An object of desire? or of fear?

It was stolen from a New Orleans grave—the centuries-old bust of an evil man, a demonic man. It’s an object desired by collectors—and by those with wickedness in their hearts.

One day, its current owner shows up at Danni Cafferty’s antiques shop on Royal Street, the shop she inherited from her father. But before Danni can buy the statue, it disappears, the owner is found dead…and Danni discovers that she’s inherited much more than she realized. In the store is a book filled with secret writing: instructions for defeating evil entities. She’d dismissed it as a curiosity...until the arrival of this statue, with its long history of evil and even longer trail of death.

Michael Quinn, former cop and now private investigator, is a man with an unusual past. He believes that doing the right thing isn’t a job—it’s a way of life. And the right thing to do is find and destroy this object weighted with malevolent powers. He and Danni are drawn together in their search for the missing statue, following it through sultry New Orleans nights to hidden places in the French Quarter and secret ceremonies on abandoned plantations.

Cafferty and Quinn already know that trust in others can be misplaced, that love can be temporary. And yet their connection is primal. Mesmerizing. They also know that their story won’t end when this case is closed and the dead rest in peace once again.

Let the Dead Sleep

Heather Graham

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To those who live in and out of the Big Easy and have helped make Writers for New Orleans a true benefit for this beautiful and historic city:

Marvin Andrade; Beti Basile; Molly Bolden; Zach Bolden; Camille Burgin; Tina Callais; Dionne Cherie Charlet; Beth Ciotta; Teresa Davant; Jezabel DeLuna; Rich Devin; Corrine De Winter; Keith Donato; Pam Ebel; Paula Eykelhof; Nick Genovese; Paula and Mike Hardin; Patty Harrison; Jennifer Hughes; Pamela Kopfler; Harley Jane Kozak; Cindy Krempel; Kay Levine; Veronika Levine; Kathy Love; Lisa Mannetti; Debra Maas; Erin McCarthy; Ginger McSween; James, Bonnie and Helen Moore; Stacey, Kaylyn, Scott and Joshua Perry; Kathleen Pickering; Jason, Shayne, Derek, Zhenia, Bryee-Annon and Chynna Pozzessere; “Suzie Q” Quiroz; Kevin Richard; Debbie Richardson; Helen Rosburg; Bobby Rosello; Dave Simms; Alexandra Sokoloff; Mary Stella; Lance Taubold; Jo Templeton; Mary Walkley; Greg Varricchio; Sheila Vincent; Leslie Wainger; Pat Walker; Adam Wilson; F. Paul Wilson; all the hard workers at the Hotel Monteleone; and everyone at The Vampire Boutique and Fifi Mahoney’s…

And the amazing Connie Perry!

This story is also dedicated to the memory of Kate Duffy, brilliant editor and friend to so many. She was there at the beginning. She believed that in creating this conference, we could be a nice drop in a massive bucket. I still hear her voice in my mind so often, and smile, knowing exactly what she would have to say in so many situations.

And, finally, I offer it in memory of my one and only sister, Victoria Jane Graham Davant, who loved New Orleans and showed me the magic of the city.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Prologue

“THIS IS IT, Ms. Cafferty,” Dr. Vincenzo said quietly. He cleared his throat. “We’ll, ah, leave you alone to say your goodbyes.”

Danielle Cafferty stared at Vincenzo, feeling too bewildered and stunned to cry. Until this morning she’d convinced herself that her father would live forever. He was a big man, hearty and robust, the perfect example of a he-man Highlander, rugged as the Scottish terrain that had bred him. But then the call had come from Billie McDougall that Angus Cafferty was in the hospital. His heart was giving out.

Vincenzo stared back at her awkwardly. Surely, as head of an esteemed cardiac unit, he’d dealt with other situations like this. But he hesitated, then touched her hand gently and left, followed by his sympathetic nurse.

So she understood that it was a matter of time. Her father had fallen into a coma an hour ago and now...

She sat in the hospital chair by his bed, holding his hand. She stroked the back of it, fighting tears, feeling as if her head were the size of a melon—dull, aching and hollow. “Hey, I still believe in you,” she told him. “I’ve always believed in you. You’ve been such an amazing father with your tall tales and stories—I feel like I know my mother, and Mom died when I was four. New Orleans is home, but you’ve taken me to places around the world. Now, come on, you can survive this! We’ve been through all these years together and weathered so many storms...right, Dad?”

Her father didn’t answer.

She glanced at the clock mounted on the wall. The television was on with the volume low; she listened to ads for the year’s new cars and the newscaster interviewing a businessman, Brandt Shumaker, about his plans to go into politics. A local blues group came on and she listened to the music for a minute and said, “Good group, Dad. When you’re better, we’ll go see them.”

Her father didn’t reply.

She had to keep talking. “I bought a new print last week. A Blue Dog print. I don’t know what it is, but I love them. My work’s completely different, but of course that’s true for most artists. We all have our individual visions....”

She was speaking inanely. Anything. She refused to accept that his life was slipping away.

And then...

Angus Cafferty sat bolt upright, gazing at her. His snow-white hair was mussed and wild; his sky-blue eyes settled on her intently.

“Lass, so late, too late! I should have spoken to you about this so many times, so long ago. I’d thought...I’d thought I’d wait until you got to the age of thirty, never thinking this could come so quick upon me. Just a few more years...just a few to leave you in a normal life, to know innocence—I was a fool. I have let you down, but you hear me now, Danni, please, hear me now! You mustn’t sell the shop. You must never sell the shop. It’s our lot in life, that’s what it is, and one that matters in a manner most dire. Ah, girl, what have I done? Wanting all to be safe and serene for you....” His Scottish burr, somewhat softened by his many years in the American South, was suddenly strong again. His words were filled with passion. He leaned toward her, gripping her hand so hard that it hurt, but he was alive and touching her and she couldn’t cry out.

“No, Dad, don’t worry, I’ll never sell the store. It’s your store. You’ll get better, I can see that now. You’ll come home and—”

“No! Ye canna sell the store! And the book, lass, you must read the book. Never doubt what you see or hear, never fear for your sanity or that of the world—turn to the book. The answers are in the book and it will bring you through heaven and hell and all realms in between. Do you hear me, lass, do you hear me? Ah, I love you, Danni, my girl, I love you so much. Cling to my words and live long but, mostly, live well. You’re brilliant and beautiful, but the world changes.... The book, Danni, read the book, and look to it in all things!”

His grip on her hand eased; he fell back on the bed, his eyes closed and his lips silent.

Danni jumped up and rushed to the door, her tone frantic as she called out. “Dr. Vincenzo, come quickly!”

Vincenzo appeared in another doorway and strode down the hall toward her.

“He spoke to me! He spoke and fell back...but he spoke!”

Vincenzo frowned and walked over to the bed. He laid a hand on Angus’s arm, then turned to face her. “Ms. Cafferty, I know this is a difficult time... I was trying...I...” He paused and shook his head. “Ms. Cafferty, he did not speak to you. He had passed when I left this room. I wanted to give you a few minutes alone with him before having him brought down to the morgue.”

“What?” Danni gaped at him blankly. “No, no,” she said. “My father sat up and spoke to me.”

Vincenzo looked at her pityingly. “He’s been gone for at least thirty minutes now, Ms. Cafferty. Feel his arm. He’s growing colder already. I’m so sorry, I can see how you loved him. But he’s what...almost ninety. He had a good life. And he was certainly loved.”

“No, no, you don’t understand. He talked to me. He sat upright and he spoke to me,” Danni protested.

Vincenzo wasn’t going to argue with her. He pursed his lips as if forcing himself to keep silent. “Is there someone you could call to be with you?” he asked. “I can see if we have a chaplain or a priest in the hospital.”

She frowned at him, shaking her head. “I haven’t lost my mind.”

“He’s gone, Ms. Cafferty. I’m so sorry, but your father has passed.”

Danni winced. She held back the tears that threatened and said with dignity, “I’m fine. I will stay with him a moment longer if that’s all right.”

He left. She sat at her father’s side, and when she took his hand then, she knew the truth—the mighty Scot who had filled her life with love and adventure was dead. Her tears came then in a river.

“Danni?”

She looked up.

Billie McDougall, tall and thin as a reed, a man who had seemed as old as her father but was twenty-odd years younger, stood in the door. He was accompanied by Jane Pearl, her father’s office manager, bookkeeper and sometime clerk. They were like family; they were her family now.

“Come, lass,” Billie said. “Come away now. Your father was old and tired, and he needs to sleep now and rest from the weary rigors of this world. He loved you, lass, and he was loved in return, and that is the true measure of any man’s life.”

“Danni, we’ll take you home. We’ll get you a nice cup of tea with a shot of Scotch or whiskey and it will help you through the night,” Jane said.

Billie walked in and stood over Angus’s body, his cap in hand. “I will continue in your place, my dear friend,” he said. And, to Danni’s ears, it was like a vow.

As if Billie, too, believed that Angus could still hear him.

Jane set her hands on Danni’s shoulders. “Come with us now, Danni. The doctor said you’ve been with the corp—that you’ve been with your father for over an hour. It’s time to take care of yourself, as he would have wanted.”

Jane had strong hands and arms for a woman. She could be forceful.

Danni moved to the door. But then she turned and came back to place a kiss on her father’s forehead and laid her head against his chest as she had so many times as a little girl. “I love you,” she whispered. “I will always love you. You’ll live forever in my heart.”

He was growing colder; he was a corpse.

But he was her father.

“Let’s go now,” Jane urged.

“You will always be with me,” Danni told her father passionately as she was led out at last.

Billie remained, looking sadly down at his mentor, his friend and boss.

“Oh, Angus!” he said, anguish in his voice. “She doesn’t know yet, does she? I told you that you’d not live forever. Poor lass. Danni has not yet begun to know just how you will stay with her—just what you’ve left behind!”

Chapter One

IT WAS SPRING in New Orleans, a beautiful April day, and Angus Cafferty had been dead for three months the afternoon Michael Quinn followed the widow, Gladys Simon, to The Cheshire Cat, an antiques and curio store on Royal Street.

The house itself, now a shop, was one of the few buildings that had survived the Great New Orleans Fire of 1788 that had destroyed 856 buildings—followed by the fire of 1794 that destroyed another 212. It was one of the only structures from the mid-1700s that remained on Royal Street. It had a two-storied facade, with an inner courtyard and balconies surrounding the building streetside. He knew the layout of the old building; the original parlor, study and dining rooms were set up as the shop’s display area, while the old pantry was Danielle Cafferty’s studio. The basement was not really a basement at all. This was New Orleans, and even on high ground, the basement was just the lowest level of the house. Six steps led up from the street, and courtyard entries led to the porches and the house. The shop’s basement was filled with treasures Angus had collected and kept away from the view of others. Upstairs, above the store, were the office and a small apartment used by the Cafferty family. Billie McDougall slept in the attic, ever watchful, while a second street entry, which had once been a carriage house, was now a two-car garage.

Following Gladys Simon was easy; Quinn was directly behind her and she was oblivious. He felt like a stalker, having to trail her like this, but when he’d discovered that morning that she had the bust, he’d tried to see her. According to her housekeeper, she refused to see anyone. No amount of cajoling had gotten him in.

He’d waited outside her house, but she’d run to her car, turning away when he’d begun to speak to her. All he could do was follow—and pray that she was going to the curio shop.

She approached the shop and so did Quinn, practically on her heels. As they entered, he saw Billie reading a book behind the counter and Jane Pearl, the clerk and bookkeeper, walking up the stairs, presumably going to her office. She paused, however, when she heard the door open.

Gladys Simon was unaware of her surroundings. She headed straight to the old mahogany bar that had been refashioned into a sales counter. Quinn stepped in right after her and feigned great interest in a grandfather clock that was situated just inside the front door.

Billie might have been perfectly cast as Riff Raff in a Rocky Horror remake or as an aging Ichabod Crane. He was as skinny as his mentor and employer had been robust. Billie had steel-gray eyes and a shock of neck-length white hair and was dressed in jeans and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. He must have been a startling and imposing figure to a Versace-clad and perfectly manicured matron like Gladys Simon.

But Gladys didn’t seem to notice anything about Billie at all. She rushed over to him.

