Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (27 page)

He knew exactly where he was and where he was going, but he amused himself by pausing
under a streetlight to study the map. He tucked it back in his pocket and kept walking. When he
reached the Clarke mansion, he stopped and stared as if he'd never seen it before. Only the outdoor
lights were on. The family must still be in Europe, a convenient but not necessary circumstance.
Half a block of lushly planted grounds separated the big house from Claire's rental.

An article in today's paper implied that she was suspected of the murders he'd committed.
What a cosmic joke. She had neither the strength of character nor the daring it took to kill. Her role
was victim, and she'd asked for it. It had been a bad moment when he saw her at Hatch's apartment,
standing between him and Hatch's car. He still had the keys, but only a fool would go back there or
drive that car now.

Claire shouldn't have been there. Because she was, he had two problems: no car and a
witness who might someday realize who she'd seen. The solution was elegant and simple. He'd
make the witness his driver. He needed her behind the wheel. If the police saw a man driving her
car, they'd pull him over.

The police were watching Claire openly, the fools. They'd made it easy for him to learn
their schedule, figure out when she'd be vulnerable and calculate how much time he'd have. He
glanced around to be sure no one was there to see him and slipped through the servant's entrance,
unlocked because he'd disabled the latch earlier today. Once he was inside, the tall hedge sheltered
him from prying eyes.

He replaced the conspicuous madras jacket with a hooded navy sweatshirt that had been in
his shopping bag. This was his burglar costume. The dark clothing blended into the shadows, and
the loose sweatshirt concealed his holster. The jacket and straw boater went in the shopping bag,
which he tossed into a trashcan. Pick-up was Tuesday morning, another happy coincidence. By the
time anyone realized Claire was gone, the trash would be gone too. Even if it weren't, the contents
of the shopping bag would reveal only his jacket size.

He stayed in the shadows at the edge of the driveway in case Claire was out on her porch,
but as he drew closer, he saw his caution had been unnecessary. The carriage house was dark, and
her car wasn't there. A big orange cat that had been lying on the porch step leapt to its feet, hissing.
He pegged a magnolia cone at it, and the cat retreated through a flap in the door. He bounced
another cone off the door to keep the animal inside, where it couldn't possibly alert Claire, and
worked his way between a tall shrub and the porch.

Time doesn't fly when you're standing in the bushes keeping most of your weight on your
good leg, but his patience paid off. After what seemed much longer than the thirty-five minutes his
watch recorded, two cars rounded the corner and stopped. Metal creaked as the big gate opened.
The low headlights of Claire's Miata came toward him, and the other car moved on down the street.
He had fifteen minutes.

She parked no more than ten feet from him, got out and began stretching a protective cover
over the car. Her concentration on the mundane task infuriated him. He imagined her neck in his
hands, saw the terror on her face and felt the snap when he squeezed. Throttling her would feel
good, but he knew better than to give in to anger--no matter how justified. Tonight, he needed her.
When she'd served her purpose, he'd kill her at his leisure. Didn't some philosopher say revenge
was a dish better enjoyed cold?

He drew his gun and smoothed his face into an amiable expression. His plan required her
cooperation, and so he had to convince her that he'd let her go once she helped him escape. She'd
believe the lie because she'd want it to be true.

Claire had put her take-out on the swing and was rummaging in her purse for the door key
when something rustled behind her. She whipped around in time to see the man step out of the
shrubbery. He no longer wore the windbreaker or the baseball cap, but she recognized him. She'd
almost recognized him at Hatch's apartment, but her brain had refused to believe her eyes. She
inhaled sharply, drawing breath for a scream.

"Quiet," he said.

She saw the gun and heard the click as he released the safety. She remembered the blood
pulsing bright red from holes in Hatch's chest. He'd shot Hatch, and he'd shoot her too. No one
would hear. The Clarkes weren't home, and the police car had gone. She looked the killer in the
eye.

"Hello, Frank." Her voice belonged to someone else.

"Hello, Claire." He smiled. "Really, I expected more of a reaction. Aren't you surprised to see
me?"

