Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (5 page)

Claire wrote the number down, but didn't pick up the phone. She was exhausted, and she'd
already reported the cabin fire. The Sheriff's Department had her phone number, but they hadn't
called her. If that really was Hatch, Frank's friends would recognize him and they'd call.

Captain Mike Robinson, the recently hired head of the New Orleans Police Department's
Homicide Division, watched tourists jaywalk across Canal and clamber onto a waiting streetcar. If
anyone noticed the light had turned red, they didn't care. A harassed traffic cop blew his whistle at a
car taking advantage of the blockage to turn left under the No Left Turn sign. Chaos, but everyone
seemed in a good mood.

"You ever direct traffic?" Lieutenant Al Breton, who was driving, said.

"Yes." Mike didn't elaborate. "Why the scenic route?"

"I thought we'd go by way of Bourbon Street." A sour chuckle. "They'll think we're
vice."

"Long as we end up at Palmer's house." He didn't see the point, but, if annoying petty
criminals made Breton feel better about working on a Sunday morning, he could have at it.

They turned onto a street littered with the debris of Saturday night. Half empty, or was it
half full, plastic drink cups sat along the gutters and leaned against buildings. The
heat--temperature and humidity were both pushing ninety--intensified the odors of alcohol, urine and
vomit that lingered over the street. Mike switched the air conditioning to recirculate.

Their unadorned Crown Vic proceeded slowly, windows up, its occupants impervious to
the baleful stares that marked their passage. The local riffraff recognized an unmarked police car
and, as Breton had expected, resented the intrusion. A crunch told everyone that the cops had run
over a glass bottle, a dead soldier not yet kicked to the gutter. A man in a shiny blue dress looked
hopefully at their left rear tire.

"That's more like it," Breton said. "Folks ought to be praying on a Sunday morning."

"Praying?" Mike played the straight man.

"Him and his buddies are praying we get a flat. They want to watch us sweat while we
change it." The Lieutenant chuckled at his own dark humor. "It won't do them any good. Our
Firestones are stronger than their prayers."

A painfully thin girl wearing fishnet stockings and what looked like black vinyl underwear
tottered along on stiletto heels. She turned to watch them pass. A credit card imprint machine
swung from her waist.

Breton pointed with his chin. "That sweet young thing is on her way to church. She's
singing in the choir today."

This time Mike didn't smile. The girl looked about fourteen. She might be pretty if she
cleaned up, but she'd be haggard by thirty, if she lived that long. There was not one damn thing
funny about her.

Breton caught his mood. "Might as well laugh. Pick her up and her pimp has her out in ten
minutes. Whatever it costs, she pays back the hard way."

Mike's nod acknowledged the truth of that statement, but he didn't smile. After twenty
years in the army, beginning as an M.P. and ending in the Judge Advocate Group, he'd picked New
Orleans and police work for his re-entry to civilian life. Two and a half months in, he wasn't sure
either had been a good choice, but he was giving it a year.

He liked a lot about this city, its easy-going generosity, the appreciation of life's simple
pleasures, the food and the music. But he'd not foreseen the pervasive corruption that was the dark
underside of
Laissez les bon temps rouler
. Thank God he worked homicide and not vice.

"Vernon said you'd fill me in." Breton pulled up next to a No Parking sign in front of a
café. "Long as we're here, what if we stop for beignets? Talk while we eat. Twenty minutes
from now, Palmer will still be dead."

Mike had planned to brief him in during the drive to Lafourche Parish, but Breton was
antsy and now was as good a time as any. He waited on the sidewalk while the Lieutenant eased his
girth from behind the steering wheel. Both patio and indoors were crowded. Tourists lined up
outside the door, laughing and talking as they waited for another famous taste of New Orleans, not
noticing the locals who slipped in and out on a faster track. "You order," he said. "I'll grab a
table."

"How many do you want?"

"Coffee will do me." He caught a busboy's eye, flashed his badge, and was given the next
open table.

Breton returned with the coffee and set a bag in the middle of the table. "In case you
change your mind. Why do we care about a house fire in Lafourche Parish?"

"Someone called Superintendent Vernon Friday night when Palmer missed an important
engagement. He'd gone fishing in the Gulf with an employee early in the week and hadn't been seen
since."

