Читать книгу The Dead Play On - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 7
ОглавлениеMICHAEL QUINN PARKED his car on the street in the Irish Channel section of the city of New Orleans.
There were several police cars already parked in front of the 1920s-era duplex to which he’d been summoned.
He headed up a flight of steep steps. The door to “A” stood open; an officer in uniform waited just outside on the porch.
“Quinn?” the man asked.
Quinn nodded. He didn’t know the young officer, but the officer seemed to know him. He had to admit, being recognized was kind of nice.
“He’s been waiting for you, but he wants gloves and booties on everyone who goes in. There’s a set over there.” He pointed.
“Thanks,” Quinn said. He looked in the direction the officer indicated and saw a comfortable-looking but slightly rusted porch chair on the far side of the door. He slid on the protective gloves and paper booties.
“You’re good to go,” the officer said.
Quinn thanked him again then entered a pleasant living area that stretched back to an open kitchen. The duplex had been built along the lines of a “shotgun”-style house. It was essentially a railroad apartment; the right side of the room was a hallway that stretched all the way to the back door, with rooms opening off it on the left. He’d never been inside this particular building, but he’d seen enough similar houses to assume the second half of the duplex would be a mirror image, hallway on the left, rooms opening off to the right.
Crime scene markers already littered the floor, and several members of the crime scene unit were at work, carefully moving around the body.
Quinn noticed that one marker denoted the position of a beer can. Another, the contents of a spilled ashtray.
A third indicated a curious splotch of blood.
In the midst of everything, in a plump armchair with padded wooden arms and a pool of dried blood underneath it, was the reason for Quinn’s presence. Dr. Ron Hubert, the medical examiner, was down on one knee in front of the chair, his black medical bag at his side, performing the preliminary work on the victim.
The remnants of what had once been a man sagged against the cushions. His throat had—at the end of the killer’s torture spree—been slit ear to ear. A gag—created from a belt and what had probably been the man’s own socks—remained strapped around the mouth. A drapery cord bound his left wrist, while the right had been tied to the chair with a lamp cord.
Both of the victim’s arms had been burned—with lit cigarettes, Quinn thought. The man’s face had been so bashed in, it wasn’t possible to determine much about what he had looked like in life.
He had been struck savagely, making it look like a rage killing. But a rage killing was usually personal. The addition of torture suggested that the killer was mentally deranged, someone who reveled in what he was doing—and had probably done it before.
And torture wasn’t carried out in a red haze of fury.
“Come around and stick close to the wall, Quinn,” Detective Jake Larue said. He was standing behind the couch, his ever-present notepad in hand, slowly looking around the room as the crime scene techs carefully went through it and the ME examined the corpse. Quinn was surprised at Larue’s directive; the detective knew damned well that Quinn was aware he needed to avoid contaminating the scene.
But this kind of scene unnerved everyone—even a jaded pro like Larue. Most cops agreed that when crime scenes stopped bothering you, it was time to seek new work.
Quinn looked at the walls as he walked around to Larue’s position. He noted a number of photographs of musicians on display. He thought he recognized some of the people in them, although he would have to take some time to remember just who they were.
“What the hell took you so long?” Larue asked.
Quinn could have told him that he’d made it to the house in less than ten minutes once Larue had called him, but it wouldn’t have meant anything at the moment. Frankly, after quickly scanning just the living area, he was wondering why he’d been called. The place was equipped with a large-screen television and a state-of-the-art sound system, so presumably the dead man had had money. There was drug paraphernalia on the coffee table to the side of the couch. A bag of what he presumed to be weed lay out in the open. Glancing toward the kitchen counter, he saw an impressive array of alcohol.
People didn’t tend to get stoned on grass and suddenly turn violent, but they were known to become killer agitated after enough bourbon or absinthe. Was this the result of escalating tensions between associates in the drug trade? There was a wad of twenties lying on the table by the bag of weed—which, he saw on closer inspection, looked to have been tossed carelessly on top of a spill of white powder that he didn’t think would prove to be baking soda or talc.
Drug deal gone bad? Someone holding out on someone?
“Were you first on scene?” Quinn asked, reaching Larue’s side. The detective stood still. Quinn knew he was taking in the room—everything about it.
