Secrets, Lies & Homicide

by Patricia Dusenbury

  Half an hour later, he stood on her porch, a human wreck. He'd changed his clothes and cleaned up since yesterday afternoon, but he hadn't shaved and his eyes were bloodshot. Before she could say anything, he held up his hand. "I know. I look awful. I feel awful. Do you have any vodka?" His words floated on a cloud of alcohol.

  She stepped aside to let him enter. "Are you sure you don't want coffee?"

  "I'm awake. What I need is a drink." He stopped in the middle of the living room.

  "What's the matter?"

  "You don't want me on your nice white sofa."

  No, she didn't. "Why don't you sit on the blue chair?"

  "There's a cat in the blue chair, and he looks big enough to do some damage." Tony staggered back, raising his hands in mock fright when Dorian's yawn showed sharp teeth.

  "Dorian's harmless." Claire shooed the cat off the chair, and he stalked from the room, vertical tail conveying feline disapproval. The blue chair was Dorian's favorite perch, and sharing is not a cat thing.

  "Dorian Gray?" Tony sat down.

  "Uh huh."

  "That's funny." He didn't laugh. "My dad liked that book. He told me the story, said it was about art revealing truth. I was just a kid and I didn't understand what he meant, but I thought it was a cool story."

  "I read it in college."

  "I drank in college, majored in engineering and alcohol. Speaking of which, vodka's my first choice, but I'll be grateful for whatever you have."

  "I have vodka. What do you want in it?"

  "Three ice cubes. Please. Thank you."

  When she handed him the drink, Tony held the clear liquor up to the light and swirled it around. "Ah my beloved, fill the cup that clears today of past regrets and future fears." He winked. "The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, one of my favorite books."

  She studied him, looking for clues to how much he'd been drinking. He wasn't slurring his words, but he wasn't sober either. "I take it this is a hair of the dog."

  He tipped the glass to his mouth, closed his eyes and let the liquor run down his throat. He repeated the process until the glass was two-thirds empty. "Did you know that vodka is Russian for little water?"

  "You wanted to talk to me?"

  "Did the police ever show up?"

  "About an hour after you left."

  Two bored officers had followed her around the house. The sight of the skeleton, luminous in the twilight, brought them to attention. They told her that most calls about finding human bones turned out to be the remains of a pet dog that previous residents had buried in the back yard. Then they'd started asking questions.

  She had answered, feeling increasingly cut off from reality, as if she had wandered into a stranger's nightmare.

  The bones had been in the outbuilding, she'd told them, in that chest with the sand in it. Tony Burke opened it, looking for his childhood toys. That's right, the racecar driver. He owns this house. No, she wasn't one of his girlfriends. Her company was fixing up the house for him. No, he reconstructed the skeleton, not her. No, she didn't know why. He hadn't explained. No, she didn't know where he'd gone. Yes, he appeared to be upset.

  "Only an hour?" Tony said. "It must have been a slow night."

  "They want to talk to you."

  "I went back this morning. Everything was right where I left it." The joking tone had vanished.

  "Another call came in, a crime in progress. They said they'd report it. Someone would be back but they didn't know when. So I left."

  The policemen had left in a flurry of blue lights, siren screaming. If they'd stayed longer, asked more questions or gone into the studio to see for themselves, then she might have shared the possibility that Tony thought the skeleton was his father, that he might have gone to talk to his mother, to demand an explanation because she'd been the one to have the studio boarded up. But those were all conjectures. She'd been a murder suspect based on other people's conjectures, so maybe she wouldn't have said anything.

  "I'm sorry about leaving, but you're the one who called them." He lifted his now empty glass and rattled the ice cubes. "Be a good girl and get me another little water. Please."

  She fixed him a second drink, heavy on the ice cubes. "Where did you go?"

  "I went to ask my mother why she killed my father." He made the horrible accusation in a flat tone, as if saying he'd gone to the drugstore to buy toothpaste.