"Of course. I thought you were dead."

"The reports of my death were greatly exaggerated." He kept the gun trained on her but
didn't pull the trigger.

"Someone's dead. There was a body in the cabin." The police would be back. If she could
keep him talking...

"Ah, Lou. He was nobody. He won't be missed."

"The police think it was you."

"I went to a lot of trouble to convince them it was me. The police are no problem. You on
the other hand." He shook his head in mock sorrow. "Nothing but trouble. Coming back early, going
to Hatch's apartment. Why you did that, I can't imagine. It's not as if you two were friends."

Claire tightened her grip on her pocketbook. If she could get close enough, she could swing
it and knock the gun out of his hand. She could run and hide until the police came back. She knew
her way around the garden. He didn't.

Her mouth was dry. Would she be able to scream? Would the policeman in his car hear
her? She kept her eyes focused Frank's face and concentrated on breathing slowly, staying
calm.

"I apologize for the inconvenience, but I need one small favor." He smiled again, as if they
were having a normal conversation.

"What kind of favor?"

He held out his hand. "Give me your purse."

She gave it to him as slowly as she dared. At least five minutes had passed. Ten more ...

"I need a driver, and Hatch is no longer available." He glanced at his watch. "Take the cover
off your car. The police will return in nine or ten minutes. I want to be gone before then."

"The police?" She pretended not to know what he was talking about.

"Do you think I'm stupid, that I don't know they're watching you?" He grabbed her arm and
pulled her roughly down the porch steps. "If you keep stalling, we'll have to wait until they go past.
Waiting annoys me. You don't want to do that." He shoved her toward the car.

Claire removed the cover with shaking hands. She dropped it on the ground and waited for
Frank's next order.

"Give me the remote control for the driveway gate."

She unclipped it from the driver's seat visor and handed it to him.

"Now, get into the driver's seat, and slide the passenger seat forward." Frank climbed in
and wedged himself into the space behind the seats. He held gun barrel behind her right ear,
handed her the keys and said, "Start the car and put the top up."

She complied, while time crawled.

"Alright, let's go. And Claire, rest assured that I'll pull this trigger the minute you don't do
exactly what I tell you to do. I can see you, and I can see where we're going."

"If you shoot me while I'm driving, we're both in trouble."

"You have a point. We need each other. Unfortunately, we can't trust each other. I'm the
one with the gun, and so you're the one who has to take things on faith." He aimed the remote at the
gate. It swung open. "Turn right and wait while I close the gate. We don't want anything to alarm
your protectors when they return." He looked at his watch. "In six minutes."

"Where are we going?"

"To my fish camp."

They saw no other cars until they reached Saint Charles. Claire stayed in the right lane and
drove as slowly as she dared. Cars passed without giving them a second glance. Look at me, she
wanted to scream. Help me. At a red light, a police car pulled up next to them. She turned toward it
and felt the gun barrel hard against her neck.

"Don't do anything stupid."

The light turned green, and they continued in silence. She took the ramp onto the highway
and merged into traffic. She should have hit something down on Saint Charles. Now it was too late.
Crashing at highway speed could kill them both, and she didn't want to die.

"Take the next exit," Frank said. "There's a shopping center on the right. I want you to pull
in and drive to the far end."

Claire's knees wobbled as she put in the clutch and downshifted to make the turn. Tears
stung her eyes, but she wouldn't cower or plead for her life. She'd seen enough of Frank to know
that begging would earn contempt, not mercy. She drove to the far side of the lot, certain he
planned to shoot her, throw her body into the weeds and take the car.

"Stop here. Now reach over and open the passenger door."

She followed his orders, opening the door wide so that it stayed open. Her left hand rested
on her door handle. Could she sneak her door open and roll out? Roll out to where? She was
surrounded by empty asphalt.

"Give me the car keys." Frank moved the gun. She tensed as the barrel brushed the base of
her skull.

Claire's hand shook so badly she could barely pull the keys from the ignition. She clenched
them in her fist, the end of the key sticking out, but he was behind her and out of reach.

