Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim

by Patricia Dusenbury

  "I appreciate--"

  "Please." She raised her hand, flat palm toward him. "Listen to me."

  He looked at her and she said, "Frank was an evil man, a sexual predator with a taste for young girls. You've talked to Melissa Yates."

  He nodded.

  "She was his mistress for more than ten years. And how old is she now? Twenty-four! I asked her. He seduced her when she was fourteen. All those years at The Children's Home, Frank sponsored programs for adolescent girls. Think about that." It was where she'd met him. The thought made her sick.

  Mike's expression said he took her accusation seriously. She didn't have to mention Annalisa.

  "There's something else," she said. "Frank's business might be having financial problems. Remember, I got involved in this whole mess because his check bounced? The other day Jeanette asked if I knew what happened to the money for some mysterious deal. I don't know what she was talking about, but Frank might have been doing business with the wrong people. You keep asking me questions when you should be talking to people who really knew him. Like Melissa and Bobby Austin and Paul Gilbert. That's how you're going to find out who killed Frank. And Hatch. And that boy who got killed when Frank's Jeep blew-up."

  She stood abruptly, almost colliding with a waiter, apologized and strode to the door. She'd made it through without losing her composure, but she wasn't good for much longer.

  Garlic butter sauce congealed on shrimp growing cold while Mike watched bubbles drift up to the surface of his beer. Their motion reminded him of the only explanation Claire had ever offered for her behavior after discovering the burned cabin. She went to the beach because she liked to watch the waves. His bubbles and her waves--at least you knew what direction they'd take. She was unpredictable. She cried and popped pills in his office when he told her the fire was arson. Then yesterday, she found a dying man and handled the situation better than many a rookie cop.

  He still considered PTSD a possibility. He'd replayed the tape of her interview with Corlette, searching for clues to her mental state, He'd interviewed her several times himself, including the infamous lunch date, but the woman who just left was someone he'd never seen before. The hazy stares into the middle distance had given way to a level gaze. Instead of evading questions, she demanded his attention, eyes intent and jaw set. Her outrage was tangible and, considering what she'd told him, understandable. Had he just met the real Claire Marshall?

  Vernon hadn't abandoned his theory that Claire conspired with Hatch to kill Palmer, and for the first time Mike could see a scenario that made sense. He remembered her outburst about having neither friends nor influence in New Orleans. Put that up against a well-connected and influential pedophile and she had a motive for murder. She, and others, could have seen killing Palmer as the only way to prevent future molestations. The cowboy could be the man in the windbreaker could be the father of a girl Palmer had seduced. Claire could be his partner. Hell, there could be ten more people involved.

  Mike poked at his dinner and declined the waiter's offer of another beer. Breton was supposed to be looking into Palmer's finances, but tonight was the first time he'd heard about missing money. The possibility of financial irregularities cast new light on Bobby Austin's barely suppressed anger--and his refusal to discuss FP Construction's finances. The banker couldn't stonewall forever, and neither could Gilbert. He'd put in to subpoena them both, but the paperwork sat on Vernon's desk. Working this case under the Super's watchful eye was like walking through a swamp in lead boots.

  Hatch had been a foot soldier in someone else's army. The police department, in the person of Superintendent Henry Vernon, had really screwed up by failing to protect him. If they screwed up again, they could lose another witness, perhaps another foot soldier in the shadowy conspiracy, perhaps Claire. That thought killed what was left of Mike's appetite. He signaled the waiter to bring his check.

  Salerno's was off the beaten path. He should have cut Claire a little slack about being late. His patience had worn thin after a heated discussion with Vernon, which was hardly her fault. Or maybe it was. She could have been more forthcoming sooner. With what she'd just told him, he might have been able to convince Vernon to move the subpoenas. And what about her timing? Why had she chosen to tell him now? Did she realize she'd given him a motive that could be hers?

  Whatever was going on, Mike saw no reason to believe it was over. Rather than go home and pace the floor, he drove back to the office and checked with the surveillance car.

