"That's two," Mike said.
"Are we still talking about redheads?" Breton leered.
"Two almost perfect crimes. Think about it. If Palmer hadn't resisted despite being drugged, his hyoid wouldn't have fractured--it was barely cracked--and we wouldn't know his death was a homicide. If some kid hadn't tried to steal the Jeep, we wouldn't know it had been booby-trapped. One more driver goes off the road, just another highway fatality. No one would have sent the vehicle to the state crime lab."
Breton scowled at the lab report. "I'll try to feel lucky."
"I don't care how clever our killer is, his luck is going to run out."
"What do you think? Two shots at Palmer?"
"Could be, but I'm leaning toward the Hatch and a partner scenario. The Jeep was booby-trapped because, once he'd torched the cabin, Hatch became expendable. A liability."
"I can't see Melissa building a car bomb. Did you notice the fingernails? Imagine them on your back." Breton's leer returned. "Claire Marshall runs a small construction company. I bet she's handy with tools."
Mike had trouble seeing either woman building a car bomb, but maybe he was being old-fashioned. "If I'm right," he said, "Hatch better hope we find him before his partner does."
"If his partner hasn't found him already."
CHAPTER 17
A peeling sign identified the two-story brick building as the Audubon View Apartments. Dark stains beneath dripping air conditioners said no one cared. The flat-roofed structure reminded Claire of an old motel alongside a highway made obsolete when the Interstate went through. Numbered doors opened directly onto a cement walkway that separated the building from the parking lot. At either end, a metal staircase led up to the narrow balcony serving as an outdoor hallway for the second floor.
Hatch lived in apartment 209, second floor near the back.
She pulled into a space labeled VISITORS and scanned the half-empty lot. The spaces were numbered, and 209 was empty. She climbed the back stairs and inserted the key. Coming here, which had sounded reasonable when Melissa suggested it, now felt like a dumb idea. The odds of finding a clue to Hatch's location had to be slim, but she was here.
There was a mail slot in the door but nothing on the floor in front of it. Either someone else was picking up Hatch's mail or he was having it held at the post office. So much for that excuse.
She had expected dirty clothes on the floor, a litter of empty beer cans and overflowing ashtrays, but the apartment was tidy, almost Spartan. A single recliner facing the TV, one chair at the dinette table and a single bed shoved against the wall testified to a solitary life. Nothing wrong with that. I live alone, too.
An opening on the far wall led to a kitchenette. The two other doors, both closed, would be the closet and the bathroom.
The closet was two-thirds empty, which didn't tell her anything. Hatch might not own many clothes. She glanced into the bathroom and moved on to the kitchen. The drawer by the phone held only old electric bills, phone bills with no long distance calls, and rent receipts--nothing to indicate where Hatch might be now.
She found the expected beer in the refrigerator, along with some soft drinks and condiments, but nothing else. Anything that might go bad--a partial loaf of bread, cold cuts, packages of butter and cheese--had been sealed in plastic bags and put in the freezer. Hatch had planned to leave and to be gone for a while. Coming here had been a waste of time.
On her way out, she stopped to read the framed document that hung above the bed. Private First Class Ronald D. Hatch had been honorably discharged from the US Army in December of 1978. Fifteen years ago, and he still had his discharge papers on the wall. A military history of World War II and a copy of Soldier of Fortune magazine lay on the bedside table. A layer of dust covered the table, but a clear strip beside the magazines showed they had recently been lifted up and put back in a slightly different place. She looked at the bed more closely and saw that the mattress lay slightly askew on the box spring.
Someone had already been here, probably the police. What if they came back? She retraced her steps and used her sweater to wipe her fingerprints off every surface she'd touched. She was in the kitchen, when a pounding on the apartment door sent her heart into her throat.
"New Orleans Police. Open up."
She hurried to the door. "How do I know you're really the police?"
An identification badge appeared in the mail slot.
