destructive in his relationships for a reason.”
“He was sleeping with two women who were both murdered,” Mendez said. “That tells me either he killed one or both of them, or he didn’t stop somebody else from killing them. If that was me, I would feel responsible either way.”
Mendez and his White Knight Syndrome. But was Steve Morgan really so different? Vince wondered. If his motives for helping disadvantaged women had been altruistic all along, then he was no different in that respect. He came to the rescue. His wife had gotten left out of the process because he didn’t see her as needing saving—or being sympathetic to his cause, for that matter. Sara was jealous of the time he donated to others.
“Peter Crane was his friend,” Vince said. “Lisa Warwick was his lover. He probably thinks he should have been able to prevent what happened, but he didn’t.
“Now—if he was seeing Marissa—Marissa is dead too. Let’s say he didn’t kill her. He sinks deeper into self- destruction. He picks a fight with a cop. He picks a fight with his wife, he tries to scare her off, letting her think he might be a murderer. Ultimately, to punish himself.”
“I still don’t think we can rule him out,” Dixon said.
“No,” Vince agreed. “You can’t rule him out. Not until we know where he was the night she was killed. Or where he was when Gina went missing.”
“I’ll tell you where he was when Gina went missing,” Mendez said. “He was AWOL. Bill and I were trying to track him down. He told his wife he was working late, but he wasn’t at his office. He told me later that he was having dinner with a client in Malibu. I’d say he pulled that out of his ass. He didn’t show up at home until the middle of the night. I was there waiting for him.”
“What about Bordain?” Dixon asked.
“He doesn’t account for every minute of every day,” Hicks said.
“Meaning he doesn’t have an alibi.”
“I would say so.”
“Mark Foster?”
“We were talking to him early that evening,” Hicks said. “Then he had a rehearsal. After that, nothing.”
“We know approximately when Gina left her house that afternoon,” Mendez said. “But we have no way of knowing when she met up with our bad guy. It could have been early, it could have been late.”
“Maybe this, maybe that,” Dixon complained. “This is giving me a headache. I want something we can take to the bank. Have we got that photo lineup put together for the little girl yet?”
“Bordain refused to have his photo taken, we don’t know where Zahn is, a big no on Steve Morgan,” Hamilton said. “But I was able to put something together with photos from other sources—the college, the local papers,
“Our witness is four. She won’t hold up in court either, but we need something to go on. It’s worth a shot.” Dixon looked at Vince. “Is Anne okay with this?”
“Yeah. I gave her the heads-up already. But if you want it tonight we’d better get on it, pronto.” He lifted his arm and tapped the face of his watch. “Four-year-olds have bedtime.”
69
“I wish we didn’t have to do this so late,” Anne said. “Nighttime is difficult. She already doesn’t want to go to sleep because of the nightmares.”
“We don’t have a choice, sweetheart,” Vince said. “We’ve got a killer running around loose who’s going to be on the ragged edge when he finds out Gina Kemmer isn’t dead. Time is of the essence here.”
Anne sighed. “I know.”
She stood at the door to Haley’s room and looked at Haley, sitting on her bed in her pink pajamas playing quietly with Honey-Bunny and the new stuffed toy cat Milo Bordain had given her.
Sara had picked Wendy up and gone home right after dinner. Anne and Haley had gone through what Anne wanted to make a nightly ritual of a bath, quiet time, then story time, then bed. Routine would help give Haley a sense of stability, and the downward progression of activities would help teach her to relax and quiet her mind.
Anne knew from her own experience over the last year the value of that kind of routine. Now she could put what had been a difficult experience for her to a positive use for Haley. But tonight she would interrupt that routine to potentially draw out the most terrible memory a child could possibly have: the memory of a monster.
Vince rested a hand on her shoulder, reading her emotions perfectly.
“We’ll show them to her together,” he said. “You and me. Okay?”
“Okay,” Anne said. “Let’s get it over with.”
Vince turned to Mendez. “Keep your fingers crossed.”
Mendez took a seat on a bench in the hall to wait.
Vince pressed Anne into the room with a hand on the small of her back. Her heart was thudding in her chest.
“Haley? We’re going to play a little game, sweetie,” she said, feeling like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Haley looked up at her, wide-eyed and innocent. “What kind of game?”
“We’re going to look at some pictures,” Vince said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I’m going to put them down on the bed, then you’re going to look at them and tell us if you know any of the people in the pictures.”
Haley got on her knees and leaned sideways into Anne, chewing on the tip of her index finger as Vince laid the pictures out.
Anne watched her face carefully, looking for any nuance of expression that might indicate recognition.
Haley reached out a finger. Anne held her breath.
“That’s Zander,” Haley said, pointing at the wide-eyed math genius with his wild cloud of gray hair. She looked up at Vince and crinkled her nose. “Isn’t he weird?”
“He looks kind of funny in this picture, doesn’t he?” Vince said. “Do you know anybody else here?”
Haley studied the pictures one by one. With the exception of Steve Morgan, Anne only knew who they were because Vince had told her. The head of the music department at McAster. An architect. Steve Morgan’s law partner.
Darren Bordain in a photo from a magazine—a shot of him and his mother dressed to the nines at a charity function. He was almost a carbon copy of Milo.
Steve Morgan, handsome, dressed for golf, a wide white grin splitting his features. It was hard for Anne to look at him so happy when she knew he was making Sara and Wendy miserable with his bad behavior. Here he was in a lineup as, at best, a man who cheated on his wife, and at worst a murder suspect.
Haley looked at all of them very carefully. Anne held her breath. Vince was holding his breath and watching the little girl’s reactions as carefully as Anne was.
Finally, Haley looked up and smiled like a pixie. “These are all my daddies!”
She proceeded to point to each face and name them.
“Daddy Mark and Daddy Don and Daddy Bob and Daddy Steve and Daddy Milo and Daddy Darren and Zander.”
“Daddy Zander?” Vince asked.
Haley shook her head. “Just Zander.”
Anne felt limp with relief. As much as the detectives needed a positive ID, she couldn’t help but be glad Haley hadn’t looked at these men and seen the face of the person who had choked and smothered her.
“Do you see Bad Daddy?” Vince asked.
Haley ignored him and turned instead to Anne. “Mommy Anne, will you read me a story?”
“Sure, sweetheart. In a few minutes. You get under the covers and I’ll be back before you know it.”
“You won’t turn the lights off?”
