Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (19 page)

"I've been visiting my uncle, north of Wilmington. Last I heard it wasn't a crime to visit
family."

"Why last week?"

"What the hell kind of question is that? Last week is when my boss gave me time off." Hatch
warmed to the topic. "My boss is Frank Palmer. He's a big man in New Orleans, and he's got
important friends. Frank's not going to be happy when he hears that cops are hassling one of his
employees. Maybe you want to stop asking dumb questions and let me get my own luggage."

"Not yet." Mike saw his surprise reflected on Breton's face. What planet had Hatch been on
that he didn't know Frank Palmer was dead?

"Oh yeah?" Hatch upped the ante. "Maybe I ought to give Frank a call--right now."

"I'm afraid you can't do that." Breton said.

"The hell I can't. There's a pay phone over there, and I got a quarter."

"You can't do that, amigo, because Palmer is dead. That's why we want to talk to you."

Hatch took off his sunglasses, revealing bloodshot pale blue eyes. "What happened to
Frank?" he croaked.

Mike wished Breton hadn't been so quick to spill the beans, but there was no going back.
He settled into observation mode.

"Your boss's cabin burned down with him in it." Breton was enjoying himself.

Hatch's stunned disbelief turned into something close to amusement. "You really expect me
to believe that?"

"It was supposed to look like an accident, but we know better. Palmer was dead before the
fire started. He was murdered. The fire was arson. Now, let's talk."

"You got to be joking."

"We're homicide. We don't think murder is funny."

Hatch opened and shut his mouth like a fish gasping for air. His eyes darted toward the
exit.

Mike was certain their suspect would make a run for it if he thought he could reach the
door. He put a restraining hand on Hatch's arm. "We're hoping you can help us with our
investigation. Do you have any idea who might have killed Frank Palmer? You were with him before
he died--did he appear to be nervous or concerned about anything?"

Hatch buried his face in his hands. At each question, he shook his head from side to side but
didn't look up.

"Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to kill him?" Mike persisted.

Frank Palmer's driver lifted his head. "I want a lawyer."

They weren't going to learn anything from Hatch, not tonight. Mike recited the Miranda
warning and said, "You can call a lawyer as soon as we book you."

"No lawyer worth shit takes calls this hour of the night." Hatch put his bravado back on
with his sunglasses. "You want to make me spend the night in jail? Big fucking deal. I've been there
before."

Breton carried Hatch's suitcase as they walked to their car, one of a scattering of vehicles
left in the pay-by-the-hour lot. They kept Hatch between them, blocking any possible escape with
their bodies, prepared to tackle him if he made a run for it.

"What about my car?" Hatch said. "I leave it here another day, I got to pay another
four-fifty."

"That's the least of your troubles." Breton opened the car door.

Hatch didn't speak again until they reached headquarters. "You're telling me that you
found Frank's body in the cabin?"

"That's right," Mike said. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I got nothing to say until I talk to my lawyer."

Mike signed the papers and handed Hatch over to the booking officer. "We're done for
tonight," he told Breton. "See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? It's tomorrow in twenty minutes. We've been on the job sixteen hours
straight. Tomorrow's Saturday, and you want to be back here interrogating this clown?"

"If you wanted a nine to five job, why'd you become a cop?"

"I'm just saying that there's more to life. We have our man. Let him spend the weekend in a
cell. We got seventy-two hours before he gets a hearing. Come on, Mike, "Breton pleaded, "we can
question him Monday morning."

"Ten tomorrow morning. Meet in my office at nine forty-five." He had little sympathy for
Breton, who was going home. He was headed back to the office to call Corlette, a late call in more
ways than one.

When Corlette picked up, Mike began with an apology. "Sorry to call so late."

"No problem. I'm wide awake, reading a chapter for my abnormal psych class. Seems
everyone I know really is nuts. So, why aren't you in bed?"

"We just picked Hatch up at the airport. He's been visiting relatives in North Carolina for
the past week."

"Someone spotted him in the airport?"

