Читать книгу The Dead Play On - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 8
ОглавлениеMRS. LIANA RUBY wasn’t as frail as one might have thought.
They didn’t have to knock on her door; an officer had been keeping watch over her while the police worked in the other side of the duplex. She had been lying on the sofa, but she got up when they came in. She was a little thing, but she quickly offered them tea or coffee, and then, when they declined, she told them, “Well, you may be on duty, but I’m not. Excuse me while I get myself a big cup of tea—with a bigger shot of whiskey.”
Quinn and Larue sat in her living room and waited. When she rejoined them, she was shaking her head with disbelief. “Sad, sad, sad. Poor man. He may have had his vices, but then, he was a musician. And as sad as it is, it’s true sometimes that the more tormented the musician, the more powerful the song. Why anyone would hurt such a polite fellow, I don’t know. Now, that just sounded ridiculous, I know. But he was courteous and kind, with a friendly word for everyone. Kids threw a football into his car and dented it, and he just threw it back. I asked him if he didn’t want to call the police or file an insurance claim, and he shrugged and told me they were just having a good time. Said the dent gave his car character!”
“Did you see or hear anything at all unusual earlier?” Larue asked her.
“Son, I was sound asleep—without my hearing aid. If little green men had descended from Mars and blown up the Superdome, I wouldn’t have heard it,” she said.
“We believe he was killed around 5:00 a.m., Mrs. Ruby,” Quinn said. “I’m not surprised you were sleeping, and certainly not surprised you didn’t hear anything. Did you notice that you didn’t see him later in the day?”
“Good heavens, he works nights. I never saw the man until well past noon,” she said.
“What about anyone—his friends and acquaintances, not to mention strangers—you might have seen visiting him?” Quinn asked.
“Mr. Quinn, you may think I’m generalizing, even stereotyping, but musicians only come in strange,” Mrs. Ruby said. “And so do some ex-athletes.”
That drew a smirk from Larue as he looked at Quinn.
Quinn looked back at Mrs. Ruby. “You know me?”
“I followed your football career years ago, young man.” She wagged a finger at him. “And I witnessed your downfall, saw you join the dregs of humanity, and still, like most of this city, when you died on that operating table and came back to life, I said a hallelujah. Yes, I know you. And I know you were a cop and became a private eye, and that you’ve been working weird cases with this one here—” she paused and nodded toward Jake “—and old Angus Cafferty’s daughter. So let’s establish this right away. You work the strange—and musicians are strange.”
“Can you describe any of the friends hanging around in richer detail than just ‘strange’?” Quinn asked her, grinning.
“Sure. I’m eighty-eight. Not much else to do. Traveling too far around the city tires me out, so I sit on the porch a lot. Lord, I do love watching the life around me. And lots of people come and go. A tall, beautiful black man came a lot. When he’s here, the house is a’rocking. I mean, for real. The man is a drummer. Then there’s a woman—let’s see, early forties, pleasant, hardly strange at all, for a musician. Brown hair, brown eyes.” She leaned toward Quinn. “She’s got the hots for the tall black man. There’s a pudgy fellow, about five foot nine. You got pictures? You show ’em to me. You want to get a sketch artist out here? I can have a go. But I don’t think you’re going to find his killer among them. I got a glance at what they did to him—no friend of the man did anything like that.”
“The first you knew about this in any way was when Lacey Cavanaugh came to you?” Larue asked.
Mrs. Ruby winced. “That poor girl. When we looked in that window, we couldn’t see clear. But he wasn’t moving, and I knew...well, I wasn’t giving anybody a key until the cops came. I’d give a lot to help you more. Whoever did this came and went. Guess he was with Larry for a while,” she said quietly, her face grim.
“Mrs. Ruby, thank you for your help. If you think of anything else, anything at all, that could be helpful, you’ll call us?” Quinn asked. Both he and Larue handed her their cards.
She studied the business cards and then looked at the two men. “How long do you think he was in there?” she asked. “An hour? Two hours?”
“One,” Quinn said. Larue nodded his agreement.
“Still, six in the morning—someone should have seen the killer leave,” she said. “I do watch television, you know. I am aware of how things go down.”