  "I wondered if you'd gone to see her."

  "Not see her, confront her." He took another long sip of vodka and rocked back and forth in the chair. "The last time I saw my father was almost twenty-five years ago. He and Geneviève were arguing."

  "That doesn't mean she killed him."

  Tony pointed at Dorian, who had returned to sit in the doorway and fix him with an unblinking amber stare.

  "I don't think your cat likes me. Hey big fellow, I'm friendly." He held his hand out, but Dorian kept his distance.

  "You're sitting in his chair and you're rocking. That makes him nervous."

  "Nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.'" Tony half smiled. "Meemaw used down-home expressions all the time. It drove Geneviève crazy."

  "Who's Meemaw?"

  "Who's Meemaw?" He pretended shock. "You're not from 'round here are you?"

  "Michigan."

  "Meemaw is your maternal grandmother. Mine was widowed. She spent a lot of time at our house and, after Dad died, moved in full-time. Before then she lived with Uncle Will up in Burney. Geneviève's from Burney, but she doesn't like to admit it." He stood and walked over to the window.

  Claire watched him uneasily. His humor felt desperate and his mood changes were giving her whiplash.

  "Meemaw was deathly afraid of hurricanes. Soon as one came into the Gulf, she'd start nagging us to go up to Uncle Will's. Camille had her terrified. Dad told her the storm looked to be going east of us, but she kept fussing. Geneviève told Meemaw to shut up, and Dad told her not to talk to her mother like that, so she starts yelling at him. After a few rounds of this, Dad told Meemaw to take me and go. If Camille threatened New Orleans, they'd follow." He turned back to face her. "My father carried our stuff out to the car and kissed me good-bye. I never saw him again."

  "I'm sorry." There was nothing else to say.

  He pulled a worn snapshot from his wallet. "This is my father, four years before he died." The photo showed a broad-shouldered man sitting on the floor helping a young boy put a puzzle together. Neither face was fully visible as they bent over the pieces, intent upon the task, but the picture captured a closeness that went beyond the physical.

  "That's a lovely picture," she said and meant it. "Father and son."

  "It's the only one I have. Meemaw gave it to me." He studied it a moment before returning it to his wallet. "Do you want to hear the rest of the story?"

  "Yes."

  "Dad phoned the next day, said they were coming up and should be there sometime late afternoon. When they didn't show up, Meemaw called the house, but nobody answered. It was dark out when Geneviève finally walked in. Everyone asked her where she'd been and where was Jim. She says traffic's terrible and Jim's helping a friend get his boat out of the water. He'll be right along.

  "She went to bed, but Meemaw and I sat up waiting. The wind was blowing and banging things against the house. A big tree went over in the yard and knocked out the electricity." He turned back to the window and rested his forehead against the glass.

  Claire wanted to walk over and hug him but didn't quite dare. He was telling her an intimate story but also holding himself at a distance. She sat quietly waiting for him to continue.

  "The storm passed and Geneviève went back to New Orleans. Meemaw and I stayed with Uncle Will for a few more days, a week at most, I don't remember. When we got home, Geneviève told me Dad was gone. They found his truck but he'd been washed away."

  "I can see why you think we found your father, but you don't know for sure."

  He brushed her words aside. "You know what seals th
e deal? My trains. I brought my favorite engine to Uncle Will's house and left the rest in my toy box out in the studio. When I got back, my trains were in a cardboard box in the laundry room, and the studio was boarded up."

  She tried to find an alternative explanation but could only suggest extenuating circumstances. "It looked as if death came from a blow to the head. It might have been an accident."

  "When I told Geneviève about finding the paintings, she went nuts. She screamed and cried, ordered me to put the boards back and never go near the studio again. I thought she was getting senile, but then I found Dad." He drained his glass and handed it to Claire. "That bottle's not empty yet, is it?"

  "Let me get you some coffee and something to eat."

  "I'm not hungry."

