Vernon cited the Jeep's tire tracks at the cabin as evidence that Hatch was lying. He was coming from, not going to, Palmer's cabin.
Patterson pointed out that it was the victim's Jeep. The tire tracks proved that Frank Palmer visited his own cabin, another fact his client did not contest.
The judge asked for any evidence specifically linking Hatch to the cabin fire, and Vernon came up empty-handed. The judge had heard enough. Being a victim was not a crime. They couldn't arrest Hatch because his car exploded when someone tried to steal it. Not unless he was responsible for the explosion, and no one had suggested that was the case. Did anyone have anything to add?
Corlette stepped forward. "On behalf of the Lafourche Sheriff's Department, which is the law enforcement agency with jurisdiction over the crime scene, I request that Mr. Hatch be held in protective custody." He submitted a copy of the crime lab report and described the Jeep explosion as an attempt on the driver's life. His was a better argument than Vernon had mounted, but it didn't fly either. Hatch was going to be released unless someone came up with a better reason to keep him in jail.
After the hearing, they reconvened back in Mike's office. A red-faced Vernon kicked off the post mortem with a rant against judges who cared more about protecting criminals than protecting the public. Without giving anyone else a chance to express their opinion, he walked out.
The sound of his footsteps faded away, and Breton started grumbling. "The Vermin isn't happy. Neither am I. It's Saturday afternoon and I'm at work."
"We can stall releasing Hatch until Monday. That gives us the rest of today and tomorrow to strengthen our case. In other words, you're working tomorrow," Mike said. His tone dared Breton to protest.
"I still think Hatch is our arsonist," Corlette said. "The timing is right. Do you guys really believe he didn't know Palmer's body was in the cabin?"
"Maybe he's a good liar." Breton shrugged.
"He's not." Mike said. Hatch's performance during the hearing would have been funny if it weren't infuriating. Every answer began with a sideways look at his lawyer and ended with a smirk of relief. "We've been looking at Hatch as a partner. We're wrong. He's no more than a puppet."
No one disagreed.
"Odds are the person pulling the strings is in New Orleans," Corlette said. "But if we find a witness who saw that Jeep anywhere between the Redi-Mart and the cabin, we've caught Hatch in a lie."
"Which might encourage him to talk." Mike finished the thought.
"I've put the word out, but I'm not expecting someone to step forward. Anyone hanging around there was probably supposed to be somewhere else. Daniel's the best bet. I'll find out when he's getting back."
"What about another poacher?"
Corlette shook his head. "That's Daniel's territory. But it's possible one of our local Romeos was over there with someone else's woman." He grinned. "I'll ask the girls at the office. They always know who's doing who."
Breton rolled his eyes but, for a change, made no wisecracks.
"We'll talk to the victim's friends and business associates," Mike said, "looking for our puppet master."
On his way out the door, Corlette told them that his boss had been irate about the press conference. "He thinks you guys don't know the meaning of cooperate. I told him your boss is the problem, and I'm telling you, karma is a beautiful thing."
Mike knew what was coming. He'd been thinking about it himself.
"Vernon broke his arm patting himself on the back at that press conference," Corlette said. "What's he going to say when some reporter notices you guys had to release your suspect for lack of evidence? Your boss should be down on his knees thanking the Lord there weren't any cameras in that courtroom. Hatch's lawyer had him for lunch."
"Breakfast, lunch and dinner." Breton's expression was glum.
CHAPTER 23
Sunday, October 24, 1993
Claire fed Dorian while her bread toasted and then carried her breakfast onto the porch. Late October had brought cooler weather to New Orleans but no real autumn. The deciduous trees were turning from green to rust to brown. When the leaves fell, they'd mold and rot. She missed the northern fall. She and Tom had never planned to settle here. They had already been thinking about apartments in New York. But after he died, and despite friends and family telling her to come home to Michigan, she'd decided to stay. For some unfathomable reason, she felt at home here. At least she'd felt at home until Frank's death and the marriage rumors tried to make her someone she wasn't.