Claire unlocked the door, and for the second time in three days, faced a gun--this time two guns, one for each of the uniformed police officers standing on either side of the doorway. Instinctively, she raised her hands.
"That's right. Keep them up. Is anyone else in there?"
"Just me. What's this all about?"
"We'll ask the questions," the taller policeman said.
Once she'd demonstrated that she'd entered with a key, and her story about checking the apartment for an absent friend was verified with a phone call to Melissa, the policemen holstered their guns, but they made no move to depart.
"I'd like the key back." Claire held out her hand. "And I'd like you to leave."
"Please make yourself comfortable, Ms. Marshall. We're not quite through here."
She sat on the dinette chair, as far as she could get from the policemen, who stood by the open door. She tapped her foot, more from worry than impatience, afraid that she knew what they were waiting for. Her suspicions were confirmed several minutes later when a grim-faced Captain Robinson walked in.
He thanked the officers. "I'll take custody of Ms. Marshall."
She jumped to her feet. "Custody? For what? I haven't done anything wrong. I don't know why they called you."
"They called because they found you here. Custody because you're obstructing a police investigation." He stood in the doorway, filling it, arms folded across his chest.
"I haven't obstructed anything."
"Earlier this morning, you denied any knowledge of Ronald Hatch. Now you're looking after his apartment."
"As I already explained, Melissa Yates is looking after the apartment. She asked me to stop by and check on things." It wasn't really a lie. Coming here had been Melissa's idea.
"I work for a man who believes a stay in jail would encourage you to cooperate with our investigation. I'm beginning to agree with him."
"I've been cooperative. I've met with you three times in the last four days. I've told you everything I know about Frank Palmer. What more do you want?" She paced back and forth, becoming more irritated with each step, but also worried. Could he actually arrest her? For what?
"We can start with what you're doing here," he said. "The truth this time, not some story you and Ms. Yates cooked up."
She stopped pacing and glared at him. "Okay. I'm looking for Hatch. Now, can I go?"
"Did you expect to find Hatch here?"
"No, but--"
"Then what are you doing here?"
His tone was calm and his expression impassive, but she suspected he was angry. Well she was angry too, and she was sick and tired of his questions. She wanted to leave, but he was still blocking the doorway.
"I don't think I owe you an explanation."
"Ms. Marshall, you're on thin ice."
"I was looking for something that might tell where Hatch has gone. I didn't find it. Can I go now?"
"Not yet."
"Why not? I've broken absolutely no laws, yet those officers took the key--at gunpoint. They searched my pocketbook looking for a weapon. I have a screaming headache because I haven't eaten all day, thanks to you. I skipped breakfast so I wouldn't be late for our meeting this morning. You were late, but that's okay, right? I'm missing lunch because your policemen made me wait for you to show up. I'm hungry, and I want to leave."
"I'll buy you lunch. I haven't eaten either."
His offer surprised her, but then it reminded her of the saying about no such thing as a free lunch. There would be more questions. She exhaled loudly.
"I'll dri
ve," he said.
"Okay, fine. Where's the key? I have to lock up." Let him drive. She might be talking a good game, but the shock of two policemen with their guns trained on her had left her wobbly.
He took her to a restaurant on Oak Street. When their food came, he let her eat in peace--or else he was giving her time to think things over.
Claire finished the last of her sandwich and pushed her empty plate aside. "This has absolutely nothing to do with Frank's murder, but here's your explanation." She told him about the watch and how it led her to Melissa's boutique.
"Why are you looking for Hatch?"
Had he heard a single word she'd said? She considered suggesting that he record their conversation so that he didn't have to keep repeating his questions but thought better of it.
"I think Frank's cabin burned while I was in Michigan, and I'm looking for a someone who saw the fire. That's why I talked to Daniel. That's why I'm looking for Hatch." And none of this is news to you.
"How did you know Melissa had a key to Hatch's apartment?"
"I didn't. We were talking, the subject of Hatch came up, and she offered me the key. I took it. It was spur of the moment, not planned or thought through."
