Читать книгу The Dead Play On - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 9
ОглавлениеQUINN HEARD A knock at the side door, off the courtyard entrance, to the house on Royal Street just as he was returning to the kitchen.
He knew it was Larue or another friend. Only those in their close circle ever used the courtyard entrance.
He looked at Danni and saw the resolve reflected in her eyes. He lowered his head, not wanting her to see the bittersweet smile on his lips. He couldn’t help but remember when he’d first gotten to know her. He’d worked with her late father many times. And when he’d been thrown into an “assignment” with her the first time—seeking a mysterious Italian bust—he’d believed he’d been stuck seeking help from a spoiled debutante.
Danni was beautiful, filled with grace and charm and a smile that could melt a man’s heart—or ignite his libido. And Angus had never said a word to her about his special “collection.” She’d been pitched almost blindly into a world where people killed over possessions that were more than they seemed, and where the sins of the past could thunder down upon the present.
And now, when he looked at her, he saw the resolve in her eyes, an implicit promise to find justice for Tyler’s dead friend.
“I’ll get it,” he said. “It’s probably Jake.”
“You have a very odd smile on your face, considering the circumstances,” she told him.
“I was thinking that I’m a lucky man,” he said softly.
“Quinn, this is bad, isn’t it? Very bad.”
“Yes, but I have a luscious—and brilliant—partner,” he told her. “One who comes with...benefits.”
“Hmm. I confess I appreciate my coworker—and eye candy—too,” she said.
She was worried, though; he could tell. Her eyes had already fallen to the sax he’d been so determined they should keep.
There was another knock, and Quinn went to let Larue in.
He greeted Danni warmly. Over the past few years they’d gotten to know one another well. Although Larue preferred to believe in what his five senses told him, Quinn knew he respected the connection he and Danni felt to something...more. And all of them believed deeply in right over wrong, which meant together they were a crime-solving force that worked.
“Want some coffee?” she asked Larue warmly.
“I’ll have something a lot stronger—if that won’t bother you?” he asked, looking at Quinn.
“Not at all. One man’s demon can be another man’s friend,” he said. He looked over at Danni with a questioning glance.
“I’ll stick to coffee,” she said.
Billie came into the kitchen from the shop just then. “Detective Larue, good to see you,” he said then caught the serious vibe in the room and quickly added, “Or not.”
“Billie, good to see you,” Larue replied.
“Shop is locked up,” he said. “I’m going to go catch up on some television, I guess.”
“Stay, Billie,” Quinn said.
“Yes, stay,” Larue echoed.
Billie nodded. He had started working with Angus in Scotland, and after Angus’s death he had cast himself in the role of Danni’s guardian. They were lucky, Quinn knew, to have him in their fold.
Quinn poured Larue a good stiff scotch and set it in front of him. Larue told Danni that he would take a coffee “chaser,” too, and soon the four of them were seated around the table.
Larue spoke first, telling them about the holdup in the street and progressing to the two murders. Quinn, in turn, explained everything that had happened with Arnie Watson and how Tyler Anderson was convinced that Arnie had been murdered.
Larue frowned and said, “The ME reported Arnie’s death as an accidental overdose. Based on the circumstances, we accepted that finding. And I’m still not a hundred percent convinced his death is connected. These other murders... They were about as brutal and sadistic as you can get.”
“The connection makes sense,” Quinn argued. “They were all musicians. The holdup? Only their instruments were stolen. After that, things escalated. First you had Arnie’s death. Maybe it was a gentler murder because the killer and Arnie were actually friends. But Arnie didn’t have the sax on him. Not the right sax, anyway.”
“I wonder why that was,” Danni put in.
“What?” Quinn asked her.
“Arnie had been playing with Tyler’s group that night. But he wasn’t found with his sax, and his family had the...special sax after he died, when his mother gave it to Tyler, who left it here with us. So what happened to his sax that night?” Danni asked.