“You buy antiquities, unusual items, don’t you? You have to buy the bust from me—you must buy it from me. No, no, you don’t need to buy it. You can have it. Please, come to my house and take the bust away. It belongs in a place like this!”

Billie glanced briefly at Quinn, a frown furrowing his wrinkled brow. “I’d love to help you, ma’am. I’m not the owner, but—”

“Oh, dear! That’s right!” she said with a gasp. “But...the owner died, didn’t he? Oh, please tell me the new owner is available...please! I must... I can’t live with that thing anymore....”

“Now, try to calm down, Mrs....?”

“Simon. Gladys Simon. It was my husband’s. He’s dead now. He’s dead because of that...thing!”

“Please calm down, Mrs. Simon,” he said again. “The object is a bust?”

“Yes, very old—and exquisite, really.”

“You want to give me an old and exquisite piece?” Billie’s voice was incredulous.

“Are you deaf, sir?” she shrieked. “Yes—I must be rid of it!”

By then, the woman’s frantic tone had drawn the new owner from her studio in the back of the store.

Quinn had watched her on the day of Angus Cafferty’s funeral. He had chosen not to approach her then; he had kept his distance when Cafferty was laid to rest in the Scottish vault at the old cemetery—the “City of the Dead,” where he had long stated he would go when the time came. There’d been a piper at the grave site, but Cafferty was accompanied by the traditional New Orleans jazz band and a crowd of friends to his final resting place. He’d been loved by many in the city. Of course, a tourist or two—or ten or twenty—fascinated by the ritual, had joined in, as well. The vaults in the cemetery didn’t allow for the immediate grouping around the grave that was customary at in-ground burials, so he’d been able to hover on the edges of the crowd, paying his own respects from afar.

There was no doubt that the man’s daughter had been devastated. And there was no doubt that she was old Angus’s daughter—she had his startling dark blue eyes and sculpted features, finer and slimmer, but still a face that spoke of her parentage. Her hair was a rich auburn, brushing her shoulders, a color that might well have been Angus’s once—when he’d had pigment in his hair. Despite her grief, she hadn’t seemed fragile or broken, which gave him hope. Though she was slim, she was a good five-nine and might just possess some of the old man’s inner strength.

As she walked to the front of the shop, she was frowning slightly, obviously perplexed by the commotion. She wore jeans and a short-sleeved tailored shirt and somehow appeared casual and yet naturally elegant. She moved with an innate grace.

Gladys heard her coming and turned to her. “You—you’re the owner?”

“Yes, I’m Danni Cafferty. May I help you?”

“Oh, yes, you certainly may. I know your father was intrigued by historic objects. I never met him but I read that his shop acquired the most unusual and...historic objects,” she repeated. “You must come and take the bust.”

“Mrs. Simon, we don’t just take anything.”

“It’s priceless! You must take it.”

“Mrs. Simon, I didn’t say we wouldn’t buy it. It’s that we don’t take things.” Danni looked at the woman, assessing her with a smile. “I can’t believe this is such an emergency that—”

“The bust killed my husband!” Gladys Simon broke in.

Danni raised perfectly arched brows. “Do you mean that...that it was used to strike him? If that’s the case, the bust might well be evidence—”

“No!” Mrs. Simon cried. “You are not your father!”

Danni seemed to freeze, calling on reserves of hard-fought control and dignity. “No, Mrs. Simon, I am not my father. But if you wish to bring this bust in—”

“No! I won’t touch it. You must come and get it.”

Danni mulled that over for a minute, as if she was still fighting for control. Quinn noted that Gladys Simon’s shrill voice had alerted Jane, and the bookkeeper was coming hesitantly down the stairs, one of Angus Cafferty’s ebony nineteenth-century gentleman’s canes in her hands. A good match for Billie—although the two weren’t romantically linked—Jane was slim and straight with iron-gray hair knotted at her nape and gold-rimmed spectacles. She’d been with Angus for the past two years or so, and though she hadn’t been a confidant in the way Billie had, she was fiercely loyal to the Cafferty family.

Jane was ready for whatever danger threatened, but seeing Gladys, her slim frame and near-hysteria, she held her place on the stairs, watching Danni to see if she was needed.

“Mrs. Simon, I’m sorry,” Danni said. “You’re suffering from terrible grief, and I have a lot of empathy for you. But we’re not equipped to handle the psychological stages of that pain. We’re a curio and collectibles shop and—”

“Yes! You must take the bust.”

Danni glanced at Billie, who was following the conversation with unabashed interest.

“Mrs. Simon,” she said gently. “Is there someone we can call? A close friend, a relative? Perhaps a minister or a priest?”

“I need you to take the statue!” Mrs. Simon said. Then she raged at Danni. “Oh, you stupid, stupid girl!”

Danni stiffened at the insult but, to her credit, took a deep breath and refused to reply, shaking her head with sorrow instead. “Let us help you. Let us get you someone who can help you.”

Gladys whirled around, starting for the door.

“Mrs. Simon, if it’s so awful, why didn’t you just get rid of it?” Danni demanded.

Gladys stopped abruptly. She slowly turned around and walked toward her. “Don’t you think I tried? I threw it in the trash, and it was back in the study the next day. I dropped it in a Dumpster on Bourbon Street, and it was back the next day. I buried it—and it was back!”

She was delusional—or so she obviously appeared to Danielle Cafferty.

“Mrs. Simon, really, you need to calm down,” Danni said. “We’ll go over and see the statue. Give me an address and we’ll come this evening. We close at seven.”

A sigh of sheer relief escaped Gladys and she dug into her handbag for a card, which she handed to Danni. “Thank you...thank you. You’ve saved my life!”

“It’s just a bust...a statue...whatever, Mrs. Simon. Please relax. Everything will be fine.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Gladys breathed.

And then she was gone.

Danni picked up the store’s old-fashioned phone. She started dialing as Jane came the rest of the way down the stairs.

“You all right, Danni?” Jane didn’t hide her concern.

“Of course. But I’m worried about that poor woman.”

“Who are you calling?” Billie asked.

“The police,” Danni said. “Someone needs to help that woman—perhaps see that she’s committed. She’s—”

It was time for Quinn to make his move and he did so swiftly, setting his thumb down on the disconnect button before she could dial three digits.

Danni stared at him in total indignation. “What the hell? Who are you—what do you think you’re doing?”

“Don’t call the police just yet. Listen to me. The woman really needs your help. Ask Billie,” Quinn said. “I can try to follow her and get the damned thing, but I’ve already tried to see her and talk to her. She knows about your father and the shop, so you’re the one she needs to trust. You need to go and get the statue. But you don’t have to deal with this alone. I’ll be there.”

Taken aback, she was still angry, but he saw sudden recognition in her smoldering gaze, along with shock and resentment.

Maybe he wasn’t handling this well.

“You...you were at my father’s funeral,” she said.

He nodded. “I was his friend. He was a good man. The best. And you’re doing him a real disservice if you don’t continue his work.”

“His work? His work was this shop and I’m keeping it open. Listen, I’m calling the police. That woman needs professional help—and I don’t believe you’re any more equipped to deal with her than I am,” she said.

“Billie?” Quinn turned to Angus’s long-time assistant.

Billie cleared his throat, looking at Danni. “Um, yeah, I don’t know how to explain it all, but your father would’ve gone out there and seen the statue.”

“Who is he?” she asked Billie, inclining her head toward Quinn.

“He is standing right here. I’m Quinn. Michael Quinn, private investigator.”

“And you’re investigating crazy ladies with statues?” she asked sarcastically.

“You should go see the bust, Danni,” Billie said.

“What’s the matter with both of you? If I don’t call the police, I’ll live with a guilty conscience forever. She’s deranged! She could be a danger to herself and others.”

Quinn stepped back. “By all means, then. Call the police. And maybe they can help her for a few hours—a few days. The danger will continue. I guarantee it.”

“Really? And you’re so sure of this...how?”

“Because I worked with your father on occasion.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t know you,” she told him.

“Um, I do,” Billie said. “I know him.”

“I’ve seen him with your father, too,” Jane murmured. “But I don’t think you should trust him.”

“She should trust him. Yes, she should!” Billie argued. “No offense, Jane, but you were never part of Angus’s real world. You’ve barely been around two years and you’re his bookkeeper, nothing more.”

“Well, I never!” Jane said.

“Jane is a wonderful employee and you will not stand here in my store and insult her!” Danni said indignantly.

“Angus trusted me implicitly,” Jane declared.

“Perhaps,” Quinn said with a shrug. “But that’s not important right now.”

Danni looked at him warily. “You should state your business, your relationship with my father and then leave the store.”

“I helped him. He helped me. I guess Angus wanted to protect you, his little princess,” Quinn said. “Well, it’s a shame and it’s sad and it’s probably too late.” He felt his anger growing, and he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t really her fault if her father had chosen not to share the depths of his life with her.

But she should have figured out that he wasn’t just a shopkeeper or a collector! How naive could she have been? On the other hand, maybe she hadn’t been that naive. Maybe she’d just been gone too much.

“Like I said, I don’t know you, and I was very close to my father!” she began. “Mrs. Simon is suffering and needs help but understand this—I am not trained or equipped to deal with mental illness, and I rather think you might have some problems in that area yourself—rather than being a person who’s capable of dealing with it!”

“Call the police, then. Like I said, maybe they can at least buy her a few hours.” Although Quinn ignored her insult, he felt his fingers knotting into fists. He had to get out of the shop. There was no chance he’d offer unprovoked violence to anyone but he didn’t want to break anything there. He studied her for a moment and added, “If you come up with some sense, meet me at the Simon house at five. At five—I don’t care if you’ve closed or not. Billie handles the shop, anyway. He doesn’t need you here.”

With that, Quinn turned.

As the door closed behind him, he found himself shaking with emotion.

And some of it was anger.

Some of it was fear. Not for himself. He’d long since learned that fear, in itself, wasn’t a bad thing. But a man’s reaction to fear could be very bad indeed.

He was afraid for the future. He hadn’t realized how much he’d depended on Angus Cafferty.

* * *

Danni watched the stranger leave, puzzled and trembling inwardly with outrage, indignation, a painful sense of loss. And dread...

She’d been working until she’d heard Gladys Simon’s strident voice. Working idly on the finishing touches to a painting. She assumed she’d been inspired by a face she’d seen on the streets of New Orleans. Dignified, aging, attractive, intriguing. But her painting was almost an exact image of the woman who’d come into the shop.

It doesn’t mean anything, she assured herself. It was just a resemblance. There were many such women in the South. Old-school, well-groomed and usually ruled by impeccable manners and propriety.

But...

She turned her thoughts to the man who’d been in the shop—as if he’d followed Gladys in, as if he’d known why she was coming. Yes, she’d seen him at the funeral. He’d interested her. He hadn’t exactly been hiding, but he’d kept his distance from the family and other mourners. It would be difficult, she imagined, for a man like that to really blend into a crowd. He had to be six foot four, and he seemed to be solidly built but not too heavily muscled. He had neatly cropped sandy hair and hazel eyes that seemed to marble to a piercing shade of gold.

“Who is he?” she asked Billie.

And if he knew my father so well, she wondered silently, feeling a familiar sense of loss and pain, why did my father never tell me about him?

I was so blithely unaware! Completely focused on art...

Billie looked uncomfortable. “He told you. His name is Michael Quinn. He’s a P.I. Used to be a cop with the NOPD, but he left the force to work for himself.”

“So what?” she demanded. “He worked with my dad to track down stolen objects or something like that?” she asked.

“Something like that,” Billie said, his gaze sliding from hers.

“Hmmph! He’s rude,” Jane said, resting the cane she’d brought down on the bar counter. “Obnoxious. Like a crazy man. You should stay away from him!”

“No, you should listen to him,” Billie insisted.

Jane shook her head. “Report him to the police!”

“Ah, Jane. You’ll argue with anything I suggest,” Billie said, aggravated.

“Well, rude isn’t really the problem at the moment.” Danni sighed, looking at the two of them. They could bicker like a married couple; Billie didn’t really trust Jane, she thought. But both of them were excellent at their jobs, excellent at helping her run the business. She lowered her head. Most of the time, they were amusing when they were together.

