The Dead Play On

“He was like Barrett. Played all kinds of things. Piano, a couple of guitars, a ukulele—he had a whole studio in his place,” Larue said. “No surprise. This is a city that loves music. Half the people here sing or play at least one instrument.”

Quinn was well aware of that. He loved what he did and considered it as much a calling as a job, but he loved music, too. He played the guitar, though certainly not half as well as most of the guitarists in the city. But whether he was playing or not, he loved living in New Orleans and being surrounded by music pretty much 24/7, from the big names who popped down for Jazz Fest to the performers who made their living playing on the streets.

He forced his attention back to the case. Two musicians were dead, but nothing—including their instruments—appeared to be missing. But they’d both been tortured—which might mean that the killer wanted some kind of information from them before he finished them off. Or that the killer was a psycho who just liked inflicting pain.

“I have a feeling something has to be missing,” Quinn said aloud.

“But what?” Larue asked.

“If not an instrument, maybe a piece of music,” Quinn said. “Two musicians are dead, and there has to be a reason. I can’t believe anyone was so jealous of someone else’s talent that they resorted to murder. There has to be more going on here. If I’m right about something being missing, it’s crucial for us to figure out what.”

Larue nodded. “In Holton Morelli’s case, it’s not going to be easy. He lived alone. He was fifty-six and just lost his wife to cancer. His one son is in the service. He was given leave to come home, but to the best of his knowledge, nothing was missing from the house, but of course he hasn’t been there for a while, so...”

“Same area of the city?” Quinn asked.

Larue shook his head. “Faubourg Marigny.”

“Since I didn’t see the other crime scene,” Quinn said, “what else was similar?”

“Enough to point to there being one killer,” Larue said. “Holton Morelli was bashed in the head after letting his murderer into his house. Then he was tied to a chair with electrical tape, tortured and beaten to a pulp with an amp.”

“Tortured how?” Quinn asked.

“Burns from a cigarette,” Dr. Hubert put in, nodding.

“I’ll need to see his file,” Quinn said. “The killer tortured those men because he wanted something. I can’t imagine these guys weren’t willing to give it up. They would have been ready to do anything to save their lives.”

“Once they were attacked, the murderer had to kill them if he wanted to escape being accused of the crime,” Larue pointed out. “Why not just give up the information before it got to that point?”

“Maybe they didn’t know the information the killer wanted,” Quinn suggested.

“Can we be sure the killer wanted something? Maybe he just enjoyed torture. There are sadists out there who do,” Larue reminded him.

Quinn nodded. “That’s true. But I’d bet this killer wanted something.”

“You’re probably right, and we’ll have to discover what it is.” Larue stared at Quinn assessingly. “I’m sure you’ll find out what it is. Why the hell do you think I called you in?” He smiled. “Not to mention you play the guitar and have at least a passing familiarity with the local music scene.”

Quinn lowered his head, grinning. “Thanks.”

“You coming on up?” Grace called down to Quinn.

“Yep, right now.”

He headed up the stairs. Larue didn’t follow him; he was still concentrating on the body and the surrounding area.

“We’re examining everything in the place,” Grace said, “but there were no glasses out, no cigarette butts—I don’t believe there was any socializing before the killer made his move.”

“I agree. The way I see it, Barrett let the killer in, a few words were exchanged and then the killer decked him,” Quinn said.

“Based on the evidence, I agree. That splotch by the door could have come from a facial wound. My guess is, analysis will show it’s mixed with saliva,” Grace said. “I suspect he was stunned by the blow, which the killer delivered right inside the door, or even that he was knocked out stone-cold. We’re searching the place thoroughly. At some point the killer was probably in every room, looking for...whatever. Anyway, come in and check out the music room.”

Quinn followed her through the first door on the upper level. A drum set took up most of one corner; two guitars and a bass sat in their stands nearby. A few tambourines lay in a basket, and a keyboard on a stand was pushed up against one wall. A tipped-over saxophone stand sat underneath the keyboard, but there was no sign of the sax itself or its case. There didn’t appear to be room for another instrument, but there was no way to know for sure without asking someone who’d been there before.

“Sheet music? That type of thing?”

“Next room—it’s an office. But it’s neat and organized. There are papers on the desk, including sheet music, but the piles are all neat and squared up. It doesn’t look like anything’s been disturbed,” Grace said.