“Maybe he had a different sax and his killer did take it,” Larue suggested.
“That seems like the most logical explanation,” Quinn said. “The killer lured him to Rampart, where he killed him when no one else was around. He stole the sax from him. But then he discovered it was the wrong one and figured maybe Arnie needed money and had sold it.”
“Could be,” Larue said.
“But he stole all the instruments when he robbed that group of musicians, right?” Danni asked.
“He did,” Larue answered.
“If he was looking for a saxophone, why take other instruments?” she asked.
“So that no one would know he was looking for a sax?” Quinn suggested. “Anyway, somehow the killer got Arnie to go with him. Maybe he was a friend, or maybe he preyed on Arnie’s generosity, which seems pretty well-known, and pretended to need help with something. Maybe he even told him another vet needed help. When Arnie was dead, he took the sax then discovered later it was just a regular sax, not worth what a Penn Special is. Or maybe it wasn’t the monetary value. Maybe he knew it supposedly had special powers and what he wanted was to play as well as Arnie played. And then he started trying to figure out where the sax had ended up, first hiding his goal by stealing a bunch of different instruments. Then he started targeting people he thought were likely to have ended up with it, and when Morelli and Barrett couldn’t or wouldn’t tell him, he got pissed off and killed them.”
“Sounds like a good working theory,” she said.
“Where is this sax you got from Tyler?” Billie asked.
Quinn pointed out the case where it was sitting under the table.
Billie picked it up and opened it carefully then took out the instrument.
“You play?” Danni asked him with surprise.
“If you can play a bagpipe, the sax is a piece of cake.” He coaxed a few off-key notes from the sax. “I didna say I could play well,” he said. “Give me a minute.”
He began to play again. The sounds were suddenly clear and good.
“Nice,” Danni said.
“Is it the sax itself? Is there something special about it?” Quinn asked.
“It’s a good instrument,” Billie said. “But...”
They all sat in silence for a long moment, staring at Billie and the sax.
“It’s a sax,” Billie said at last.
Quinn laughed suddenly. “Okay, so, apparently, the ‘magic’ doesn’t come out for us.”
“All right, no offense, guys, but I’m feeling like a fool—sitting here and waiting for a sax to do something,” Larue said.
“We’re not offended,” Danni said and looked at Quinn. “We need to call Tyler and get him to take us out to meet Arnie’s family. We have to know more about that sax.”
“I’ve got to go home and study some files,” Larue said. “I didn’t handle Arnie’s death, and obviously not the attack on the musicians, but now...with what you’re telling me, maybe everything does all connect. At any rate, I’ll call the night shift and have them set up interviews with those musicians starting first thing in the morning. Quinn, I’ll give you a heads-up as soon as I have a schedule—figure you’ll want to talk to them, too.” He rose.
Quinn knew that Larue had knocked back the scotch in a single swallow and then nursed his coffee the rest of the time they’d been speaking. The man did look tired as hell, but then, he knew that Larue didn’t believe in set hours, and that his life was pretty much his work. He loved New Orleans and considered himself a warrior in the city’s defense.
Quinn followed him to the courtyard door and locked it thoughtfully after him. It was nearly ten. They should all get some sleep and start in the morning, he thought.
But when he returned to the kitchen he found Danni gathering up her shoulder bag, her keys in her hand.
“I called Tyler. The band’s giving him the night off. I’m going to drive by and pick him up, and then he’ll take us to meet Arnie’s family. He says they’re always up late anyway, and I figured we might as well make a start on things.”
He smiled. Danni was her father’s daughter. She wouldn’t stop now.
After all, stopping could mean another life lost.
“Let’s do it,” he said.
“I’ll be holding down the old fort,” Billie said drily. “If Bo Ray comes to after all that pain medication, I’ll bring him up to speed. And if he doesn’t, I just might practice on that sax.”
* * *
Bourbon Street was heading into full swing when Danni drove toward it along St. Ann’s to pick up Tyler Anderson. He was without an instrument and told them that, without him there, the band was only going to play songs that didn’t require a sax.
