Read Secrets to the Grave Online
Authors: Tami Hoag
Secrets to the Grave (10 page)
Mendez took the piece of paper and tucked it inside his little notebook as he rose from his chair. “We’ll speak to her. Thank you for your time.”
As they started toward the door, Jane Thomas asked, “Marissa’s daughter—have you heard anything? Will she be all right?”
She held up a hand before Mendez could draw a breath to answer. “What am I thinking? She witnessed her mother’s murder. What could be all right after that?”
14
Don Quinn was a good-looking guy in his late fifties—tan, a mane of silver hair, chiseled features, wide white smile. He could have been an actor on one of the prime-time soaps. He could have been the roving guest star who appeared one night as a deadly doctor on
Murder, She Wrote
, and as an oil tycoon days later on
Dynasty
.
Murder, She Wrote
, and as an oil tycoon days later on
Dynasty
.
Here in Oak Knoll he played the role of senior partner of a successful law firm.
The John Forsythe smile dropped away when Mendez told him why they were in his office.
“Oh my God,” he said, sinking down into his leather executive’s desk chair. He aged suddenly as the tan seemingly drained from his face.
“We understand you sometimes saw Ms. Fordham socially,” Hicks began.
Quinn didn’t respond for several moments as he tried to absorb the shock of the news.
“No offense intended, Mr. Quinn,” Mendez said, “but you seem considerably older than Ms. Fordham.”
Though he clearly didn’t want anyone to think of him as “older,” Mendez thought. The man was in great shape, dressed in a black T-shirt under his tan sport coat. Probably the only reason he didn’t dye his hair was that it made such a striking contrast to his tan.
Quinn shook off whatever memories had been playing through his mind. “Marissa and I have gone out a few times. Not lately. She was a lovely young woman. Interesting, vivacious. Is there some reason I shouldn’t have enjoyed her company?”
“Your wife, maybe?” Mendez said, shooting a pointed look to a framed family photo on the bookshelves behind Don Quinn. Quinn, Mrs. Quinn—a slightly plump woman his own age, and two good-looking kids—a boy and a girl in their late teens or early twenties. The trendy Quinns posed on a sandy beach, all of them in khaki pants and French blue turtlenecks.
“I’m divorced,” Quinn said. “Was it a robbery?”
“No.”
“Oh my God. Someone murdered her? Why?”
“We were hoping you might be able to shed some light on that subject for us,” Hicks said. “When did you last see her?”
“I saw her at fund-raiser for local school music programs back in September.”
“You were together?”
“No. She was with Mark Foster. Marissa and I were friends. We dated off and on. It wasn’t serious.”
“Do you know if she was serious with Mr. Foster?”
“No,” Quinn said dismissively. “Marissa enjoyed the company of men. She was a delightful date. But she only let you get just so close and no closer. I always imagined she’d been hurt badly by someone—presumably Haley’s father.
“Haley!” he said, realization dawning. “Oh my God. Where is Haley? Was she ... ?”
“She was taken to the hospital,” Hicks said. “We don’t know the extent of injuries at this point.”
“Oh, no. That just makes me feel sick.”
“So Marissa and Mark Foster were dating?” Mendez asked, steering them back on point.
“They were friends.”
“Like you were friends?” Hicks asked.
“Not exactly. Mark occasionally needs a date for a function. Marissa was happy to step in.”
“I don’t understand,” Mendez said.
“I don’t think Mark really dates women,” Quinn said.
“He’s gay?”
He shrugged. “In the closet. That’s my impression. He’s a nice guy. It’s nobody’s business.”
“But there might be some members on the board of McAster who wouldn’t be happy.”
“It may be a liberal arts school, but not everyone on the board takes that word ‘liberal’ to heart,” Quinn said. “You know, it wasn’t five months ago the Supreme Court ruled homosexual activity between consenting adults in the privacy of a home is not protected by the Constitution. Men like Mark have to be discreet. I think Marissa was his beard.”
“And you don’t think she was serious about anyone else?” Mendez said.
Quinn shook his head. “No. Marissa was a free spirit. She enjoyed her life. She enjoyed her daughter. She didn’t need a man to complete her emotionally.”