“I’m sure you are,” Jake told her. “And we’re doing a canvass of the neighborhood. I have officers going door-to-door.”
“We watch television, too,” Quinn said gravely.
She gave him a swat on the knee. “Behave, young man. I’ll be here, ready to look at pictures, describe people, whatever you need,” she told them.
“Is there anywhere else you can go?” Larue asked her. “Crime scene techs will be coming and going, and there will be officers on hand for a while, but if you feel insecure...”
“I’m not insecure. At my age?” Mrs. Ruby demanded.
“Still, be careful when you open the door,” Jake warned her.
“Detective Larue,” she said. “I won’t be opening my door without seeing who is outside, I promise you. And if I do open the door, I’ll have my Glock in hand and a truckload of silver hollow-point bullets that will take care of any opponent, human or...otherwise. And don’t you worry. I have a permit for it, and I know how to use it.”
“Just don’t go shooting the postman,” Jake warned.
“Want to visit a shooting range with me?” she demanded sharply. “I won’t go shooting any uppity cops, either, I promise. Though it may be tempting.”
Laughing, Jake apologized as they rose.
They left the house and walked down to the street together, ready to head to the hospital in their separate cars.
“I think the old bird likes you best,” Larue told Quinn.
“You acted as if she were senile. Telling her not to shoot the mailman.”
“She’s eighty-eight!”
“And Bob Hope was still performing for our troops at that age,” Quinn reminded him.
Jake nodded thoughtfully. “It’s all good. I’m glad she likes you. You can talk to her once we figure out which of the city’s musicians she might have been talking about. But then, you were good with that charming old battle-ax from Hubert’s case, and that god-awful painting-society matron, Hattie Lamont,” Larue said.
“Not as good as Billie,” Quinn said, smiling.
“They’re seeing each other?”
“Oh, yes. They fight like a pair of alley cats sometimes, but they can’t stay away from one another,” Quinn said.
“And Danni?”
“Danni is great,” Quinn said softly. They’d agreed to take things slowly, which was almost a necessity, given that he was often asked to consult on cases outside Louisiana. But that was something else they shared. They both believed strongly that working to solve strange crimes was an integral part of who they were.
But he loved being back in town, loved being with her. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, five-nine, slim and agile, her every move graceful. Her eyes reminded him of the blue sky on a clear Scottish morning, and her hair was a rich deep auburn. She was deeply compassionate and possessed old Angus’s steely courage and determination—and she was just as stubborn as her father, too.
“She’s expecting you tonight,” he told Larue.
“Yeah, well, I was just coming over with the files on the first case—wanted to see what you thought or what you might know, since you sit in at the clubs sometimes. But then...then we found Lawrence Barrett.” He fell silent.
Quinn turned. The body of Lawrence Barrett was just being carried out.
Ron Hubert nodded to them. “I’ll get you a report as soon as possible,” he promised.
“Two in a week?” Quinn asked. “We’d better get over to the hospital and hope that Lacey Cavanaugh knows something we can use.”
* * *
“Arnie wasn’t messed up,” Tyler told Danni. “Not like that.”
The saxophone was in its case now, and leaning against the counter. She was glad that the shop was empty, because Tyler seemed too upset to care where they were or what was going on.
“Let’s say you’re right. That someone murdered Arnie. Can you think of any reason why?” she asked him.
“That’s the problem,” Tyler said. He leaned an elbow on the counter and looked reflectively into the distance as he spoke. “We’re talking about a good man here. A black man from a poor neighborhood who went to church every week, loved his family, never stole so much as a dime from anyone and did nothing but love his music. He did the right thing—he up and joined the military because he believed we had to support our way of life. When he came home on leave, he did nothing but hug people and play his music. He didn’t talk much about what he’d done, just said that war was ugly, there were good people who were the enemy and some jerks who were on the same side. He believed he made a difference—he got to see schools being built, and people from both sides coming together to dig wells and feed starving kids. And enemy or not, he said it was hard as hell to kill a man. He survived bombs and gunfire and...came home to this. And I knew his death wasn’t right. I knew it wasn’t right from the get-go. He was happy ever since he got home—he came home to his music! His family loved him. They’re good people. They never had much, but what they didn’t have in money, they made up in support. And he never did drugs, not before he went overseas or after he came home. There was no reason for him to walk offstage one night and decide to suddenly stick a needle in his arm. Why can’t anyone else see that?”