“Billie, sorry. I can’t just take the word of some guy who thinks he knew my father better than I did. I am going to call the police. I’m worried about that woman.”

“Are you going to go and see about the bust?” Billie asked.

“Maybe,” she replied. “But...I need to report this. If something happened to her—if she was so upset she walked into traffic—I’d never be able to live with myself.”

Billie and Jane both stared at her. She called the operator rather than the emergency number and was put through to the right department. Billie and Jane watched as she gave the woman’s name and reported her strange behavior in the shop and then answered a zillion questions. Had the woman been armed? No. Had she threatened anyone? No. Had she mentioned suicide? No. But she had talked about a killer statue and sounded as if she needed some serious intervention.

In the end, a public safety officer promised that Mrs. Simon’s state of mind would be investigated, and she hung up, feeling frustrated.

Jane and Billie were still staring at her.

“What?” she asked.

“Your dad would’ve found out about the bust. He wouldn’t have ignored that poor lady,” Billie said.

“You haven’t been on any buying trips since he died,” Jane added. “No, I wasn’t your father’s right hand—like Billie—but I knew him well and loved him. Maybe...” She looked pained as she spoke again. “Maybe you should listen to Billie.”

“Will wonders never cease!” Billie muttered.

Danni lifted her hands in a gesture that said nothing at all. It was still hard; she didn’t spend her days crying or moping, but she felt as if there was a huge hole in her life. Angus had expected her to be strong and independent. She’d gone away to school and gotten her own apartment and led a life separate from his.

But he’d always been there. Once she was back in New Orleans, she’d seen him almost every day. She’d traveled with him extensively through the years.

Seeing the sights—at his urging—while he did his buying and collecting. He had spoiled her, yes. But he’d also taught her to be courteous and caring. He’d never walked away from anyone who needed help, whether it was a confused tourist seeking directions or a homeless veteran or down-and-outer needing food and shelter—or a ride to detox.

“I will go see the bust, okay? I’ll do what I can for Mrs. Simon.”

Billie nodded. “That’s what your dad would want.”

“I’m trying to keep his legacy alive,” she told the pair. “Now, if you’ll excuse me...I was working. I’ll go at five. I’ll meet that obnoxious man and buy the stupid bust and hopefully make everyone happy, all right?”

Neither spoke or moved.

With a slight sound of impatience, she passed them by, thinking she’d return to her studio.

But she didn’t want to go there. She didn’t want to see the painting she’d almost finished, the character study that suddenly looked just like a real person.

Mrs. Simon.

Instead, she headed downstairs to the rooms that had been the most precious to her father. There were glass cases here and there—and boxes everywhere. A full suit of armor stood in one corner while in another an upright Victorian coffin held pride of place. It had never been used for a body but had been a display piece for a funeral home that had once been in business on Canal Street. A mannequin enjoyed eternal sleep behind the small window above the face, a style that was popular at the time. The wall displayed the death mask of an ancient Egyptian queen. One corner of the room held a horrifically screaming gorilla from a movie that was never completed and probably with good cause; the sign on the creature said From The Gorilla That Ate Manhattan.

She paused, glancing around. Other people, she thought, might find the basement creepy. She’d spent so much time working with her father that she’d learned to appreciate the delicate artistry put into so many of the items. The carving on the coffin, for instance, was the result of painstaking craft and labor.

Light filtered in from the old glass panes just above ground level but it wasn’t enough for her that afternoon. Danni turned on the low-watt bulbs that helped protect the old pieces of art and artistry and sighed wistfully. Some people might suggest that her father haunted the rooms where his collections were kept.

She wished he did.

“Oh, Dad, if only you were here now!” she said softly.

The book.

He’d been so frantic that she “turn to the book.”

It was a very old volume and it sat on a desk, encased in protective glass. Danni could remember it being there forever, she just hadn’t thought much about it among the other curios so dear to her father. She walked over to the desk, sat in the swivel chair and looked down at the old tome before opening the glass cover and lifting it out. She’d never held it before, and the book was heavy, the parchment rich and the pages gold-trimmed. It was American, something that always gave her father great pride, and had been printed in 1699.

Carefully she turned pages, wondering what he’d wanted her to read in this book—or why he’d believed it would answer all questions, solve all dilemmas.

She was startled when a piece of folded paper slipped out.

She recognized her father’s writing—her name in cursive on the outside.

With trembling fingers, she unfolded the paper.

Danni, dearest daughter, my sorrow is great as I write this. My burden is hard to bear, and yet it will be yours, too. Read with the light on the desk. And remember, the book is only for those who have the heart and the will to understand and to care, and though I have tried to give you the life of a normal young woman, the day will come when you must understand. Of course, I will tell you, talk to you, about all this, but I am writing in case my time comes before I know. Life is fleeting for us all and none can predict the day that we’ll be called to a greater reward. My dearest Danni, I believe that love transcends time, and so I am with you, even if I have failed you.

Tears stung her eyes. “You never failed me, Dad. Ever. I loved you so much,” she said aloud.

No, he had never failed her. She didn’t know that much about his past—only that he had immigrated from Edinburgh when he’d been a young man, that he’d studied ancient history there and spent many years working on archaeological digs. He’d batted around the world until he was in his forties, met her mother—an anthropologist half his age—married her and moved to her home, New Orleans. After her mom died of an aneurysm when Danni was four, he’d done everything for her, acting as both father and mother. Even as an older man, he’d been gorgeous. But he’d never remarried.

A bittersweet smile curved her lips. “I wish you’d make a little more sense, Dad, but...no, you never failed me. You were the best ever!”

Danni began to flip through the pages. The Book of Truth offered medieval cures for whatever might ail you. One chapter listed herbs and their mixtures for maladies ranging from snakebite to the plague. Another gave instructions for cupping and bleeding.

She went back to the beginning. The print thoughout was large—perhaps to help the elderly and those with poor eyesight. The letters were exquisite, more like calligraphy than print.

She found a publication page. The book had been published in Boston. Maybe accepting herbs as natural medicinal components was something the author had done boldly and angrily, since it was printed only a few years after the calamity of the Salem witch trials.

She quickly discovered that she was right. The author, Millicent Smith, had written an introduction, dedicating the book to the women who had died in innocence, victims of jealousy or greed or even mass hysteria. “True evil rests deeply and does not enter into the clean souls of those who will not be corrupted by demons.” Danni admired the author and printer for their courage, and wondered how many copies of The Book of Truth had been created. Were they kept secret during those perilous times, circulating underground? How had her father come across this one?

“Turn to the book,” he’d told her.

She shook her head. She didn’t believe she’d have to protect anyone from being hanged, pressed or burned to death for being a witch. Maybe he was warning her to guard against prejudice of any kind, because there was nothing so dangerous.

Maybe it was his way of saying that there were people out there who needed to be saved.

“I called the police, Dad,” she murmured. “I tried to get help for Mrs. Simon.” She sighed. “Okay, I’ll meet your bulwark of a private eye and buy the damned statue!”

She set the book back in its case, but as she did, she noticed another piece of paper between the next pages.

The light. Make sure you use the light!

That had been written hastily.

Use the light.

Well, she couldn’t read without light, could she? Besides, there were plenty of lights down here.

Determined, feeling guilty although she couldn’t understand why, Danni looked at her watch. She’d been down here longer than she’d realized.

If she was going to meet Quinn, she had to get moving.

But she hesitated, drumming her fingers on the glass, frowning. Michael Quinn. She vaguely remembered the name and wondered why. She knew she hadn’t met him through her father. It was a good old Irish name and there were plenty of those in the city.

And then she remembered. Years ago, the name had been revered. There’d been a Michael Quinn who had hit the sports pages of the Times Picayune again and again. He’d lifted his public school from obscurity to stardom playing football. He was offered scholarships to half the colleges in the country. He’d been a local hero, soaring to football glory while maintaining academic achievement and capturing the hearts of adolescent females through the city, the parish and beyond. She was only twelve at the time, so she couldn’t really remember the details, but...

But nothing. He’d disappeared. There’d been brief articles about him—about his behavior, attending parties known for excessive drug and alcohol use. Then everything had stopped. She hadn’t heard anything about him ripping up the college scoreboards or joining the pros. He’d just disappeared.

Might have been a different Michael Quinn.

* * *

Gladys heard the voice again as she drove down the street. He was there, beside her, whispering in her ear.

“Do it. Gun it!” he ordered her.

She had ignored him as she’d driven through the French Quarter; you could barely move through the Quarter at times, much less gun a car. People walked into the street heedlessly—especially those who’d gotten an early start on Bourbon Street.

But now, she could see a group of schoolchildren. A crossing guard stood in the street with a large red stop sign, warning drivers that it was a school zone and elementary kids were making their way across the road.

“Gun it. End it for the little bastards—stop the pain for them now. Half of them live in crack houses, you know that. End their pain and yours. Gun it!”

She turned to look at him. He was beautiful. His face was so handsomely structured, with dark hair curling over his brow. His mouth was full and sensual. He moved, and yet he still looked as if he were cast out of marble. It was so strange; the statue in her house was a bust, showing only the head, shoulders and neck of the man, but he seemed to be sitting by her side in full body. He acted natural and at ease. He’d been carved during the time of the Renaissance, but he spoke English and knew modern idioms. He seemed to know modern mores and customs, too.

He was beautiful, yes...

And so malicious. Evil to the core. His smile was one of pure cruelty.

“You have to do it, Gladys. Think of the world, always the same. Kill or be killed. You can end their misery and your own. Or if you survive, you’ll walk away because of your fragile mental state, the depths of your grief. It’s kill or be killed, Gladys. That’s the way of the world.”

She saw the man in her mind, of course, but he seemed so...real. She’d seen him the night her husband had died, seen him standing over the body. And she’d known that Hank Simon was killed by the marble bust he’d been so ecstatic to acquire, the piece that had lain half-buried by the grave of a pirate-turned-entrepreneur in St. Louis Cemetery #1. A former pirate, yes, but a man who’d dedicated himself to good works in the latter part of his life. God knew where the bust had been before that.

He’d stood over Hank where he lay on the floor of their grand Garden District home; he’d stood over him, smiling, while Hank lay broken and bleeding. It looked as if he’d fallen or jumped over the balcony railing, but he hadn’t. She’d known it when she saw the man. He had disappeared into thin air and she hadn’t seen him again—until he’d appeared at the foot of her bed that morning, telling her she had to do as he instructed, or she’d wind up like Hank.

It was astonishing that her heart hadn’t given out then.

No, it was tragic that her heart hadn’t given out. Because now he was with her, urging her to kill....

She wasn’t a killer. She wasn’t going to mow down schoolchildren with her Lincoln.

And yet...

She felt her foot almost itching to touch the pedal. She felt something inside her suddenly longing to do as he said—hit the gas. Hit it hard. Hit all the children she could. And, definitely, hit the plump crossing guard with her sign and her whistle....

Her foot inched down on the gas with a malevolence that seemed to fill her heart with bloodred fury.

Chapter Two

QUINN HAD THOUGHT he’d be able to keep up with Gladys.

Chasing her on foot hadn’t been difficult, but following her once he’d gotten back to his car had proven to be a challenge. Parking in the Quarter was a nightmare, so naturally he’d been two blocks down. Still, Gladys Simon wasn’t exactly a speed demon, so he should’ve managed to catch up with her.

But it was the French Quarter. He should have known but never suspected that a parade would close off Bourbon precisely when he needed to cross it.

Gladys had beaten the parade.

He chafed, waiting. There was no turning; there was no backing up.

Assuming that she’d be headed home, he figured he’d start uptown as soon as he could. He tried to assure himself that Danni Cafferty had called the police and that they’d come by—or social services would—to see to her welfare.

But he couldn’t be sure.

He knew he had to reach Gladys himself. If Danni wasn’t going to take the statue, he had to do it. But he didn’t know whether he dared wait long enough to catch up with Gladys, since she seemed to be at the end of her rope. If Danni had just agreed immediately to come and get the damn thing, he wouldn’t have been so worried.