Larue was a good-looking man with short-cropped hair. His face was a character study—the lines drawn into his features clearly portrayed the complexity of his work and the seriousness with which he faced it. He’d been a damned good partner when they’d worked together, and now that Quinn had been out of the force for several years and worked in the private sector as a PI, they got along just as well together when Larue called him in as a consultant. Even when they’d been partners, Larue had never really wanted to know how Quinn came up with his theories and conclusions. What he didn’t know meant he couldn’t question Quinn’s credibility or his methods.
Larue gave him a questioning glance. “First on the scene were two patrol officers. Since it was pretty evident this man was dead and most likely Lawrence Barrett, who’s lived at this address for several years, they steered clear of him and did their best to check the premises for the killer without touching anything. Then I arrived. Damned ugly, right? And no sign of a clear motive. It looks like drugs were involved, but you and I both know looks can be deceiving. It’s about as ugly as anything I’ve ever seen, though.”
It was possible to learn a lot about murder—and murderers. But no amount of profiling killers, studying the human mind—or even learning from those who had committed horrendous crimes and been caught—could fully prepare anyone, even those in law enforcement, for the next killer he or she might encounter.
“Ugly and brutal,” Quinn agreed.
“What do you see?” Larue asked him.
“A dead man and a hell of a lot of liquor and drugs—not to mention a fat wad of money,” Quinn said. “Doesn’t look like the motive was robbery—or not a typical robbery, anyway. You have a tortured dead man. Hard to discern, given the extent of the damage, but he appears to be in his late twenties to early thirties. Caucasian, say six-foot even and two hundred pounds. From the bleeding, looks like death came from a slit throat, with the facial beating coming post-mortem. Not a lot of blood spray—blood soaked into his clothing and pooled at his feet, but there is that spot on the floor near the entrance. There’s no sign of forced entry, so it’s my best guess he answered the door and let his killer in—which suggests that he knew his attacker or at least expected him. I doubt it was a drug buy, since so many drugs are still here. He lets whoever in. Whatever social discourse they engage in takes place there—four or five feet in. The attacker most likely disables his victim with a blow to the head, maybe even knocks him out. Dr. Hubert will have to determine what occurred, because the face and head are so swollen, I can’t tell. When the victim is knocked out or too hurt to put up a fight, the killer drags him into the chair and ties him to it. What seems odd to me is that the attacker did all this—but apparently came unprepared. Everything he used on the victim he seems to have found right here, in the house. And what happened wasn’t just violent, it was overkill.”
Dr. Hubert looked up from his work and cleared his throat. “Based on his ID, this gentleman indeed is—was—Lawrence Barrett, thirty-three, and according to his driver’s license, five foot eleven. I’d have to estimate his weight, too, but I’d say you’re right in the ballpark.”
Just as Quinn considered Larue one of the best detectives in the city, in his mind Ron Hubert was the best ME—not just in the city, but one of the finest to be found anywhere. Of course, it was true that Quinn had a history of working with Hubert—even when Hubert had been personally involved in a bizarre case that had centered around a painting done by one of Hubert’s ancestors. The more he worked with the ME, the more he liked and respected him.
Quinn turned to Larue. “How was he found? Anyone see the killer coming or going?”
“Barrett has a girlfriend by the name of Lacey Cavanaugh. She doesn’t have a key, though. She came, couldn’t get in, looked through the window and freaked out. The owner of the building, Liana Ruby, lives in the other half of the building, heard her screaming and called the police,” Larue said. “Mrs. Ruby didn’t hear a thing. But then, she’s eighty-plus and was out at the hairdresser’s part of the day. Not to mention there’s special insulation between the walls, too—the former tenant was a drummer, who put it in to keep his practice sessions from disturbing the neighbors. She gave the responding officers the key, but she didn’t step foot inside the apartment. She says she never does—says Barrett has always been good, paid his rent early, was polite and courteous at all times.”
“So where is Mrs. Ruby now?” Quinn asked.
“Lying down next door. I told you, she’s over eighty.”
“What about the girlfriend?” Quinn asked.
