Mendez jotted his notes. Despite the fact that Milo Bordain was a racist snob, he couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her. Her husband didn’t seem to be giving her much in the way of support after all she’d been through this week.

“Is everything all right with your parents’ marriage?” he asked.

“Their marriage is no different than it’s ever been. You don’t think my father had something to do with this?”

“Like I said: We have to look at all possibilities.”

Darren Bordain shook his head. “They have their arrangement. Neither of them complains about it.”

“What arrangement is that?”

“They lead their own lives. My father has his businesses, he plays golf, he probably has a girlfriend here and there—although he is completely discreet. My mother makes a career of being Mrs. Bruce Bordain. She has her social circle and her causes. They still enjoy each other’s company when they’re together. It works for them.”

He looked across the hall as an orderly arrived with a gurney to take his mother for her CT scan.

“You know Gina Kemmer, don’t you?” Mendez asked.

“Yes, why?”

“When was the last time you spoke to her?”

“She left a message for me yesterday afternoon to ask if I know anything about a funeral date for Marissa. She’s a mess,” Bordain said. “Marissa was like a sister to her.”

“Did she say anything about going out of town?”

“No, why?”

“We’ve been trying to get hold of her, that’s all,” Mendez said. “We want everyone who had contact with Marissa in the last week or so to come in and give us an interview so we can build a fuller, more accurate picture of the last week of Marissa’s life. I’d like to schedule a time with you, as well.”

“Sure,” Bordain said. “Call me tomorrow. I’d better go be a good son now and do some hand-holding.”

When he was halfway across the hall he turned back. “Is there anything new in Marissa’s case?”

“No, sir. Not at this time.”

“You’ll keep my mother apprised, though, won’t you? She may be a pompous snob, but she really is beside herself over Marissa’s death.”

“Sheriff Dixon will personally see to it,” Mendez said as Dixon came out of the room and Bordain went back in.

“I will personally see to what?”

“Mrs. Bordain,” Mendez said as they started down the hall.

Dixon gave him a look. “Jesus, Tony. What did I ever do to you?”

Chapter 53

53

Sara had spent much of the evening curled into one corner of the sofa, wrapped in an afghan her grandmother had made for her hope chest twenty years ago. Twenty years ago—when she had still believed in white knights and happily-ever-after.

She sat there staring ... thinking ... trembling ... crying ... Funny how the cycle had become weirdly comforting after a while.