Where's Frank? Why didn't I take Felix's gun?
She crouched behind a rock and peered out, looking for the SUV, but saw no sign of it. Her eyes followed the path of damaged wire mesh back to where she'd left the pavement. Skid marks on the other side led to a break in the guardrail. She crossed the highway and looked over the edge.
Yellow flames rose like a torch from the blue river. At their center was the red SUV, impaled on a large rock. No one could have survived that crash. Could they? She scanned the water for a rhythmic splash or a bobbing head, any sign of a person in the water. She searched the banks for any movement that might be Frank pulling himself to safety.
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The Steelers had a bye, so Mike had watched the Saints game. The home team eked out a win over Phoenix, and according to the post-game wrap-up, could be on their way to the Superbowl. New Orleans would go nuts if that happened. When the phone rang, he expected it to be Corlette calling to gloat over the Saints' victory. The deputy didn't have much use for the city of New Orleans, but he was a big fan of their football team. Instead, it was the desk sergeant.
"Some sheriff in New Mexico wants to talk to you, Sir. I told him you were off this weekend, but he asked me to contact you. He'd appreciate a little help with a serious matter. The surviving participant referred them to you."
Mike didn't know anyone in New Mexico, and none of the homicide files on his desk had a New Mexico connection. But twenty plus years in the military had embedded a sense of duty that wouldn't let him ignore the sheriff's request.
"What's his number?"
Sheriff Oscar Flores thanked Mike for getting back so quickly. He explained that the Taos Sheriff's Department and the New Mexico Highway Patrol were trying to sort out a fatal accident, possibly vehicular homicide. One driver, a man, was dead. It appeared he had been alone in a vehicle that went off a cliff into the Rio Grande. The emergency room doctor was refusing to let them question the second driver, who was suffering from shock. They were reasonably sure she'd also been alone in her car.
"She told the officer on the scene that her name was Claire Marshall, and that's the name on her driver's license and credit cards."
"Is she all right?" Mike interrupted. What the hell was Claire doing in New Mexico?
"A couple broken ribs, scratches and bruises, but no serious injuries, which is amazing when you look at the car. But..."
"But what?"
"When the Highway Patrol arrived, she was standing on the edge of the cliff like she was in a trance. The officer approached her as a potential suicide and pulled her back. She tells him she's fine, just, quote, making sure he's really dead this time, unquote." Flores sighed audibly. "The doctor's keeping her in the hospital under observation, which is okay with me. I can use the time to sort things out. From the looks of the skid marks, they were playing bumper cars. Which might account for her attitude.
"The only other information she gave the officer was your name. She said you'd explain everything."
"Have you identified the other driver?" Could Claire have believed it was Palmer?
"We're working on it."
The sheriff described their so-far fruitless efforts. The other car was a rental, and the company had faxed over a copy of the rental form filled out by a man who gave his name as Lewis Fulton and his address as Atlanta, Georgia. A deputy called the phone number Mr. Franklin provided, looking for a next of kin, and talked to a woman who swore she'd never heard of any Lewis Franklin and thought New Mexico was a foreign country. Next, the Atlanta Police said the address Franklin used didn't exist. By that point, no one was surprised when the Georgia DMV said the driver's license was a phony.
Mike hadn't been one hundred percent convinced Frank Palmer was dead. The mystery man's fake name, a combination of the maybe not-so-dead man's first name and his wife's maiden name, sealed it.
"You still with me, Captain?" Sheriff Flores said.
"I'm here, and I'm trying to sort it out myself."
"Any insights would be appreciated."
"Claire Marshall: white female, early thirties, five-eight, slender, green eyes, shoulder-length auburn hair."
"Sounds right, but she's not the question mark."
"A man named Frank Palmer has a history of faking his own death. He supposedly died several days ago--a boat fire out in the Gulf--but no one recovered his body."
"We have a body looking for a name."
"White male, mid-forties, six feet, two hundred pounds, brown hair, brown eyes."
"The body was badly burned, but the size is right and the rest matches the description on the phony driver's license."
"Déjà vu all over again."
"What's that?"
"If Claire says Palmer was trying to kill her, believe it. He's tried before. Give me your fax number."
He went into the office to fax Palmer's dental records, the real ones this time, plus a copy of his most recent memo to Vernon. It would give Flores more details about the events he'd summarized over the phone. Then he called Jason Corlette and brought him into the picture.
"What were they doing in New Mexico? What else did the Sheriff say about her condition? Did you get the name of the hospital?"
"Jason, I've told you everything I know. I'm waiting to hear back from Flores. If I could think of something else to do, I'd be doing it."
"Have you told that jackass you work for?"
"He's my next call."
CHAPTER 39
Monday, November 8, 1993
Claire had been home for almost a week, but this afternoon was her first venture back to work. She parked in front of the Laurens house and slowly pulled herself out of her car. Even taped, her ribs hurt when she moved from sitting to standing.
Jack was in the kitchen talking to a building inspector. "Aren't you supposed to be taking it easy?"
"Sitting around gets boring." She nodded hello to the inspector. "How's it going?"
"I'm doing your structural."
"I've already sworn by everything holy that we only removed new additions--no supporting walls, nothing structural," Jack said, "but he wants to see for himself."
"Show us both." She smiled at her partner. "I want to see how my favorite project's coming along."
After the inspector left, Jack fetched a couple Cokes from a cooler in his truck. They sat on the staircase that curved up from the foyer.
"It looks really good," Claire said. "I can already see Brian carrying his bride over the threshold."
"But not up these stairs." Jack laughed. "She's a big girl, and I counted twenty-six steps. These are sixteen foot ceilings." The foyer walls were scarred ten feet up where the lowered ceiling had been. Four feet higher, ornate woodworking girdled the room.
