Secrets, Lies & Homicide

by Patricia Dusenbury

Monday morning and he was already up to his neck in compromise and bad news. He sent Beatrice on her way and called Detectives Smith and Monroe into his office. He had just enough time to chew them out before the homicide division's Monday morning staff meeting.

  That meeting was ending when Superintendent Vernon walked in, looking more disgruntled than usual. "Smith, Monroe, don't go anywhere." He turned to Mike. "I want to discuss their response to the Geneviève Burke homicide."

  "It was unsatisfactory."

  "Tell me something I don't already know."

  "They're off the case. I've assigned it to Detective Washington. I'll be working it with her."

  "Then she better stay, too."

  Although Mike wasn't a Henry Vernon fan, he had to sympathize with the man responsible for making the police department look good when every indicator pointed in the wrong direction. Crime was up, clearance rates were down, and police officers kept getting caught on the wrong side of the law. The drug dealers had more and better weapons than the police. Street slang for Uptown was Chopper City, after the AK-47s and M-16s chattering in the night.

  Vernon must feel like Sisyphus, rolling a rock uphill every day and knowing it was going to roll back down overnight. But that neither justified nor excused micromanagement.

  "I've already spoken to Detectives Smith and Monroe," he said.

  "I'm sure you did, Mike, but you're new here, and there are issues you might not be aware of." Vernon took a packet of chewing gum out of his pocket, unwrapped a piece and shoved it into his mouth. He chewed savagely, all the while glaring at the two detectives. The tension in the air lessened only slightly when he finally spoke. "Monroe, you had your eye on the door the whole goddamn time you were there. Since when do we conduct group interviews? In a homicide! Was your Sunday dinner getting cold?"

  "No, sir," Monroe said.

  "The victim was seen alive little after seven. Her body was found shortly before eleven. We're looking at a window of less than four hours. Did anyone notice?" When neither Monroe nor Smith responded, he repeated the question.

  "Yes, sir. We did," Monroe said, "and we talked about it."

  "Really. What did you say?"

  Vernon's tone should have warned him, but Monroe plowed ahead. "Seven come eleven, but it wasn't a lucky roll for the old lady."

  "Life is a crap shoot," Smith added helpfully.

  An incredulous Vernon looked from one to the other. "You think that's funny?" He added another stick of gum to the wad in his mouth before returning to the attack. "Why, Detective Monroe, do I see no indication that you asked what people were doing or what they observed during those four hours?"

  Without giving Monroe a chance to defend himself, Vernon shifted his attention. "Smith, you make Monroe look brilliant. You were told that Roger Devereux was legally incompetent, but you couldn't wait for his doctor to show up, much less his legal guardian. You browbeat a senile old man who just happens to belong to one of this city's leading families. Have you ever heard of Devereux Chemicals? Devereux Petroleum? Devereux Engineering?" With each corporate name, Vernon's face grew redder and his attack on the chewing gum, more ferocious.

  Mike gritted his teeth. The case file for the Burke homicide investigation described the sort of sloppy police work that made the whole department look bad. Smith and Monroe deserved criticism, but delivering it was his job. And he had. He glanced at Beatrice to see how she was coping. She was staring, her expression impassive, at the table. He caught her eye, saw a glimpse of despair and understood.

  "Excuse me, sir," he said to Vernon. "Detective Washington and I would be happy to come back when you're ready to talk to us." The Super would resent the challenge to his authority, but he had to speak up for his new detective's sake. Smith and Monroe would be slow to forgive her for witnessing their disgrace. Young, Black, female, and new to homicide, she had a tough enough road without that.

  "I want you to hear this, too, both of you," Vernon said, but he continued in a calmer manner. He assured Smith that the Devereux Family was on a first name basis with both the Mayor and the Governor and wouldn't hesitate to accuse him of abusing Roger. The manager of Sunny Gardens would be happy to back them up.

  "But you are one lucky SOB. They can't go after you without revealing their connection to the victim." He looked around the table. "Anyone know what that connection is?"

