"You've probably heard that Ronald Hatch, who worked for Mr. Palmer, was murdered yesterday. We believe the two crimes are connected."
"I heard." Austin looked past him. "Hatch was a character. Frank found him amusing."
Several questions and non-answers later, Mike thanked Palmer's banker for taking the time to meet with them, and they left.
"Two interviews in under an hour," Breton said. "We might be ineffective, but we're damned efficient. Now what?"
"Hatch's apartment. I was there briefly the first time Claire Marshall visited, but that's all." When had that been? Last Thursday, just four days ago, enough time for Hatch to return, be arrested, released, and killed. The killer was efficient, too.
"You know, the whole thing with Austin was weird." Breton flipped on the blue lights and passed a line of cars waiting for the stoplight to turn.
"He didn't ask about Claire Marshall."
"True. Gilbert probably called him the minute we walked out the door. Those two are tight."
"What do you know about Austin?"
"That's what's weird," Breton's brow puckered. "He's one of the good guys, a solid citizen, out there shaking hands, helping out where help's needed. I never would've picked him to stonewall."
"Or dissemble. I doubt Palmer was the only one who dealt with finances."
"Jeanette said the same thing. Palmer ran the company out of his hip pocket."
"I thought you were going to follow up on that." When Breton didn't answer, he said, "Try Jeanette again. Ask who wrote the checks."
Breton's groan ended the conversation.
CHAPTER 26
By the time Claire arrived at her office, it was ten-thirty, and Jack had already arrived and left again. A note on her desk said he'd be at the Laurens house all day. Let him know if she was coming by.
"I'm sorry, Jack," she murmured. She should have called last night, explained about finding Hatch, the police, the whole mess.
She checked her phone messages. As requested, the supply house had put her order for kitchen appliances on hold. Paul still hadn't said whether or not he wanted them to finish work on Frank's cottage, which was where the appliances had been headed. The roofer wanted to discuss options for the Laurens house as well as an advance for supplies. Scott Cantrell had called to say they'd decided not to go ahead--no explanation.
Scott and Lori owned a small Victorian in Uptown. Claire had been working with them for two months now, developing plans for updating the kitchen and adding a family room. They were waiting for their financing to come through before signing a contract. The bank must have turned them down. She reviewed the plans and called him back.
"Scott, This is Claire Marshall."
"Oh, Hi Claire." He sounded surprised, maybe a little wary.
"I'm sorry you're not ready to go ahead. You and Lori were so enthusiastic. I was too. If it's a financial issue, we could stage the work. I've gone over your plans and think we could divide the project into three distinct phases without increasing the overall cost. Would that make a difference?"
"It's not the money. It's just... I thought you were in jail," he blurted.
"Jail?"
"The paper this morning. There was an article, another murder. They said you'd been arrested."
"I haven't seen the paper, so I don't know what it says, but I can tell you what happened." She forced herself to remain calm. "I found someone who'd been shot. I certainly didn't shoot him. No-one thinks I shot anyone."
"I'm sorry, Claire. It's just too much. That business with Frank Palmer and now this. Lori doesn't feel comfortable."
"I'm sorry, too." More than sorry, she was furious, but the best she could do was leave the door open. "If you change your minds, I'd still like to work for you."
She hung up, counted to ten, and called Felix. "A client just cancelled a project we needed because the paper says I've been arrested or something. I haven't seen the article."
"I've already talked to Henry Vernon, who will be issuing a statement to the press this morning. He will say that you are not and never were under arrest, that you found Hatch after he had been shot and did your best to save his life. The officers were helping you to their car, not arresting you, and it is the sincere wish of the New Orleans Police Department that the local fish wrapper print a correction."
"Can I sue the paper?"
"If you lose business as a direct result, you can show damages. The more difficult task is proving negligence or intent. The article was carefully worded. My advice is to adopt a wait and see attitude. If things get worse, threaten a lawsuit and hope they settle out of court."
