“Mark Foster is the head of the music department at McAster,” she said. “But I didn’t get the impression Marissa was serious about anyone. They looked like casual dates. You know, Guest Plus One. She was fun. She liked to laugh. She was a very devoted mother.

“Milo would be able to help you more than I can,” she said. She flipped through her Rolodex for Bordain’s address and jotted it down on a piece of paper, then handed it across the desk. “She’ll be devastated. Marissa was like the daughter she never had.”

Mendez took the piece of paper and tucked it inside his little notebook as he rose from his chair. “We’ll speak to her. Thank you for your time.”

As they started toward the door, Jane Thomas asked, “Marissa’s daughter—have you heard anything? Will she be all right?”

She held up a hand before Mendez could draw a breath to answer. “What am I thinking? She witnessed her mother’s murder. What could be all right after that?”

Chapter 14

14

Don Quinn was a good-looking guy in his late fifties—tan, a mane of silver hair, chiseled features, wide white smile. He could have been an actor on one of the prime-time soaps. He could have been the roving guest star who appeared one night as a deadly doctor on Murder, She Wrote, and as an oil tycoon days later on Dynasty.

Here in Oak Knoll he played the role of senior partner of a successful law firm.

The John Forsythe smile dropped away when Mendez told him why they were in his office.

“Oh my God,” he said, sinking down into his leather executive’s desk chair. He aged suddenly as the tan seemingly drained from his face.

“We understand you sometimes saw Ms. Fordham socially,” Hicks began.

Quinn didn’t respond for several moments as he tried to absorb the shock of the news.

“No offense intended, Mr. Quinn,” Mendez said, “but you seem considerably older than Ms. Fordham.”

Though he clearly didn’t want anyone to think of him as “older,” Mendez thought. The man was in great shape, dressed in a black T-shirt under his tan sport coat. Probably the only reason he didn’t dye his hair was that it made such a striking contrast to his tan.

Quinn shook off whatever memories had been playing through his mind. “Marissa and I have gone out a few times. Not lately. She was a lovely young woman. Interesting, vivacious. Is there some reason I shouldn’t have enjoyed her company?”

“Your wife, maybe?” Mendez said, shooting a pointed look to a framed family photo on the bookshelves behind Don Quinn. Quinn, Mrs. Quinn—a slightly plump woman his own age, and two good-looking kids—a boy and a girl in their late teens or early twenties. The trendy Quinns posed on a sandy beach, all of them in khaki pants and French blue turtlenecks.