Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (26 page)

"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."

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."

"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.

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.