Waking the Dead
“Hey, glad you’re here,” she said. “Come on in, Father.”
“Wait up, wait up!” Natasha called, hurrying through the courtyard. Father Ryan turned; the two embraced warmly. An odd couple to many, no doubt—the priest and the voodoo priestess.
Father Ryan had once told her that he was true to his faith, but that, at heart, he and Natasha were kindred souls, seeking the same truth. Which had little to do with the way you sought that truth or the path you took.
She liked his view of the world.
“We’re sitting around the little table in the kitchen,” Danni said. The Cheshire Cat was similar to many places on Royal Street; it had been built as a house but now the shop took up the downstairs, with the small kitchen and one-time pantry on the first floor and her bedroom on the second. Billie’s apartment—and now Bo Ray’s, too—was located in what had been the attic. Luckily, it was big, and both men had their own rooms and ample space.
And downstairs, in the basement, really the ground level, was her father’s office or den and special collection of “curios.” Her studio, in the former pantry, was where she worked when she had time for her own art.
“Billie’s made jambalaya and cheese grits,” Danni announced as she led them in. “And we’ve got salad.”
“Scottish jambalaya!” Father Ryan said. “I can’t wait.”
Billie was behind them. He threw Father Ryan an evil glare and muttered, “Lucky I didn’t get the urge for haggis, friend, that’s all I have to say.”
When Bo Ray entered a few minutes later, Billie asked them all to grab plates and line up at the stove to help themselves. Natasha designated herself the beverage server and poured tea, lemonade and water, as each person chose. They were still in the act of greeting one another with casual jokes and hugs and getting organized at the table when Danni heard the buzzer at the shop’s main door. She excused herself and hurried down the hall, then out to the showroom. Looking through the glass, she saw Jake Larue standing there. He appeared to be tense, worried about something.
When she opened the door, he said, “You’re all here?”
Danni nodded. “Yeah. Hi, Jake. How are you?”
“May I?” he asked.
“Of course.”
She let him in, wondering why he was here. We’re just having dinner,” she said. “Hungry?”
“I don’t mean to impose,” he said.
“We have tons of food,” she assured him, leading the way through the darkened showroom to the kitchen.
As he walked in, everyone froze in position.
“Hey, guys. Jake’s here,” Danni said. “Billie made jambalaya.”
“Scottish jambalaya?” Jake’s confused words broke the freeze. The others laughed; Billie groaned, “Not again,” and shook his head.
“Get a plate and join us,” Quinn said. If he was surprised to see Jake, he didn’t let on.
Jake started to dish up food, but halfway through he turned to Quinn. “The log-in list disappeared from the evidence room computer. The sign-out sheets are missing, as well.”
They all looked at Jake and then back at Quinn. “Nothing there?” he asked.
“It was wiped clean. God knows, we’ve got our best techs and computer whiz kids on it. They’ve come up with nothing,” Jake said, taking a seat.
Quinn seemed to understand him. The others didn’t. But Quinn said, “Jake, sit and we’ll figure out what we can.”
Squeezing him in meant they were tightly wedged around the table, but they made room. Once Jake was seated, Quinn said, “It’s on the news, so we’re all aware of what happened to the Garcia family. I went to see Hubert at autopsy, and he said the murders were all different—like a game of Clue, in his words. Nothing at autopsy dispelled his original findings, but we still can’t explain why we haven’t found a single weapon or worked out exactly what went on. Did James Garcia kill everyone and then slit his own throat? If so, where? Or was there someone else in the house, a person or maybe more than one person, who managed to perform acts of unspeakable horror—and walk away without being seen or leaving a blood trail? Then, before I could return from autopsy, Jake called me and I went down to the police station. There was fog in the evidence room.”
“Fog?” Natasha asked hoarsely.
Larue gestured vaguely. “Fog, smoke...something. Anyway, an officer on duty went insane, needing help. Help came—and so did I. And the fog or whatever it might’ve been was still there. The officer said that a shadow went after him. It was all extremely strange. We have nothing on the computer anymore—and nothing on the cameras except for the fog or gray smoke that hides the entire area for maybe twenty minutes.”