“They may question what happened, Tyler,” Danni said. “But we all see the obvious and find it easy to accept, too. You said he was found on the street, a needle in his arm?”
“Yes.”
“No one else around?”
He turned his gaze back to her. “Would you expect a murderer to hang around?”
“What I’m trying to figure out is how someone got him under control so they were able to stick the needle in his arm. There must have been an autopsy.”
“There was.”
“And there was nothing else in his system?”
“I don’t know. It’s not like I’m trained to read a death certificate. There were some chemical names in there I didn’t recognize, but even if they were tranquilizers or something, the cops probably just thought he took them himself. And yes, he’d been drinking.”
The little bell over the shop door rang. A couple of young tourists came in, and Danni excused herself, walking over to ask them if they needed any help. They were looking for a specific line of jewelry, and she carried it. She was glad it was in a display case to one side of the store, not under the counter where Tyler was standing as if unaware of her customers, though he managed a smile when they came over to pay.
But as soon as they were gone, he asked, “Well, what do you think?”
What did she think?
She didn’t know what to think. She remembered Arnie. Like Tyler, he’d been a couple of years ahead of her in high school, but he’d played beautifully even then, and she could remember watching him play in the school band. He’d been a big guy, a solid, muscular six-two, at least.
And he’d had training when he joined the military. He couldn’t have been an easy mark.
But she did find it strange that, if Tyler was right, he would begin with drugs by heading straight for a needle.
“I don’t know what to think,” she said.
* * *
Lacey Cavanaugh was out of surgery. In her horror and anguish, she’d pitched down the steep front steps and smashed a kneecap. The doctor warned Quinn and Larue that she was still under heavy sedation—probably a double-edged good thing. She would otherwise be in tremendous pain over both the loss of her boyfriend and the wreck of her leg.
Quinn was standing closest to her head. She opened her eyes when he took her hand.
“Miss Cavanaugh,” Jake said, “we’re so sorry to bother you when I know you’re hurting in every possible way, but I’m afraid we need to talk to you. I’m Detective Larue, and this is my associate Michael Quinn. We have some questions we need to ask you, because as I’m sure you know, time is of the essence as we try to apprehend whoever’s guilty of your boyfriend’s...death. So if you could just think back, when was the last time you saw Mr. Barrett?”
Lacey stared at him from her haze, tears in her eyes. “Oh, God. Larry...”
Quinn squeezed her hand. “We’re so sorry,” he said softly. “We know you loved him, and that he was a good man.”
Larue stared at him; they didn’t really know that he’d been a good man.
But the words had the desired effect on Lacey. She looked at Quinn with such grief and gratitude in her eyes that he almost regretted being quite so gentle.
“He was the best,” she said softly.
“And we have to find out who killed him,” Quinn said. “You want him punished for what he did, don’t you?”
She nodded. “I last saw Larry...last night. I didn’t stay, because my little sister had a piano recital.”
“So last night at what time?” Quinn asked.
“Seven,” she said.
“And you didn’t go back to his house until this afternoon?” Larue asked.
She didn’t answer. She was staring at Quinn, still holding his hand as if it were a lifeline.
“Lacey, did you talk to him again after that?” Quinn asked.
She nodded.
“When was that?” Quinn asked.
“Last night—well, early this morning. Somewhere around three. He was playing last night at the Old Jackson Ale House. I called him at three because that’s about when he gets home.”
“And everything was fine?”
“Yes. We were both going to sleep. And I was supposed to go over to his house in the afternoon. Which I did. He didn’t answer the door. And then I looked in the window and I couldn’t really see...but it looked like...but I thought he’d be okay, you know?”
She began to sob softly.
She really had loved the man, Quinn thought.
“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “Lacey, can you think of anyone—from his past or maybe your own—who would have wanted to hurt him?”
Tears squeezed between her lashes. She shook her head.
