Secrets to the Grave (25 page)

“You had to let her do it, Vince,” Mendez said.

Vince frowned. “Now who’s reading whose mind?”

“You’ve taught me well, Old Man. Has the girl said anything?”

“No, but it’s in there. Last night she drew a picture for Anne with a scary-looking figure in it. ‘Bad Monster,’ she called it.”

“That’s not much to go on,” Mendez said. “We can’t put out an APB for Bad Monster.”

“Your witness is four.”

“This case stinks, so far. My witness is four, I’ve got to deal with an autistic hoarder who murdered his mother. It looks like the victim’s best friend took it on the lam—”

“What?” Vince said, coming to attention.

“Gina Kemmer is missing. In the couple of hours we weren’t watching her, she took off.”

“I don’t like that. There’s no sign of her?”

Mendez shook his head. “We’ve got a BOLO out on her and her car.”

“Get in her house.”

“I wanted to do that last night, but it was too soon. I wasn’t going to get a warrant based on nothing but the fact that she wasn’t home.”

“That was last night when maybe she was just out to dinner,” Vince said. “She’s still gone this morning. Now it’s a possible kidnapping. Go to ADA Worth and fight for it. We know you’re good in a fight.”

“She scares me more than Steve Morgan does,” Mendez joked, getting up.

“Page me when you get the warrant. I want to be there.”

Mendez gave him a mock salute and headed out the door.

Vince dumped the last of his coffee in the trash and headed back to Haley’s room. It was time to take his temporary family home.

40

“Where are we going?” Haley asked in her scratchy little sleepy voice.

Anne had awakened her before they left the hospital room, not wanting her to wake up in a panic in a strange place. They had forgotten about needing a child safety seat. Anne held the little girl on her lap and buckled them both in together for the short drive home.

Haley rubbed her eyes now and looked around as they drove out of the parking garage.

“We’re going to the house where Vince and I live,” Anne said. “Remember? You’re going to stay with us for a while.”

“How will my mommy find me?”

The question made Anne flinch inwardly. It wasn’t in her to lie, but neither was it time to tell Haley the full terrible truth.

“Your mommy got hurt really badly at the same time you did, sweetheart,” Anne said carefully. “Do you remember I told you that?”

Haley didn’t answer. She looked out the window at the tree-lined street and changed her line of questioning. “Do you have aminals at your house?”

“No, we don’t,” Anne said.

“I have kitties and chickens at my house.” She twisted around on Anne’s lap and looked up at Vince. “Can my kitties come and live in your house?”

“Hmmm ... we’ll have to see about that,” Vince said.

“Uh-oh.”

“We’ve already had this conversation,” Anne said. “Haley told me when her mommy says ‘we’ll see’ that means no.”

“What about your daddy?” Vince asked. “What does he say?”

Anne glared at her husband over the top of the little girl’s head and mouthed,
Don’t push.

“The daddies say lots of things,” Haley answered cryptically.

The daddies, plural. Her quick burst of anger pushed aside, she thought about what she had been told of Marissa Fordham’s life: single mother, free spirit, dated casually. Had Haley—fatherless—attached the label of “Daddy” to all of her mother’s male friends in the hopes that it might stick to one?

Vince was thinking the same thing.

“How many daddies do you know, Haley?” he asked, one eye on the road, one on the child.

Haley shrugged and made a little face, unhappy with the question.

In the hospital she had asked Vince if he was the daddy. She had asked Franny the same thing.

“Do you have a special daddy?” Anne asked.

No answer, but the somber expression on her face made Anne think she was looking back on a memory she wasn’t ready to share.

“Is that your house?” Haley asked as Vince turned in the driveway.

“Yep.”

Anne smiled, looking up at the old white stucco Mediterranean she and Vince had chosen to make their home. It was a solid, substantial house that had commanded its spot on that street since the late twenties. A tasteful renovation had brought the house up to modern standards without compromising its character.

She loved her house. It was welcoming and sheltering and safe, with none of the oppressive memories her childhood home had contained from her parents’ long unhappy marriage.