“So they don’t know what was taken,” Quinn finished. But he was looking curiously at Larue.
“Here’s what we do know. A number of things that had been removed from the Garcia house were taken from the evidence room. The vial you mentioned earlier, and three wrapped packages. In other words, things that were spattered with blood or might have given us a clue as to what a murderer was looking for,” Jake said.
That caused Father Ryan to thump a fist on the table, which in turn caused all the dishes and glasses and flatware to clatter.
“Sorry,” Father Ryan muttered. “But I’ve told Danni—those people were part of my flock and I knew them. I knew them well. There were no drugs, no arms, no implements of any illegality in that house. I’d stake my life on it!”
“I’m not suggesting James Garcia was doing anything illegal,” Larue said. “Not really illegal.”
“What do you mean?” Father Ryan demanded.
“Garcia was one of the most trusted men in his business,” Larue began. “He would pick up items for delivery when he finished for the night so he’d be ready to head out first thing in the morning. This wasn’t official policy, but his supervisors have admitted they had an understanding with certain employees and Garcia was one. He’d had packages waiting to go out at his home. Some had blood spatter. We don’t know precisely what they were, but one of the crime scene techs who’d been collecting objects from the house for analysis told us the packages weren’t in the evidence room. She and a few others were brought down to try to remember. You can knock out a computer, but as long there are still people around, memory serves.” He paused. “The only detail she could recall was that one of the packages was large and flat—presumably a piece of art—and another seemed to contain jewelry....”
They all stared at him. “I just wanted to let you know.” He shrugged. “Garcia might have been killed over something in his house—something he knew nothing about.”
“Are you finding out exactly what packages were being held at Garcia’s house?” Quinn asked.
“We’ll have a full report from Garcia’s company by morning.”
“So where are we? What’ve we got?” Billie asked.
“Five corpses—and a seasoned cop scared out of his wits,” Larue said. “That’s what we’ve got.”
“Plus missing evidence. And fog, mist, smoke,” Quinn added thoughtfully. “Natasha?”
“I haven’t heard a thing from the street,” she replied. “But...”
“But what?” Quinn asked sharply.
Danni stood quickly; she didn’t want Quinn trying to read her mind when her thoughts were still so jumbled. If she acted casual and began to clear the table, he might not notice.
Okay, so Natasha had some kind of sight. She’d told Danni a dozen times that with most people who came to the shop, she read the person more than she ever read a tarot card or tea leaf. And she was very good at it; as a priestess, she knew her followers. She knew when they needed guidance, when they should take a chance and when they should keep their heads down.
But that day, when she’d read Danni’s tea leaves, something had been different. Danni had never seen Natasha quite like she’d been that day.
“I’m sensing that this is a situation we all need to be involved in,” Natasha said, glancing at Danni.
Danni felt Quinn’s eyes on her. Then, when she reached for a plate, she felt his hand. He looked at her as he asked Natasha, “What did you see?”
Natasha seemed to carefully gauge her words. “A very strange sight, and that’s why I’m so curious about your ‘fog’ at the station. I saw Danni standing on a hill, and there was a castle in the background...a medieval castle, I believe. She was shouting, warning someone. The fog—the mist or whatever it was—seemed dark and shadowy. Gloomy. But there was something else.”
“Like what?” Quinn pressed.
“There was a crimson cast to it. Crimson...red...” She paused. “I wish I’d seen more. I wish I knew more.”
“Crimson. Red,” Larue repeated.
“The color of blood,” Billie said.
Chapter Four
FINALLY, THEIR GUESTS were gone for the night, each one in a pensive and expectant mood, dreading what the future would hold.
Danni went up to her room first. Quinn—being Quinn—had taken Wolf and gone through the house, assuring himself that the place was securely locked. Since Royal Street was just a block from Bourbon, the faint sounds of music and laughter continued.
The murders had been on the news all day. But visitors to the city—revelers on the streets—probably believed they were a strictly local phenomenon. Still, most people would be more careful that night; when they met in the city’s bars or clubs they’d talk about what had happened not far from the French Quarter.
But while they’d react with horror and sympathy, they would tell themselves that it didn’t affect them.
Danni usually turned on the television in the evenings. That night, she didn’t. She already knew what she’d see on the news.