"We were waiting for him." This was the tough part. "We found out about the plane ticket
yesterday afternoon but, frankly, we didn't bring you in on it because we weren't sure he'd be on
the flight." He heard himself say frankly and cringed. Every cop knew that people prefaced a
statement with "frankly" when they were about to shade the truth.

"You could have mentioned it when we talked this afternoon."

"You're right." He should have informed Lafourche Parish yesterday. He hadn't because
Vernon ordered silence until they had Hatch in custody. Mike came from a military tradition that
respected hierarchy, but respect was a two-way street, and he'd had a bellyful of Vernon's
micromanagement.

"So, what does Hatch have to say?"

"He claims he didn't know Palmer was dead, and I believe him."

"You do?"

Corlette sounded surprised, as well he might. The last time they discussed possible
scenarios they'd agreed Hatch was the likely arsonist. Someone had hired him to kill Palmer and
torch the cabin and then tried to get rid of him with the booby-trapped Jeep. Finding Hatch alive
had seemed like the best way to solve the case. Now they had him, it wasn't looking that way.

"When we picked him up, he threatened us with repercussions, starting with a phone call
to Palmer. I don't think he was faking."

"Then what?"

"The news of Palmer's death knocked him for a loop, and he clammed up." Silence from the
other end of the line, told Mike what Corlette was thinking. New Orleans had really screwed up. He
admitted it and took responsibility for Breton's big mouth. "I wish we hadn't dropped that
bombshell so early in the conversation."

"I want to talk to Hatch."

"We booked him about twenty minutes ago. He's tucked in for the night. First thing
tomorrow morning, he's calling a lawyer. We're planning to interview him at ten. I thought you'd
want to sit in."

"Participate, not sit in, participate. It's our case. The crimes occurred in Lafourche
Parish."

"We should have brought you in sooner." Mike offered another
mea culpa
. All in all,
Corlette was taking the news better than he had a right to expect.

"I want a briefing before I talk to Hatch."

"Lieutenant Breton and I are meeting in my office at a quarter to ten. Show up before then
and I'll tell you everything we know. Unfortunately, it won't take long."

"I'll be there at nine fifteen."

"Bring anything you have that might help." He told Corlette what he hadn't said to Breton.
"I'm not confident we have enough to hold him."

Claire was waiting on the steps when the library opened at nine. She went directly to the
microfiche room, a familiar spot because old newspapers could be a gold mine of information about
historic houses. Today's quest was for more recent news. Jeanette had said five years ago, and so
Claire pulled the tapes for 1988.

The death of Annie Lewis Palmer made the first page of the March 16 metro section.
Frank's wife had died instantly when her car struck a cement abutment on Claiborne Avenue. She'd
been alone in the car, and no other vehicles were involved. Police said her car had been traveling at
a high rate of speed. Claire knew that stretch of road. Narrow lanes divided by pillars that
supported the highway overhead. Frequent intersections and numerous stoplights precluded
speeding unless the driver was very drunk or... Did Frank's wife commit suicide?

Claire had thought about suicide when panic attacks began making her life a misery. Death
had seemed the only escape. One night she sat in Tom's old Toyota and imagined driving off a
causeway or into something hard. She'd sat there for hours. Then she went inside and called her
mother, who flew to New Orleans and took her to see Doctor Bennett. He prescribed the pills that
blunted pain and blurred sharp edges. She told him about the panic attacks, and he added
anti-anxiety meds.

Mother and daughter returned to Michigan together. Her mother rented a house on the
lake, and they spent hours walking the beach together, sometimes talking but more often silent.
Claire began walking alone, watching the waves and counting them, finding solace in their
inevitability. She returned to New Orleans, grateful to the woman who'd given her life--not once but
twice.

Annie Lewis Palmer's story had a different ending. Or maybe it was a different story. Claire
scanned the next several days' papers but found no follow-up article. The obituary listed four
surviving relatives; husband Frank, daughter Annalisa, and parents Mr. and Mrs. William Fulton of
Whitfield, Alabama. The Fultons would be the people Jeanette said were so hard on Frank. Nothing
in the newspaper explained why, but if Annie Lewis Palmer had killed herself, her parents could
easily blame Frank. They might think he'd driven her to it. Did this have any bearing on his murder?
Would the Fultons talk to her? Even more basic, could she find them?

