Secrets to the Grave

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.

“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.”