“She’s at the hospital. She was with the officers when they opened the door, and when she got a good look at...she went hysterical and tripped down the steps,” Larue told him. “She was still here when I arrived, though, and I interviewed her. She said he didn’t have any enemies as far as he knew. He might have been a coke freak and a pothead—and even an alcoholic—but he was a nice guy who was great to her and tended to be overly generous with everyone.” Larue held his notepad, but he didn’t so much as glance at his notes. He could just about recite word for word anything he’d heard in the first hour or so after responding to a case.
“Okay, so. A nice guy with no known enemies—and a street fortune of drugs still in front of him—was tortured and killed. Do we know what he did for a living?” Quinn asked.
“Musician,” Larue told him. “Apparently he did so much studio work that money wasn’t an issue.”
Quinn looked over at the body again, shaking his head. “No defensive wounds, right?” he asked Dr. Hubert.
“No. I don’t think he even saw the first blow coming,” Hubert said. “Of course, I don’t like answering too many questions until I’ve completed the autopsy.”
“For now, your best guesstimates are entirely appreciated,” Quinn said.
“So?” Larue asked Quinn as the ME went back to examining the body.
“Hmm,” Quinn murmured. “Even if he made a good living, a drug habit is expensive. I don’t know how far you’ve gotten with this. Do we know if he’d borrowed any money from the wrong people? Or, following a different track, did Lacey Cavanaugh have a jealous ex?”
“She’s in surgery for a badly smashed kneecap at the moment. Those are steep steps, you might have noticed,” Larue said. “The hospital has informed me that we’ll be able to talk to her in a few hours.”
“Good. That could be important information,” Quinn said.
This murder was, beyond a doubt, brutal to the extreme. And while Quinn, like most of the world, wanted to believe that every human life was equal to every other human life, in the workings of any law-enforcement department there were always those that demanded different attention. Larue was usually brought in on high-profile cases, cases that involved multiple victims, and those that involved something...unusual.
This murder, Quinn decided, was bizarre enough to warrant Larue’s interest.
It struck Quinn then that he had missed something he should have seen straight off. He realized that the photos on the walls were all of the same man—undoubtedly the dead man—with different musicians and producers of note.
What he didn’t see anywhere in the photos or the room was a musical instrument. Of course, it was possible Barrett kept his instrument in another room, but...
“What did he play?” Quinn asked. “Do we know that?”
“Half a dozen instruments. The man was multitalented.”
Quinn was surprised to get his answer from above—the top of a narrow stairway on the left side of the room.
He saw Grace Leon up there and knew he shouldn’t have been surprised. Jake Larue liked Ron Hubert’s work as an ME, and he liked Grace Leon’s unit of crime scene technicians. Grace was small, about forty, with hair that resembled a steel-wool pad. She was, however, energy in motion, and while detectives liked to do the questioning and theorizing, Grace had a knack for pointing out the piece of evidence that could cement a case—or put cracks the size of the Grand Canyon into a faulty theory. She was swift, thorough and efficient, and her people loved her. Larue had a knack for surrounding himself with the crews he wanted.
“Hey, Grace,” he said. “Thanks. I take it you found a lot of instruments?”
“There’s a room up here filled with them. But more than that—I’ve seen this guy play. He grew up in Houma. I’ve seen him at Jazz Fest—and I’ve seen him a few times on Frenchman Street. He played a mean harmonica, and I’ve seen him play keyboard, guitar, bass—even the drums.”
“This is a competitive town, and he was obviously in demand, but why the hell kill a musician—and so violently?” Larue said thoughtfully.
“Did anything appear to be missing up there?” Quinn asked Grace.
“Not that I can tell,” she said. “But you’re welcome to come up here and look for yourself.”
Quinn intended to.
“He definitely played guitar,” Hubert noted. “I can see the calluses on his fingers.”
“A musician. Tortured, brutally killed,” Quinn said. “Drugs everywhere. And nothing appears to be missing.”
“It’s not the first such murder, either,” Larue said.
“Oh?”
“We had a murder last week—this one is too similar to be a coincidence. A man named Holton Morelli was tortured then bashed to death with one of his own amplifiers,” Larue said.
“He was a musician, too, I take it?” Quinn asked.
Larue nodded.
“What did he play? Was his instrument found in his place?” Quinn asked.
“He was like Barrett. Played all kinds of things. Piano, a couple of guitars, a ukulele—he had a whole studio in his place,” Larue said. “No surprise. This is a city that loves music. Half the people here sing or play at least one instrument.”