Quinn came upstairs, quietly opening the door, and just as quietly closing it behind him.
“You asleep?” he asked her.
“Seriously?” she replied.
“I’d rather hoped not,” he said.
“Wolf’s been relegated to the hall?”
“He doesn’t seem to mind. He lets me be the alpha dog.”
“And I thought I was the alpha dog,” Danni said.
He stood in the doorway. “I was thinking—” he began.
“No thinking tonight!” It had been too long. She rose naked from the bed and walked over to him, met his hungry, urgent kiss with her own as she tugged at his shirt.
He kissed her while removing his jacket, shoulder holster and gun, allowing her to play with the buttons on his shirt.
Then he grew impatient and unfastened them himself.
Danni wondered how she’d ever had the strength to let him go. In his arms she immediately felt the inferno between them. His clothing was strewn about the floor and since she hadn’t bothered with any...
They fell together on her bed. He laughed, rising above her, and then his lips found hers again and they kissed, tongues delving, lips locking and breaking apart so they could gasp for breath, then joining again. She grasped his shoulders, the muscles moving sleekly beneath her touch. He was back; he was with her. It was real, the sheets beneath her were real, the moonlight filtering through the drapes was real. And the force of his body against hers was both solid and dreamlike. For long seconds she was content to feel his flesh, to stroke his shoulders and down his back. But she felt his kiss moving against her, felt his lips on her throat, teasing her collarbones. His hands curved around and caressed her breasts and then his tongue and lips bathed her where his hands had been. She thought she might crawl out of her skin, she was so desperate to be part of him.
He was a tender lover, a careful lover, always wanting to arouse as he was aroused. But she felt the hardness of his erection so swiftly that night, felt him slide into her, and she wanted him so badly, she shared his impatience, entwining her limbs around his, moving with him, arching closer. She felt the frantic rhythm of her heart and his. The music from Bourbon Street seemed to fade away, and even the moon seemed to pale. All that remained was the feel of each other, their desperate, urgent need to be together again.
She rose toward him, the urgency so sweet it was nearly painful, and yet she wanted the moment to go on and on. She saw his eyes, the passion in them, and the wonder he seemed to feel when he was with her, and it was an even greater seduction. She curved her arms around him, and felt the euphoria sweep through her as they shuddered, almost violently, both rocked by their climax.
He half fell and half eased himself to her side. For a minute he was silent. “Whose idea was it that we were better off moving slowly?” he finally asked.
She smiled and turned into him. “Yours.”
“No, I think it was yours.”
He held her, drawing her to him, and kissed her lovingly. “We won’t always need to be apart. When I’m in the city, it just makes sense for me to stay here.”
“We...” Danni faltered. For her, he was perfect. She’d met him not long after her father died. She’d been at a loss, confused, disbelieving—and Quinn had barreled into her life.
“We what?” he asked her.
She ran her fingers through the lock of hair that fell over his forehead. “You know, I didn’t even like you when we met.”
“And I wasn’t that fond of you, either. Except that I thought you were the sexiest woman I’d ever seen.”
“And now?”
“What do you think?”
“I’ve always thought that actions speak more loudly than words,” she said primly.
He grinned. And she smiled as he swept her into his arms. Their world might be going to hell again. But he was with her that night.
She wanted to cling to every moment until morning came.
* * *
Quinn could only explain the fact that he hadn’t awakened when she left the bed by reminding himself that he hadn’t really slept in almost forty-eight hours. He’d barely been back at his house before Larue had called that morning.
He woke now because Wolf was nudging his hand and whining. And if Wolf was in the room, the door was open. But the dog wasn’t injured and he wasn’t barking; there was no intruder in the house.
He jumped up, grabbing a robe. Then he grabbed a second robe. This had happened before. If the dog wanted him awake but nothing had disturbed the house, Danni was in her studio.
He hurried down the stairs and stopped in the doorway, watching her. He worried when he saw her like this but he was also afraid to startle her. She seemed frenzied and intent, yet she wasn’t actually awake.
She sat before the canvas on its easel, her posture completely straight. She made a picture of absolute beauty with her hair flowing down her naked back. Her palette of colors lay next to the canvas where she worked, and she painted as if she were an automaton.