Claire pointed to it. "This molding's intact, but I noticed chunks missing in the living and dining rooms where new walls had been attached."
"I've already ordered the millwork. I'm way ahead of you."
"As usual. And you're probably already worried about what we're going to do when this project's finished."
"Have you talked to the lawyer about Palmer's cottage?"
"I have, and we're through. The estate doesn't have the money to finish up. They're going to sell it as is." Paul Gilbert had told her to submit invoices covering any work for which they hadn't been paid and to do it quickly so that they could be registered as liens against the property. That way they should receive what they were owed. Implicit in his explanation was the statement that not everyone would fare as well.
"There's always a chance the new owner will want us to finish."
Claire reached over and patted his hand. "No thank you. We'll be fine without it." She'd said the same thing to Paul when he offered to buy the cottage from the estate and have her firm finish the work. It had been a strange conversation. Claire sensed that he, too, was trying to reverse some of the damage Frank had done.
"We've got another two months of work here, three weeks on that Lakeview addition. After
that?" he shrugged.
"We're fine," she repeated. "Scott Cantrell called me at home. He and Lori have their financing and they're ready to go. I'm talking to three more potential clients next week." The notoriety stemming from her unwitting role in Frank's crimes appeared to be good publicity for her business. Or maybe these people just wanted to meet her so they could tell their friends they had talked to the woman who killed Frank Palmer.
"You're shivering and it's not cold. Are you sure you're okay?"
"A goose walked over my grave. That's all. I'm more than okay, but I can't stay much longer. Remember Mike Robinson, the policeman who kept questioning me? He's taking me out to dinner. It's his apology."
Jack shook his head. "Flowers are an apology, Claire. If he's taking you out to dinner, it's a date."
"Then I really better head home and clean myself up. I haven't been on a date since college." And all those dates were with Tom. She hadn't been on a first date since high school. She held out her hand and he helped her to her feet.
It was a date and it wasn't. When Mike picked her up at her house, he asked if she'd like to give Salerno's another chance. Claire, who'd spent half her childhood on horseback, suspected it was his version of putting her back on the horse that had thrown her. She hit the issue head on.
"Last time I was there, I thought how nice it would be to come just for dinner, no unpleasant business to discuss." She managed a smile.
When they walked into the restaurant, the maître d greeted Mike like an old friend. He showed them to the booth where Mike had been waiting for her when she told him about Frank. She slid into the booth, wincing when the movement jarred her ribs.
"Sure you're okay being back here?" he said.
"I'm fine. It's my ribs. Three of them are broken. The doctor says there's not much they can do but tape them and tell me not to laugh or cough for the next month."
"Sheriff Flores told me no one who saw the car you'd been driving could believe you walked away from the accident."
"It wasn't an accident, Mike."
"You really don't want to be coddled, do you?"
"Nope." She smiled. "But I do want to be fed, and I saw the shrimp special up on the blackboard."
While they were waiting for their meals to arrive she asked him if they'd been able to track down any of the money that Frank stole.
"Not yet, but we will."
"I hate what's happened to Bobby Austin. He seemed like a nice person."
"Whether or not we find the money, I'm afraid he's out of a job."
"An article in the paper said that Andrew Walsh had resigned as Director of The Children's Home. It didn't mention any connection to Frank, but..."
"You might be surprised at the connection. Walsh was blackmailing Palmer, or at least attempting to. We think that's why Palmer decided to fake his own death."
"Wow. Andrew seemed so mild-mannered. I never would have guessed." And Frank had bragged about his cleverness but ignored her questions about why he wanted to start a new life.
"We wouldn't have either if you hadn't told us Palmer was a pedophile. It was the missing piece, Claire. Once we had that, the rest of it fell into place." He paused. "How long had you known?"
Claire recognized the real question, and it was one she'd been asking herself. Should she have told him sooner? What if she'd called him Sunday morning as soon as she read Annie Lewis's letter? Or she could have read the letter Saturday night and called then. Would Hatch still be alive? Would Frank be in jail instead of dead? Those were questions without answers, and so she answered the one he had asked.
"I found out Sunday morning." It was the truth and unless she explained further, he'd assume she found out during her coffee with Melissa. "I told you Monday."
Mike studied her thoughtfully over the rim of his beer mug. She marveled at how difficult it was to be completely honest. He must suspect that she was once again telling him part of the truth. Maybe one day, she could tell him the whole story.
"I wish I'd told you Sunday, before Frank killed Hatch."
"Don't beat yourself up on that count. It wouldn't have made any difference. I didn't know he'd been released."
"Thank you."
He nodded. "You're welcome."
"What about Melissa?"
"We have no evidence that implicates her, and you told us Palmer planned to leave her behind."
"That's what he told me."
"As far as she's concerned, Palmer's plan came to fruition. He died an accidental death while the insurance policy was in force. Melissa gets ten million dollars to start her new life."
"Poetic justice," Claire said. "I hope she has a good life."
"She seems resilient."
"She'd have to be." Maybe Melissa had known about Frank's scheme, maybe not. She'd still been a fourteen-year-old girl living in an orphanage when he seduced her. Melissa was a fellow victim, and Claire wished her well.
The waiter placed two steaming bowls of shrimp on the table and asked if they wanted anything they didn't have.
"I think we're all set," Mike said.
Claire picked up her fork. "Bon appétit."
About the Author
Patricia Dusenbury was raised in the northeast, but went south for college, married a southerner, and currently lives in Atlanta with her husband and two Malamutes. In her previous career as an economist, she was responsible for numerous boring publications. She is hoping to atone by writing mystery stories that people read for pleasure.
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Uncial Press brings you extraordinary fiction, non-fiction and poetry. Put a world of reading in your pocket.
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Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim Page 26