Quinn was well aware of that. He loved what he did and considered it as much a calling as a job, but he loved music, too. He played the guitar, though certainly not half as well as most of the guitarists in the city. But whether he was playing or not, he loved living in New Orleans and being surrounded by music pretty much 24/7, from the big names who popped down for Jazz Fest to the performers who made their living playing on the streets.
He forced his attention back to the case. Two musicians were dead, but nothing—including their instruments—appeared to be missing. But they’d both been tortured—which might mean that the killer wanted some kind of information from them before he finished them off. Or that the killer was a psycho who just liked inflicting pain.
“I have a feeling something has to be missing,” Quinn said aloud.
“But what?” Larue asked.
“If not an instrument, maybe a piece of music,” Quinn said. “Two musicians are dead, and there has to be a reason. I can’t believe anyone was so jealous of someone else’s talent that they resorted to murder. There has to be more going on here. If I’m right about something being missing, it’s crucial for us to figure out what.”
Larue nodded. “In Holton Morelli’s case, it’s not going to be easy. He lived alone. He was fifty-six and just lost his wife to cancer. His one son is in the service. He was given leave to come home, but to the best of his knowledge, nothing was missing from the house, but of course he hasn’t been there for a while, so...”
“Same area of the city?” Quinn asked.
Larue shook his head. “Faubourg Marigny.”
“Since I didn’t see the other crime scene,” Quinn said, “what else was similar?”
“Enough to point to there being one killer,” Larue said. “Holton Morelli was bashed in the head after letting his murderer into his house. Then he was tied to a chair with electrical tape, tortured and beaten to a pulp with an amp.”
“Tortured how?” Quinn asked.
“Burns from a cigarette,” Dr. Hubert put in, nodding.
“I’ll need to see his file,” Quinn said. “The killer tortured those men because he wanted something. I can’t imagine these guys weren’t willing to give it up. They would have been ready to do anything to save their lives.”
“Once they were attacked, the murderer had to kill them if he wanted to escape being accused of the crime,” Larue pointed out. “Why not just give up the information before it got to that point?”
“Maybe they didn’t know the information the killer wanted,” Quinn suggested.
“Can we be sure the killer wanted something? Maybe he just enjoyed torture. There are sadists out there who do,” Larue reminded him.
Quinn nodded. “That’s true. But I’d bet this killer wanted something.”
“You’re probably right, and we’ll have to discover what it is.” Larue stared at Quinn assessingly. “I’m sure you’ll find out what it is. Why the hell do you think I called you in?” He smiled. “Not to mention you play the guitar and have at least a passing familiarity with the local music scene.”
Quinn lowered his head, grinning. “Thanks.”
“You coming on up?” Grace called down to Quinn.
“Yep, right now.”
He headed up the stairs. Larue didn’t follow him; he was still concentrating on the body and the surrounding area.
“We’re examining everything in the place,” Grace said, “but there were no glasses out, no cigarette butts—I don’t believe there was any socializing before the killer made his move.”
“I agree. The way I see it, Barrett let the killer in, a few words were exchanged and then the killer decked him,” Quinn said.
“Based on the evidence, I agree. That splotch by the door could have come from a facial wound. My guess is, analysis will show it’s mixed with saliva,” Grace said. “I suspect he was stunned by the blow, which the killer delivered right inside the door, or even that he was knocked out stone-cold. We’re searching the place thoroughly. At some point the killer was probably in every room, looking for...whatever. Anyway, come in and check out the music room.”
Quinn followed her through the first door on the upper level. A drum set took up most of one corner; two guitars and a bass sat in their stands nearby. A few tambourines lay in a basket, and a keyboard on a stand was pushed up against one wall. A tipped-over saxophone stand sat underneath the keyboard, but there was no sign of the sax itself or its case. There didn’t appear to be room for another instrument, but there was no way to know for sure without asking someone who’d been there before.
“Sheet music? That type of thing?”
“Next room—it’s an office. But it’s neat and organized. There are papers on the desk, including sheet music, but the piles are all neat and squared up. It doesn’t look like anything’s been disturbed,” Grace said.
“Curious.”
“Maybe. Or maybe the killer squared up all the piles when he was done to hide what he’d been looking for.”
