The Dead Play On

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.

Chapter 4

DANNI WAS SLEEPING when Quinn awoke and rose. He showered and dressed, not wanting to wake her.

He loved to wake up first in the morning and watch her as she slept, hair spilling wildly around her, the length of her body half draped in the sheets. He smiled, thinking that she was a genuine work of art.

Actually, he also loved waking up to find her already awake herself, propped up on one elbow watching him, a mischievous smile on her face and a sensual look in her eyes.

They’d both grown up in the city, but he was about five years older than she was, and their paths hadn’t really crossed until Angus had died. He still kept his house in the Garden District, but the more they were together, the more he knew that he wanted them to be together forever.

He was tempted to crawl back into bed and just move against her until she woke groggily in his arms. That was fun, too.

He loved to stroke the length of her back. She would keep her eyes closed at first, but finally she would begin to smile and then touch him in ways that seemed to rock the earth.

He steeled himself to look away and walked to the door, letting himself out.

It was early, but he was expecting a call from Larue at some point, and he wanted to be ready to head straight to the station to interview the musicians who had been attacked after their gig.

Wolf wasn’t in his usual spot in the hallway. The dog had decided that he was Danni’s protector whether Quinn was in the city or not. He was always outside their room standing guard—unless Billie was already making breakfast.

He headed downstairs and found that Billie was cooking and Wolf was indeed with him, sitting patiently in a corner and awaiting his chance at something delectable. Bo Ray was there, as well, and the news was playing on the small TV set in the kitchen.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Quinn asked Bo Ray, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He breathed in the aroma as he waited for Bo Ray to answer. Billie made a mean cup of coffee. Of course, in Quinn’s mind, the best coffee in the world was to be found in New Orleans. It was rich and dark, and Billie’s coffee could probably put hair on anyone’s chest. But at The Cheshire Cat, they all loved it.

Bo Ray turned to look at Quinn. He had the appearance of a chipmunk that had been attacked on both cheeks by a swarm of bees.

“Great,” Bo Ray said—or tried to. His mouth could barely move.

Bo Ray Tompkins was a young man they’d hired to help out at the shop on the first case Quinn had worked with Danni. A good guy at heart, Bo Ray had fallen in with some bad people and taken up their bad ways. Thanks to the help of Father John Ryan—a priest who was prepared to go to war in their strange fight against evil—Bo Ray had come back to the straight and narrow. They’d taken a leap of faith when they brought him in, and their faith had proved to be the right choice.

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