  No one answered, and after a moment Vernon continued, "Geneviève might be an old lady today." He flicked Monroe a dirty look. "But she was hot stuff back in the fifties and sixties. Beautiful and wild before wild became the new normal. Of course that was after her divorce. Anyone want to guess who she divorced?" This time he didn't wait for an answer. "Roger Devereux."

  Mike raised his eyebrows. "That was a long time ago."

  "Forty years is ancient history to the children of the media." Vernon's lip lifted in contempt. "They run in a pack, gangbanging the obvious. No one will discover the Devereux connection unless the investigation drags on and some idiot reporter trips over it. For a change, time is on our side, but it won't stay there forever." He pounded his fist on the table. "I want a fast resolution. We have a suspect. Everyone told you Tony Burke killed his mother. Smith and Monroe, you knocked on his front door and when he didn't answer, you went on home."

  "His house is being rehabbed," Smith said. "We got the company's name off their sign. We'll call them this morning."

  "Last I heard you and Monroe were off the case," Vernon said.

  "They are," Mike said.

  "Then get the hell out of here." Vernon tore the wrapper from another piece of gum. "Mike and I have things to discuss."

  Smith and Monroe jostled each other in their hurry to get out the door.

  Mike put a hand on Beatrice's arm, letting her know she should stay. "Detective Washington has found additional information."

  This time, Vernon listened without interrupting. Only the increasing speed of his gum chewing revealed his emotions. Beatrice finished, and he said, "Claire Marshall. It doesn't rain but it pours."

  "The responding officers have been warned not to discuss the call, and I'm sure Claire doesn't want her name in the paper," Nor did Vernon. The Frank Palmer-Claire Marshall fiasco was only a few months in the past. Vernon had put himself center stage when the investigation appeared to be going well, and he was stuck in the spotlight when it went very wrong. No matter how short their collective attention span, the media would remember.

  "Have you talked to her yet?"

  "No. Detective Washington learned of Claire's involvement just this morning." He'd been debating whether to call himself or have Beatrice do it. Vernon's assumption, tipped it. He and Claire had a history, possibly a future. He'd make the call.

  "Good luck." Vernon's sardonic smile said luck would be needed. "And good luck finding Tony Burke. He could have left the country by now."

  "He's unpopular at Sunny Gardens, but—" Mike began.

  Vernon raised both hands in mock surrender. "I read the file. We don't know if Tony Burke killed his mother or not, and I'm trusting you not to jump the gun. If we arrest him, he'll hire ten slick lawyers and the media will be on our doorstep twenty-four seven. We need an ironclad case."

  CHAPTER 9

  Claire sprinted to get the phone before it woke Tony. She recognized Mike's hello, and felt a smile spread across her face.

  "How nice to hear from you. How've you been?" She'd been afraid he'd never call again. It would have been her fault...

  "I'm afraid this is business," he said. "I'm looking for one of your clients, a man named Tony Burke."

  "He's here, but he's still asleep." She felt like a fool.

  After Claire hung up, it occurred to her that things must be unusually quiet in New Orleans if the head of homicide was investigating twenty-five-year-old human remains. Hope rekindled. Mike could be using this as an excuse to see her again.

  She knelt beside the sofa and shook Tony's shoulder. "Wake up. It's almost ten."

  "I do
n't care." His voice scraped like gravel.

  "The police want to talk to you. They're on the way."

  He sat up. "Do I have time for a shower?"

  "I've put out clean towels. Coffee will be ready by the time you're finished."

  He asked for a Coke with lots of ice and carried it with him into the bathroom.

  Tony wasn't the only one who needed to clean up. Claire changed from jeans and a work shirt into nice slacks and her new green silk blouse that brought out the color of her eyes. Her make-up was in the bathroom with Tony, and so she had to make do with combing her hair and putting on fresh lipstick.

  Her living room reeked of stale alcohol. She opened the windows and started to clear the sofa but changed her mind and left the sheets right where they were. Mike had sounded a little surprised when she said Tony was still asleep, and she'd been too irritated with herself to clarify anything. And exactly what would she have said? She pushed the button to open the driveway gate and carried her orange juice outside. She'd wait for Mike on the porch.