  "You should talk to the police. I know the head of homicide. His name is Mike Robinson. He's a nice guy."

  "No hurry. Dad's not going anywhere, and Geneviève has nowhere to go." He collapsed back into the chair and his head fell forward.

  "Tony? Are you okay?"

  He lifted his head and opened his mouth as if he was going to say something else, but no words emerged. Instead, he slid out of the chair and onto the floor, where he remained half sitting half sprawled, eyes closed and head tipped back onto the seat, definitely not okay.

  Dorian walked over and sniffed the unconscious man. He looked up at Claire, cat scorn on his face.

  "Come on Dorian, give the guy a break."

  She took hold of Tony's shoulders and worked him around until he was lying on the floor, removed his shoes, put a pillow under his head and covered him with an afghan. Who knew how much alcohol he'd consumed before he got to her house. She hoped he wouldn't be a sick drunk.

  Sometime around eight, Tony came to consciousness long enough to use the bathroom and eat a sandwich. He was in no condition to drive, and so she made up the sofa.

  CHAPTER 8

  Captain Mike Robinson started this Monday like every other one, in the office by six. He fixed a pot of coffee and began reviewing reports of the weekend carnage. Drunkenness, drug dealing, gang warfare, and domestic strife had taken their toll. Six people dead between six Friday evening and midnight Sunday, a new high.

  In a deviation from the usual pattern, one of the domestics involved mother and son rather than husband and wife. Detectives Smith and Monroe caught the call, and according to their notes, it wasn't the usual no-question-who-did-it domestic homicide. Despite witness statements that the victim's son publicly manhandled her early Saturday evening, no one had considered the incident worth reporting. She hadn't appeared to be injured, an interpretation supported by the fact that she was alive and well Sunday morning when an aide brought her morning medications. Moreover, no one saw her son on the premises after their Saturday evening argument.

  One glance at the crime scene photos told Mike that death resulted from strangulation, not a delayed result of whatever happened the night before. The door to the victim's apartment had been locked and there was no indication of forced entry. The Scene of the Crime team had found multiple fingerprints and fibers. Those analyses would filter in over the next couple weeks. He turned to the interviews and was surprised to see there'd been only three.

  The first was with the nurse who'd found the body. She'd unlocked the apartment at the urging of an aide, a young woman named Iris Burton, the same one who'd brought the meds earlier. The aide was friendly with the victim and had become hysterical upon finding the body. She was under a doctor's care and would have to be interviewed later.

  Monroe had conducted a group interview of thirty some witnesses to the mother-son argument. That session degenerated into a verbal lynch mob as people vied to condemn the son in ever-harsher terms. To make matters worse, none of the quotes were attributed to a named individual. Any competent defense lawyer would see every bit of this thrown out.

  Smith learned that the victim had recently been involved in a confrontation with another resident, a man suffering from senile dementia. He had questioned that individual with no guardian present. This interview, which should not have occurred, ended with the man's collapse and an incriminating statement that would never be admitted in any legal proceeding.

  No one had made a serious effort to find the son, a man named Tony Burke. The manager of Sunny Gardens had tried to telephone Burke, to inform him that his mother was dead, but had not been able to reach him. A patrol car sent to his house found no one home.

  Disgusted, Mike closed the file. Smith and Monroe worked for him, but layers of seniority and connections protected them from any serious disciplinary action. Suspending either or both would use up big chunks of time and political capital. They weren't worth it. His best option was to chew them out, put memos in their files, and reassign the case. He decided to give lead responsibility to his newest detective.

  Until recently, Beatrice Washington had been a uniformed officer riding around in a black and white. Superintendent Vernon, who personally intervened to secure her promotion, said she was sharp as a tack. Cynics said Vernon was sucking up to the politicians and their diversity agendas. Black and female, Beatrice Washington was a two-fer. Mike hadn't seen enough of her to form an opinion. She'd been learning the ropes and assisting where needed. There'd been no problems so far, but this already muddled case would be a good test.