When he’d tried to call Gladys, she’d refused to talk to him. When he’d tried to see her at home, he’d been put off by a protective housekeeper. He hadn’t known that Hank Simon had the statue in time to try and see the man. In fact, he wouldn’t even have learned about its existence—other than through vague references in art-history books—if it wasn’t for the sniveling Vic Brown, incarcerated now with no bail while he awaited trial.

Vic had sold the bust to Hank Simon. Then, of course, Quinn had found out that Hank had died, which meant his wife now had it.

Vic had shot down three of his associates in the Chartres Street gang before being winged by the police himself. According to Vic, the bust had made him do it.

The newspaper had alerted him to the criminal’s planned defense. Visiting him in his cell had told Quinn that Vic seriously thought the bust had ordered him to shoot his friends—it was them or his own life. A self-defense plea might actually work for the poor bastard; Vic’s attorney, Anthony Everst, was trying to get Vic into a hospital unit. Not a bad call, since the dope dealer and petty crook was ranting in his cell about being damned now that he was no longer possessed.

Despite maneuvering more quickly than the law allowed when he finally cleared the Quarter, Quinn didn’t catch up with Gladys on the road. But when he arrived, he saw that her car was in the driveway.

Apparently Gladys had gotten home without incident.

He left his car and hurried up the walkway to the porch of the beautiful old Victorian house where the Simons—pillars of society, philanthropists in the extreme—had lived. The house, he knew, had been in the Simon family since it was built just prior to the War Between the States. It spoke of old money and genteel living, slow breezes and gracious hospitality.

He banged on the door and pressed the buzzer urgently.

It was opened by the battle-ax of a housekeeper.

“You again,” she said. Her name was Bertie. He knew that from trying to go through her to speak with Gladys before. He’d begun this quest as soon as he’d learned the bust had wound up at the Simon home.

“Bertie, it’s imperative that I talk to Mrs. Simon. I think I can help her. You must know that her mind is unbalanced by grief. I can help her. I swear to you, I can.”

“She’s in mourning,” Bertie said. “And she doesn’t need any ambulance chasers trying to get her to sue on her husband’s behalf or any such thing.” Bertie wagged a finger at him. “I know who you are, Michael Quinn. And I don’t care if you were a cop or if you’ve become a big hero—I heard enough ’bout you and your exploits when you were a boy. No pretty-boy white trash really changes his colors, and that’s the truth of it.”

“Bertie, this has nothing to do with me and everything to do with your employer,” Quinn said, tempted to grab the housekeeper by the shoulders and push her out of his way. “She’s nearly unhinged. She needs help.”

“Not from the likes of you. You get out of here, Mr. Quinn,” Bertie said.

It really was a matter of life and death; still, he didn’t want to force the woman to move if he didn’t have to. One thing he’d say for Bertie—she knew his old reputation and could clearly see his size, but her loyalty to Gladys kept her from giving an inch.

“How about you just ask her if she’ll see me? Tell her it’s about the bust.”

Bertie stiffened. She looked at him and either decided that Gladys was in such bad shape that even he might help or that he might be ready to physically set her aside.

“Fine, you can come in,” she snapped.

She opened the door, and he entered the foyer with its elegant stained glass. He saw the central stairway leading up to the rooms above and balcony from which Hank Simon had thrown himself to his death. Bertie wouldn’t glance in that direction. She stared straight at him and indicated the room to his right. “Go on into the parlor and stay there!” she said firmly.

He nodded and walked in. She followed him, closing the heavy double doors as if that would assure he didn’t wander around the house.

Quinn waited. Handsome portraits of the Civil War–era owners flanked the mantel. The furniture in the room was an eye-pleasing collection of different decades and styles. The chairs were richly upholstered and the room’s central piece—a grand piano—was polished to a magnificent shine.

He sat restlessly in one of the wingback chairs. Bertie was taking way too long.

He stood and walked around the room, feeling a sense of dread, of impending doom. He was ready to break through the doors and burst up the stairs when Bertie reappeared, a look of total consternation on her face.

“You’ll have to come back.”

“That’s what Gladys said?” Quinn demanded.

Bertie hesitated. “I can’t find Mrs. Simon,” she said.

“What do you mean, you can’t find her?”

Bertie crossed her arms over her ample chest. “I mean, she isn’t here. I can’t find her. So you’ll have to come back.”

He shook his head. “Her car is in the drive. She was in the Quarter less than an hour ago and now she’s here—at least her car is. I was right on her heels. She hasn’t gone back out, so she’s here somewhere.”

“Well, she’s not!”

He approached the woman, speaking in a reasonable voice. “Bertie, listen. You don’t know me. All you know about is an old reputation. I’m here to help Gladys—I swear it. We have to search for her. She’s not in her right mind.”

Bertie’s lashes fell over her eyes and she looked downward quickly; she did know that he was speaking the truth.

She looked up at him again. “I have no idea where she is. She’d gone up to her room. Now, she isn’t there.”

“Which room?” he asked.

“Up the stairs, go down the balcony, first door to your left.”

He hurried past her and took the stairs two at a time.

Walking along the balcony, he saw that he was passing the spot where Hank Simon must have hurled himself from the upper level to the floor beneath, breaking his neck. An accident? No...

“Gladys! Gladys, where are you?” he called. “I’ll get the bust out of here right now! Gladys!”

No reply. He dashed into the woman’s room.

Genteel, pleasant, charming. There was a white knit cover on the bed and the pillows were plumped high. An old-fashioned dressing table stood on one side of the room, while a more masculine set of drawers, matching in wood and design, stood against the far wall. White chintz curtains covered the window that overlooked the courtyard. Oils portraying different aspects of Jackson Square and the river graced the walls.

“Gladys?”

The breeze ruffled the curtains. Nothing more.

“Mr. Quinn!”

Bertie hadn’t followed him up the stairs. Her voice wasn’t panicked, nor did it sound relieved. He walked back out to the balcony that looked over the foyer below and leaned against the rail.

It was solid.

Bertie was standing just inside the entry, but she wasn’t alone.

Danni Cafferty had arrived.

“We may be too late,” he said.

Bertie let out a gasp.

Danni frowned, gazing up at him with her deep blue eyes. “Too late?”

“Bertie, go through the rooms downstairs. Look in every closet,” Quinn said. “You—” he pointed at Danni “—get up here with me and start going through all the rooms on the second floor. Bathrooms, storerooms, closets, you name it.”

“Mr. Quinn,” Bertie said indignantly. “Mrs. Simon doesn’t make a habit of hiding in the closet!”

“Just do it!”

Bertie was worried; that much was obvious. She pursed her lips, not happy taking orders from him but willing at that moment to do anything.

Danni, still frowning, made her way up the stairs. He ignored her and returned to the room Gladys had shared with her husband.

He checked in her bathroom and the huge walk-in closet that had probably been another room or a nursery at one time. He peered under the bed. Then he hesitated, studying the open window. Dreading what he might find, he walked to it, stepped out on the inner courtyard balcony and glanced down.

He sighed in relief. There was no broken body on the patio stones below. He inhaled. Had the woman slipped out the back and gone for a stroll?

Danni came in. “I’ve been in a study, two guest rooms, a sewing room and an office and there are no more rooms. I opened every closet door—and checked the other two bathrooms. There’s no one here.”

“It’s all wrong,” he muttered.

“Why are you so sure of that?” she asked.

“I’ve seen what the bust can do,” he told her. And he had. He’d seen the madness in Vic and he knew what Vic had done.

“The bust is just an object!”

He brushed past her. There was a garage on the other side of the courtyard with an apartment above it. There had to be some kind of entry via the bottom of the U—the traditional design of the house—that surrounded the courtyard. He started down the hall but then paused, noting that the trapdoor to the attic wasn’t completely closed.

He cursed, barely aware of Danni standing behind him, watching him as if he should be in a mental ward.

Quinn pulled down the stairs that led to the attic and quickly climbed up them.

At first, he could see nothing. The attic was lit only by a single dormer window and his eyes had to adjust.

Then he heard a scream of horror behind him. Danni had followed him up. She was pointing.

He blinked, and then he saw it. In the shadowed space that fell just to the side of the window, there was a body swinging from the rafters.

He rushed to it, lifting the slim form of Gladys Simon so that the rope around her neck could no longer strangle her. He held her, dug in his pocket for his knife and cut the thick cord, easing Gladys down to the wooden floor. He straddled her, desperate to perform CPR.

But he’d been a cop—and he’d been around.

Gladys was gone.

He kept up his efforts, anyway. He could be wrong....

He vaguely heard Danni calling the police. And he felt her hand on his shoulder.

“She’s dead,” Danni said softly.

He knew it was true.

He sat back on his haunches, bitterly ruing the time it had taken to reach her. When Danni touched him again, he jerked away.

At that moment, he hated her as much as he hated himself.

* * *

Danni felt disjointed.

Horrified and disjointed. The morning had started out like any other—and now she was sitting in the parlor of an uptown home while police and paramedics moved in and out, listening to Bertie cry and Quinn speak with a detective in controlled tones. The way he’d looked at her when he’d given up on resuscitating Gladys had cut her to the core. She felt tremendous guilt, and anger that she should feel that way. She had come when he’d told her to come. She couldn’t have known the woman was going to commit suicide! And she had called the police, and they’d promised to send social services out to investigate.

She was still sitting here—waiting, as the police had asked—feeling as if the earth had tilted slightly off its axis.

She wanted to leave, to go home, forget the horror of seeing Gladys Simon’s body swaying in the shadows, forget she’d seen the woman’s face when Quinn had brought her down.

She’d never forget it, though. Something was unalterably changed and she hated it.

“What do you know about this?”

She startled to awareness; the detective—a man named Jake Larue—was standing beside her, looking down at her.

She raised her hands. “I don’t know anything. I wish I did. Mrs. Simon came into my shop today, swearing that a bust her husband had bought had killed him. She was extremely agitated. I called the police—not the emergency line, she wasn’t walking around with a knife or a gun—and I was assured someone was going to see to her.” Her words sounded defensive, like an excuse. They were an excuse.

Could she have said or done anything that would have saved the woman’s life?

Larue turned to Quinn, shaking his head. “She was bereft. Her husband had just died. You’re trying to tell me she didn’t kill herself?”

“No, I believe she might well have killed herself, but if anyone can answer that question for sure, it’ll be the medical examiner. We searched the house before we found her. The police response when Ms. Cafferty called in the death was excellent—I think a cruiser was here in two or three minutes. No one was crawling around the house or the grounds. I didn’t, however, get into the garage,” Quinn said.

“I have men searching the area now, but if she did kill herself, there’s no reason to expect that someone was in the house.”

“But someone was in here,” Quinn said with certainty.

Larue groaned. “You just said she killed herself.”

“Yes, I believe she did.”

“Then why would anyone have been here?” Larue asked, his eyes narrowed. Danni noted that he wasn’t looking at Quinn as if he was crazy; instead, Larue looked as if he wanted to groan again, sink down in a chair and clamp his head between his hands. He held his ground, though, only a long breath escaping him as he stared at Quinn.

“The bust is gone,” Quinn told him.

“The bust...the bust that supposedly killed Hank Simon?” Larue asked skeptically.

Quinn nodded. “Mrs. Simon was convinced it killed her husband.”

“And you think a bust killed her, too?” Larue asked.

“It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is what was in her head. If she believed the bust killed him, she might have believed it would kill her,” Quinn said. He shrugged. “Or worse—maybe she believed it would have some kind of dangerous effect on her...I don’t know. I can only say she was acting very erratically and that’s why I came here. I’d seen her in the French Quarter, and to my deepest regret, it seems she was in a far worse frame of mind than I’d imagined.”

Larue sighed. “Quinn, it’s going to get more and more complicated, isn’t it? Every time you’re involved—”

“Wait!” Quinn protested. “You’re the one who asked me to check on Vic Brown and his raving about the bust, remember?”

“I’m not publicizing the fact that I brought you in, you know,” Larue reminded him.

Quinn grinned and nodded slightly.

“We were partners once,” Larue explained to Danni.

“He’s a good cop,” Quinn said. “A really good cop.”

“And Quinn is a damned good investigator, but I am a cop and...well, police forces all over sometimes call on P.I.s. With Quinn, I know it’s cool because even if he doesn’t make big bucks on a case like this, he’s going to be okay financially.”