The look on Captain Robinson's face said he found that last painfully obvious. Claire wondered if Frank's girlfriend had set her up. She smoothed her napkin and placed it on top of her dirty plate.
"How did you know I was there?"
"We're looking for Hatch, too. Remember?"
"You were watching his apartment?" Of course they were, you idiot. Melissa didn't have to set me up. I did it to myself.
He answered her question with one of his own. "Did you think that you could find Hatch and if you asked nicely, he'd tell you all about the fire?"
"I'm not that stupid."
"I hope not," he said. "What can you tell me about Ronald Hatch?"
"As I said before, nothing. Frank introduced us. Hatch grunted a hello. That was the full extent of our conversation and the only time we ever spoke." She lifted her shoulders and let them drop. "I thought he acted like a thug."
"Didn't you wonder why a successful businessman would employ a thug?"
"I did," she admitted, "and I asked. Frank said that Hatch provided companionship and protection." The word, protection, hung in the air, ensuring there would be more questions. She had regretted it the moment it left her mouth.
He gestured to the waiter, ordered a cup of coffee and asked if she wanted one. A busboy cleared their dishes, and the waiter returned with two coffees. When they were alone again, he said, "Did Palmer say why he needed protection or from whom?"
"No. It was a joke."
"Was that the end of the conversation?"
"Not quite." She had committed to full disclosure. "I said something flippant about getting a dog, something about a pit bull standing in for Hatch very nicely. Frank laughed and said he couldn't train a pit bull to drive a car. That was the end of the conversation."
"Why didn't you mention this before?"
Captain Robinson had mastered the art of interrogating someone while drinking coffee. He'd ask a question and then raise his cup to take a drink, watching her the whole time. She wondered if the man was ever off duty. Was he even human?
"I forgot about it," she said. "And maybe Hatch really isn't a thug." The relationship between Hatch and Frank had reminded her of a dog and his master, but learning more about Hatch had given her a different perspective. "He was in the Army. I think he saw himself as Frank's aide-de-camp. You know, General Palmer and Private Hatch."
"Hatch is an ex-convict."
"That's really none of my business." She winced. Even to her ears, the comment sounded prissy.
"Why has it taken you so long to mention that Palmer talked about needing protection?"
"I told you, I forgot. And I still think he was joking. Obviously, if someone murdered him, he really did need protection, but he was joking about it then." She added cream and sugar to the coffee she didn't want and took a sip. It tasted terrible. The waiter was hanging around, looking in the other direction but probably eavesdropping. "I have to get back to work."
"What did you plan to do if Hatch returned while you were in his apartment?"
Claire looked down at her hands. There was no answer to that question.
"Playing detective is both foolish and dangerous. I suggest you stay away from Hatch's apartment." He signaled the waiter for their bill. "I'll drop you at your car."
"Thank you, but I'd rather walk." She placed a twenty-dollar bill on the table. It was too much, and she didn't care. "For my lunch. Leave a good tip."
After a long look, he said, "Have a nice walk, Ms. Marshall. We'll be in touch. Meanwhile, don't leave New Orleans without notifying the police department."
By the time Claire reached the corner, the cool wind had raised goose bumps on her arms. Where had she left her sweater? A flutter of genuine panic hit as she remembered dropping it on the kitchen floor when the policeman banged on the door. If Hatch found it, he'd know someone had been in his apartment. As if Melissa won't tell him. Maybe not, she'd have to admit that she'd handed out his key. Claire walked faster.
The patrol car was still in the parking lot although no longer blocking her car. If she went back in Hatch's apartment, they'd stop her and demand an explanation, and she couldn't bear to talk to any more policemen--not today. It was a minor miracle she hadn't had a panic attack. It didn't look as if Hatch planned to return any time soon. She'd get her sweater tomorrow.
Captain Robinson had told her to stay away, but he couldn't forbid her to retrieve her sweater. Could he? She needed legal advice. The only lawyers she knew worked on real estate closings, except Paul Gilbert. She hated to ask Frank's lawyer for more help, but it was him or the yellow pages.