“An ex-boyfriend?” Larue asked.
She opened her eyes and glared at him.
“Lacey,” Quinn said, “we have to ask.”
“No,” she said. “My ex married the girl he was cheating on me with—three years ago. We’re actually all on fairly friendly terms. And he’s in Detroit now, anyway, playing some backup gig there.”
“Thank you, Lacey. I hope you understand, we have to ask. What about the drugs?” Quinn said.
Once again tears streamed from her eyes, silent tears that just ran down her cheeks.
“We argued about the drugs,” she said softly. “I said the pot was fine, but the coke...we didn’t need the coke. He didn’t deal, if that’s what you’re getting at. He just shared with friends. He always shared everything with friends. He helped down-and-out musicians. You don’t understand, everyone liked him!”
“What about his ex-girlfriends? Any crazy ones?” Larue asked.
“Crazy ex-girlfriends?” Lacey repeated. “Pretty much all of them,” she said. “But mostly crazy in a good way. And none living in New Orleans. Suzanne Delmer is working on a cruise ship, and she’s crazy like a happy puppy. Before her it was Janis Bruge, and she’s out in LA now. This can’t have been anyone we know—it can’t have been. There’s just no reason.”
“Okay, so let me ask you something else. When you reached the house, did you see anyone around? Anyone at all?” Larue asked.
She shook her head, biting her lower lip. “There were some kids playing with a football in the street. A UPS truck down a block or so. It was just kind of a lazy afternoon. Typical,” she said.
More tears fell.
“Lacey, can you give us a list of people he’d played with recently and the places he’d been playing?” Quinn asked her.
“Of course,” she said. “You want his hangouts, too?”
“Yes, any place he might have come into contact with the person who hurt him,” Quinn said.
She frowned and gave him a hazy look. He realized she’d been doing pretty well for someone who had just undergone surgery and was on heavy-duty meds.
“You know what I think?” she asked.
“What?”
“I think there’s a crazy person in New Orleans.”
There were lots of crazy people in New Orleans, Quinn thought.
“No one who knew Larry could have done this,” she whispered. “There’s a madman out there, a vicious madman breaking into houses and torturing and killing people.”
“Lacey, the killer didn’t break in. Larry opened the door to him,” Larue told her.
She began to sob in earnest. “’Cause he was so nice! He would have opened the door to anyone who needed help. I don’t...I just don’t believe he knew his murderer. You have to catch him. He’s a madman, and he’ll kill more people if you don’t catch him right away!”
* * *
“Danni?”
Danni was definitely relieved to hear Quinn’s voice.
“In the shop!” she called.
“Whatever that is in the kitchen, it smells great. Can’t wait to eat.”
Quinn strode into the shop like a force of nature, though without any intent of seeming so. It was just that he was well over six feet, broad-shouldered and striking, and when he moved, Danni thought, smiling, he drew all eyes to him without even trying. Whenever she saw him—and that was often, since they basically lived together now—she felt a little flutter in her heart, especially if they’d been apart for more than a few hours. No matter how often they touched, he still electrified her. They slept together most nights, and when he was near her, he aroused her; no matter how often they made love, he still thrilled her.
Of course, she reminded herself, she was in love with him.
Even when she wanted to kill him.
He was bright, determined, compassionate and strong.
Also pigheaded and very annoying when she thought she was right and he disagreed. He’d worked with her father, something she hadn’t known until after Angus Cafferty’s death. That had been hard to take at first, but then, she’d never known that her father had been something of a secret sleuth, handling the same kinds of items she and Quinn handled now.
The Cheshire Cat had merely been the tip of the iceberg. Her father had dedicated his life to taking in or destroying items—old and new—with a reputation for being haunted, even evil.
“Oh, excuse me, sorry,” Quinn said when he noticed Tyler Anderson. He smiled slowly, and Danni realized that she was actually a little irked. Quinn’s memory was better than hers. He not only knew he had met Tyler before, he also remembered where and when.
Wolf naturally went trotting over to Quinn for a pat on the head. Quinn obliged absently, his attention on their visitor.
