Mike drove slowly up the driveway, reluctant to leave Claire alone with Tony Burke, which was ridiculous. She'd just spent the night with the man. He asked Bea what she thought.
"Claire was lying about the appointment."
"Let's find out." He drove halfway down the block and parked. "But that wasn't my question. What did you think of Tony Burke?"
"I don't know. I've seen him on TV, climbing out of his racecar, pulling off his helmet and grinning, pretty girls hanging on him while he held the trophy up in one hand, a foaming bottle of champagne in the other. Tony Burke on top of the world, the man who has everything." She shrugged. "This morning blew all that away."
"Forget before. What did you observe this morning?" His dislike of Burke had been immediate and visceral. He usually went with his gut, but this time he wasn't confident of his objectivity. Watching Burke with his hands all over Claire had been hard.
"That I didn't expect?" She thought a moment. "First, intelligence. He's smart and articulate. Arrogant might be unfair, but he lives by his own rules. And he has no more illusions about human behavior than you do. If he's our killer, we've got our work cut out."
"The story of his father's disappearance. Do you think that was a performance?"
"It will be easy enough to check, but no, I think that was genuine. That doesn't mean his story is true. Memory is tricky, and he was a child." She chuckled. "He certainly knows how to make an entrance. Did you see Claire's face when he said he'd used her razor? He's lucky we were there."
"You did a nice job."
"I didn't enjoy playing the heavy, and he really resented it." She frowned. "Do you think he's right about his mother killing his father?"
"We have a concealed body with a fractured skull. It looks like homicide, but we haven't identified the victim yet, forget any suspects."
"Two murders, twenty-five years apart," she said. "Where do we start?"
"The recent one. Concentrate on Geneviève Burke, starting with everything she did after four o'clock on Saturday."
"As Tony suggested."
"We're not going to refuse good advice no matter the source." Personal feelings had no place in a homicide investigation. "Ask residents and staff at Sunny Gardens where they were during that four-hour window Sunday morning. That's a lot of interviews, and I'll assign Bill Lukas to help you. Stay away from Roger Devereux. I'll handle him. As for the bones, I'm going to put Smith and Monroe on them." The assignment would combine the punishment of wading through old records with a chance to redeem themselves if, as seemed likely, the two murders were related.
"I don't want to step on anyone's toes, but what if Bill and I work from both ends?" He gave her a quizzical look and she explained. "Ask the other residents when they met the victim. Did they know her back in the day? Do they remember any gossip about her?"
"Good idea." It was a very good idea and, he hoped, an indication that Detective Washington was as sharp as Vernon had promised.
He called the office, briefed Bill Lukas and asked him to meet them at Sunny Gardens in half an hour. He left messages for Smith and Monroe to meet him in his office at three. By the time he finished, fifteen minutes had passed and neither Burke nor Claire had driven out the gate. He pulled away from the curb. "You're right," he said. "She lied."
"But she's not sleeping with him, and she wanted us to know."
"Why do you say that?" She hadn't flinched when Burke put his hand on her arm, her shoulder, her knee.
"Everything was tidy except for the sheets on the sofa. She knew we were coming, she had plenty of time to clear them off, but she didn't. The only reason to leave them was to show us where Tony spent the night."
Mike caught her fleeting smile. His new detective had either sensed or been told that he and Claire had a history. Whether or not they had a future was up in the air, but he hoped Bea was right about the sleeping arrangements.
"What's waiting for us at Sunny Gardens?" he said.
"I faxed over the list of names from the group interview with a note that we wanted to talk to each person individually and would also be interviewing staff members. The manager—his name is Dwight Chastain—said he and his staff will do all they can to assist in our investigation. However, he hopes it won't be necessary to disturb Roger Devereux again."
"I'll handle that," Mike said. "You and Bill take care of the interviews."
A balding middle-aged man with a decided paunch intercepted them at the entrance to Sunny Gardens. After introducing himself, Dwight Chastain said they'd set up two interview rooms as requested and summoned his assistant to show them the way.
"The second interview room will be used by Detective Lukas. He'll be here shortly," Mike said. "I'm looking for information about Roger Devereux. Can you tell me how to contact his guardian?"
"The family was afraid this would happen." Chastain stuck out his lower lip and his already downturned mouth became an inverted U. "Their attorney is in my office."