"Don't even think about it." The hand without the gun grabbed her wrist and squeezed
until she released the key. "Now pick it up and hand it to me."

She gave him the car key.

"Relax, Claire. I'm won't hurt you unless you leave me no choice. All I want is a ride. You'll
be fine as long as you do what you're told."

He climbed out, all the while keeping the gun trained on her. She almost wept with relief
when he pushed the passenger seat as far back as possible and climbed in. He massaged his right
knee, and she remembered that he had lingering problems from an old football injury. This sign of
weakness gave her hope. She spoke to see if she still could.

"I'm not sure I can find the way in the dark."

"Don't worry. I'll direct you." Again, he smiled at her as if nothing was wrong. "In another
hour or so I'll be on the boat, and you'll be on your way home. By the time you get to a phone and
alert the police, which is what I fully expect you to do, I'll be long gone."

"I'd like to believe you, but I keep thinking about Hatch. I thought you liked him."

"Please Claire, let's not be hypocritical. As I recall, you compared him unfavorably to a pit
bull." He chuckled. "Don't worry about what happened to Hatch. He was a danger to me. You're
not."

He was lying.

Mike heard Breton's voice and walked down the hall to see why, after all the complaints
about working late, he'd come back in. The Lieutenant was on the phone. He looked up when Mike
rapped on the doorframe.

"Sherry, do you mind if I put you on speakerphone? My boss just walked in, and I know
he'll have some questions for you."

"I'll do anything I can to help you find the murderer." Her voice trembled.

"Let me bring him up to speed. Mike, I'm talking to Sherry Leblanc, who is the CFO for FP
Development Company. Sherry, would you repeat what you just told me."

"Millions and millions of dollars are missing. We don't know exactly how much."

"When did you learn money was missing?" Mike said. Claire had mentioned possible
financial problems, and here was confirmation on a scale beyond anything he'd imagined.

"Last week when Ed started going over the books, he noticed." A sob broke through her
self-control.

"Ed Pelletier is a CPA working for Gilbert." Breton interrupted her. "Okay, go ahead,
Sherry."

"He kept asking me where the money went. I told him Mr. Palmer was putting an important
deal together and needed funds for leverage, but Ed says the money's missing."

"Did he mention embezzlement?" Mike said.

"Oh, no. Mr. Palmer moved the money, but then he died, and now no one knows where it
is." Sherry moaned. "I think someone killed him and stole the money."

Breton mouthed the word motive.

"Who else knew about this important deal?"

"Jeanette thought Claire knew, but she said no."

"Does Bobby Austin know about the missing money?"

"I think so. Ed says it was mostly the bank's money." Her voice broke. "Ed and Mr. Gilbert
were here when I was at lunch, and Jeanette says they were talking about it. Ed yells all the time,
but no one's ever seen Mr. Gilbert angry. Jeanette said he walked out with this terrible expression
on his face and didn't even speak to her."

"Who else knows?"

"I only told Jeanette. She's my best friend, and she recommended me for this job. We didn't
really believe Ed until today when she saw how upset Mr. Gilbert was. Now we're scared." The last
word ended on a rising note of panic. She agreed to come to headquarters at ten the next morning
and make a statement.

Breton switched off the speakerphone. "Sherry writes the checks. Nice call, Mike."

"I thought you'd left for the day."

"The wife went out with the girls, so I decided to make a few more calls. Nothing better to
do." He shrugged. "The missing millions give us a motive. Bobby Austin and Gilbert are the ones
who called Lafourche Parish and insisted they search what was left of the cabin. I'm thinking Austin
knew what they were going to find."

It wouldn't be the first time a murderer stepped forward to discover his victim's body, but
Mike saw a bigger picture. "Don't forget the ten million in life insurance, very recently made
payable to Melissa Yates," he said.

"They could be in it together. Hell, maybe Melissa and Austin have fallen in love. Or, failing
that, in lust." Breton took it to another level. "Austin, Melissa and Claire Marshall make a fine
threesome, a redhead sandwich with a banker in the middle." He sniggered. "Austin looked tired
this morning."