“Tyler Anderson. I know your music, man,” Quinn said, walking forward. He shook Tyler’s hand. “I watched you play years ago when you were at Paisley Park on Frenchman Street. I heard you were still playing around the city. I’ve been meaning to look you up. Great to see you.”
“Thanks,” Tyler said.
“So where are you playing? We’ll come see you,” Quinn said.
Tyler looked at Danni.
“Quinn, Tyler’s here to ask us for help,” she said.
Quinn looked at her, brows hiked high over his hazel eyes. “I...see,” he said slowly. “So, Tyler, you hungry? We’re having something wonderful. I have no idea what it is, but the whole place smells divine.”
“I’ll go see how Billie’s doing,” Danni said. “He should be done with dinner by now.”
The house that contained her shop was one of the oldest in the French Quarter, having survived two major fires that had ravaged New Orleans in the early years. The ground-floor entry led straight into the store, and a hallway led back to the kitchen, dining area and Danni’s studio/office. There were bedrooms upstairs, and a large apartment in the attic, where Billie and Bo Ray Tompkins, who also helped out in the shop, each had their rooms.
She would have called Bo Ray down to help, but he’d had his wisdom teeth extracted earlier that day. He was sleeping, and she didn’t intend to wake him up.
The basement held Angus’s old office, along with a number of items that never would be on sale.
“Tyler,” she said, “come on with me and I’ll introduce you to Billie. Quinn, can you watch the shop for me for a sec?”
He nodded, and she smiled her thanks.
“Billie?” she called, heading through the shop and back to the kitchen.
Wolf trotted after her.
“Just finishing up,” Billie said as they entered. “Hello,” he added, noticing Tyler’s presence. He stood, dusting his hands with his napkin and then offering one to Tyler. “Nice to meet you. I’m Billie. Billie MacDougall.”
Tyler introduced himself in turn.
“Well, then. Table is set, though you’ll need to grab another plate. The lasagna is wonderful. Italian food is delicious, though I assure you, you’ll find many an excellent restaurant in Scotland,” Billie said, looking at Danni.
She laughed and turned to Tyler. “I offended him somehow by liking Italian food,” she explained.
Billie sniffed. “I’ll be watching the shop,” he said, excusing himself. “Wolf, come along with me. There’ll be a treat for you when we close up, I promise, a few bits left over from a good Scottish leg o’ lamb,” he said, looking sternly at Danni before he left the kitchen.
A moment later Quinn walked in and looked at her curiously. “What’s up with Billie? He looked upset, like you offended him or something.”
“Didn’t mean to,” she said, reaching for another plate. “Tyler, please, have a seat.”
Quinn dug into the refrigerator. “Tyler, what will you have to drink?”
“Water would be fine.”
Quinn got another glass and poured them all ice water. Billie had already cut the lasagna into neat serving-size squares, which she dished out before sitting.
“So,” Quinn said, meeting Tyler’s eyes. “Tell us what’s up.” Then he took a bite and started chewing enthusiastically.
Danni lowered her head for a moment. Quinn had probably skipped lunch; he seemed to be starving. Tyler hadn’t even glanced at his plate, and she wasn’t sure whether to be worried about him and his fears or not.
Tyler pushed the food around on his plate. “I think my friend was murdered.”
“Ah,” Quinn said, without seeming surprised. “And your friend’s name was...?”
“Arnie—Arnold Watson,” Danni put in.
Quinn sat back and took a drink of water. Danni saw his brow furrow as he considered her words.
“I read the obituary,” he said quietly. “I thought it was a damned shame. He sounded like a wonderful person. A soldier who gave what he could to his country. It’s hard, though, coming back, sometimes. I’ve known guys who believed they were fine then woke up in the middle of the night shaking and screaming, sweat pouring off them. Even with everything we know about post-traumatic disorders, sometimes...the depth of a guy’s depression is invisible because he thinks he’s all right.”
Tyler Anderson put down his fork. “He didn’t kill himself. And he wasn’t an addict.”
“Of course he wasn’t,” Danni said gently, resting a hand on Tyler’s where it lay on the table.
“No, you don’t understand. I’m an addict—in recovery, but an addict all my life. I would have known if Arnie was into drugs, too, and he wasn’t, not in any way.”
