“There’s also Ms. Fordham’s house,” Hicks said. “You were there frequently. It’s safe to assume your prints will be among those found.”

“I feel like I’m being treated like a criminal,” she complained to Dixon.

“Not at all, Mrs. Bordain,” Dixon said. “We’ll need to be able to identify your prints—and the prints of anyone else who spent a lot of time in Ms. Fordham’s home—so we can take them out of the mix and hopefully eventually end up with only the prints of the killer. You can come directly to my office and we’ll take care of it in private.”

“Thank you, Cal,” she said. “At least you’re a gentleman.”

Dixon turned the laser-blue eyes on Mendez, and he knew he was cooked. One poke too many at Her Majesty. “Detectives, can I have a word with you both outside?”

Chapter 29

29

“Do you realize who she is, Detective Mendez?” Dixon asked, herding them to one side of the porch, away from the door.

“Sure. She’s a snobby, rude, narcissistic bitch.”

“You must be talking about my mother.”

Mendez felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

Darren Bordain stood up from the bent-willow bench on the other side of the door and casually put his cigarette out in a pot of his mother’s geraniums.

“Mr. Bordain, I apologize—”

Bordain waved it off. “No need. I’m well aware who my mother is. I’ve been putting up with her for thirty-two years.

“Did she treat you like a servant?” he asked. “Don’t feel special. That’s how she treats everyone except celebrities, conservative politicians, and people she wants something from.”

“Mr. Bordain. Cal Dixon.” The sheriff offered his hand.

Bordain shook it. “Call me Darren. No need to stand on formality. I try not to be my mother’s son whenever possible.”

Ironically, Darren Bordain was physically the spitting image of his mother—same height, same build, same straight blond hair, same green eyes, same square jaw. Every time he looked in a mirror, he saw his mother’s face.

His vintage silver Mercedes 450SL convertible was parked out by the sheriff’s car. But he had been in no hurry to come in the house.

“I was just trying to work up the energy to deal with her crisis du jour.”

“She’s pretty upset,” Dixon said. “She told you about the box?”

“Yes. She called my office and got my secretary and screamed at her until the poor girl came and got me off the golf course.” He took a pack of Marlboro Lights from the pocket of his leather jacket and shook one out. “I had two holes left to play, so I’m a little late. She told me she had already called you guys, so what was I going to do?”

Comfort her, Mendez thought.

“She’s concerned she might be a target,” Dixon said.