She shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. If I think of anything, I'll contact you, but..." She raised her hands in a gesture of helplessness.
After a long silence, he stood up. "So, thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Marshall. I'll walk you to your car. I'd like to stretch my legs before my next meeting."
Claire had intended to drive back to New Orleans but once in the car, she changed her mind. She wanted to go to the beach, sit and watch the waves, while she digested the horrible news about Frank. At Grand Isle she parked in the same lot. Thick clouds had replaced yesterday's sunshine, and the beach, crowded yesterday, was deserted except for a scattering of fishermen. A cool wind off the water raised goose bumps on her arms.
She sat well up the beach and looked out at the water, gray now and blending into the clouds at an invisible horizon. Twenty yards off shore, waves rose from the choppy surface, each one crested with a pale line of foam. When a wave reached the shallows, it lifted and curled inward as if it had changed its mind and wanted to return to the depths, but those behind permitted no retreat. They pushed forward until the lead wave broke on the beach and melted into the sand. In the shallows, the next one had already begun curling inward.
Lingering backwash from an exceptionally large breaker might reduce the ensuing landfall to disorganized churning, but the waves that followed always restored order. The implacable Gulf sacrificed wave after wave on the shore as it had done for thousands of years and would continue to do long after she and everyone she loved had turned to dust. That thought, which could have been depressing, reassured her. She lay on her stomach, chin on her fists and elbows in the sand, and watched the waves.
Happy chattering announced the arrival of two boys carrying boogie boards. They raced toward the water and stepped onto their boards, but the small dog that accompanied them hung back, barking anxiously. The boys skittered along the wash of the waves, miraculously afloat on an inch of water. The dog, an indeterminate mix, stayed as close as he could without getting his paws wet, charging and retreating as the waves ebbed and flowed.
Claire watched, amused by the dog's antics and by the boys' nonchalance. With their hard, skinny bodies and still soft faces, they looked about ten or eleven, children on the verge of adolescence. Tanned skin and sun-bleached hair testified to long hours spent in the sun.
A big wave broke, and the dog scampered up the beach. The smaller boy tottered precariously between the necessities of hitching up his shorts and spreading his arms for balance. Somehow, he managed to reach out and hold on at the same time.
Claire clapped. "Very good. Nice recovery."
He turned and smiled, as if pleased by praise from a stranger. The dog came over to Claire for a pat on the head and ventured a hopeful snuffle at her pocketbook. The dog returned to his duties, and the boys moved on.
She checked her watch and was reminded of Frank's extravagant gift. What on earth was she going to do with it now?
She watched the boys, now halfway down the beach, and had an inspiration. Return the watch to the store--there was a name on the box--and donate the money to the Children's Home in Frank's memory. He was a longtime supporter and on the board.
It was the right thing to do.
CHAPTER 7
The desk officer at the Lafourche Parish Sheriff's Office directed Mike and Breton to Jason Corlette's office. The deputy got the meeting off to a fast start by announcing the fire at Palmer's cabin was arson. He pushed a folder across his desk. "The report. It's preliminary, but there's no doubt. Gasoline was the accelerant. Early next week, the lab promises a timeframe."
Mike flipped through the document and passed it on to Breton who glanced at the cover and put it down.
"The med tech says it looked to him like Palmer was dead before the fire. An autopsy is scheduled for Monday morning, and we'll find out if he was right or not. Given the arson finding..." Corlette shrugged. He slid another folder across the desk. "Here's what we found in the cabin"
"You've accomplished a lot in less than twenty four hours." Mike was relieved. The Sheriff's Department had already initiated every action he and Vernon discussed. Lafourche Parish had to be less than thrilled about New Orleans taking an interest in their case, but Corlette had no visible chip on his shoulder, and he was making every effort to be cooperative.
Corlette's smile acknowledged the compliment. He picked up a stack of photographs and laid them on his desk as if he was dealing cards. "These pictures, they're from the scene." He pointed to a photograph of muddy handprints. "From Palmer's boat. They belong to a woman named Claire Marshall."
