photos was not that. Marissa and Haley had been his adopted family. There was nothing sexual or sinister about it.
He went into the small spotless bathroom but did not find Zander Zahn hanging from the shower curtain rod.
The three men split up then, each going through a different part of the house searching for its owner.
“He’s not here,” Mendez said as they met up in the foyer. “But you need to see something.”
He led the way down a hall crowded with coatracks to a room at the back of the house. The room was lined with shelves and crowded with tables, and every available inch of space on those shelves and tables, and every bit of wall space, was occupied by prosthetic human body parts.
There were arms with hooks for hands, arms with plastic hands; whole legs, lower legs; hands, feet, and women’s breasts.
One entire bookcase was filled with prosthetic female breasts of every size and description.
“Try to tell me this isn’t creepy,” Mendez said.
Vince looked around the room at all the spare body parts, wondering where Zahn had come by them and why he had felt compelled to bring them home.
“Look on the bright side, kid,” he said. “At least they’re not real.”
56
“He owns a car, which Nasser says he rarely drives,” Mendez said. “The car is sitting in the garage. There was no sign of Zahn in the house.”
They sat in the break room where a television monitor was showing Detective Trammell interviewing Bob Copetti, a local architect who had gone out with Marissa Fordham from time to time. The sound was turned down to a mumble. Copetti’s alibi for the night of Marissa’s murder had checked out.
“Anything to suggest foul play?” Dixon asked.
“No.”
“He couldn’t have gone somewhere with a friend?”
“He doesn’t have friends.”
“He goes for a walk in the hills every morning,” Vince said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Something could have happened to him on a trail.”
“It’s pouring rain,” Dixon pointed out.
“Every day, no exceptions. He’s an obsessive-compulsive creature of habit,” Vince said, stirring a mega-dose of cream into his drink. “The fact that he isn’t where he’s supposed to be is a major red flag.”
“Do you think he could have Gina Kemmer stashed somewhere?” Dixon asked.
“That seems unlikely to me,” he said, taking a seat across the table from the sheriff. “He had a close connection to Marissa. There’s a possibility he could have snapped and killed her while in a dissociative state. If Gina had been there at the scene, he might have gone after her in a continuation of the same episode, but he wouldn’t have gone after her later. I would make book on that.
“If Zander Zahn is a killer, the murder was spontaneous and situational,” he said, “and there’d be a better than even chance he doesn’t remember the crime at all. He wouldn’t consciously go looking to commit another murder.”
“I’m not sure then what it is we’re supposed to do, Vince.”
“I’m concerned for Zahn’s mental state. He went over the edge yesterday. Now he’s missing. I don’t know that he wouldn’t hurt himself.”
“And you feel responsible for that.”
“Yeah, I do,” he confessed.
Dixon nodded. “If there’s a chance he’s lost in the hills out there, then we send out the Search and Rescue team.”
“Do you still have the chopper up looking for Gina Kemmer’s car?” Mendez asked.
“They’ll go back up when the weather subsides. The radar shows there should be a break around noon.”
“Is that thing equipped with a thermographic camera?” Vince asked.
Mendez had read about thermographic technology. The military already had it. Thermal-imaging cameras could read the infrared radiation emitted by all objects, making warmer objects—such as humans—stand out against cooler backgrounds—like the ground. For law enforcement it would mean being able to locate a human on the ground in circumstances where the person may not be visible to the naked eye—at night for instance.
Dixon barked a laugh. “Are you high? You spent too many years working for the federal government.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“That would eat a big chunk out of my budget for a year!” Dixon said. “I’m excited we’re getting a fax machine. I’ve got a Search and Rescue team with a German shepherd. That’s the best I can do.”
Vince held up his hands in surrender. “I get it.”
The sheriff took a swig of his coffee. “What’s going on with our littlest witness?”
“The memories are there,” Vince said. “She’s having nightmares. But she hasn’t named a name. She talks about the bad monster and Bad Daddy. Bad Daddy was chasing Mommy. Bad Daddy hurt Mommy. The trouble is she asks every man she sees if he’s the daddy. Because she doesn’t have a father in her life, she’s preoccupied with the idea.”
“What if we put together a photo array of the men her mother dated?” Mendez suggested. “Maybe she’ll react to one of them.”
Dixon nodded. “It’s definitely worth a try.”
“I agree,” Vince said.
“We’ll start taking Polaroids of these guys,” Mendez said, tossing his coffee cup in the trash.
Hamilton stuck his head in the door, looking to Dixon. “Bruce Bordain is here.”
“I’ll see him in my office.” Dixon stood up. “Tony, you come with me.”
“I get to be there when he tells you to fire me?”
“Why should I have all the fun alone?”
“Tony,” Vince said, going for a refill on the coffee. “Did you find photographs at Gina Kemmer’s house?”
“Yeah. They’re in a box in the war room.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“Do you know Bordain?” Mendez asked Dixon as they went down the hall.
“I’ve met him. He’s a good guy, a bit of a hustler. Don’t play golf with him, you’ll lose your shirt.”
They went into Dixon’s office and the sheriff stuck his hand out to a very tan, very handsome, smallish man with thinning dark hair slicked straight back a la Pat Riley, the LA Lakers coach. Bruce Bordain, the parking lot king of California.
“Bruce, thanks for coming in.”
Mendez had expected Bruce Bordain to be a man as big as his fortune. But what he lacked in physical size, he made up for in magnetism. It beamed from him like an aura.
“Cal,” he said, flashing a big white smile. “How’s that slice?”
“Bad as ever. I’m taking up miniature golf. I don’t lose so many balls,” Dixon said, sitting back against the edge of his desk. “Bruce, this is my lead detective, Tony Mendez.”
“Tony.” Bordain gave his hand a firm shake. “How about you? Does the boss here drag you out on the course?”
“Not me,” Mendez said, shaking his head.
“He can’t play badly enough to lose to me,” Dixon joked. “Tony’s on our softball team. Hell of a shortstop. Have a seat.”
Bordain took one of the chairs in front of the desk. Mendez took the other. They settled in like they were just three guys talking sports and shooting the shit. It was hard to imagine a man as loose and affable as Bruce Bordain being married to a woman as buttoned up and stuffy as Milo Bordain.