Long distance information had an A. Fulton and a Richard Fulton in Whitfield, but no
William. Claire asked for both numbers and started with A. When a woman answered, she identified
herself and said she was calling from New Orleans, trying to reach the Fulton family whose
daughter had been married to Frank Palmer.

"I have nothing to say." Click.

By the time Claire had returned the tapes and walked back to her car, she'd talked herself
into a road trip. If she could speak to Mrs. Fulton face-to-face and explain the circumstances,
Frank's mother-in-law might be willing to talk about him. She studied her roadmap of Alabama and
located Whitfield, a dot on the map just over the Mississippi line. She could be there in two
hours.

The clock on the courthouse said eleven fifty when Claire drove into Whitfield. She stopped
at a drugstore and asked the pharmacist for directions to Annette Fulton's house. The mailbox
labeled Fulton was right where he said it would be. The moment Claire turned up the driveway, a
black dog, taller than her Miata, raced down the lawn, barking furiously. He escorted her up to the
house and, when she parked, circled her car, still barking. No one came to the door to see what the
fuss was about, and so she lowered her window an inch and tried to make friends.

"Hey there, big boy. How about letting me out of my car?"

The dog stopped barking and came closer. His tail wasn't wagging, but his hackles weren't
up. He was reserving judgment.

"I bet you're a nice dog." She spoke softly, and being careful not make any move that might
be interpreted as aggression, eased a flat hand out the window.

He sniffed her fingers.

"Are you hungry?"

She retracted her hand and slid it back out with the remnants of her fast food breakfast on
her palm. A sniff, a tentative lick, and half a sausage biscuit disappeared. The dog licked his chops
and looked up at her. Tan markings shaped like raised eyebrows gave him a quizzical expression. A
graying muzzle said he wasn't young.

"If you chewed your food, it would last longer."

His tail made a long slow loop in the air.

She opened the door and when the dog didn't object, stepped out. He followed her up the
walkway, sniffing her legs, and she assured him that the cat he smelled was back in New Orleans,
nothing for him to worry about. They climbed the porch steps together, and he watched her ring the
bell.

Chimes echoed inside the house, but no footsteps approached. Claire's shoulders sagged.
She'd prepared herself for a hostile encounter but not for an empty house. She was debating
whether to wait or go when the door creaked open. A gray-haired woman in a wheelchair glared at
her.

"Are you the one who called this morning?"

"Yes, Ma'am, I'm--"

"As I told you and those other reporters, I have nothing to say. Please leave."

"I'm not a reporter. I'm hiding from reporters." Claire hoped the common enemy would
gain sympathy.

Mrs. Fulton wasn't buying it. "Well then, you'd better find somewhere else to hide."

"Please. I'm only asking for a few minutes of your time."

"One second talking about Frank Palmer is asking too much." The old woman's voice
trembled with emotion. "You get out of here before I call the sheriff."

There was no time for the careful words she had rehearsed on the drive over, and so Claire
jumped to the end. "The police think I killed Frank."

Mrs. Fulton who'd been rolling backwards froze with her hand on the door. "His slimy
lawyer said he died in a fire."

"Someone killed him and set his cabin on fire."

The old woman stared past her. Claire looked over her shoulder but saw only fields and
fences, trees on a distant horizon. When she turned back, Mrs. Fulton was studying her with an
unreadable expression.

"What do you want from me?"

"To learn more about Frank. If I can figure out why someone would want to kill him, I
might be able to find someone else for the police to suspect." This lame explanation was the truth,
and all she had. "I have to do something or I'll go crazy." More truth, although Mrs. Fulton wouldn't
realize it was a literal rather than a figurative truth. The nightmare had invaded her days. She'd just
driven two hours on an Interstate afraid to look in her rear view mirror.

"I've neither seen nor spoken to him since my daughter's funeral." The old woman patted
the dog. "I'm surprised Caesar let you out of your car."