Vince led the way to the front door, laden down with duffel bags. Anne carried Haley, who was still a bit weak from her ordeal. Haley looked around with a critical eye, taking in the curved staircase with a glimpse of family room to one side and dining room to the other.

“Does your house have monsters?” she asked.

“No, honey. No monsters,” Anne said. “This is a safe house. No monsters will get you here.”

The little girl put her head on Anne’s shoulder, a thumb inching toward her mouth. “I’m tired.”

Anne carried her upstairs to the small guest room nearest the master. The room she had already pegged for a nursery. The walls were painted the softest blue. The double bed was too big for a toddler, but would hopefully give Haley the feeling of being on her own little island of safety with her stuffed animals.

She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

Anne tucked her in and brushed a hand tenderly over her mop of dark curls. When she turned, Vince was smiling at her tenderly.

“You’re a natural at that,” he said softly, slipping his arms around her.

Anne hugged him back. “She’ll be out for a while. Want some breakfast?”

He nuzzled her neck and growled. “I want you for breakfast.”

“You’ll have to settle for scrambled eggs,” she said, ducking away.

They went downstairs to the kitchen and Anne set about the task of making eggs while Vince made coffee. She loved being domestic with him. They had a nice working rhythm together, as if they had been a team for years instead of months.

“What’s going on with the investigation?” she asked.

“They’re still digging for background on the victim. I have a feeling there was a lot more to her than met the eye,” he said. “She claimed she was from Rhode Island, but there’s no trace of her ever having been there. And records of her here in California only go back to 1981.”

“Haley was born in 1982,” Anne said.

“Yeah. So was Marissa Fordham invented for the sole purpose of being Haley’s mother? Who was she before that? And so far no clue to who her father is. And the one person I think can tell us that has gone missing.”

“Voluntarily?” she asked cautiously, a low-watt current of unease going through her.

“I don’t know. It appears that way,” Vince said. “But I admit I don’t have a good feeling about it. I think these two gals could have been in something together and it got one of them killed.”

“And the other one is missing.”

“Ask Haley about her. See if you can get any impressions. Her name is Gina Kemmer. I think she and Marissa go way back.”

“All right.”

They sat at the table in the breakfast room overlooking the backyard. Anne picked at her food, anxiety chewing at the ends of her nerves. Their yard was boxed in by tall privet hedges, but no fence. A woman was missing. The only witness to a murder was upstairs sleeping ...

Her heart was beating a little too fast.

“Do you want the deputy in the house?”

“No,” she whispered, angry with herself for letting the fear creep in.

“Nervous?” Vince asked.

“Don’t say I told you so.”

“I won’t,” he said. “Eat your eggs, Mrs. Leone. I need you strong and healthy to bear my children.”

They both smiled at that.

Vince’s pager came to life beside his coffee mug. He checked the readout.

“Tony. I’ve got to go.”

41

“We can go in and make sure she’s not dead on the floor,” Mendez said. “But we can’t take anything—unless we’ve got an obvious crime scene—and then Worth wants me to call her so she can come and make sure I’m not lying.”

“That’s better than nothing,” Vince said. “She’s going to dot every
i
and cross every
t
in ink. She’s good. She’s careful.”

The three of them—Hicks, Mendez, and Vince—went into Gina Kemmer’s cute little Tudor house with gloves on and paper booties over their shoes. Just in case. Nothing seemed out of place. There were no signs of forced entry or of there having been a struggle in the house.

Someone had cleaned up the broken plant pot and the vomit in the living room. The snapshots that had been lying loose on the coffee table had been put away.

Vince had wanted another look at them. He would have liked to have put them up on a wall and just stare at them, waiting for that one certain something to pop out at him. He had wanted to study the two women—their faces, their body language, how they related to each other. He had wanted to find a date on the back of one of those snapshots that predated 1982.

He opened a drawer in the base of the table. No photos. He looked in a magazine rack, in a small bookcase. Nothing.