Dorian, who'd just popped out the cat door, crouched at her feet, preparing for the jump to her lap. She tossed him a bit of toast to keep him on the floor and put her hand on the folder Annette Fulton had given her. Last night she'd been too tired and too emotionally exhausted to delve any further into Annie Lewis Palmer's life--her death, really. Nor did she want to now, but a promise was a promise.
She started with the manila envelopes from Davidson Investigative Services. Each report was barely two pages long, dry and factual. Annalisa Palmer lived near Taos New Mexico in a commune called The Double Rainbow. She had attended the local high school and had graduated two years ago. For the past three years, she'd worked for a small company called Dream Catchers, making and selling jewelry.
On her eighteenth birthday, Annalisa Palmer had changed her name to Phoenix, one word. Like the city in Arizona, the report said. Or, Claire thought, like the mythical bird that dies in flames and is reborn from its own ashes. That would be a compelling legend for a runaway girl carving out a new life. Claire finished the detectives' reports and set them aside.
Two envelopes remained. One, addressed to Annalisa Palmer at an RFD address in Taos, New Mexico was marked "return to sender" and hadn't been opened. This was the letter Annette wanted her to deliver. The other envelope, torn and crumpled, its address barely legible, contained the explanation for a tragedy that had devastated three generations of women.
Annette said this letter had been waiting at the post office when she and Will returned from their daughter's funeral. Will had wanted to turn right around and go back to New Orleans, but she had said to call first and let Annalisa know they were coming for her. It was too late. She had disappeared.
Claire held the envelope in unwilling fingers. Uneasiness about prying into the secrets of a dead woman warred with her promise to Annette. Fear that she already knew what was written, an explanation too awful to be true, increased her reluctance. She said a quick prayer that she be proven wrong, and pulled out the letter.
Cramped, downward-sloping script covered both sides of a single sheet of paper. With tortured and rambling sentences, Annie Lewis Palmer begged forgiveness for a sin that wasn't hers. She asked her mother to rescue Annalisa, step in and do what she, herself, wasn't strong enough to do. And then she said good-bye. Frank's wife had killed herself because she could neither stop nor live with the horror of a husband who abused their daughter.
Claire smoothed the paper, feeling the anguish behind the words. Here was a motive for murder. Was it you, Annalisa? Did you wait until you were an adult? Who else knows?
She returned the letter to its envelope, carried everything Annette had given her to her bedroom and tucked it into the back of her sweater drawer. She would deliver the letter.
* * * *
Melissa was sitting at a table in the sun. As soon as Claire joined her, a waiter stepped from the shade of the awning and sauntered over. He asked what they wanted.
"The usual," Melissa said.
"What's the usual?" Claire asked.
"A chocolate croissant and a double cappuccino." The waiter answered. "What can I get for you, baby?"
"The same thing, please." She smiled at Melissa. "This is a treat. I usually have tea and toast for breakfast." Earlier this morning, she'd left that breakfast uneaten.
"I have tea and toast when I'm sick."
Claire ignored the dig. "I'm glad we were able to get together."
"Have you got the key? Hatch is ba
ck, and I don't want him to know I gave it to you."
"Oh no! I left my sweater in his kitchen. He'll know. Tell him it's yours. Please." She should have retrieved her sweater no matter what Felix said.
"He hasn't been home. The cops arrested him at the airport, and he's still in jail."
"Why did they arrest him?"
"Because he's an ex-con. Because they can." Anger made Melissa's voice harsh. "They have nothing on him. I got him a good lawyer, and the judge said to let him go. Yesterday. But everything's closed on the weekend, and the cops are using that as an excuse. He's stuck until Monday morning." Her anger ebbed as quickly as it had appeared, and now she only looked tired. "You have plenty of time to get your sweater."
The waiter reappeared with their order. Neither spoke until he'd left.
"I'll get it and return the key this afternoon," Claire said.