"How do you know that?" Mike raised an eyebrow.
Breton, who'd been slumped in his chair with his eyes half shut, came to life. "Cherchez la femme, and we've found her."
Corlette looked from one to the other. "She's not hiding. She's stepped forward twice, yesterday to report the burned cabin and today to identify the driver of Palmer's Jeep."
"What's she like?" Breton said. "We've never met her."
"Nice looking, but a little skinny for my taste. Five-seven, five-eight, maybe one twenty-five. Red hair, dark not orange. She was cooperative, drove right down to talk to me. Still, her story is strange."
"We'd like to hear it," Mike said.
"I taped the interview, and we're making you a copy, but I can give you a quick recap." After summarizing, he said, "One thing isn't on the tape. When we finished, I walked her out to her car. She has a bright blue Miata, sits about six inches off the ground. I said it was a good thing she hadn't driven it down to the cabin. She said she had. It was clean because she'd just run it through a car wash."
Breton leaned forward, forearms on Corlette's desk. "Strange? She drives all the way down here looking for Palmer, finds his cabin burned to a cinder, and goes to the beach? She disposes of the clothes she was wearing and runs her vehicle through a car wash. You call it strange. I call it destroying the evidence. And you just let her walk out of here?"
"I had no reason to detain her."
"You have an attractive young woman and a rich older man. He falls for her, and voila." Breton slapped the desk. "He's a rich older dead man. This is not a new story. Five will get you ten she's in his will." His expression said they'd finished their investigation. It was time to go home.
"Nor is it the only possible story." Mike gave Breton a hard look. He could be right on target, but that wasn't the issue. They were on Corlette's turf, asking for and receiving full cooperation. There was no indication that Claire Marshall was avoiding law enforcement--just the opposite. They'd catch up with her later.
He moved on to the next topic. "Do you know where Palmer's Jeep fits in?"
"It's a second suspicious and fatal fire. Witnesses told us both the Jeep and the driver smelled strongly of gasoline. Here are their statements." He added paper to the growing stack on their side of the desk. "The driver parked and went inside, leaving the windows wide open. A group of kids was hanging around, and one decided to take the Jeep for a ride. Moments after he entered the vehicle, it exploded. Yesterday he died. So, there's one less juvenile delinquent in Lafourche Parish."
Corlette's words were flippant, but a tightness around his mouth revealed anger. He could have known the victim, known his family. This was personal, and no kid should get the death penalty for a joyride. Mike agreed. He signaled Breton to sit back and shut up, let Corlette tell the story at his own pace.
"The driver was in the restroom when the explosions occurred. He ran out, saw his vehicle on fire and made a call from the outside pay phone. He was gone when the fire trucks arrived, no one noticed his departure, and he hasn't been seen since." Corlette slid one last piece of paper across the desk. "We asked TV news to show this sketch of the driver. Claire responded. She said it looked like a man named Hatch, who is Frank Palmer's driver. She couldn't tell me anything else about him. Maybe you can."
"His full name is Ronald Hatch," Mike said. "We were under the impression he'd driven Palmer to the cabin ear
ly last week and that they planned to go fishing together. After you called this morning, we sent a patrol car to his apartment. He wasn't home."
"Lafourche Parish would like to talk to Mr. Hatch about both fires."
"It's possible he's a link." Breton conceded.
"The vehicle he's driving blows up, and he disappears," Corlette said. "He's guilty or he's scared. Either way, he's a link."
Mike began laying the groundwork for a cooperative effort. "Have you considered the possibility that Palmer died in New Orleans and the body was transported to Lafourche Parish?"
"The sheriff's department agrees the motive is most likely to be found in New Orleans."
The door opened and a pretty young woman placed another manila folder and two tape cassettes on the desk. "Two of each. As fast as we could, Jason."