Danni nodded. “But...I’ve seen things happen to men who come home from war. And maybe that was the problem. He wasn’t an addict, but maybe he was in pain. His death was accidental because he only tried it once or twice, and—”
“He tried it once,” Tyler said. “Only once. If you don’t believe me, ask the police. There were no other track marks on him, just the needle mark from the one injection. But it sure in hell wasn’t something he did, and it wasn’t an accidental overdose. Someone did it to him. Someone killed him!”
“I don’t disbelieve you,” Quinn said. “But...how do you know? How can you be so sure? Things can happen overnight, things we don’t expect. I’ve seen cops who can’t take a case for whatever reason, and suddenly, they’re ingesting every substance out there.”
He’d asked the questions, Danni thought, but he already believed Tyler.
“The sax told me,” Tyler said.
For a moment, just for a moment, Danni thought she had misheard him. That he had said, “The sex told me,” as if he had been referring to a girl he’d slept with or who had slept with Arnie.
But then she remembered what he’d said when he came into the shop and realized he was talking about the saxophone.
The musical instrument that now lay in its case by his side on the floor.
“The sax told you?” Quinn repeated.
Tyler nodded gravely. “I was playing...just the other night. It was his sax, you see. It’s really old, some kind of an antique his grandmother bought for him. A silver-plated Pennsylvania Special. I don’t know what it’s worth or the rest of its history. I just know it’s a damned good instrument and Arnie loved it. Said it was special. But the point is, I was playing his sax. And suddenly I was playing his song, and I could see his life—his life before he came home. I saw the war. I could feel the damned sand, it was so real. And then I heard his killer.”
“His dealer?” Quinn asked.
He was really pushing Tyler, Danni thought. Testing him.
Tyler thumped a hand on the table. “His killer,” he repeated. “I heard him talking to Arnie just before he shot him up so full of poison that he died within minutes. I heard him, I’m telling you. I heard him say, ‘You’re dead, buddy. You’re dead.’”
Danni and Quinn turned to look at each other, silent for a moment.
“Are you saying the sax...talked?” Quinn asked.
Tyler closed his eyes, looking as if he was in pain. “No. I was playing the sax,” he said quietly. “But while I was playing I saw what Arnie saw, felt what he felt, heard what he heard.”
“You didn’t happen to see the killer, did you?” Danni asked.
He stared at her. “Are you mocking me?”
“I swear, I’m not,” she said softly. “But if you really believe that he was murdered, why didn’t you go to the police?”
“The police?” Tyler asked drily. “Yeah, right. I wish you could see the way you’re looking at me, and you’re open-minded enough to believe me. The police... I can just imagine the snickers. I’m not sure they’d even try to keep straight faces. You both said you read the newspaper articles about his death, so you know what they’re saying. The same crap you hear everywhere. ‘He just hadn’t adjusted. He was like so many soldiers. Strong, stoic, not about to admit to having nightmares he couldn’t handle, nightmares so bad that he’d turn to drugs to wipe them out.’ Especially not a marine like Arnie. Admit it. That’s all stuff you believed about Arnie when you read he was dead. And like everyone else, I bet you thought, ‘What a waste, what a tragedy. A man comes back from the war and takes his own life. Makes you stop and think.’ But no one stops to think, ‘Hey, whoa, maybe he didn’t kill himself.’”
Tyler was certainly passionate in defense of his position, Danni thought. Of course, he’d been Arnie’s friend. His best friend, she imagined.
“Tyler, how long have you had the sax?” Quinn asked him. “You said it’s special, but would anyone else know that?”
“Probably,” Tyler said and then shrugged. “I don’t know. He told everyone in the band back in high school it was special, that his grandma told him so. I’ve had it since about a week after he died. His mom said she had to give it to someone who would love it the way Arnie had loved it, would take care of it the way he did. She used to love to listen to him, and then she’d laugh. She told us both that Arnie got to be as good as he was because of the sax. His grandmother told him it was special, kind of...magical. But according to his mom, the magic was because he believed it. Plus he loved playing, and he practiced all the damned time. And practicing made him the musician that he was.”