Danni sensed that Quinn could feel her looking at him curiously. “I have a trust fund from my grandmother, who managed to buy just the right stocks at the right time,” he explained. “So I’m okay when I work on something that doesn’t involve a paying client. Something I’m interested in. And I’m always available for Larue when he needs a little help.”

“Thank God, since the force isn’t rolling in money and I’m going to be stretching the budget to the limit to bring in the overtime on this. I can already see it coming!” Larue turned to Danni. “Thanks to Quinn,” he added.

“But you have to admit it’s worth it. Because I’m usually a step ahead, and you know I do my damnedest to get answers,” Quinn finished for him.

Larue was silent for a minute, then sighed again.

Danni was surprised. She’d never imagined that Quinn was actually accepted by the police force—a force he’d left.

“All right,” Larue said briskly. “So you figure this bust—which Mrs. Simon believes killed her husband—is missing? That someone broke into the house as she was killing herself and stole it?”

“I don’t know if the thief broke in before or after she killed herself, but whoever stole it might have been ready to kill for it, anyway,” Quinn told Larue.

Danni spoke up. “No one needed to kill her for the bust. She wanted it out of the house. She would’ve given it to anyone who asked.”

Both of them looked at her—as if they’d forgotten she was there.

“Yes, she wanted it gone,” Quinn agreed. “But the person who stole it might not have known she was desperate to get rid of it. That’s irrelevant. We were too late, the bust is gone and there’ll be more deaths over it.”

“You’ve lost me, Quinn,” Larue said. He didn’t wait for a response, continuing with, “What about the housekeeper?” He glanced down at the notes on his iPhone. “Roberta Hyson. She didn’t see or hear anyone in the house.”

“This is a big house,” Quinn reminded him. “And I’m not sure about her eyesight or her hearing.”

“Nice...I hope people are kind to you when you’re old one day.”

“I’m not being insulting. The woman is elderly—and she isn’t in this room, so she can’t be insulted.”

It was crazy. Crazy. Danni’s head was pounding. She stood; the men had forgotten her again, anyway.

“If there’s nothing else you need from me, I’m going home,” she said. Her voice sounded distant and a little shaky.

Once again, they both gave her their attention.

“Of course, Ms. Cafferty. If we need you, we know where to find you,” Larue said.

“You’re leaving? Just like that—after this?” Quinn frowned.

“Just like that,” she told him, nodding gravely.

She thought she’d made her escape when she walked out the front door, moved down the steps and past the two uniformed officers standing guard at the entry like carved sentinels.

But she’d barely reached the street when she heard him behind her. And she wasn’t surprised when he grabbed her arm.

She spun around, seething. “Let go of me, Mr. Quinn...Michael, whatever.”

He did, staring at her. She hated the fact that she felt compelled to stare back.

“It’s Quinn. Just Quinn.” He paused. “I guess Angus didn’t talk to you. Either that, or you’re an ice-cold functioning psychopath who couldn’t care less about the lives of others.”

“My father had tremendous patience for people with mental problems. However, I don’t. So leave me alone, or I’ll shout for that friend of yours who’s still in the house.”

He shook his head, disgusted. With her. That seemed doubly galling.

And yet she still felt guilty. Gladys Simon was dead.

But what could she have done? She’d never seen the woman before that day!

To her horror, she blurted out, “It wasn’t my fault!”

She thought he’d lash out at her and insist that it certainly had been her fault.

“No, it was mine,” he said, and she realized he was inwardly kicking himself. For some reason, he seemed to believe that if she’d understood the situation, she might have magically saved the day. “It was my fault. I realize now that Angus never really said anything to you and neither did Billie. There are things you need to understand...but right now, we have to get that bust back.”

“We?” she said horrified. “Look, you don’t even know that Gladys didn’t stash it in the house somewhere. Maybe it wasn’t stolen. Like Larue said, you make everything more complicated.”

As if Quinn had somehow hired him to play a part, Detective Larue appeared on the front porch.

“Quinn!” he called.

“Yeah?”

“We need some help. You were right. The housekeeper didn’t hear a thing—but a window was taken out on the ground level, garage side. The glass was cut out, eased to the ground by some kind of suction device.”

Quinn nodded slowly.

“Still doesn’t mean the bust is gone. Where did she keep it?” Larue asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been here until today. But I’m pretty sure it was kept in the house. When Hank Simon bought it, he was convinced he’d made the buy of the century.”

“The den—or the salon,” Danni heard herself volunteer. Quinn turned to face her. “She said something in the store about trying to throw it away, trying to bury it, but it kept showing up back in... I’m not sure of the exact word she used, but someplace like an office, den, salon.”

“We’ve checked out Hank Simon’s office,” Larue said.

“There’s a library, but it’s not in there,” Quinn said. “I looked when we got here and were trying to find Gladys.”

Larue motioned to one of the uniformed officers standing by. “As soon as the M.E. retrieves the body and the forensic unit’s finished, I want a more extensive search of the house. Go through closets, bathrooms—everywhere.”

The officer cleared his throat. “What does the bust look like?” he asked. “The house is filled with antiques and bric-a-brac.”

“It’s carved marble. Head, neck and shoulders. Curly hair, classic features. It’s been described as portraying the face of an angel—or a demon. Some say the eyes are demonic, that they seem to be watching you. It was sculpted with a mantle over the shoulders and at a certain angle the mantle can appear to be angel wings,” Quinn told him. “It looks like it belongs in a dé Medici tomb.”

“A dé Medici tomb? Would that be a tomb in one of the St. Louis cemeteries, Lafayette up in the Garden District or out in Metairie?” the officer asked.

“There are no dé Medici tombs around here. No, what I’m saying is that it looks Roman—like something you’d see in a Renaissance church or tomb,” Quinn said.

The officer made a slightly derisive sound. He quieted as Quinn scowled at him. “Sorry, Detective Quinn.”

“I’m not on the force anymore. I’m just Quinn. I’m simply telling you how it’s been described,” Quinn added.

“Head, neck and shoulders—it didn’t get up and walk out, then,” Larue said sardonically.

“No, I don’t think it’s supposed to be able to walk,” Quinn said with equal sarcasm.

Danni wanted to go home. She wanted the day to rewind; she wished she’d never met—and failed—Gladys Simon, and that Michael Quinn had never darkened her door.

“You going to help in the search?” Quinn asked her.

No!

But the way he looked at her...

What was she going to do? Go home and wallow in guilt?

Not fair! She really had no idea what was going on.

She didn’t want to agree. She opened her mouth to say no.

What came out was, “Sure. You don’t think you’re going to find it, though, do you?”

“Nope,” he said. “But what the hell—we can’t be certain it’s missing until we do a thorough search.”

“What about...Gladys? I don’t know how to investigate. I’ll leave fingerprints all over. The crime scene people won’t want us messing things up.”

He grinned and reached into his pocket, producing a wad of balled-up plastic. It proved to be several pairs of gloves. “Not to mention the fact that our fingerprints are already all over the place because we were trying to find her.”

She snatched gloves from him and put them on. As they returned to the house, Larue said to Quinn, “I’m assuming you have some idea of where to look for this bust or statue or whatever if it’s not here?”

“No, not really,” Quinn replied. “But I’ll try to get a lead on it.”

“And if not?”

“If not...” He paused for a minute. His eyes slipped over Danni but she wasn’t sure he was really seeing her.

“If not?” Larue asked.

“If not, I’m afraid we’ll be following a trail of bodies....”

Chapter Three

THERE WAS REALLY no hurry to search for the statue; Quinn knew it was gone.

Just as he knew Gladys Simon had hanged herself.

So there was no reason to interrupt the work of the crime scene unit and the M.E., Ron Hubert, who came to examine the body of the deceased.

Dr. Hubert arrived as they walked back toward the house, the crime scene unit directly behind him.

Quinn was afraid he’d lose Danni while they waited for the forensic team to finish. When Larue called him up to the attic to speak with the M.E., he pulled her along with him. She was reluctant, but she felt the same sense of guilt over Gladys’s death as he did, so she followed him.

Hubert was on his knees by the body. Hubert, who was a good man and a good forensic pathologist, had been there through the worst of the city’s tragedies, dealing with the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina and the summer of storms and violence that flared in the wake of it. People were bitter, drug lords ignored the police, and the force was at its most vulnerable. Somehow, through the tragedy and carnage he’d seen, Hubert had never lost his empathy for the living or the dead. He’d lived in New Orleans since childhood but his family came from Minnesota, and he had the pale blond hair and pale blue eyes that indicated a Nordic background. He was sixty-plus years of age now, deceptively thin—and still strong. Quinn had seen him easily maneuver bodies that were five times his own size.

“See how the rope is tied?” Hubert asked as Quinn entered the room and knelt beside him. He pointed to the rope. “It’s quite awkwardly tied—an inexperienced hand. The way it’s situated tells me that she tied the rope herself, hoisted it over the support beam there and used that crate to stand on. There’s not a mark on her to say she struggled with anyone. I’ll see if there are any hairs, fibers, what have you, on the body, of course, but my preliminary exam suggests she did this to herself.” He looked at Quinn. “Don’t that beat all? A thief breaks in—but she kills herself. However, unless I can prove that beyond a doubt, he’ll probably go up for murder as well as breaking and entering and theft.”

“Can you prove it beyond a doubt?” Quinn asked him.

“I can certainly testify to the likelihood. Poor woman. The loss of her husband was obviously too much for her. I’m sorry to see her like this. The Simon family contributed to many charities. They doled out help right and left after the storms.”

Quinn nodded.

He wished Gladys had talked to him—and he wished he’d reached her in time. He damned well wished Hank Simon had never thought owning the bust would be such a remarkable coup.

But where was the damned thing now?

And how uncanny that a thief had come to steal it—just as Gladys had given in to the darkness....

The Simons had been generous, compassionate people.

He turned to Danni. She was standing exactly where he’d left her, almost as if she’d been frozen there.

“By the way, Dr. Hubert, this is Danni Cafferty. She’s Angus’s daughter.”

Hubert glanced at Danni. “How do you do, young lady? I suppose that question seems inappropriate at the moment. You can’t be doing very well.” He paused. “I knew your father. He was a fine man.”

She smiled fleetingly. “Thank you. Yes, he was.”

“Call me if there’s anything, please,” Quinn said.

“You know I will,” Hubert assured him.

Danni had responded to Dr. Hubert in smooth, well-modulated tones, still not moving.

Quinn touched her arm gently, afraid she’d wrench it away from him. Her eyes met his instead, blue and steady and crystalline.

“We’ll talk with a friend of mine on the crime scene unit,” he said.

She didn’t react, but when his touch signaled that she should turn so they could leave the attic, she spun around and preceded him down to the second level.

He found Grace Leon there. She was the head of her unit, a no-nonsense woman with short-cropped graying hair and a slim figure.

“I heard you were on this,” she said.

“Sure am. What can you tell me?”

“There was a break-in. As you may have heard, the glass was cut, and then removed with a suction device. We followed a faint trail of dust particles from the lower level to the study—and I do mean faint. I have something that might be a viable footprint from the first stair. I’ll let you know what we get, but we’ll need some tech to pump it up first.”

“Did he—or she—make it to the attic?”

“No, I don’t think so. The trail ends in the study. Odd, huh? The old lady hanged herself while she was being robbed. That’s how it appears, anyway.” Grace looked past him to Danni and then arched a brow at Quinn.

“Danni Cafferty, Grace Leon. Grace, Danni,” Quinn said.

“Cafferty?” Grace asked. “As in Angus?”

Quinn nodded.

Grace lifted a gloved hand, then dropped it. “Nice to meet you,” she said.

“Thanks. You, too.”

“You’re free to look around. Just keep the gloves on,” Grace advised. “We’re packing up now.”

“Why don’t we do a final check,” Quinn said to Danni. He realized he’d been waiting for her to bolt. She wasn’t going to.

“All right. I’ll take the downstairs,” she told him. “And the lower level. You can have the second floor and the attic.”

He was surprised again; she seemed all business, as though she knew what she was doing and what she was looking for. She abruptly moved into the parlor.