Quinn looked through the other rooms. A closet had been left open, but if the drawers had been opened and their contents searched, the killer had put everything back the way he’d found it.
Judging by marks in the dust, the killer had definitely looked under the bed, though.
So had the killer been looking for an object of a certain size?
“Are we having the same idea?” Grace asked, interrupting his thoughts. “The guy was looking for something at least as big as a bread box.”
“Looks like it. Well, I want to talk to the landlord. Thanks, Grace. And the usual, of course. Keep me posted, please.”
She nodded. “You know I will.”
“Your thoughts, as well as anything scientific,” he said.
“You bet, Quinn.”
He hurried back downstairs.
Larue was waiting for him. He stepped outside, and Quinn followed.
Larue turned to him. “We have a sadistic killer on our hands,” he said.
“I think that’s obvious,” Quinn said.
Larue met Quinn’s eyes, his own expression thoughtful. “The night of the first murder, there was a holdup in the street. A group of musicians was stopped at gunpoint late at night. All that was taken were their instruments—sax, guitar, harmonica, if I remember right. One fellow was hurt pretty badly, pistol-whipped.”
“Did they give you a description of their attacker?”
“They said he was medium build. They thought tall. He had a ‘plastic’ face. And they’re pretty sure he was wearing a wig.”
“A plastic face?” Quinn asked. “Probably a mask. God knows you can buy any kind of mask around here.”
“You have to admit, it does seem similar enough to hint at a connection, though. Assaulting a group of musicians in the street, and then two musicians murdered, the first the same night as the assault.”
“Yes. Although as far as we know he left all the instruments behind in both murders.”
“True. But it seems probable that it’s the same person—someone with a hate on for musicians—and he’s escalating.”
“And at a fantastic degree. We’re going to have dead musicians lying across the entire city if we don’t get to the truth quickly.”
“Okay, so we’ll have a visit with Mrs. Ruby then get to the hospital and talk to Lacey Cavanaugh,” Larue said grimly.
* * *
There was nothing like the sound of a sax.
Danni Cafferty stood just outside La Porte Rouge and listened to the music spilling from the Bourbon Street pub. It was delightful.
Somehow the addition of a sax seemed to make almost anything sound better—richer, deeper, truer.
Wolf, at her side, barked, breaking her concentration. “Hey, boy,” she said, patting the hybrid’s head. “It’s okay, I’m coming. I just wasn’t expecting to be so enchanted. Beautiful, isn’t it? No, maybe cool or...mournful, in a way. There’s something deep and passionate about a sax, huh?”
Wolf barked again as if in complete agreement and wagged his tail.
She looked into the club. From the side door she could see the band. It was darker in the club than it was outside, and it took her a minute to see the sax player. He was tall, lean and striking. She thought instantly that he was a New Orleans boy, born and bred, the way he played his sax. And there was something special about him. He was a beautiful golden color, with close-cropped dark hair, and he leaned into his music as if he’d been born listening to it, born to play. He wasn’t playing alone, of course, but it seemed to her that he was amazing—even in a city filled with amazing musicians.
She couldn’t listen all evening, she told herself. Quinn had called to tell her that Jake—Detective Larue, his ex-partner from his days as a NOLA cop—was coming by to see them that night. She was carrying takeout from her friend’s new restaurant on St. Ann’s, and she’d actually meant to head down the block to Royal but had decided to walk along Bourbon for a few blocks first.
She hadn’t meant to get so distracted.
The song—something by Bruce Springsteen—ended. And then, despite the difference in the light inside and out, she realized that the sax player was staring at her. Well, she was standing in the bar’s doorway with a giant hybrid wolf–German shepherd at her side. She told herself it was Wolf. That the guy was staring at the dog by her side. People always stared at Wolf. They were either terrified, or they wanted to cuddle him.
But the truth was, the man wasn’t looking at the dog, he was staring straight at her. As if he knew her.
She frowned.
Did she know him?
She might. She’d gone to school here, along with a number of her high school classmates who had never moved away, and while they might all live in different areas now and do different things, they ran into one another now and then. The guy did seem familiar. He might have been one of the kids who, like her, ended up in a local private school after the storms had struck, since their own schools had been flooded.
But she wasn’t sure. She lifted a hand and waved, then shouted, “Way to go! Wow!”