  "Yes sir, Ms. Marshall just returned home."

  "What took her so long?"

  "She stopped for take-out. "

  "Oh." She'd been hungry after all.

  "I followed her to the edge of the property and waited on the street until the gate closed."

  "Then what?"

  "I watched her headlights go down the driveway and at that point, shifted into overnight mode. I'll drive past at fifteen-minute intervals."

  "Can you see if there are any lights on in her house?"

  "Not really, sir, not from the road."

  He knew that. Why did he ask? "Call me if anything changes."

  "Yes, sir."

  He dialed her home number and got the answering machine. This time, she didn't pick up when he began speaking. He asked her to call him.

  The scene in Salerno's had knocked something loose. A thought lurked at the edge of his consciousness, blurry and incomplete but important. Rereading the files might bring it into focus. He pulled them out and started at the beginning.

  Despite the lack of cooperation from Palmer's associates, the interviews hadn't been a complete waste of time. Gilbert's efforts to direct suspicion toward Melissa Yates suggested a hidden agenda. Austin had simmered and Walsh had sweated. Only Rick Russo, with his tirade about police indifference, had felt genuine. No, not just Rick. Claire Marshall was telling the truth--at least the truth as she saw it--but he couldn't shake the conviction that she was also holding back. Why? And what?

  He dialed her number again. Again, no one answered. He contacted the surveillance officer and told him to go knock on her door.

  CHAPTER 30

  Seventeen dollars' worth of secondhand clothing had transformed the ordinary Joe seen leaving Hatch's apartment into a tourist from the Midwest. No more jeans and t-shirt--tonight he wore dark gray slacks and a navy golf shirt. A straw boater had replaced the baseball cap. His forty-five in its shoulder holster was as unobtrusive under a madras sports coat as it had been under the windbreaker. Although loafers without socks would have been the best complement to this costume, he stuck with his brown oxfords. He'd overcome his reservations about wearing another person's clothing, but the thought of putting his bare feet into someone else's shoes made his skin crawl.

  He could have purchased everything new, but the lightly worn garments contributed to the authenticity of his disguise. Clothes make the man--or unmake him. The cowboy disappeared when his ten-gallon hat went into a dumpster. With a baseball cap he became just another blue-collar worker. As for tonight's costume, he didn't know anyone who'd be caught dead in this plaid sports coat. He chuckled at his own wit.

  He took the Saint Charles streetcar to Washington, got off along with several other tourists, and followed them toward The Commander's Palace. At the cemetery, he crossed the street and doubled back around. His usual gait was a purposeful stride, but tonight he strolled through the evening dusk, limping just a little because his right knee ached after spending much of the day on his feet. He carried a shopping bag from a souvenir store in the Quarter and a walking map of historic New Orleans that he'd picked up in a hotel lobby.

  He knew exactly where he was and where he was going, but he amused himself by pausing under a streetlight to study the map. He tucked it back in his pocket and kept walking. When he reached the Clarke mansion, he stopped and stared as if he'd never seen it before. Only the outdoor lights were on. The family must still be in Europe, a convenient but not necessary circumstance. Half a
block of lushly planted grounds separated the big house from Claire's rental.

  An article in today's paper implied that she was suspected of the murders he'd committed. What a cosmic joke. She had neither the strength of character nor the daring it took to kill. Her role was victim, and she'd asked for it. It had been a bad moment when he saw her at Hatch's apartment, standing between him and Hatch's car. He still had the keys, but only a fool would go back there or drive that car now.

  Claire shouldn't have been there. Because she was, he had two problems: no car and a witness who might someday realize who she'd seen. The solution was elegant and simple. He'd make the witness his driver. He needed her behind the wheel. If the police saw a man driving her car, they'd pull him over.

  The police were watching Claire openly, the fools. They'd made it easy for him to learn their schedule, figure out when she'd be vulnerable and calculate how much time he'd have. He glanced around to be sure no one was there to see him and slipped through the servant's entrance, unlocked because he'd disabled the latch earlier today. Once he was inside, the tall hedge sheltered him from prying eyes.