Bea left with the assistant, and Mike followed Chastain to an office behind the elevators. Paul Gilbert stood by the window, talking on a mobile phone. His well-groomed presence reinforced Vernon's warning about the Devereux family's position in the community but raised new questions. Did Gilbert, and by extension the Devereux family, realize the seriousness of the situation? Paul specialized in defusing scandal, not criminal defense.
Chastain started to introduce them, and Paul said they'd met.
"It's nice to see you again, Mike. I only wish it were under more auspicious circumstances." They shook hands and Paul explained his presence. "Roger Devereux's niece is his legal guardian. I'm her personal attorney and here at her request. I've known Roger all my life. He and my father have been friends since grade school. Of course, now..."
"I'd like to interview Mr. Devereux. Is now convenient?"
"Roger has been declared legally incompetent. I've been told that he was distraught after the first interview. I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't question the need for a second."
"The Police Department is aware of Devereux's condition and sensitive to it, but we're conducting a homicide investigation. There's no alternative, Paul, and if now is a good time."
"As good as any."
"I'll escort you," Chastain said. In the elevator, he pointed to a keypad beside the door and a sign saying the Memory Garden code was DD-MM-YY followed by an asterisk. "The elevator won't open on the fourth floor until you enter the correct code. This system allows access while maintaining the security of our residents, all of whom suffer from dementia severe enough to require round-the-clock care."
"According to a report in your files, Roger Devereux left the fourth floor on his own last Wednesday," Mike said.
"Neither Roger nor any other Memory Garden resident has the capacity to translate those directions into the proper code, and no one on my staff took him out."
Mike waited for him to say who, he thought, had taken Roger out.
"There are fire stairs, but if those doors are opened, an alarm sounds. The alarm did not go off Wednesday." Chastain wiped sweat from his forehead. "The Devereux family is extremely concerned about the recent incident, and so am I. If our insurance company ever decided our security was inadequate, they'd cancel our liability coverage. We'd be out of business that day."
"What did your insurance company say about the murder of a resident in her locked apartment?" It wasn't a fair question, but Mike felt the victim deserved some consideration.
Their arrival at the fourth floor saved Chastain the embarrassment of answering. He punched in the date and the elevator doors opened onto a large room with a glass-enclosed office at its center. On the left, a dozen elderly people sat in wheelchairs arranged in a semicircle in front of a television set, some watching a young Julie Andrews skip across an alpine meadow, others dozing. To the right an area was set up for dining, plastic chairs at square tables for four. Vaguely Italian food odors lingered from the noon meal.
A stocky, dark-skinned woman wearing lavender scrubs emerged from the office and walked over to them. Chastain introduced her as Tamika, lead caretaker for the Memory Garden. Round eyes and a wide mouth that tilted up at the ends gave Tamika an amiable appearance, but her expression hardened when Chastain explained the reason for their presence.
"Roger is in his room," she said, "resting."
"Please take Mr. Gilbert and Captain Robinson to see him." Orders given, Chastain retreated to the elevator.
Her gait stiff with disapproval, Tamika led them down a wide carpeted hallway and opened the door of the last room on the right. An elderly man sat in a chair beside the window, looking out. The people watching television had worn sweatpants, jogging clothes, even bathrobes, but Roger Devereux was dressed in a businessman's suit and tie.
Tamika rapped on the doorframe. "Roger, You have visitors."
He turned and his blank expression contradicted the initial impression of competence. He didn't speak before returning to whatever he'd been watching through the window. Tamika stepped aside and they walked in. Paul sat on the bed, leaving Mike the other chair, and Tamika stood beside the door, a sentry.
Paul broke the ice. "Hello Roger. It's Paul Gilbert. How are you today?"
"I think it might rain."
Despite Paul's repeated attempts at conversation, Roger Devereux showed no interest in anything but the weather. When Paul conveyed his father's best wishes, Roger looked worried for a moment then, once again, pointed out the dark clouds gathering on the horizon.
Mike cleared his throat. They didn't have all day.
Paul took the hint. "Roger, I'd like you to meet my friend, Mike Robinson. Mike works for the New Orleans Police Department."
Devereux ducked his head between his shoulders and turned away, muttering something about being tired.
"Mike wants to talk to you, just for a few minutes."
"I'm going to bed." Roger stood up, still averting his gaze, and started to remove his jacket.
