“I’m sure she is,” he said, lighting up. “It’s all about her, isn’t it?”

“You don’t think anyone has it in for her?” Mendez asked.

He laughed. “I’m sure a lot of people have it in for her. She’s not Miss Congeniality. But if she managed to push someone so far they would kill, why wouldn’t they just kill her? Why kill Marissa?”

“Did you know Ms. Fordham?” Dixon asked.

“Sure, of course. She was the daughter my mother never had,” he said sarcastically.

“She was included in your family?”

“Hell, no. A woman with an unknown past and an out-of-wedlock child? Marissa was more like a pet or a Barbie doll. Mother gave her a place to live, made a big show out of being magnanimous and a patron of the arts. But Marissa was never invited to Thanksgiving dinner.”

“What was your relationship with Ms. Fordham?” Mendez asked.

“We were friends. We ran into each other at functions, had a few drinks, had a few laughs at my mother’s expense.”

“Were you ever involved with her romantically?”

“No. Not my type. The bohemian artist thing doesn’t work for me. I’m told I have a political career to consider,” he said dryly. “I should have thought about it, though. Marissa and I together would have given my mother an aneurysm.”

“What about your father?” Hicks asked. “Did he have an opinion about Ms. Fordham? Or about the money your mother spent to support her?”

Bordain shook his head. “The Great Man can’t be bothered with most of what goes on in my mother’s life. He doesn’t care what she does. He lives his own life. They’re hardly ever in residence in the same house at the same time.”

The front door opened then and Milo Bordain locked on her son.

“Darren, what are you doing out here? I called you nearly two hours ago.”

He sighed. “Sorry, Mother. I was tied up in a meeting.”

He very purposefully dropped his half-smoked cigarette on the porch floor and ground it out with the toe of a Gucci loafer.

“Duty calls, gentlemen.”

Chapter 30

30

“Nanette Zahn died of multiple stab wounds,” Vince said. “Her death was ruled—get this—a suicide. Her son, Alexander, who was twelve at the time, was taken and raised by a cousin.”

“Wow,” Trammell said. “Do you think the college will give me my money back?”

“Your kid’s on a scholarship. You didn’t pay any money,” Campbell pointed out.

They had gathered in the war room for their end-of-the-day wrap-up and to regroup and make plans.