  He replaced the conspicuous madras jacket with a hooded navy sweatshirt that had been in his shopping bag. This was his burglar costume. The dark clothing blended into the shadows, and the loose sweatshirt concealed his holster. The jacket and straw boater went in the shopping bag, which he tossed into a trashcan. Pick-up was Tuesday morning, another happy coincidence. By the time anyone realized Claire was gone, the trash would be gone too. Even if it weren't, the contents of the shopping bag would reveal only his jacket size.

  He stayed in the shadows at the edge of the driveway in case Claire was out on her porch, but as he drew closer, he saw his caution had been unnecessary. The carriage house was dark, and her car wasn't there. A big orange cat that had been lying on the porch step leapt to its feet, hissing. He pegged a magnolia cone at it, and the cat retreated through a flap in the door. He bounced another cone off the door to keep the animal inside, where it couldn't possibly alert Claire, and worked his way between a tall shrub and the porch.

  Time doesn't fly when you're standing in the bushes keeping most of your weight on your good leg, but his patience paid off. After what seemed much longer than the thirty-five minutes his watch recorded, two cars rounded the corner and stopped. Metal creaked as the big gate opened. The low headlights of Claire's Miata came toward him, and the other car moved on down the street. He had fifteen minutes.

  She parked no more than ten feet from him, got out and began stretching a protective cover over the car. Her concentration on the mundane task infuriated him. He imagined her neck in his hands, saw the terror on her face and felt the snap when he squeezed. Throttling her would feel good, but he knew better than to give in to anger--no matter how justified. Tonight, he needed her. When she'd served her purpose, he'd kill her at his leisure. Didn't some philosopher say revenge was a dish better enjoyed cold?

  He drew his gun and smoothed his face into an amiable expression. His plan required her cooperation, and so he had to convince her that he'd let her go once she helped him escape. She'd believe the lie because she'd want it to be true.

  Claire had put her take-out on the swing and was rummaging in her purse for the door key when something rustled behind her. She whipped around in time to see the man step out of the shrubbery. He no longer wore the windbreaker or the baseball cap, but she recognized him. She'd almost recognized him at Hatch's apartment, but her brain had refused to believe her eyes. She inhaled sharply, drawing breath for a scream.

  "Quiet," he said.

  She saw the gun and heard the click as he released the safety. She remembered the blood pulsing bright red from holes in Hatch's chest. He'd shot Hatch, and he'd shoot her too. No one would hear. The Clarkes weren't home, and the police car had gone. She looked the killer in the eye.

  "Hello, Frank." Her voice belonged to someone else.

  "Hello, Claire." He smiled. "Really, I expected more of a reaction. Aren't you surprised to see me?"

  "Of course. I thought you were dead."

  "The reports of my death were greatly exaggerated." He kept the gun trained on her but didn't pull the trigger.

  "Someone's dead. There was a body in the cabin." The police would be back. If she could keep him talking...

  "Ah, Lou. He was nobody. He won't be missed."

  "The police think it was you."

  "I went to a lot of trouble to convince them it was me. The police are no problem. You on the other hand." He shook his head in mock sorrow. "Nothing but trouble. Coming back early, going to Hatch's apartment. Why you did that, I can't imagine. It's not as if you two were friends."

  Claire tightened her grip on her pocketbook. If she could get close enough, she could swing it and knock the gun out of his hand. She could run and hide until the police came back. She knew her way around the garden. He didn't.

  Her mouth was dry. Would she be able to scream? Would the policeman in his car hear her? She kept her eyes focused Frank's face and concentrated on breathing slowly, staying calm.

  "I apologize for the inconvenience, but I need one small favor." He smiled again, as if they were having a normal conversation.

  "What kind of favor?"

  He held out his hand. "Give me your purse."

  She gave it to him as slowly as she dared. At least five minutes had passed. Ten more ...

