Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim

by Patricia Dusenbury

  There was a way out. If the police found that Melissa had contributed to Frank's death, she would become an ineligible beneficiary, and the ten million would revert to the corporation, which owned the policy.

  As soon as Paul returned to his office, he called Henry Vernon and explained that he wanted to cooperate with the investigation of Frank's finances but neither he nor Bobby Austin would be able to answer questions with any certainty until next week when the CPA would have finished his audit of FP Development. He also suggested that the police take a thorough look at Melissa Yates, a woman he believed capable of murder, and the person who benefitted most from Frank's death. Had they considered the possibility that she conspired with Hatch to kill Frank and then disposed of her accomplice?

  CHAPTER 28

  Mike walked around the big SUV. "I've ordered a thorough going over."

  "His car? What do you expect to find?" Breton said.

  "I don't know, but I want to be sure we don't miss anything. Hatch was an anomaly in Palmer's life, and I want to know why a successful businessman had anything to do with him. Have you seen his record?"

  Breton shook his head.

  Of course not. That would require too much effort. "Hatch was an ex-con, a drug user who did time for breaking into a hospital pharmacy. He went to prison because he was on probation for breaking into a drug store. You met him. He was a punk. But Palmer hired him as a driver slash bodyguard. He invited him to go fishing."

  "You still think he torched the cabin?"

  "That's why he's dead."

  He led the way up the back staircase, took down the crime scene tape and unlocked the door. Hatch's apartment had been dusted for fingerprints, and powdery residue covered every hard surface. Breton ran a finger across the dining table, leaving a diagonal line from one corner to the other.

  "They find anything?"

  "The victim's prints in the kitchen, bath and closet, Claire Marshall's in the kitchen, and nothing in the main room," he told Breton who apparently hadn't taken the time to read the crime scene report either. "Wiped clean."

  "Our killer wasn't in any hurry."

  Mike nodded. No one who lived in the apartment building knew anything about the man in the windbreaker. He was the shooter, and he'd felt secure enough to do a thorough housekeeping before leaving. If Claire Marshall had arrived five minutes earlier, she would have walked in on him.

  Breton apparently had the same thought. "Lucky for her she stopped at the zoo. Or maybe that's why. She was running ahead of schedule."

  "She was losing the tail. I'd told her to stay away from here." He walked around the room. "It's hard to get a sense of the man who lived here. This could be a motel room."

  Breton scuffed a dark stain in the rug. "One that rents by the hour."

  "It doesn't look like Hatch had many visitors."

  "Outside of Claire Marshall and whoever killed him. You really think it was the cowboy?"

  "It's a strong possibility." He flipped through Hatch's reading matter, military and survivalist publications but nothing hard-core. "Palmer and Hatch," he said. "Employer and employee, murder victims, why?"

  "Hatch drove Palmer around. He'd know a lot about his boss's business. Maybe he saw more than was healthy." Breton patted his ample stomach. "I'm getting hungry."

  "We have time to pick up a sandwich and stop by Palmer's house to see if they've found anything."

  * * * *

  Rose Taylor opened the door, looking even older and more fragile than before. She wore a faded sweater and baggy slacks. Anything would be baggy on this woman. She couldn't weigh ninety pounds.

  "There should be another team of officers here," Mike said, "with a search warrant."

  "They got here about an hour ago. Mr. Gilbert said to let them in. They're back in Mr. Frank's office. You want anything, I'll be in the kitchen. Mr. Gilbert told me I could have the food, and I'm packing it up."

  The team was finishing up in Palmer's office. They'd found the appointment calendar Gilbert had mentioned and the victim's checkbook, but nothing else notable. Mike recognized the contents of a bottom desk drawer as photography paper plus the materials for making slides. Palmer must have been an amateur photographer. He went to ask Rose if there was a darkroom in the house. She was in the pantry, stacking canned goods into cardboard boxes.