The Watson family lived in the Treme area, just the other side of Rampart at the edge of the French Quarter. She was easily able to find street parking.
The house was in a line of dwellings that had mostly been built between the 1920s and 1970s. While the Treme area had faced some tough times with gangs and drugs since the summer of storms—Katrina, Rita and Wilma—Danni had a number of friends who lived in the area. True, some had left after the storms, never to return. But many had dug in, driven by a love for New Orleans so deep inside them that it would never die. There was crime here, as there was everywhere. But there were honest citizens here, too, just trying to get through life with work, family and friends.
The Watson house appeared to have been built in the early twenties, with porch and window arches reminiscent of the Deco Age. The yard was neatly mowed, and there were flower beds with lovely blooms lining the concrete path to the house.
“They’re good people,” Tyler said. “They didn’t deserve this.”
“No one deserves this kind of thing, Tyler,” Quinn said.
“No, but them more than most.”
He’d let the Watson family know that they were coming. Before they reached the front door, it was opened by a tall, straight-backed elderly man with light mahogany skin. He smiled as they came up the path. “Welcome, and thank you, folks,” he said. He had his hand out, ready to greet them. “I’m Woodrow Watson. Pleased to have you. Danni Cafferty, I knew your father. Fine man. Can’t say as you’d know me. I was just in your shop a few times. Now, Michael Quinn, I have met you, sir, but I’ll bet you don’t remember me.”
Quinn smiled. “You’re wrong. Now that we’re face-to-face, I do remember you. Your whole family showed up at football games. Arnie was a year or two younger than me, but he was in the band, and you all came out to see him every game.”
“That’s right, son, that’s right. You sure could throw a football,” Woodrow said.
“Well, that was then,” Quinn said.
“Come in, come in,” their host encouraged. He looked at Tyler. “Thank you for bringing us all together.”
“Yes, sir,” Tyler said.
They entered directly into a parlor with a comfortable sofa covered in a beautiful knitted throw and a number of armchairs set with covers to match the throw. As they came in, a woman, wiping her hands on a dish towel, came out to greet them, as well.
“I’m Amy Watson, and thank you all for what you’re doing. Tyler says we’re going to have some help with things at last.”
“We’re going to do our best, Mrs. Watson,” Danni promised her.
“Please. I’m just Amy, and my husband is Woodrow. Sit, sit,” Amy said. “It’s a little small and tight in here, but please, make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you anything? We don’t keep any spirits in the house here—figure you can find enough just about anywhere else in the Big Easy. But I have coffee, tea, juice...”
“We’re just fine, Mrs. Watson, thank you,” Danni assured her.
“We just finished dinner and already had some coffee,” Quinn added. “Too much, you know, and we’ll never sleep.”
“Well, then, if you decide you’d like something, you just holler,” Amy said.
“I promise, we will,” Danni said.
“Let’s sit, shall we?” Woodrow asked.
Danni, Quinn and Tyler took the sofa; the Watsons chose the chairs facing them over the carved wooden coffee table.
“I know this is a difficult time for the two of you,” Quinn told the Watsons, “so I apologize in advance for any pain my questions may cause, but the more information I have, the better I can do my job. So...where was Arnie’s special sax—the one you gave Tyler—on the night he was killed?”
The Watsons looked at one another without speaking. Amy had a look of gratitude in her eyes, and it mirrored her husband’s. Woodrow was the one to speak. He looked at Quinn and Danni and said incredulously, “You said killed. You used that word. Killed. So that means you believe us—you believe our son didn’t just suddenly stick a needle in his arm. Right?”
“We do believe you, Mr. and—I’m sorry, Woodrow and Amy,” Danni said. “We do believe you. Some musicians were held up at gunpoint leaving work not long ago. And more recently two musicians have been killed in their homes. We believe that someone is out there looking for something, and it might be Arnie’s sax.”
