Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (24 page)

"I haven't seen the paper, so I don't know what it says, but I can tell you what happened."
She forced herself to remain calm. "I found someone who'd been shot. I certainly didn't shoot him.
No-one thinks I shot anyone."

"I'm sorry, Claire. It's just too much. That business with Frank Palmer and now this. Lori
doesn't feel comfortable."

"I'm sorry, too." More than sorry, she was furious, but the best she could do was leave the
door open. "If you change your minds, I'd still like to work for you."

She hung up, counted to ten, and called Felix. "A client just cancelled a project we needed
because the paper says I've been arrested or something. I haven't seen the article."

"I've already talked to Henry Vernon, who will be issuing a statement to the press this
morning. He will say that you are not and never were under arrest, that you found Hatch after he
had been shot and did your best to save his life. The officers were helping you to their car, not
arresting you, and it is the sincere wish of the New Orleans Police Department that the local fish
wrapper print a correction."

"Can I sue the paper?"

"If you lose business as a direct result, you can show damages. The more difficult task is
proving negligence or intent. The article was carefully worded. My advice is to adopt a wait and see
attitude. If things get worse, threaten a lawsuit and hope they settle out of court."

Sit tight. Wait and see. Felix's advice was good but hard to follow. "I'd like to throw a brick
through their window."

"But you won't."

"Thank you for calling Superintendent Vernon."

"It was my pleasure, and there's no charge for this morning. If you throw that brick, I go on
the clock."

Claire thanked him again and said good-bye, only partially reassured. What if this was just
the first cancellation? What was going to happen to Authentic Restorations? She took a deep breath
and visualized waves breaking on her office floor, washing up and receding, steady and reliable, one
after the other, each one a breath. The bubble hadn't appeared. She wasn't going to panic about this,
but she'd better tell Jack ASAP. Rather than deliver bad news over the phone, she drove to the
Laurens house.

Jack was upstairs talking to a plumber about the most efficient way to re-plumb what had
been two small bathrooms into one master bath. He looked up when she walked in.

"I knew you weren't in jail."

"Not funny, Jack. Scott Cantrell just canceled their project because Lori is uncomfortable
working with an accused murderess."

Jack smacked his fist into his palm. "It all comes back to Palmer. I knew that guy was bad
news. Remember how he was yelling at you. I should have punched him in the nose."

When Frank first contacted her, Jack had warned that subcontractors were saying FP
development, Frank's company, had slowed payments and was firing anyone who complained.
Claire had trouble reconciling that portrayal with the charming man she'd met at The Children's
Home, but she'd left the final decision to Jack, and he decided to go for it. Frank's cottage would be
their biggest project to date, a step into a new league. There had been no problems, not even little
ones, until the fuss about his fish camp--and there'd been nothing but trouble since.

"Worse news than either of us dreamed," she said.

"We still have enough work to keep everyone busy. Right?"

"Unless Brian Laurens fires us. I should call him and make sure he knows I'm not in jail. I
still don't know what's going to happen with Frank's cottage, but if we lose it and the Cantrell
expansion, we'll just break even this year."

"Breaking even is better than I was doing on my own. You're doing a great job, and this
crap will blow over."

"What crap?" The plumber had been following their conversation like a man watching a
tennis match.

"On the bright side," Jack said, "not everyone reads the papers."

"I haven't seen it either."

"There's one in my truck. Go read. I'll give you time to calm down and then we'll talk."

Ten minutes later, he joined her on the front steps. "I'm glad you're okay. When I saw that
picture, I wanted to call, but I thought you might be asleep."

"I'm sorry, Jack." She was supposed to get the company on a sound financial footing, to
bring in business, not scare away customers. "I should never have gone to that apartment."

"Don't beat yourself up."

She told him what had happened. "I have a lawyer. He says the police will ask the paper to
print a correction. But nothing's going to erase that picture from people's minds." A full-length
picture of her, looking distraught and flanked by two policemen, accompanied the front-page story.
"At least it's not in color. My clothes were covered in blood."