Tamika stepped forward and took hold of Roger's arm. "It's not time to get undressed, Roger. Please sit back down." She helped him return to the chair and nodded to Mike, a go-ahead-if-you-must expression on her face.
"I'd like to ask you a few questions about Geneviève," Mike said.
Roger lurched to his feet. "No, no, no," he cried. "Don't say that." He grabbed Tamika by the shoulders and shook her as if she were a rag doll. "It's not true."
Mike's hammerlock forced Roger to release Tamika, who fell back against the wall. Paul leapt to her assistance.
She brushed him off. "Let him go." She pushed a button by the door. "I've called for support."
"When they get here." Mike maintained his hold on Roger until two orderlies hurried into the room.
Released, Roger collapsed onto the bed. "I'm sorry." Sobs shook his body. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. Get up. Please get up."
"Go. Just go." Tamika glared at them. "Let us take care of our patient."
Mike and Paul returned to the main room, leaving the staff to settle Roger. A few residents looked at them curiously, but most didn't seem to notice their presence, and no one approached.
Paul smoothed his jacket and straightened his tie as if they had been rumpled by his proximity to the struggle. "You and I both know any statement Roger made is inadmissible as evidence."
"Has anyone told you that he said essentially the same thing yesterday when a detective interviewed him?" Mike noted the flicker of surprise on Paul's face. No one had.
"What is the public interest in prosecuting a mentally incompetent old man? He's already locked up here."
"My job is to find out who killed Geneviève Burke. Roger's guilt, whether he's charged or not, would prove someone else's innocence. You saw what happened, heard what he said. I have to follow up." Before your client hurts anyone else, Mike thought but didn't say. Roger Devereux looked frail but was surprisingly strong when agitated. He belonged in a more secure facility.
Tamika, flushed with anger and exertion, joined them. Before Mike could ask if she was all right, she said, "I hope you're satisfied. That poor old man had to be sedated again."
"That poor old man could have broken your neck." He looked around. "Is there a quiet place where we can talk?"
She pointed to the glass-enclosed office. "It's a fishbowl, but no one can hear what we're saying. Not that anyone would understand or care."
They sat down and Mike cut to the chase. "Is the violent behavior we just observed typical of Mr. Devereux?"
"You can't ask her to draw conclusions from a single event," Paul said.
Mike suspected the interruption was intended to give Tamika time to think about her answer and to be sure she understood its importance. If so, the ploy was successful.
"People suffering from Alzheimer's often exhibit inappropriate behavior, including misdirected anger." She spoke as if repeating words from a training brochure.
"You have a bruise on your arm and scratches on your neck," Mike said. He'd noticed them when Roger shook her. "Did one of your patients do that?" She looked stricken, and he amended his question. "Did Roger do that to you? Last Wednesday, after he tried to break into Geneviève Burke's apartment?"
"I object to a discussion of anything your department learned by reading medical records that should have been kept confidential." Paul said.
"Objection noted." Mike didn't argue, although the medical records in question had been Geneviève Burke's, and he doubted that Paul's objection would withstand challenge. He turned back to Tamika. "What can you tell me about Mr. Devereux's whereabouts between seven and eleven yesterday morning?"
"I wasn't on duty, but I've talked to people who were."
"We'll talk to them later." He wasn't interested in hearsay.
"They'll tell you exactly what I'm saying. Last Wednesday was the first time Roger has ever exhibited any violent behavior. Today was the second."
"You weren't here Sunday," Mike reminded her.
"I know Roger." She looked close to tears.
Mike thanked her for her cooperation. He'd send Bea back with a subpoena to gather more information about Wednesday afternoon's incident, including verification that Roger Devereux was responsible for the bruises on Tamika's arm.
"I'm through if you are," he told Paul. They walked back to the elevator together.
"This is a difficult situation," Paul said. "Hard for everyone."
Mike waited until the elevator doors closed. "Roger isn't the victim, but you'd never know it from talking to the people who work here. I'm still looking for someone who cares that a woman was murdered."
"I'm the person you're looking for." Sadness shadowed Paul's face. "When I was a boy, she was my Tante Geneviève. I adored her. She was beautiful, lively, fun, and she paid attention to me. After she and Roger divorced, she was no longer welcome in my parents' house. It broke my heart."
"She became persona non grata just like that?" Mike snapped his fingers.
