Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (25 page)

"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.

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?

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 warned, "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?"