Wandering through the house, Vince was struck again by the feeling Gina Kemmer had put roots down here. He didn’t think she would pull those roots back up easily and just leave.

The house was neat and clean, but comfortably lived-in. There was an afghan tossed over the arm of the sofa, a couple of jackets hung on the hooks of an antique hall tree near the front door. There was art on the walls—several small paintings from Marissa, and casual groupings of photos, presumably of family and friends.

“It doesn’t look like she packed anything,” Mendez said, poking his head in the bedroom closet.

The bedroom was tidy. Dust rose and country blue. Very girly. Lace and dried flower bouquets. A couple of well-read romance novels were stacked on the nightstand at the base of a lamp with a frilly shade. Gina Kemmer still believed in fairy tales

Vince went into the kitchen. The counters were cluttered with canisters and cookbooks. The refrigerator held half a dozen Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers, a rusting head of lettuce, some cheese, and condiments.

On the door of the fridge a multitude of novelty magnets held photographs and notes and a drawing Haley had made.

“Who are these people?” he asked, pointing to a snapshot of Gina and Marissa and two good-looking men at a beach party. The girls were in bikini tops and hula skirts. The men were in baggy shorts, Aloha shirts, and Ray-Bans. All four of them were laughing, having the time of their lives.

Hicks closed a cupboard door and came to look.

“The taller one next to Marissa is Mark Foster, head of the music department at McAster. He and Marissa went out from time to time. The one on the other side of Gina is Darren Bordain.”

“You’ve talked to both of them?”

Mendez nodded. “Don Quinn told us Foster is gay. Foster denies it. I can’t imagine anyone would care one way or the other.”

“People are funny about their secrets,” Vince said. “It doesn’t matter if anyone else cares or not. People will guard their secrets like junkyard dogs, and take them to the grave if they can.”

“He’s the one who saw Steve Morgan having dinner with Marissa Fordham in Los Olivos,” Hicks said.

“And Morgan said ...?”

“‘So what?’” Mendez answered with a dark look.

“What about Bordain?”

“Fair-haired child of Milo and Bruce Bordain,” Hicks said. “He seems to be one of the few guys in town who hasn’t gone out with Marissa. They were casual friends.”

“What did his mother think about that?” Vince asked.

“He said maybe he should have had a fling with Marissa just to flip the old lady out,” Mendez said.

“Marissa was
her
toy,
her
pet,” Vince said, thinking about Milo Bordain’s attitude regarding Haley. Possessive. Entitled.

“Right,” Hicks said. “Good enough to trot out for occasions, but never invited to Thanksgiving dinner, he said.”

“Hmmm ...”

“He also said a bohemian single mother wouldn’t be good for his future political career.”

“The apple didn’t fall far from that tree, did it?” Vince said. “What about Bruce Bordain? Have you spoken with him?”

“He’s been out of town,” Hicks said. “He was supposed to fly into Santa Barbara last night.”

“I’m just curious about the family dynamic,” Vince admitted.

“According to the son, Bruce and the missus live separate lives. They hardly ever live in the same house at the same time.”

Which could have explained, at least in part, Milo Bordain’s need to hang on to the people in her life, Vince thought. She was lonely. It was as simple as that. Being able to keep Haley in her life would fill the void left by losing Marissa, who had filled the void left by an inattentive husband.

“She was a beauty, wasn’t she?” Vince said of their victim as he looked at the photo.

“Vibrant” was the word that came to mind. With a wicked smile and dancing dark eyes, there was something about her that just made her seem more alive than anyone else in the picture.

Funny, Vince thought, they were supposed to be looking at Gina Kemmer. She was the one missing. Her situation was urgent. Yet they were all drawn to Marissa. She had definitely been the dominant person in the friendship.

Gina was pretty, but in a quieter way. Blond and fair, she paled in comparison to her friend—physically as well as in terms of her presence. He had never met Marissa in life, but even after death he could feel the strength of her spirit. Gina didn’t have that. She had been the shy one hanging on to her friend’s coattails.