Then she left, still feeling a little uneasy.
She turned at the next corner and cut down to Royal Street, heading for her house and her souvenir and collectibles shop, The Cheshire Cat, that occupied a chunk of the first floor.
The front door was open when Danni reached the shop, which was just as it should have been. They didn’t officially close until seven, and it was barely past six.
Billie MacDougall—who had been her dad’s right-hand man and assistant until the day he died and was now hers—was behind the counter. Billie looked like a cross between an aging Billy Idol and Riff Raff from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. He was skinny as a beanpole, but his looks were deceptive, because he had a wiry strength. He was also the best employee—and friend—anyone could ever have.
“Dinner!” he said, grinning as he saw her, his Scot’s burr coming out in the single word despite his decades in America.
She walked to the counter and set down her bags of takeout. “Figures I could help out a friend with a new place and have something wonderful to eat.”
“Do I smell lasagna?” Billie asked eagerly.
She smiled. “You do indeed. When Adriana decided to open a restaurant, I suspected it would be Italian, since she’s first generation herself. I’m sure it’s excellent, too. I loved eating at her house when I was growing up.”
Billie made a face. “You doona like Scottish fare, lass?”
Danni laughed. “Sure, I love it. Not that it’s plentiful in New Orleans,” she said drily.
“Plentiful enough in this house. If I’ve made it, it’s Scottish. And you love my cooking.”
“This is America. We love everything. But if you’ve suddenly discovered that you don’t like Italian, you don’t have to eat it, you know.”
“Don’t be cheeky, lass. I’ll just take the bags to the kitchen and get things set up,” he told her, grabbing the food. “I’ll go ahead and have me dinner then watch the shop till closing so you and Quinn can take as much time as you like for dinner.” He grinned at her. “That is, if there’s any food left.”
“I bought a salad, bruschetta and a whole tray of lasagna,” she said. “I don’t believe you could possibly eat it all.”
“You never do know now, do you? Make fun of me and Scot’s cooking, will you?” Billie said.
Danni grinned. “Is Quinn back yet? I don’t know why he went to the station if Jake said he was coming here.”
“He didn’t go to the station,” Billie said, heading toward the kitchen.
“Then why did you say he did when we talked this afternoon?” Danni asked.
“I never said that. I said he was on the phone with Larue and then he left,” Billie called from the kitchen doorway. “You just assumed he was going to the station.”
“Then where did he go?” she asked.
“Wherever he went, he had to leave quickly,” Billie said. “And I don’t ask the man for a schedule when he leaves the house, just as I don’t ask you. When he’s ready, he tells me. Which is after he tells you, most of the time, so I guess we’ll both know soon enough.”
“You’re right. I just hope he gets back while the food is still warm,” she said.
“We do own that thing called a microwave,” Billie said.
“Ah, but is it Scottish?” she murmured drily.
“I heard that!” Billie called back.
Danni grinned, walking around the counter to take the stool behind it. Wolf followed her and curled up at her feet.
She glanced at the computer; they’d had a busy enough day for a Thursday. Billie had sold a number of the handmade fleur-de-lis necklaces one of the local vendors had started making. They were delicate and beautiful, and while only gold-or silver-plated, they sold for almost a hundred dollars because of the work involved. She was glad to see that people still valued craftsmanship.
She noticed, too, that he’d also sold several of her own watercolors of the French Quarter. While the shop—and other matters—tended to take up a lot of her time, she had majored in art and actually had something of a local following. She loved visual art, and her favorite medium to work with was either watercolors or oils on canvas. Despite the fact their last case had involved a long-dead artist and a painting, she was determined not to lose her passion for her art.
The bell over the door gave off its pleasant little tinkling sound, and she looked up.
It was the sax player.
In fact, the sax was in his hand, its case in the other.
“Hello,” she said, frowning slightly. He had followed her here, she thought. Still, it was early evening. There was still light in the sky and plenty of people out and about on Royal Street, many of them seeking restaurants and bars, but some of them shopping, as well.
And Wolf—though he had risen—didn’t seem to expect any danger. Wolf, she had learned, had a wonderful ability to sense whether people were trustworthy or not.
He even wagged his tail slightly. Everything had to be all right.