CHAPTER 18
Mike tossed his coat over the chair and fixed himself a fresh pot of coffee. The cup at the restaurant had tasted like battery acid. His was an improvement, although nothing like the brew Paul Gilbert served. If he left the police department, he could go into private practice, get a bunch of rich clients and drink fine coffee. The hours would be better, too.
Heading up the homicide division was a full-time job, and now he was juggling those responsibilities with legwork on the Palmer case. Vernon had ordered him to keep a close eye on the situation, but that didn't require his personal participation--not any more. He should hand it off, assign someone else to work with Breton, but the case had gotten under his skin. He wanted this entirely too clever killer. And the detectives he trusted already had their plates full.
Breton knocked on his open door and walked in. "How was lunch with my favorite murder-arson suspect? Or is it arson-murder?"
"Word travels quickly." Very quickly. He'd left the restaurant twenty minutes ago.
"Did you find out what she was doing in Hatch's apartment? I hear she had a key."
"Looking for clues to Hatch's present location. You saw Melissa give her the key."
"So, our redheads are friends?" He waggled his eyebrows. "Bosom buddies so to speak?"
"Or, they met this morning." Mike let his tone convey skepticism. Melissa Yates didn't strike him as a woman who formed friendships quickly or trusted easily. "Claire went to Melissa's shop to return a pricey watch Palmer had given her."
"They day after they bury the guy, his fiancée cashes in an expensive gift, which he just happened to buy at his mistress's shop? I tell you, it gets me right here." Breton patted his chest in the vicinity of his heart. "Where's the key now?"
"Claire has it. I advised her to stay away from the apartment. We'll see if she listens. Her record's not good." He walked over to the windowsill. "How about some coffee?"
"No time. Vernon wants to meet with us. And that's the good news. The bad news is he mentioned your lunch date."
"She complained that we were making her miss meals, which was at least partly true. I offered to buy her lunch, hoping she'd loosen up and become a bit
more cooperative."
"Candy's dandy, liquor's quicker. I don't know where lunch fits in." Breton cracked wise, as usual, but this time he added a caution. "You might want to rephrase your explanation. Before you arrived, there was a very public incident of an investigator getting cozy with an attractive suspect who turned out to be guilty as hell. The Vermin is still sensitive on the subject."
"Lunch was strictly business. She insisted upon paying for her meal." Hearing himself echo Claire's protest about a shared restaurant meal revived a question that had been nagging him. He sat back down. "There's a call I want to make first."
"Is it more important than not keeping your boss waiting when he's already pissed off."
"I want to talk to Palmer's travel agent." He picked up the phone.
"It's too late to leave town, podnuh."
Mike motioned Breton to be quiet. He identified himself and asked to speak to whoever had worked with Frank Palmer.
"That would be me. I made all of Mr. Palmer's personal and business reservations."
"I'm interested in the honeymoon trip."
"Such a tragedy."
Mike listened impatiently while the agent expressed sorrow at Palmer's untimely death, and then asked when the reservations were made. The answer was their first real break.
"I think it was just last Tuesday," the agent said, "but let me check my records. Yes, here it is. The very same day we made the reservations for Mr. Hatch's North Carolina vacation."
"Can you give me both itineraries?" He grabbed a pen and a pad, wrote Hatch on the top sheet and held it up for Breton to see.
"How'd you know?" Breton asked after Mike concluded the call.
"I didn't. I wanted to find out if Palmer made the honeymoon reservations before or after Claire Marshall left town. The answer is immediately after. Your girlfriend Jeanette made the call, and then Palmer himself booked a roundtrip to Raleigh-Durham for Ronald Hatch, leaving early Thursday morning and returning tomorrow evening. Our friendly travel agent never watches the news or reads the paper--too depressing, he says. He didn't know anyone was looking for Hatch."
Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim Page 12