Quinn found exactly what he’d expected—nothing.

The thief hadn’t bothered with the silver or any of Gladys Simon’s jewelry. He’d removed the statue and apparantly nothing else. While Quinn paused in the study, observing the marvels her husband had collected—a Tiffany lamp, two Fabergé eggs, an Egyptian scepter, a medieval sword and shield, plus walls covered with fine art—he heard someone announcing the arrival of the ambulance that would transport Gladys’s body to the morgue.

Dr. Hubert left with the body, saying goodbye to Quinn in the upper hallway with a quick salute.

As Quinn came down the stairs, the crime scene unit moved on out, leaving a few uniforms behind, as well as Larue. Larue was in the foyer with Bertie, who was seated on the love seat that flanked the staircase.

She was sobbing.

“Is there somewhere else you can stay?” Quinn asked her.

“I should be here. I should watch for more wretched thieves,” Bertie said between sniffles.

“Bertie, what are you going to do if a thief shows up?” he asked. “You shouldn’t be here tonight. The police will keep an eye on the place and I’m sure there’s an alarm.”

“The alarm,” she said dismissively.

“Was it set today?”

“Well, no, not once Mrs. Simon went out,” Bertie said.

“See? We’ll set it and the house will be fine. You shouldn’t be here.”

“I agree,” Larue told her. “Ms. Hyson, both your employers are dead. I didn’t know them, but I knew of them. You’ll be taken care of in their will, I’d bet. But in the meantime, I think that being here could be harmful to your health.”

Danni walked into the foyer then, and Bertie studied her for a long moment.

“But the danger is gone, isn’t it? The bust is gone.” She wagged a finger at Danni. “I knew that thing was evil. It was...like the eyes watched you all the time, followed you wherever you went. It was creepy. I hated being in the room with it. I didn’t dust the study when it was in there, not after that first time. Why, it made the whole room feel...dirty. But...it’s gone now. And Miss Cissy—Cecelia Simon—she’ll be coming here now that her mother has...passed. I have to keep the place for her. Poor dear, she’s just gone back to Baton Rouge after her dad died. Oh, Lord, I’m going to have to call Miss Cissy and tell her that...that her poor mama...”

Bertie broke into tears again.

Danni went to sit next to her, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, Bertie. Detective Larue will call Cecelia. You just have to be ready to comfort her.”

Bertie wiped her eyes and looked at Larue hopefully. “Detective, you must call that poor young woman and tell her. She’ll come right back, and I’ll be waiting for her. I will not leave when the daughter of the house is coming home.”

Larue turned to Quinn, and Quinn shrugged. He was pretty sure Bertie was right; there was no intruder here anymore—and no evil, either.

He didn’t say he believed the thief was the one in danger now.

“I’ll have someone on duty at the door, Ms. Hyson. We’ll watch the house for twenty-four hours, until Miss Simon returns, and through the next night, at least,” Larue said.

“That’s kind of you, Detective,” Bertie told him gratefully.

“You through here?” Larue asked Quinn.

“Yes.” Quinn knelt down in front of Bertie and pulled a card from his wallet. “The number is my cell. If you’re afraid—if anyone bothers you—call me. And if Cecelia wants to talk to me, please have her call.”

He was astonished when a big tear slid down the woman’s face and she reached out to touch his cheek. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t see that fine spark in you, Mr. Quinn. I just saw the past. Thank you.”

“Hey, that’s okay...you were a good friend to Gladys, a really good friend.” He stood, but Danni still sat next to the woman, comforting her. A moment later she rose, too.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

Bertie nodded tearfully.

Danni walked toward the foyer and the door to exit, with Quinn behind her.

He thought she’d leave straightaway, that she would’ve had her fill of him and the Simon house.

But she waited on the sidewalk. “Who the hell are you?” she asked.

There were officers nearby. He hated explaining himself—or trying to explain himself—especially in front of others.

“Michael Quinn,” he began, but she cut him off.

“Michael Quinn, yes. Big high school football hero, and then you went on to quarterback for the state and suddenly you disappeared— Oh, yes, after being in the papers time and again for your escapades.”

“I was a college kid,” he said. “But what you read was true.”

“Was?”

“I learned my lesson the hard way.”

“Oh?”

“I died.”

She leaned back, folding her arms over her chest, staring at him. “You’re a dead man?” she asked dryly.

“I was resuscitated,” he said, shrugging. She didn’t need his whole story just now; she sure as hell wouldn’t believe his whole story even if he told her.

“It changes your perspective on life,” he said.

“How did you know my father?”

“He helped on some of my cases.”

“Yes, right—you’re a P.I.,” she said. Her tone was still cool and skeptical.

He wondered whether to feel sorry for her and try to tell her more about what she apparently didn’t know...or obey his instinct to walk away.

“Gladys Simon is dead,” he said. “Maybe the fates couldn’t be stopped—and maybe you’re to blame, and maybe I’m to blame. It doesn’t matter. She’s past being helped. But that bust is out there. I have to find it.”

“The bust is a thing,” Danni said. “Yes, it was stolen. Yes, it belongs to the estate. But it’s a thing. Just a thing.”

“You really have no idea what your father did, do you?” Quinn asked her.

“I gather he helped the police at times,” she said. “And no, I didn’t know. And although I guess it would be to the estate’s benefit if the bust was found, it can’t be that important. It was stolen to begin with, right?”

“It’s got quite the history. The bust dates back to the Italian Renaissance. I know some of the background, but not all of it. It graced the tomb of a contemporary of Lorenzo de’ Medici’s. It remained there, bringing bad luck to the family, or so I’ve read—until World War II, when it was stolen. According to oral history, it was taken by a supporter of Mussolini who gave it to a German general as a gift. Both men committed suicide. Naturally, it was suggested that they did this because the war crimes they’d carried out were horrendous—and they were afraid that if they were taken in the night by the Russian forces, they’d be tortured before they were killed. From there, the bust supposedly wound up with Hitler himself. After the war, it found its way into the home of a Soviet KGB officer, after which it disappeared until it was unearthed by an American sculptor who smuggled it into the United States. He went on to become a serial killer. His name was Herman Abernathy and he drained the blood of five women in order to make perfect statues of them. The bust went up at an auction house when his estate was sold to pay for his defense and it was bought by a New Orleans entrepreneur and voodoo practitioner. He didn’t buy it for his own estate. He had it placed in the cemetery over the tomb of a family known to have practiced white magic. I assume he believed that the dead who were powerful in the ways of good could control the evil in the statue. Then came the summer of storms, the bust disappeared and people started winding up dead.”

“Those killer storms are a number of years behind us now,” Danni said.

He nodded. “The bust was returned to the cemetery. There was a write-up about its odd history in the Times Picayune not long ago.”

“I remember the article—but just vaguely,” Danni admitted.

“Then it was stolen again. The thief was killed by a junkie, who in turn massacred a bunch of other junkies. He’s awaiting trial now. He sold the bust to Hank Simon right before he was nabbed by the police. And you know what happened after that.”

“How did a man like Hank Simon meet up with a junkie?” she asked.

“Hank was a collector. Vic Brown knew that. No killing had been connected to the bust at the time—and Hank was willing to buy a great piece even if he suspected it hadn’t been gotten legally. You know how much buying and selling goes on outside the law!”

“That’s irrelevant. Anyway, it’s a thing,” Danni repeated.

“Fine. Well, then, thank you very much, Ms. Cafferty, for taking the time to help out here.” Quinn thrust a hand into his pocket and produced another card. “Here, if you feel you really want to understand what your father did, call me sometime. I’ve got to get on with the search for that...thing.”

He left her standing on the sidewalk and hurried to his car. He realized she was disturbed by the events of the day and was fighting the possibility that the bust itself could be evil. That was understandable. But...

Why hadn’t Angus talked to her about the shop?

Maybe, for Angus, separating his life with his daughter—his family—from the shop and his calling had been a method of clinging to something normal.

As he got into the driver’s seat, he saw that she was still standing on the sidewalk, watching him.

She stood tall beneath the moonlight, hair curling over her shoulders, and she gave the impression of an Athena—someone who was strong and ready to face the world in defense of the innocent.

He shook his head, emitting a sound of derision.

Yeah. Big help she was.

Then he took a deep breath. Not fair, Quinn.

He thought about his own past. You didn’t know until...

You knew.

He’d been reprehensible before he’d learned the truth; she was merely ignorant.

But like it or not, he might be moving forward on his own.

With that in mind, he pulled out into the street. Time to hit a few of the shadier spots in the city of New Orleans.

* * *

The bastard.

The arrogant, crazy, single-minded bastard.

Danni watched Quinn drive away, her emotions raging. She was furious. It was late—and he’d just left her on the street, going off on his own.

Not that she’d wanted to go anywhere with him. But he’d dragged her into this, and now she felt guilt and sadness that a woman was dead—and total confusion. People could behave brutally, badly, cruelly. But he was obsessed with an object!

As far as she could see, the damage was done. Hank and Gladys Simon were both dead; the bust—the thing that had driven Gladys so crazy—was gone. Stolen. But surely the bust itself didn’t have any power. Power lay in the minds of people. Somehow Gladys had let herself believe the bust was evil, and therefore, in her particular reality, it was.

“Jerk!” she said aloud.

She headed for her own car in the dark.

As she drove home, she wondered how her father had come to know police officers and forensic experts—without her having a clue. Granted, she and Angus hadn’t been joined at the hip. Although she had her room in the shop, where she’d been staying since his death, she’d also had an apartment near Tulane, which, of course, she’d now let go. She’d grown up in the French Quarter, and leaving the sometime-insanity of the area for a place of her own had seemed a logical progression for her. She loved her art, fellow artists and a number of musicians. She went out with her friends; her father went out with his.

She’d just never imagined him delving into police matters. Knowing that Quinn person.

“Jerk,” she said again.

She bit her lip as she turned down Royal Street. She was hurt, too. Hurt that so much had gone on that she hadn’t known about. She reminded herself that she’d hidden a few things from her father while growing up—not terrible things, but she’d had her share of normal escapades in college. There’d been a few dates she certainly hadn’t wanted to share with him, and yet...

In all important matters, they’d been close. He’d been friends with Jarett Morrison, the love of her high school life, and although she and Jarett had split up in college, they’d somehow stayed best friends. Her father had been her rock when word had come that Jarett had been killed on a dusty desert road by a bomb while in the service; he’d held her through the funeral. He’d never met Aaron, the wacky engineer she’d dated for only a few months, or Hardy Wentford, the forlorn guitarist. She’d never brought a man home to meet Angus unless she was serious about him, and she hadn’t felt that way about anyone since her mad high school crush on Jarett, a crush that had just faded, as naturally as aging.

Lately, since before her father’s death, she hadn’t even met anyone she really wanted to have coffee with, much less get serious about.

The point was that she’d hidden a few questionable dates; he’d hidden an entire life’s project!

Royal Street was quiet but she could hear the distant, competing music from Bourbon Street—like the beating of the French Quarter’s heart. The real heart, of course, wasn’t in the blaring pop music, the strip clubs or the bars on Bourbon Street. It was in the centuries of history. But tourism kept the city alive, so those entertainers were important.

A few late-night diners were strolling back to their hotels or homes in the Quarter but her block was dead quiet. She hit the remote control button and drove her Acura into the garage. Billie’s little Beetle was pulled into its spot, she noted, but she’d expected that it would be. Billie was a homebody. When he wasn’t working, he might take a stroll down to Frenchman Street, where more locals played at the pubs and bars, but he was usually home early, up in his attic room, watching Storage Wars and gleeful when he convinced himself that no one had ever found treasures to compare with those at The Cheshire cat.

The garage door opened into what had once been a pantry; now it was a hodgepodge of stored objects. She walked into one of the shop’s display rooms. The emergency floor lights were on and she could see the blinking blue lights that indicated the alarm was working. She reset it and moved through the darkened rooms to the stairway, passing the knight in full armor, a life-size voodoo queen doll and a standing display of Anne Rice’s Interview with a Vampire characters. She paused in the shadows, smiling.

“We were a good team, Dad,” she said softly. He’d been the collector, but she’d known how to create displays that made the shop a not-to-be-missed venue in the city. It had gone from a confusion of objects to a showroom worthy of a museum.

