Secrets to the Grave

85

“How long have you and Darren Bordain known each other?” Mendez asked.

For the first time since he had met Mark Foster, he saw a little crack in the man’s stoic good nature.

“Not this again,” Foster said, closing his eyes and heaving a sigh. “Darren didn’t kill Marissa.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“I’ve known Darren five or six years.”

“And how long have you been involved?”

“Involved in what way?”

“How long have you been lovers?”

“Oh my God.” He looked at Hicks. “You dragged me down here for this? What’s wrong with you people? Why are you so hung up on the idea that I’m gay? I’m not gay—not that it’s anyone’s business. Darren is not gay. And will you make up your minds? First you think he’s Haley’s father, but now you think he’s gay? And what would it matter? If he was gay, he really wouldn’t have any reason to kill Marissa.”

“He would if he didn’t want her spreading his little secret around,” Mendez said. “That information would be very valuable to him, I would think.”

“You know his mother,” Hicks said. “How would she react to news like that?”

“I have no idea.”

“You told us you know her really well,” Mendez said. “I barely know the woman at all and I can tell you she’s a narcissistic, racist snob. Homophobic wouldn’t be much of a stretch.”

Foster massaged the back of his neck, literally trying to rub out the pain that this experience was. “Is there a point to this?”

“Oh, yeah,” Mendez said.

“Will we get to it anytime soon?”

“What about his father?” Mendez asked. “He seems like that kind of macho man’s man who wouldn’t be too pleased to hear his son really doesn’t have his same interest in strippers and hookers.”

“I don’t really know Mr. Bordain.”

“You don’t run in the same circles.”

“No,” Foster said. “Really. Why are you asking me these questions? Why don’t you ask the Bordains? Why don’t you ask Darren? He’s here, isn’t he?”

“What would make you think that?” Hicks asked.

“He called me and told me before you brought him down here.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because a bunch of us were going out to dinner. He called to say he wouldn’t make it.”

“Thoughtful.”

“Yes. Is that a crime now?”

“No,” Mendez said. “Did he happen to mention to you that he’s wearing one of your shirts?”

“What?”

Mendez ran a forefinger along the breast pocket of his own shirt. “Monogrammed. M-E-F.”

“There must have been a mix-up at the laundry.”

“Mmmmm ... I suppose that could have happened. Or maybe you left it at his house the night Marissa was killed.”

Foster wasn’t quite sure what to do with that. He waited to see where Mendez would go with it.

“Here’s the thing, Mark,” he said. “We have Haley Fordham’s birth certificate with Darren Bordain listed as being her father.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Why would you say that?” Hicks asked. “If Darren is straight, why wouldn’t that be possible?”

“Because Haley was already born before Darren ever met Marissa.”

“He says,” Mendez stipulated. “The problem with Darren’s story is that he doesn’t really have an alibi for the night Marissa was killed, and he potentially has two very strong motives to want her dead. Now, he says he was home alone, which doesn’t help him out. I don’t believe him. I think there’s someone who could corroborate his alibi. I don’t believe he was home alone. I think he was with someone, and he’s trying to protect that person.”

“If you’re that person, Mark,” Hicks said, “you can clear this up right now and everyone moves on with their lives.”

“Why would you believe me?” Foster asked. “Darren is my friend. I could lie for him. You would have to corroborate my story, and you’ll do that by going around asking everyone I know if I’m gay and if Darren is gay. Since you’re going to do that anyway, I might as well go home now and leave you to your work.”

“You’re not going to back him up,” Mendez said.

“He hasn’t told you he was with me,” Foster countered. “There’s nothing for me to back up. And there’s nothing for either of us to gain by me saying I was there.”

Frustrated, Mendez sat back and tapped a pen against the tabletop. This was what he got for getting into a chess match with a smart guy. It was so much easier with the average stupid criminal.

“All right,” he said on a sigh. “Then this is going to get ugly, and there’s nothing I can do about that except apologize in advance.”

“You’ll understand if I don’t accept your apology, Detective,” Foster said, getting up, “if you’re going to drag my name through the mud and jeopardize my career by creating a scandal over something that doesn’t exist.”

“Yeah,” Mendez said. “I guess it’s easier for you to blame me for that than to accept responsibility for your own choice not to answer my questions or own up to who you are.”

Foster gave him a cold look through his steel-rimmed glasses. “You don’t have any idea who I am.”

“No,” Mendez agreed. “And you’ve been keeping that secret for so many years, I wonder if you know the answer yourself.”

“I live with who I am every day,” Foster said. He turned to Hicks. “If you don’t mind, Detective, I’d like to go home now.”

“Strike two,” Mendez said, walking into the break room.

“Go home,” Dixon said. “Tomorrow is another day.”

“Any word about Anne?”

“Dennis Farman somehow found their house. He attacked her with a couple of wood gouges he stole somewhere. She’s cut up, but she’ll be fine.”

“Jesus,” Mendez muttered. “She’s the only person on the planet who ever tried to do a kind thing for him. Where’s the little shit now?”

“In restraints at Mercy General. Apparently, the little Morgan girl was at the scene and clocked him a good one in the head with a fireplace poker.”

“Way to go, Wendy.”

“He’ll be transferred to the juvenile detention center as soon as the doctor clears him to go,” Dixon said. “As far as I’m concerned he can rot there until he’s eighteen.”

Mendez shrugged his sport coat on and headed for the door. “Be sure to tell them to hide all their matches.”