Woodrow stood up and walked to the fireplace. He leaned an arm on the mantel and looked at his wife then back at Danni. “You think someone is looking for Arnie’s sax? And that they’re killing over it?”
“The sax you gave me,” Tyler said. “And don’t worry—it’s safe. Danni has it at her shop, over on Royal Street.”
Amy and Woodrow looked at each other again.
Finally Amy sighed. “We don’t have his special sax—the one my mother gave him. We assumed he had it with him the night he was killed. We figured it was stolen.”
“Then what did you give me?” Tyler asked her. “You made me feel...”
“That sax is just a replica. We wanted you to feel you had something special of Arnie’s,” Woodrow said. “And you always said he was so good and you were second-rate. We figured if you thought that was Arnie’s ‘special’ sax, you’d feel like you could play just as well as he did. And I’ll bet you have. Playing is believing. Living the music, son, you know that. So we gave you one of his other saxes, the one that looked like the special one his grandmother gave him.”
Tyler looked as if he’d been hit in the head with a two-by-four. “But you don’t understand. It has to be that sax. I could see what Arnie saw. I could feel him when I played it.”
“Magic in the mind, son, magic in the mind,” Amy said. “And it was the best gift we figured we could give you, though there’s no gift out there that says a big enough thank-you to a real friend. And, Tyler, you were his friend. I think you believed in him so much in your mind that you saw his death so you could go out and fight for him.”
“I believed it,” Tyler said. “I believed that sax was magic, that I could play because of that magic—that I could almost talk to Arnie again,” he finished softly.
“That’s magic, son. Love and belief,” Amy said. She looked back at Danni and Quinn. “I don’t rightly know what else could have happened to Arnie’s special sax besides whoever killed him taking it. Arnie was found with nothing except the clothes he was wearing. And,” she added, her lips tight, “that needle in his arm. They even told me they couldn’t find another single track line on him, but I think they wind up with a dead black boy on Rampart Street, and they just don’t want to think anything else.”
“I can assure you, Amy, the detective who’s now on the case—Detective Larue—doesn’t see the world that way at all. We’ll find the truth,” Quinn promised her.
“You know, I heard something about those musicians being held up,” Amy said. “But they were only knocked around and hurt. They weren’t killed.”
“Two people have been killed now, and as I said, right in their own homes. So don’t answer the door to anyone—even old friends of Arnie’s. The killer might come around here if he doesn’t have the sax and I’m right that that’s what he’s looking for,” Quinn said.
“We’re not alone here,” Woodrow said. “We got good friends. We got family around the area. Hey, we got Tyler.”
“Always like a second son,” Amy said fondly.
“Amen,” Woodrow agreed.
“You may be in danger, though,” Danni told them.
“Got a shotgun in the back. I always did protect my home,” Woodrow said.
“Don’t you worry none about us,” Amy said. “Even I know how to use that gun. You just go out there and find out who murdered our boy.”
“We plan to do just that, Amy,” Danni told her, reaching out to touch the woman’s shoulder reassuringly. “I’m not sure how we’ll go about it, but I promise you, we’ll do everything it takes.”
“As will Detective Larue. He’s a good guy,” Quinn said.
“You know the man well?” Woodrow asked.
“I worked with him for years,” Quinn said. “Since...”
“No worries, son,” Woodrow said. “We know about your troubles. You been clean all this time now?”
“Yes, sir,” Quinn said.
“You got an angel with you, boy,” Amy said. “Don’t you forget that.”
Danni watched Quinn. New Orleans was a good-sized city, but that didn’t mean that old-time citizens forgot anything. She knew Quinn’s dark past, and she wasn’t surprised the Watsons did, too. Both his downfall and his resurrection had been covered in the local media.
“I never forget, Amy, trust me,” Quinn told her.
“Bless you, boy,” Woodrow said.
“Thank you,” Quinn said. “And you can’t come up with any explanation of what might have happened to that sax?”
