For the first time since he had met Mark Foster, he saw a little crack in the man’s stoic good nature.

“Not this again,” Foster said, closing his eyes and heaving a sigh. “Darren didn’t kill Marissa.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“I’ve known Darren five or six years.”

“And how long have you been involved?”

“Involved in what way?”

“How long have you been lovers?”

“Oh my God.” He looked at Hicks. “You dragged me down here for this? What’s wrong with you people? Why are you so hung up on the idea that I’m gay? I’m not gay—not that it’s anyone’s business. Darren is not gay. And will you make up your minds? First you think he’s Haley’s father, but now you think he’s gay? And what would it matter? If he was gay, he really wouldn’t have any reason to kill Marissa.”

“He would if he didn’t want her spreading his little secret around,” Mendez said. “That information would be very valuable to him, I would think.”

“You know his mother,” Hicks said. “How would she react to news like that?”

“I have no idea.”

“You told us you know her really well,” Mendez said. “I barely know the woman at all and I can tell you she’s a narcissistic, racist snob. Homophobic wouldn’t be much of a stretch.”

Foster massaged the back of his neck, literally trying to rub out the pain that this experience was. “Is there a point to this?”

“Oh, yeah,” Mendez said.

“Will we get to it anytime soon?”

“What about his father?” Mendez asked. “He seems like that kind of macho man’s man who wouldn’t be too pleased to hear his son really doesn’t have his same interest in strippers and hookers.”

“I don’t really know Mr. Bordain.”

“You don’t run in the same circles.”

“No,” Foster said. “Really. Why are you asking me these questions? Why don’t you ask the Bordains? Why don’t you ask Darren? He’s here, isn’t he?”

“What would make you think that?” Hicks asked.

“He called me and told me before you brought him down here.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because a bunch of us were going out to dinner. He called to say he wouldn’t make it.”

“Thoughtful.”

“Yes. Is that a crime now?”

“No,” Mendez said. “Did he happen to mention to you that he’s wearing one of your shirts?”

“What?”

Mendez ran a forefinger along the breast pocket of his own shirt. “Monogrammed. M-E-F.”

“There must have been a mix-up at the laundry.”

“Mmmmm ... I suppose that could have happened. Or maybe you left it at his house the night Marissa was killed.”

Foster wasn’t quite sure what to do with that. He waited to see where Mendez would go with it.