  A male cardinal perched on her bird feeder. The dowdier female would be around somewhere. Cardinals mated for life, and this pair lived in a big oak behind the carriage house. Dorian who had followed her outside became a cat statue. Only his eyes moved, following the bird, which flew off in a flash of red.

  "Don't even think about it." She sat on the swing, settled Dorian onto her lap and scratched behind his ears. "Mike called. Big deal. It's Tony he wants to see, not me. He took me out a few times because he felt sorry for me, just like I feel sorry for Tony." She said it aloud to prove to herself she'd be fine if it were true.

  Unimpressed, Dorian hopped off her lap and went to investigate a rustle in the bushes. The cardinal returned to the feeder. Claire watched the birds come and, once again, replayed the last time she'd seen Mike.

  They had been at Sweet Lorraine's, chatting while they waited for the musicians to return from break, when she became conscious of his hand close to hers on the table. She felt its warmth, and something inside her froze. As if it had a will of its own, her hand slid back onto her lap and stayed there. Mike didn't seemed to notice, but of course he did. After the next set, he took her home, thanked her for a nice evening and wished her a Merry Christmas. Four weeks early.

  She should have said something, told him that she really liked him and enjoyed his company and maybe she wanted to be more than friends, someday, but she just wasn't ready, not yet.

  The next morning she'd thought about calling him, explaining and asking for his understanding. He knew that she'd had a hard time since her husband died, that it had been only sixteen months. He might have understood, might have been patient with her. She had lifted the receiver more than once but each time put it down without dialing. She'd never called. Nor had he—until now.

  An unmarked police car crunched down the gravel drive and stopped in front of her porch. Mike emerged from the driver's side. His dark hair, a little longer than the last time she'd seen him, curled against his shirt collar. Sunglasses hid his eyes, but she remembered their intense, almost electric, blue. She liked and respected him, trusted him implicitly and enjoyed his company. How long would the space, left inside her when Tom died, stay cold and empty?

  The passenger door opened and a slender African-American woman appeared. In her high heels, she was taller than Mike's six feet. They walked up the steps together, and he introduced her as Detective Beatrice Washington.

  "Bea," the detective said with a wide smile.

  Claire offered them coffee or juice, which both refused. "I hope you don't mind if I finish my juice out here. My living room smells like a flophouse." She sat in the swing and gestured toward the rocking chairs. "Have a seat."

  "Is Burke still here?" Mike said. Neither sat down.

  "He's in the shower." She could hear the water running. They must hear it too. Not one but two investigators, it really was police business. "I guess this is about the skeleton?"

  "You're working on Burke's house?" Mike said.

  Answer my question with one of your own. Just like old times. "We were. I called everyone off the project to give you time to get those bones out of there." Jack had been horrified when she explained the reason for the delay. If the demolition crew glimpsed the skeleton, they'd walk off the job and never come back.

  "Can you tell us any more than you told the responding officers Saturday afternoon?"

  "I'd rather let Tony do the talking." She pushed the railing with her foot, sending the swing higher. "I'm surprised old bones are getting such high-level attention."

  No one offered an explanation. Moments later, a loud clank signaled that the hot water had been turned off.

  "Old plumbing," Claire said. She opened the door and gestured for them to enter. "Please make yourselves comfortable. I'll tell Tony you're here."

  "We have some bad news for him." Mike said.

  Bad news? What could be worse than thinking your mother had murdered your father. She knocked on the bathroom door. "The police are here, and your coffee's ready. How do you want it?"

  "Hot and black, please."

  She poured a cup and carried it into the living room. Mike and Bea were sitting in the two chairs, leaving only the sofa with its crumpled sheets. She put Tony's coffee down. "I'll be outside. Let me know if you need anything."

  "Don't leave, Claire, please. I could use some moral support." Tony walked in looking amazingly good, clean-shaven, eyes clear and hair combed. He winked at her. "I owe you a razor."