“Curious.”

“Maybe. Or maybe the killer squared up all the piles when he was done to hide what he’d been looking for.”

Quinn looked through the other rooms. A closet had been left open, but if the drawers had been opened and their contents searched, the killer had put everything back the way he’d found it.

Judging by marks in the dust, the killer had definitely looked under the bed, though.

So had the killer been looking for an object of a certain size?

“Are we having the same idea?” Grace asked, interrupting his thoughts. “The guy was looking for something at least as big as a bread box.”

“Looks like it. Well, I want to talk to the landlord. Thanks, Grace. And the usual, of course. Keep me posted, please.”

She nodded. “You know I will.”

“Your thoughts, as well as anything scientific,” he said.

“You bet, Quinn.”

He hurried back downstairs.

Larue was waiting for him. He stepped outside, and Quinn followed.

Larue turned to him. “We have a sadistic killer on our hands,” he said.

“I think that’s obvious,” Quinn said.

Larue met Quinn’s eyes, his own expression thoughtful. “The night of the first murder, there was a holdup in the street. A group of musicians was stopped at gunpoint late at night. All that was taken were their instruments—sax, guitar, harmonica, if I remember right. One fellow was hurt pretty badly, pistol-whipped.”

“Did they give you a description of their attacker?”

“They said he was medium build. They thought tall. He had a ‘plastic’ face. And they’re pretty sure he was wearing a wig.”

“A plastic face?” Quinn asked. “Probably a mask. God knows you can buy any kind of mask around here.”

“You have to admit, it does seem similar enough to hint at a connection, though. Assaulting a group of musicians in the street, and then two musicians murdered, the first the same night as the assault.”

“Yes. Although as far as we know he left all the instruments behind in both murders.”

“True. But it seems probable that it’s the same person—someone with a hate on for musicians—and he’s escalating.”

“And at a fantastic degree. We’re going to have dead musicians lying across the entire city if we don’t get to the truth quickly.”

“Okay, so we’ll have a visit with Mrs. Ruby then get to the hospital and talk to Lacey Cavanaugh,” Larue said grimly.

* * *

There was nothing like the sound of a sax.

Danni Cafferty stood just outside La Porte Rouge and listened to the music spilling from the Bourbon Street pub. It was delightful.

Somehow the addition of a sax seemed to make almost anything sound better—richer, deeper, truer.

Wolf, at her side, barked, breaking her concentration. “Hey, boy,” she said, patting the hybrid’s head. “It’s okay, I’m coming. I just wasn’t expecting to be so enchanted. Beautiful, isn’t it? No, maybe cool or...mournful, in a way. There’s something deep and passionate about a sax, huh?”

Wolf barked again as if in complete agreement and wagged his tail.

She looked into the club. From the side door she could see the band. It was darker in the club than it was outside, and it took her a minute to see the sax player. He was tall, lean and striking. She thought instantly that he was a New Orleans boy, born and bred, the way he played his sax. And there was something special about him. He was a beautiful golden color, with close-cropped dark hair, and he leaned into his music as if he’d been born listening to it, born to play. He wasn’t playing alone, of course, but it seemed to her that he was amazing—even in a city filled with amazing musicians.

She couldn’t listen all evening, she told herself. Quinn had called to tell her that Jake—Detective Larue, his ex-partner from his days as a NOLA cop—was coming by to see them that night. She was carrying takeout from her friend’s new restaurant on St. Ann’s, and she’d actually meant to head down the block to Royal but had decided to walk along Bourbon for a few blocks first.

She hadn’t meant to get so distracted.

The song—something by Bruce Springsteen—ended. And then, despite the difference in the light inside and out, she realized that the sax player was staring at her. Well, she was standing in the bar’s doorway with a giant hybrid wolf–German shepherd at her side. She told herself it was Wolf. That the guy was staring at the dog by her side. People always stared at Wolf. They were either terrified, or they wanted to cuddle him.

But the truth was, the man wasn’t looking at the dog, he was staring straight at her. As if he knew her.

She frowned.

Did she know him?

She might. She’d gone to school here, along with a number of her high school classmates who had never moved away, and while they might all live in different areas now and do different things, they ran into one another now and then. The guy did seem familiar. He might have been one of the kids who, like her, ended up in a local private school after the storms had struck, since their own schools had been flooded.