He walked over to stand beside her.
Something inside him seemed to tighten.
She’d copied the Hubert painting he’d seen in the gallery that morning except...
There was nothing deceptive about its beauty. The colors drew the eye and compelled the viewer to look more closely. What he saw revealed the emotions hidden in the original work. Her version of the painting made immediately explicit what Hubert’s had veiled.
Everyone in this painting had apparently been startled and had turned as if to face a camera. The beautiful woman on the settee or love seat had her dagger out and seemed to be snarling at the man. He’d aimed his gun and moved into position to shoot the woman, an expression of hatred on what you could see of his face. The suits of armor has stepped forward, both holding swords. The chess pieces were running in terror while the children who’d been playing the game were trying to smash them with a large chalice and a medieval shield. Over the fireplace, the man in the portrait was directing the action with a cruel zeal written into his features. The child playing with the guillotine was slicing off the head of another doll—but the doll seemed to be alive and screaming.
That damned giclée. She was creating her own image of the giclée in the shop. Had the horror of it gotten to her?
He knew that wasn’t true. Danni was strong; she’d been born with her father’s strength. He knew her, and he’d known Angus, so he was sure of that.
Danni’s hand paused in midair. He caught her wrist gently and took the paintbrush from her fingers, setting it on the palette. He placed her robe around her shoulders and knelt beside her, shaking her lightly as he said her name. “Danni. Danni, wake up.”
She blinked several times and then stared at him with wide eyes. She shivered, and he gathered the robe more tightly around her. Her eyes quickly scanned the studio and then met his again.
“I—I was sleepwalking?”
“Sleep painting,” he told her.
She didn’t want to look at her creation. He didn’t want to let her, but he knew he had to.
She slowly turned and studied the painting. He saw the horror dawn in her expression.
“It’s just a painting,” she whispered. Anger hardened her voice when she spoke again. “No, not even a painting. A copy of a painting, a giclée.”
“We’ll have to find the real one,” he said.
He had a feeling he knew where the real one was—somewhere in New Orleans.
She shook her head. “Find it? You don’t understand. It’s a museum piece.” She hesitated. “It was just sold. Niles heard a rumor that it’s been bought by someone here in the city. But even if we find it...we’d need millions to get it!”
He stood and pulled her to her feet, holding her close. “It’s coming here?” That rumor confirmed—or at least reinforced—what he already suspected.
“Nothing definite so far,” she said.
“We’ll get it,” he vowed. “Whatever it takes.”
She drew away. “How? First, we’d have to identify the new owner—a multimillionaire or billionaire, for sure—and convince him that he’s spent a fortune on a killer painting? And you suppose he’ll hand it right over?”
He tried to ease her shaking, tried to speak calmly. “We’ll have to break in and steal it, then.”
“Break in and steal it?” she asked. “You think it is here!”
“In the morning,” he said. “Come on. We’re going back to bed.”
“I can’t go to bed.”
“Yes, you can.”
“But...”
“I’m here, Danni. I’m here. And I’ll hold you until you fall asleep, I swear it.”
The slightest smile appeared on her lips; she’d needed his strength. Now, she was drawing on her own reserves. “And then you’ll let go of me?” she asked. “When I’m asleep?”
“No. Well, not until morning when we wake up and want to get out of bed.”
“I guess we should get more sleep,” she murmured. He could tell that she didn’t want to look back at her own work again, but she couldn’t help herself. “I don’t remember everything I probably learned about Hubert in my art history classes. Tomorrow, I’m going to find out whatever I can about the man.” She turned back to Quinn. “Like a lot of artists, he supposedly used people around him to create his characters. I remember that much—and I want to know who they all are. I also want to know why. Why there’d be so much evil on every face.”
“You might learn something from talking to Dr. Hubert. He admits that he’s a descendant, but he doesn’t seem very keen on the fact.”
“I will talk to him,” Danni said.
He cupped her chin in his hands. “Tomorrow,” he told her softly.
He heard Wolf whine. The dog had been standing silently in the doorway, waiting for them.