“None. None at all,” Woodrow said. “We reckoned the killer took it that night, like Amy said.”
They were back to square one, Danni thought. But if neither Tyler nor the Watsons had Arnie’s special sax and they were right and the killer was still searching for it, just where the hell was it?
“You at a dead end already?” Woodrow asked. He was clearly trying to sound matter-of-fact, but there was a hopelessness in his voice that squeezed at Danni’s heart.
“No, sir,” Quinn said. “We’re just at the beginning.”
“Thank you,” Woodrow said. “Thank you for what you’re trying to do. But thank you most of all for believing in my son.”
Quinn gave a reluctant grin. “Thank Tyler for that, Woodrow. He made us see the light, so to speak. Not that it was all that difficult—your son was a true hero. But because these days we recognize what soldiers go through, it was easy for people to think maybe he just couldn’t shake the pain of the past. The killer was clever, I’ll give him that. Thing is, by being his champion, Tyler gave us what we needed to get started. No one can promise they’ll solve every crime, but we will promise you this—we won’t stop.”
“Good enough for me. Tyler, you know how we feel about you. And Michael, Danni, you call on us or ask us anything you need or want, any time, day or night,” Woodrow said. “You got our number? Or numbers? Arnie made us buy cell phones. Said he had to get us into the twentieth century, even if he couldn’t quite drag us into the twenty-first.”
“We’ll put them in our phones right now,” Danni said.
They took a minute to exchange numbers. Amy still had trouble saving a number to her own phone once someone had called her, but in the end they prevailed.
Once that was accomplished, Quinn told them, “We could use a list of the people he was hanging with the most since he came home.”
“Us, of course. And the rest of the family. Tyler there. The bands he played with,” Woodrow said. “I can tell you some of the names.”
“I know most of them,” Tyler said. “Like I told you, he was sitting in with my group, the B-Street Bombers, the night he died.”
“At La Porte Rouge?” Danni asked.
“Yes,” Tyler said.
As they spoke, Amy was scribbling on a pad she took from the phone stand by the door. Now she handed the sheet to Danni. “Those are the people he talked about most—the boys in Tyler’s band, a couple of others. I’ll keep thinking and make a list of anyone else,” she promised.
Tyler glanced over at the sheet. “Yep, that’s them. Gus Epstein, lead guitar. Shamus Ahearn, drums and sometimes bass. Blake Templeton, keyboard and sometimes rhythm guitar. We have a steady gig at La Porte Rouge. The bartender runs the place, and he likes us. A couple of guys pinch-hit sometimes, like Arnie was pitch-hitting for me that night. The bartender, Eric—Eric Lyons—sits in sometimes. And one of the waitresses—Jessica Tate—sings with us when we can get her to come up and it isn’t too busy. We work a heavy schedule, but we love what we do, and in this city you can be replaced pretty much at the drop of a dime, so we’re glad for the gig.”
“Want to go barhopping?” Quinn asked Danni. “Or, should I say, want to hop into one bar?”
“Seems like a good idea,” Danni said.
They rose, but Amy stopped them as they turned toward the door. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything first? We’ve got some leftover shrimp and grits, and that’s a dish that gets better warmed up. Or a cola or something?”
“No, no, honestly, sounds wonderful, but we just ate,” Danni assured her.
“Well, then, you just wait a minute. No one leaves my house without a little bit of hospitality,” Amy said.
She disappeared into the kitchen for a brief moment and came back with a small white cardboard box.
“For when you’re hungry or need a little treat,” she told Danni.
Danni thanked her and they left, promising to keep in touch.
She drove back to Royal Street, and as they went, Tyler talked to them about his bandmates.