“What about financially?” Hicks asked. “She has a nice place out there. Had to cost some bucks. Was she that successful as an artist?”
“She did well as an artist, but I don’t think she needed the money,” Quinn said. “I think she has family money.”
“What do you know about her family?”
“East Coast. Rhode Island, I think. She never spoke of them. It seemed to be a sore subject.”
“Were you her attorney as well as her friend?” Mendez asked.
“No. Steve helped her set up a trust for her daughter. That’s been the extent of her business with us.”
“Was he friends with her too?” Mendez asked, wondering why Sara hadn’t mentioned the connection earlier. He probably shouldn’t have been surprised. She had already had the unflattering light of police scrutiny illuminate the flaws in her marriage. Why invite that again?
Quinn frowned. “He wasn’t sleeping with her, if that’s what you mean.”
“Like he wasn’t sleeping with Lisa Warwick?” Mendez challenged.
“You never had any proof he had an affair with Lisa.”
“It’s not against the law to cheat on your wife,” Mendez said, feeling himself get a little hot under the collar. “We’re not going to spend tax-payer dollars trying to prove the guy is an adulterer. But it doesn’t speak well for his character, does it?”
“Steve is a fine person,” Quinn said firmly as he sat back in his expensive leather chair—withdrawing from the interview. “He works hard. He gives back to the community. He’s a good father.”
“He’s just not a good husband,” Mendez said. “I guess everybody has their flaws.”
“I don’t see why we’re talking about this, Detective,” Quinn said. He propped his elbows on the armrests of the chair and made a tent with his hands—subconsciously putting a physical barrier between them. “Someone murdered Marissa Fordham. It wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Steve. You should look elsewhere.”
“Is he in today?” Mendez asked.
“I believe he’s in a meeting with a client.”
And if he wasn’t, Don Quinn was going to make damn sure he pretended he was. Mendez figured he’d be on the phone to his partner’s office the instant he and Hicks stepped out the door.
He glanced at his watch. 4:42. The office would close soon. Steve Morgan would leave and head home—or elsewhere.
Mendez rose from his chair. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Quinn.”
“If you think of anything that might be helpful to the investigation, please give us a call,” Hicks said, setting a business card on the desk.
“What’s with the hard-on for Steve Morgan?” Hicks asked as they walked back to the car parked down the street at a meter.
“The guy rubs me the wrong way,” Mendez said. “He’s got a beautiful wife, a beautiful daughter, a beautiful home, and he’s a fucking dog. There was no doubt in my mind he was sleeping with Lisa Warwick—who ended up murdered. Now he’s got a connection to Marissa Fordham—also murdered.”
“Peter Crane killed Lisa Warwick,” Hicks pointed out.
“I know. I just don’t like coincidence.”
“You just don’t like Steve Morgan.”
“No, I don’t. Do you?”
“He doesn’t mean anything to me one way or the other. He’s just another name on the list of people to talk to regarding our victim.”
“Then let’s,” Mendez said as they got in the car.
“You want to wait for him here?” Hicks asked. “Go back and park ourselves in the office?”
“No. I’d say we go park in front of his house, but there’s no guarantee he’s going home when he leaves here. Let’s go around the back and catch him coming out.”
They didn’t have to wait long.
They had just pulled down the alley when Steve Morgan came out the back door of the Quinn, Morgan offices. He was tall and lanky with a mop of sandy, wavy hair; the kind of guy who would look good with a tennis racket in his hand and a sweater tied around his neck.
Mendez pulled the sedan in directly behind Morgan’s black Trans Am, blocking his exit.
“Slipping out early?” he asked as Morgan got out of the car.
If Morgan was annoyed, he did a good job of masking it.
“Detectives. Don just told me about Marissa Fordham. She was a friend of my wife’s. I want to break the news to Sara before she sees it on TV.”
“She knows,” Mendez said. “As it happens, she had an appointment with Ms. Fordham this morning. I’ve already spoken with her.”
Morgan sighed. “Oh God, she must be upset.”
“She didn’t call you?”
“I’ve been in and out of the office today. I saw she left a couple of messages, but I haven’t had time to call her back.”
“She took it pretty hard,” Mendez said. “You knew Ms. Fordham as well.”
