He was irritated and making only a half-hearted effort to conceal it. The blindingly white smile had been downsized. There was certain tension in his body. He hadn’t appreciated having a deputy interrupt his breakfast for a command performance at the sheriff’s office.

“You couldn’t just pick up the phone and talk to me?” he said to the sheriff. “I’ve got a plane to catch before noon.”

“We’ll try not to keep you, but this is a conversation we don’t want to have over the phone, Bruce,” Dixon said, leading the way back from his office, past the detectives’ squad room.

“Do I get a heads-up as to what this is about?” Bordain asked. “I don’t like surprises unless they’re twenty-two with big tits and jump out of a birthday cake naked.”

“Well,” Dixon said, opening the door to interview room one and motioning Bordain in, “then it’s a pretty safe bet that you’re not going to like this one.”

“And you’re bringing me back here to the dungeons for this?” Bordain said. “Should I have brought my attorney with me?”

“I don’t want someone walking into my office while we’re having this conversation, Bruce. If you decide at some point that you’d be more comfortable with your attorney present, you’re free to call him.”

The last remnants of the bullshit smile faded away. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

“Have a seat,” Dixon offered.

Bordain took the chair facing the door with his back to the wall. Dixon took the seat at the end of the table. Mendez took the seat with his back to the door, but turned the chair sideways.

“Bruce,” Dixon began. “I asked you the other day how well you knew Marissa Fordham—”

“And I told you, well enough to have a conversation.”

“How intimate would that conversation be, Mr. Bordain?” Mendez asked.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you asking me if I was screwing her? You think I was screwing my wife’s pet artist right under her nose? Do you think I have a death wish?”

“We’re more interested in the year prior to when Milo began sponsoring Ms. Fordham,” Dixon said.

“In 1981,” Mendez specified. “You would have met her in Los Angeles. Her name was Melissa Fabriano then.”

Bordain didn’t even blink. “Never heard of her.”

“We’ve come to find out she spent some time working at Morton’s downtown,” Dixon said, “as a hostess. You’re a steak man, aren’t you, Bruce?”

“I like a great cut of beef,” he said. “And I’ll admit it: I like a great piece of ass too. But I never laid eyes on Marissa until Milo introduced me to her.”

Mendez tapped the edge of the file folder against the tabletop and exchanged a meaningful look with Dixon.

“Have you spoken to your son recently, Mr. Bordain?” Mendez asked.