The Bordains’ shaggy red imported cattle grazed in the emerald green grass along the edge of the blue reservoir. As Mendez turned in at the gate and they rolled down the driveway, exotic-looking chickens of all colors with fantastic plumes atop their heads clucked and squawked as they pecked at the ground beneath the lush pepper trees.

Milo Bordain, in a huge straw hat and loose gardening clothes, was tending her roses, looking calm and relaxed. Not what Mendez had expected from her, considering the circumstances. She barely looked up at them from her work.

“Of course I knew all about it,” she said, snipping the huge wilted head of a salmon-colored rose from its stem. “I’m not a fool, Cal. I know how the world works. I know men.”

“And you were fine paying blackmail to Marissa Fordham?”

“I never considered it blackmail. I considered it an investment. It wasn’t as if Marissa didn’t have something to contribute to the world. She was an amazing artist.”

“Who happened to have your son’s illegitimate child,” Mendez said.

She glanced at him like he was an annoying horsefly buzzing around her.

“I’ve told you Haley is like a grandchild to me.”

“Because she is your grandchild.”

“Now that her birth certificate has surfaced, I’ve already spoken with our attorney about beginning adoption proceedings. The records will remained sealed, of course. It isn’t necessary for the entire world to know the circumstances of Haley’s birth.”

“That news could hurt Darren’s political future,” Dixon said.

Milo Bordain laughed. “If I told you how many very powerful political figures in this state have a love child or two on the side, you would be embarrassed at your naïveté, Cal.”

“But how many have gay lovers?” Mendez asked.

For once, she spoke directly to him. Now the claws came out. “My son is not gay,” she snapped, “and if you persist in this line of investigation, my husband and I will sue you personally and the sheriff’s office for slander and defamation of character.”

“You would rather believe that Darren murdered Marissa than that he prefers male company?”

“Darren didn’t murder Marissa. He had no reason to. Marissa had no reason to blackmail anyone. She was very well taken care of.”

“I heard she was getting tired of being controlled by you,” Mendez said. “That maybe she was over being the daughter you never had.”

“That’s nonsense. Marissa was an artist. Artists have their fits. She may not have always appreciated my guidance, but she certainly appreciated the results,” she said. “I introduced her to all the right people, exposed her work to an audience she would never have had access to on her own.”

“And rubbed her face in it every chance you got, I’m sure,” Mendez said.

Milo Bordain looked at Dixon, irritated. “Why do you continue to allow him to upset me, Cal?”

“That’s his job.”