“Shamus, the lucky bastard, is right out of County Cork. I always thought that was cool, but he thinks growing up here would have been the coolest thing in the world. Goes to show you—the grass always does look greener. Gus was born in Miami Beach but his mom was from Kenner, Louisiana, so he’s been coming up to New Orleans since he was a kid. Blake is from Lafayette, about two and a half hours from here. I met Gus at an open session one night, and the two of us met Shamus at—go figure—Pat O’Brien’s. I knew Blake from a school competition years ago, and I’d heard he was moving here, so I gave him a call. That was years ago now. We’ve had the steady gig at La Porte Rouge for about two years.” He was quiet for a minute. “You know, if one of these guys was a crazed murderer, shouldn’t I have seen the signs somewhere along the line?”
“Maybe not,” Quinn said. “Lots of killers come off like the nicest guys in the world. Anyway, we’ll meet the band. They can tell us about Arnie’s last night with them. You never know, maybe one of them will say something that will trigger someone else’s memory or give us something to go on.”
When they parked near the house and got out, they could hear the mournful sound of a sax coming through an open window.
“That’s Billie,” Danni told Tyler. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Fine with me. It’s not even a special sax,” he said. “I could have sworn... I mean, I played better with that thing than I ever played in my life.”
“Like Amy said, maybe because you believed you could play better,” Quinn suggested.
“But I saw scenes from Arnie’s life.”
“Things you knew because you were his best friend,” Danni said. “Things that fit with the way you think he died.”
Tyler offered them a dry half smile, tilting his head at an angle as if he could hear the music better that way. “He’s not half-bad,” he told them.
“He’s also a bagpipe player—or was,” Danni said.
“You’re sure it’s not the sax?” Tyler asked.
“Not according to the people who should know,” Quinn said. “Do you want me to go in and get it for you?”
“No,” Tyler said. “I have another—let him play. Go ahead and let him play.”
“Come on, then,” Quinn said. “Let’s head over to La Porte Rouge.”
They walked up the one block from Royal to Bourbon and turned to the left. Neon lights blazed from everywhere. Women in scanty outfits stood by doorways with placards that advertised dollar beers and cheap food. People with drinks in open containers—from those who were barely twenty-one, if that, to retirees—cruised along, checking out the various venues in search of one that drew their attention or just taking in the sights and sounds. Music flowed from every establishment. In the street, songs combined and created an intriguing disharmony. Strip joints vied for business alongside all-night pizza joints and white-tablecloth restaurants, souvenir shops, voodoo shops and, always, music clubs.
There really was, Danni thought, nothing quite like Bourbon Street—the good, the bad and even the ugly.
They reached La Porte Rouge and let Tyler lead the way in. The band was in the middle of a Journey number.
The bar was like many on the street. The building itself was about a hundred and fifty years old; the long hardwood bar was about fifty itself, she thought. The stage backed up to the front wall so that the music oozed out the windows and open doors to encourage those who walked by to step in.
Cleanliness was definitely not next to godliness, but the place wasn’t particularly dirty, either. So many people flowed in and out; so many drinks were spilled by the clumsy and the already wasted, that there was only so much the staff could do to keep up. But tonight, while there were twenty or so patrons scattered at the tables or standing in front of the band, it wasn’t particularly busy. It was a Thursday night, and there were no major conventions in town, plus it was still only about eleven or eleven thirty. Bourbon Street would pick up soon—the night was still young in New Orleans.
Tyler was immediately recognized by a pretty blonde woman in black leggings and a corset-style blouse that was white with red trim; Danni saw the same blouse on another woman and figured it had to be a waitress uniform. The blonde wore it well; she was pretty without looking as if she should have been working at one of the nearby strip clubs.
“Tyler!” she said, kissing his cheek and smiling at Danni and Quinn. “I thought you were taking the night off.”
“I was—I am,” he said. “I was just bringing some friends by.” He introduced them all to each other.
The young woman was Jessica Tate. She seemed glad to meet them—“any friend of Tyler’s...”—and especially enthusiastic when she discovered that Danni owned The Cheshire Cat. “I love that place. I haven’t seen you there, though. There’s a guy who looks like Billy Idol most of the time when I’m in—sweet accent on him, too,” she said, smiling.