Quinn nodded. “I read in the paper that the family intended to sell his sax, along with his other instruments, and donate the money to a foundation helping veterans.”
“Arnie had a bunch of saxes. They planned to sell some of them, but not this one.”
“What do Arnie’s parents think? Would they tell you if they suspected he’d made any enemies?” Quinn asked.
“Arnie’s parents think he was murdered, too. But there’s nowhere they can go with that any more than I can. They know the police would think they were crazy, too, if they tried to convince them some random killer had hunted Arnie down and killed him with an overdose of heroin.”
Quinn pushed his plate aside and leaned on the table, his attention focused entirely on Tyler.
“Were you with him the night he died? Do you know who he was hanging around with, what might have been going on in his life?” he asked.
Tyler shook his head. “I wasn’t with him the night he died. Wish I had been!” he said fervently. “I was working in the Quarter that night, too. Arnie had been sitting in with my band, getting back into the swing of playing. I was filling in with another group. A friend of mine was sick and needed someone to cover for him, and I figured Arnie was just getting used to my band, so I’d head over to work with the other group. My band didn’t mind. They all knew Arnie was way better than me,” he added without rancor. “Usually when we end a shift we’re all hungry, so we go out for pizza or something. But that night Arnie told them he had something to do, so he’d see them the next night. And that was it. Sometime after he left the band, someone killed him.
“They were playing at the same place where you saw me today, Danni, La Porte Rouge. What the police didn’t investigate, I did. Who was he hanging around with? Me. Other musicians. His family. What was going on in his life? Nothing. So yeah, I promise you, the cops would laugh at me if I tried to tell them some random murderer who didn’t steal a thing from him just decided to off him by pumping him full of heroin. Believe me, I know what I sound like. Like I’m on crack myself. But I know what I saw and what I heard when I played that sax, and...”
“And?” Danni asked.
He looked at her with eyes as gold as his skin and said, “I knew Arnie. And like most of us who grew up around here, he was exposed to his share of drugs and alcohol. He saw what it did to people—including me. Arnie wouldn’t have touched the stuff. Hell, he’d have swallowed his gun before he stuck a needle in his arm. I know it.”
He stopped talking and looked at the two of them questioningly.
Danni turned to Quinn. He nodded slowly.
“We’ll look into it,” he promised.
Danni almost fell off her chair.
How? she wanted to scream at Quinn. How the hell were they going to look into it? No witnesses, the body already interred, and they weren’t likely to get any help from the ME or the cops.
Obviously, Tyler Anderson didn’t want to accept the fact his friend had committed suicide, and maybe that was all this was: a man desperate to think the best of his friend. But then there was the vision he’d claimed to have had while playing the dead man’s sax...
It was all just too damned tragic.
She winced, lowering her head.
And yet, was it any less a tragedy if he’d been murdered?
It was almost as if Tyler read her thoughts. When she looked up, he was staring at her.
He shook his head. “The truth. The truth is what we all need. And if...if I’m right, it’s not vengeance I’m after. It’s justice. Justice for Arnie.”
Looking back at him, she understood. She didn’t know why, but she understood. Wondering, not knowing, those were the emotional upheavals that tore people to pieces.
“We’ll need a lot from you,” Quinn told him. “I need names—all the musicians he might have played with and anyone he might have been seeing. A one-night stand, a long-lost love—anyone. And,” he said, “I’ll have to talk to his family.”
Tyler winced at that. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
“And,” Danni added, “if the sax...says anything else to you, we have to know.”
Tyler stiffened and stared at her. “The sax doesn’t talk,” he told her, irritated.
She smiled. “I didn’t say it talked. But if it gives you anything else, another vision, anything else at all, we need to know right away.”
He nodded and said, “Thank you.”
“Of course,” she said softly.
He rose, picking up the sax case.
“Oh, and...” He paused, looking at his plate as if surprised. Somewhere along the way he’d actually finished his food. “Thanks for the lasagna.”
“My pleasure. I just hope we can help you,” she said.
“One more thing,” Quinn said.
“What’s that?” Tyler asked.
“The sax,” Quinn said.
