“If he confesses to killing her, then it’s out there,” Mendez said. “He can’t take it back.”

Vince went to the machine and rewound the tape. “Watch him when you ask about the nights in question. Watch what he does.”

Mendez stared hard at the monitor as the moments that had just happened unfolded again in front of him.

“Watch him here when you ask him about last night, if anyone saw him at home. Watch how he kind of closes his shoulders like he wants to wrap his arms around himself.”

“Protective?” Mendez said.

“And the same thing here when you press him about his alibis,” Vince said. “He’s hiding something.”

“The fact that he’s a murderer?” Hicks suggested.

“Press those points again,” Vince said. “See what he does.”

“Okay.”

Mendez poured two cups of coffee and went back across the hall.

“I brought you one anyway,” he said, setting the cups on the table. “It’s not half bad today. Someone brought Irish Cream beans in.”

Bordain had taken his seat and lit another cigarette. He ignored the coffee. His hands were still trembling.

“I did not kill Marissa,” he said again. “I had no reason to kill Marissa.”

“I’m thinking you got tired of her blackmailing you.”

“No one is blackmailing me.”

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” Mendez said. “You say you toyed with the idea of going out with her because it would wind your mother up like a top—but you get her pregnant and have a child out of wedlock and you keep that information to yourself—and the old lady would really blow a gasket over that.”

“It’s not ironic. It’s not true.”

“You can’t account for your whereabouts the night she was murdered. Your name is on her daughter’s birth certificate. And you’re sitting here in front of me sweating like a whore in church.”

“I was at Gina’s house the night Marissa was killed,” Bordain said.

“Gina, who is still conveniently in a coma.”

“I didn’t try to kill Gina.”

“Is that why you wanted to go into her room this afternoon? To say your last good-byes and accidentally pull a plug?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“She can’t help you, Mr. Bordain. By your own admission, you left her house and were home alone by eleven thirty.”

Bordain closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Mendez waited, watching his shoulders draw inward toward his chest, holding whatever it was inside.

“Darren,” Mendez said quietly, leaning across the table. “There’s nothing worse than murder. That’s the big enchilada. It doesn’t get worse than that. Whatever it is that you’re not telling me could not possibly be worse than that.”

Bordain smiled bitterly as tears came to his eyes. “You’re not from where I’m from.”