Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (14 page)

When fading light told her it was time to leave, she walked back through the tourist heart
of the French Quarter. Its tawdry energy provided a welcome counter to the darkness that had
enveloped her on the levee. Music blared from outside speakers, and open doorways allowed
glimpses of shadowy interiors. Pleasure seekers crowded the sidewalks, laughing and jostling each
other, while barkers made extravagant claims to entice customers. She bought fried shrimp in a
paper funnel and ate as she strolled along, letting the sounds and smells flow over her, wiping her
greasy fingers on the navy silk dress already ruined by sweat and tears.

The nightmares started that night. Claire was driving Felicia Miata, her beloved blue
roadster, along an empty highway, a two-lane causeway that sliced through swamp forests at
treetop height. The hot sun beat on her head and heat waves shimmered up from the pavement.
The trees thinned, and the causeway climbed and became a long bridge arched high over open
water. An osprey flew slow circles off to her right. She spotted its nest atop a channel marker.

She hadn't seen another vehicle in miles, but a prickle on the back of her neck made her
glance in the rearview. A dark sedan was coming up fast. It closed the distance between them and
then tailgated. No one was coming, so she waved it by. The sedan pulled out, but instead of passing
rode alongside, looming over her little Miata. She slowed and it slowed. She sped up and it sped up.
She glanced over to see who was playing this dangerous game, but dark tinted windows hid
whoever was inside.

The causeway climbed higher, and the sedan edged into her lane, forcing her onto the
shoulder. Her tires chattered over the rumble strips. She hit the brakes, but her car didn't slow. She
pumped the pedal, and nothing happened. Nothing she did made any difference.

The big car moved closer. It pushed her toward the guardrail, and then up against it. Metal
screeched, sparks flew and the rail gave way. Felicia flew out over the water and hovered airborne
for an agonizingly long time before plummeting downward.

Black water closed over Claire's head. Waterweeds coiled and twisted around her arms and
face. She couldn't release the seat belt. She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. She kept sinking
deeper and deeper into the water, an endless descent.

Terrified and gasping for breath, she woke, tangled in bed sheets, not weeds, not a seatbelt.
She had suffered a panic attack wrapped in a nightmare. She lay exhausted, taking slow deep
breaths to dispel the lingering sensations of the endless descent, the slimy tendrils wrapping
themselves around her.

The clock radio read three-thirty. In six hours, she had another appointment with Captain
Robinson.

Mike went in early to catch up on the stack of paperwork generated by his determination
to raise the division's solve rate. He began by scanning progress reports from half a dozen
re-activated investigations, made notations for the lead investigators, and then fixed a pot of coffee, a
reward for work accomplished. Breton should be there any minute. They had an eight-thirty with
Vernon, and were meeting half an hour ahead to get their ducks in a row before facing the Super,
who wanted an arrest yesterday.

Vernon's favorite suspect, Claire Marshall, had no criminal record, no previous brush with
law enforcement, no points on her driver's license, and if she'd gotten any parking tickets, she'd
paid them. For another crime, that would have moved her way down the suspect list, but murder
was different. People who had never before broken the law killed in the heat of the moment.
Temporary insanity was a reality as well as a plea.

Mike had seen post-traumatic stress disorder in the military and thought he might be
looking at it again. The symptoms were there. Claire Marshall spent a lot of time staring into the
middle distance, looking at things only she could see. Corlette had noticed, too. She lived alone and
appeared to have few emotional connections. She'd cut short her visit with her mother on what
struck him as a weak pretext. Monday night, he'd seen signs of anger much deeper than the
redhead's temper Breton had mentioned. A psychotic incident could account for those lost hours
Saturday morning; a flashback, for her reaction to his business card. For a moment, he'd thought
she was going to faint.