  "Mr. Frank did his photography in the big bathroom," she said. "I never go in there except once a week to clean. He told me not to fool with that stuff." Her demeanor said she didn't think they should either.

  "We'll be careful," he promised.

  Cabinets in the master bathroom held photography equipment and chemicals along with metal file boxes for negatives. Breton picked up random strips of film and held them to the light. "Our victim liked taking pictures of big houses, big fish, and big boats--no people. Maybe there's something here, but it'll take days to look through all of these."

  "Tell the team to bring them back. We're going to the homeless shelter."

  "Remind me, why?"

  "Palmer was on their board of directors."

  The New Life Center occupied a converted industrial building on the airport side of town. A knot of unkempt men loitered around the entrance. Their wary eyes followed Mike and Breton as they walked toward the front door.

  One of the men stepped forward. "Can I help you?" His hostile tone belied the polite question.

  "We're looking for Rick Russo," Mike said. "He's expecting us."

  One of the other men turned and yelled. "Hey Rick. The cops are here. They say you're expecting them."

  A short man with dark facial hair and a ponytail hurried out. "Sorry. I lost track of time."

  In his faded jeans and worn shirt, Rick Russo looked only slightly more respectable than his clients. He led the way to a small office and as soon as they sat down said, "You're here to discuss Frank Palmer. His death is a real loss to the community."

  Mike agreed and said, "The police department has made finding his killer a top priority."

  Rick looked him in the eye. "I wish you considered our clients worthy of such concern."

  "Is there a specific problem?"

  "One of our men went missing a few days before Frank died. I reported it right away, but your people weren't interested. He hadn't been gone long enough. Another man's been missing a couple months now. You aren't looking for him either. He's been gone too long. I feel like Goldilocks when I talk to the police. This trail's too hot. This trail's too cold. When will a trail be just right?" He gestured toward the window. "Those men out there are veterans. They risked their lives to protect our freedom and now they struggle at the margins of society. Some are disabled from wounds received while fighting for our country. Others are addicted to painkillers."

  Rick's voice faded into the background, and Mike heard again the raucous sounds of nighttime Saigon, the dull thumps of mortars in the distance. He saw the glazed eyes of soldiers who'd found forgetfulness in narcotics. Some had been able to leave the habit in Viet Nam. Others weren't so lucky.

  "I was an MP in Saigon at the end of the war," he said. "I've seen what you're talking about, and I respect what you're doing."

  Mollified by this unexpected support, Rick asked what he could do to help them. It turned out the answer was nothing. Palmer's involvement with the Center was recent, and the director had no insights to offer.

  "I liked him. I appreciated all he did for us, but I never felt as if I knew him on a personal level. He'd only been working with us a couple months."

  "I thought he was on your board." Breton said.

  "He was. We put him there right away. We're a relatively new organization, and Frank was a gift. He brought connections, resources and brains. We were lucky to have him. His death is a blow, a big one."

  Mike thanked Rick for his time, gave him a card and the standard call me if you think of anything speech. He promised to get in touch when there was time to talk about improving relations.

  Back in the car, Breton warn
ed, "You just volunteered for a thankless task. The Mayor thinks our job is to keep Rick's guys from bothering the tourists. He likes it when they disappear."

  Their next appointment, The Children's Home, was across town. Breton navigated the rush hour traffic, while Mike checked with the office. His messages included three "call me's" from Claire Marshall, no topic specified. She was probably upset about the newspaper article, and he didn't blame her, but he wasn't anxious to bear the brunt of her outrage. Paul Gilbert wanted him to know that Melissa Yates had been, to his knowledge, closer to Hatch than anyone else. She had a troubled past and was an alumna of The Children's Home. Superintendent Vernon wanted to talk to him about the subpoena requests. He returned Vernon's call and got bad news. The Super wanted to see if the search of Palmer's house produced anything before he approved the subpoena requests.