The door closed behind the sax player. For a moment he looked around the shop. Danni—as her father had—mixed souvenirs and affordable trinkets in with real antiques and collectibles. There was another “collectible” area in the house, in the basement, where she kept items too powerful and dangerous to be sold or even shown. Of course, the basement wasn’t really a basement; the “ground” floor was actually built up above the street, and you had to climb a few stairs to get to it.
She loved the shop, just as her father had. She had grown up loving it. She had a couple of real medieval suits of armor as display pieces, along with the work of a number of local artists besides herself, both new and antique jewelry, busts, a few nineteenth-century vampire hunting sets, flags, weapons and more. She knew she was good at creating wonderful window displays and that the shop was as much a gallery as a showroom, to the point that sometimes people came just to look around rather than buy. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. It was obviously less than ideal if they didn’t buy, but having such wonderful word-of-mouth reviews had to be good.
“May I help you?” she asked as the man continued to stand just inside the door, looking around the room.
He met her eyes at last. “Danni? Danni Cafferty?”
“Yes,” she said. “Forgive me, but...do I know you?”
He nodded. “You may not remember me. I’m Tyler Anderson. I was a few years ahead of you in high school.”
“Tyler—yes!” She remembered him now. She hadn’t thought of him in years. He’d graduated before her, and she hadn’t seen him since. But she remembered. He’d been part of what a number of the magnet-school music students—who had been “adopted” by a Garden District school during the aftermath of Katrina—had called the Survivor Set. As an art student, she’d been dragged in as something of an honorary member.
It was good to see him again, and she smiled. He really was a beautiful man—he always had been. Almost like a golden god with hazel eyes.
She walked around the counter. “I haven’t seen you in forever! It’s wonderful that you found me. How have you been?”
“Fine...good. Mostly,” he said awkwardly.
“I heard you playing earlier,” she said. “You’re incredible. You always were, but now...wow. You’re really good.”
“Not that good.”
“No, trust me. I just heard you, and you are.”
He shook his head impatiently. “No, no, I...” He paused, looking around the store. “Is anyone else here?”
“Well, Billie—you remember Billie—is in the kitchen. And Quinn is due home soon.”
“Quinn... Michael Quinn? The Michael Quinn we knew back in school?”
“Yes.”
“Are you two married?”
“No, no. I mean, one day. Maybe. He lives here. Mostly. Not always.” Danni stopped speaking; she was never sure how to describe her complex relationship with Quinn. But then again, she didn’t really have to explain. She added lamely, “We’re together. A couple.”
“So is it true?”
“Is what true?” she asked carefully.
“That he was a cop and then became a private investigator. And you guys look into things that are...different. Bad things, odd things.”
Danni shrugged uneasily. “I try to collect things that people think may be evil or haunted in some way. You know how people can be. Superstitious.”
“Is it just superstition?” he asked.
“People can be wonderful or evil. I think we both know that. But things are just...things. Why? What are you talking about?” she asked.
“Murder. I think my friend was murdered—and that the saxophone he left me is haunted.”
She stared at him and murmured, “Okay. Can you...?”
“Do you remember Arnie Watson?” he asked quietly.
She did. She remembered his incredible talent, and she remembered seeing a piece written about him by a local columnist just a week or so ago. He’d died on the streets after coming home from the Middle East. After he’d survived three deployments. Somehow that seemed to compound the tragedy of his death.
“Yes,” she said.
“Arnie was the best,” Tyler said passionately. “An amazing man and an amazing friend.”
“I believe you,” she said then paused, remembering what she had read. He had died of a drug overdose. So sad, and such a waste of a good man.
What was even more tragic was that so many soldiers came home only to die by their own hands, their minds haunted by the demons of war.
“He died of an overdose, didn’t he?” she asked.
“Damn you, it wasn’t suicide!” Tyler said.
“I never said anything about suicide.”
“And it wasn’t an accident. He was murdered. You have to believe me.”
“I’m more than willing to listen to—”
Tyler shook his head emphatically. “You have to help me. You have to prove that he was murdered. I know you can do it. And you will. You and Quinn will.”
“We’re not infallible.”
“I know you can find the truth. You have to. Because if you don’t, whoever is doing this will kill again. I know it.”
“Tyler, you can’t know that.”
“I do know it. And he just might kill me.”