  She'd need a partner. He checked the roster, and saw that Bill Lukas had a relatively light load. A solid investigator, Bill would be a good choice to work with Detective Washington on her first case. He left a message on her voice mail, asking her to call him as soon as she got in, did the same for Bill and picked up the next file. Minutes later, she knocked on his door.

  "I got your message, sir. I was at my desk, but my phone isn't working. Incoming calls go right to voice mail, and I can't call out."

  "Come on in. We can talk now."

  "Yes, sir." She folded her lanky frame into a chair.

  Detective Washington looked like a college basketball player, but according to her file, she was thirty-two, and her college degree had been earned with six years of night school.

  "How long has your phone been out of order?"

  "It's never worked, sir."

  "I'll look into it." There was no excuse, but there was a likely explanation. "Let me know if you have any more problems."

  "Yes, sir, but I don't want to cause trouble."

  "I'll make it clear the complaint originates with me." He'd also make it very clear to the good old boys that harassing their new colleague would not be tolerated.

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Here's your first case." He handed her the file. "Because you came in early, you have time to familiarize yourself with it before the staff meeting."

  She glanced at the summary and looked up, wide-eyed. "Tony Burke?"

  "Do you know him?"

  "I know who he is." Her mouth turned up at the corners, the beginnings of a smile quickly suppressed. "You must not read gossip columns, follow Grand Prix racing, or buy fancy cars. Sir."

  "Right on all counts. But now that you mention it, his name rings a bell. Tell me why."

  "Tony Burke drives racecars for Ferrari and dates beautiful women, models, actresses." She rolled her eyes. "One beautiful woman after another and half of them married to other men."

  "His mother lives—lived—in New Orleans?"

  "Tony grew up here. He moved to Italy years ago, but now he's come back and bought a car dealership."

  "And gotten mixed up in a homicide."

  If Mike had realized their prime suspect was a celebrity, he wouldn't have assigned the lead investigative role to a rookie. Because taking it back would be interpreted as a vote of no confidence, he let the assignment stand, but modified his staffing plan. "It's your first case, and I'll work with you. My time is limited, so tell me if you need more resources, and I'll assign another detective to work with us." He hoped her rapid promotions had been based on merit and not political expediency.

  "Yes sir."<
br />
  "And now that we're partners, why don't you call me Mike."

  An hour later, she stood in the door to his office, holding a file. "Excuse me, sir. I found something that might shed light on Tony Burke's confrontation with his mother."

  He glanced at the clock. It read 8:05, twenty-five minutes until the staff meeting. He waved Beatrice to a seat. "What have you got?"

  "Late Saturday afternoon, a woman named Claire Marshall reported finding human remains on property belonging to Tony Burke. The patrol officers confirmed it."

  He held out his hand. "Let me see."

  How many women named Claire Marshall lived in New Orleans? According to the report this one was a thirty-four-year-old Caucasian about five-eight and 125 pounds, with red hair and green eyes. He would have described her hair as auburn or, when the sun caught it, copper. He scanned the incident report.

  "The timeframe fits," Beatrice said.

  "That it does." He turned the pages over to see if he had missed something but found no mention of impounding the remains, no effort to contact Tony Burke, no follow-up of any kind. Smith and Monroe didn't have a monopoly on shoddy work.

  "Well done, Beatrice. How'd you find this so quickly?"

  "I told some guys I used to work with that I had my first case, and it involved Tony Burke. They'd heard about the bones at his house. I found out who'd answered the call."

  "Did you tell them to get over there ASAP and secure the scene?"

  "Yes, sir." She bit her lip. "I hope this isn't going to cause any problems for anyone."

  "Not unless I read about this incident in the papers. In which case, heads will roll. Pass it on."

  "Yes sir."

  "And get an SOC team to Burke's house, this morning if possible. If it's really been twenty-five years, they probably won't find anything, but it's a starting point."