"What are you going to do?"

She shrugged. "Work on the foyer, as planned."

"That's not what I meant."

"Wait a week or so, give Scott and Lori time to reconsider, and then call back to see if
they've changed their minds."

"I'm worried about you, not the business."

She pointed to a car parked across the street. "The man inside is a policeman. Someone
follows me all day. At night, they'll drive by every fifteen minutes. It's called protective
surveillance." That was how Mike Robinson described it. She suspected they had more than one
reason for keeping track of her. Felix said it didn't matter why they were watching her, as long as
they did.

"I'm here, too," Jack said. "And if you want to stay at our house tonight, we have an extra
bed."

"Thank you, but I'm fine. The Clarkes' property is really secure." Jack's offer touched her.
He and Mary Anne had six kids and no extra bed. "The best thing for me to do is get busy and stay
busy."

She was going to uncover what she hoped was an intact fireplace. A sloppy installer had
used ordinary nails to attach the new wallboard, which made removing it easier, and by
mid-afternoon, the old fireplace was fully revealed. Except for the nail holes, which could be filled, the
wooden mantel was in good shape. The marble surround was intact, and the old mirror unbroken
although badly clouded. The mirror gave her a good excuse to call Brian, ask about re-silvering. The
cloudy look was romantic, but a mirror for that last check before you leave the house was a handy
thing.

She should be happy about the fireplace, but too many unpleasant things crowded her
mind. A policeman sat in his car out front. In the back room, three burly men were gutting what had
been a kitchen. Every few minutes, Jack would find an excuse to walk through the front foyer where
she was working. Here, she was safe, but tonight, she'd be alone again. The secluded location of her
carriage house, which she had considered such a plus, now made her feel vulnerable, especially
with the Clarkes still in Europe.

Felix had advised her "as a friend" to get a gun if she insisted on staying in New Orleans.
He'd offered to lend her one of his, and now she regretted saying no.

Last night, she'd fallen into an exhausted sleep, wakened from the nightmare about two,
taken another sleeping pill and then wakened again at five, thinking she'd heard footsteps, a branch
cracking. She'd barricaded herself in the bathroom with her mobile phone and not slept again until
after sunup. Tonight, maybe she'd go to a hotel. First, though, she had to talk to Mike Robinson. She
called his office for the third time that day. Once again, he was out.

Paul Gilbert had been telling the truth when he said he lacked information about Frank's
estate. FP Development represented the bulk of Frank's assets, but Ed Pelletier, the CPA hired to
establish the company's value, had asked for more time to track down missing documents. Paul
himself had spent an unproductive couple hours going through Frank's personal records. Suzanne
usually handled the inventory of personal belongings for an estate, but sentiment had made him go
through Frank's papers himself.

Saturday afternoon, he'd walked the long hall to the back of the house, half expecting to
look up and see Frank standing in the office door, smiling a welcome and holding out a glass of fine
bourbon, no ice. Instead, he was alone with his own intimations of mortality, which were intensified
by the absurd collection of hunting trophies that adorned Frank's den.

In the top desk drawer, he'd found a Moroccan leather appointment calendar, his
Christmas gift to Frank. Its final entry, the honeymoon itinerary, rekindled his sadness at a life cut
short. Frank's personal checkbook listed a balance just over four thousand dollars. Paul had noted
the account number, intending to transfer the funds into the estate account to cover the expenses
that were already beginning to accrue, and began going through Frank's files.

Folders held everything from automobile insurance to utility bills to warranties on
household appliances, all the paper records and receipts that burden modern life. He'd found the
deeds to Frank's house and the cabin where he died, the closing statements for the ski lodge in
Jackson Hole that Frank sold and the cottage he'd purchased and hired Claire to renovate. He did
not find any certificates of deposit, brokerage statements, bonds or stock certificates. Nor did he
come across a key to a safe deposit box.

