What are we supposed to do with him?”

“Lock him up and throw away the key,” Dixon said. “How’s the little girl? She was there.”

“Seeing Dennis trying to stab Anne scared her pretty badly. On the upside for us, it seemed to shake loose some memories. Still no name for the killer, but she’s closer to having access to it in her mind—if it’s in there.”

Gina Kemmer stirred and mumbled, “Knock it off.”

Vince leaned closer to her. “Are you talking to us, Gina? It’s Vince Leone. Do you remember me? I came to your house a couple of days ago.”

Kemmer stirred and whimpered.

“Can you open your eyes and talk to us, Gina?”

“No,” she said, her voice small and weak.

“Sure you can,” Vince said. “You crawled out of a well with one arm and one leg. If you can do that, you can open your eyes and talk to us. Come on. You can do it. You have to fight for it, Gina.”

“No, Ma-ris-sa. Stop.”

Vince bobbed his eyebrows. “Is my voice getting higher?”

Mendez laughed. “If she thinks you’re Marissa, she must be hallucinating.”

“Hey, you’ve never seen me in a skirt.”

“Ay, yi, yi, I could go blind just thinking about that,” Mendez said.

“Come on, Gina,” Vince said. “You’re missing all the fun here. Open your eyes and talk to us.”

Mendez thought he could see her struggling to follow Vince’s instructions. Her brow knitted. A frown curved her mouth.

“Thatta girl,” Vince said. “You’re almost with us, Gina. Come on.”

She lifted her eyelids as if they weighed a hundred pounds apiece.

“Hey, there she is!” Vince said. “These are a bunch of ugly mugs to wake up to, huh?”

She parted her lips as if they had been stuck together. Mendez took a glass of water from the bed table and slipped the straw between her lips. She drew on it enough to get a little bit of moisture.

“You’ve had a rough few days,” Vince said. “Do you remember?”

She nodded slightly.

“Do you remember that someone shot you, Gina?”

She nodded again. Just that much effort was wearing her out. Her respiration had picked up a beat and seemed a bit labored.

“Do you remember who that was, Gina?” Vince asked.

She nodded again, then visibly worked at gathering her energy to say the name.

“Mark.”

92

Sundays in Oak Knoll were days for music. A concert by the McAster Chorale, chamber music on the Plaza downtown, a student playing the Spanish guitar in the bookstore.

Mark Foster had gathered his honors brass quintet at the old Episcopalian church for a special preview of the upcoming winter festival.

The pews were nearly full. Cultural activities were always well attended in Oak Knoll. Between the academic community of McAster and the large population of white-collar retirees, no performance of any kind went lacking for an audience.

The quintet was in the middle of “Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming” when Hicks and Mendez walked into the back of the church with a pair of uniformed deputies. The deputies made their way up the outside aisles. Mendez and Hicks walked up the center aisle and stood politely, waiting for the song to end.