Secrets to the Grave

93

“He was going to confess!” Mendez exclaimed. “Ten more seconds and he would have confessed! He was going to say he killed Marissa. Ten more seconds!”

They had adjourned to the war room while the Bordain attorney consulted with his new client.

Vince tuned out Mendez’s rant. He went to the whiteboard and made a new entry on the timeline for Wednesday evening.

Apx. 6:00-6:30pm: G. Kemmer abducted by M. Foster.

Gina’s explanation had been sketchy and piecemeal. She hadn’t been able to give them more than a few words at a time before exhaustion pulled her back under. The doctor had finally intervened and kicked them out of her room.

“Let’s think this through,” Vince said, turning away from the board. “Go back to Wednesday. Gina is scared. We’ll assume because she knows who killed Marissa. She decides she needs to get out of town before something happens to her. She goes to Mark Foster. If she thought Mark Foster killed Marissa, she would never have gone to him.”

The excitement drained out of Mendez’s expression, leaving just the frustration. “But he was about to say—”

“What you wanted to hear?” Vince asked. “He could have just as easily been about to confess to having been with Darren Bordain.”

“Why else would Foster have tried to kill her?” Hicks asked.

“She threatened him,” Vince suggested. “She knew about him and Bordain. She and Marissa facilitated the relationship. They were together as a foursome a lot. Foster and Bordain both gave Gina as their alibi for part of Sunday night.”

“She was a beard,” Hicks said.

“So she’s desperate for cash to get out of town. If he hesitates, that’s the thing she has to hang over his head. Maybe it’s like I said to Foster: She threatened to expose them to Bordain’s father. He sits on the board at McAster. Bruce Bordain can ruin Mark Foster’s career. Gina can ruin Mark and Darren. The next thing Gina knows, she’s in the trunk of a car.”

“And Foster just happens to dump her in the same abandoned well Marissa’s killer dumped the bloody sweatshirt?” Mendez said, skeptical.

“That well is a public dumping ground by the sound of it,” Vince said. “It’s located equidistant between Marissa’s home and the Bordain ranch. Foster could have hiked out there in those hills. Or Darren could have told him. Or Darren could have been the one to take her there for all we know at this point.”

“Either way,” Mendez said. “I don’t think it was a coincidence that sweatshirt was down there. I think we’ve got to give a hard look at both Bordain and Foster now. Even if Gina didn’t suspect Foster, that doesn’t mean he didn’t do it.”

“At least we know the girl is going to make it now,” Dixon said. “As soon as she’s strong enough, we’ll get the whole story.

“Do we know if Darren Bordain owns a weapon?”

“We can’t find out until tomorrow,” Hicks pointed out.

“In the meantime,” Dixon said, “we’ll get a warrant to search Foster’s home and office. And we sit on Darren Bordain. I’ll get Trammell and Campbell to take the first watch.”

“It’s coming together, boys,” Vince said, almost satisfied ... but not quite.

He picked up dinner at Piazza Fontana on the way home, begging off from the glass of wine Gianni Farina wanted to share. All Vince wanted was to get home, back to Anne and Haley.

He had been loath to leave them that afternoon when he had gotten the call that Gina Kemmer had regained consciousness. Haley had been restless and out of sorts, acting out in little bursts of anger.

Anne felt she was probably struggling with the memories and emotions that had shaken loose when she had witnessed Anne being attacked by Dennis Farman. If those memories were starting to bubble up to the surface of Haley’s consciousness, an ID of her mother’s murderer could be forthcoming.

Meanwhile, Anne was struggling with her own feelings. Between the PTSD and her doubts and depression over how she had handled Dennis Farman, she was in a tough place, and Vince wanted nothing more than to be there for her as a sounding board, or to reassure, or just to hold her.

He knew how she was feeling. He still couldn’t help but wonder if he had handled Zander Zahn more carefully, if Zahn would still be alive.

As he turned into their driveway, his car filled with the aromas of lasagna and chicken piccata. He thought how different it was to come home to someone who could share his day, and he could share hers, instead of locking up his professional self at the end of the day and trying to be someone he wasn’t with someone who didn’t really know who he was.

“You’re a lucky man, Vince,” he said, and headed into the house to spend the evening with his wife.