  The implied intimacy brought color to her cheeks. She pictured Tony rummaging around in her bathroom and outrage joined embarrassment. She couldn't look at Mike or Bea. Apparently oblivious to her reaction, Tony pushed the sheets onto the floor, sat down and took a sip of the coffee. Too angry to speak, she sat as far from him as possible, which wasn't far, because he'd sat in the middle, and it wasn't a big sofa.

  Mike introduced himself and his partner. No first names now, it was Mr. Burke, Detective Washington. "I'm afraid we have bad news for you, Mr. Burke."

  "Bad news?"

  "Yes." Mike paused. "Your mother died yesterday morning."

  "Geneviève's dead? What happened to her? She was fine Saturday night."

  "She was murdered."

  Tony stared into his coffee cup.

  All irritation forgotten, Claire tried to imagine what he must be feeling. His relationship with Geneviève had been strained, but she was still his mother. "I'm so sorry, Tony."

  "Would you like a few moments to gather your thoughts?" Mike said.

  "No, I'm okay. It's a shock—death is—but my mother and I weren't close. Claire can tell you, we didn't even like each other."

  She winced. She'd not heard Tony or Geneviève say a kind word about the other, but she didn't really know either of them, didn't want to make a judgment.

  To her relief, Mike changed the subject. "We have some questions for you." When Tony nodded, he said, "Let's start with Saturday afternoon. You and Claire found human remains."

  "I'd rather start at the beginning," Tony said. He repeated the story of his father's disappearance and his mother's sealing the studio. Mike asked an occasional question. Bea observed and took notes. Claire wanted to leave, but Tony kept reaching over and touching her as if she was some kind of talisman. He kept his hand on hers as he described finding the bones.

  "I realized they were Dad's, and I knew Geneviève had killed him. I drove to Sunny Gardens." He grimaced. "I'm sure you've heard about our conversation. It was heated, and we had a large audience."

  "We'd like to hear your side of the story," Mike said.

  "I accused. She denied. I left. The end." He took a swallow of the coffee, put the cup down and massaged his temples.

  "Did you have any contact with your mother after that?"

  "No. I went back to the apartment and started drinking. I should say started drinking seriously. Earlier, Claire and I had a beer to celebrate finding Dad's paintings." He rubbed his
temples again. "Hard to believe that was the same day."

  "And yesterday morning?"

  I woke up around noon and drank some more. Then I came over here. He gestured toward the crumpled sheets. "Claire was kind enough to let me spend the night on her sofa."

  "You spent the last thirty-six hours either drinking or sleeping it off?" Bea's question shaded into rebuke.

  Mike gave his partner a sharp look. "Mr. Burke, do you know of anyone who might wish your mother harm?"

  "Harm? Lots of people. But you're really asking who might have killed her." Tony finished the coffee and stared into the cup as if looking for truth in the dregs. "Saturday night, when I confronted her, Geneviève pointed out that she couldn't have driven dad's truck into the ditch, left it there and gotten back to New Orleans by herself, nor could she have put his body in my toy chest. He was a big man, my size, and she's a small woman." He looked up. "All of that is true, but it doesn't make her innocent. It means she had help. Her accomplice would have been a man, probably a lover. That's who killed her."

  Bea started to say something, Mike shook his head and she closed her mouth.

  "I can guess what happened," Tony continued. "Geneviève told him I'd found Dad's bones. They'd gotten away with murder for twenty-five years, but the jig was up." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "She would have told him to kill me. She'd know that was the only way to shut me up. Instead, he killed her."

  Mike broke the stunned silence. "That's quite an accusation."

  "Look at it from his perspective. She's the one who can identify him, not me. I don't have a clue who he is."

  "I meant accusing your mother of trying to arrange your murder."

  "Really? She killed my father. You think I might have killed her. You don't appear to have many illusions about human behavior." His flat stare challenged Mike to disagree. "If I were you, I'd check her phone calls. Anything after four o'clock Saturday when I told her I'd been in the studio."

  Claire felt like an intruder in her own living room, a spectator on an intimate drama she had no right to observe. Tony had moved his hand from her arm, and she took the opportunity to get up. She walked over to the window and watched the birds at her feeder, blocking out what anyone was saying until a sharp tone caught her attention.