“The sax?” Tyler repeated, puzzled.
“That’s the sax that Arnie’s mom gave you, right?” Quinn asked.
“That’s it.”
“Leave it here,” Quinn said.
“But...I’m a saxophonist. I make a living playing music.”
“You have others, right?”
“None that I play like this,” Tyler said.
“You’ll play it again,” Quinn promised. “For now, please, let us keep it. Let us try to figure out if there really is something about this sax that’s special. But if anyone comes up to you threatening you for a sax, hand it right over. Any sax you happen to have on you.”
Tyler looked puzzled. “You’re talking about that holdup down near Frenchman Street, right?” he asked, then something dawned in his eyes.
“More than that, Tyler. Two musicians have been killed in their homes.”
“Two?” Tyler looked shocked. “I saw something on the news a few days ago about a guy, but—”
“Another man was killed today. It will be on the eleven o’clock news, if you don’t believe me. I think someone wants the sax you have right there. They just don’t know where it is,” Quinn said. He frowned, puzzled. “Didn’t Arnie have his sax the night he was killed?”
“He must have, but I don’t know if it was found with him or not, and I don’t know what sax he had,” Tyler said.
Danni looked at Quinn. He’d caught her by surprise with his mention of a musician’s murder earlier that day. Clearly he knew much more, saw more connections, than she did.
Tyler looked as if he were loath to part with the instrument.
“It could mean your life,” Quinn said quietly. “And while you’re at it, when you’re talking to people, make a point of saying you wish you had Arnie’s old sax. Don’t tell anyone who doesn’t already know that you had it or where it might be. As far as you know, it went up for auction.”
Tyler still looked doubtful.
“When you got here you told me you knew what Quinn and I did,” Danni said quietly. “So let us do our job, all right?”
Tyler nodded and slowly handed over the sax. “Thank you.” He reached into his pocket and produced his card. “This is me. If you need me at any time for anything, just call. Obviously, when I’m playing, I don’t hear my phone. But I’ll check it every break in case...in case I can help.”
“Here are our numbers,” Quinn said, and produced a card, as well. It had his cell, Danni’s cell and the shop number.
Tyler took the card as if it were a lifeline. “Thanks,” he said.
“Be careful, okay?” Quinn said. “I expect the police will be putting out a parish-wide warning for musicians, but it doesn’t hurt to be reminded. Don’t open the door when you’re alone, even to people you think are your friends. And make sure you warn your band and anyone else you play with that someone has it in for musicians.”
Tyler nodded gravely. “I’ll do that,” he promised.
“I’ll walk you out through the front,” Quinn told him.
Danni picked up in the kitchen while Quinn led Tyler back through the shop. When he came back he slipped his arms around her where she stood at the sink.
She spun in his embrace, staring at him, a sudsy plate in her hands.
“Hey! What the heck is going on? You know way more than I do. Do you really think this has something to do with the incidents with those other musicians? And what about this second murder? Are you sure it makes sense for us to investigate this? Arnie’s death must have been investigated, even if they just wanted to know where he got the heroin. He was a hero and a popular local figure, found dead on Rampart Street. They could be right, you know, and it really was an accidental OD.”
He took the plate from her. Suds were flying, because she was waving it around as she talked, she realized.
“I’m sorry. I thought we’d think alike on this,” he said.
“I’m not saying I disagree.”
“What, then?” He moved away from her, and she was almost sorry she had spoken.
There was a sudden distant look in his eyes, as if he was remembering something she hadn’t been a part of. She loved him so much, but she knew he’d had a life before he’d met her, a very different life. He’d once been a shining star, and then he’d crashed and burned, finally becoming the man he was today.
“You know,” he said quietly. “I was messed up. So messed up that I almost died. I did die, actually. They brought me back.”
“I know that,” she said softly. “I thank God constantly that you came through. And you’re right. I believe Tyler. And I don’t believe Arnie Watson just left work one night and decided to stick a needle in his arm.”
“All these incidents are related—they have to be,” Quinn said. “Larue was mistaken earlier when he told me about Holton Morelli, the musician who was killed in his home last week. He wasn’t the first to die. Arnie Watson was.”