She hurried on up the stairs to her own room. It was nearly midnight and she really should get some sleep.

But after showering—she felt she had to; somehow death seemed to be clinging to her—she discovered that no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop thinking. So she lay awake, hour after hour.

Michael Quinn. He was a celebrity once. But he’d been known for hard living, for dating a different beauty every week and attracting national attention, from sportscasters to pop stars. He’d been escorted out of a few establishments, and he’d been escorted into a few jails. Then there was an accident, and he’d disappeared from public view. For a few years, whenever a wicked football game was on, people would say, “If only Michael Quinn was playing!” and then even those sentiments died away.

Danni rose, turning the lights back on. Her iPhone was on her dresser; she walked over, booted up and keyed in “Michael Quinn.”

At first, it was all football stories—or stories about Quinn at local establishments. It was true that while he was a phenomenon, he promoted his city and its shopkeepers and tourist venues by being photographed in front of them all the time.

There was a picture of him being arrested. He was still smiling, and it was obvious that he couldn’t wave to the crowd because he was cuffed.

His hair had been longer then, falling over one of his eyes.

I died, he had told her.

She searched and searched and finally found an article. At least he hadn’t killed anyone else, nor had he had a passenger in the car when his alcohol level had skyrocketed and he had driven himself off I-10 and into Lake Pontchartrain.

Danni kept going from link to link, site to site.

He survived the crash, although his injuries had been extensive.

She came across a poor YouTube version of the news conference he’d held when he left the hospital. He announced he was leaving football, then thanked his family and a priest named Father Ryan and his doctors for his life. He said he didn’t know what he’d be doing yet, but probably, if the service would take him, he’d be joining the navy. Something warm stirred inside Danni; he was at a point many people came to. He’d nearly destroyed his life—he could straighten up, or go back to his wild ways. But there was a humility in his speech that touched her. There was sorrow in his eyes when he hugged his mother, a blonde woman who showed her age but, even with the aging he’d no doubt caused, had a gentle beauty. His father was tall and had tears in his eyes when he hugged his son.

The next reference she could find was a small news clip when he was accepted into the service and heading off to boot camp.

She found another brief mention when he joined the NOLA police force. And another, with a thumbnail picture beside it, when he left the force to begin his own business in private investigation.

She sat back, studying the screen, her stomach knotting. Her father was next to him in that picture. They were standing outside the station on Royal Street. Her father had one arm around Michael Quinn’s shoulder. She noted an advertising banner behind them for Jazz Fest three years earlier.

Danni sat back, trying to create a time line, trying to figure out how she hadn’t grasped a memory of his name when she’d first seen him in the shop. She’d been gone for four years of college, and she’d spent two years in New York City after that, apprenticing at an advertising company and then creating ads for clients. During summer breaks, she’d traveled with her father. She’d left the agency two years ago to come home and start working on her own projects; she’d done well, she could honestly say that. First, she’d sold watercolors on Jackson Square. Then she’d had work accepted by Colors of the World, a gallery down the street.

Her father had insisted they use the shop as a venue for her. She’d fought the idea at first, not wanting to fall back on family. Besides, it was a curio and antiques shop. And she really wanted to make it on her own. But then her dad had asked her to improve the look of the place—and she’d realized some of her oil paintings and watercolors could help in doing just that.

Michael Quinn was five or six years older than she was. So it seemed he’d come back from the service, joined the force and quit while she’d been gone. Not that she’d ever known him; she’d grown up in the Quarter while he’d been an uptown boy.

She clicked back to the picture of the man standing with her father.

And she thought about Gladys Simon.

It was late by then, but she threw on a robe and left her room, following the low-level emergency lights down to the shop and then to the basement level.

She paused for a minute. She’d never been afraid in the shop, her apartment or even the basement in the old house before. She’d always been surrounded by Egyptian artifacts, sarcophagi, coffins, death masks, antique weapons, ghastly movie props and more. She was as accustomed to these strange things as most children were to sofas, family photos on the wall and wide-screen televisions.

But that night, she was hesitant. The corners of the room appeared darker. A mannequin might have moved; a gorilla from a 1920s movie seemed to be staring at her from out of the shadows. A death mask of an Egyptian queen might have blinked.

“Ridiculous!” she said aloud. This was her home, her playground as a girl. She knew to be careful with these artifacts, but they’d never frightened her.

She turned on the overhead light, dispersing the shadows and the secrets they held.

She reminded herself again that she’d never been afraid of this room. She’d known and appreciated everything in it all her life.

And then there was the book. The Book of Truth.

She started looking through it again.

Chapter Four

NEVER TRUST ANYONE.

That was Leroy Jenkins’s motto; he’d gone by it all his life, and it had never failed him.

Now was not the time to begin trusting people.

He kept driving, wondering what he should do.

As he drove, he went back by the house in the Garden District. To his amazement, there seemed to be cop cars everywhere.

Sure, it was where big money lived. Sure, the cops cared about big money. But he was stunned. He hadn’t figured—in a house with two old ladies—that anyone would even know there’d been a break-in.

He drove quickly by, worried about what was going on.

“You’ve been betrayed.”

Hearing the voice, Leroy nearly went off the road and into the yard of a pretty antebellum house. He straightened the wheel just in time. This was not a good moment to draw the attention of the police.

“They will kill you, Leroy. The cops will kill you. No one is honest. Try to negotiate a deal, and you’ll be killed. Leroy, you’re not lucky in life. If you come from the gutter, people want to put you back in the gutter!”

Where was the voice coming from?

There was no one in the car with him.

No one...

He looked down. The bust he’d taken, the bust he’d planned to get with no muss, no fuss, the bust he could make big bucks on....

It was in a canvas bag, shoved at the foot of the passenger seat.

He dragged it carelessly onto the seat. Hell, the thing had been around for hundreds of years, if what he’d heard was right. It had survived. He wrenched back the canvas so it lay with its cheek on the worn and dirty upholstery. But the eyes were open. It was grinning at him.

“Got your gun, Leroy? Are you ready? They’re all out to get you. They want me—because I have the power. You’ve got to take care, Leroy. You want me to work for you? You want me to get riches for you?”

Leroy sat there in terror. He was ice-cold, paralyzed with fear. A rational part of his brain kicked in.

He’d done too many drugs. Hell, he might just have burned out too many brain cells through alcohol poisoning. He knew the cheap rotgut stuff was giving him headaches these days.

But the damned thing was alive, talking to him.

As he gaped at it, the bust seemed to grow, to become a man. It sat next to him, still grinning.

“It can be yours, Leroy. Money, power, women—everything your heart has ever desired.”

Leroy tried to form words. He heard sirens behind him, all around him.

He didn’t know if he was more terrified of the bust that had become a man and sat beside him—talking to him!—or the police.

“Everything you ever desired, Leroy,” the thing repeated. “And all it will take is a little...spilled blood.”

Leroy looked straight ahead; he hit the gas and cautiously moved back into traffic.

He’d be damned before he let the police get him.

But he heard a voice, somewhere in the back of his head, trying to shout above the thunder that had sounded in his ears when the bust spoke.

You are falling into damnation this minute....

He couldn’t heed the voice.

He kept driving.

* * *

Quinn headed to Digger Duffy’s bar in Central City.

The area was gradually becoming safer; it had been slowly improving from its lowest point in the thirties—and then Katrina had hit. After that, crime had seemed to rise like a swell from the storm. Now, once again, the respectable citizens of the neighborhood were trying to gain control, but Central City still wasn’t filled with streets the casual tourist should wander.

Quinn knew it well enough. He’d been assigned these streets as a cop. He’d had informants in the area and was acquainted with a few junkies who’d happily sell their own mothers for the money to get just one more hit.

Digger Duffy’s was a strange establishment. Digger himself was a businessman who had happened to inherit the bar. He didn’t do drugs; he didn’t even sip on a beer. Two years in prison for knocking over an elderly lady and stealing her watch had given him religion.

He was a good guy. He didn’t try to reform folks and he didn’t turn them away. If they wanted to talk, he talked. If they wanted redemption, he tried to point them in the right direction. If they wanted a beer or a whiskey, he served it.

Drug dealers kept their business out of the bar, but everyone knew what was going down on the streets. They might be conducting business outside or nearby, but they didn’t do it in Digger’s.

Digger eyed Quinn as he walked inside, passing tables where men huddled in conversation and where the occasional loner sat gazing morosely into his beer.

Quinn sat at the bar in front of Digger. Digger kept cleaning glasses, raising a brow. “You here for the margarita special?” he asked doubtfully.

“A soda water. Throw in a lime if you want to get fancy,” Quinn told him.

Digger nodded, preparing the drink. “Who you looking for, Quinn?”

“A thief.”

Digger thought about that for a minute. “Haven’t heard ’bout anything major on the market lately,” he said.

“This isn’t your usual wallet or handbag,” Quinn explained. “This is a lethal object—although not many people would think of it as such.”

Digger was skilled at remaining expressionless but his slight frown made Quinn think he might know something—even if he hadn’t realized it before Quinn’s description.

He leaned close as he set Quinn’s soda on the bar. “Some guys figure they can slip through the police cracks and find collectors...and some of ’em do. Some ‘wind up’ with objects they believe they can cash in on. I did hear some talk earlier about a piece of art.” He lowered his voice. “There’s a collector in the city who likes cemetery art—and is willing to pay a lot for it.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the thief or the buyer, would you?”

He shook his head. “Didn’t really know the guy who was in here. I’d seen him around before. He’s usually into petty stuff—helping himself to a tourist’s purse, hanging around the casino to see who leaves a bag hanging on the back of a chair... He’s never been into violence, hasn’t got that reputation, anyway. Heard him on a cell phone, talking about some house in the Ninth Ward and how if the buyer wanted the piece, he could get down there.”

The Ninth Ward was the easternmost downriver portion of the city—the largest ward in New Orleans. It was where the summer of storms had done their worst damage. Celebrities, Habitat for Humanity and other groups had tried hard to pick up the pieces. The destruction and the destitution, even as the years passed, remained prevalent. Crime was high.

“Can you give me a little more on that?” Quinn asked.

He whirled around, aware of movement behind him as he voiced the question. He was licensed to carry his gun, a no-nonsense Magnum, but he’d learned through his military experience and the academy not to draw until he meant to shoot.

The man standing behind him was as old as Digger and his color was gray. He had rheumy green eyes. Quinn sensed integrity as well as sadness in his manner.

“I heard him talking, too,” he told Quinn. “And I done hear tales about that ‘art piece’ that was nabbed. You go get it back, Mr. Quinn. We have enough crime and death going on here. You go get that bust or statue thing or funerary ornament or whatever it is. Bury it deep so it don’t come up again. Upper Ninth Ward—I heard someone talking about North Robertson Street.”

Quinn thanked him, placed a few bills on the bar and left. Heading for his car, he put through a call to Larue, asking the detective to meet him on North Robertson.

It was late as he drove through the areas of the city he loved; revelers were still out on the streets but in smaller numbers.

The reconstruction since Hurricane Katrina had been spotty and the demographics had changed drastically. Some decent citizens had returned, but some never would. The face of the Ninth Ward was ever-changing. A hard-working waiter might live next to a hastily reconstructed crack house.

Quinn turned down North Robertson Street. In the darkness and shadows alleviated only by a few blinking streetlights, he slowed to a crawl and looked intently at each building he passed.

He came to a pale blue clapboard house. To one side, a new wooden structure was rising. On the other was a derelict building with a sign that was fading and still proclaimed We Will Be Back.

There was something on the ground in front of the blue house.

Quinn pulled to a stop, braked his car and stepped out. He ran over to the object on the ground, hunkering down quickly when he realized it was a man, a youth of mixed race.

The earth beneath him was soggy with blood; there was no help for him.

He’d been riddled with bullets from some kind of semiautomatic weapon.

Cursing softly, Quinn stood.

He saw a scared child peeping out from behind a curtain at the new house next door. A door started to open.

“Stay in! Stay inside!” Quinn shouted.

More gunfire flared from within the blue house. Quinn drew his weapon and moved toward the entry.

He burst in, but too late.

