“I’m going to read you your rights and put you in jail. Does that go over big where you’re from?”

“You don’t have any proof that I killed Marissa.”

“Not as much as I’d like,” Mendez acknowledged. He tapped the edge of the file folder against the table. “But I’ve got a hell of a motive.”

“She’s not my child. She couldn’t be my child.”

Again the protective posture.

“Why?” Mendez asked.

“I didn’t kill Marissa.”

“Find me someone to corroborate your alibi.”

Bordain put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands.

“I can’t,” he said in a tortured voice.

That wasn’t I can’t because there was no one to corroborate his story, Mendez thought. That was I can’t because he wouldn’t reveal the name of the person who could.

Mendez found himself staring at the logo on the pocket of Bordain’s shirt. He’d seen it before. Not in a store. He didn’t pay attention to stuff like that. His sister Mercedes did most of his fashion shopping.

MEF.

He thought back over half a dozen conversations with different people over the week. Where was Darren Bordain the night of Marissa’s murder? Gina Kemmer had some friends over, including Darren Bordain and Mark Foster. Where had Darren last seen Marissa? At the Licosto Winery event—the same last place Mark Foster had seen her. Who had Mark Foster been having dinner with the night he saw Marissa having dinner with Steve Morgan in Los Olivos—Darren Bordain? If they asked Steve Morgan, would he say Bordain?

Not a logo. A monogram.

Mark Foster. Mark E. Foster, the “not gay” head of the McAster music department.

Darren Bordain had either accidentally or who knew why gotten up that day and put on the shirt of his lover, Mark Foster.

“You’re gay,” Mendez said. “You were with Mark Foster when Marissa was being murdered.”

Bordain didn’t answer. He apparently would have rather gone to prison as a murderer than admit it.

“You’re wearing his shirt,” Mendez pointed out.

“Am I?” Bordain said. He was rattled, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. “The laundry must have made a mistake.”

“Did Marissa know?”

“We never had a conversation about laundry services.”

“Did she think keeping the secret of your sexual orientation might be worth some cash?”

Darren Bordain was the only heir to Bruce Bordain’s fortune, and Milo Bordain’s only hope for a grandchild. He was being groomed for a big political career in a party that would never embrace a gay candidate. The scandal would be huge—worth killing over.

But Darren Bordain had kept that secret for a very long time, and he wasn’t going to give it up now.