Sit tight. Wait and see. Felix's advice was good but hard to follow. "I'd like to throw a brick through their window."
"But you won't."
"Thank you for calling Superintendent Vernon."
"It was my pleasure, and there's no charge for this morning. If you throw that brick, I go on the clock."
Claire thanked him again and said good-bye, only partially reassured. What if this was just the first cancellation? What was going to happen to Authentic Restorations? She took a deep breath and visualized waves breaking on her office floor, washing up and receding, steady and reliable, one after the other, each one a breath. The bubble hadn't appeared. She wasn't going to panic about this, but she'd better tell Jack ASAP. Rather than deliver bad news over the phone, she drove to the Laurens house.
Jack was upstairs talking to a plumber about the most efficient way to re-plumb what had been two small bathrooms into one master bath. He looked up when she walked in.
"I knew you weren't in jail."
"Not funny, Jack. Scott Cantrell just canceled their project because Lori is uncomfortable working with an accused murderess."
Jack smacked his fist into his palm. "It all comes back to Palmer. I knew that guy was bad news. Remember how he was yelling at you. I should have punched him in the nose."
When Frank first contacted her, Jack had warned that subcontractors were saying FP development, Frank's company, had slowed payments and was firing anyone who complained. Claire had trouble reconciling that portrayal with the charming man she'd met at The Children's Home, but she'd left the final decision to Jack, and he decided to go for it. Frank's cottage would be their biggest project to date, a step into a new league. There had been no problems, not even little ones, until the fuss about his fish camp--and there'd been nothing but trouble since.
"Worse news than either of us dreamed," she said.
"We still have enough work to keep everyone busy. Right?"
"Unless Brian Laurens fires us. I should call him and make sure he knows I'm not in jail. I still don't know what's going to happen with Frank's cottage, but if we lose it and the Cantrell expansion, we'll just break even this year."
"Breaking even is better than I was doing on my own. You're doing a great job, and this crap will blow over."
"What crap?" The plumber had been following their conversation like a man watching a tennis match.
"On the bright side," Jack said, "not everyone reads the papers."
"I haven't seen it either."
"There's one in my truck. Go read. I'll give you time to calm down and then we'll talk."
Ten minutes later, he joined her on the front steps. "I'm glad you're okay. When I saw that picture, I wanted to call, but I thought you might be asleep."
"I'm sorry, Jack." She was supposed to get the company on a sound financial footing, to bring in business, not scare away customers. "I should never have gone to that apartment."
"Don't beat yourself up."
She told him what had happened. "I have a lawyer. He says the police will ask the paper to print a correction. But nothing's going to erase that picture from people's minds." A full-length picture of her, looking distraught and flanked by two policemen, accompanied the front-page story. "At least it's not in color. My clothes were covered in blood."
"What are you going to do?"
She shrugged. "Wo
rk on the foyer, as planned."
"That's not what I meant."
"Wait a week or so, give Scott and Lori time to reconsider, and then call back to see if they've changed their minds."
"I'm worried about you, not the business."
She pointed to a car parked across the street. "The man inside is a policeman. Someone follows me all day. At night, they'll drive by every fifteen minutes. It's called protective surveillance." That was how Mike Robinson described it. She suspected they had more than one reason for keeping track of her. Felix said it didn't matter why they were watching her, as long as they did.
"I'm here, too," Jack said. "And if you want to stay at our house tonight, we have an extra bed."
"Thank you, but I'm fine. The Clarkes' property is really secure." Jack's offer touched her. He and Mary Anne had six kids and no extra bed. "The best thing for me to do is get busy and stay busy."
She was going to uncover what she hoped was an intact fireplace. A sloppy installer had used ordinary nails to attach the new wallboard, which made removing it easier, and by mid-afternoon, the old fireplace was fully revealed. Except for the nail holes, which could be filled, the wooden mantel was in good shape. The marble surround was intact, and the old mirror unbroken although badly clouded. The mirror gave her a good excuse to call Brian, ask about re-silvering. The cloudy look was romantic, but a mirror for that last check before you leave the house was a handy thing.