Morgan sat back against his spotless vehicle. “Yes. I knew her. Is this the part where you’re going to accuse me of sleeping with her?”
“Were you?” Hicks asked.
“No. I knew Marissa from the Thomas Center. I helped out with the copyright business on the poster she did. And I knew her socially a little bit—charity functions, cocktail parties, like that.”
“She dated your partner,” Hicks said.
“She dated a few different men. Marissa wasn’t interested in being tied down by anyone other than her daughter. She was a terrific mother.”
“You put together a trust for her little girl,” Mendez said. “Can you tell us who the trustee is?”
“I am. That’s not uncommon when people don’t have close family—and actually just as common when they do. They want a neutral third party. Relatives can get crazy when there’s money involved.”
“Are we talking about a lot of money?”
Morgan frowned. “I can’t tell you that. It’s confidential.”
“Your client is dead.”
“But her heir is alive, and who knows what relatives might crawl out of the woodwork now,” he said. “I can’t release the information without a court order or I could end up in front of the ethics committee and/or being sued.”
“Let me put it this way, then,” Mendez said. “Will the little girl be well taken care of?”
“Yes.”
“What about a will?” Hicks asked.
“I asked her about that. She said it was taken care of. I didn’t draw it up for her.”
“Did she tell you if she had made provisions for the care of her daughter in the event something happened to her?”
“No. Not beyond the trust. But I can’t imagine she hadn’t. Sara and I took care of that for Wendy before she was even born.”
“You’re an attorney,” Hicks pointed out.
“Yes, but I’m a father first,” Morgan said. “Marissa was a mother first—and a single mom at that. I’m sure when you go through her personal documents you’ll find everything you’re looking for.”
“Did she ever mention the little girl’s father to you?” Mendez asked.
“Not by name. And only to tell me he wasn’t a factor in Haley’s life.”
Morgan glanced at his watch and frowned. “I don’t know what else I can tell you. Does Jane Thomas know about Marissa?”
“Yes. We were there earlier,” Hicks said.
“I’d like to get going then—if there’s nothing else.”
“Not for the moment.”
“You know where to find me,” Morgan said.
Yeah, Mendez thought as he backed the sedan up to let Steve Morgan out of his parking place, just this side of a murder victim.
15
“Anne Marie! You look like something the cat dragged in!”
“There’s nothing like a good friend to brighten a dark day,” Anne said, sliding into the booth.
Fran Goodsell had been her best friend from her first day teaching at Oak Knoll Elementary six years ago. Completely irreverent in all the most inappropriate moments, he always found a way to distract her from whatever troubled her.
Sharp-witted and loyal to a fault, he was the fourteenth of fifteen children born to an Irish Catholic family in Boston and had just turned forty in the spring, celebrating with an outrageous costumed fete he called “Franival!”
His phenomenal teaching skills had helped him create an impressive résumé at top private and public schools on the East Coast before he had migrated to California.
Despite the fact that he actually loved his work and was brilliant with children and parents alike, he liked to profess that teaching kindergarten had driven him to drink and to contemplate the mandatory sterilization of most of the population.
“Honestly, darling,” he said, casting a disapproving eye at Anne’s present state. He was, of course, as always, perfectly preppy with a twist, dressed in khaki pants and not one but two Ralph Lauren Polo shirts—a vibrant blue one over a vibrant orange one—with the collars turned up.
Anne supposed she looked a little worse for wear at the end of this day, even though she had started out feeling smart and together in olive slacks and a lightweight black sweater set. Now her slacks were creased and wilted, and her sweaters seemed to have stretched and grown in the heat of the afternoon.
She had cried off most of her makeup during what she called her “mini-meltdowns” of the day. At some point she had given up on her hair and pulled it back into a ponytail with a brown scrunchie she had found in the bottom of her purse.
“You’re not seeing me at my freshest,” she said. “I feel like something the cat threw up.”
“Are you pregnant?”
“No. And thanks for reminding me.”
It was no secret to Franny that she and Vince were anxious to start their family. He made it his life’s work to dig out the most private details of her life—and she usually gave them up without too much of a fight because he was in many ways better medicine than her therapist had ever prescribed.
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