This morning, before the police arrived, he'd asked Suzanne to call local banks, starting
with Bobby's, and ask if Frank had a box. So far, the search had been fruitless. He'd also talked to
Andrew Walsh, another unproductive effort. According to Andrew, Frank had planned to give him a
certified check for one million dollars during the awards' banquet. Paul believed him. This was the
sort of grand gesture Frank loved. It also explained Andrew's frantic behavior when he couldn't
locate Frank.

Now, Andrew wanted the estate to treat the planned donation as an outstanding debt. Paul
had agreed. Doing so would allow The Home to receive their money promptly and reduce the
taxable estate. Written confirmation is desirable when dealing with the IRS. Unfortunately, he'd
found nothing to document the intended contribution. Andrew didn't have documentation either.
Paul sighed. Frank hadn't expected to die in the prime of life, and his affairs weren't in good
order.

After lunch at the club, Paul took a cab to the offices of FP Development, where Ed was
waiting for him in what had been Frank's office. They exchanged greetings and he asked the CPA
how the search for missing documents was going.

"Documents aren't the only thing missing." Ed pointed to a three-ring binder on the desk.
"That's my report." His expression promised bad news.

Paul put his hand on the binder and waited.

"As you know," Ed said, "I've been working with Sherry Leblanc, who is nominally the CFO
of this corporation. Sherry has a certificate in bookkeeping from some school you never heard of.
She takes care of payroll and makes the required tax deposits--thank God for small favors. She
wrote the checks Frank told her to write and signed the papers Frank told her to sign." Indignation
brought color to his sallow cheeks. "I don't care what the corporate papers say. Sherry is a
bookkeeper, not a CFO."

"Why is that an issue?" Ed's outrage puzzled him. Everyone knew that Frank was a
one-man management team.

"Over the last two months, Frank Palmer looted FP Development. No one sounded the
alarm, because no one knew what was going on--least of all Sherry. We're meeting here because I
wanted you to talk to her, see her office, her records, see with your own eyes what she does and
how little she knows."

"That's not necessary." He tapped the still unopened binder. "What's the bottom line?"

"FP Development's liabilities far exceed its assets." Ed swept his arms in a circle that
encompassed the opulent office. "This is an illusion. The firm is gone. The only question is what
goes with it. The most exposed creditor is First City Bank."

Paul felt ill. First City Bank was Bobby Austin. Bobby's great-grandfather had started the
bank. His grandfather and father had been presidents before him. "For how much?" he asked,
knowing the amount didn't really matter.

"My best estimate is twelve million, a two million maxed out line of credit plus another ten
in construction loans. FP Development drew down the loans but paid subcontractors only enough
to keep them on the job. The majority of the money simply disappeared."

"Money doesn't disappear. People hide it."

"Frank hid it. He told his staff that he was working on an important deal and needed the
funds for leverage. No one in this office knows anything about the deal or who else was
involved--certainly not Sherry. I doubt she knows what leverage is."

"Perhaps Bobby Austin knows." Even as he spoke, Paul realized that wasn't the case. Bobby
might have let his good friend slide on occasional details, but he never would have countenanced
irregularities on this scale.

"He doesn't. I asked him." Ed's outrage, palpable as he detailed the financial sins, faded into
sadness. "Bobby made those loans based on a handshake. He should have demanded written
verification that FP Development controlled the assets put up as collateral. He didn't, and it didn't.
The bank should have checked to ensure work was actually being done and the subs were being
paid. None of that happened. You know what that means."

Paul nodded, of course he did, but Ed told him anyway.

"The bank is big enough to absorb the loss, but Bobby failed to exercise proper fiduciary
responsibility. He has no choice but to resign. Sherry is in more trouble. She signed false financial
statements. She never read them, and if she had, I doubt she would have noticed the discrepancies.
It doesn't matter. Neither irresponsibility nor incompetence excuses her. She committed
fraud."

Paul held up his hand. "Bankruptcy isn't my field. I'll have to bring in a specialist.
Meanwhile, I'm relying on your discretion."