"Thank you, darlin'." The deputy returned her smile and then slid one of the tapes across the desk. "Claire Marshall's interview. I didn't probe her relationship with the deceased," he admitted. "She said he was a client, and I left it at that. But listen to the tape. She was rocked when I told her Palmer was dead."
He picked up the folder. "The tire track analysis just came in. I haven't seen it yet." He passed one copy across the desk and scanned the other. "No surprises. We've identified three of the four sets found at the scene: Claire's Miata, Austin's Suburban and Palmer's Jaguar. Recovered pieces of the Jeep tires are being analyzed to see if it was vehicle number four."
"Who's Austin?" Was he Palmer's "well-connected friend"?
"Bobby Austin and Paul Gilbert both called us about the cabin fire several hours after Claire did." The deputy gave him a quizzical look. "They said your department told them the cabin had burned."
"I didn't know their names. Did you talk to them?" Mike wondered why Gilbert hadn't mentioned his involvement when they discussed notifying next of kin.
"They met us at the cabin. Preliminary identification of the body was based on the circumstances and the general description they provided. It's in the reports." Corlette nodded toward the stack of papers. "Can you get us the victim's dental records? We want to be certain."
"Palmer's cabin, his car, a body that matches his description, and the guy's missing." Breton's elbows were all over Corlette's desk again.
"Lieutenant Breton will contact Palmer's dentist first thing tomorrow." Mike said. "We'll step up the search for Hatch. We'll ask Palmer's friends about the man and what he was doing in the days before his death. Is there anything else we should be covering on our end?"
"The phone company has promised a list of numbers called from the payphone Hatch used. If any are in New Orleans, we'll pass them on. Who do I call?"
"Me." Mike had intended to assign Breton lead responsibility, but his role was in doubt after this afternoon's performance.
"I'm the contact here," Corlette said. "My first priority is looking for a witness. The cabin was isolated, and anyone out there was probably up to no good. So we'll check with the usual suspects--small time smugglers, poachers, burglars." He grinned and added, "Lovers."
"Do you think it's possible Palmer was just in the wrong place at the wrong time?"
"I don't think so. Smugglers would have taken the boat, at least the electronics. Thieves would have taken the car. Poachers and lovers just want to be left alone."
"And none of those explain the Jeep," Mike said. "When will you know more about that?"
"We've called in the state crime lab, but they're backed up as usual."
"We can encourage them to make this a priority." He'd ask Vernon to make the call. "Mr. Palmer was a prominent citizen. Our department is under pressure to get this cleared up quickly."
"Lafourche Parish is treating both deaths as potential homicides. We consider every homicide high priority."
"Has it occurred to you that Palmer might have committed suicide?" Breton said.
"If you believe that a corpse can start a fire." Corlette leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest.
The meeting ended soon afterwards. Until they knew otherwise, both departments would proceed as if they were dealing with a homicide.
Breton started bitching before they left the parking lot. "Say Palmer wanted to kill himself and make it look like an accident. There's no reason he couldn't pour gasoline on the floor and run a wick, wash a handful of pills down with a big glass of vodka and strike a match. Shit, he could use a candle. We're not talking rocket science."
"We'll see what the autopsy says, but if he was dead before the fire, your scenario doesn't work. He'd be unconscious, not dead. And there's a bigger problem. Suicides don't make plans for the future. Palmer was about to get married."
"To Claire Marshall. Did you notice Corlette talked about her like they was old friends? One interview and she's got him wrapped him around her little finger." A snort of disgust. "And okay, maybe it wasn't suicide, but don't tell me Boy Wonder isn't enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame. I've been a cop for thirty years, and I don't need a wet rookie explaining the facts of life."
The old cop approaching retirement resented the young cop making his first big case, and Corlette's breezy manner could be perceived as cocky. Mike understood, but he wasn't going to tolerate unprofessional behavior.
"You did us no favors in there. Corlette is doing a solid job, and he went the extra mile. If you can't work with him, let me know. I'll assign someone else. If you want to retire tomorrow and not in two months, let me know." He didn't have to mention two months walking a beat. Breton would know that option was out there.