"Drop it off at the shop. Sundays I'm open one to five." Melissa tore off a piece of the croissant and put it into her mouth.
Claire looked for something that would reveal how this young woman, who'd made it clear she and Frank were lovers, was dealing with his sudden death. It must have left an empty space in her life. Did she remember his breath on her skin, how he held her? Or had she, too, lost all memory of love's touch?
"What do you want?" Melissa said.
"Excuse me?"
"You could've picked up your sweater and dropped off the key anytime. Instead you call this morning and want to meet for brunch. So, what do you really want? Frank is all we ever had in common, and he's dead." She spooned more sugar onto her cappuccino.
"The police think I had something to do with his death."
"They questioned you. They questioned me. They arrested Hatch the minute he walked off the airplane."
"They're still watching me. A squad car will drive by any minute now."
"Cops drive through here. They drive past my shop. I don't get paranoid."
As if summoned by their conversation, a police car rounded the corner and moved slowly past the café.
"He looked right at us," Claire said.
"He's a man." Melissa broke off another piece of croissant and licked the chocolate filling. "Men look."
"I talked to Annette Fulton yesterday. She was Frank's mother-in-law."
"I know who she is. She hated Frank. Maybe she's the one who killed him."
"She's confined to a wheelchair."
"She could have hired a hit man." Melissa smiled, as if the idea of a murderous Annette Fulton was funny.
"She asked me if I killed Frank."
"What did you tell her?"
"I said no. Do you think I killed Frank?"
"I don't think you're the type. But maybe no one's the type until they're pushed into a corner. Then, maybe everyone is." Melissa busied herself spooning up the sugar crystals, now melted into shiny dots on the froth of her cappuccino. "Annie Lewis was a lush. Did her mother tell you that?"
"No."
"Frank hushed it up, but she was driving drunk that day, like every other day. The old lady couldn't face the truth, and so she blamed Frank, made a big point of snubbing him at the funeral. Then she got on her broom and flew back to Alabama."
Jeanette had said essentially the same thing, and she, too, blamed Annie Lewis' parents. All either woman heard was Frank's side of the story. They would have wanted to believe him.
"She told me about Annalisa," Claire said. "I guess you know she ran away?"
"Of course I know." Melissa's tone said this was a stupid question.
"Do you know where she is? Did Frank know?"
"If I knew I wouldn't tell you. Annalisa wants to be left alone. And she's crazy, totally nuts." She shook her head. "I used to live in The Children's Home, and I've seen some screwed-up girls, but nothing like her. Maybe she's the psycho killer."
"Why do you call her crazy?" She held her breath, waiting for Melissa's answer.
"Why are you digging around in Frank's past? It doesn't matter anymore. He's dead." She stopped playing with her cappuccino. "Someone killed Frank. If it wasn't you, and it wasn't me..." She let the thought hang.
"Do you have any idea who?"
"Not a clue." Melissa pushed her cup aside and stood up. "I'm open until five. After that, slide the key under the door. Hatch gets out tomorrow morning or this city is looking at a lawsuit."
CHAPTER 24
Claire took a cab from the café to the zoo, entered through one gate and minutes later, exited through another. If anyone was following her, she'd lost them. With Hatch in jail, the police had no reason to keep watching his apartment, but she wasn't taking any chances there either. She walked past on the opposite side of the street, checking the parked cars. None were occupied. Reassured, she crossed at the next corner and backtracked.
The parking lot was full, and a black SUV sat in the space marked 209. Either the police had let Hatch drive his car home, or someone else had parked in his space, or... Claire hesitated. What if he was here? No, Melissa had been positive he was in jail until Monday morning, and she'd know.
A solid looking woman swept the sidewalk, vigorously swinging her broom back and forth. A man, wearing a baseball cap and a windbreaker despite the balmy temperature, descended the back stairs and hurried away, taking a short cut behind the building. He looked familiar, but no name came to mind. Claire made an innocuous comment about the nice day to the woman, who grunted and continued sweeping. Then she headed for the back stairs, telling herself to act as if she had every right to be there. Just in case Melissa was wrong, she rang the buzzer. When no one came to the door, she opened it.