PTSD occurs in response to a traumatic event. When Breton dug up her husband's obituary,
Mike thought they'd found it. Dr. Thomas Marshall had died in a fire. Breton had been apologetic,
said he should have remembered. It happened a year ago last summer and had been all over the
papers. Brilliant young doctor runs into a burning house and throws two young children to safety,
but he doesn't make it back out. The kids were home alone while their addict mother was in an alley
turning tricks in exchange for drugs. It was one hell of a way to lose your husband.

Individuals suffering from PTSD could overreact to the point of violence when something
reminded them of the initial trauma. Mike pulled out his notes, comparing Claire Marshall's
behavior with PTSD symptoms. He'd been ready to believe that the marriage rumors, phony or not,
pushed her over the edge. She returned Friday, drove down to the cabin to confront Palmer, lost
control and killed him. Faced with his body, she tried to make it look like he, too, died in a fire.

The pieces had been coming together: motive and opportunity. Much as he mistrusted
coincidences, maybe the Jeep explosion was just that. But late yesterday afternoon, the arson
analysis came in and blew his theory out of the water. The cabin burned on Wednesday, when
Claire Marshall was in Michigan. If she was involved, she was part of a cold-blooded
conspiracy.

Their only other suspect had been missing for a week. A second search of the ashes hadn't
produced any hint of a second victim, and it was anyone's guess if Hatch was alive. And if so,
where.

"Are you ready to explain why we've made no progress?" Breton was talking when he
walked in the door. "More to the point, why we're treating Claire Marshall with kid gloves. You
don't believe her getting lost story do you?"

"No, and we're not. She's due here at nine-thirty. Were you able to reach Palmer's
physician?"

"He'd given Palmer a prescription for the sleeping pills, not the downers, but so what. You
can buy that shit on the street."

"Claire Marshall's doctor prescribed both sedatives." It had taken the threat of a subpoena
to get that information, but Breton was right about their wide availability. "How'd she behave at the
funeral?"

"She saw me but pretended not to. Hurt my feelings when she didn't even say hello." He
smirked and took the offered cup of coffee. "The only time she showed any emotion was on the way
out. TV news ambushed her, and she didn't like it."

"Anything else?"

"Another woman, a real knockout, came in late and sat in the first pew next to Gilbert. I
called him when I got back to the office. Turns out she's Palmer's long-term squeeze, name of
Melissa Yates. He thinks we should talk to her, but he doesn't want her to know where we got her
name. He says their relationship is already difficult." He wiggled his fingers, putting that last word
in quotation marks.

"Did he say how to reach her?"

"She owns a boutique down in the Quarter. He practically drew me a map. Gilbert is
throwing her into our laps."

"Gilbert's slick, but he's also right. I want you to talk to her today. Tell her that Palmer was
murdered and see how she reacts."

"Okay, but I think there's something between Gilbert and Claire Marshall," Breton said. "He
helped her out Monday. Now he's pointing us at this other woman."

"I think you're fixated on her."

"Her husband dies in a fire. Little over a year later, a man who's planning to marry her is
murdered and someone tries to make it look like he died in a fire."

"Someone could be trying to set her up."

"Vernon wants us to put more pressure on her. You don't want him thinking you're
dragging your feet or, God help you, protecting her."

Mike appreciated the warning. He was glad to see Breton finally showing some initiative,
but he was withholding judgment on his scenario. He crumpled up his PTSD notes, threw them at
the wastepaper basket and missed. "Let's go." He retrieved the errant paper ball. "He's expecting
us."

* * * *

Claire arrived at the police station promptly at nine-thirty, but Captain Robinson wasn't in
his office. The desk officer directed her to a waiting area. She was coming to a slow boil by the time
he walked in at quarter to ten.

"Sorry I'm late. A meeting ran longer than expected." He gestured toward the hallway.
"Please. After you."

When they reached his office, he waited until she was seated before offering her coffee or
water. His good manners did nothing to take the edge off her temper. She was tired, she didn't like
being kept waiting, and she wasn't happy to be back in the principal's office.

"Thank you for coming in." He paused and then said, "Once again, I have to ask if you want
a lawyer present."

"If I did, I would have come with one."