“His name is Billie,” Danni told her.
“I’m talking away,” Jessica said, “and I’m supposed to be working. What can I get you?”
They ordered soda with lime and took seats at a table near the band.
“The band breaks for a few minutes every half hour,” Tyler said. “You can talk to them soon.”
“Terrific,” Quinn said. Danni watched him as he studied the group. Quinn loved music. She wondered if one day, far in the future, he would have a chance to go where he wanted, play when he wanted and revel in his guitar.
After a few minutes she turned her attention to the group. Shamus Ahearn definitely looked stereotypically Irish. His hair was strawberry-blond, his skin pale and his eyes were light. Gus Epstein had dark, curly, close-cropped hair and was thin and wiry. He seemed totally focused on his guitar as he played. Blake Templeton—dark-haired, dark-eyed—was on keyboards. He was doing the lead vocals, too, and had a strong, smooth voice with a tremendous range.
“Nice!” Quinn called to Tyler over the music.
Tyler grinned. “We’re even better with a sax. I thought Eric—the bartender—might sit in for a few, but I guess it’s just a little too busy.”
“It’s busier now than when we got here a few minutes ago,” Danni noted, looking around at the growing crowd.
“Yep,” Tyler said. “But tomorrow night at this time... Well, you two are from here. You know. Friday nights in the Quarter...”
They talked about the reemergence of the French Quarter since the storms. Jessica brought them their drinks, apologizing for having taken so long. Danni watched her as she headed back to the bar, stopping to take an order along the way. She saw the bartender come over to her and smile as he listened to her recite the drinks she needed. He seemed to enjoy his job; the sudden influx of customers didn’t get to him. There were eight seats at the bar, and every one of them was filled. He was friendly, calling out to the guy at the end that he needed just a minute as he filled Jessica’s order.
Danni turned back to watch the band. Shamus suddenly noticed Tyler in the audience and looked at him curiously then studied her and Quinn—and never missed a beat.
A few minutes later Blake announced that they were taking a five-minute break and turned on the music system so that Lana Del Rey spilled out over the speakers, and then the whole band headed to the table.
“What gives, Tyler?” Shamus asked, sliding into the chair next to Quinn. He quickly offered Quinn a handshake as he studied Danni. “Hi, Shamus Ahearn. Nice to meet you.”
They went around the table making introductions. Then Tyler addressed his bandmates. “They want to ask you guys about Arnie’s last night,” he said flatly.
“Oh,” Shamus said, studying Quinn again. He grinned. “I should have realized you were a cop,” he said.
“I’m not a cop,” Quinn said. “Private investigator.”
“Oh. Okay,” Shamus said.
The rest of the band looked at one another then all shrugged as one. Speaking for the group, Gus said sure, they would be happy to do what they could.
Jessica came by with a tray holding three glasses of water and set them down in front of the band.
“Thank you, love,” Shamus told her.
“Pleasure.”
“You going to sing with us tonight?” Blake asked her.
“Can’t. It suddenly got too busy,” she said. “You guys okay?” she asked Quinn and Danni.
“Just fine, thank you,” Danni assured her.
“What about me?” Tyler teased, raising his eyebrows in a mock leer.
“I know you’re fine—and if you weren’t, you’d lean over the bar and pour yourself a soda,” she said. “So don’t get fresh with me, Tyler Anderson.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Jessica moved on.
Gus Epstein was sitting next to Tyler. “I don’t know what we can say that would help. We finished up here about 3:00 a.m. on the night he died. And he was his usual self all night. Friendly, happy. He was just a great guy.”
“Amen to that,” Shamus said.
“Actually, we asked him to go for pizza with us,” Blake said. “We were all starving, so we were going right down the street. But he said he was tired.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Shamus agreed. “He said he wasn’t hungry, that he just wanted to go home and get some sleep. We all said good-night and went our separate ways. Oh, and if you’re asking these questions on behalf of some cop, you can check out my story. Marianna Thomas—a cranky old witch if there ever was one—was waiting tables that night, and she’ll vouch for us.”