The apartment smelled of cigarette smoke. A man's arm dangled beside the recliner, inches away from a beer can that sat on the floor. Hatch? Flickering light said the television was on, but there was no sound. Opening the door had let in more light, but the arm didn't move. Its owner must be asleep.
Claire stepped back, ready to close the door and sneak away. Below, the rasp of broom-straw against cement ceased. She felt the woman watching and knew her only option was to brazen it out. She knocked on the open door and called hello.
The man made a noise somewhere between a snore and a gurgle, but his arm didn't move.
"Are you all right?" she called.
He gurgled again, louder this time, a terrible noise.
She hurried inside. "Hello?"
Hatch looked at her through glazed eyes. Bright red blood pulsed from holes in his chest, three circles spread across the front of his shirt, merging to form one big bloodstain.
She ran outside and yelled to the woman below, "Call an ambulance! Hurry!"
She raced back in, grabbed the pillow from the bed, and knelt next to the chair, pressing the pillow against his chest, trying to staunch the bleeding. "Hang on, Hatch, please hang on. Help's on the way. They'll be here soon."
Any response was lost in the awful sounds of his struggle for breath.
* * * *
Soap and water cleansed Claire's arms and hands, but dabbing at her clothes made little difference. "Do you have something I can put on?" she asked the police matron, who stood beside the door, arms folded across her chest, watching. "My clothes are soaked with blood. The smell is making me sick."
"If you don't like the smell of blood, you shouldn't go around shooting people."
"I didn't shoot anyone. I tried to help a man who'd been shot. Please, the officers took my sweater. I'd like it back so I can at least take off my blouse."
"Captain Robinson is waiting to talk to you. Ask him about your sweater."
Claire remembered Felix's admonition about talking to the police. "When can I call my lawyer?"
"Ask Captain Robinson."
There was nothing to do but wash her blouse in the sink. She rinsed it until the water ran clear, wrung it out as best she could and put it back on, soaking wet. She did the same with her slacks. The matron watched without comment.
"I'm ready." Claire shivered in her wet clothes. She could
still smell Hatch's blood.
Mike Robinson stood with his back to the door, looking out the window. The matron rapped her knuckles against the doorframe, and he turned around.
"Come in." Before she could ask about her sweater, he told the matron to fetch a blanket, "Quickly."
"Thank you," was all Claire could manage. She'd been fighting back tears ever since the police bundled her into a squad car, and this small kindness almost put her over the edge. He helped her wrap the blanket around her shoulders and held the chair while she sat down.
"How about coffee? Hot with lots of sugar. You've had a shock."
"No thank you. I'm okay, just cold and wet." If she ate or drank anything, she'd throw up. "I'd like to call my lawyer." She wanted to lay her head on the desk and go to sleep.
"Of course. But first I want to clarify that you're not under arrest."
"I'm not?" That's not what the uniformed officers had told her. Two of them had escorted her past a crowd of gawking people and put her in the back seat of a squad car. She'd seen scenes like that on TV when the police were arresting someone who'd held up a convenience store or murdered his wife. "They tested my hands for gunpowder residue."
"There's a witness, who is adamant that you couldn't possibly have shot Hatch. She mentioned a man who left just as you arrived."
Claire said a silent thank you to the cranky woman with the broom.
"She was watching you the whole time. Her story and the physical evidence support everything you told the responding officers."
"Did he make it?"
He raked his fingers through his hair. "Hatch died on the way to the hospital."
"I couldn't stop the bleeding. He was drowning in his own blood. I could hear it." She pulled the blanket tighter.
"You did all you could."
"When can I go home? And please sit down. You're making me nervous."
He leaned back against the desk so that he was no longer standing over her. "You're free to go, but I'd like to get your statement as soon as you're up to it. We're especially interested in the man leaving the premises. Did you see him?"
Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim Page 16