  * * * *

  "Welcome to The New Orleans Children's Home, and please call me Andrew." Shorthaired and clean-shaven, with wireless glasses perched halfway down his nose, Andrew Walsh provided a sharp contrast to Rick Russo. "Would you like a tour? We can talk while I show you around."

  He slid easily into the role of guide. The facility was newer than it looked. The antebellum plantation was actually a reproduction constructed in the nineteen twenties for a wealthy man who'd romanticized the Confederacy. His heirs had given it to the state, which tried to make it a tourist destination. When that didn't work, the state turned it into an orphanage.

  Mike looked at the white-pillared mansion, which was imposing but not that big. "Where do the children live?"

  "Ah, that's an amusing story. The original owner had a dozen, quote unquote, slave cabins built on the grounds. Those cabins have been renovated into residences. Each one houses a counselor and up to six young people. As you can imagine, the provenance of the buildings inspires numerous jokes."

  The tour skirted the pseudo slave cabins. Walsh explained that it was policy to disturb the residents as little as possible. "They're here for help, not to be gawked at. Even family members aren't allowed in the residential area." He lowered his voice. "Given your line of work, I'm sure you know that family is often part of the problem."

  "This is quite a layout," Breton said, "and it looks familiar."

  "An occasional movie or commercial is shot on the grounds. We're always looking for ways to raise money."

  "Nah. I got it," Breton said. "We just came from Palmer's house. I was looking through a stack of negatives, some from pictures he took here."

  Walsh's reaction to this innocuous comment was a startled double take.

  "You didn't know he was a photographer?" Mike said.

  "I didn't remember," Walsh wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. "You have to excuse me, Gentlemen. It's been a difficult time with Frank's death, and..."

  He led them back to the main building and a room with comfortable leather chairs arranged around a wooden table. The chairs showed some wear, as did the oriental rugs scattered on the floor, but the overall effect was warm and hospitable. Walsh apologized for the worn furnishings, citing a perpetually strained budget, and then segued into the expected speech lionizing Frank Palmer. He, like Rick Russo, bemoaned the loss of a major patron, but unlike Rick Russo, Andrew Walsh said he knew Frank Palmer well. The murdered man had supported The Home for at least a decade and had been on their board for most of that time.

  "Frank died on the eve of a million-dollar contribution. We expect to receive the funds from the estate, but it breaks my heart that he won't be here to see the difference his generosity makes."

  The speech was smooth, but Walsh responded to follow-up questions not only with praise for Palmer's charity and compassion, but also with nervous tics. He straightened his tie, adjusted his cuffs and squirmed in his seat.

  Mike wondered about the source of his discomfort. He remembered Gilbert's message and poked a possible sore spot. "Are you familiar with a woman named Melissa Yates?"

  "The name doesn't ring a bell."

  Maybe not, but something was making sweat bead on his upper lip. "It's probably been a few years." Mike wished Gilbert had said more. He didn't know enough to be specific.

  "If she was one of our residents, there are confidentiality requirements. Unsealing any record requires special action of the court because minors are involved."

  Walsh was literally wringing his hands. When the topic shifted to Hatch, he relaxed. "I've seen him driving Frank, of course, but we've never spoken. I don't know anything about him."

  "Thank you for your cooperation." He spoke without a trace of the irony he felt. "If we have any more questions, Lieutenant Breton or I will call you."

  They walked back to their car in silence.

  "That guy's hiding something." Breton pulled into the rush hour traffic.

  "Have you noticed? The closer someone was to Palmer, the less they have to say. There's something about our victim that his friends don't want us to discover."

  "We've been banging our heads against brick walls all day. Stonewalls," Breton corrected himself.

  "Drop me off at headquarters and go home. It's going to be a long week." A stack of paperwork waited on his desk, he had a five-thirty meeting with Vernon, and he was going to add Andrew Walsh's name to the list for subpoenas. The idea of an adult volunteer taking up with one of The Children's Home residents struck him as wrong on several dimensions.

  Mike had just sat down at his desk when his phone rang. Claire Marshall wanted to talk to him about Frank Palmer.