  "I need a driver, and Hatch is no longer available." He glanced at his watch. "Take the cover off your car. The police will return in nine or ten minutes. I want to be gone before then."

  "The police?" She pretended not to know what he was talking about.

  "Do you think I'm stupid, that I don't know they're watching you?" He grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly down the porch steps. "If you keep stalling, we'll have to wait until they go past. Waiting annoys me. You don't want to do that." He shoved her toward the car.

  Claire removed the cover with shaking hands. She dropped it on the ground and waited for Frank's next order.

  "Give me the remote control for the driveway gate."

  She unclipped it from the driver's seat visor and handed it to him.

  "Now, get into the driver's seat, and slide the passenger seat forward." Frank climbed in and wedged himself into the space behind the seats. He held gun barrel behind her right ear, handed her the keys and said, "Start the car and put the top up."

  She complied, while time crawled.

  "Alright, let's go. And Claire, rest assured that I'll pull this trigger the minute you don't do exactly what I tell you to do. I can see you, and I can see where we're going."

  "If you shoot me while I'm driving, we're both in trouble."

  "You have a point. We need each other. Unfortunately, we can't trust each other. I'm the one with the gun, and so you're the one who has to take things on faith." He aimed the remote at the gate. It swung open. "Turn right and wait while I close the gate. We don't want anything to alarm your protectors when they return." He looked at his watch. "In six minutes."

  "Where are we going?"

  "To my fish camp."

  They saw no other cars until they reached Saint Charles. Claire stayed in the right lane and drove as slowly as she dared. Cars passed without giving them a second glance. Look at me, she wanted to scream. Help me. At a red light, a police car pulled up next to them. She turned toward it and felt the gun barrel hard against her neck.

  "Don't do anything stupid."

  The light turned green, and they continued in silence. She took the ramp onto the highway and merged into traffic. She should have hit something down on Saint Charles. Now it was too late. Crashing at highway speed could kill them both, and she didn't want to die.

  "Take the next exit," Frank said. "There's a shopping center on the right. I want you to pull in and drive to the far end."

  Claire's knees wobbled as she put in the clutch and downshifted to make the turn. Tears stung her eyes, but she wouldn't cower or plead for her life.
She'd seen enough of Frank to know that begging would earn contempt, not mercy. She drove to the far side of the lot, certain he planned to shoot her, throw her body into the weeds and take the car.

  "Stop here. Now reach over and open the passenger door."

  She followed his orders, opening the door wide so that it stayed open. Her left hand rested on her door handle. Could she sneak her door open and roll out? Roll out to where? She was surrounded by empty asphalt.

  "Give me the car keys." Frank moved the gun. She tensed as the barrel brushed the base of her skull.

  Claire's hand shook so badly she could barely pull the keys from the ignition. She clenched them in her fist, the end of the key sticking out, but he was behind her and out of reach.

  "Don't even think about it." The hand without the gun grabbed her wrist and squeezed until she released the key. "Now pick it up and hand it to me."

  She gave him the car key.

  "Relax, Claire. I'm won't hurt you unless you leave me no choice. All I want is a ride. You'll be fine as long as you do what you're told."

  He climbed out, all the while keeping the gun trained on her. She almost wept with relief when he pushed the passenger seat as far back as possible and climbed in. He massaged his right knee, and she remembered that he had lingering problems from an old football injury. This sign of weakness gave her hope. She spoke to see if she still could.

  "I'm not sure I can find the way in the dark."

  "Don't worry. I'll direct you." Again, he smiled at her as if nothing was wrong. "In another hour or so I'll be on the boat, and you'll be on your way home. By the time you get to a phone and alert the police, which is what I fully expect you to do, I'll be long gone."

  "I'd like to believe you, but I keep thinking about Hatch. I thought you liked him."

  "Please Claire, let's not be hypocritical. As I recall, you compared him unfavorably to a pit bull." He chuckled. "Don't worry about what happened to Hatch. He was a danger to me. You're not."