"Someone had Vernon's home number?" Breton was surprised enough to talk with his
mouth full. "That's a well-connected someone. I assume we rose to the occasion."

"A patrol officer stopped by the house, found no one home and a note from Palmer's
fiancée taped to the front door. She's looking for him, too. That was it until yesterday
afternoon when Lafourche Parish called. They're looking for Palmer because his cabin burned and
his Jeep exploded, killing a kid who was trying to steal it. The Jeep blew last Wednesday. The cabin
fire, they don't know yet. Someone passed the call to Vernon, who got back to the well-connected
friend, who leaned on the Sheriff's Office. Deputies searched the cabin and found the body."

"Two questions."

"Go ahead."

"The Jeep blows up Wednesday and Lafourche Parish calls us Saturday?"

"They found the VIN late Friday. The Jeep belonged to Palmer's company, which was closed
for the weekend. They planned to call Monday morning. Follow-up became more urgent when
someone reported the cabin fire and the kid died."

"Does Palmer's well-connected friend have a name?"

"Not yet." He'd asked for a name but Vernon said, later, if they needed to talk to him. It was
a bullshit answer, the implied lack of trust noted and not appreciated. He took a swallow of the
heavily milked coffee.

"Vernon's a jackass, and Palmer's friend, whoever he is, doesn't know shit. Lafourche
Parish can handle a cabin fire or a homicide without our help." Breton helped himself to the last
beignet. "But that's politics, and this city is full of it."

"Politics happen everywhere." There had been plenty of politics in the military. There had
also been honor and a shared sense of purpose, the belief they were working together for a greater
good.

"If something goes right, Vernon grabs the credit. If something goes wrong, it's your ass in a
sling." Rising color in Breton's face suggested both anger and high blood pressure. "The Vermin,
that's what they call him. Palmer's a big deal. There's going to be a lot of heat. The Vermin wants me
on the case because I'm two months away from retirement. If someone has to be thrown to the
wolves, I'm expendable."

Surprised Mike held up a calming hand. "A. I assigned you to the case. B. We don't know yet
if Palmer's death was homicide. No need to go off the deep end."

But Breton was already there. "What about the employee? Anybody ask what happened to
him? And the fiancée, anyone talk to her?" When Mike raised an eyebrow he added,
"Sir."

"We've tried, so far without success, to locate both Ronald Hatch, the employee, and Claire
Marshall, the fiancée. We'll encourage Lafourche Parish to have an arson team go over the
cabin. There'll be an autopsy on Palmer's body. If they don't want to do it, we will. Vernon wants all
possibilities covered."

"Vernon wants to cover his own his high-ranking ass. Everything else comes second."

"Let's go." He'd heard enough. "We can talk about details on the way to Thibodaux. Palmer
had a fiancée, but he lived alone. His housekeeper is waiting for us."

Frank Palmer had lived in a neighborhood of quaint, well-maintained homes. Fresh paint
and window boxes overflowing with colorful flowers created a festive air. The heavy wrought iron
that guarded every exposed window, door or driveway told another story. Graceful curlicues
interspersed with sharp spikes did the same job as razor wire. Number 43 was the largest house on
the block and the only one with a real front yard.

"Look at that place," Breton said as he pulled up to the curb. "It's a goddamned fortress.
Palmer should've stayed home where he'd be nice and safe. Hell, I should stay home where I'm nice
and safe. Being a short-termer makes me nervous. You know what I mean."

"The housekeeper's name is Rosa Taylor." Mike climbed out of the car and walked up to the
front door without waiting for a response.

A dark wraith in a maid's uniform answered the bell. She looked to be a hundred years old
and thin enough to slip through the spaces in the ironwork.

"Mrs. Taylor?" He showed his badge. "We're from the police department."

She eyed them suspiciously. "They told me you were coming, but like I told them, Mr.
Palmer's not home."

"We have some bad news, and we're hoping you can help us. May we come in?"

She pulled a ribbon necklace from under her dress. Two of the several keys threaded onto
it unlocked the deadbolts on the security door. She stepped back to let them enter and waited,
expressionless.

"We're here with bad news." He said it again to give her a chance to prepare herself.
"Would you like to sit down?"