But she wasn’t sure. She lifted a hand and waved, then shouted, “Way to go! Wow!”

Then she left, still feeling a little uneasy.

She turned at the next corner and cut down to Royal Street, heading for her house and her souvenir and collectibles shop, The Cheshire Cat, that occupied a chunk of the first floor.

The front door was open when Danni reached the shop, which was just as it should have been. They didn’t officially close until seven, and it was barely past six.

Billie MacDougall—who had been her dad’s right-hand man and assistant until the day he died and was now hers—was behind the counter. Billie looked like a cross between an aging Billy Idol and Riff Raff from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. He was skinny as a beanpole, but his looks were deceptive, because he had a wiry strength. He was also the best employee—and friend—anyone could ever have.

“Dinner!” he said, grinning as he saw her, his Scot’s burr coming out in the single word despite his decades in America.

She walked to the counter and set down her bags of takeout. “Figures I could help out a friend with a new place and have something wonderful to eat.”

“Do I smell lasagna?” Billie asked eagerly.

She smiled. “You do indeed. When Adriana decided to open a restaurant, I suspected it would be Italian, since she’s first generation herself. I’m sure it’s excellent, too. I loved eating at her house when I was growing up.”

Billie made a face. “You doona like Scottish fare, lass?”

Danni laughed. “Sure, I love it. Not that it’s plentiful in New Orleans,” she said drily.

“Plentiful enough in this house. If I’ve made it, it’s Scottish. And you love my cooking.”

“This is America. We love everything. But if you’ve suddenly discovered that you don’t like Italian, you don’t have to eat it, you know.”

“Don’t be cheeky, lass. I’ll just take the bags to the kitchen and get things set up,” he told her, grabbing the food. “I’ll go ahead and have me dinner then watch the shop till closing so you and Quinn can take as much time as you like for dinner.” He grinned at her. “That is, if there’s any food left.”

“I bought a salad, bruschetta and a whole tray of lasagna,” she said. “I don’t believe you could possibly eat it all.”

“You never do know now, do you? Make fun of me and Scot’s cooking, will you?” Billie said.

Danni grinned. “Is Quinn back yet? I don’t know why he went to the station if Jake said he was coming here.”

“He didn’t go to the station,” Billie said, heading toward the kitchen.

“Then why did you say he did when we talked this afternoon?” Danni asked.

“I never said that. I said he was on the phone with Larue and then he left,” Billie called from the kitchen doorway. “You just assumed he was going to the station.”

“Then where did he go?” she asked.

“Wherever he went, he had to leave quickly,” Billie said. “And I don’t ask the man for a schedule when he leaves the house, just as I don’t ask you. When he’s ready, he tells me. Which is after he tells you, most of the time, so I guess we’ll both know soon enough.”

“You’re right. I just hope he gets back while the food is still warm,” she said.

“We do own that thing called a microwave,” Billie said.

“Ah, but is it Scottish?” she murmured drily.

“I heard that!” Billie called back.

Danni grinned, walking around the counter to take the stool behind it. Wolf followed her and curled up at her feet.

She glanced at the computer; they’d had a busy enough day for a Thursday. Billie had sold a number of the handmade fleur-de-lis necklaces one of the local vendors had started making. They were delicate and beautiful, and while only gold-or silver-plated, they sold for almost a hundred dollars because of the work involved. She was glad to see that people still valued craftsmanship.

She noticed, too, that he’d also sold several of her own watercolors of the French Quarter. While the shop—and other matters—tended to take up a lot of her time, she had majored in art and actually had something of a local following. She loved visual art, and her favorite medium to work with was either watercolors or oils on canvas. Despite the fact their last case had involved a long-dead artist and a painting, she was determined not to lose her passion for her art.

The bell over the door gave off its pleasant little tinkling sound, and she looked up.

It was the sax player.

In fact, the sax was in his hand, its case in the other.

“Hello,” she said, frowning slightly. He had followed her here, she thought. Still, it was early evening. There was still light in the sky and plenty of people out and about on Royal Street, many of them seeking restaurants and bars, but some of them shopping, as well.

And Wolf—though he had risen—didn’t seem to expect any danger. Wolf, she had learned, had a wonderful ability to sense whether people were trustworthy or not.

He even wagged his tail slightly. Everything had to be all right.