A woman lay on the floor—young, dressed in shorts that left the curves of her buttocks visible, a halter top and five-inch gold-spangled spike heels. She was dressed like a hooker and—living in an obvious crack house—probably was.

For a split second, he felt torn. The killer might still be in the house.

The bust might still be in the house.

But she lay gasping and trying to breathe.

He hurried to her side and crouched down.

“Help me!” she gurgled, large brown eyes staring into his.

“Lie quiet, don’t try to talk,” he told her, ripping his shirt for a bandage to staunch the flow of blood pouring from the bullet hole in her chest.

No good. She gripped his arm with bloody fingers as he pressed on the wound.

He watched the light fade from her eyes.

A door to the rear slammed.

Quinn stood; the hooker was dead.

He followed the sound of the slamming door.

* * *

The book had chapters on all manner of creatures and things.

One of the first sections Danni read was on witches. It wasn’t a bunch of mumbo jumbo about boiling cauldrons and spells; it began with the definition of the word, how witch became an evil creature in medieval Europe, and how there was a fierce difference between the pagan religions that had brought forth the medieval fear of witches and the religious practices then common throughout the colonial America.

She felt as if she’d picked up a history book.

But then, as she came to the end of the section, there were instructions on disabling a “practitioner of black magic and those worshipping the evil creations within satanic churches.”

Danni sat back, staring at the old tome. It went from being an educated treatise to a magician’s manual.

She flipped one beautifully printed and illustrated page after another. There were pages that dealt with ghosts, or “spirits remaining despite the pall of death.”

“Where would I find evil statues—or busts?” she murmured aloud. There were all kinds of ghosts, apparently, and a great deal of information on “intelligent or active” hauntings and “residual” hauntings.

There was a section on banshees.

Nothing in these pages on funerary busts.

But then, of course, the book was huge. There were at least a thousand pages in it.

She yawned, blinking, and realized she was exhausted. The words began to swim before her eyes and she decided to give up for the night.

There was nothing she could do for Gladys Simon now. The book wasn’t going anywhere; she could continue reading in the morning.

But once again, she lay in bed awake. It suddenly occurred to her that she didn’t even know what the bust looked like. She tried to remember how Quinn had described the piece—and as she tried to visualize it, she rose, turned on the lights again and went to her computer.

She keyed in a number of variables, including funerary busts, New Orleans cemetery bust thefts...ancient busts...stolen artifacts...and assorted combinations. Finally, under a website titled Really Weird Stuff That Really Happened, she found what she was looking for.

The bust was beautiful. It was sculpted out of marble in the likeness of a Roman with handsome, refined features. Even in a picture, however, the eyes were strange. They’d been carved in careful detail. Though the bust had only shoulders and a head, its incredibly realistic appearance was chilling. The shoulders were covered by a mantle, which flowed in a way that seemed to suggest angel wings. But because of the expression in the eyes, the whole of it struck her as far more demonic than angelic.

“It’s a thing!” she said once again. “An object.”

Still, it was easy to understand how a fragile or damaged mind might see something more ominous in the bust, or even believe that it talked or whispered to them.

The website didn’t have much more about the bust—other than that death and mayhem seemed to follow it everywhere. And that, most recently, it had been placed in a cemetery in New Orleans.

Most recently! The site hadn’t been updated lately, not with background on the bust.

Now that she had a picture, Danni went through other sites looking for more background information. After an exhaustive search, she was delighted to discover an obscure site dedicated to the bust. The writing was in Italian. She read some Italian, but quickly became frustrated and then remembered that all she had to do was find a translation site on the internet.

That took another few minutes but soon she was reading away—and it was a sad and tragic story. Well, sad for the family of Pietro Giovanni Miro, if not for the brutal man himself.

Tragic for those he’d used and murdered.

He’d been a contemporary of Lorenzo de’ Medici, son of the Count of Abacci and heir to his family’s fortunes and estates. Ambition had been the driving force in his life—something initially admired by his father and contemporaries. But he hadn’t liked to lose, not in battle and not in gaming with his friends and certainly not when it came to his passions.

The first person reputed to die at his hands was a mistress who’d supposedly betrayed him with a member of the de’ Medici household; her name had been Imelda and, perhaps, since her family had a pedigree but no money, she’d been trying to force Pietro to marry her. She died horribly when a fire broke out in the stables at her modest estate and she was trampled by the six massive horses within. An accident, of course. But accidents seemed to occur whenever Pietro was angry. Friends met with bizarre and mysterious deaths. Luigi Bari died when a griffin made of stone toppled from a parapet; he’d won a sum of money from Pietro in a card game. Bartollo Gammino, an actor in a show that spoofed local politicians, including Pietro Miro, died when his costume combusted, burning him to a crisp.

At Pietro’s small private palazzo, there were parties every night, but even the noble youths who attended them most often went only once or twice. The depravity practiced at the parties went far beyond their expectations—and their tolerance. Pietro enjoyed provoking an orgy and slaughtering animals over the sexual participants, noting who did and did not seem to wallow in the blood. It was whispered that he was a satanist, killing animals in the name of his evil lord. Many whispered that they’d seen men and women slaughtered there, as well, but none would speak of it to the authorities.

Local girls disappeared after a night with Pietro or at his beautiful palazzo. Most were peasant girls, and at first, little was noted. Pietro always had an alibi or the ability to appear as a victim. Once, when a body was discovered on his grounds, he killed one of his closest servants, blaming the man for the girl’s death.

Nobility could get away with a great deal.

Finally, when Lorenzo de’ Medici was at the height of his power, one of his cousins, Emiliglio, came afoul of Pietro. It was over a woman again. She was found in the Miro tomb in the la Chiesa di St. Antonio e Maria, outside the city proper—stabbed, disemboweled and decapitated. Just as workers discovered her body while repairing a wall to the crypt, Emiliglio de’ Medici was found, strangled in a horse’s harness.

Emiliglio, a man with no hope of acquiring the family money or power, was still a beloved figure among the people of Florence at the time.

Lorenzo de’ Medici received a petition for Pietro’s arrest, but it didn’t come to that. Pietro was brought down by a mob in the center of the city, hanged and slashed to ribbons by the furious people whose lives he had touched through his brutality.

His father, bereft, had begged Lorenzo for the remains of his son’s body and Lorenzo had relented—on one condition. The body must be cremated to satisfy the fury of his Catholic subjects who were convinced his evil could only be stopped through the cleansing force of fire. However, his father might have his ashes and the urn might rest in the family vault.

And so, Pietro’s father had hired one of the finest sculptors in the city and had the bust carved in his honor. The bust had sat in the family tomb for the next two centuries. Then the family ran into a streak of tragedy and violence until the last male heir died in the nineteenth century. The bust was stolen from the tomb just before the outbreak of World War I and a serial killer was unleashed on the city; it mysteriously reappeared at the tomb when the man was shot down by a local magistrate.

Then came World War II, and the bust was stolen again, never to return to its place at the Miro tombsite.

It had traveled among some of the cruelest dictators in the world...and made its way to the United States.

To New Orleans.

And it was still out there now.

Danni leaned back, rubbing her eyes. She glanced at the clock. It was past three in the morning and she hadn’t slept. Quinn was out there, too, hunting down the bust. Well, that was his choice. A marble bust was a material object, with no life of its own; it couldn’t behave in either an evil or a kindly manner.

But...

She drummed her fingers on the desk. The human mind was a powerful force. If Gladys Simon had believed the bust was evil, that it could control her, then it might have done so.

Danni had faith and she had her personal set of beliefs and ethics, but she’d never fooled herself about the fact that some of the most heinous acts in history had been carried out in the name of religion. She’d grown up in New Orleans and had dozens of friends who practiced voodoo—without an evil thought or wish in their heads. Nor did she have any evil Catholic friends, although the church had been responsible for events such as the Spanish Inquisition and the burning of thousands of innocents as witches or heretics. And the pious Pilgrims had been responsible for the hanging of nineteen and the pressing to death of one in Salem, Massachusetts. The Pilgrims had believed in the devil; they’d believed he could dance in the forests of their bitter cold clime and entice the greedy.

But maybe Quinn was right in being so determined to find the bust. Maybe others had read about the bust and believed in its power, too.

She had to sleep. She knew she had to sleep.

Hating Michael Quinn and wishing he’d never entered her life, she forced herself to lie down and concentrate on sleeping.

In the end, she dozed on and off. But in her thoughts, her restless dreams, she could see her father standing across a vast body of water, reaching out to her. She shouted to him. Despite the distance between them, she saw there were tears in his eyes and she didn’t want him to feel any hurt—he had been the best father in the world.

She could hear him shouting to her. She listened so hard and finally she could hear his words coming to her.

Read the book, and look to it in all things.

The water began to churn as if there were a storm coming. She heard the pulse of the waves, heard them pounding.

Look to the book, daughter. Use the light. The light...

What light, Dad? This is all so crazy! I never knew. Why didn’t I know? You wanted to protect me.... Oh, Dad!

You must never sell the shop. I am with you, even if I failed you.

You never failed me, I swear. I loved you so much. I’m not weak, Dad, I’m really not weak. I’m your daughter.

She woke with a start.

Light was streaming in the bedroom windows because she’d never closed the drapes.

And there was a pounding. It was at her door.

“Danni?” Billie called. “Danni—you all right?”

“Yes, Billie, I’m fine! What’s wrong?” she called back.

“Uh, nothing. I was just checking to make sure you’re okay. It’s almost noon.”

Noon!

She gritted her teeth. She’d slept away half the day.

Damn that Michael Quinn.

Could it all be real?

And if it was... No, her father had never failed her.

Would she fail him?

Chapter Five

“I’M STARTING TO think I should be more worried about you than the damned bust,” Larue said, heaving an exhausted sigh as he sank into the chair behind his desk.

Quinn shrugged. “I’m not saying what’s real and what’s not—just that death follows that bust.”

“Or you—when you’re looking for it,” Larue muttered. “Another two dead, another precinct involved—and no bust and no explanation,” he said. “What happened to bring you out there just in time for that particular murder?”

“I told you. I was in a bar. I asked a couple of guys if they’d heard anything. Larue, listen. There’s a buyer somewhere in the city and I need to find out who. Word’s out that someone—with money—wants the bust. As long as down-and-outers, as well as habitual criminals, know there’s a buyer, people will keep killing others over the bust.”

“Why kill the hooker?” Larue asked.

He had crime scene photos in front him on the desk. One photo of the man dead in the yard and the other of the woman Quinn had watched die.

“Because she was there,” Quinn replied.

“The first guy—”

“Check out your forensic evidence. I think you’ll find that the dead man is the thief who broke into Gladys Simon’s house as she was busy committing suicide,” Quinn said.

“So, whoever killed the thief and the hooker now has the bust. That’s what you’re telling me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any idea of this person’s identity?”

“Sure. It’s another thief thinking he can buy his way out of the ghetto.”

“You don’t happen to have a name for him, do you?”

“No.”

“Or a way to learn a name?”

“No.”

“So, while I’m looking for a killer, without the least conception of who it might be, you’re going to be looking for the same man—because you think he has the bust.”

Quinn lifted his hands in a vague motion. “Thing is, when you find your killer, you still won’t stop the killing.”

“Because of the bust?” Larue sounded tired and skeptical.

“To someone out there, it’s a rare commodity and the offer for it is high,” Quinn said.

“Why didn’t this buyer just contact Hank or Gladys Simon?” Larue asked.

“Maybe they didn’t know in time that the Simons had the thing. I didn’t know myself until I heard about Vic Brown being in jail, ranting and raving. If a smart thief has a lead on an object, he won’t share that information.”

“So you have no direction you can give me?”

“All I can give you is what you already have as a good cop, Larue,” Quinn told him. “Find out about our dead thief and his girl. Find out who the hell else knew what he was up to. It was taken by someone in his circle. Someone who knew what he was going to do—and where he was planning to make the sale.”

Larue picked up a folder and tossed it back down. “Dead man—Leroy Jenkins, arrested three times for possession, out on probation once. His girlfriend? Ivy Hunter, three arrests, all for prostitution. Known associates? Half the dealers in the city, including the new group that poured in to take advantage of the open market after the storms.”

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