“And I have some problems with your explanation of your whereabouts both the night Marissa was killed and last night when your mother was run off the road,” Mendez admitted. “ ‘Home alone’ is one of those alibis that really isn’t.”

“I wasn’t aware at the time I would need an alibi.”

“It seems like you’re home alone a lot for a guy who gets around town,” Mendez said. “Dinners with friends, all those civic and charity functions you go to. You go home alone. That doesn’t make sense to me. You’re rich, charming, good-looking. I wouldn’t think you’d ever have to sleep alone.”

“Maybe I’m not as promiscuous as you would apparently like to be,” Bordain said, flicking ash into the ashtray. Flicking too hard because he was nervous, a good bit of it missed the ashtray and landed on the table. He swore under his breath, stuck the cigarette back in his mouth, and quickly brushed the ashes onto the floor.

“And then there’s this,” Mendez said, slowly tapping his finger on the file folder. He did it over and over and over and over, the sound seeming to fill the otherwise silent room like water dripping from a faucet.

He could almost see Darren Bordain’s nerves fraying.

“Why don’t you just show it to me and get it over with?” Bordain snapped. “Whatever it is, there’s probably a logical explanation for it.”

Mendez pretended to think about it, then shrugged. “Okay.”

He opened the folder and slid it across the table.

“You should pay particular attention to the box marked ‘Father.’ ”

As he looked at the birth certificate the color drained from Darren Bordain’s face, then rose back up again, bright red.

“That’s a lie.”

“That is an official document from the county of Los Angeles.”

Bordain shook his head. “It can’t be. It’s not. I am not Haley’s father.”

“No? We showed her a photograph of you. She called you Daddy.”

“She calls every man Daddy.”

“Yeah, but apparently with you it’s official,” Mendez said, tapping his finger on the birth certificate. “Do you happen to know your blood type, Mr. Bordain?”

“A-negative.”

Mendez raised his brows. “Really? Because we’ve got the sweatshirt you wore the night you killed Marissa. Man, it was soaked in blood.”

“Marissa’s blood, not mine.”

“Marissa’s blood—AB-positive. Lots of it. But also a little A-negative,” he lied. “She must have scratched you, or you cut yourself. Knives get slippery when they’re covered in blood.”

“This is ludicrous!” Bordain shouted up at the ceiling, throwing his arms up. “I didn’t kill Marissa!”

“What’s that cut on your wrist?”

Bordain looked at his left wrist and quickly pulled the cuff of his shirt over it. “I—I—must have done that on the golf course.”