The door closed behind the sax player. For a moment he looked around the shop. Danni—as her father had—mixed souvenirs and affordable trinkets in with real antiques and collectibles. There was another “collectible” area in the house, in the basement, where she kept items too powerful and dangerous to be sold or even shown. Of course, the basement wasn’t really a basement; the “ground” floor was actually built up above the street, and you had to climb a few stairs to get to it.

She loved the shop, just as her father had. She had grown up loving it. She had a couple of real medieval suits of armor as display pieces, along with the work of a number of local artists besides herself, both new and antique jewelry, busts, a few nineteenth-century vampire hunting sets, flags, weapons and more. She knew she was good at creating wonderful window displays and that the shop was as much a gallery as a showroom, to the point that sometimes people came just to look around rather than buy. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. It was obviously less than ideal if they didn’t buy, but having such wonderful word-of-mouth reviews had to be good.

“May I help you?” she asked as the man continued to stand just inside the door, looking around the room.

He met her eyes at last. “Danni? Danni Cafferty?”

“Yes,” she said. “Forgive me, but...do I know you?”

He nodded. “You may not remember me. I’m Tyler Anderson. I was a few years ahead of you in high school.”

“Tyler—yes!” She remembered him now. She hadn’t thought of him in years. He’d graduated before her, and she hadn’t seen him since. But she remembered. He’d been part of what a number of the magnet-school music students—who had been “adopted” by a Garden District school during the aftermath of Katrina—had called the Survivor Set. As an art student, she’d been dragged in as something of an honorary member.

It was good to see him again, and she smiled. He really was a beautiful man—he always had been. Almost like a golden god with hazel eyes.

She walked around the counter. “I haven’t seen you in forever! It’s wonderful that you found me. How have you been?”

“Fine...good. Mostly,” he said awkwardly.

“I heard you playing earlier,” she said. “You’re incredible. You always were, but now...wow. You’re really good.”

“Not that good.”

“No, trust me. I just heard you, and you are.”

He shook his head impatiently. “No, no, I...” He paused, looking around the store. “Is anyone else here?”

“Well, Billie—you remember Billie—is in the kitchen. And Quinn is due home soon.”

“Quinn... Michael Quinn? The Michael Quinn we knew back in school?”

“Yes.”

“Are you two married?”

“No, no. I mean, one day. Maybe. He lives here. Mostly. Not always.” Danni stopped speaking; she was never sure how to describe her complex relationship with Quinn. But then again, she didn’t really have to explain. She added lamely, “We’re together. A couple.”

“So is it true?”

“Is what true?” she asked carefully.

“That he was a cop and then became a private investigator. And you guys look into things that are...different. Bad things, odd things.”

Danni shrugged uneasily. “I try to collect things that people think may be evil or haunted in some way. You know how people can be. Superstitious.”

“Is it just superstition?” he asked.

“People can be wonderful or evil. I think we both know that. But things are just...things. Why? What are you talking about?” she asked.

“Murder. I think my friend was murdered—and that the saxophone he left me is haunted.”

She stared at him and murmured, “Okay. Can you...?”

“Do you remember Arnie Watson?” he asked quietly.

She did. She remembered his incredible talent, and she remembered seeing a piece written about him by a local columnist just a week or so ago. He’d died on the streets after coming home from the Middle East. After he’d survived three deployments. Somehow that seemed to compound the tragedy of his death.

“Yes,” she said.

“Arnie was the best,” Tyler said passionately. “An amazing man and an amazing friend.”

“I believe you,” she said then paused, remembering what she had read. He had died of a drug overdose. So sad, and such a waste of a good man.

What was even more tragic was that so many soldiers came home only to die by their own hands, their minds haunted by the demons of war.

“He died of an overdose, didn’t he?” she asked.

“Damn you, it wasn’t suicide!” Tyler said.

“I never said anything about suicide.”

“And it wasn’t an accident. He was murdered. You have to believe me.”

“I’m more than willing to listen to—”

Tyler shook his head emphatically. “You have to help me. You have to prove that he was murdered. I know you can do it. And you will. You and Quinn will.”

“We’re not infallible.”

“I know you can find the truth. You have to. Because if you don’t, whoever is doing this will kill again. I know it.”

“Tyler, you can’t know that.”

“I do know it. And he just might kill me.”

Chapter 2

MRS. 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.