"You might want to reconsider." He pushed the hair back off his forehead. "I was trained as
a lawyer, and I've worked as a defense attorney. Access to legal representation is guaranteed in our
criminal justice system, and with good reason. Circumstantial evidence can convict innocent people.
Careless remarks can be misunderstood or misinterpreted."

He sounded as if he'd recited this speech many times before, and he probably knew what
he was talking about, but Claire didn't care. She wasn't interested in another civics lesson from
another policeman. She was there because she really had no choice. Paul had told her that if she
refused to talk to them, they could subpoena her, and if she still refused, she could be jailed for
contempt. He'd said she could refuse to answer specific questions on the grounds that she didn't
want to incriminate herself. Captain Robinson had already told her that.

"I know what lawyers do," she said, "and I know that you're under pressure to make an
arrest. Frank's death is all over the news." Her nerves were rubbed raw. Neither the lecture she'd
given herself on the drive here nor the extra half pill she'd taken to get herself through this
interrogation could hold back her anger. "I'd be a very convenient guilty party, wouldn't I?"

"Ms. Marshall..."

"I'm not from here. I have no influential friends. No one will be embarrassed if I'm accused
of burning down Frank's cabin or even of murdering him." As the words tumbled out, she realized
their truth. She was a convenient scapegoat. If there were another interview--and there would
be--she'd have a lawyer. "Turn on your tape recorder and let's begin. I have a business to take care
of."

"Let's start with your visit to in Lafourche Parish Tuesday. What were you doing
there?"

Claire bit back the impulse to ask if he and Deputy Corlette ever talked to each other. Of
course they did. That was how he knew she'd been there. And he also knew why, but she told him
anyway. After exhausting the topic of her encounter with Daniel, he repeated his previous questions
about Saturday morning, and she gave him the same answers.

"We're looking for Ronald Hatch. Can you help us?"

"I barely know him and have no idea where he might be." She hoped that would end the
interview, but Captain Robinson appeared to be in no hurry.

"A few minutes ago, you said no one would be embarrassed if you were accused of
murdering Frank Palmer." He put his hands flat on the desk and leaned forward slightly. "I know
the news is describing his death as suspicious, but no one has said he was murdered."

"Not in so many words." She sat back, folded her arms across her chest and concentrated
on breathing slowly.

"You're correct. Frank Palmer was murdered. That information will become public at a
press conference later today."

She'd known it had to be, but hearing this policeman confirm her suspicions still shocked
her.

"Homicide is a police matter," he continued. "If you recall anything that might help us
unravel what happened down at Palmer's cabin, call me. Don't go charging off on your own like you
did on Tuesday. What if you'd found the killer and not just some punk who poaches oysters?"

"Are we through?" She couldn't get out of there fast enough.

"Did you hear what I said about not interfering in our investigation?"

She nodded.

After another warning about the dangers of pursuing a murderer, he stood and started
walking around his desk.

"Don't bother, please," she said. "I can find my way out."

The watch had come from a boutique on Royale in the French Quarter, a long walk from
police headquarters, but Claire was too rattled to drive. She fetched her sweater from behind the
seat, fed the parking meter, and set out. Her feet hit the sidewalk in a rhythm that sounded like
someone chanting. Murdered, murdered, murdered.

Frank had been murdered.

Captain Robinson had said he didn't want to become convinced of her innocence when she
became the next victim. Why would anyone want to kill her? Why did someone kill Frank?
Absorbed in her thoughts, she walked past the shop and had to retrace her steps.

The sign read
Melissa's Got Time
. The display window held an array of jeweled
timepieces resting on a painted backdrop that evoked Dali's surreal masterpiece of melting
watches. A bell chimed when Claire walked in.

A saleswoman was holding a tank top embellished with a sequined sundial against her
chest and flirting with two middle-aged men, the only customers. She looked up and said, "I'll be
with you in just a minute." She spoke with a soft drawl, not the distinctive New Orleans accent that
included a bit of Brooklyn.