She should be happy about the fireplace, but too many unpleasant things crowded her mind. A policeman sat in his car out front. In the back room, three burly men were gutting what had been a kitchen. Every few minutes, Jack would find an excuse to walk through the front foyer where she was working. Here, she was safe, but tonight, she'd be alone again. The secluded location of her carriage house, which she had considered such a plus, now made her feel vulnerable, especially with the Clarkes still in Europe.
Felix had advised her "as a friend" to get a gun if she insisted on staying in New Orleans. He'd offered to lend her one of his, and now she regretted saying no.
Last night, she'd fallen into an exhausted sleep, wakened from the nightmare about two, taken another sleeping pill and then wakened again at five, thinking she'd heard footsteps, a branch cracking. She'd barricaded herself in the bathroom with her mobile phone and not slept again until after sunup. Tonight, maybe she'd go to a hotel. First, though, she had to talk to Mike Robinson. She called his office for the third time that day. Once again, he was out.
CHAPTER 27
Paul Gilbert had been telling the truth when he said he lacked information about Frank's estate. FP Development represented the bulk of Frank's assets, but Ed Pelletier, the CPA hired to establish the company's value, had asked for more time to track down missing documents. Paul himself had spent an unproductive couple hours going through Frank's personal records. Suzanne usually handled the inventory of personal belongings for an estate, but sentiment had made him go through Frank's papers himself.
Saturday afternoon, he'd walked the long hall to the back of the house, half expecting to look up and see Frank standing in the office door, smiling a welcome and holding out a glass of fine bourbon, no ice. Instead, he was alone with his own intimations of mortality, which were intensified by the absurd collection of hunting trophies that adorned Frank's den.
In the top desk drawer, he'd found a Moroccan leather appointment calendar, his Christmas gift to Frank. Its final entry, the honeymoon itinerary, rekindled his sadness at a life cut short. Frank's personal checkbook listed a balance just over four thousand dollars. Paul had noted the account number, intending to transfer the funds into the estate account to cover the expenses that were already beginning to accrue, and began going through Frank's files.
Folders held everything from automobile insurance to utility bills to warranties on household appliances, all the paper records and receipts that burden modern life. He'd found the deeds to Frank's house and the cabin where he died, the closing statements for the ski lodge in Jackson Hole that Frank sold and the cottage he'd purchased and hired Claire to renovate. He did not find any certificates of deposit, brokerage statements, bonds or stock certificates. Nor did he come across a key to a safe deposit box.
This morning, before the police arrived, he'd asked Suzanne to call local banks, starting with Bobby's, and ask if Frank had a box. So far, the search had been fruitless. He'd also talked to Andrew Walsh, another unproductive effort. According to Andrew, Frank had planned to give him a certified check for one million dollars during the awards' banquet. Paul believed him. This was the sort of grand gesture Frank loved. It also explained Andrew's frantic behavior when he couldn't locate Frank.
Now, Andrew wanted the estate to treat the planned donation as an outstanding debt. Paul had agreed. Doing so would allow The Home to receive their money promptly and reduce the taxable estate. Written confirmation is desirable when dealing with the IRS. Unfortunately, he'd found nothing to document the intended contribution. Andrew didn't have documentation either. Paul sighed. Frank hadn't expected to die in the prime of life, and his affairs weren't in good order.
After lunch at the club, Paul took a cab to the offices of FP Development, where Ed was waiting for him in what had been Frank's office. They exchanged greetings and he asked the CPA how the search for missing documents was going.
"Documents aren't the only thing missing." Ed pointed to a three-ring binder on the desk. "That's my report." His expression promised bad news.
Paul put his hand on the binder and waited.
"As you know," Ed said, "I've been working with Sherry Leblanc, who is nominally the CFO of this corporation. Sherry has a certificate in bookkeeping from some school you never heard of. She takes care of payroll and makes the required tax deposits--thank God for small favors. She wrote the checks Frank told her to write and signed the papers Frank told her to sign." Indignation brought color to his sallow cheeks. "I don't care what the corporate papers say. Sherry is a bookkeeper, not a CFO."