“Oh, Wolf!” Danni hurried forward, kneeling to take the dog’s massive head between her hands and plant a kiss on his nose. “Good boy. Good Wolf. Thank you for watching over me.”
Wolf wagged his tail and Quinn thought the dog had been one of his best rescues ever. Unconditional love. And protection. Wolf would die for either of them.
“All right, let’s get some sleep,” he said. “I have a feeling tomorrow will be a long day.”
Danni rose, and they started to walk out of the room.
Something brought him back. The canvas, of course, wasn’t dry. Despite that, he covered it with one of her artist’s sheets.
He didn’t want anyone looking at the damned thing. Hell, Billie was old. He could see those faces and have a heart attack!
* * *
Quinn knew the desk sergeant on duty when he walked into the station. The officer nodded in acknowledgment. “Larue said to send you right in when I saw you,” he said.
“Thanks.” Quinn could see Jake Larue through the glass panes of his office. Larue was studying a file; he looked worn and haggard. Quinn assumed he hadn’t slept much, either.
He tapped on the door and walked in.
“Quinn. Great. I was hoping you’d be early,” Larue said. “I have the list from James Garcia’s courier company. He was a trusted employee for sure. He was carrying a package filled with gold and gems that had been valued, signed sports memorabilia for a charity auction and—”
“A painting that recently sold in the millions,” Quinn finished for him.
Larue frowned at Quinn when he sat down in front of him. “Yes. The painting is called—”
“Ghosts in the Mind,” Quinn said. “It’s by an artist named Hubert—who, incidentally, was a distant ancestor of our favorite M.E., Dr. Ron Hubert. Hubert the artist was found dead at an old castle in Geneva, still staring at the painting. It was his last work.”
Larue picked up the file. “Okay, but here’s what you may not know yet. The painting was purchased by a Mrs. Hattie Lamont, who lives in one of the grand old mansions on Esplanade. She’s a widow and her husband was a computer genius who built and sold half a dozen companies. Since she’s been in NOLA, she’s joined every social club and charity foundation in the city, or so it appears. The painting was due to her by ten this morning.”
“And it was missing from the evidence lockup after the ‘fog’?” Quinn asked, already knowing the answer.
Larue nodded vigorously. “And here’s the really curious thing about the three packages that went missing. Our crime scene people swear that we brought all three of them to the evidence room. But they were delivered to their recipients early this morning.”
“And we have no idea how? I’m assuming the recipient has to sign for a package of that value!” Quinn said.
“In theory. I’ve already sent sketch artists to all three houses to get them to describe the delivery person,” Larue told him. “However, that person didn’t exactly make himself known.”
“What about the delivery vehicle? Wouldn’t the company know if one had been taken? And what about Garcia’s truck?”
“Garcia’s truck is still at the police impound. Judging by what I’ve gotten back from my officers in the field, no one saw a delivery truck or remembers seeing one anywhere near them.” Larue glanced at his notes again. “But as Tobias Granville—owner of the assessed jewels—said, he was looking at his package and not down the street. He should have signed for the package. He says he didn’t, that it was just at his door and he didn’t even glance up once he had it in his hands.”
Quinn shook his head. “So, a family was brutally murdered. Evidence came into lockup, evidence disappeared from lockup and then it was all delivered where it belonged.”
Larue leaned back. “We’ve retrieved the packaging from Mr. Granville’s delivery and from the charity people. Again, the box just showed up at their office door. And of course, the packaging is compromised now. People ripped it up. But we’ll try to examine the pieces that have blood spatter.”
“No one noticed blood spatter?” Quinn asked dryly.
“There wasn’t a lot. Hey, if you’re waiting for a fortune in jewelry, are you really going to worry about wrapping paper? Spots of dried blood on brown paper could be anything,” Larue pointed out. “Flaw in the paper itself, a drop of coffee, smeared ink. Who knows?”
“What about Mrs. Lamont’s package?”
“Well, this is interesting. Her butler—yeah, she has a butler—says he did sign for it.”
“And the wrapping paper?”
“She wouldn’t give it to us,” Larue said sheepishly. “We’re still working on that.”
Quinn sighed. “Well, let’s take a look at that fog or whatever it is—and anything else the cameras caught.”