Back in the war room for the end of the day, someone had ordered pizza and sodas. Chicago-style pizza. That meant Vince had put the call in. Mendez was glad. He was starving. He couldn’t remember the last meal he’d had—or decent night’s sleep for that matter.
They sat on all sides of the long table eating like they would never see food again. The room was filled with the aroma of herbs and tomato sauce—almost, but not quite drowning out the smell of frustration.
“If she left town of her own accord, she did it without taking so much as a change of clothes or a makeup bag,” he said. “What woman does that?”
“None,” Dixon said. “If she was snatched from the supermarket parking lot, her car would still be there. If she went to stay with a friend, her car would be parked on the street or in a driveway.”
“She could have gone off the road into a canyon,” Hamilton suggested. “Or just plain got out of town. Maybe she has a friend in Santa Barbara or someplace else.”
“Or somebody has her,” Trammell said.
“Or she’s dead,” Mendez said. “To me this strengthens the blackmail angle.”
“Even if there was no blackmail,” Hicks said, “Gina probably knows something someone doesn’t want her to.”
“What do her bank records look like?” Dixon asked, swiping a napkin across his chin to catch a dribble of tomato sauce.
“She has her accounts at Wells Fargo, same as Marissa Fordham,” Hamilton said. “The only odd thing is every month she deposits a check for a grand from Marissa Fordham.”
“Payoff?” Dixon said. “Or was Marissa just a generous friend sharing her good fortune?”
“A payoff could give Kemmer a motive,” Campbell said. “If the generous friend tried to cut her off.”
Mendez shook his head. “You had to see this girl yesterday. She was a nervous wreck. She’d never have the cojones to stab anyone, let alone do what was done to her best friend. And then put those breasts in a box and send them to Milo Bordain? She couldn’t even look at a crime-scene photo without puking.”
“Do we have her phone records?” Dixon asked.
Hamilton shook his head. “Not yet.”
“What have we found out about Marissa Fordham’s alias?” Mendez asked.
“Melissa Fabriano?” Hamilton shook his head as he consulted his notes. “Nothing. No criminal record in the state of California. I went back to the authorities in Rhode Island—on the off chance she really was from there. They didn’t have anything on that name.”
“So the vic had no criminal record on either of her names,” Trammell said.
“Not that I’ve found so far.”
“Why would a person with no criminal record need an alias?”
“She had to be hiding from somebody,” Mendez said. “If not the baby’s father, who?”
Nobody had an answer for that.
“Damn, this job’s a lot harder than it looks,” Campbell complained, breaking the tension with a laugh.
“What about Gina Kemmer?” Trammell asked. “Is that her real name? Does she have a record somewhere? If the two of them go back some years, maybe that’s how we find out about our vic.”
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Hamilton said. He looked to Dixon. “When are we going to get computers?”
“When they become necessary and free,” Dixon said. “There’s nothing wrong with your ear and your finger. Use the damn phone.”
“Speaking of phones,” Vince said. “Any hot tips on the reward line?”
“Oh, yeah,” Campbell said. “There are at least five women in the county who believe the killer was their ex-husband, ex-boyfriend, ex- married lover.”
“A psychic called to say she would find Marissa’s killer for us if we would only pay her the reward up front,” Trammell said.
“If she was really psychic, she would have known better than to call,” Dixon said.
“It’s a big waste of time, but Mrs. Bordain got one of her civic groups to man the phones,” Hamilton said. “It’s not costing us anything in man hours—unless we get a lead that’s worth chasing down.”
“Anything from any of Ms. Fordham’s gentlemen friends?” Dixon asked.
“Most of them had alibis for the night of the murder,” Campbell said.
“Who doesn’t?”
“Mark Foster was home alone. Bob Copetti was out of town—we haven’t corroborated that yet.”
“Steve Morgan was allegedly out of town,” Mendez said. “Has anyone followed up on that?”
No one had.
“What about Darren Bordain?” Vince asked. “He knew the victim and Gina Kemmer.”
“What’s his motive supposed to be?” Dixon asked.
Vince shrugged. “Maybe he’s Haley’s father. Or maybe he resented Marissa for her relationship with his mother.”
Dixon tried to dismiss the idea. “Darren Bordain is the golden child of that family. He’s had everything he ever wanted handed to him—an education, a career. He’s being groomed for the political arena.”
“I doubt any of that comes without strings attached,” Vince said. He looked to Hicks and Mendez. “You said he made some wisecrack about he should have had a fling with Marissa.”
“Yeah,” Mendez said. “He was on the sarcastic side when he talked about his mother, but ...”
“But what?” Vince asked. “He’s too smooth? Too good-looking? Too privileged?”
Mendez thought about it carefully. He did know better than to be fooled by appearances. “No. That’s just a big leap from resenting your mother to cutting a woman’s breasts off and sending them to Mom in the mail. I just didn’t get that vibe from him.”
“There’s a reason vibes aren’t admissible in court,” Vince said. “He should get a good look like every other guy who knew the victim. Don’t you think so, Cal?”
Dixon raked a hand back through his silver hair and sighed, no doubt weighing the cons of having Milo Bordain coming down on his head.
“Bring him in for a conversation,” he said. “But don’t make a big deal about it. Very low-key. Tell him we’re trying to build a more extensive picture of Marissa’s life and a timeline leading up to her death. We want to know who saw her when, who spoke to her, who has a solid alibi so we can eliminate those people from the suspect list.”
“That’s not a bad idea anyway,” Mendez said. “Let’s follow all the way through on that. We’ve got Steve Morgan in jail already. Let’s bring him over.”
Dixon gave him the eagle eye. “We do not have Steve Morgan in jail.”
“He assaulted me!” Mendez said, pointing to his fat stitched lip.
“You broke his nose and damn near fractured his eye socket. He wanted to file harassment and assault charges. I talked him out of it.”
“You talked a lawyer out of filing charges?” Trammell said. “You’re the man, boss.”
“He admitted to hitting you first,” Dixon said to Mendez.
“So he’s a cheat but not always a liar,” Mendez said. “Good to know he has something going for him. We should still bring him in to talk.”
Dixon stuck a finger at him. “You will have absolutely nothing to do with it. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I mean it.”
“Yes, sir. I know, sir.”
“Stay away from his house. Stay away from his family.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I paid a visit to Zander Zahn this afternoon,” Vince said, taking the spotlight off Mendez.
Mendez thanked him mentally. He had been waiting to hear Dixon say “stay away from his wife,” sure he would have looked guilty, despite the fact that he had not crossed a line with Sara Morgan. A part of him had certainly wanted to.