"I'll stay standing."

"Mr. Palmer has passed away."

Her expression didn't change, but she swayed on her feet. He put a supporting hand under
her elbow, a bone so delicate it felt like holding a bird.

He helped her to a chair. "Can I get you a drink of water?"

"I don't want nothing. What do you want from me?"

"We're hoping you can help us locate Mr. Palmer's next of kin." The mysterious
well-connected friend might have informed them already, but Vernon wanted to make sure the
Department did its part.

"There's none that claims him." It was a flat statement, but when he didn't respond, she
amended it. "Miz Annie Lewis passed five years ago, his mother and father before then, and he
didn't have brothers nor sisters. The only ones still on this earth are Miz Fulton, Annie Lewis's
mother. She's got no use for Mr. Frank." She paused for two breaths that ended with a sigh. "And
Annalisa, who don't want nothing to do with no one."

"What about Claire Marshall, Mr. Palmer's fiancée?"

"Never heard of her." A flip of her hand dismissed Claire Marshall.

"Do you know where we could find contact information for Mrs. Fulton and Annalisa?"

"His phone numbers are in a box on top of his desk, but I expect you want to talk to Mr.
Gilbert."

"Would that be Paul Gilbert the attorney?" Breton joined the conversation, his short-timer
disease temporarily cured by curiosity.

Rosa nodded assent. "Mr. Frank always said the first thing to do when trouble strikes is call
Mr. Gilbert."

"When was the last time you saw Mr. Palmer?" Mike said.

"Tuesday morning at breakfast. I left him dinner in the icebox, but he didn't eat it."

"Did he sleep in his bed Tuesday night?"

"Not that I could tell. You want those phone numbers?"

She led them to a room at the back of the house. Heavy shutters closed against the heat of
the day kept the room near total darkness. Rosa flicked a switch by the door, and several lamps
came on, revealing walls covered with hunting trophies and furnishings that looked as if they'd
come from a nineteenth century barrister's office.

"In there." She nodded toward a large Rolodex beside the phone, and then pointed to a
brass circle embedded in the floor. "Mash that when you're ready to leave, I'll come show you
out."

"We'll just be a minute," Mike said. "Why don't you wait here." If Palmer's death was a
homicide, they'd come back with a warrant, and he didn't want any questions about what he and
Breton had done today.

"I'll wait in the hall."

"Bet she doesn't like all the dead animals." Breton nudged a footstool made from an
elephant's foot. "Is this thing real?" He started to turn it over.

"Don't poke around," Mike said. "We're looking for phone numbers, period."

"Rosa talking about Annie Lewis rang a bell, but I'm not coming up with anything."

"Palmer's late wife. She died five years ago. Annalisa, their only child, was fourteen at the
time."

Breton did the math. "Which would make her nineteen."

"She ran away the day after her mother's funeral. Vernon said rumor is Palmer found her.
She didn't want to come home. She was safe, and so he agreed to let her stay gone. See if you can
find her contact information--Annalisa Palmer. Estranged or not, someone has to notify her of her
father's death. While you're at it, check for Mrs. Fulton and Gilbert."

Breton's search of the Rolodex produced numbers for Annette Fulton and Paul Gilbert but
nothing for Annalisa. "Two out of three ain't bad." He sang a line from a popular song.

"We'll call Gilbert first. He might have contact information for Annalisa. If we're lucky, he'll
want to notify the family." Mike wouldn't mind if Palmer's lawyer took over that dirty job.
Informing a person that someone they loved had died, not of old age or in their sleep but suddenly
and violently, was difficult no matter how many times you'd done it.

"Gilbert is Mister fix-it."

"Do you know him?"

"Only by reputation. They say Paul Gilbert knows where every skeleton in New Orleans is
buried and how many teeth it has." Breton's tone conveyed a mix of disgust and grudging respect.
"He helped bury most of them."

Claire slept late and would have slept later if Dorian hadn't run out of patience. He sat on
the floor just out of reach and meowed until she gave up.

"Okay, okay, I'm hungry, too."

She crawled out of bed and staggered into the kitchen. The number scrawled on the pad
beside the phone brought her fully awake. She fed Dorian and went outside to check on her
car.