“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.

“How is Mrs. Bordain this morning?” Dixon asked.

“Stiff, sore, out of sorts,” Bordain said. “She’s pretty shaken up about what happened last night.”