  "You have my full attention." For five minutes. They owed her that much, but he had work to do.

  "Not on the phone, please, in person."

  "I'm about to go into a meeting with Superintendent Vernon. How about tomorrow morning?"

  "This is important." Her tone mixed incredulous with outraged.

  Mike saw her point. He'd insisted upon talking to her when she wanted to be left alone. Now that she wanted to talk to him, he was putting her off. "I'll finish here about seven, and then I'm going to Salerno's for dinner. If you'd like, we can talk there. That's the best I can do."

  "Salerno's is fine."

  Mike had surprised himself with the invitation. When word got back to Vernon--a sure thing--he'd regret it. He gave her directions. "I'll see you there at seven thirty."

  CHAPTER 29

  She was going to be late. Captain Robinson--she still had trouble thinking of him as Mike--said the restaurant was just off the highway and easy to find. Easy for who? If he'd told her it was a left exit, she'd forgotten. She cruised past in the far right lane, unable to cross over in the heavy traffic, and took the next exit, intending to double back around. There was no re-entry to the highway, and the surface street was one way in the wrong direction. Several turns and one dead end later, she pulled over and waved to the car that had been behind her the entire discombobulated trip. It pulled alongside.

  "I'm trying to find Salerno's Restaurant," she said. "If you know the way, I could follow you for a change."

  "Can't do that, Ms. Marshall," the policeman said with a grin. "But I can tell you how to get there. It's not far."

  His directions led her to a nondescript strip mall sandwiched between an area of old warehouses and the elevated highway. Neon signs with missing letters flickered behind steel grating. They identified the stores as a mini-mart, a combination washateria/game room and a check cashing service. An unkempt man slouched out of the mini-mart, a six-pack in each hand, and gave her the once over. The policeman honked and gestured for her to keep going.

  She drove around to the back, and there it was. A big red, green and white sign painted on the side of an old warehouse read Salerno's Ristorante. The windowless brick building didn't look promising, but cars filled the lot, and the variety of vehicles--she parked between a Mercedes roadster and a beat-up Dodge truck--indicated a diverse clientele. She waved a thank you, picked her way across the potholed parking lot, and opened the door onto a different world.

  Amber globes
hung from heavy ceiling girders and bounced warm light off stuccoed walls. Ceiling fans turned lazy circles, fast enough to keep the air moving but slow enough to be unobtrusive. To the right of the door, a wooden bar with a brass rail and red leather stools beckoned the weary. Claire was glad she'd showered and changed into good slacks and a silk blouse. She gave her name to the maître d.

  "The gentleman has been waiting for you." He led her to a booth.

  "Hi Mike. Sorry I'm late." She slid in the other side.

  "I gave up on you a few minutes ago and put in my order." He pushed his hair back off his forehead, a sign of frustration she recognized from previous encounters.

  "I missed the exit and got all turned around." She smiled. "If it weren't for the policeman following me, I'd still be lost. Being a murder suspect has its benefits."

  He neither returned her smile nor denied that she was still a suspect. He'd said protective surveillance, and she'd believed him. Fool. She was still a suspect and he was still a policeman.

  "I recommend the grilled shrimp special," he said. "It's messy but delicious."

  "No thanks. I'm not hungry, but you go ahead. I'll talk while you eat."

  "I'm not going to attempt a serious conversation while peeling hot shrimp. Nor am I going to let my dinner get cold while you explain what's on your mind. We can reschedule this meeting."

  "What I have to say is important," she protested.

  "So important that you're half an hour late." He unfolded his napkin and put it in his lap.

  "I told you. I got lost."

  "I have a nine o'clock appointment tomorrow morning. It should take less than an hour. I'm available to meet with you before or after. When would be convenient?"

  "Now is convenient. I've gone to a lot of trouble to get here. The least you can do is listen to me." She leaned closer and lowered her voice so that no one in a neighboring booth could overhear. "I've learned some things about Frank Palmer."