“And you went straight home?”
“Yes.”
“Were you alone?”
“Yes,” Bordain said, getting annoyed. “I thought I was here to help you build some kind of timeline to do with Marissa.”
“We need to do the same thing with your mother’s case,” Mendez said. “Might as well kill all the birds with one stone, right?”
“I suppose, but I don’t like the implication,” Bordain said. “AmIa suspect in what happened to my mother?”
“We just need to have a clear picture of everything that took place last night, Mr. Bordain,” Hicks said.
“Well I didn’t run my mother off the road,” he said. “I don’t know how much clearer I can make that picture.”
“We’re paid to be suspicious of everyone, Mr. Bordain,” Mendez explained. “Most interpersonal crime is committed by people who know their victims. Family is always one prong of an investigation like this. It’s not personal on our part.”
“It’s difficult not to see it as personal from where I’m sitting,” Bordain said.
He shook a cigarette out of the pack on the table before him and lit up, blowing smoke at the acoustic tile ceiling.
“I know I make a lot of sly remarks about my mother,” he said. “But I wouldn’t kill her, for God’s sake.”
“We aren’t accusing you, Mr. Bordain,” Hicks said.
“Think of it this way,” Mendez said. “Our questions might be an irritation to you, and you might feel like we’re being insulting or insensitive, but the person we’re working for is usually injured or dead and she won’t ever have the luxury of feeling irritated again.”
Bordain conceded the point with a nod of the head. “Well put. I’ll stop my whining now.”
“When was the last time you saw Ms. Fordham?” Hicks asked.
“I saw Marissa Sunday, a week ago—the Sunday before she was killed. There was a fall festival at the Licosto Winery between here and Santa Barbara. Food by local chefs, wine tasting, rides in a horse-drawn wagon and games for the kids. There was sort of a loose group of us from Oak Knoll. Marissa brought Haley. How is she, by the way?”
“She’s doing well, considering,” Mendez said. “Her memory is getting clearer every day.”
Bordain frowned and tapped the ash off his cigarette into the small ashtray that had been provided for him. “I hope that’s a good thing.”
“If she can name her mother’s killer, why wouldn’t it be?”
“You’re kidding, right? Didn’t she see the whole thing? Would you want a memory like that in your head for the rest of your life? Better for her if she never remembered any of it.”
“Better for the killer too.”
“I suppose.”
“Did Marissa ever tell you someone was bothering her, that someone in her life scared her, anything like that?” Hicks asked.
Bordain raised an elegant eyebrow. “Marissa? Scared? No. What’s that beer commercial about grabbing all the gusto?”
“Did she ever say anything to you about Haley’s father?”
“No. I got the impression that was a sore subject. As open and free a spirit as she was, there was always a little reserve in Marissa. It was like you got ninety-eight percent of her, which was a lot—until you started thinking about that missing two percent that she never gave to anybody. I think she’d gotten hurt somewhere along the line. I assumed by Haley’s father.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“No. She had Haley when she moved here. I assumed he was wherever she came from.”
“The East Coast.”
“I guess so.”
“Would it surprise you if I told you Marissa came up here from Los Angeles?” Mendez asked.
“Nothing about Marissa would surprise me.”
“Would it surprise you to know her real name wasn’t Marissa Fordham?”
Bordain shrugged. “I don’t know. Why would I care? She was who she was. Are you going to tell me she was a secret agent or something? In witness protection?”
“How did you feel about your mother’s relationship with Marissa?” Mendez asked. “The daughter she never had.”
“Well, since I can’t be the daughter my mother never had, it was okay by me.”
“Your mother spent a lot of money on Marissa.”
“My mother spends a lot of money. Period. Luckily, my father is filthy stinking rich. My mother’s hobbies have no impact on my life.”
“It didn’t bother you even a little bit?” Mendez asked.
Bordain gave him a hard look. “No. I liked Marissa. She had a great joie de vivre. If she could get my mother to foot the bill, more power to her.”
Mendez pushed a little harder. “Why do you think someone would murder Marissa, cut off her breasts, and send them to your mother?”
“I don’t know. Isn’t that your department?”
“That’s a very personal offense,” Mendez said. “First, the murder. Stabbing is a very personal crime. Sending the breasts to your mother, also a highly personal gesture. It’s a big Fuck You, if you’ll pardon my language.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Have you been in Lompoc recently?” Hicks asked.
“No. Why would I go there?”
“You’ve got a car dealership up there.”
“Yes, but we’ve got a good manager. There’s no reason for me to go there when I can pick up the phone. I divide my time between here and Santa Barbara.”
“Where were you last Sunday night?” Mendez asked.
“The night Marissa was killed?” Bordain tried to laugh. “You want my alibi?”
No one laughed with him.
“We need to know where you were.”
He stalled, lighting another cigarette. His hands shook a little. “I was at Gina’s house.”
Mendez exchanged a long look with Hicks.
“You were with Gina Kemmer?”
“Not in the Biblical sense. She had a couple of friends over. Marissa called and said she was busy. We ate a pizza and watched a couple of movies. I was home by eleven thirty.”
“Have you heard from Gina lately?” Mendez asked.
“A couple of days ago.” He looked increasingly uncomfortable with the pace and nature of the questions. “You asked me that last night. Why?”
“Where were you this past Wednesday from, say, five o’clock on?” Hicks asked.
Bordain sighed impatiently, tapped off his cigarette, took another drag, and blew the smoke out his nostrils. “I worked until about six, had a couple of drinks at Capriano’s, ate some dinner ...” His memory seemed to start failing then. “I don’t know. I went home. I don’t account for every hour of every day of my life, do you?”
“I’m pretty much here,” Mendez said. “You didn’t see Gina Kemmer that day?”
“No. She called me that afternoon about a funeral for Marissa. I didn’t see her. Why?”
“Gina Kemmer has been missing since late Wednesday afternoon,” Hicks said.
“Missing?” Bordain said stupidly, as if he didn’t understand the meaning of the word.
“Right,” Mendez said. “She won’t be able to corroborate your alibi for the night Marissa died because no one has seen or heard from her in two days.”
Bordain looked from one detective to the other.
“I think I should go now,” he said, standing up abruptly. “I don’t like the turn this is taking.”