“Arnie didn’t say he was going to meet anyone, did he?” Quinn asked.
“No. Like Blake and Shamus told you, he said he was going home to bed,” Gus said. “When we heard about him being...dead, we were all...”
“Fookin’ stunned!” Shamus said.
“And devastated. He was one of the good guys,” Gus added.
“But they said—” Blake began then broke off at a look from Tyler. “You know how they found him,” he said.
“So you’re a private eye,” Shamus said, looking at Quinn. “I guess you don’t think what they’re saying is right.”
“Nope, I don’t,” Quinn said. “Two other local musicians are also dead—Holton Morelli and Lawrence Barrett. Murdered. In their own homes.”
Danni watched the three musicians closely as the conversation continued.
“I heard about Morelli,” Gus said, his tone a dry thread. “But I didn’t think... Well, he was kind of heavy into drugs. Never played straight that I saw. I figured that...”
“Larry Barrett too?” Blake asked. “You sure? I haven’t heard anything about him.”
“I guess it hasn’t hit the news yet, but yes, I’m sure,” Quinn said.
“I knew Larry, too,” Shamus said. “I was jealous as hell of him—he did so much studio work he made a fortune. But he liked his coke, too, you know. Maybe...it’s got to be the drug scene. And we don’t do drugs.”
“Neither did Arnie,” Tyler said.
“Be careful,” Quinn warned them. “Be really careful. It’s looking like both men were killed by someone they thought was a friend. Someone they let in the front door.”
They stayed a few minutes longer, until the band’s break was over. The whole group seemed to be in shock that another musician was dead. They sounded just a little bit off when they returned to the stage.
They parted with Tyler at the club, too. He was going to stay and finish out the night with his band.
On the way back to Royal Street, they were quiet, walking hand in hand.
“What do we do now?” Danni asked.
He looked at her, a slow smile forming on his lips. “We go home, go to bed. Perhaps do something incredibly life affirming. Something distracting, so we can return to this dilemma with fresh minds and a new perspective.”
Danni laughed. “So you want to fool around, huh?”
“I believe it’s called ‘making love,’” he told her. He paused on the street, looking down into her eyes. His were hazel, ever-changing. She loved that there was something serious in them, something that spoke to her of sanity no matter what was going on around them. They’d learned that they had to give themselves over fully to a case in order to solve it, but they also had to hang on to their souls in the process.
“Indeed?” she murmured, stroking his cheek. She loved the rough feel of his jawline and the way that just standing there, thinking about the very near future, sent a sweet rush of liquid longing through her. “Personally, I like the thought of forgetting what we can’t solve in a night and fooling around.”
“However you want to put it is fine with me,” he told her. His strides grew longer as he caught her hand again and hurried her down the street. “By the way, what’s in that box that Amy Watson gave us?”
* * *
Danni let out a sigh of ecstasy. “So good,” she whispered.
“Oh, yeah,” Quinn had to agree. “More?” he teased.
“I don’t know if I can take any more,” she said, but she rolled his way on the bed. “Delicious,” she added.
“Like a touch of silk,” he said.
“Melts on the tongue,” she said. “I just can’t get enough.”
“I’m here, my love. You can have all you want.”
“Then why are you hogging Amy Watson’s homemade candy?” she demanded.
“Hey, I’m passing it right over whenever you ask,” he protested.
She rolled closer and leaned over him, blue eyes dazzling, the fall of her hair sweeping erotically over his naked shoulders. “Actually, I’m done with chocolate,” she told him. A wicked grin teased her lips. “I’m ready for the real candy now.”
“I always try to oblige,” he vowed seriously and took her into his arms.
Their days, he knew, were about to grow longer again, and moments of sweet intimacy might well become few and far between.
It was time to stock up for the future.