Breton got the message. "I need two more months for full pension," he said, "and I intend to give the Department two months of my best work. What would you like me to do, sir?"
"Get Palmer's dental records to Corlette ASAP. Find out if the Jeep was kept at the cabin or elsewhere. See if anyone knows when Palmer and Hatch drove down there and if they went in separate vehicles or together. Schedule interviews with Austin, Gilbert, and Claire Marshall for tomorrow."
"Yes, sir."
"We can meet at their offices or ours. Allow an hour for each. If possible, start with Gilbert."
"Yes, sir."
"We'll do these first three as a team." He didn't trust Breton with anything sensitive, and Vernon had ordered him to stay on top of this investigation. "Next, I want you to talk to Rose Taylor and to Palmer's secretary. Ask who else was close to the victim and set up interviews with those people, again ASAP. Palmer's death will be news. I want to question his friends before they start confusing what they've read in the paper with what they already know."
"Yes, sir."
"Vernon wants Palmer's associates treated with kid gloves. I'm passing that on, but don't let anyone push you around."
"Yes, sir."
Mike ignored the sarcasm behind Breton's stream of sirs. He'd been brought in from the outside, part of the recent reform effort, and he expected resentment. Others had wanted the job, but Breton, nearing retirement, wasn't one of them. Working with him had seemed a good way to tap into the older man's institutional memory. It wasn't happening because Breton's eyes were fixed too firmly on the door. He might have been a good cop once, but he'd become a lazy one.
"Anything else, sir?"
"Drop me at headquarters. I'll put out an APB for Hatch and initiate the warrant to search his apartment." And he'd ask Vernon why he had to go to Lafourche Parish to learn the names of Palmer's friends and to find out that Palmer's personal driver was involved in the Jeep explosion.
"Yes, sir."
CHAPTER 8
Monday, October 22, 1993
Claire threw on her housecoat and went to see who was leaning on her doorbell at eight in the morning. A sandy-haired man, who looked vaguely familiar, stood on her porch. She opened the door a crack, but kept the chain on and asked what he wanted. He identified himself as a reporter from one of the local television stations and held up the morning paper. The headline read Local Business Leader Dies in Cabin Fire.
She s
hould have known. When someone dies in a fire, it's news. Tom had been on the front page, too. Doctor Dies Saving Children. The children's mother said she'd be eternally grateful. A four-year-old boy and an eighteen-month-old girl, they'd be going on six and three now. Would their mother see today's paper and think of Tom?
"I want to offer condolences on the tragic death of your fiancé," the reporter said.
"There's been a misunderstanding."
"I can have a crew here in twenty minutes. Your interview will lead off tonight's news."
"How'd you get in?" A tall fence surrounded the property, and the driveway gates operated by remote control. Her landlord and his family were still in Europe. They couldn't have let this reporter onto the property.
"The small gate next to the driveway was open." He smirked.
"For deliveries, not for you. Please leave, or I'll call the police." She tried to close the door, but he'd jammed his foot into the crack. "Move your foot." When he did, she shut the door and set the dead bolt.
Instead of leaving, the man sat on her porch swing and pulled out a mobile phone, so she called 911. The operator didn't sound impressed with the problem until Claire asked if she'd be justified shooting the man if he banged on her door again. That question elicited a promise that a car would be dispatched as soon as one became available and a warning not to point the gun at a policeman.
Claire, who didn't own a gun, pressed the button to open the driveway gate so the police car could get in and retreated to her bedroom, where the reporter couldn't see her. She'd dried her hair and finished dressing when the phone rang. The caller introduced himself as Lieutenant Al Breton from the New Orleans Police Department.
"That man is still on my porch," she said. "I told him to leave, but he won't go. He says he's a reporter, but I don't know if that's true. When is someone going to get here?"
"Pardon?"
She repeated her complaint, and he promised to send a patrolman immediately.
Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim Page 5