Secrets to the Grave

92

Sundays in Oak Knoll were days for music. A concert by the McAster Chorale, chamber music on the Plaza downtown, a student playing the Spanish guitar in the bookstore.

Mark Foster had gathered his honors brass quintet at the old Episcopalian church for a special preview of the upcoming winter festival.

The pews were nearly full. Cultural activities were always well attended in Oak Knoll. Between the academic community of McAster and the large population of white-collar retirees, no performance of any kind went lacking for an audience.

The quintet was in the middle of “Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming” when Hicks and Mendez walked into the back of the church with a pair of uniformed deputies. The deputies made their way up the outside aisles. Mendez and Hicks walked up the center aisle and stood politely, waiting for the song to end.

Foster turned to bow to the crowd’s applause. His face dropped at the sight of them. The deputies came in from the sides.

“What’s going on here?” Foster asked.

Mendez stepped forward. “Mark Foster, you’re under arrest for the kidnapping and attempted murder of Gina Kemmer. You have the right to remain silent—”

Foster went chalk white and looked at the deputy approaching him with handcuffs.

“Don’t run,” Mendez warned him. “Don’t do it.”

But like any cornered animal, Foster’s strongest instinct was flight.

People in the audience gasped and shrieked as he bolted to the left of Hicks and dashed for a side door. Mendez sprinted after him, catching him by the back of the collar as he got the door open, and running him through the door and face-first into a stone pillar.

Slapping his own cuffs on Foster—now sporting broken glasses, a broken nose, and a split lip—he said, “I told you not to run.”

Vince was waiting for them in the interview room. He had made himself at home with a cup of coffee, a couple of file folders, a notepad he was scribbling on when they came in the door.

He glanced up at Foster over the top of his reading glasses.

“Mr. Foster,” he said, standing up and offering his hand—reminding Foster he was still in cuffs. “Vince Leone.”

“Mr. Foster had it in his head he might outrun me,” Mendez said, depositing Foster on a chair.

Vince frowned. “Oooh ... never run, Mr. Foster. It makes you look guilty.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Then why did you run?” Vince asked, taking his seat. “See how that works?”

“I’m being harassed.”

“No, I believe you’re being arrested. Which will follow with being booked and fingerprinted and deposited in the county jail.”

He made a couple of notes, referred back a few pages, took his glasses off and set them aside.

“Gina Kemmer regained consciousness this afternoon.”

“That’s good news,” Foster said.

“Not for you. Gina tells us you shot her and dumped her down an abandoned well and left her for dead.”

“That’s absurd!” Foster said, trying to laugh. “Gina is a friend! She’s confused. She must have a concussion or something.”

“No, actually, she doesn’t. She broke her leg during the fall, but she didn’t hit her head. There’s nothing but layers and layers of garbage down at the bottom of that well. A pretty soft landing.”

“Why would I do that to her?” Foster asked.

“Here’s another tip for you: Never ask a question you aren’t going to like the answer to.

“When Marissa was killed, Gina got scared, on account of she knows a lot of secrets,” Vince said. “She’s a sweet kid, Gina. She doesn’t have the stomach for secrets. She just wants to have her little store, and live in her little house, and have her friends. That’s all Gina wants.

“But her best friend gets killed, and she’s afraid maybe she knows who did it. She figures to get out of Dodge before something bad can happen to her. But she should take a rack of cash with her—just in case. So she calls a friend—you. You’ll give her a little ‘loan,’ she thinks.

“The next thing she knows, she’s in the trunk of your car.”

Foster shook his head. “That never happened.”

“I can tell you haven’t done this a lot, Mr. Foster,” Vince said. “Tip number three: Don’t deny what can be proved absolutely.”

“We’ve impounded your vehicle, Mark,” Mendez said. “It’s in our garage, and as we sit here, evidence technicians are going through that trunk with a fine-toothed comb—literally. All they need to find is one hair.”

“Do you own a handgun, Mr. Foster?” Vince asked.

“No.”

“If you do, and it’s registered, we’ll find out,” Mendez said.

“I don’t own a gun.”

“Does Darren Bordain own a gun?”

“You would have to ask him.”

“Oh, we will,” Mendez said.

“You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who reacts aggressively to situations as a rule, Mark,” Vince said. “You must have felt very threatened by Gina. You must have thought she could cause you to lose something or someone very important to you. Your career, for instance.”

“She threatened to tell Bruce Bordain about you and Darren, didn’t she?” Mendez said. “Bruce sits on the board at McAster. If he wanted you gone, you’d be gone.”

“You define yourself by your career, don’t you, Mark?” Vince said. “You’re proud of what you’ve achieved. People your age don’t reach the status you’ve reached in your world, do they?”

“Or did you do it for Darren?” Mendez asked. “If Gina let that secret go ... Bye-bye, political career. I wouldn’t be surprised if the old man disowned him, either. Even if Haley Fordham is his kid.”

Foster sighed. “You might notice I’m not participating here. I don’t have anything to say—other than that I didn’t do it.”

“We have a victim ID,” Mendez said. “You’re not going to come out on the right side of this, Mark. You need to think about how you can salvage something out of this mess. If Darren killed Marissa—”

“Darren didn’t kill Marissa.”

“How can you know that—unless you were with him that night.”

“I know because I—”

Dixon rapped on the door and opened it, grim faced. “Mr. Foster’s attorney is here. Courtesy of Darren Bordain.”