"I don't know the details, but as a divorcée and even after she remarried, Geneviève was one scandal after another. To my eye, she was a wild and free spirit, bursting the bounds of conventional society. My parents had a different perspective. Looking back, I suspect that some of the men she bedded were married to friends of my mother."
"Could any of them be living here?"
"It's possible."
They exited the elevator on the main floor. Curious stares followed them through the reception area.
"I'd like to hear more," Mike said. "Let's find somewhere private."
"I can't, not now. I squeezed this in as a favor to the family. I have to get back to the office."
"I'll walk you to your car." Outside and out of earshot of the curious, he asked, "What else can you tell me about Geneviève's life post-divorce?"
"The short version. She married an artist and gave birth to a son who's a wild one in his own right. Her second husband died young, but she never remarried. Her son grew up, and she moved to a farm north of town."
"When was the last time you saw her?"
"The summer after I graduated from high school—that would have been 1966. I contacted her, and we met for lunch." He paused and when he resumed speaking regret shaded his voice. "Geneviève charmed and sparkled and asked about my plans. Unlike most of my friends, I'd chosen a college out of state. She approved. In fact, she advised me not to return to New Orleans."
"Paul, I've never seen this side of you."
"Geneviève was my first love. You have a soft side hidden somewhere, don't you?" Paul chuckled, his usual equanimity restored. "My parents found out about our lunch date. They were not pleased to say the least."
"That was your last contact?"
"Years later, she called my office. I did some legal work for her, for her son really. It's been ten years since we last spoke, but I care that Geneviève was murdered."
"What about her son?"
"I represented him several times. Nothing too serious, really, and nothing recent. He moved to Europe and became a successful racecar driver. Tony Burke. You've probably heard of him. I believe he's back in town."
"That he is," Mike said. "And he had a very public argument with his mother the evening before she was killed." He didn't press for information about Tony's old legal problems and none was forthcoming.
"Is Tony a suspect?" Paul didn't sound as surprised as he should have.
"Everyone's a suspect until we find the killer. That includes ex-husbands and old lovers. Those husbands of your mother's friends, do you know their names?"
"You're serious?" Paul said. When Mike nodded, he shook his head. "I don't."
"Your parents might."
"I'm not at all sure they'd tell you."
"You could ask them for me. I'm most interested in the late sixties."
"That's twenty-five years ago." Paul looked skeptical. "I'll ask, but I'm not sure they'd remember."
"Ask about Roger and Geneviève's relationship post-divorce. They should remember that."
After Paul left, Mike checked in with Bea then drove himself back to headquarters. When he met with Smith and Monroe, he'd tell them to look for Tony Burke's name in files from ten years ago. Paul's involvement meant a conviction was unlikely, but if they were lucky, they'd find an arrest record that would tell them if Burke had a history of violence.
* * * *
Paul Gilbert returned to his office in a somber mood. Today had been a day for ghosts. Memories of Tante Geneviève had haunted him since he'd learned of her death. An early client had been among the curious residents of Sunny Garden, standing apart except for a middle-aged woman, clinging to his arm. Their eyes met briefly, and the other man nodded but didn't smile.
Paul had needed a moment to recognize Edward Cantrell and hoped his shock at the man's deterioration hadn't shown. He'd defused a potentially messy situation for Edward, who'd left his wife and family for a woman a generation his junior, perhaps the woman beside him now. He thought he remembered gossip about Edward and Geneviève. He'd ask his father.
Suzanne was still at lunch. She'd left a pink message slip on his chair, a treatment reserved for the highest priority calls. Tony Burke wanted to talk to him. It was urgent. Et tu Tony? Paul had neither seen nor spoken to Geneviève's wayward son in a decade, and he was in no position to help him today. He dialed the number and left a message conveying his condolences. He didn't approve of Tony, but he felt sympathy for the child he'd been, the man he'd become.
That last lunch, back in '66, was the first time he'd seen Geneviève from an adult perspective. He'd inquired about her husband and son, and she'd responded with an airy wave of her hand. She had no idea what Jim was up to, and she didn't care. "Don't follow in my footsteps," she'd said. "Marriage is a trap, and children are bloodsuckers." Tony had been six at the time. Poor little tyke might as well have been an orphan.
He walked over to the window and stared out at the darkening sky. Roger was right; it looked like rain.