"Why is that an issue?" Ed's outrage puzzled him. Everyone knew that Frank was a one-man management team.
"Over the last two months, Frank Palmer looted FP Development. No one sounded the alarm, because no one knew what was going on--least of all Sherry. We're meeting here because I wanted you to talk to her, see her office, her records, see with your own eyes what she does and how little she knows."
"That's not necessary." He tapped the still unopened binder. "What's the bottom line?"
"FP Development's liabilities far exceed its assets." Ed swept his arms in a circle that encompassed the opulent office. "This is an illusion. The firm is gone. The only question is what goes with it. The most exposed creditor is First City Bank."
Paul felt ill. First City Bank was Bobby Austin. Bobby's great-grandfather had started the bank. His grandfather and father had been presidents before him. "For how much?" he asked, knowing the amount didn't really matter.
"My best estimate is twelve million, a two million maxed out line of credit plus another ten in construction loans. FP Development drew down the loans but paid subcontractors only enough to keep them on the job. The majority of the money simply disappeared."
"Money doesn't disappear. People hide it."
"Frank hid it. He told his staff that he was working on an important deal and needed the funds for leverage. No one in this office knows anything about the deal or who else was involved--certainly not Sherry. I doubt she knows what leverage is."
"Perhaps Bobby Austin knows." Even as he spoke, Paul realized that wasn't the case. Bobby might have let his good friend slide on occasional details, but he never would have countenanced irregularities on this scale.
"He doesn't. I asked him." Ed's outrage, palpable as he detailed the financial sins, faded into sadness. "Bobby made those loans based on a handshake. He should have demanded written verification that FP Development controlled the assets put up as collateral. He didn't, and it didn't. The bank should have checked to ensure work
was actually being done and the subs were being paid. None of that happened. You know what that means."
Paul nodded, of course he did, but Ed told him anyway.
"The bank is big enough to absorb the loss, but Bobby failed to exercise proper fiduciary responsibility. He has no choice but to resign. Sherry is in more trouble. She signed false financial statements. She never read them, and if she had, I doubt she would have noticed the discrepancies. It doesn't matter. Neither irresponsibility nor incompetence excuses her. She committed fraud."
Paul held up his hand. "Bankruptcy isn't my field. I'll have to bring in a specialist. Meanwhile, I'm relying on your discretion."
"I'm sorry, Paul, but there's more. As I'm sure you know, there should have been a wall between Frank's personal finances and the finances of FP Development Company. There was none, never has been as far as I can tell. You can expect FP Development's creditors to file suit against Frank's personal estate."
"I'm counting on your discretion," he repeated. He pushed the binder back to Ed. "Please check again with Bobby before you finalize your report. I'll look for it next week."
He picked up his brief case and walked out. He didn't speak to Jeanette who sat at her desk in the outer office, staring at him with big cow eyes. She'd learn the truth soon enough, and so would the police. Mike Robinson, who was no one's fool, was already looking into Frank's finances. He'd be back with more questions, possibly a subpoena.
If Ed was correct--and there was no reason to believe otherwise--Bobby Austin, one of the finest men in New Orleans, would leave his job in disgrace, his family's wealth diminished. Sherry, a thoroughly inoffensive woman, faced a possible prison term. Jeanette, Rose Taylor and, of course, The Children's Home all had expectations based upon Frank's assurances. It would be his unhappy task to explain that Frank's will was meaningless. The money was simply not there. Only Melissa would benefit from Frank's death--ten million dollars that should go to the company's creditors.
When Don Reynolds called to discuss the policy, Paul had damned whatever whim made Frank change beneficiaries and asked if it was ironclad. He'd been disappointed when Don said yes, but he hadn't realized how much it mattered. Ten million, added to the value of Frank's real property, would be enough to clean up the mess at FP Development.
Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim Page 18